#WIP fanfic

[fortheloveofexy]

a little more vampdrew :) happy new year

[alynwrench]

When we dance I can't help but pretend it's him.

[elysiae]

..

.. thoughts?

!! (TW FOR BODY HORROR!)

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter 15.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)

Word Count: 4.6K

Summary: flashback five - also known as the start of the heist that may grant you a chance at living in the sun

Warnings: verbal arguments, miscommunications, self harm language, mentions of injury, death, and illness

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 15 - FLASHBACK: FIVE

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. they are my interpretations of the material. please watch those episode first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

“This is suicide.”

Furlan winces at your strong reaction. Isabel pales.

They’re both sitting on the edges of the love seat couch, equal parts surprised yet expectant of your reluctance.

Of course they had Levi break the news first.

Neither of them wanted the blow back of your rage at the mere entertainment of such a problem.

Levi, however, can take your anger and neatly fold it with the rest of the clothes you’ve shared since you were kids. He knows how to dismantle your rage in ways the other two have never quite mastered.

At the kitchenette table, the raven-haired man doesn’t move from his chair. Leisurely his arm drapes along its back, legs crossed in front of him. You wait a full table-length away from him, hunched with your hands pressed into the wooden surface separating you.

A stand off.

The other two watch like hawks, awaiting a response from Levi that never arrives. You feel the worry rolling off of Furlan and Isabel in waves, a concern they can’t quite voice, but all you can do is stare at him.  

Dead eyes, unwilling to express anger or excitement, meet you.

Right now, you hate him.

You hate Levi’s neutrality.

You hate this godforsaken city. 

Most importantly, you hate how easy a few pretty words can upend your entire operation.

After a long stretch of silence Isabel clears her throat, fidgeting with her fingers. “We would be careful, sis. We’re always so careful. The old man said—”

“I know what he told you, Isa,” you snap, and Isabel whimpers with uncertainty. “I think I heard it loud and clear — unless there’s a part of the proposal I missed. Levi?”

His eyes flinch to a narrowed state.

You’re angry.

You’re angry because a devil made an offer.

Not just any devil — a devil from the surface, one that lives within the walls and takes the sunlight for granted. A demon willing to dangle the one thing everyone in the Underground City district desires most on a flimsy little stick: 

Salvation.

More specifically, documentation that’s as precious as rare rubies. Papers that bypass the thugs bleeding funds dry at the top of the stairs. A ticket to a better life, one where a person like you can walk among the living rather than fight with the dead for scraps.

The offer sounds too good to be true.

It sounds too good to be true because it is.

(We were offered a job by someone from the surface, someone with the reputable means to back up his payment, and we accepted the terms and conditions in exchange for money and a one-way ticket to the surface.)

Ever since you were seventeen, finding a way for the four of you to live on the surface is all Furlan has wanted. Now you're twenty-one with an opportunity for a way out. You cannot take an entire gang there — the transport of underlings cannot work like that, the logistics are not feasible, but this?

For the people he’s grown up with, laughed with, cried with?

(His family — Furlan has said the doomed word more than once to your face, to Isabel’s, to Levi’s. None of you have ever corrected him.)

What was once a fruitless idea has been fertilized and harvested, corrupted by grubby hands who can make a pipe dream happen.

It’s poisonous to a dreamer like him — like Isabel, who has never lost her knack for dreaming no matter how dire things get, so you focus your efforts on the only other person in this apartment who may see the reality for what it is.

A lost cause.

(A trap.)

“Doesn’t it seem wildly convenient,” you begin with a bite, “that some rich asshole found the three of you wandering the streets with little to no trouble? We’re supposed to have eyes everywhere. We’re virtually untouchable, even on the main roads.”

“The Military Police have been after us for years, James,” Furlan argues, but his words falter closer to a plea. “Pretty sure everyone down here knows our names. And it’s not like the Military Police have no idea where we live, so it stands to reason this guy—”

“That isn’t the point, Furlan,” you tell him. “You’re talking about the MPs. This guy is not an MP. He’s an outsider.”

Furlan’s frown deepens. “So?”

“So?" you repeat. "So you don’t think it’s suspicious, at all, that this shithead is offering us a job—” The humorless laugh bubbling on your lips stops your train of thought. “Actually, calling this a job is an insult to what we’ve built.”

“James—”

“Blackmail, Furlan. It’s fucking blackmail.” You pause, allowing the word to permeate through the room. “He is blackmailing us with the promise of money and the one thing everyone down here wants.”

A right to the surface.

A chance to live a life in the sun.

“Because we’re the only ones who can pull off a heist like this!”

Isabel urges with a naivety you typically adore. Right now? You loathe it. 

“How many other people, what other gangs, have what we have? The numbers. The ODM stuff. The old man believes in us.”

On instinct, you sneer.

Belief, like it’s stronger than money.

Instead of taking your anger out on her — she doesn’t deserve it, not when you know her bleeding heart would pour itself dry without hesitation for a chance to bring this found family to surface safely — you snap your attention back to the quiet, contemplative man across from you.

He’s too calm about this; Levi trusts people from the surface as far as he can throw them.

Granted, it’s probably further than the distance you can toss, but still — it isn't far.

So you ask.

“Why?”

Levi's eyes narrow further, thinning to a sliver.

You lean in closer, gritting your teeth. Your necklace dangles off of your neck like a noose.

“Why are you okay with this?”

Curving your steps around the table, you walk towards him. Levi stays seated, eyes stalking your movements with practiced memorization.

“Why aren’t you telling them this is a terrible idea?”

Furlan holds out a noncommittal hand to stop you. “James—”

“Because we don’t have a choice,” Levi interrupts, finally standing from his chair. He doesn’t sound angry, but you know Levi sometimes better than you know yourself. Something is there, just under the layer of nonchalance. “It’s complicated.”

A storm flickers in his eyes when they meet yours.

“There’s nothing complicated about it,” you tell him, your words rushed under your breath. “We make the rules. From the very beginning until now, we make the rules. We don’t let surface scum tell us how to live our lives. We always have a choice.”

His chin tilts to the left. “Not this time.”

“Why?”

“We just don’t.”

“We do, Levi.”

“No, James, we don’t.”

He firmly emphasizes each syllable. 

Then, finally, he places the caveat on the table: 

“They have Yan.”

The warmth in your body pools at your feet, like the blood has seeped through the soles of your shoes and into the wooden blanks beneath.

It’s no secret that Yan, one of the long-time underlings of the gang, hasn’t been doing well.

Over the last few months, his legs have gone from bad to catastrophically worse. He’s barely managed on jobs, causing him to fall behind on earnings.

From the corner of your eye, you see it: Furlan’s head tilts back, eyes closed. He deflates, shoulders first, until his whole body shrinks.

It reeks of guilt.

(Why the hell would Furlan be guilty?)

Isabel is the opposite; her body tenses as her wild ginger hair flings side-to-side to look at Furlan, then Levi, then back to Furlan, waiting for an explanation.

Then you realize: she isn’t waiting for anything, not like you.

Because Isabel already knows that Yan’s being held hostage; she’s just waiting to see who will say it first — or if she’ll be forced to be the one to bring you into the loop.

Suddenly the world feels smaller, like you’re back in that little makeshift ring by an abandoned street stop.

Alone and fending for yourself.

“The hell do you mean, they have Yan?” You hate how shaken your voice sounds.

“Saw it with my own two eyes,” Levi tells you in a monotone manner. “There wasn’t anything we could do. So, no, we don’t have a choice — unless we want him to die.”

“Which means you all saw it.”

The words of doubt tumble from your tongue. Levi’s eyes tick in a squint to decipher what you mean, but you create physical space with a step backwards.

“All of you knew this wasn’t just about the money from some rich fuck, but you didn’t tell me the second you came back. Why didn’t—”

“I didn’t tell you right away because Furlan has been skimming money for Yan under the table,” Levi blurts, effectively stopping you from crawling into yourself. 

The ball of yarn halts in its unravel. An uncomfortable silence fogs the room.

“...what?”

But that isn’t your voice.

Isabel speaks now with the same confusion in your gut. Her fiery hair whips to Furlan for an explanation.

Furlan doesn’t move a muscle.

You blink back into your body, and soon you find Levi standing right in front of you. He urges you with just a look, a nonverbal reassurance:

Breathe.

You’re not alone.

(You aren’t fighting three against one again.)

“It’s no secret that his legs went to shit,” Levi explains, level yet earnest. “First it was his ankle. Then it was his knee. Then it became both knees. Whatever disease he has, it’s spreading and it’s spreading fast. All of us have seen it coming: he can barely keep up with his team. No jobs means no earnings. Those are our rules. Furlan chose to skim off the top to help with treatments.”

Levi tenses under your widening stare. 

“I knew," he finishes. "Furlan didn’t know I knew, but I did. Not Isabel, not anyone else — just me.”

Blame me, he’s telling you without saying so. Don’t punish everyone else for this.

(Levi Ackerman, always ready to shoulder your burdens without hesitation.)

Only one question numbly exits your lips: “For how long?” 

Levi studies your eyes.

“Since the Nightshade job.”

Piece by piece, the gravity of your situation comes together.

You can feel it weighing down your shoulders when your attention flickers to Furlan.

Furlan trembles as he continues to stare at the ceiling. His complexion is tinged with a mortified, red-handed glaze.

The corner of your lips pull to a sympathetic frown. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It wasn’t anyone else’s business but Yan’s and Furlan’s,” Levi answers for the other man.

“But we could have helped,” you protest, turning your attention back to Levi. "Me, Isabel, all four of us — we could have helped."

“It’s a gang, James, not a church,” Levi bitterly argues. “If we help one person’s problems, then everyone looks for handouts. That isn’t how we operate.”

A hefty glare settles on your brow. “And now these people have Yan, who — by all intents and purposes — we could leave to die. Right?”

A squeak bubbles in Isabel's throat.

Levi tilts his chin with a knowing sharpness.

“Sure, if we want those bastards to torture him for information about us.”

There: the spark, the swift kick in your ass, to ignite the fire in your belly once again.

You’re mad, you’re furious — but not at any of them.

“So I was right,” you chide, chin dropping to your chest. “This is just blackmail—”

“His legs are shit out of luck if he doesn’t receive treatment at a surface clinic.”

A fingertip lifts the tip of your chin back up.

It’s enough of a shock to your system to get you to listen — Levi rarely, if ever, shows blatant affection in front of the other two, yet here he is: blurring the lines for the sake of keeping your focus.

“Bottom line is that I want to work with these pieces of shit just as much as you do, but without the proper medical treatment, Yan’s as good as dead," Levi explains. "Even if we left him to fend for himself, it could still destroy not only our reputation, but he could give them access to everything we have. Bringing Yan back is the best option for business. Furlan, Isabel, and I will do the job—”

Furlan, Isabel, and I?

“Wait.”

“—get him what he needs, bring him home—”

“Wait, what do you mean by—”

“—and we’ll figure it out from there.”

“—just the three of you?” you finally finish, voice smaller with each word. “But what about…”

“The bastard didn’t intercept you,” Levi says, and you push his hand from your chin.

“We need someone to take care of everyone else,” Isabel chimes in softly, shrugging a noncommittal shoulder.

You blink towards the younger girl with her shining eyes, seeking your approval; a cease fire to an awkward evening.

“If it’s a trap created by MPs, then at least we know our gang can get away if they come knocking on our door, right?” she adds. “James is fast. She’s a fighter. She can take them on, no problem.”

“No, Isabel,” you start, “what you need is a B-Team.”

“Hate to say it, but Isabel is right.” Furlan finally speaks, exhaling in a short huff. “He didn’t see your face or ask for you by name, so you’re kind of off the hook.”

In a shocking turn of events, Levi agrees in a matter-of-fact finality. “The less people involved, the better.”

That overwhelming sense of dread rears its ugly head once again, creeping up the veins of your neck.

“Don’t be stupid. Every job needs a B-Team,” you argue right back. “The three of you cannot just go on this job without eyes on—”

“Maybe not this one,” Levi shuts down your offer with little remorse. “This shit’s already two people too many.”

Your eyes grow, appalled.

“You’re serious?”

He doesn’t budge.

“I’m sorry, but are you fucking insane? What the hell happens, then, if any of you get caught?”

“James,” Furlan begins, holding both palms up. Your hair falls into your line of deadly sight when your attention whips to the lanky man with shaggy, ash-blonde hair. “We were doing this way before you came into the picture, okay? Levi and me, I mean."

You scowl. “You two were beating people up for money in fucking alleyways before me, not taking sacrificial bribes from surface pigs.”

Furlan frowns deeply, and you decide you hate him just as much as you hate Levi right now — because Furlan responds quietly and full of respect. Adoration.

“We’ll come home. We’ll make it to the surface, together. Please, you have to trust us.”

Your nostrils flare and the fire in your belly quells as you lock eyes with your friend.

“It isn’t you I don’t trust.”

Never. 

You trust the people in this little apartment more than anyone in the Underground City.

You would go to war with them, die for them, if it meant they could be happy.

Surely by now, after all these years, the three of them knew implicitly where you stood.

The problem, however, no longer lies below: it’s the people above you in more ways than one.

(What lies on the surface is the enemy.)

One false move and the four of you stand a chance to lose everything —

Including each other.

Sickened by the absolutes you face, your hands push off the table.

"Fuck this. If you want to kill yourselves, then be my guest. Throw it all away. We’re not making it to the surface.”

Isabel stands from the couch as you turn on a heel, spinning towards the front door. “Wait!”

“I’m not sticking around to watch you die, Isa,” you bite at the young girl. She flinches from your venom. “Same goes for you, Church, and Ackerman.”

You don’t wait any longer.

Can’t; you feel sick to your stomach and don’t want to make a mess of the apartment.

Without another word, you step past the threshold of the apartment and into the damp outdoor air. Your boots shuffle down the narrow staircase, quick and panicked.

Isabel calls out your name — your first name, a cheap trick that usually gets you to listen.

You don’t.

Passing the corner is as far as you get when you hear a second set of shoes following in tandem, hitting solid ground and turning a similar edge.

Let them.

You’re too upset to confront, to ward them off, especially when you have a pretty good feeling as to who may have run after you.

You continue your trek, head bowed to avoid the watchful eye of your gang runts guarding the apartment premises. Through a main street and into an alleyway you’ve grown so familiar with.

Twenty-one; it only took a few years to finally get here, where the dream dries to a mirage.

A warm hand grabs your bicep, anchoring you in place. “Hey.”

You stop.

You don’t fight.

“Hey,” you greet in return without turning, allowing your arm to float in the finite space between bodies.

“Want me to let you go so you can continue your dramatic nature walk?”

Lessening his grip for emphasis, Levi waits.

(I won't keep you prisoner.)

The baritone of his voice, neutral with an edge of care, vibrates through your body like a soothing aloe. 

“Depends,” you answer, craning your chin to watch him over your shoulder. “Are you going to run after me?”

“Kind of already did.”

The anger evaporates from the crown of your head to your toes with each passing second. Eventually you drop the heel of your boot to the ground, lessening the strain on your raised arm.

Then the tension between his brows dissolves, too, when it’s only the two of you here.

“Talk to me.” The request is barely above a whisper. “Don’t shut me out.”

His choice of words — your words, thrown back at your face — almost steals your breath.

“You shut me out about Yan,” you argue childishly. “About Furlan.”

“Like I told you, it wasn’t any of our business.”

“And you’re shutting me out of the job.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“It’s our home, Levi.”

You blink away, embarrassed by your sentiment. His hand flexes to let go of your arm. It unceremoniously drops to your side.

“We’re supposed to be… We’re supposed to watch out for each other. All four of us. That’s what we do. We don’t leave each other behind.”

“I know,” he says, somber, as if to apologize in his own way.

“If this is your half-baked attempt to protect me…”

You trail off when something flickers in his eyes. His expression shifts, and your shoulders drop.

“I could be a part of the heist,” you surmise, “but you’re leaving me out on purpose.”

His jaw clenches. “If I could leave Isabel out, too, then I would. Same with Furlan.”

“So it—”

“You’re the only one.”

Levi pauses, fighting to find the right words.

“You were the only one who wasn’t forced into that carriage. Chances are we’ll be flanked on all sides by Military Police. If things go to shit, then I know you’ll be safe back here.”

“Who can really guarantee that I’ll be safe?” You shake your head. “Isabel said it herself: it could be a trap. They could be trying to attack the rest of the gang while the three of you aren’t here.”

“Yeah, and there’s no one I trust more to make sure we’re still in operation. No one.”

He speaks with such conviction that you almost believe him.

(It’s not about trust in protecting assets, but something more basic than that.)

“And if you get arrested, then you don’t want me there,” you finally say what he won’t, and Levi’s eyes dart to the left to avoid yours. “You want me to be the last person standing.”

“We won’t get arrested.” His wispy black hair jostles when he shakes his head. “We’re too fast on ODM gear. The MPs won’t stand a chance.”

Silence engulfs the space. Your brain continues to run the numbers, the logistics, of the proposed heist plan given by this mysterious buyer. 

Every scenario, every issue, every failsafe — you can’t shake the foreboding chill in your blood.

“And who’s to say they haven’t already killed Yan?” you decide to ask, running through your list of concerns.

“Yan contacted Furlan two hours ago,” he answers. “He’s already at a first-rate clinic.”

“What if it’s bullshit? A set up, where they’re pretending to be Yan?”

“Do you think I’d fall for a fake report?” Levi scowls, insulted.

“No, but Furlan would.”

“I checked, twice.”

Which means it’s true.

Your doubt never creeps up to Levi, not once. 

Dejected in what little choice remains on the table, your attention subconsciously lands on his parted lips.

“...how do we receive the surface papers?”

“He already paid half of what he’s promised. I checked: it’s not bullshit. The money’s real,” Levi explains slowly. “Furlan, Isabel, and I will take the ODM gear and finish the job. Then we’ll get Yan back safely, give the money to the gang, and take you with us.”

“So I just… sit around like an old maid and hope everyone makes it back in one piece? Then we all get to hold hands, walk up the staircase, and strut straight through Wall Sina like we belong there?” You sigh heavily. “It sounds too good to be real.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But Isabel’s right: we have to make sure our people don’t get stuck in the crossfires with the MPs.”

“Then agree to a B-Team.”

You slide a boot forward, lifting your attention to his eyes. His attention, however, slides opposite of yours — further south, staring at your lips as you propose.

“Let me lead a small group of us to watch your back.”

“James.”

“Levi,” you murmur his name, “look at me.” Surprisingly, he obeys. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to butt out of the one job that might change our lives. You protect me, sure, but I protect you, too. We’ll maintain our distance and have units set up to guard the apartment, but I want to be on the streets making sure you’re clear.”

His brows knit together briefly. “...I need you to be safe.”

“I will.”

“Because if I’m out there thinking for one second that you’re not—”

Reaching for the collar of his shirt, you pull him in to press a chaste yet firm kiss to his lips.

He tenses, seemingly expecting a wild punch, but he melts on contact and wraps his arms around you with a fierceness only a dead man can possess.

Because that’s all anyone can be down here: dead lives, dead faces, waiting for the final nail in the coffin. The world doesn’t scare people like Levi.

(What he’s terrified of, however, is trapped against his chest. Two hearts wildly beating in tandem. Unspoken confessions. The light.)

You nip at his lower lip, causing a tiny, needy noise to exit his throat. His arms tighten, and his feet drag the two of you towards a nearby wall.

Out of view.

His tongue searches for yours and you relent, pressing your hips into his. He makes another short, broken noise, and bunches your shirt into his fist.

Running your fingers through his hair, you drag your nails against his scalp and try to convey your urgency: please don’t leave me behind, please don’t get caught, please don’t disappear.

After a minute he rips his lips away, face tinged with a pink, bashful hue. 

You open your eyes, drunk on the sight of his blush.

“...dirty trick,” he huffs without an ounce of anger in his voice.

“I got a couple of those up my sleeve,” you murmur in jest, smiling despite yourself.

He exhales again, sounding close to a laugh, and drops his forehead to yours. You press back, closing your eyes and allowing the moment to pass.

Peace.

(How much time do either of you have left?)

“Take a B-Team to the streets,” he finally relents. “Monitor our movements. Follow any MPs that might turn their attention to our employees. The client stated our target objectives will be making contact regardless of our consent, so as far as I’m concerned, the job’s already started.”

“I’ll keep our people safe, I promise.”

“I know you will,” he reassures, taking a rare moment of affection to lift his chin. His lips kiss the tip of your nose, warming your once frozen insides. “I trust you.”

You nod. “And when you finish the job, I’ll go where you go.”

He hums. “Is that right?”

“I made a promise, didn’t I?”

“Like a dumbass,” he jokes in that deadpan humor of his, and you can’t help but finally smile.

“But I’m your dumbass.”

“What an aspiration,” he groans, feigning annoyance. “My very own dumbass who’s gonna spend too much of her fucking time decorating our very dumbass house—”

“A house?”

Not just a house — our.

You abruptly pull your forehead from his to look him in the eye. Levi mentally backtracks, realizing his grave mistake from the way the whites of his eyes grow, but you press your hands into either side of his face to trap him in.

“Levi Ackerman, are you gonna get us a house?”

He sneers. “Where else are we going to fucking live?” 

“Are you kicking out Furlan and Isabel?” you ask, unable to stop the grin from growing on your face.

Levi, knowing damn well he’s been caught red handed, groans and drops his head back.

“With the amount of money we’re making from this heist, Furlan damn well better be able to afford his own house. I’m sick of cleaning up after his shit. Isabel can go with him.”

You bite your lower lip. “They could always be our neighbors.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

The sarcasm bleeds right through, and you can’t help it: the giggle bursts from your throat, and Levi leans in to pepper gentle kisses against the base of your throat.

“Can I get a pet?” you ask, lifting your chin to the sky.

“A furball?” His teeth nip playfully at your skin. You jolt. “The little shit’s hair will get everywhere.”

“It’s your consolation prize for demoting me to B-Team.”

He tsk’s under his breath, allowing a beat to pass.

“Maybe one.”

“A cat?”

“Yeah.”

“Or two.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“I’m negotiating, Ackerman.”

“You can negotiate once we have a key, alright?”

You giggle in response, tugging his chin up to stare into his eyes. Levi settles against you, arms still looped around your waist, and sighs through his nose.

He admires the view, clearly taking the moment to memorize every inch of your face.

It feels too final.

“Come back to me, Levi,” you murmur, pouring all of your emotions into five small words.

At first he nods, small and earnest, before sealing your words with a gentle kiss.

“I won't go far from you."

.

author's note: I'm glad we collectively giggled and screamed and kicked our feet in the last few chapters. It was a marvelous time. Now I'm out here ruining everything.

Thank you to all of your wonderful feedback, asks, reblogs, etc. I can't believe my draft doc is over 60K words! I want to say we're about halfway through the story I want to tell, if not further in. We're definitely halfway through the flashbacks, so I promise those who have been asking about the CH10 cliffhanger… just hang tight (like James - ha.)

Please note that there will not be an update on August 11, as I have a bachelorette weekend to attend for a friend, so I'm hoping to write through the week and maybe post the next update on August 18.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @vigilancio @nomi98 @urfavcelestialangel @milkersonmac

[anniedreamwilldo]

I Still Worship The Flame - Chapter 4: Slurs, Scraps and Snoring

I Still Worship The Flame - Chapter 4 - Sadspatula - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

Wolfstar | WIP | Rated M | Chapter 4/ ?

It’s 1984. In the small Welsh town of Direidi, every day was the same and Remus was sick of it all - the same cobbled streets, the same boring small talk and now, the same strike. But when Lesbians & Gays Support the Miners arrive, and with them, Sirius Black, everything changes and the quiet voice in the back of Remus’s head that always told him he was different can’t be ignored anymore.

New chapter out my dudes!

[raithwithwings57]

WIP stucky fic piece

posting some of my bits of fics that are just hanging around on my computer. if y'all like em let me know

When Bucky had gotten his memories back well enough to trust them, he realized that the world had taken the man who had been Steve Rogers, and erased him as though he never existed. There were books and movies and comics and museum exhibits and documentaries and articles and textbook entries and courses in school, and they all claimed to be about Steve but they never mentioned so many of the things that made him the man that he was. Or even contradicted so many things about him and his experiences.

They never made mention of the fact that both of his parents were Irish immigrants and that Steve spoke Irish as well as he spoke English. They never mentioned that his dad died in 1918 just before he was born, and the news of his father’s death caused Steve’s premature birth, which would lead to the start of his lifelong illnesses. They never mentioned that his poor Irish mother never remarried, and that she raised him on a nurse’s salary in the great depression, and that they were always fighting to make ends meet, not only to keep their apartment and to stay clothed and fed, but also to afford the life saving medications that Steve needed to live. The history never mentioned that he was always aware that every winter needed to be lived as if it was the last winter he would ever see. They never mentioned that Sarah Rogers died when Steve was only 16, and from the ages of 16 to 23, he lived with one Bucky Barnes.

History remembered nothing of that.

[sweetsncandies]

Something is not right....

[commanderauri-art]

This one was really super cute and a lot of fun to write, especially towards the end! Going to definitely try to keep this energy up! I’ll go back and edit it all later.

Elizabeth rolled over for the umpteenth time in her bed before kicking back the covers with a small huff. A quick glance at the clock by her bedside revealed it to be just after two in the morning. She desperately wanted to follow that siren call of sleep but her mind wouldn’t shut off. And her cramps had come back sometime within the last few hours. She’d already taken the painkillers Charlotte left her and they dulled the aches just enough to take the edge off. Elizabeth hugged the hot water bladder she’d stuffed under her covers prior to falling asleep to her chest, wishing its warmth would take away the aches to no avail.

Sighing quietly to herself, she pushed the bladder to the side before finally climbing out of bed. She’d poke around in the pantry for a late night treat then maybe hide away in the library reading till morning. Forgoing her slippers and throwing a thin robe over her shift, Elizabeth eased her bedroom door open to peer out into the hallway and wait. She strained her ears for any sort of sound to indicate a guard patrol or servant carrying out the baron’s orders and heard nothing on this floor. Mildly pleased she wouldn’t be bumping into anyone, Elizabeth grabbed a candlestick resting on a nearby table top in the hallway, lit the wick and began tiptoeing her way down towards the pantry and kitchen.

As she neared another landing on her trek downwards, Elizabeth froze as soft bits of conversation filtered down the corridor which branched out away from the landing through a T junction. It was a pair of guards, their tones light and bored sounding. One had been complaining to his comrade about the increase in patrols. The new faction that had been rising up in the ranks of infamy dubbed themselves the Graven had proven to be more than just a nuisance lately. Even the baron had taken an interest in them and their leader, Orion. They hadn’t started really pestering the regular city folk. Yet.

“Let’s just ‘ope the Council cobbles togetha’ something to get these piss poor sods off the streets and outta our way,” one guard had been saying, his voice rising in volume. His friend quickly shushed him harshly.

“I’m sure Northcrest’s got somethin’ in mind for ‘em,” his friend replied. “Hells, just throw his cousin here at ‘em. Woman’s got a saucy pair ‘o tits on ‘er. If old Thaddeus weren’t interested in ‘er, I’d try ‘er mahself.” The dull sound of metal on metal clinked down the hall to Elizabeth’s ears. It sounded like the first Watchman knocked his hand against his fellow’s chest plating.

“Don’ let the baron hear you talkin’ ‘bout her like that. And, ‘sides, Riddic, you ain’t got no chance with ‘er. She’s clearly outta your league.”

“Hey, can’t blame a man for tryin’.” The pair let out a low chortle before resuming their patrol. Elizabeth kept a hand cupped around her candle’s flame to hide the light and waited until she couldn’t hear their footsteps any longer before pressing on. Tried as she might to repress the shudder that ran down her spine, their words echoed in her mind on the way down.

“You certainly can blame a man for trying, thank you very much,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath. She thanked her lucky stars for not running into anyone else as she reached the kitchen at last, hurrying down the last set of stairs. Not wanting to risk turning the electric lights on, Elizabeth kept her candlestick close as she perused the kitchen’s contents. Seemed they’d gotten in a new shipment overnight by the looks of it and the invoice that had been left atop the center counterpiece. She picked up the stained paper and held it up to her face, eyes squinting as she tried reading the letters in the dim light when a noise startled her.

A yelp had gathered up in her throat but died almost instantly as she jerked back from the counter and let go of the candlestick. She braced herself for the sound of the thing clanging loudly against the floor along with an admonishment for sneaking around but neither came.

“I believe you dropped this,” came a familiar, dry, male voice. A hand clad in darkness held out her candlestick, the flame still lit and flickering happily. Elizabeth’s breath left her in a rush as she snatched it from the Master Thief’s fingers. Already she could make out the telltale signs of a smile hidden under his face mask. It was all the more confirmed after he removed the covering, letting it rest below his chin. “What’re you doing here? Bit late for dinner, isn’t it?” Garrett arched a brow at her. That odd bluish glow from his one eye still unnerved her but she was starting to grow accustomed to it. He still hadn’t revealed much in the way in he’d received it. What little he had told her, it hadn’t been a willing choice.

“Could ask you the same thing, Thief,” Elizabeth countered in a mock haughty tone before sticking her tongue out at him.

Garrett’s shoulders shook slightly as he laughed. “Your lady in waiting, Charlotte? She tipped me off about the incoming shipment of food and said to help myself to a few of the extra items she had ordered. Nothing anyone would miss,” the thief supplied as he plucked a red apple out of a crate beside him. He gently squeezed the fruit, testing its ripeness before rubbing it on his cowl and tucking it away in his pack.

“Can’t have you go hungry or anyone else for that matter,” Elizabeth replied as she returned her attention to the invoice she had been studying before Garrett had stepped out of thin air. The rogue stood with his arms crossed and a hip braced against the counter as he waited for her answer. Elizabeth ignored his questioning look while running the pad of her index finger down the parchment, examining the items listed one by one before stopping on the piece she’d been searching for. “Ah, perfect! They actually got them in this time,” she exclaimed with a grin.

“Got what?” Garrett asked, leaning in to peruse the list for himself but Elizabeth plucked it up from the counter and away from his gaze as she set down her candlestick beside a crate of oranges.

“Just wait. They should be in a carton inside the refrigerator. And… Ah, Garrett? Could you be a dear and check the pantry for a small pouch of white sugar, please? That’ll go just perfect with what I’ve in mind.”

The thief shot her another look before pushing off from the counter when she shooed him away and walked toward the pantry for the requested item.

“Still not going to tell me what it is you’re looking for?” Elizabeth heard him call over to her from within the pantry as she searched the fridge.

“Nope,” came her short reply as she scooped up the green mesh carton. As Garrett emerged from the other side of the kitchen, Elizabeth stood at the counter with her prize in hand. She held the reddish pink fruits up for him to see. “Strawberries. Haven’t had them in ages! They’ve gotten to be very expensive in some parts but Lottie must’ve pulled a few strings to get these picked up. One of the servants had set these aside specifically for me and I’ve had such a sweet tooth lately!” Elizabeth strode over to run the fruits under a little water from the sink faucet then set the carton down on a towel that rested between the two of them.

“The sugar, please? We won’t need all of that. Just pour a bit into the bowl here and voilá!” The grain’s sweet scent wafted up into the air once she poured a little out. Elizabeth quickly sealed up the pouch and set it aside before picking a large strawberry up from its fellows, holding it out for Garrett to take. The thief gingerly held the fruit between his thumb and forefinger after taking it from her and sniffed it.

“Have you never had one before?” she asked, given his reaction. Garrett frowned and shook his head.

“Can’t say that I have,” he replied as he examined the fruit. “Most markets I’ve… frequented don’t usually have exotic fruits in store and if they do, it’s a rare thing.”

“Well, I’m happy to be sharing this first with you.” Elizabeth flashed him a broad grin, cramps and discomfort temporarily forgotten while she waited for her shadow to take his first bite. Garrett rolled his eyes before considering the fruit once more and bit off the end, letting it sit on his tongue a moment. When she saw him nodding his approval, Elizabeth‘s grin widened.

“So, you like it?” she prodded, doing her best to keep her voice down as much as possible. She didn’t want to risk the guards hearing her, especially if they were the pair she’d eavesdropped on her way down.

“I don’t dislike it,” was the thief’s noncommittal answer before he popped the rest of the berry into his mouth. Elizabeth let out an unladylike snort at that. He liked it, he just didn’t want to admit it, she reasoned. Garrett nodded his chin at the little bowl on the counter. “What’s the sugar for? Berry’s already sweet enough as it is.”

“Be that as it may but some people like an extra sweetness in their lives,” Elizabeth countered as she dipped her own strawberry into the bowl, coating the bottom half entirely in sugar.

“Hm. Maybe that’s why I’ve enjoyed being around you.” Garrett gave her a quick wink right after he plucked another strawberry from the carton. He said it so casually that it took Elizabeth a second to process the rogue’s words and, once they registered, her face flushed something fierce. She started to stammer as her own words weren’t coming out just right and it took nearly a full minute before she managed to regain her composure. Even then, it was desperately hanging on by a thread.

Elizabeth glanced briefly up at the rogue, having abandoned her sugar coated fruit, and placed both hands over the bottom half of her face. Garrett’s mouth was twitching at the corners as he fought a valiant war against the grin that threatened to appear just then. “You okay?” he asked. While the smile wasn’t on his face, it was very plainly in his tone.

“Yes,” she answered though they both knew she was lying. Garrett, thankfully, hadn’t called her on it, yet. “Yes. I-Yes. I’m fine.”

“Good because if you don’t eat that, I will.” He gestured with one finger at the forgotten berry. Elizabeth glared at him then snatched it away before the thief could try anything. She bit off the coated half, taking a moment to enjoy the sugary sweetness, before realizing a bit of sugar had gotten stuck on the side of her mouth. One of her hands had already risen up to wipe it away when Garrett gently took hold of her wrist, halting the motion.

“Allow me,” he softly said.

Elizabeth didn’t dare breathe as he closed the gap between them, releasing her wrist to cup the back of her head. The hand he’d held a moment before pressed up against his chest but she didn’t push him away. Garrett paused just for a second or two, their noses barely grazing each other. While he’d gone to kiss the corner of her mouth where the sugar lay, Elizabeth tilted her head to the side just enough for her lips to meet his. Her hand curled around the buckles on his chest piece to pull him closer as she felt his own fingers tangle themselves up in her hair.

Her heart hammered hard against her breast bone but it was a distant feeling as she was solely aware of the man before her. The musky scent of his leather oil. The light coating of rain that had been slowly drying on his cloak. For someone who was all hard edges and roughness, Garrett had a soft side to him that he rarely ever displayed. This was a gift and was going to be a memory Elizabeth would treasure in the years to come. Then the burning sensation in her lungs begged for attention. She needed air but she needed Garrett more.

Before she broke the kiss in its entirety, she nipped the rogue’s bottom lip enough for him to get that dark, hungry look in his eyes that made her toes curl against the cold tile and gave her that fluttering in her stomach. Their breath mingled together as they each took a moment, much as they both wouldn’t have minded continuing.

“I think it was very good that I came down here tonight,” she said, her voice huskier than she had anticipated. In her other hand, the one not laying against Garrett’s chest where she could feel his racing heart, dropped the other half of the berry into her mouth. She then licked the juice away from the tips of her fingers, noting how the thief’s eyes fell briefly down on her tongue before flicking back up to meet her gaze.

There was that half grin of his. The one just spoke of danger and a very good night in bed.

“Yes, it was,” Garrett replied as he gathered her up in his arms, pressing another kiss to her juice flecked lips.

[novella-b]

THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT

need to know what y’all think each of the marauders era characters go to drink of choice is

drop your thoughts!

[magnetarbeam]

Recovering Herself (WIP 6)

[Yes, I'm finally working on this again. At the point I've reached, we're about to have Zekk realize his feelings for Jag. Also several minor changes to wording, including references to Jag and the Fels as part of the Empire of the Hand and not the Ascendancy.

I also do want to add another scene in between what are now the third and fourth, in which Jaina has to think all the way back to YJK to think of something that's actually fun.]

”Jaina, as your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to take today off. No training, no strategizing, nothing. Report to me first thing in the morning. At that time, if you think you need another day off, I require you to tell me so. You’ll get it.”

With his characteristic military precision, Jag left. Zekk followed a moment later, his impressed surprise registering only distantly in Jaina’s perceptions.

A day off. The concept was almost an alien one to her. Thinking back, Jaina found herself astounded, barely able to believe that it hadn’t even been a year since the first of the atrocities committed by the creature Jacen had become. The series of events had so consumed her emotionally that it might as well have been a decade.

Her service in Starfighter Command after the Yuuzhan Vong War had given her periods of leave, naturally, but it had always felt like a waste. All she had to give for the galaxy - almost all she was - was to find the next fight, and win it. She was the Sword of the Jedi, never supposed to know peace.

Under any other circumstance, an order like the one she’d just received would have stirred up a fierce resentment in Jaina for stripping her from her purpose, however temporarily. This time, though, as her mind began to process the events that had just happened, she was just numb.

She had almost killed Jag, merely for the act of embarrassing her. As Jaina thought it through more, the carefully constructed mental barriers started to break. It was a rush of emotion of such intensity that Jaina found herself driven to tears. Shock and guilt and confusion poured through the widening cracks. There was something else there, too, a sentiment that, despite everything, she was not prepared for.

Love.

Flooded as she was by long-repressed emotions, Jaina couldn’t find it in herself to resist the notion that maybe she really did need a break. Jag, blast him, had probably predicted and counted on exactly that.

Although she still had no idea what to do with a break, she realized there were people that might.

Jaina turned and climbed the boarding ramp of the Falcon.

"How do I take a break!?" Jaina asked in a near-panic.

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "First of all," she advised, "calm down."

Jaina took several deep breaths, attempting to enter a light meditative trance to center herself in her environment. For the first time since this mess started, she was reasonably successful. Though Leia was less experienced in harnessing it, her signature in the Force burned just as bright as that of her brother the Grand Master, and its reassuring light offered a beacon of calm that Jaina only now realized she'd missed across all the months that they'd been separated.

Even as she placed herself tenuously in the eye of her storm of emotions, and returned her focus to her physical surroundings, Jaina didn't let go of the lifeline that her mother's mental touch represented.

"I think I should handle this one,” Han advised Leia. "Even after all these years, I'm not sure you know the answer."

After a moment of feeling vaguely affronted, Leia sighed. "I wish I could argue with that."

Han stood up from the Falcon's pilot seat. He pointed to it, and told Jaina, "Sit down."

Jaina sat, feeling weirdly like a child being put in time-out.

"Now,“ her father said, "Tell me why you don't know how to take a break."

”I'm the Sword of the Jedi," Jaina told him instantly. The words came to her without effort, without even particular emotion. ”Just a weapon. Weapons aren't supposed to need rest, or companionship, or anything other than someone to wield it and something to be wielded against."

Leia's agonized despair at those words blasted through the Force. The surge came as such a shock that Jaina reflexively tried to reel back from the mental contact, but her mother didn't let her, holding on with a fiery protectiveness of a magnitude that Jaina wasn't sure she'd ever felt before.

Han, moving so fast that Jaina didn't even sense the intent beforehand, slammed his fist into the transparisteel viewport. He could not damage it, of course, but Jaina distantly registered a flare of physical pain under his cold fury, a fury aimed not at Jaina or Leia, but at the galaxy and universe and Force that had made his daughter believe such a thing.

A few moments passed in a tense silence, where it seemed like none of them really knew what to say. In the tide of emotions directed at her by her mother, Jaina sensed currents of lament and longing and the same kind of righteous indignation that Leia had always shown in the face of injustice. It took a second for Jaina to connect those to the flashes of memory and realize that it added up to one message:

You deserve better.

Before Jaina could react to that, her father found his voice.

"Now put your feet up on the instrument board."

Jaina blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Like this." Leia, still in the copilot's seat, leaned back as much as the chair would allow, and showed Jaina what Han was talking about. "It's easy."

"Oh, so now you-" Han started to complain to his wife.

"I've seen you do it enough times," Leia told him with a nonchalance that was clearly forced.

Reluctantly, Jaina did as requested, making sure not to actually kick any of the controls out of their alignments.

“How does that feel?” her father asked.

“…Weird,” Jaina settled on after a moment, really not wanting to try to describe in detail the emotions induced by an informality so emblematic of her father's classic independent spirit and disrespect for authority.

That thought provoked another association that hit her square in the heart. Jaina had once been like that, hadn't she?

For a second, she wasn't sure.

Then she started to remember.

"Now," her father said, "tell us again what you told us before. About being a weapon."

”I'm the Sword of the Jedi," she repeated. The habitual statement, that she had drilled into herself for what felt like it might as well have been her entire life, struck her as curiously at odds with her casual posture that felt like it should be accompanied by sarcasm and insults.

"Just a weapon." But that wasn't true, was it? A sword didn't have emotions, but after what had just happened, Jaina found that she had to acknowledge that despite her best efforts, she did have emotions.

"Keep going," Han encouraged with a stern tone that, only now, Jaina realized wasn't reflective of his actual feelings.

"Weapons aren't supposed to…"

They were the words of a Jedi Knight who had more skill and experience than almost any other.

They were the words of a soldier, whose entire life had been defined by combat and death and suffering.

They were the words of the Sword of the Jedi, to whom the title was to be interpreted as literally as possible.

But right now, she didn't feel like any of that.

These were the emotions of Jaina Solo, daughter of Han Solo's brash, reckless independent streak and Leia Organa's selfless empathy.

These were the emotions of Jaina Solo, who couldn't pay attention to a history lesson but lost almost two days hyperfocusing on disassembling and reassembling the enthrallingly complicated internal workings of the first Incom StealthX starfighter delivered to the Jedi.

These were the emotions of Jaina Solo, who lasted twenty-seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds in the Lando's Folly asteroid run, beating out the previous record holder, Kyp Durron, more than two to one.

Finally the contrast was too much, too strange, and Jaina could no longer contain herself.

She laughed.

She laughed like she never had before.

It was like the long-awaited release of a capacitor charged with all the joy she hadn't had the luxury of experiencing since the Yuuzhan Vong War began.

The time that passed could have been ten minutes or ten hours. Jaina didn't know. What she did know was that she was laughing, and so were her parents, and for at least this moment, the weight of the galaxy had been lifted from her shoulders.

———

She was laughing.

Zekk stopped in his tracks when he felt the surge of joy.

Jaina's catharsis rang in his mind almost as clearly as if it was his own (the fact that that it briefly had been was something they both put considerable effort into not thinking about), but Zekk still experienced a moment of stunned disbelief before he let himself believe that it was real.

The fact that it had been Jag who had finally gotten through to her sparked a flare of jealousy - she cares about him more than me - but Zekk decided it was not welcome. If anything, the fact that he hadn't been able to come up with something that would have accomplished that result was his personal failure.

Either way, it had finally happened.

That meant there were amends to make.

“You’re still working?”

Had Zekk spoken thirty seconds sooner, Jag’s jolt of surprise might very well have led to the new wiring from the blaster’s power pack connecting prematurely to the timer he hadn’t yet programmed, causing the entire device to blow up in his face. As he turned to face the tall Jedi, it occurred to Jag that Zekk had probably realized that.

“What?” Jag asked, a hint of bitter hostility creeping into his voice out of habit.

Zekk scrutinized him in silence for a second, and Jag realized his tone. He was surprised to find he didn’t feel that resentment anymore. For months, Zekk had been an annoyance. They worked together well enough on a professional level, but they didn’t get along personally. Jag wasn’t too proud to admit to himself that part of it was the competition over Jaina, who had entertained romantic affections for both men at different times in her life, but he was too proud to admit it to anyone else.

Now, Jag wasn’t sure where he and Zekk stood.

“But after today,” the other man had said not an hour ago, “I’m exceedingly proud to have you as a comrade-in-arms.”

Zekk still didn’t particularly like him. That much was clear from the array of insults that had preceded the statement. But maybe…

“Come on,” Zekk told him, his tone suggesting that he was disappointed somehow. “You finally get through to her like that, and then you just hole up in your workshop?”

“I still have important work to do,” Jag reminded him matter-of-factly.

“So do I,” Zekk said. “So does Jaina. And you just gave us days off.

“Why don’t you deserve a break too?”

Jag silently struggled to find an answer to that. Those who carried the weight of Thrawn's legacy, even as disciplined as they were, still understood the importance of mental health. An individual driven to their breaking point by stress and anxiety would not be able to perform their role. The Empire of the Hand had given its soldiers leave just as any effective fighting force had to.

But Jag was no longer welcome in the Hand or its military. He had devoted himself to hunting down and killing Alema Rar because it was all he had left. That was a fact he was absolutely not ready to admit.

“I’m the commanding officer,” he answered, trying to inject strength into the words, and to summon emotions that would read like he believed that that was the answer.

Zekk instantly rolled his eyes, clearly seeing through the lie, but he thankfully chose not to call it out. Instead, he changed tactics.

“I’ve known Jaina longer than you have,” he reminded Jag. “I knew her before the Vong hit, back before she had any reason to think she was a weapon.

“She doesn’t need a commander right now. She needs a friend.”

That implication stopped Jag short.

“Am I your friend?” Jag asked.

That prompted another second of silence as Zekk presumably considered it.

“Not to me. Not yet,” Zekk admitted with a sigh. “But it’s what she needs, and I want to stop fighting.

“When this thing with Alema started,” he said bluntly, “I didn’t trust you. Jaina was starting to shut out anyone and anything that wasn’t about her goal, and I didn’t think you’d help because you were doing the exact same thing.”

The statement was the emotional equivalent of a direct hit from one of the siege guns on Jacen's destroyer. Zekk was right. The anger over Jaina’s part in Jag’s exile had gone unchecked since it happened, and it had led him to say things to her that he’d already come to regret. He’d tried to reduce Jaina to a subordinate in a military command structure. But he hadn’t really succeeded, had he?

“I’m the last person to preach about mental health,” Zekk continued, “but what you did back there tells me you’ve come back from that.”

Jag took a second to find a response.

“I haven’t forgiven her yet,” he told Zekk matter-of-factly, their eyes meeting. "I still don't know if I'll ever be able to.

"But she's important to me." Jag's resolve hardened his words to the density of battleship-grade neutronium. "Her brother's actions are already causing her enough pain. Anything I can do to help her through this is more important right now than my grudge over something that happened years ago.

"And you're right." Conceding to Zekk on such a personal matter, Jag found, no longer carried the sting that it would have only a few months ago. "I didn't help at first."

The guilt brought on by that admission was painful by itself, but Jag had never refused to take responsibility for his mistakes. "If I had let myself be there for her when we met again, maybe it wouldn't have gone this far."

Zekk shrugged indifferently. "Maybe. Maybe not. It's not like this is new for her."

Jag nodded in agreement. "True."

"Either way," he continued decisively, "I bear some responsibility here. For that reason, at the very least, I owe her this."

Zekk gave an amicable smile, which Jag supposed came from relief or gratitude.

The modifications to his blaster were not finished, but still Jag sealed the weapon in its case, leaving it fully prepared for further progress.

As they made their way back to the hangar, Jag steadfastly tried not to think about the familiar way his heart had skipped a beat at that smile.

Jaina was so hyperfocused on the datapad in front of her that she didn't even notice Jag and Zekk return to the hangar until they spoke.

”You look like you're doing better,” Jag observed, actually smiling at her. Not the same kind of smile as when they'd dated so many years ago, but it was much more than the barely perceptible gestures he'd always afforded her in public.

“A little bit,” Jaina admitted, consciously deciding to allow herself to think about how much she'd missed that smile.

But the true focus of Jaina's attention was her datapad, which she set to holoprojection mode, and a three-dimensional schematic of the ship design she was concepting appeared above the table.

Her companions immediately recognized the image for that, and they began to discuss it.

Zekk had never seen Jag smile before.

Thinking back on it, he figured they'd never been close enough. Jaina would have seen him smile during their relationship, but the most Zekk had known him was on a professional level, from their time together in Twin Suns Squadron.

[anogete]

Mercy Show to Me (Dramione) - Chapter 5

HERE YOU GO. I promised banter and flirting, and I intend to deliver. Below is a snippet of what was just posted on AO3.

Hands still in his pockets, he leaned his back against the doorframe and watched her slip past him. While the room was white, the desk was old and warm mahogany. The wingback desk chair was upholstered in deep brown leather. The two oversized chairs across from the desk were made of the same leather. Besides a large painting of what appeared to be the Black Lake behind the desk, the walls were filled floor to ceiling with shelves of books. “It’s...this is like my wet dream,” she told him. He seemed to choke on a chuckle, which made her cheeks burn while she tried to laugh off what she’d just blurted out. Trying to save the awkward moment, she said, “I mean, it’s books. And you have a ladder. Does it work?” He snorted. “Of course it works, Granger. How do you think I get the books off the top shelves?” “Accio?” Malfoy scoffed and turned away to adjust his desk chair. “Fine. Yes, I use Accio far more than the ladder. But I do use the ladder.” “Oh, I’d use it all the time. When I was a young girl, I loved the Muggle cartoon Beauty and the Beast, and the Beast had this brilliant library with a ladder. I desperately wanted to be Belle just so I could glide the ladder along the shelves of books.” “Don’t let me stop you. Have at it.” When she looked up, he was grinning at her. It made him look younger and handsome. “Piss off, Malfoy. Don’t make fun of my dreams.” “I’d never. You can flounce about here whenever you please. Consider it a perk of helping me.”

[ashadeintheshade]

WIP Sunday

it's a thing! lol (it's not but... go with it)

working on chapter six edits for City of Angels, everyone is doing great! No worries.

[kadyn-posts-occasionally]

I’m currently working on my first Murder Drones fanfic,(it’s eventually going to be available to read on AO3)YIPPEE!

Btw…it’s a NUzi fanfic, it includes a little bit of JV, and also Tessa is there

It includes the following fanfic categories: Fluff, Angst, Comfort, Hurt, Romance, and it’s a cuddle fic(also, they are a t4t couple and are both bi in this because I said so)

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter 12

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: flashback two - you're fifteen. it's been three years since you last saw the boy named levi.

Warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of death, injuries, levi doesn't have a single chill cell in his body, hurt/comfort, wound dressing, levi is 16 and mc is 15

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 12 - FLASHBACK: TWO

Three years pass without seasons.

Every now and then you think about him — the small boy you fought, the small boy you shared bread with—

The small boy you would never see around the fighting circuits ever again.

Levi.

For someone as scrawny and unassuming as he might have been, it’s hard to forget him — how piercing his gray eyes are, how his voice carries like a whisper in the wind.

Days come and nights go, but in your loneliness, you seek what could have been.

Sometimes they’re nightmares — his eyes turn hollow, lifeless, as he crushes the life clear from your lungs by his hands around your throat. An attack out of necessity and never out of anger; you often wake up gasping, holding your neck with your hand where he once squeezed.

Sometimes they’re dreams — he appears at Roxy’s without cuts or bruises and sits besides you. His clothes aren’t tattered anymore. His hair stays the same. He shares the same food with you, over and over, until you can no longer eat bread without thinking of Levi.

You imagine conversations about nothing in particular. Most of the time, you do all of the talking: about your life, about made-up aspirations, about wishing you could get the hell out of here and fight for something bigger than another person’s purse. 

If he ever responds, then you can't remember. The details of the exchange tend to disappear as soon as you open your eyes.

And you wonder:

Maybe he’s taller now.

Maybe he’s managed to escape to a life on the surface with the living world, making a name for himself in the sun.

(There is a third option to his fate, one more permanent and honest, but you don’t wish to entertain it.)

In your head, you’ve told him everything:

How you cannot picture your mother, but you hope you really do have her eyes.

How you don’t remember your father, but have a feeling you might have his nose.

How you’ve lost so many siblings as you grew up to violence. You tell him their names, their favorite colors, their little quirks, so someone can remember them, too.

How you want to someday see beyond the Underground City, beyond the Walls, and make something of a name you barely own. James; it was a name Mother gave you, but it isn’t your given name. You know your first name. You were just forbidden to use it around her.

(She hoped you’d forget. So many kids do. You never did.)

He doesn’t say much in return to your confessions, but it’s nice to tell someone else.

To exist in someone else.

Except he isn't real, not really.

The boy indifferent to winning a fight to the death one gloomy evening in the underground three years ago is only a figment of your imagination.

.

.

.

.

Until he isn’t.

.

.

.

.

Even off the clock, the street fights never cease.

Strangers love to think — to pretend — they can take on fighters. At fifteen, you’ve learned the reality of this all too well.

The dim lit alleyways and backroads paved to avoid wandering Military Police offer plenty of opportunities to get jumped by begrudged managers, other fighters, other people — the same snakes lining Mother’s pockets.

To them, it's a chance to take on the seasoned veterans out of the ring but with the advantage in the element of surprise.

It’s how you’ve ended up here tonight — trapped in an alleyway a few blocks from Roxy’s pub with nowhere to run.

Your assailants’ silhouettes have their intentions etched all of their postures.

Three against one. 

It was supposed to be an unfair fight.

And it was — for them. 

You find yourself being held back by the armpits by one of men keeping you stationary, your back to his chest. The other two, emboldened by the rare chance, wail on your face and torso. They’re cheap shots. Nothing you can’t handle. 

None of their hits would have landed if you hadn’t just left a fight an hour prior. They'd caught you off guard while nursing your wounds after winding down from a victory.

These three idiots are not calculated, though. Each want a chance to show off their moves, to prove they're strong against the strongest.

(They haven’t thought this attack through, have they?)

You’re the one with the advantage.

So you make them pay for it.

You manage to escape the hold from behind by slamming the back of your head into the one person's nose, causing the tallest boy to scream in agony. Next you attack the girl fumbling to keep you still.

You grapple and punch your way out of their triangulated attack, dropping each body like flies.

The first goes down with a kick to the groin.

The second crumbles the minute you flip her over your back.

The third? He tries to run, but you quickly follow and slam his face straight into the brick wall.

You step back to observe your work: all of lay there groaning and whimpering on the ground, spent and pleading to be left alone.

(Does that count as four victories in one day?)

Except you can't stay to admire, not down here. In an attempt to avoid potential onlookers hoping to brawl next, you run.

You stick to the shadows you’ve grown to memorize and nurse your fresh wounds as you limp towards shelter. 

Going home isn’t an option — Mother will question the fresh wounds with scrutiny.

You have to fix them alone, here, with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You park yourself against a brick wall to catch your breath, dissolving a wheeze to something more stable as your teeth grit with the shooting pain in your torso.

From an initial mental assessment, your ribs feel bruised but hopefully not broken. The one son of a bitch got a shot to your jaw, but when you move it side to side, it isn’t clicking. 

Good. All good signs. So far it’s superficial.

Though your hands might need bandages before next week’s—

“You look like shit.”

A baritone voice sounds at the other end of the alleyway.

Your neck cracks by how quick you lift your chin to find it.

Maybe you did get hit hard enough to hallucinate, because what you see staring straight at you are piercing gray eyes you’ve seen a thousand times by now.

However, it’s only the second time you would have seen them in the flesh.

This person — a young man — has jet black hair shaved at an undercut just above his ears. The front of his hair flops along the edges of his face, framing his pointed nose and even pointier scowl.

You know those eyes.

You know that stare.

He wears a white, long-sleeved shirt, bundled up by a burnt orange vest that buttons at his abdomen, and a pair of fitted dark trousers. It fits better than the mangled tee you’ve recalled for all these years. His hands are at his sides, resting in fists.

“Mind your fucking business,” you bite back in warning, ignoring the shooting pain your torso.

He ignores your aggressive demand and dares another step forward. 

“How bad did they get you?”

You blink in rapid succession to see if maybe his form changes.

It doesn’t.

You clench your jaw as you push your back from the brick wall.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he cooly replies, feet stopping just outside your personal bubble.

(This cannot be real.)

You shamble a step towards him, but pain shoots straight through your system. Your arm instinctively wraps protectively around your abdomen. 

His eyes drop to follow. 

“I guess the answer is bad enough.”

“Fuck off,” you exhale, maintaining an aloof attitude in conjunction with the hammering of your heart in your chest.

“Sure." The word drips with boredom, but he doesn’t turn to leave.

Instead the two of you stand there, staring, allowing a beat to pass.

You’re afraid your internalized excitement — relief — has overtaken your entire face.

Levi.

He really exists.

“You can leave, you know,” you force yourself to tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine so long as those shitheads don’t get up.”

Your attention flickers over his shoulder, past the rows of buildings lining the streets where you’ve left three unconscious idiots to rot.

So he saw the aftermath of the jump.

(How much did he see?)

There is something hidden between the lines of his statement that has you reconsidering. Levi’s voice is nothing like you remember. It’s languid. Smooth, like a buttered whiskey. 

Your first thought is that his voice doesn’t match his height in the slightest — he’s still short, never quite hitting that growth spurt you imagined in your sleep.

“I can’t believe you’re still alive,” you finally tell him, unable to hold in the thought any longer.

He shrugs a noncommittal shoulder and resumes his trek towards you. 

“I get that a—”

“Whoa.”

You stumble back a step, using the wall to keep your balance while your other hand creates a barrier between you. 

“Hold on. What the hell are you doing?”

He says nothing beyond a tilt of his chin: really?

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat.

His tongue clicks. Tch. “Yeah, and I’m six-foot fucking three.”

The deadpan joke takes you by surprise, forcing you to lock eyes. Levi doesn’t betray the passive act he’s putting on, but he doesn’t stop moving, either. 

Not until his chest stops where your open palm hangs in the air.

The teenager regards you briefly, gray eyes flickering down then up.

“Roxy’s is close.”

“I know.”

“They have back rooms with supplies.”

“I know.”

“So why not go?”

He’s taunting you. Great. 

You draw in a slow inhale through your nose, only to halt when a sharp pang hits once more. A pathetic squeak of pain exits your throat before you can suppress it.

“C’mon, dumbass.”

In that moment, Levi swats your boundary away with a flippant hand. He crosses the threshold, attention fixated on you as he drops a centimeter in height. You wait with baited breath when he dips to situate a strong arm under your armpits, pressing your battered body right beside his.

You can smell something herbal on his breath, and the world feels a little smaller.

“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Because,” is all he replies.

He could be leading you to more danger. He could have switched sides and turned into an MP rat of the Underground. He could be a lot of things, and you have one last fight in you to ward him off, but you… don’t.

He’s surprisingly gentle when he takes a step forward, testing just how hurt you might be. You limp beside him, determined to look brave. Strong.

He never moves faster than the pace you’re able to give.

Levi is right: Roxy’s pub is close. And every single inebriated soul at Roxy’s knows you, which is why you avoided the watering hole at all costs. You might be fifteen now, but you’re still under her reign. If Mother was drinking early, or one of your siblings— 

He must have a psychic link to your stream of worry, because the first right turn he takes is into another alleyway. You recognize where he’s headed immediately:

Not the supply closet but the staff back room door.

“You have a key?” you ask, perplexed.

“No,” is all he replies.

Once you both make it to the door, he maneuvers your body off of him and props your back against the wall adjacent to the entryway.

Levi doesn’t fumble into his trouser pockets. He doesn’t pat down his vest.

He instead takes a decided step back.

Then he kicks hard, flinging the wooden door wide.

Your eyes mirror, rounding like large saucers.

He appears not the least bit bothered by what he’s done, instead returning to retrieve you under his arm. You reach for him this time, understanding his intention. Awkwardly the two of you pass through the opening of the door sideways, squeezing chest to chest to fold inwards.

To go from his hands on your throat to sandwiching together in the midst of a break-in, you’re sure you’re still dreaming or dead on a cobblestone street.

Levi shuffles you both to a chair situated askew in the tiny backroom and unceremoniously drops you onto it, lowering with you so not to spark any added pain to invisible wounds. For someone you envisioned so violently, he's... gentle. Careful.

You’re watching him like a mirage that may flutter like ash in the wind.

None of this makes sense.

Why is he helping you?

(A worry lingers in the back of your mind: perhaps he’s not.)

“Oi.”

You return to your body and find yourself staring at the open door, lopsided on its hinges.

You blink to the teenager’s face with cloudy interest as he stares down at you.

“Eyes on me. They aren’t coming.”

They. The assailants.

You realize he must have assumed you were keeping guard instead of spacing out.

“What makes you so sure?” you ask absently.

He doesn’t answer as he crosses the room to a lower cabinet by a sink. The room fills with the sounds of gentle rummaging, clicks and fabric, until he stumbles upon a med kit. 

You swallow to coat your parched throat and lick your dry lips, keenly aware of every movement he makes.

He turns to you, kit in hand, and holds it out to you. You continue to stare, immobile.

“What do you want me to—”

“Hold it, idiot,” he snaps. “I can’t do everything.”

You liked him better when he barely spoke.

Snatching the kit from his hands, you let the fabric sit on your lap. His gray eyes map out quadrants of your face with diligent focus, noting a scratch here and bruise there with the hover of his hand, before getting to work.

You sit as well-behaved as you can manage while your attention switches between his hands and his face.

“I don't understand.”

You pause, expecting pushback. 

“Why are you doing this?”

A rude remark never comes beyond a tentative press of medical cloth to your forehead. 

“Helping anyone down here paints a target on your back, so why would you step in?”

Wordless, he presses a bandage to the spot where the skin broke.

“Levi.”

Sharply his attention rips down to you, and your breath halts.

So it is his name.

You’ve never said beyond your mind’s eyes, but it feels nice on your tongue. Like an answer to a question that was almost lost forever.

His arms remain raised, hands busy with pressing a lukewarm rag to the cut on your cheek.

Then he responds:

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” your murmur.

“Why?”

“Because it’s harder to help than to ignore.”

Something flickers in his dulled gaze.

“Kind of like giving bread to a strange kid, right?”

His rhetorical question knocks the wind right out of your lungs, flaring the pain in your bruised rib cage. Levi ducks his attention back to tending your wounds, discarding sullied rags to the nearby sink display after addressing each bloodied cut. 

Twelve years old with a selfless act.

Now you’re fifteen, soon to be sixteen, and he’s repaying the favor.

Neither instance ought to make any sense.

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’m not a saint for giving you food.”

Levi doesn’t react beyond a flare of his nostrils, but that could be attributed to a silent exhale.

“I could have killed you,” he says, dipping lower to hover slender fingers right where your arm clutches your ribs. “Broken?”

“Bruised.” Strands of hair fall into your face as you shake your head. “I’ve felt broken before.”

“Positive?”

“Yes.” His hand drops away from your torso and to his side. “And I was trying to kill you back then, too. It wasn’t our fault.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he corrects simply.

“But you could have.”

His fingers pause for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I could have.”

You barely nod. “I thought maybe something happened to you. I never saw you on the circuit again, so I thought—”

“That was the first and only time I fought in that nasty shit.”

Your brows furrow as his fingertips lift your chin. “...so you weren't sold into it?” He shakes his head. “I was your only fight?”

“Technically.”

“So then why were you—”

“Practice, in case I ever met someone who needed to kill me for quick cash.”

Someone yells cheers! from the other side of the wall where Roxy’s patrons gather for an early evening binge. Muffled laughter bubbles in the throats of strangers, causing your muscles to instinctually tense.

“That's a morbid reason,” you decide after a beat. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you, but for some reason you’re still in it.”

His words simmer with a hint of anger you can’t quite place. Levi drops his hands from your face, shoulders deflating in a rushed exhale.

“Good news: you look like shit, but you’re not in deep shit. I can’t do anything about your ribs, but your face should be fine. You have a bad habit of leaning into your hits.”

“Excuse me?” you blurt from the 180-degree turn of his assessment.

Levi doesn’t respond. His fingers draw the med kit off your lap, folding the fabric ever-so neatly in his hands — it’s more pristine than how it was left.

As his words fester in the air, your temper starts to get the best of you.

Your mirage is an asshole.

When he turns to the cabinet, you stand from the chair.

“What do you mean, I have a bad habit?”

“Did those shitheads make you hard of hearing, too?” he sarcastically bites.

“No, shithead," you mock right back. Although you’re grateful for his help, you’re not one to let someone walk all over you — Mother does it enough. “I don't lean into them."

Levi regards you from a side-eye stare. “Yes, you do.”

“What, so you’ve watched my fights?”

“I watch fights. Not just yours,” he corrects. “You're not special, so get your head out of your ass.”

“Oh fuck you, man.”

He hums, something like hmmph, but you could swear it’s paired with a smirk.

“Leaning into them makes an opponent feel like they have the upper hand,” you explain hotly. “Let them hit, then you strike.”

“It’s a shit strategy.”

“I’m smaller than a lot of my opponents.”

“So?"

“So? Coming out to a fight like you own the place puts a target on your back.”

“Did your Mom teach you that?”

Your nostrils flare. “Maybe she did, but your Dad sure as hell forgot to teach you manners.”

“He wasn’t my father.”

All of the heat gets sucked clear from the room as Levi’s icy statement cuts through it. The teenager finally faces you now, standing at his full height, and taps the cabinet door closed with the toe of his boot.

His expression has soured in contrast to his softening voice. You lift your chin in defiance in a show of bravery.

(Levi didn’t scare you back then. He doesn’t scare you now.)

“And you’re a better fighter than that. Making yourself look weak is a shitty strategy for someone who can't land a punch, let alone someone who can. You take the punches because you damn well know you're better than every opponent they match you with. If you didn’t play the theatrics, then those idiots would all be dead in minutes.”

As you bask in the whiplash of his insults switching to compliments, Levi walks across the room with his sights set only on you.

"I met you three years ago. I thought by now you would've found a way out."

Then he asks a question. Four words.

“Do you want out?”

When your eyes widen, he takes one more step closer. You don’t move away.

“If I had a way to get you out, would you take it?” he clarifies.

Your voice is hardly above a murmur. “...I don’t have a way out.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” you snap, voice crackling. “I’ve tried. You know people in the circuits—”

“You have a way out."

“Levi—”

“James.”

The surprise is evident all over your face when Levi murmurs your name against his lips. It takes you completely out of your body, drowning in a dream that’s become reality.

There’s a dream where we run away together. You barely know me, but I tell you my name.

How long has he known the name Mother gave you?

“This isn’t a charity hand out. We need a fighter.”

“We?" you whisper sharply. "Who the hell is we?”

His jaw sets. “Furlan Church and myself.”

“Furlan fucking Church?” You sputter in disbelief. “That’s where you ended up after all this time, with that idiot?”

“If you stay in the circuits, then you will die,” Levi snaps, voice raised with deadly seriousness. “That bitch has been trying to put you in the ground for years. Do you really want her to win?”

His words should be a kindness you run towards.

But according to rumors, Furlan Church is an insufferable, big-headed thug. You’ve heard his name in passing among the youth for the last year or so now — he’s some gangster not much older than you in the midst of building a criminal empire.

Head in the clouds yet simultaneously in his ass, you’ve seen his very tiny crew rob a plethora of street brawl managers through the circuit.

And now Levi associates with him.

The boy with the bread at the pub found himself doing business with that stupid idiot, responsible for—

Responsible for challenging authority.

Responsible for running the show on swiping the seediest of trades in the Underground right from under the noses of corrupt MPs.

Responsible for mugging and attacking people in the middle of the night.

You stagger a step away from him and ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Wait — did you send those guys after me?”

Something indistinguishable flashes over his eyes — are you naïve enough to think it’s guilt?

“The three in the alleyway,” you continue. “They attacked me after the fight. It was really convenient of you to find me in the nick of time. So was that one of his initiation stunts?”

Finding you wasn’t a divine intervention of fate but a curated — calculated — test.

An audition to an Underground City gang that evidently Levi had leverage in.

Levi stares, unwilling to dispute your accusation.

“Dirty trick,” you spit, getting ready to turn the other way.

He steps a pace forward to stop you.

“We need muscle for our next heist,” he finally says. “You would get a cut. You would have a permanent place to sleep. You would have routine meals, day and night."

"I'd be selling myself for one contract to another," you growl.

"You're free to leave whenever you want," Levi tells you. "This doesn't work out in a week? Fine, then you can go. But if you do this, then you would never have to see that woman’s face again.”

“She’d find me,” you reassure in defeat.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he tells you with an unspoken promise. “You would be protected with me.” Then he corrects himself. "With us."

Your shoulders slump, too exhausted to fight him. "Levi..."

"You'll be paid."

"I don't give a shit about pay," you say, studying his eyes. "I have no money to my name as it is. Your... proposition just sounds too good to be true, that's all."

His brows knit in surprise. "What do you need to be convinced? We sent our three best brawn and you cleared them in minutes. You can see why we'd want you."

"And if I say no?" you hum, brow quirking expectantly. “Are you two going to keep sending people after me?”

“No,” Levi assures with utmost seriousness. “I'd let you live your life. This isn't an intimidation tactic. You would never hear from me again.”

There is hidden weight to that statement, whether you want to admit it or not. Not us, not Furlan — me. He doesn't correct himself this time.

Your eyes finally leave Levi’s face to watch the broken door.

That bitch has been trying to put you in the ground for years.

She has.

Do you really want her to win?

Not at all.

Do you want out?

More than anything.

You’ve wanted out since your first fight, but saying yes to his proposal means that you’re potentially stuck fighting worse.

Military Police, for one.

The gallows, another.

“James.”

You’ll never get tired of it — hearing a name you used to hate now flowing against his lips like cool water.

As if he’s waited to say it just as long as you’ve dreamt saying his.

Someone remembers you—

Sees you.

Just as you see him.

You speak before you can regret it.

“I’m in.” 

Levi’s expression shifts, brows softening. Surprise etches across his face.

You draw in a breath, slow and controlled, and memorize the look of surprise when you nod with determination.

“I’m in. I’ll go where you go.”

.

author's note: your replies/reblogs/asks seriously are my lifeblood. chapter 13 is already written, i just have to do final edits, so it will be posted next friday am! thank you dearly for your encouragement and support. xo

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore

[anniedreamwilldo]

Wolfstar | WIP | Rated M | Chapter 3/ ?

It’s 1984. In the small Welsh town of Direidi, every day was the same and Remus was sick of it all - the same cobbled streets, the same boring small talk and now, the same strike. But when Lesbians & Gays Support the Miners arrive, and with them, Sirius Black, everything changes and the quiet voice in the back of Remus’s head that always told him he was different can’t be ignored anymore.

Chapter 3 just dropped chat!!

Lil snippet below:

“James?” Marlene called over her shoulder, a spliff hanging limply from her lips. “Care to explain why Tampon here is acting like a kid on a sugar high? Did you forget to feed and water him this morning or something?”

“He’s just excited to meet his miner mate ,” James teased with raised eyebrows. 

“Spill!!” Mary squealed, catapulting forward to shake the headrests. 

“I don’t have a miner mate ,” Sirius protested.

“Remus is so funny. Oh, did I tell you that Remus has such good music taste? Remus is the best and I want to marry him and have his babies,” Regulus said in that irritating monotone voice he used when he wanted to take the piss. Prick.

“I don’t want to have his babies,” Sirius mumbled, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Yes you do,” James smiled. There was a hint of teasing still in his voice, but there was something else too. Something fond and familiar that made Sirius’s stomach twist with anxiety.

“This is the one you had to ring about the money, right?” Marlene asked into the rear view mirror, finally lighting the joint between her red lips as she said it. She took a deep drag and the van filled with its earthy musk. “You gone soft for a breeder or something, Tamps?” 

“It’s not like that,” Sirius shook his head. “Remus is just an…..acquaintance…who happens to also be a coal miner?”

“Miner mate!” James sang.

Sirius had wanted to say ‘friend’, but they weren’t exactly friends per se, not in the traditional sense anyway. If they weren’t ‘friends’, they also weren’t something as formal as ‘colleagues’ either. See, after their initial phone call three weeks before, Sirius had to speak to Remus more and more. And then, he found himself finding excuses to make the calls. James and Reg were absolutely raging when they saw the phone bill for all those long distance calls, but it was worth it.