#a breach in sanity (crack) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 2 months ago

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His love was a sin, but sins could be absolved—couldn’t they?

❤︎ Synopsis. He claims to hate her, but his obsession says otherwise. A deadly game of spite and desire unfolds as enemies collide, and lines between hate, love, and possession blur in the most dangerous ways.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Divorce Attorney x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Skin of the Saint - Part 6

♡ Word Count. 2,693

The streets were lifeless tonight, the oppressive quiet pressing down on the cobblestones like the weight of a too-heavy shroud. He shouldn’t have been here. He shouldn’t have stayed so late. But the church had become an obsession he couldn’t abandon, much like you—a compulsion that gnawed at the edges of his sanity and left him raw.

The light spilling from the cracked-open doors was dim, its warm glow barely holding the encroaching night at bay. He moved closer, his steps measured and silent, the click of his polished shoes swallowed by the cobblestones. He didn’t need to look at the time to know what this meant.

Closing time.

You’d be the last to leave, as always. Ever the dutiful little lamb, lingering in your sanctuary, clinging to your God.

But tonight, something was wrong.

He stopped mid-step, his instincts flaring in sharp warning. The scene inside wasn’t the solitary, predictable routine he had come to know. No, this was different. There was someone else.

A second figure stood near you, cloaked in the low, golden light of the altar. His posture stiffened, a ripple of something dark clawing its way up his spine. His jaw tightened as he stepped closer, careful to remain in the shadows. He watched. He calculated.

You stood there, as serene as ever, the faint glow of the light catching the soft edges of your veil and giving you an almost ethereal quality. It should have irritated him. It usually did. But his fury found a new focus tonight.

The man standing beside you.

Young. Clean-cut. Nervous in his movements but tall enough to exude presence. He wore the black of a priest-in-training, and his casual demeanor was so utterly out of place here that it grated against every nerve in his body.

The other man leaned toward you, just enough to breach the boundaries of propriety. His voice was low, intimate even, though the words didn’t carry to where he stood in the darkness.

And you—

He saw it. The shift in your posture, subtle to anyone else but blindingly obvious to him. You weren’t stiff. You weren’t retreating. There was a softness in the way you stood, an ease in the angle of your head, as if you were…

Comfortable.

The word lodged itself in his throat, bitter and rancid. His fingers flexed at his sides, nails biting into his palms with a sharpness that barely registered. He felt the tension coil in his muscles, sharp and immediate, as he watched the priest speak again, his voice lowering as if sharing some private confession.

And then you tilted your head.

It was a small movement, so slight it might have been innocent. But the way the light skimmed across your profile, highlighting the faint curve of your lips as you replied, made his blood boil. Your voice was soft, too low for him to hear, but he could imagine it. He could feel it.

You didn’t speak to him like that.

You didn’t look at him like that.

The quiet familiarity in your posture, the way you lingered near this stranger without the icy detachment you reserved for everyone else—him especially—was a betrayal he hadn’t been prepared for.

Rage twisted in his chest, molten and sharp. The priest’s hand moved slightly, gesturing as he leaned closer, and his mind filled with dark, satisfying images. The man’s throat beneath his hand. The crack of bone as he crushed the life from him. The gasp of air that wouldn’t come.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, he focused on you, his anger sharpening into something darker. He saw the way you turned to the priest, how you shifted just slightly toward him, your veil swaying with the motion.

It was unbearable.

You were supposed to belong to God. To no one else. To nothing else. And yet here you were, offering some small, precious piece of yourself to this intruder. To this damn child.

He hated the priest. He hated you more.

He hated how you looked at the man—how your gaze didn’t hold that familiar distance, how your body language wasn’t marred by the stiffness he was so accustomed to.

His breath came in shallow bursts now, the effort to maintain his composure fraying with each second he spent watching you. You were oblivious to the storm you’d created in him, as always.

The priest leaned closer again, and his control snapped, though only internally. His hand twitched at his side, aching to act, to yank you away from this naïve fool and drag you back to where he could watch you, control you, ruin you before anyone else could have the chance.

He stayed rooted to the shadows, the urge to strike held back by something colder, more calculating. Not yet. This wasn’t the place, and it wasn’t the time.

But the fire in his chest burned hotter as you turned away from the altar, your figure illuminated one last time before the dim light swallowed you both.

He knew one thing as he watched you leave, the priest trailing too close behind.

You weren’t going to belong to anyone else.

Not tonight. Not ever.

────────────

For days, he told himself it was work keeping him here. That the case required more attention, more verification, more loose ends to tie before he could walk away.

It was a lie, of course.

The paperwork was finished. The threads were neatly woven. He could have left a week ago. Should have. But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed, orbiting around something he loathed.

You.

You moved through the church with that maddening calmness, your steps steady and precise, your presence as unshakable as the walls of the sanctuary itself. Every motion was deliberate, every glance controlled. And when you spoke—those rare, clipped words—they cut like shards of glass: sharp, cold, and impossible to hold.

He hated you.

That’s what he told himself every time he found his feet leading him back to this place, back to the quiet halls where you worked with unwavering devotion. He’d linger in doorways, watching as you organized worn files or dusted the pews with a care that shouldn’t have mattered. His gaze would fix on the way your veil framed your face, hiding just enough to make him seethe with curiosity.

He hated how soft your voice became when you murmured scripture to yourself, how your fingers moved over the pages of your Bible like it was something precious.

But most of all, he hated that you weren’t like him. You weren’t disillusioned, weren’t rotted by the ugliness of the world.

And that’s why he stayed.

At first, it was a game. A cruel, twisted game to see how far he could push you, how much it would take to make you snap.

“You’re wasting your life, you know, Church Girl?” he’d sneer, his voice low and mocking as he loomed too close. “Hiding away in this relic of a building, pretending anyone—least of all your God—cares.”

Nothing.

“You’ve seen the world, haven’t you? Or are you too busy pretending it doesn’t exist? War. Death. Pain. That’s all your God leaves behind.”

Still, nothing.

“Do you ever think about what it truly means to live? To be human? Or are you just some lifeless doll, wrapped up in all this…” His hand gestured dismissively toward you, toward the simple habit you wore like armor. “…nothingness?”

The only sign you’d heard him at all was the brief flicker of your eyes, a fleeting glance his way before you returned to your task. No fire. No anger. Just cold, unwavering indifference.

It drove him insane.

So, he pushed harder. His words grew sharper, his presence more invasive. He didn’t just watch anymore—he hovered. A shadow in your peripheral vision, a hand brushing too close to yours as he reached for some meaningless item.

But no matter what he did, you didn’t flinch.

Not when his fingers ghosted over your arm as you cleaned the pews. Not when his breath brushed your ear as he leaned too close, murmuring venom-laced jabs about the futility of your faith.

You simply kept moving, your silence wrapping around you like a shield, your faith a fortress he couldn’t breach.

And yet, he stayed.

He told himself it was because he hated you. Because he despised the way you carried yourself with quiet dignity, how you refused to acknowledge him beyond necessity. But deep down, in the murky depths of his hidden thoughts, he knew the truth.

It wasn’t just hate.

It was obsession.

You were a puzzle he couldn’t solve, a challenge he couldn’t walk away from. He wanted to break you, to shatter that unyielding calm and see what lay beneath. He wanted to corrupt you, to destroy the innocence you clung to so tightly.

The first time he touched your face, it was an accident—a brush of his knuckles against your cheek as he reached for something on the desk. You didn’t even look up.

The second time, it wasn’t.

He let his fingers linger, tracing the curve of your jaw as you knelt to scrub the stone floor, your movements methodical. He waited for a reaction, for you to slap his hand away, to glare at him with something other than that infuriating calm.

But you didn’t.

You simply kept scrubbing, as though he wasn’t there at all.

The rage that twisted in his chest felt molten, scalding, and uncontrollable.

“Does nothing get under your skin?” he growled irritated, his hand tightening as it moved to roughly cup your chin, forcing you to look at him.

Your gaze met his then, steady and cold, the depths of your eyes betraying nothing. For a moment, he thought he might have succeeded, that you would finally speak, finally break.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you pulled away with deliberate slowness, rising to your feet and brushing past him without a word.

The ghost of your warmth lingered on his palm, haunting him long after you disappeared into another room, your veil swaying with every step.

He clenched his fist, nails digging into his skin as he watched you go, his mind spiraling into something darker.

He hated you.

He hated the way your presence consumed his thoughts, how you lingered even when you were gone.

But he knew he wouldn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

────────────

The door creaked open with a soft groan of hinges worn by years of disrepair, and for a moment, the only sound in the church was the muffled sigh of wind filtering through stained glass.

He looked up from his perch in the shadows, leaning against the heavy wood of the confessional. He’d been there for hours, cloaked in silence, his gaze pinned on you as you moved through your meticulous routines. The sight of you always set his teeth on edge—the quiet dedication in your steps, the way your hands moved with reverence as you tended to the altar. You were infuriating, impossible, untouchable.

And then, he appeared.

The priest-in-training.

He stepped into the church with all the awkward energy of someone who didn’t belong, his movements uncertain but eager. Finn, he’d heard you call him once, in that maddeningly soft voice that was both prayer and curse.

Finn.

The name tasted like damn bile on his tongue.

“Good evening,” Finn said, his voice bright but shaking slightly, as though the weight of the sacred space had stolen some of his confidence. He stood near the door, too polite to interrupt you outright, his hands clasped in front of him like a penitent child.

You turned, and there it was.

The subtle shift in your expression.

It was imperceptible to anyone else—just a faint softening of your eyes, a minuscule relaxation of your posture. But he saw it.

And it made him want to destroy something. Maybe you.

His jaw clenched so tightly it sent a ripple of tension down his neck, but he smoothed his features, years of practiced control keeping the fury at bay.

Finn took a hesitant step forward, his tall frame somehow managing to look smaller under your gaze. “I—uh, I wanted to stop by. To see how you were.”

You said nothing, only nodding slightly, your hands still resting on the edge of the altar.

“She’s fine,” he said smoothly, his voice cutting through the space like a blade. He stepped into the light, his presence immediately commanding, the weight of it pressing against the room. “Aren’t you?”

Your gaze flicked to him, unreadable as always, before you gave a small nod.

Finn’s eyes widened slightly, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”

He smiled, all teeth, a predator masking himself as something harmless. “I just have a way of blending in.”

The tension between them was almost palpable. Finn shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure of how to handle the presence of this older, more imposing figure.

“So,” he continued, his tone light but laced with an undertone sharp enough to draw blood, “what brings you here, Finn?”

“I, uh—” Finn stumbled over his words, his face reddening. “I just… I just wanted to speak with her. To… to say something important.”

His smile tightened, a crack in the mask. “Important, you say? How intriguing.”

He could see it now—the way Finn’s eyes darted nervously to you, the way his hands twitched as if they longed to reach out. It was obvious. So painfully, pathetically obvious.

Finn wanted you.

And it made him fucking sick.

You, of course, remained oblivious, your focus shifting between the two men like a leaf caught in a storm. Your silence, your maddening stillness, only added fuel to the fire burning in his chest.

Finn took a hesitant step closer to you, his voice softening. “Could we… talk? Alone?”

The words hung in the quiet air like a death knell.

His eyes narrowed, the smile slipping from his face as something darker, something primal, began to rise.

But you nodded.

And that was enough to break him.

The movement was so quick, so seamless, it almost seemed rehearsed. One moment, you were turning to follow Finn, and the next, his hand was on the back of your neck, his fingers curling possessively against your skin.

You gasped, your body freezing under his touch as he yanked you back, spinning you to face him.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not gently.

It was brutal, hungry, and punishing, his lips crashing against yours with a ferocity that stole your breath. Your veil remained in place, the fabric brushing against his cheek as he forced your mouth open, his tongue claiming you in a way that left no room for protest.

For the first time, he saw it—real emotion. Shock.

Your eyes were wide, your body trembling as a blush spread across your cheeks, blooming like a forbidden flower.

First kiss, then? He’d suspected as much. And now it was his.

His teeth scraped against your lower lip, a deliberate bite that sent a jolt of pain through you, the coppery taste of blood mingling between you. He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he pressed closer, his other hand gripping your waist to keep you from pulling away.

When he finally broke the kiss, his breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.

You were trembling, your wide eyes staring up at him with a mixture of fear and something else—something he couldn’t place but wanted to rip apart until he found it.

Behind you, Finn stood frozen, his face pale, his expression a mix of confusion and horror.

He didn’t care.

You were his now. His little Church Girl. His to destroy.

And this was only the beginning.

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binah-beloved · 11 months ago

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Intertwining Threads

Binah x Reader Lobotomy Corporation Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of blood and torture

~ * ~

The life of an Arbiter revolves around torture, as is fit of the prime assassins of the Head. Whatever is ordered shall be done, they all had vowed at the start of their service; threats, collection, removals, extermination. It’s all part of the cycle. There’s nothing to be done or changed, so why not relish in the destruction? Garion was no different, her hands stained with blood and the countless lives she had torn apart. Even when she was gutted and splintered, laid out in a chair to have her brain picked and prodded; when she was forced to cling to her dying breath, listening to every crack of bone with iron red dripping from her mouth; when her name was taken away and replaced by something dull and false so he could control her better, she remained the same, as an Arbiter mimics the City. Binah. What a fitting name. Meaning to contemplate, to understand. She could do nothing but think, after all, being locked away beside a well of madness, alone. Yes, she had much time to contemplate, her task of drawing water slowly driving her insane, as there was no one who could do this but her, no one else who could withstand it. This was her punishment, for everything. Hah, punishment. An Arbiter being tormented instead of doing the tormenting. How laughable. The people around her come and go, living and dying and returning with each new cycle. She’s the head of some department or another, except she can’t leave, not ever. The doors were barred and shut for her, for all of them, long ago.

The agents and clerks beneath her always await her instructions. She used to purposefully lie, watching with sharp eyes as they fell screaming to the monsters or the sounds or the images flashing across their eyes. But he disliked that, sending her back to the room with the well and making her draw more and more water as a form of discipline, and soon she found no joy in watching people crumble, only boredom. They all call her Binah. But she’s not Binah, she’s Garion, and will be Garion forevermore. It’s difficult to tell the time down here amongst the machines and shadows. The only signs are any new employees, fools who join the ranks of the facility because they are very stupid or very desperate, or perhaps a bit of both. She’s long since given up the need to remember any of them; all her energy is spent maintaining the last threads still attached to her sanity, the ones that never seem to snap even when she wants them to. Perhaps that’s another layer of this punishment, to be forced to bear it with lucid eyes. The Arbiter feels nothing when an Abnormality breaches containment, sitting and listening to the shouts and cries for a few moments before getting to her feet. A fight would be a welcome break from the well, anyway- even at her weakest she’s still a formidable opponent for even the worst creatures from the depths. But perhaps staring into the waters has made her sloppy, her skill degrading along with her mind, because the Abnormality is only caged after a long gash is opened on her arm, the blood dripping thickly onto the floor. She exhales. There is no pain. She is an Arbiter, after all, unafraid and strong.

Yet it still stings and burns. “Binah!” A voice rings out and her eyes open with a slight jolt. The sound is vaguely familiar, something heard in passing and no more, but somehow it feels different- concerned, frantic, warm. Her head tilts in its direction, gaze landing upon one of the more recent hires assigned to her department, looking worried and a little fearful at the sight of her blood. You fuss over her wounded arm and she can do nothing but let you, staring blankly as she’s pushed in the direction of the medical bay, the other agents scattering and the memory of your voice filling her head. Binah. It was so gentle, the way you said it- But she’s not Binah. She’s Garion. But who is Garion now, after being chained to an endless web of madness and despair? Nothing but an empty husk. The Head of Extraction has begun to linger near you once working hours are over. You’re often the only ones left in the main room at that hour, your pen constantly scratching against whatever file you’re currently working on, and she remains a short distance away, watching carefully. Occasionally you can smell the tea she drinks, your lips twitching into a smile at the lighthearted thought of your Sephirah truly enjoying something before there’s the sound of footsteps and a light clink as she sets her teacup on the table beside you and asks that you do not mind her sitting so close.

You blink, looking up from your papers and into those dull black eyes, and you smile. Her heart thumps once, merely humming and taking a sip of her tea to disguise her surprise. It’s easier around you, being locked in the depths. The few strands of her sanity become stronger, untangling themselves and weaving into an organized display in your presence- how? You must have some secret ability, some tool used to manipulate the senses, for not even bloodshed and slaughter could make her feel so warm. And your voice, when you speak that name she’s been given- ah, she almost feels like she could smile. Almost. Not quite, but almost. The sight of the Extraction Sephirah and a certain employee becomes commonplace; some even call you her favorite, but when you ask she merely tilts her head, a faint glint in her usually cold eyes, and presses a finger to her lips. It was only natural for him to notice, for the change in her behavior to catch his gaze and hold his attention in an iron grip tight enough to make him panic. You’re the cause of this- some random, low-level employee who gave a fragmented Arbiter a spark- and with rage in his voice he threatens her and you in one sentence, scrambling for some semblance of control. Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, the air seemingly dropping a few degrees from her flat, icy stare. She is strong, can handle any torture or agony or suffering- but you are fragile, a bird she wants to cup in her palms and whisper her sorrows to and keep safe, safe for as long as you live and as long as you breathe. Her own blood she is willing to see spilled, but not yours. Never yours.

She is Garion- … No. She is Binah. That’s right, you called her Binah. She is Binah, a broken, useless shell of an Arbiter- and yet you say her name as if she’s a star in the night sky, bright and beautiful, giving her hope and warmth. So she is Binah, and it’s her own name, not for anyone to control. And Binah, the ex-Arbiter, speaks to him in a smooth, cold voice. “You will not hurt them, for I shall go mad if you do. The insanity that creeps into my skull and eats away at my senses is only restrained by an Arbiter’s will. It can and will crumble at any moment, within the blink of an eye, and the world will turn to blood and dust. So you will not hurt them. You cannot, unless your wish is to lose everything.” Binah. To contemplate, to understand. Yes, now, finally, she understands.

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shyficwriter · 1 year ago

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Temporary Home : Chapter 28

Guardians of the Galaxy fanfic | Reader x Guardians (With Yondu and Kraglin!)

Summary: You know Peter is going to get revenge, but how??

Previous Chapter here | Next Chapter Here Or click here to: Start From Beginning

Author’s Note: For my records this chapter ends on day 85 of the Guardians living with reader. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4,946

The room was still dark when you woke. Nervous energy, along with the aid of an alarm, helped you wake early so you might get ahead of Peter, catch what prank he'd have inevitably set up for you during the night.

You checked everything- your boots for grease, above doors for water buckets (noting the advice Yondu had given you weeks ago about how those had been Peter's go-to pranks on his ship.) You also checked your toiletries for dye, just in case he'd revisit one of your best pranks to try and finally pull it over on you.

However, you found nothing. This surprised you, but you suspected maybe he wasn't so motivated that he'd sacrifice sleep to get you back. His revenge must be yet to come.

But it didn't.

At least, you hadn't noticed anything by breakfast, nor after. You kept a watchful eye, but there was still nothing by the afternoon. At most he would grin mischievously at you, or repeat the 'I'm watching you' signal from the day before.

Clearly he was waiting for something, or planning his attack carefully.

Regardless, you knew you needed to get out of the house for your own sanity. Should you stay to keep an eye on him? Probably. Would your absence give him the freedom to do whatever he wanted? Most likely, assuming Gamora didn't reign him in to keep him out of trouble- which she likely wouldn't. Still, you knew you needed a breather before your composure betrayed you. Before your anxiety started to crack your calm faćade and it be known how nervous you were over whatever hellfire would be coming your way.

If nothing else, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you sweat.

So, you decided today would be the day you finally check the tunnel, starting with the door behind your favorite tree. This would kill two birds with one stone. You could get in a 'nature walk', and once you reached the cellar, maybe you could take a minute to 'listen in' and see if you could possibly hear any plotting of Peter's plan while he thought you were away...

Checking your boots once again before putting them on, you started to get ready to go out, doing your best to be relatively quiet so no one would notice you getting ready and ask to join you, as certain members of the Guardians had been wont to do lately.

Luckily, everyone else seemed to be busy doing their own thing, either watching TV, playing cards, or lounging upstairs, so no one was around to notice you putting on your jacket in the hall, or making your way to the back door in the kitchen.

Just as you were about to leave, however, you stopped. It occurred to you that leaving without a trace was bound to concern some nosy someones, so you quickly grabbed a notepad from a drawer and jotted down a quick, "Went for walk. Be back later." before setting the pad down on the table. Surely one of them would be able to read it, you knew you'd seen at least a couple of them reading the books from the sitting room from time to time. And if anything happened, you knew they had a SHIELD phone, of which you were sure must have your number programmed into it.

Hopefully they would call you first, and not immediately Fury.

On that note, you put an earbud in one ear and left.

The walk through the woods was blissfully uneventful. You'd missed this; the leaves had changed color and had started to fall, leaving the starts of a beautiful orange and red carpet on the forest floor; the call of a rook occasionally breaching the music from your earbud; the smell of crisp autumn air...

Though, as much as you loved this alone, you couldn't help but think maybe you should offer to bring the others out here, like Yondu had suggested way back -on the same night he had insisted on following you out here. However, even before that night, the others seemed wary of venturing into the woods once they found out there were hunters in here, and that apprehension almost certainly would now be worse seeing as they had witnessed the aftermath of one having accidentally shot you...

Yeah, probably not a good idea.

In what felt like no time at all you reached the spot of your favorite tree. You looked up at it's mossy branches and considered taking a moment to just relax beneath it. Couldn't hurt, could it?

That thought was quickly brushed aside for the reality that you had already been pushing this off for weeks for one reason or another. Well, years actually, if you wanted to get technical about it...

Better to just get to it.

You let out a breath and make your way to the backside of the tree, where the old door was hidden under some brush. The plan was to open the door, and (assuming it didn't fall to pieces right there) climb down into the tunnel (assuming the ladder was still in good condition) and, if neither of those warranted immediate repair, make your way through the tunnel and inspect it all the way to the house, making a list of any repairs needed.

Bending over, you sweep the leaves and other brush away from the door to inspect the wear- only to receive quite a shock once said debris was cleared away.

* * *

Back at the house Peter was in his room, busy trying to think of the perfect revenge prank- but he couldn't for the life of him think of anything good. Also, it was hard trying to think of a 'master plan' that you'd 'never see coming' while you were in the same house, likely watching his every move in anticipation.

When he thought about it, what really was left that the two of you hadn't already done to each other? Fake spiders, dye in the soap, innocent food pranks, 'misplaced' items, etc. He was running out of ideas, and any he could think of just didn't seem good enough to compare with the remote prank. It was too good. And sure, he technically hadn't 'proved' it was you- and yes, he had never been able to find whatever you were using to do it- but he still knew it was you. Had to be.

Regardless, back to planning.

He wasn't going to try dye again- that really didn't work out for him last time. And bucket of water in the doorway just seemed like child's play. Sure, he could put jelly or something in your boots, but would that really be satisfying?

Should he consider teaming up with Rocket? He usually had good ideas? Then again, last Peter knew Rocket and you didn't get along so well- which might go well in convincing him to team up- but also he didn't want to risk whatever Rocket would plan winding up injuring you. Yes, he wanted revenge, but not like that.

Peter sighed. Maybe a snack would help- who can think of master plans on an empty stomach anyway? He stood up from lying on his bed and made his way downstairs into the kitchen. He'd just grabbed a bag of nuts from the pantry when he happened to notice a note on the table.

After a quick read his eyes brightened. So you weren't home... Meaning that plotting- or setting up- a prank would be much easier. It actually opened up a lot more possibilities! What possibilities? He wasn't sure yet, but possibilities nonetheless.

'Oho- leaving was a mistake on your part,' he thought. He could almost see your face now, coming home to find whatever prank he set up for you.

Now all he had to do was think of one...

* * *

You looked down in disbelief, unsure if you were really seeing what you were seeing.

How was this possible? Who could have done this? Why had they done this?

You rubbed your eyes, just to be sure, but nope. The sight before you hadn't changed.

Someone, you didn't know who, had completely replaced the tunnel door. The old, weathered wood with the flaking paint that you remembered was now replaced by new wood, freshly painted in a color that matched well with the soil it lay in.

After the shock had mostly worn, you cautiously reach down to pull the door open. It was heavier than you remembered, and you quickly saw the reason for this was that the underside was now re-enforced with an aluminium frame.

This was certainly alarming. Who the hell could have done this?? No one knew this was here?? Other than you, the only other people who knew of this tunnel's existence were long dead. Not even Fury knew this was here, and he knew everything!

A glance down the hole showed that the door was not the only thing messed with. The stairs, while seemingly not in need of repair, looked a bit too clean for something that had supposedly been left alone for years underground. Could some crazy person have come along and just... commandeered your tunnel? Oh- that wouldn't be good at all, considering where it led to.

You quickly threw the door completely open and shined your phone flashlight down the hole, though it didn't really help you see much further than the floor directly below you. So, cautiously, you climbed down.

Once in the tunnel you debated if you should have closed the door behind you, but ultimately decided against it. If there was someone living down here, you might need a quick escape, considering you didn't bother to bring a weapon with you. Closing the door would only slow you down. If everything went well you'd close it on your way back out.

You shone your light down the tunnel, and for the most part it looked more or less how you remembered. Dirt and stone walls with many wood supports lining the entire length. Further in you started to notice that at least one of said supports looked new. This gave you a bad feeling, because the only way that could happen is if someone had been down here. You certainly hadn't been, not for years now.

You continued on, but realized once you came to the door at the other end leading into your cellar that you had found nothing out of place other than two replaced supports. No other signs of life, past or present.

This was truly bizarre. You debated opening up the door/false wall into your cellar closet for a few moments before carefully pulling it open to view the closet door itself, and then carefully opening that as well, doing your best to be as quiet as possible.

You gave the cellar a quick but thorough look-through, already knowing the door to the upstairs was locked from the other side. If anyone was down here they wouldn't have been able to make it into the house without someone knowing.

Finding no one, and nothing disturbed, you quietly made your way back into the tunnel, making sure to completely close the false wall and door leading into it.

You tried and failed to make sense of it as you journeyed back to the other end of the tunnel. No one else knew about this tunnel. You hadn't told anyone, not Fury, not Maria, you didn't even have any living family that knew about it.

Thoughts swirled in your head the entire walk back. Yondu had been the only one you ever brought out to the tree- could he? No. There's no way. Even if he somehow figured it out on his own, there was no way. Surely you'd notice his absence if he went out there, and where would he had gotten the materials from? He didn't seem to have much interest in your workshop at all.

Wait- your workshop... Could... Rocket-? No. That was even more absurd. Would he have been easier to miss tailing you on a walk to find the tunnel? Sure, but you still knew that even if he had, which you were sure he hadn't, you didn't have any aluminium in your shed, and you had doubts he could have pulled the wood out there unnoticed, or without help. He was a raccoon after all. And none of them could just leave to get more materials on their own. So it couldn't have been any of them.

Crawling up out of the tunnel you thought about how Fury found your home despite it supposedly having been kept off the books. He was Fury, and he knew everything. Is it possible that this also included the secret tunnel on your property? They had said he had vetted your property for weeks beforehand.

But he'd never said anything-? Though you supposed that wouldn't be unlike him. And if he did know, why only recently repair it? When you had been out here weeks ago to look at it, it had still been the same old weathered door. This had to have been done after that.

Is it possible he didn't know about it at first? Could he somehow had found out about it later? Or knew from the beginning but only decided to inspect it recently?

You closed the door and re-covered it with brush.

Ok, even if that was true. Why? And How?

Well, for all you knew he had hidden cameras around your property to keep watch while he wasn't there. If that was true- no. No it couldn't be that, could it? Because how would he know to set them up exactly in this area? Surely not even Fury could manage that.

You racked your brain for answers the entire way home, and the concern must have shown on your face as you came through the back door.

"You alright?" Gamora asked from the table, Mantis sitting beside her.

You blinked a moment before answering, undoing your jacket. "Uh, yeah. Just thinking." Clearly, you weren't going to let any of them in on your discovery.

"About Peter's prank?" Mantis asked. "Are you worried?"

You turn to her and raise an eyebrow, before shaking it off. You had been so busy thinking about the tunnel you had actually managed to completely forget about this prank feud with Peter. So shaken up, in fact, that you hadn't even bothered trying to listen in to see what Peter might be plotting while you were in the cellar, as you had entertained doing before you first left the house. Forcing a slight chuckle you ask, "Oh, has he finally figured out what he wants to do?"

Mantis shrugged. "I have no idea. He keeps saying it's a secret."

"Ah," you smile, shaking your head to appear completely unbothered as you left the kitchen to hang up your jacket and remove your boots. In reality, you were honestly a little worried, but you sure as hell weren't going to let any of them know that.

* * *

Over the next couple days no pranks happened, and you got increasingly paranoid.

You did your best not to show it, but it was increasingly difficult considering you had to constantly watch your back for Peter, and you still had the tunnel situation on your mind.

On the fourth day Fury made one of his visits, and you had to admit it was awkward. It didn't help that Maria didn't come with him this time, having been called away on another duty, as that only made this visit longer, which didn't help with your current stress.

For one, you were nervous the entire time that Peter was going to pull his prank while Fury was there- which wouldn't have been good at all. At one point in the visit you even pulled Peter aside and asked him what he was planning, and that he better not do it while Fury was here. He simply grinned in response and said he'd of course be on his best behavior. Little shit.

You didn't trust it, and therefore did your best to keep an eye on him the entire time.

Then there was also the matter of how you suspected Fury had something to do with the tunnel, but you couldn't just ask him because if he hadn't known about it, he would then. The whole visit was you mostly giving Peter side-eye and staring warily at Fury wondering if he knew, how much he knew if he did, and -if he did- did he now suspect that you knew that he knew by your behavior?

If he noticed you looked stressed he didn't mention it. Was that a sign that he knew? Or just a sign that he just did not care whatever antics might be going on because it was clear much of your stress was aimed towards Peter?

Luckily the visit ended soon enough without Peter pulling a prank to embarrass you in front of your boss, which was a relief. However, that didn't stop the paranoia. In fact, when nothing continued to happen well after the visit, combined with the fact that nothing had happened the past few days, it only made the paranoia worse because you knew the shoe was about to drop eventually.

That night you pulled him aside again, once again demanding to know what he had planned, only for Peter to smile and tell you "Oh, you'll know when you see it," and then walk away with a sinister laugh.

You were fucked.

* * *

Once again you woke early, just as you had the past few mornings in an effort to stave off whatever Peter might have planned. Like the other mornings you checked everything in your morning routine to make sure it hadn't been pranked before using it, and like the other mornings nothing had been messed with as far as you could tell.

You made your way down stairs for a quick drink, considering if you might go back to sleep for a bit, when you stepped in something wet in the kitchen.

You groaned and inspected the damage- apparently just a bit of juice. First your tired mind went to thinking Peter finally pranked you, but after only a moment you realized it wasn't a prank. There was an overturned cup on the counter and you realized the actual culprit was likely just Groot having gotten up for a drink during the night again, and being messy with his cup when he was finished, judging by the fact that there had only been a tiny puddle on the floor that you'd stepped in.

At any rate, this still meant you needed a fresh pair of socks, so after tossing your soiled ones into the washer, you set off back to your room to grab some.

However, you couldn't help but notice that all the socks in your dresser were gone when you got there. Instead of being frustrated, you were actually relieved. Peter must have finally pulled his prank.

You could feel the stress leave your body as you exhaled. This was completely mild compared to what you had built it up to be in your head, but you weren't going to argue. That said, you did still need another set of socks. So, not bothering to close the dresser drawer, you leave the room with the intent to search for your missing socks.

However, no sooner had you stepped into the hall did you hear Peter's voice cry out, "YOU!"

He had exited his room a little before you and caught you just as you were leaving your own, but you only looked at him in confusion. Why was he yelling at you like you had just done something to him? Wasn't he was the one who had just pranked you?

You barely had time to react, but knew your three choices were to stay put, move left into a corner, or move right to head downstairs. Naturally, you attempted the third option, but he was on you too fast, quickly grabbing your shoulder to pull you back with a "No you don't!"

Just as quickly he pulled you into a headlock and started going on about "How dare you!" and something about taking his socks.

You started to protest but only managed out a "Hey!" when he then topped the headlock off with a noogie as you attempted to pry his arm from around your neck.

Before you could get another word in he stopped with the noogie and switched to scratching his fingers at your stomach, resulting in you letting out a stream of surprised laughter as he continued on about the unfairness of pranking him yet again when 'he still hadn't gotten you back for the last prank yet!'

You finally managed to speak again, but the most you could manage was a giggly, "Peter! No!" as your senses were overcome with the ticklish feeling.

Despite this, you couldn't help but think that this was definitely a confusing turn of events. You for sure hadn't done anything to him, regardless of what he was on about, and therefore you definitely didn't deserve this punishment. Fortunately this time you didn't have the handicap of two grown men sitting on top of you, so you were able to get out of his grasp easily enough. In no time the tables were turned and soon Peter was pinned beneath you on the floor with his arms behind his back.

You were just about to give him a taste of his own medicine when it actually hit you what he had said, now that you were no longer being tickled senseless. He'd accused you of taking his socks, but you hadn't taken his socks. He had taken yours- hadn't he?

"Hey- quit squirming! Listen- I didn't take your socks! You took mine." you scold as he did his best to try and turn the tables back in his favor.

"No I didn't!" Peter argued, clearly indignant at being accused.

You raised an eyebrow. "This wasn't your prank?"

"No-?" Peter answered, now fighting you less, and with more confusion creeping into his voice. "Wasn't it yours?"

"No." you respond flatly. "Wait- why should I believe you? I thought you were all about plotting a revenge prank on me? Why shouldn't I believe this is part of it?"

Peter stopped struggling now, and seemed a little reluctant to answer. "I uh... well, I was going to, but I couldn't think of one good enough... I was going to just keep stringing you along until I thought of something, and then I just kinda... forgot about it..." He sheepishly chuckled.

"You fecker- you were 'no-prank' pranking me?!" You started pinching his side, making him jolt with startled laughter.

"Wait-wait!" he pleaded, trying to reason through his laughter, "If neither of us pranked, then who took our socks?!"

You halt your torture. He was right- unless this was part of his prank and he was just messing with you, and/or trying to save himself.

Just then, as if on cue, Kraglin came out of his room looking annoyed. "Which one of ya two took my socks?"

You decided then to release Peter, and you both attempted to clear your names as you stood from the floor.

"I didn't touch them," you say, "I woke up and all mine were gone, look at him." You pointed at Peter.

Peter scoffed. "I didn't do it! I told you I didn't do it! Mine are gone too!"

Kraglin rolled his eyes. "I don't care which one of ya did it, but y'all better return my socks now."

Yondu appeared in the doorway behind him and just stood there, staring the two of you down with a glare that clearly said that he wasn't in the mood to mess around. It was easy to assume his socks were missing too, but he didn't feel the need to repeat what Kraglin already said when a decent glare could do the job.

You held up your hands in a placating gesture. "I can't return what I didn't take."

Peter frowned. "Well I can't either!"

Drax now entered the chat. "Mine are also missing. I would like you to return them, Peter."

Mantis now spoke up from behind you, "I can't find mine either, Peter- Why would you take all our socks?"

A strangled noise came from Peter's throat. "Wha- Why do you all assume it was me!" He then started wildly gesturing in your direction as if to say, "She's right here! Why does no one accuse her!??"

Gamora sighed from their doorway. "Because this type of thing is right up your alley.... and I want mine back too."

"Where's Groot?" Rocket asked, moving past Drax to get out of their room. His fur was messed up on one side of his face as if the commotion outside had only just woken him up. He didn't seem interested in the missing socks at all- probably because he didn't wear any.

"I am Groot!" Groot's tiny voice answered from the staircase, causing all the attention to turn to him.

"A fort? Where'd you do that?" Rocket answered, rubbing his eyes as he tried to fully wake up.

"I am Groot." he bounced excitedly. "I am Groot!"

"Can't it wait til after breakfast?"

"I am Groot!" The tree child now seemed to be pleading, like, well, a child. He turned his attention from Rocket to include the rest of you. "I am Groot!"

You couldn't understand him, but you gathered enough context clues from Rocket's responses to get half an idea of what he wanted.

"Sure, buddy. Let's go see." Peter answered, clearly happy for any distraction that took the heat off of him.

To your surprise, everyone else moved to follow- so you did too. Whether it was genuine curiosity or peer pressure that made you do so, you weren't quite sure at this point.

Little Groot lead you all into the sitting room to show you his "fort."

At first you were confused. You expected to see your sofa cushions pulled off and made into makeshift supports for blankets, but you walked in to instead see the sitting room was as clean as it was left the day before.

Then Groot motioned for you all to look behind the sofa, and it cleared up multiple questions from that morning. Firstly, where his 'fort' was. Secondly, you all got to see where all your socks had gone.

Admittedly, his 'fort' was actually kinda impressive, and you found that you weren't even annoyed by the revelation that he had taken everyone's socks to build it. It looked like he had somehow managed to make it two stories, and it even had a wall going about it- all made from twisted together socks and what looked to possibly be some wooden spoons from the kitchen.

"Hey, he's the one who took all our socks!" Drax declared redundantly.

Peter rolled his eyes at him while Groot said, "I am Groot!" indignantly at Drax.

Gamora knelt on the floor to speak to Groot. "Yes, and it's a lovely fort- but you shouldn't take other people's things without asking, ok?"

Groot nodded, almost solemnly. "I am Groot..."

"Yeah buddy, time to give the hummies back their socks. You had your fun." Rocket told him firmly, but followed it up with, "I'll teach you how to build a better one later that doesn't smell like feet."

You wrinkled your nose at that. Hopefully Groot had only taken the clean ones, but just in case you'd probably be throwing yours into the wash once you got them back...

While you waited for Groot to untangle all the socks you and Peter retreated into the hall, both only half-willing to apologize for accusing the other.

"So, um... Guess we could call it a draw? I guess I technically got you back with the 'no-prank' prank. I mean- you did look pretty stressed the last few days." He grinned wide, seeming satisfied with himself.

You weren't about to argue, it was better than worrying about what he had planned, and if he'd execute it in front of your boss. Without admitting to it, however, you reply, "Yeah. Let's call it a draw."

He poked you in the stomach, making you twitch. "Admit it first. Admit I had you stressed and then we'll call the truce." He crossed his arms and grinned at you smugly.

You glared at him, and weighed your options. You could refuse on grounds of pride, and risk him taking it as a declaration of war. Or, you could give in, and save yourself all the trouble that usually came with one of your prank wars.

The answer was made up for you, when you noticed Yondu standing in the doorway behind Peter, clearly having listened in, now staring daggers into both of your souls at any prospect that another prank war might be started when it could be easily avoided at just the cost of your pride.

Concerned that he would find a way to make your life hell, and realizing that he was honestly probably scarier than anything Peter could throw at you, you rolled your eyes and gave Peter an answer.

"Fine. I 'admit it.'" You held out your hand, telling him this time you would shake on it.

Peter grinned and accepted your handshake. Before he left, however, he paused just long enough to whisper some infuriating parting words into your ear, "Told you, I'm the prank master!"

#gotg fanfiction #gotg #gotg fanfic #fanfic #x reader #reader is an agent #marvel fanifc #fanfiction #guardians x reader #guardians of the galaxy vol 2 #guardians of the galaxy #peter quill #starlord #peter x reader #starlord x reader

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lazuliquetzal · 1 year ago

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somebody else write this fic for me please i'm begging

Laufey can’t remember a time before Thor. Logically, she knows that she had a life—a normal life, even. One where she laughed with her friends and spent time with her family and had all the petty, beautiful conflict that could only occur in times of peace.

She can't remember it, though. After Odin betrayed the Jötnar, and after Thor—she had to lock away those idyllic memories for her own safety and sanity. If she thought too long about it, she would cry, and if she cried, she would die.

There were once thousands of them, then hundreds, and then a handful. She wishes she could say it was because they were able to escape, but in reality, it was because she was too slow to save them: for who could outrace a lightning strike?

Twelve years into the slaughter, Odin breached the gates of Jötunheim. She’s still not sure how he did it—maybe Týr cracked under the torture, maybe Mimir deduced a solution to save his own skin, or maybe Odin figured it out on his own. Regardless, he found a crack, and he sent the storm inside.

To her shame, Laufey was not there. But she dreamed of it. She felt the fire blistering her skin, and she choked on the ash of the Ironwood, the one safe place they had left, and when she jerked out of sleep, it was too late. She laid there, on her cot, staring at the sky, and realized that the only thing left she could claim was vengeance.

Months later, worn and weary, she washed up on the shores of a decimated land. The few remaining locals were frightened to see her, and they were even more frightened when she finally was able to communicate her request. Still, they pointed her to an abandoned temple, more rubble than sanctuary. It was exactly as Týr described, if significantly more run down than in his stories.

There, Laufey lit a fire, slit her palm, and let her blood drip into the flames. The smoke rose up, choking out the sky, and Laufey knelt down to pray to a foreign god.

“I seek the Ghost of Sparta,” she said, into the quiet. “I need to slay a pantheon.”

#god of war #faye god of war #kratos #please somebody take this idea i can't focus on it right now but i need it to exist so badly.#i wanna see them go fucking ham #lazuli writes

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accol-fics · 1 year ago

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Happy holidays to @momecat ! Here's your gift for HBOWarSanta23!

Up 1200 and Up

Summary: This wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

12 stories about finding meaning in a meaningless war.

Brad/Nate. Rated E. 7800 words.

100.

Day 1, Oceanside. Nate was stiff from the flight. Deep purple bruises earned at jump school ached on his hip and shoulder.

He checked in with Command, dropped his duffel at his temporary bunk, and was out the door in his PTs. Under the 5 and down to the beach, he ran until his body was loose and hot.

Later, in the showers, a tall, blond man nodded approvingly toward the fresh, raw marks along Nate’s left clavicle, tapping his own faded scars. Nate’s jump school pinning hadn’t yet healed. A thin trickle of red washed away under the spray.

200.

“That's a low priority to pass on?”

The muscles of Nate's forehead and brows bunched into a scowl. His frustrated words about his CO’s ineptitude were out of line. He knew it, but saying them aloud was a pressure-relief valve that kept his sanity intact.

“Personal feelings, sir,” Brad said, echoing Nate's chastisement of him only minutes earlier. His smirk was audacious.

The commiseration and, indeed, Brad's sass were appreciated. Peak comedy, Nate thought, was an inside joke revisited at just the right moment. Brad grinned broadly at the eyeroll Nate failed to fully suppress.

Speaking of safety valves. Turns out Brad is an effective one.

Still, it took a while for Nate to realize how tense his fingers were on the butt of his M16. Bravo Two was tight, competent. They could handle the lack of armor crossing the breach point. They'd be alert. They were trained to adapt to the unexpected.

He flexed his hand, loosening his grip. Nothing good comes from perseverating.

“Hitman Two Actual, this is Two One Alpha. Interrogative.”

Brad's voice came over the radio. Nate blinked away the unproductive tension in his gut and picked up the handset.

“This is Two Actual. Send it.”

300.

It was not surprising in the least.

From behind Two-Three’s vehicle, Nate saw it clearly: Brad apologized to Baptista for overreacting on comms.

It was an olive branch extended to repair a relationship. It was for the morale of the platoon. It was to put things right between himself and a colleague. And it was obviously what Brad Colbert would do in this situation. Of course he would apologize.

He continued to both surprise and not surprise Nate. Absent in him was the typical Marine hypermasculinity that dictated the posturing of other men. Brad had elevated himself above all of that. Nate wondered if it was a conscious decision. Probably not. Calm efficiency fit him too well. The intensity of the emotions in his eyes, however, showed the respect he had for their men and the Corps.

Nate watched him walk away and he wondered what Brad’s internal voice sounded like. Was it a stream of excerpts from the Art of War? Maybe it was Kierkegaard stripped of the religious aspects. Or was it simply staccato bursts of necessary info on the ROE? It was fascinating to imagine the way Brad’s mind worked.

Nate would never truly know, of course. Just like Nate’s own inner voice was unknowable to anyone else. They held their thoughts too close to their flak vests here. An icy veneer was mission critical (as evidenced by Dave’s cracking front and crumbling command of his team). It was impossible to imagine either Nate or Brad releasing their tight hold on their thoughts and verbalizing them, even under the blanket of night, even in the safety of Oceanside.

Nate blinked. He realized with a jolt where his thoughts were taking him. He drank from his canteen and shook it off.

He was glad Brad was his TL.

400.

“We're 30 klicks west-northwest of Basra, and 30 klicks south of Al-Kurna.” Nate gazed north over the marshy lowlands.

Brad was at his shoulder on the low berm. Nate had no doubt Brad had their map coordinates committed to memory. He had a natural eye for that kind of thing. An admirable skill.

Nate continued with his voice hardly over a whisper. The history of this place deserved that gesture of respect.

“Al-Kurna sits at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates. It's the cradle of civilization. Sumer, Assyria, Babylonia. All of them right here.”

The reeds moved in the low breeze. Christeson was tapping out a beat on a fuel can while Stafford and Garza took turns sing-rapping verses of hip-hop songs Nate didn't know the names of.

“How many wars has this place seen over the millennia?” Nate mused.

“And now we perpetrate one more,” Brad observed.

Nate felt Brad's eyes on him momentarily. Or perhaps he imagined it. He didn't look to verify.

“Has Poke been proselytizing within your earshot?” Brad asked. He sounded amused. “He was saying something similar back at Matilda.”

Nate grinned. He hadn’t heard anything from Espera on this topic, but it didn’t surprise him that he would have opinions on the matter.

“Did you know the wheel was likely invented in this area?” Nate asked.

“Humvee tires leaving tread marks in the wake of donkey carts. A noble legacy.”

“Noble.” Nate tried the word in his own mouth. A week ago it would have tasted better.

A few moments spent in the dusk’s dwindling light. The history here weighed heavily on him. They owed this place a debt of gratitude.

“Brad, we just waved them off,” Nate breathed. “Trucks of armed men and we waved them off because they weren't uniformed. The whole of our observations… the trucks, the weapons, their posture. They were irregulars, but they were combatants.”

Now Brad’s gaze was definitely on him. Nate hazarded a look and found Brad studying him.

“Clearly Command hasn't heard your history lesson, sir,” Brad said with a smirk in his voice. “Or they did and were distracted by the Whore of Babylon analysis I assume you included.”

Nate looked down at his feet to obscure his grin. “Al-Kurna has an old jujube tree that is purported to be the Tree of Knowledge from the Garden of Eden.”

“Like I said: whores.”

500 .

“Hey, LT,” Gunny said, rousing Nate from his sleep.

Nate had no idea how long he’d been asleep for. He was lucky to grab an hour of shut eye per day. It wasn’t sustainable, but it was what he got.

It was still dark. The moon was up. That was Nate’s only gauge of the current time. He’d sat down in his victor after the 2100 Zulu briefing with Trombley and the rest of Two One Alpha.

“Sorry to wake ya,” Gunny said softly.

Nate rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s fine.”

“That’s the thing. Not sure everything is fine.”

Nate jolted upright and started opening the door. Adrenaline took its accustomed place in Nate’s veins. “Did the boy not make it to shock-trauma?” Shit.

“Whoa, whoa,” Gunny soothed. “It’s not like that. We don’t have that word.” His face was soft, concerned.

Nate sat back in his seat. The tension hadn’t fully left his body. “What is it?”

Gunny clearly was parsing his words before speaking. He took a few moments to respond. “This is weighing on Brad. I haven’t seen him like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Less than mission ready.”

Nate’s eyebrows went high. “Thanks, Mike.” And he meant it.

Brad was on watch while the rest of his team slept under the cami net nearby. On the perimeter of the airfield tarmac, Nate walked over and stood next to him.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Brad eventually said.

“Your fairy godmother woke me up.”

“Hm.”

He left it at that for a long time. In the far distance, soundless flares of smoky explosions were a constant reminder of where they were. Above them, the night sky was cloudless. The platoon had gone to red lights at sunset for security, but it had the added benefit of making the stars vibrantly visible. The Milky Way angled from horizon to horizon. It was a momentary escape to take it in.

“Mars is up,” Nate said eventually, looking toward the faintly red planet twinkling up there.

“Hm?” Brad said. He appeared to try to follow Nate’s line of sight in the dark without success.

“Here,” Nate said. He moved to stand behind Brad, and he pointed over Brad’s right shoulder so he could sight off of Nate’s arm. “Do you see it?”

Brad’s body radiated warmth in the night air, a fraction of an inch from Nate’s. His cheek was close to Nate’s exposed wrist.

“I’ve got it now. Apt.”

“I thought so too,” Nate said, moving away to stand alongside Brad again.

“If we were living inside your history lecture, would Mars be a harbinger or a boon?” Brad asked.

Nate smiled. “I suppose that’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“Then I say it’s neither. Too superstitious. Can’t deny the poetry of it though.”

Silence surrounded them again. Nate thought it was less heavy than when he’d first joined Brad here.

“These are the moments I hope I remember from here,” Nate said quietly.

“Mm,” Brad concurred.

600.

“Sir,” Pappy asked, “has any thought been given to destroying the weapons and ordnance that are sitting over there?”

Nate nodded. “Actually, that did come up, but it seems the battalion's supply of C-4 is now unaccounted for. The battalion supply truck we left last night? It is a smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes in the trustworthiness of the Iraqis we are striving so hard to liberate.”

Patrick’s left eyebrow rose, and then he shook his head in exasperation.

As Nate and Gunny walked away, he thought he heard Pappy say something to Lovell like, “The LT is starting to talk like Brad.”

“Espera,” Nate called. “Have Two One Bravo start resupplying the platoon from that cache.”

“On it, sir,” was the response.

“Mike, would you enlist Two Three to help on that? I need to make a pit stop.”

On his way to the designated latrine area behind the dilapidated hangar, Nate replayed his words in his mind. A smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes. He had zero trouble imagining them coming out of Brad’s mouth. Maybe Pappy was right and Nate was taking on Brad’s cadence. Or maybe they’d always had this in common.

Nate came to a stop in the shade of the building, his thoughts sapping the momentum of his body.

He wondered suddenly what it would have been like to meet Brad at Dartmouth. It’s strange to imagine Brad anywhere without the sun beating down on him, let alone in the misty north end of the Appalachian Trail. But the idea of him in a rugby shirt or coming in from the cold of the ski slope wasn’t too hard to conjure up. Maybe Nate would’ve passed freshman chemistry if Brad had been in it with him, challenging him and mocking him with puns that included both Arrhenius and Aeschylus.

Or perhaps Nate would have met Brad in California instead. Nate in his early ‘90s Saab and Brad on his motorcycle, both parked at the climbing gym.

It’s fortunate you’re about to ascend this wall, Brad would have said, because the only option your liberal ass has when showing up in that piece of shit, socialist welfare state, pile of scrap, so-called car is to go up and out of the miserable existence you’ve clearly fallen pitifully into. And then he would have complimented Nate’s climbing form and how the harness framed his glutes just right.

“Deep thoughts, sir?” Brad appeared next to him in the Iraqi shade.

Nate had been so deep in his fantasy he hadn’t seen or heard him approach. His cheeks burned like he’d been caught saying all of those things aloud. It was like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a combat jack, the thought of which made him cough awkwardly.

Brad handed him his canteen, and then leaned his shoulder against the wall. He waited until Nate had taken a drink and handed the water back.

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said.

“For what,” Nate asked, a rasp of embarrassment still in his throat.

“Joining me and Mars on watch last night.”

Brad’s blue eyes were intense when Nate met them. Pale brows and lashes. Sun-reddened skin along his nose and cheekbones. The five o’clock shadow that Sixta would ream him out about if it didn’t get taken care of. A flicker of a thought of how it would scratch against Nate’s palm was shoved away before it fully formed in Nate’s mind.

“Did it help?”

Brad held their gaze intently. Nate’s heart thundered in his ears.

Finally, Brad gave a nod. “Very much.”

700.

“Where’s the line between insubordination and trying to manage upward?”

Nate asked the question rhetorically. He knew how the regulations defined insubordination: Willful disregard of a superior officer’s lawful order . Every Marine knew that definition. It was taken out of their hides from day one of boot camp and reminders of it happened every single day. Particularly in theater like they were now, the pecking order was clear.

When Captain Schwetje had invited the enlisted men to share their opinions with him, the only one with the fortitude to say what he was thinking was Doc. He got away with it on the technicality of the Captain asking for candid feedback, and on the fact that every Marine protects and respects their Corpsman, especially one as competent as Tim Bryan. No one else was going to feel safe from being NJP’d for disrespect of a commanding officer. Especially not when Schwetje asked for feedback in front of Griego’s opportunistic eyes.

But no one had asked Nate’s opinion on anything. Nonetheless, he was exerting his will in contradiction to his Captain’s orders again and again. In his core, Nate felt like he was making the best and safest choices for their platoon in their constantly non-ideal situations. But the Corps’ system wasn’t set up for Lieutenants to defy their Commanders. Not even in Recon, with its need to be nimble, where decisions were made on the fly, was flagrant insubordination ignored. Not even when one’s superior was arguably incompetent and the lawfulness of their orders could be questioned. Not even then.

Brad leaned against the front bumper of Nate’s humvee, contemplating Nate’s question. He bumped his shoulder against Nate’s and left it there.

“Fretting is unproductive,” he said reasonably. His directness was what Nate needed. “You can’t unfuck Encino Man, and you’re doing what this company needs you to do.”

“Tell that to Godfather.”

“I will if I have to.”

“No,” Nate said sharply. “This is my situation. I’m not getting the rest of you… I’m not getting you, Brad, mixed up in this. Let me take care of it.” Even broaching this topic with an E-5 was inappropriate, but this was Brad.

Brad exhaled, annoyed. After a thoughtful pause, he told a story.

“When I was a teenager, I took a job with the grounds crew for the county. Mowing lawns, planting flowerbeds, painting municipal buildings. It was mindless, but it paid well in a seventeen year old’s opinion. There was a team of us that worked together. Me and a couple of guys who went to the other high school in town. Our manager was this blustering, self-important guy in his thirties, constantly on a weird power trip. Spent a lot of time reminiscing about being a star football player.”

Brad gave Nate a meaningful look that was readily interpretable as Schwetje.

“At one point, both of the mowers we usually used were down for maintenance at the shop across town. Some guy on the county board had a shitfit about the baseball field’s grass being too long, ruining his runny-nosed brat’s T-ball game. Instead of getting between us and that board member, our manager let all of that stupidity roll down on us. All of us got fired the next day.”

Brad’s body was a long line of support next to him. Nate could hear the moral of the story coming.

“You, sir, are not that guy. You are shielding us from the worst of Command’s inanity. Hitman Three doesn’t have an LT like you, and they’re the worse for it. Every one of us will have your back because we know you have ours.” Brad’s voice crescendoed to the end of his parable.

Nate turned to look at Brad. They were too close, and Nate’s eyes flicked down to Brad’s mouth. It was only for a fraction of a second, but Brad caught the motion. Of course he did. Nate leaned back, turning to look forward again. Safe. Appropriate.

Brad didn’t chase him. How could he here? It was impossible. Nate wouldn’t compound his issues with Command by engaging in conduct unbecoming with his Team Leader.

Brad pressed his knee against Nate’s and left it there.

800.

“New map sheets,” Gunny called out to the team leaders.

Nate was already waiting for them at the hood of his victor. His flashlight was trained on the paper spread across the flat surface, tracing out the route they’d take at dawn.

The men arrayed themselves at Nate’s sides for the briefing. Brad stood furthest from Nate’s position and met his eyes with an intense look. The tiny hairs at the back of Nate’s neck prickled. It was fear, yes, but not fear of Brad. Rather, it was fear of what the look meant for them here.

Nate looked to the map for respite.

“Later today we’re pushing forward to here.” Nate put his index finger on the location on the map. “Goal in the 24 hours after that is to assault through to here.” He extended his middle finger to the second location.

Brad shifted. Nate glanced up. Brad’s focus was entirely on Nate’s hand and the map. His expression was unreadable in the low light.

“Take your copy back to your teams. Make sure your drivers know the route inside and out.”

Pappy, Lovell, and Espera grabbed their copies and headed back to their teams. Gunny went with them, quietly discussing tactics with Pappy as they walked.

Brad, however, lingered.

“Sir, a few questions about the AO,” he said.

His words were cover. Nate knew it. Nate responded in kind.

“Yes, Brad? Your team will be on point, so now’s the time to get any concerns addressed.”

Brad moved around to the front of the humvee, standing close to Nate’s right side.

“Here,” Brad said, pointing at a position near the MSR. “Am I to understand we’re pushing past this town without stopping? There is a school marked on this map, and Fedayeen has been holing up in schools. Should we recon it, sir?”

Nate slowly moved his own hand back to the map, placing his finger a hair’s breadth from Brad’s.

He cleared his throat. “I like your idea, Brad. I’ll run it past Godfather.”

“I have other thoughts I’d like to ask you about.” Brad’s voice was barely above a whisper.

He closed the distance between Nate’s finger and his own. Nate knew the touch was coming. Brad had telegraphed his intent. Still, the electric jolt of it cascaded unexpectedly through Nate’s entire body. He exhaled sharply.

“I’m open to that line of questioning, sure.”

Nate gently squeezed Brad’s index finger between his first and second fingers, scissoring around the length of it. Brad pressed his hips firmly against the front grill of the humvee, body taut.

“Is it our wisest option, sir?”

“Reconning first is always the wisest option.”

Brad’s thumb and forefinger felt the perimeter of Nate’s fingertip. The side of his thumb ran over the smooth flat of Nate’s nail. Nate clicked his red light off, throwing them into full darkness.

“As you say, sir, it’s good to be thorough.”

They stopped short of entwining their hands fully. Even here in the dark, there were constraints. Nate didn’t want constraints. He wanted his hands on more than Brad’s fingers.

Then Brad’s mouth was near Nate’s ear. His breath tickled Nate’s cheek when he said, “I remember when we first met. The showers at Pendleton. That bruise on your hip.”

Nate inhaled. Brad smelled like shaving cream, like he’d just done his daily ablutions. Nate imagined the feel of Brad’s smooth skin against his own, how it would feel against his neck. He was so close to that target as it was.

“It’s gotten me through many a dark night,” Brad rasped.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “Brad. I don’t know how to do things by halves.”

Brad chuckled. “I’m counting on that particular trait.”

Frustration lanced through Nate. He couldn’t touch Brad how he wanted. He couldn’t run his platoon how he wanted. He couldn’t trust his commanders like he wanted.

Was this a combat stress response? Shit.

No.

No, it wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Brad was right. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed again. He yanked his Sharpie from his vest and uncapped it with his teeth. Shoving up the cuff of Brad’s blouse, he scrawled an N on Brad’s right forearm in the dim light. It was barely recognizable as a letter.

They both knew it was a mark to stake a claim.

“Now you have my marked skin in your mind’s eye, and I have yours,” Nate hissed. “My initial will be there every time you touch your cock from here until the end of this fubar-ed op.”

Brad swallowed thickly. “Aye aye, sir.”

900.

Time expanded to infinity.

Nate could see every tracer like it was taking a Sunday stroll. A bullet ricocheted off Two One Alpha’s victor a mere foot from Nate’s shoulder, and it felt like it crawled past him. Every rivet in the tan armor was visible to him. Every round from Hasser’s Mark-19 put out a tongue of fire that lingered in front of the muzzle, each like a miniature dragon dancing in the moonlight. Strangest of all, the long, slow moments were silent, like Nate was living in a space beyond the speed of sound.

Time compressed into a second.

Faster than Nate could comprehend, an RPG exploded into the berm at his 6, and then another up ahead almost at the humvee wheels. A blinding cloud of dust came up and Nate had no idea if microseconds or minutes had elapsed.

“Back up and over the berm, then hard right. Clear a path,” he had yelled to Two Three.

He had dodged around shrapnel in the road to Two Two and had yelled the same. He knew he must have done it, but the slinky of time expanding and contracting had wiped it from his short-term memory.

It was seconds ago, minutes ago, years ago that Brad’s voice had calmly come over comms: “There are men in the trees.” It had been followed by the snap of his M4 firing, and by the sharp drop of Nate’s stomach. Brad’s vehicle was on point in an ambush.

The comms had awoken with yelled commands. All of them overlapped and became garbled in the firefight. Nate’s rifle was in his hands, against his shoulder, looking down the sight, finger pulling the trigger. The cacophony was profound. Training took over for every single one of Bravo’s men.

Two Two had a man go down. Nate couldn’t wait longer. They had to retreat. He ran into fire and lost time to the adrenaline.

Breathing took too long. Running took too long. He had to get to the vehicles in front and get them turned.

Finally, pressed against the side of Brad’s victor, time normalized. He had no idea how long it would stay this way, so he called out.

“Brad!”

“LT?”

Brad’s M4 paused. Through Reporter’s window, their eyes met. The look was anything but silent, but no words were exchanged. It was beyond language. Simply a feeling that said “ I had to…” or perhaps “Not before we...” or perhaps simply “This is my duty.”

A bullet pinged off the doorframe. The casing spun into Reporter’s lap and he yelped.

Nate awoke from the momentary hypnosis of Brad’s gaze. It had only lasted a millisecond.

“Go! Go! Ray, back and hard right. Go now!”

Nate sprinted after them, chasing the pop pop of Brad’s M4.

Gunny’s face was ashen when Nate returned to his vehicle. “Sir, that was fucking stupid. Thanks for doing it, but don’t do it again.”

Mike was right. It was stupid to run out into live fire. Stupid, but fully and completely necessary. Nate regretted nothing. He knew, though, that he’d crash from this flood of adrenaline eventually. Perhaps an hour from now, maybe two, Nate would feel nauseated or like his muscles were all jelly. He hoped they were through with this push when it happened. He couldn’t afford to be less than 100%. There was no way he was letting these guys down.

With Bravo Three between them and the bridge, Two regrouped.

Brad stepped out of his humvee, back rigid and fingers still tight on his rifle. The muscle in Nate's jaw twitched involuntarily. Overuse. Too much clenching of his teeth. They'd just survived an ambush. Muscle spasms were a victory.

“Why are you bleeding?”

Nate shone his red light at Brad. He clicked it again to make the light white. It was too bright, like a muzzle flash at midnight. He tugged Brad next to the canvas side of the supply truck.

“I’m not–” Brad looked down at his arms and legs, trying to spot evidence of an injury.

Nate pushed him upright and swiped a dusty thumb over Brad’s cheekbone. It came away red.

Brad’s fingers shot up, touching the place and looking at his own reddened fingers in the flashlight beam.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Your eye is an inch from there, and I’m not planning on cas-evacing you today,” Nate said, annoyed.

“Doc,” Nate called, snagging the medic as he hurried by. “Hand me some gauze.”

“I’ll handle it, sir,” Doc replied, starting to divert to Brad’s aid.

Nate held out a hand to stop Doc’s change of direction. “Give me the gauze, Tim.”

Doc looked hard at Nate, and then at Brad. Brad’s eyebrows rose as Doc handed over the medical supplies.

“Clean it good, sir. It would be a shame if we had to amputate Colbert’s pretty face.”

“Copy that,” Nate said, setting to work cleaning the blood away from the scratch. He was making a mountain out of a molehill, yes, but this was his best TL.

For the second time tonight, time stood still. Brad let Nate tend to his wound. Nate used the time to forget about how fucked up the last seconds, minutes, hours had been. The feel of Brad’s cheekbone beneath his fingers was calming.

“Game face?” Brad asked when Nate smoothed an unnecessary butterfly bandage over Brad’s cut. “You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

1000.

“From an armchair in Iowa, assaulting that bridge would've seemed foolish. From where we stand on this roadside in Iraq, the lunacy of it will eat away at our confidence until we’re ineffective,” Nate said in a low voice.

Frustration oozed out of him. Saying these things aloud was necessary. He wished there were other lieutenants to vent with. His men shouldn’t have to bear the burden of Nate’s frustrations.

Gunny, Brad, and (surprisingly) Kocher stood in a tight cluster with him.

In his Texan twang, Gunny said simply, “It’s a goat fuck.”

Kocher spoke up. “You’re saying what we all think, sir. You’re just doing it in a measured way. Expressing legit concerns is a helluva lot different than…”

Clearly Kocher was reluctant to invoke Dave’s name in front of Nate. But Nate felt Dave’s unhinged panic hiding in himself too. The deeply buried urge to yell and break things to make it clear to someone, anyone how fucked up things have gotten.

“Look, I’m not here for you guys to blow smoke up my ass,” Nate said. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“In that case,” Brad grinned, “are you open to insults?”

Gunny pointed over his shoulder back toward their humvee. “I’ve got a whole list I’ve been making,” he said with a lopsided grin. “First on it is: Knows too goddamn many Dave Matthews songs.”

“Fuck all of you,” Nate chuckled. “And thanks. Have you guys eaten recently?”

“Have you?” Brad retorted. Brad’s righthand fingers tightened and released. Nate imagined his sharpied initial stretching and relaxing as Brad’s forearm muscles flexed.

“Good. Just what I need,” Nate replied with an eyeroll and a grin. “First Mike nags me about everything under the sun. Now you?”

“It’s because we both disrespect and despise you, sir,” Brad said with a wink.

The group broke, going to find their rations. Brad strolled back a few minutes later eating a makeshift peanut butter sandwich.

“What do you suppose Alexander the Great ate while he was conquering vast swaths of this fair country?”

“Figs. Flatbread. Fish,” Nate responded while he rummaged through his MRE. He pulled a bean and rice burrito out of nondescript brown packaging and ate it cold.

“Ah, yes, the Three F’s.”

“I’d be happy for anything fresh with a capital F,” Nate said. His MRE contained a fruit cup that reminded him of elementary school lunches. He hadn’t liked the texture of them then either. Still, the Vitamin C beckoned.

Brad chewed contemplatively. “Tabling the discussion of our presence here as a reflection of America’s imperialistic undertones, it’s interesting to think about how much territory Alexander the Great conquered in a matter of a few years.”

Nate wondered if Brad would be open to a discussion of American imperialism at another time, because Nate had thoughts on the matter.

“I read that priests told him not to enter Babylon that last time. Bad omens. He died there shortly thereafter,” Nate said.

“So, like ol’ Alex, we should’ve listened to our prognosticators? I prefer to think he disregarded their advice because it was superstitious bullshit.”

Nate nodded. “Agreed. Having Aristotle as one’s teacher effectively guarantees becoming a lover of logical thinking.”

Brad tipped some trial mix into Nate’s palm.

“I’ve always been more of a Plato fan,” Brad said. He popped a cashew into his mouth, followed by a raisin.

“What appealed about Plato?”

“ Logos , thymos , eros . Logic, spirit, desire.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in question.

Brad shrugged and ate another nut. “Feels like an Occam’s Razor explanation for the way humans work. Shit gets messy when the three get imbalanced.” He gestured around them to the barely armored humvees. “Case in point. This place is 99% thymos, and 0% logos.”

“And the other 1%?”

Brad looked intensely at Nate and didn’t answer. He tossed the remaining nuts in his mouth, smirked a little, and walked back to his team.

That was the most fulfilling meal Nate had eaten since California.

Later, after dark, Nate called Bravo Two together for a briefing. Schwetje’s message from Godfather had been received by Nate loud and clear: Both of them better get in line before they both got court-martialed. Nate cared more about his men's safety than his own, but he did have some level of self-preservation. And he still believed in the principles of the United States Marine Corps. He'd joined up because he wanted something transformative, something that might kill him, or leave him better and more capable. Nate was getting the message that this included humility.

Nate swallowed his misgivings and toed the line.

“What we did, running and gunning through those towns, was all part of the plan. Of all the Marines in the First Division, the General selected us to be the instrument of long range strategy. We led the feint to Al Kut. We tied down two Iraqi divisions, saved untold numbers of US soldiers. You should be proud.”

As the men parsed Nate's words, several skeptical looks were directed at him.

“Why didn't we go into Al Kut?” Garza asked. He wasn't the only one with the question. He was just the first to ask it

“The General's plan wasn't about taking the city. It was about making the Iraqis think we were going to take it. To be clear, the focus has always been Baghdad.”

“We did all this shit because we took a wrong turn?”

Grumbling was starting up

“Gabe, that's not what I'm saying.”

When he dismissed the meeting, he felt like he'd betrayed them. It was one thing telling Godfather a white lie about exploding espresso makers. It was another thing entirely feeding his platoon a bunch of psy ops.

Brad left with a scowl.

Later still, thymos won over logos when Griego usurped Nate's command and fucked with Two’s men. Nate had never thrown a punch out of anger, and here he was, on the precipice.

Brad's wolfish, hungry smile at Nate as he walked away was much more validating.

1100.

Baghdad was as much of a clusterfuck as anywhere else they’d been.

Entering the city, civilian life looked strangely normal. Produce sellers, tea drinkers, and cigarette smokers just watched as the company drove through their streets, like circus wagons had just rolled into town and Recon was the strange sideshow. A day earlier, Nate would've been apoplectic with so many people so close to their vehicles. Muwaffaqiyah was too fresh in his memory.

They were billetted at a cigarette factory formerly owned by Saddam’s sons. The concrete structure gave a sense of safety, like they’d entered the walls of a fort. Castle towers reached to the sky around them. But Navy sniper rifles cracked every few minutes, a car bomb sent smoke billowing up by the front gate, and One Five was shooting helicopter-deployed missiles into nearby highrises.

The city looked normal at first blush, but SNAFU was a better description. Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

When night soon fell, Brad circled around to Nate’s vehicle.

“Sir,” he said quietly, tapping Nate’s shoulder to rouse him from the early stages of sleep.

“Am I dreaming?” Nate asked groggily.

Brad huffed. “Of me? Not this time, sir. May I have a word?”

“Sure,” Nate said, opening the door and stepping out. He rolled his shoulders to stretch. “What is it?”

“In private, sir?”

Nate was immediately alert. He searched Brad’s face in the low light. All he could make out were the downturned corners of his mouth. This wasn’t a flirtatious housecall. Brad needed something serious.

“Of course,” Nate replied.

They walked inside the factory, away from where the humvees were parked and away from the sleeping Marines, away from the perimeter surveillance. Nate led Brad into the room he’d briefed the platoon in, up some stairs to what appeared to be a manager’s office. Blinds on the windows and a lock on the door were useful. Nate engaged both and then clicked his flashlight to red mode and put it on the desk.

Harsh shadows turned Brad’s furrowed eyebrows into deep black lines on his forehead.

“I am requesting mast on behalf of Eric Kocher and Daniel Redman,” Brad said formally. His shoulders drew back until his back was perfectly rigid.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “OK. Yes.” The ramifications started spooling through his mind.

“I’m sorry for bringing you into this, but I can’t let this go. What’s happening to them is not right.”

Nate rubbed his forehead, squeezing his temples. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. We’ll read Gunny in, then take it up to Schwetje as a unified front. It’ll work.”

Nate looked back at him. Brad’s face bore too many expressions to fully interpret. Gratitude, anger, regret.

“Goddamn it,” Brad said, clearly frustrated. Not at Nate, but at the situation they found themselves in. “I did not sign up for the Marines to get wrapped up in politics. How did we get here? Two fucking incompetent COs and an Ops Chief who spends every waking minute stirring the pot. This is Recon. We’re 0321s. Nate,” he exhaled hard, getting himself under control. “Sir, if this will endanger your position, I’ll go directly to Schwetje for mast.”

The thought had indeed crossed Nate’s mind. Putting himself into the middle of this even as a nominally neutral party was a sticky situation. Schwetje would throw all of them under the bus at Griego’s urging just to keep his own head above water. Loyalty among officers felt… like it should be real, even though Nate felt more loyalty to the enlisted men he commanded than he did to the command structure.

“I honestly have no idea how this will play out. Every time I think I know which way the wind is blowing, it switches. It’s like pounding in tent stakes during a shamal.”

They locked eyes then, remembering the dust storm that ripped through Matilda. Their shared memory of Schwetje digging his rucksack and bedroll out of a foot of yellow sand was too amusing to ignore. Both of them snorted, and then laughed, and then were doubled over with guffaws. These were the laughs one has when there is nothing left to do but laugh.

Brad clapped Nate on his shoulder as they gasped for breath.

“I needed that,” Nate said.

Brad nodded. “Me too.” His hand remained on Nate’s shoulder.

Nate wished he could see Brad’s face this close without hiding in the dark. He put his hand on Brad’s arm.

“I don’t know if I can solve Kocher and Redman’s problem, but I’ll try.”

“I know,” Brad said quietly. “You’re the only thing here that I have complete faith in.”

Nate stepped closer. “That’s a tall order, Brad.”

“Not for you it isn’t.” Brad’s breath whispered along his skin.

Fractions of an inch separated their lips. Nate’s fingers curled into Brad’s sleeve. His other hand gripped at the webbing of Brad’s belt at his hip. One of Brad’s fingers had found the skin at Nate’s collar. The feel of his skin on Nate’s made him gasp and push into the touch.

This position was compromising, but it gave plausible deniability. They weren’t so entangled that discovery would mean credible evidence for a DADT discharge. Nate hated that regulations were front of mind now of all times. But he couldn’t deny that the added tension made this feel so much more intense.

Brad panted hot and damp across Nate’s lips. Nate pushed his thumb inside the waistband of Brad’s pants and rubbed circles into the firm flesh he found there.

Their noses bumped together, but never their mouths. The air gap between them heated from their proximity, but they didn’t let themselves advance. It was their Rubicon.

Nate slid his hands around Brad’s body, pressing against Brad’s lower back, feeling the curve descending to his ass. He imagined the flex and push of those muscles if they fucked. He imagined the long expanse of Brad’s pinked, sweat-glistening skin.

Their cheeks slid together. The faintest hint of stubble grabbed on stubble. In the crook of Brad’s neck, he smelled of baby wipes and dust and musk.

Below, in the warehouse, voices rose up. A patrol.

Still they didn’t push apart. They held onto each other more firmly for another heartbeat, and another, and another.

Finally, Brad stepped back. Even in the red light, his cheeks were clearly burning as intensely as his eyes were. He slowly and conspicuously adjusted himself in his pants and hungrily watched Nate do the same.

Nate didn’t know if he could have this – have Brad – but he was sure as hell going to try.

1200.

The human mind’s quest for equilibrium will smooth the edges off threats and thrills alike.

Nate wasn’t an adrenaline junkie. He knew people who skied backcountry trails, free climbed, dove with sharks. He simply joined the Marines, a wholly different type of thrill-seeking. By the time they had Baghdad in their rear views, Nate’s body and mind were strung out on too much adrenaline for far too long. The edges had been smoothed off everything. He felt thin and papery and beyond ready to be done with the frustrations of this place.

He was glad to have his feet back on Californian soil. The safety of home meant some of the excitement of living could outcompete OIF’s ever-present thrill of death via ambush.

He gave himself a week before he knocked on Brad’s apartment door.

Brad was barefoot and in board shorts. His left hand curled over the top of the door and he grinned broadly in welcome.

“I was wondering when you’d come to finish the job.”

Nate smiled. “Finish it? I’m here to get it properly underway.”

“Don’t let me interfere with a well-conceived plan.” He stood aside and gestured Nate inside.

Nate could feel Brad’s eyes on his ass as he toed off his sandals and walked into the kitchen, depositing a grocery bag on the counter.

��You did a supply run? Let me guess: no adult diapers or baby wipes this time.”

“Very astute assumption.” Nate began pulling every vet’s luxury – fresh fruit – out of the bag. “I brought the F’s.”

“Nutrition is of utmost importance for stamina.” Brad pulled two beers from the refrigerator and handed Nate one.

Talking would be required at some point. Nate wasn’t going to re-up (which he hadn’t revealed to anyone yet), but Brad was a career Marine and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell would be a part of his professional life for the foreseeable future. Nate didn’t know if Brad wanted a one-night stand or a quiet relationship. Either way, the conversation would happen later.

Nate took a long drink of beer. Brad watched him, and Nate watched him right back.

“Shower?” Nate asked, by way of starting the proceedings.

Brad reached out slowly for Nate’s hand. This was something they’d skirted. A touch like this would bind them to each other. Clearly he was giving Nate time to divert if it was still off the table. The opportunity for an out was appreciated, but Nate was here for a reason. No flinching at this point. Brad’s fingers hooked around Nate’s and tugged.

“This way,” Brad said.

In the last week, Nate had spent hours in his own bath. The dirt of war needed time to fully wash away. Perhaps that’s why he suggested this as their first encounter. It would feel like a luxury, and it might feel like a clean start, free of all the shit that made their time in Iraq hard.

Brad pulled his shirt over his head in a smooth motion, abandoning it on the bathroom counter. He reached into the shower to turn on the water, letting it warm. The glass of their beer bottles clinked when Brad took both and placed them on the high windowsill inside the shower.

As he did, Nate began unbuttoning his shirt. Some day, Nate hoped, he’d undress for Brad and it would be an intentionally slow tease. Now Nate’s pace was slow simply because it felt good to be unhurried.

Brad’s keen eyes drank in the motion of Nate’s fingers. As the collar spread wide and Nate’s clavicles were visible, Brad’s eyes traced their lines and the healed jump pin scar there. As the placket fell open, Brad’s pupils widened as he took in Nate’s chest and the hair that descended below his beltline. Nate continued downward to the button of his shorts, and to the zipper.

Brad cleared his throat when Nate thumbed his fly wide. “Commando. Very efficient and somewhat presumptuous.”

Nate pushed his clothes to the floor and stood before Brad in the steam. Both of them had dropped weight in Iraq. Their cheekbones stood out more sharply. The hint of ribs framed their chests.

He stepped closer to Brad. Like in Baghdad, their lips were a breath apart. Now, however, Nate could read every expression in Brad’s eyes in the daylight. The blue of his irises was a thin ring. His lashes fluttered when Nate slowly laid his hands on Brad’s hips. Without the bulk of Brad’s uniform in the way, Nate felt greedy. He took his time, moving his hands at an achingly slow pace just to feel Brad’s exhale stutter. When Nate found the drawstring of Brad’s shorts, they both had begun to harden.

The instant his shorts hit the tiles, Brad surged forward. He crossed their point of no return with enthusiasm and purpose. The kiss was crushing and desperate. Brad looped a strong arm around Nate’s waist and walked them backward into the shower spray. Heat and moisture surrounded them, drenched them in a way that couldn’t hold a candle to the way they kissed. Physical. Claiming. Seeking and finding.

Brad’s palms flattened against the wall beside Nate’s head, caging him in. Forehead to forehead they panted.

“I want…” Brad began and then paused. He changed his inflection and repeated himself with finality. “I want.”

Skin was slick beneath the running water. Nate used it to his advantage. He explored the curve of Brad’s biceps and the gentle roll of his abdominal muscles. The N he’d heatedly scrawled on Brad’s forearm was only a memory now. Nate nipped at the skin there, and followed it with his tongue. In return, Brad sucked the lobe of Nate’s ear between his teeth. He slid his thumb across Nate’s erect nipple. He found the round of Nate’s ass and groaned as he squeezed.

The sound of Brad undone was something Nate was sure he’d never tire of. He wanted to learn every iteration of it starting now.

He took handfuls of Brad’s hips and pushed their pelvises together. Their cocks slid and bumped and caught on each other as they thrust. Nate inhaled every one of Brad’s gasps. He bit and took and gave and gave and gave everything to this man in his hold.

Brad tensed in his arms and came with Nate’s name a whisper against his lips. Nate gasped and followed Brad into that ecstasy.

Later, in the bright daylight of the California evening, they lay together in the clean sheets of Brad’s overly soft bed and shared a very fresh, very juicy, very crisp apple. Nate studied the curl of pale hair on Brad’s chest. He made note of how the ink of Brad’s tattoo crept around the left side of his waist. He scratched his fingers through Brad’s short hair and watched Brad’s eyes drift closed at the sensation.

Eventually, Brad joked, “This is some Tree of Knowledge shit.”

Nate laughed, “Which of us is the Whore of Babylon in this relationship?”

“Hard to say, but you do have those very fuckable lips.”

“Well, Brad, you do have a point there,” replied Nate, licking those very lips and sliding down the bed to respond to Brad’s challenge.

#hbowarsanta23 #momecat #generation kill #brad x nate #bradnate #my fic #click through to ao3 #hbowardaily

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team5ds · 4 months ago

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come be a loner

Summary: when two wolves with very different lives cross path, it's only natural that they'd want to learn more about the other.

Rating: T

Ships: Crow Hogan/Sherry LeBlanc

Author’s note: written for @sapphic-september with the prompt of "werewolf". werewolves aren't normally my jam, so i hope this is good enough for the werewolf lovers out there. floor is open for critique for the next time i try to write werewolves!

read on ao3 / support me on kofi (battle city & up supporters get early access) / join my discord (18+)

The estate sprawled out before her, and she couldn't see the house in the distance. This was where she transformed into the beast every full moon, and lost her mind into the woods. The moon was not up in the air yet, meaning she had a few moments of sanity to work with. It didn't really matter, but she lived for these peaceful moments. The one thing to be grateful for was that at least she was spared the inconvenience the monthly cramps her mother seemed to have. She wouldn't know what they were - they didn't speak of them, and Sherry LeBlanc wasn't going to be the one to breach that unspoken contract. Especially when her parents already tolerated her monstrosity and difference. She'd never be able to marry in this state since she never had her first bleed like all the other women had - whatever that meant.

All that she knows is they checked her white sheets frequently when she turned 13, and as she neared 19, they slowed checking before stopping altogether. Her first transformation came about at the same time she'd been expected to have her first bleed instead, and she woke up the next morning to her parents terrified and shocked. Next full moon, she was brought out to the edge of the estate and told she would be allowed to "play all night" out here. Instead, she passed out and woke up confused by how she ended up where she landed. The only reason she knew it was a beast she turned into was because of one of the servants daring to speak it with a level of terror. She was dismissed, and her parents comforted her by saying she was still their daughter, and to not worry her precious head with the fears of strangers.

Still, she knew if she wasn't their daughter, they would not have been so tolerant. Sherry had heard the name of her kind from behind closed doors with her father spatting the word like it was dirty, and she felt full of shame for who she was for the first time in her life. It wasn't her fault - she didn't know what happened to lead her to be a beast of the night. All she knew is that when she saw the silver moon rise on the horizon, she would lose her mind. And she welcomed it now like she hadn't when she was thirteen: a moment of escape from the day to day.

By contrast, they'd known about being a beast and it was all anyone talked about. Yusei and Jack cracked jokes about the monthly, and Crow joked about eating them if they pissed them off. Laughter and jokes was all they knew, really. While they were different from their sisters, they were like them in where it really mattered. As a group, they didn't know why Crow was so different from them but they didn't care. As far as Yusei and Jack were concerned, Crow was their sister who was sometimes a massive oversized beast. Another contrast between Crow and Sherry: Crow remembered being a wolf. It felt like freedom when they transformed, taking off into a night with vision designed for this. Food was theirs for the taking, and no one could stop them from destroying a cop car or two. They were sure to make sure before heading back home, they brought food for the kids.

This was an easy life as far as Crow was concerned. They just needed to ensure that everyone else could eat, and they were happy. From the day to day, most everyone knew that the beasts wandered among them, but only Yusei and Jack knew that Crow was one of them. Sure, they all were very aware what would happen to Crow if anyone found out that they were one of them. They'd heard the stories of the beasts being forcibly tracked, and that some of them were even put down. There was a lot of trust between the sisters - they would all go down for each other.

Everything, as far as Crow as concerned, was perfect. At least until they made the mistake of trespassing onto the Leblanc land in wolf form. They'd heard of wolves that were out of control - it was the whole reason people feared creatures like them - but they'd never seen it before. A beautiful golden wolf snarled at them, in a defensive position - defending her territory, Crow had to assume. They snarled in response, not wanting to rise to the challenge but not wanting to seem like a coward either. The golden wolf lunged forward, tearing through their defenses with a fervor that suggested there was no human mind behind the attacks: pure instinct was driving this beast. That was a surprise in itself: werewolves were supposed to have a level of humanity in their mind.

Crow didn't want to fight with another person, so most of their movements were to dodge the other wolf's attacks. They managed to escape the fight, sliding out under the fence they should've never gone past. Their mind was racing as they wondered what werewolf had carved out a segment of the Leblanc estate as her own, and they needed a chance to go back to see the human form.

The Leblanc Estate was well guarded, designed to keep trespassers off the land. It was why Crow wanted to meet the wolf that had dared to cross the boundaries to stake a claim. And yet when they returned to see who turned back into human form in the morning light, they were shocked to see none other than Sherry Leblanc, passed out under the very same tree she'd attacked them at. The sunlight filtered in from the tree, casting a halolike effect on her. Crow crouched down to rouse her awake, not caring that they still had the stink of nature all over them. "Hey, are you okay? You should probably head back to bed... unless you wanna attack me again."

Sherry's eyes fluttered open, consciousness slowly returning to her. Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked around wildly. "I'm so sorry if I hurt you," she said quickly, her words laced with a light French accent. "I just... who are you? Why are you here?"

Crow laughed. "Like I said - just a girl whose throat you tried to rip out last night," they said with a light wink. "But it's okay. You didn't cause any harm."

"You're also a wolf," Sherry said, hackles up again. She was glaring at Crow, acting as if she was a wounded animal trying to hide her bloody paw from someone who only wanted to help. Once again, her stance was defensive, and they could see the traces of the wolf in her. "Wait.. how do you remember what you did last night? That's not possible. No one remembers what they did as a beast."

"Well then. Looks like I have a lot of explaining to do, then."

#sapphic september 2024 #ravenknightshipping #myfanfic

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willowmckinley · 1 year ago

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From cherry compote this is also definitely under 500 *winks but both my eyes close*

As they near the bottom of the bowl, Raylan moves his hands from Boyd for the first time since they had sat down. He grabs the glass, and he tips it back. Boyd watches as the pink sugar slides into his mouth. And this is his last chance to turn back. To murder Raylan with this chain. He can wrap it around his bobbing Adam’s apple as he swallows. He can call it strawberry ice cream and let himself believe that’s how it got its color.

Instead, Boyd kisses Raylan’s throat. He brushes his lips sweetly over Raylan’s pulse. Raylan whips the bowl back to the table. It catches on the corner, cracking straight down the center. They pay it no mind.

Raylan lifts them up, his hands under Boyd’s thighs supporting his weight. Shattered glass crack under his shoes. Boyd kisses Raylan’s lips. He tastes iron buried deep under sweetness. Raylan bites Boyd’s bottom lip, and then he sucks the sting away right after.

The taste becomes addicting. The last of his sanity slips away, replaced only with obsession. He loves the taste of himself on Raylan’s lips. He loves the hard edge of blood that reminds him that he is Raylan’s favorite. He is the center of Raylan’s entire reality. He could take a cleaver to Raylan’s chest right now and find his heart beating morse code to Boyd’s name. It’s intoxicating. This is always how he had felt, back at nineteen. In all those stolen moments. There wasn’t a crack in Harlan they hadn’t found to tuck themselves into.

Raylan pushes Boyd into their bed, crawling up to rest his weight on Boyd’s chest as he grabs a bottle from the side table. His teeth loom sharp and stained at Boyd’s eye level as he leans over in reach. Less than happy, Raylan is obsessive and possessive and lost in single minded mania of having Boyd. Boyd thinks only of being possessed.

Raylan undoes Boyd’s pants, and Boyd helps by kicking them down. He makes quick work of Raylan’s own. Raylan moves down, slicking two fingers before breaching Boyd’s rim. Boyd pulls at Raylan’s shirt, managing to at least rip them down the buttons. He pauses his work with a grunt, when Raylan’s ministrations distract him too greatly.

Boyd’s fingers catch at Raylan’s love handles. His nails tear lines through skin as Raylan preps him. Boyd pulls a hand back. He grins as he licks at the blood under his nails. Raylan’s eyes grow wide and his pupils blow out. Raylan’s hand stops as he watches Boyd give his own fingers a languid suck. Boyd thrusts his hips down, reminding Raylan to keep up.

Raylan babbles into Boyd’s ear as he crooks his fingers in deeper. “I love you, God, I love you, I love you so much, missed you so much, needed you so badly.” Boyd doesn’t catch it all, and the ramblings spiral deeper into the insanity that lives inside Raylan. “I was born for you, Boyd. I was born to rip your skin open and live inside you. I was born to handcuff your wrist to my own. I want to sew us together with barbed wire. I want carry pieces of you around in my stomach. I want our hearts to be swapped in open surgery.”

“I want those things too, Raylan,” Boyd admits, honest with himself for the first time in decades. “I want more reminders that I’m yours. The mark wasn’t enough, the pinky isn’t enough,” Boyd continues, slipping into a desperate beg for more, more, more.

Ohhhh, thank you!

So, the beginning of your passage shows Boyd with his two options clear before him. This is Raylan at his most vulnerable, most distracted. If Boyd kills him here, he'd have his best odds at succeeding, his best odds of making it out alive. By giving him the coffee earlier, by giving him this ice cream so soon, Raylan broke his pattern of putting his cell phone away in the lockbox, giving Boyd an actual out to kill him without dooming himself to starving himself to death with a rotting corpse in the small room cottage. He can kill Raylan, steal the cellphone, and call one of his men to pick him up or call the authorities to start a new life-- or, well.

And of course he doesn't! He loooooves Raylan. He loooooves Raylan so much.

Boyd is a character that strikes me as desperate for love and attention, and he'll supplement both with adoration or hatred or machinations, but here Raylan is, giving and giving and giving with both love and obsession and attention. This Boyd is hardly able to resist. Even with the complicated dynamics and literal kidnapping, Raylan loves him so much and gives him everything he needs, and he has no real reason to turn away, not when Raylan is correct in that Boyd acts not who he is out of desperation or fears prison more than he'd like to admit.

The sex scene happens, of course, because Raylan has been wanting to fuck his boyfriend everyday since they were, like, sixteen, but he has his strict little moral codes that make sense only to himself, but now, finally, Boyd wants this too, and the whole affair is bloody, but the blood is warm and full of love and proof enough as they make heart shapes like paint.

Raylan's babbling was the most fun for me to write, because I wanted to make his ramblings graphic and bloody and intense and insane and loving and lovely in its own way. This fic is about unhinged, mutual obsession, and I feel like this section and this fic particularly I really got to cut loose and just play with it.

One of the most finicky details of this fic was always figuring out how clothing would work, what with Boyd being chained at hand or foot for most of it, making changing a nightmare, logistically. In later installments, I'll say they get custom clothing some how to make it easier, if only for me to write, lol. Hopefully the ripping and tearing seemed appropriately amorous while logistically sound.

And of course, what kind of commentary would this be without mentioning @itookyoudown! It was bun's idea for to use blood as an ice cream topping! How perfect! How wonderful! Truly, it was the detail that really tied this installment together for me. Everything flowed (retch ;P ) from there, haha. Honestly, it was just a really good focal point for this fic as a whole, both visually and thematically, especially tying this fic back to the rest of the series.

(Speaking of which, the first chapter of Part Six is out now! It's about Loretta, though, so no worries if you'd rather wait for Part Seven, which will go back to Raylan and Boyd).

#justie games #justie author commentary #cherry compote

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m0llygunn · 1 year ago

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i was sorting through my wips and i know some of them are going to be permanently abandoned, but i still want to share them. so, im starting with this one. its just under 2k words, is sci-fi-y, and was suppose to be dystopian future-esque and surrounds the ghost in the machine theory/mind body dualism theory (ew gross philosophy gross ew) the only content warning is that it will never be finished lol if you want to adopt it feel free

Zeros and ones— binary code. A thing of the past. Ancient relic if you will.

Whoever built this system believed in the past, evidently. The whole premise is bringing no-names back to life. Taking their consciousness and loading it into a new body. The Ghost in the Machine.

Obviously, you understand that’s not the expanse of the project. This is just the story they feed to you. You have no doubt that if this project was ever completed it would have been used for the worse. It’s essentially making zombies, bringing people back from the dead, but instead of flesh and blood, it’s technology and artificial intelligence.

Every line of zeros and ones that you read effectively decimates your ability to care though. This project’s not going to work, and your brain is quickly deteriorating— alongside your will to exist.

Years dedicated to science, years invested into the brain, technology, and studying artificial intelligence. Nearly half your life, and this is what you have to show for it, a low tier secret sector government job. Typing in hopeless code that, even if it did work, all the credit would go to your team lead, Dr. Miller— who, for the record, has not been in office for the last two weeks. Sure, your sector is highly ignored and on its way to extinction, but you’d think he’d at least have some integrity in his job.

Using your hands to push yourself back from the desk, your chair scratches loudly against the floor. Your morning’s abandoned cup of coffee, cold and bitter, threatens to breach the rim of the cup. The mood you’re in, you almost dare it to. In fact, you go far enough to look up at the ‘No Food or Beverages' sign pasted above the monitor and send it a challenging look— one you’re sure would convince any watching eyes that you have indeed lost all sense of sanity.

The room settles, all coffee contained into your mug, and you turn, heading straight for the break room.

“Shit,” you curse. Nearly a year in this building and you still forget the fact that you need your keycard to do anything, even to just get out of a room.

You walk back over to your desk, catching a glimpse of the very impressive storm going on outside your small window.

Bending down under your desk, you debate if asking the technician if it would be possible to essentially move the whole room 4 feet to the right so that you could look out the window while you code. Shuffling through your bag, you decide that it’s a stupid idea, the project is sure to be scrapped in the next few months, so that’s just extra work on his plate for no reason. As soon as you grip the electronic card in your hand, the room illuminates in bright white light coming from the window.

Lightening.

You go to stand, but as soon as you do, the crack of thunder vibrates through the room, making you jolt in surprise. You hit your head, and to make matters worse the sound of a splat of liquid above you is then followed by slow trickling.

“No,” you gasp. “No, no, no,” you chorus, standing from your crouch.

Milky coffee is spread from letter to letter, all across the keyboard and spills backwards into the computer. The monitor vibrates and buzzes, pixelated zeros and ones all melding together.

“Fuck,” you curse. “Shit, no.” Grabbing your sweater from your seat, you try dabbing the spilt coffee of the hardware.

In your debacle, you hadn’t noticed the way the room lit up in flashing hues of fluorescent green. The source of light is at the back of the room. The Blanks Machine— an asset to your project that resembles a large steel vault.

The Blanks Machine is much like a printer, but regards a photocopier with beaming lights that pass over and over the human-like bodies of the Blanks. It operates quickly— theoretically of course, it’s never been successful. If it were to be successful, the process would be done in mere seconds. It would be truly remarkable— to send a lifetime of thoughts, experiences, memories, as well as replicate neuron per neuron data into the brain of the Blank. Remarkable, and that’s why it has never been done. That’s why the coding has never worked, it’s a near impossible thing. For everything to click together perfectly and then be translated into a Blank… impossible— until now.

You dab the coffee a final time before decidedly picking up the whole keyboard and tipping it upside down, coffee spilling all over your desk dripping out from under the keys. You try to do the same with the rest of the parts but it’s hopeless.

“Fuck,” you nearly whimper. You’re fucked. Your job is done for.

The computer screen blinks bright red, something you’ve never seen it do before and it makes your eyes start to water. A chime comes from the back speaker, reminiscent of an old school typewriter. Then everything goes black and the static of electricity dies completely, leaving you in total silence.

“Fuck,” you say a final time in defeat. You sit back on the floor, bringing your knees upwards and resting your hands on your ankles. Your eyes go unfocused in the dark of the room.

You’re sure that at any moment someone will come searching for the source of the power outage you just caused.

You’re sure you’re moments away from getting absolutely annihilated. You wouldn’t be surprised if they came in with loaded guns— this is the government after all, they can do whatever they want.

You’re sure you—

“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice calls out from behind you and you freeze.

“What the fuck?” the voice says quietly, like it was meant for only them.

You turn your head to the door. Focusing your eyes in the dark as best as you can, it’s still closed.

You hear shuffling behind you.

No.

You hear steps.

No fucking way.

You hear clambering before the ping of a dense mass hitting metal loudly rings out in the room.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the voice curses, sounding pained.

The voice belongs to a man, one who sounds on the younger side. Slowly moving to your knees, you reach forward feeling for your bag. When you find it, you run your hand along the front until you find the seam of the pocket that houses your phone.

You lift it, and the glow of the screen lights up the room.

“Hey!” the man calls out again, followed by more shuffling.

You quickly lock the screen as your stomach drops. Just as you thought, the voice is coming from inside the Blanks Machine.

“I know you’re out there, what is this?” he shouts.

He sounds angry. You push to your feet, silently standing. Your heart pounds in your chest and your knees practically wobble.

“Seriously? I never asked for this— just let me go.”

You swallow, trying to bring moisture to your dry mouth. Clutching your phone to your chest, you take a deep breath.

“What’s your name?” you ask, voice sounding timid as a mouse.

“My name? Are you kidding?” he laughs derisively.

“Yes, your name.” You try to swallow your nerves away.

“Eddie, now let me out.”

“Eddie?” you whisper, trying to mentally rifle through the roster of Ghosts that were saved in the project files. The Ghosts that the government have on file date all the way back to the ‘50s, there’s got to be at least a thousand Eddies— Edwards, Edwins, Eduardos.

“Is this a sick joke? I get torn to fucking shreds by bats and now you have me in a cage?”

“Bats?” Shredded by bats… that might narrow it down.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, and the metal of the door clanks under his pounding on the interior wall.

“Okay, hold on,” you rush out, moving to the door of the machine. “Just stand back, they’ll be a puff of air— it’s just air so, um… don’t worry,” you say, shaking your head out of embarrassment. You never expected this to work, therefore you never thought of what you’d have to say if it did work.

“Air— cool,” Eddie says, sounding both bored and annoyed.

You take the silver cross of the wheel handle in your hands. Pushing your full body weight into your movements, you spin it, slowly turning the mechanism. The puff of air emits, blowing your hair back gently and making you blink.

You pull the door back slowly, using your body weight once again to help move the heavy steel. When it’s open, you step back.

“You… you can come out,” you say timidly.

You didn’t know what to expect. Anything could have walked out. Anything at all. He could have been quite literally still a Blank, an all white mannequin that had now gained the ability to think and talk. He could have been a generic human, just eyes, nose, ears, and a mouth. He could have been anything.

The clank of chains followed by the barely visible image of a man appears in front of you. He’s taller than you, 5’10, maybe 5’11, slender, long wavy hair. It’s hard to make out his features in the dim light of the room, but he’s not just a Blank, he’s not just a generic human, he’s loaded to look exactly as he had looked in his life. Remarkable.

You speak, you introduce yourself, you say more words, but your mind is elsewhere. It worked. It was successful.

“Hello?” Eddie says, stepping closer to you, waving a hand to get your attention.

“Sorry— I was just thinking.”

“What is this?”

“Uh— it’s called a Blanks Output Machine, it’s peripheral hardware— simplified, it’s a printer… kind of— not really.

“Not really?”

“Well, it does a lot more than just printing. It, uh, it basically transfers recorded human consciousness onto a Blank,” you say leaving out most of the complex details. Eddie still looks at you, riddled with confusion.

“Why was I in there?”

“You were in there… because… um— Eddie?” you pause looking at him.

“What?”

“What year is it?”

“1986?”

“It’s not 1986.”

──────────── ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

#eddie munson #abandoned wips

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jumpingintothefrey · 1 month ago

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Frey sighs and takes a deep breath... before- "DISTURBING THE PEACEEE LOOK INTO MY EYEEEEEES NOW TELL ME THE THINGS YOU'RE LAUGHING ABOUT BEHIND MY BACK THE TENACITY I HOLD IS HARD TO BREAK DOWN IT'S TOO LATE FOR APOLOGIES ITS GOING DOWN-"

#a breach in sanity (crack)#p3r #it's going down #meme #LOL

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antiquatedsimmer · 2 years ago

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**TW: TRAUMA WITH PHYSICAL ABUSE**

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the frost-kissed window, Eddy roused himself from his makeshift bed. The bitter cold of the impending winter hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of their dwindling supplies and pressing need for sustenance. With a determined resolve, he prepared himself for the arduous task ahead—hunting.

Winter was closing in fast, and they knew that their survival depended on their ability to secure enough food to see them through the long, harsh months. Eddy and Helena would forage for whatever sustenance nature could offer—clovers, dandelions, and the remaining tufts of fresh grass that had managed to withstand the biting cold. It wasn't a feast by any means, but it staved off the gnawing hunger that threatened to consume them.

Their meager garden plots held the promise of future nourishment, but the sprouts of onions, spinach, and sage remained elusive. They had planted the seeds with hopeful anticipation, knowing that their growth would be slow in the harsh climate. As the weeks of fall slipped by, Eddy and Helena remained vigilant, tending to the tiny shoots and praying for their resilience against the elements.

Each day closer to winter was becoming more difficult.

The following day the sun had yet to breach the horizon as Helena stirred from her slumber, her body enveloped in the warmth of the worn sleeping bag. Reluctantly, she emerged from its comforting embrace, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. The furnace had done its best to ward off the chill, but the frigid air outside the covers reminded her of the harsh reality they faced.

Casting a glance towards the empty space beside her, Helena knew that Eddy had risen long before her. He was out there, braving the elements in search of sustenance to keep them going. His unwavering dedication to their survival both impressed and comforted her. It was in those solitary moments, with the cabin still and the weight of their circumstances heavy upon her, that she appreciated the quiet strength that emanated from him.

Helena pushed herself up from the worn sleeping bag and took a few groggy steps towards the vanity. The morning chill nipped at her skin, reminding her of the pressing need to get ready for the day ahead. She sat down on the makeshift wooden crate that served as her chair, her hands resting on the worn surface.

As she gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror, her tired eyes met their own reflection.

For the first time, Helena allowed herself to truly confront the remnants of the recent turmoil etched onto her face. Her eyes fixated on the bruised contours around her neck and the fading discoloration near her right eye, silent reminders of the violence she had endured.

Her gaze shifted to the healing cuts on her lips and the bridge of her nose, testaments to the physical pain she had weathered.

Her memory seemed shrouded in a fog, a protective veil shielding her from the haunting images, It was as if her own subconscious sought to preserve her sanity by suppressing the most harrowing moments, sparing her from the full weight of their impact.

Helena's heart clenched with a mixture of anguish and rage as she recalled the brutal assault that had brought her to the brink of oblivion. The echoes of previous battles and encounters with cruel men paled in comparison to the sheer savagery of that fateful encounter.

The tunneling darkness she saw, that eerie descent into the abyss, lingered in her mind like a haunting specter.

Helena's gaze shifted to her bandaged and bruised arms and hands, igniting a fierce flame of anger within her. The pain she felt merged with a resolute determination, fueling her resolve. Her voice, filled with righteous indignation

"Never again."

#ts4 #decade challenge #decades challenge #decades legacy #ts4 historical #Helena Doyle #doyle legacy #historical sims #sims 4 #simblr #sims story #storytelling #trauma

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neutron-stars-collision · 2 years ago

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Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 12 - All These Things That I've Done

Masterlist; Chapter 11 Summary: The Riddler gets ever so closer to Bruce, making you question your sanity and motives as danger looms near... Warnings: Canon-typical violence; a dose of angst because it's Battinson we're talking; swearing. Author's Notes: Welcome to what we call a filler chapter! Make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the show! *jazz hands* Yeah, no, just kidding, but also not kidding. Admittedly, it's a slower one, but that's because no 13 might be a lucky number for some :)))) (them). Thank you for sticking around and waiting for the updates, it means more than you can imagine 💝 Enjoy and let me know what you think? ✨ Taglist: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care

The eventful Sunday night was still on your mind when you boarded the train the next morning. It was there in the darker shades underneath your eyes and the heaviness in your limbs. You could feel it in your heart too, foolishly occupied with the final text you received and the memories of his lips against yours. Yeah, it was safe to say you were screwed. But maybe so was Gotham, so you did not stick out too much.

The heavy atmosphere permeated the city more than usual. It seemed that the nightly rain did nothing to ease the fear and worries of the fellow citizens. With three public figures murdered within days, it was clear who was the winner. The best you could hope for was to make sure the number stayed at three. But even that seemed like a considerable fate when all you had were disjointed puzzle pieces and a few riddles. You still had to try, however.

With the brain occupied by trying to stay afloat the anxious-driven tides, you let yourself into the Wayne Tower on autopilot, barely taking notice of the surroundings. Only once you stepped into the study, gaze fixed on the floor, your senses took in the room. It was quiet, just as usual, though there was a faint white noise of the tv running in the dining room. The louder noise came from the room you were standing in, around the fireplace, hidden from view. A guitar, the strings plucked gently as if only to occupy the fingers. A grin showed itself on your face as you rounded the corner to look at Bruce. You caught him by surprise if the blush adorning his cheeks was anything to go by.

“Morning, sunshine” there was no point in faking the tone anymore; softness was inescapable, “What are you playing?” you raised your eyebrow, approaching him slowly as if not to scare him away.

It was the right strategy always, for Bruce still seemed on edge, putting away the instrument hastily and giving you an almost embarrassed once-over. The intensity of the gaze slipping over your body nearly made you question the outfit choices for the day before Bruce finally seemed to shake himself out of the stupor:

“Hi,” frowning at the hoarseness of his voice, he cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for nonchalance, and failing, “Um, nothing, it’s… Nothing” if, before his answer, you were only a little intrigued, his reply made it worse.

Because what could have been that made him nervous? Frankly, you were not sure whether you wanted to know. You eyed him closely for another second and then flashed him a cheeky smirk, closing the distance to perch on the edge of the armrest of his armchair. You waited for Bruce to nod, permitting you to breach his personal space and took the seat, arm coming up to rest along his shoulders:

“I’d keep on bothering you about it, but it seems that I need coffee to keep up the spirit” it was half true, and you chose to stick to it, meeting his gaze with a remorseful shrug to enforce the act, “And I’m yet to have my first cup,”

“Lucky me” Bruce cracked a smile, and you felt your chest expand in a terrifying reflex.

Choosing not to dwell on it too long, you let your fingers trace the collar of his shirt, soaking up the warmth of his body and the slight catch in his breathing at the action:

“Indeed” as your eyes wandered over his face, you noticed the darker shapes planted on the skin of his neck; warmth flooded your cheeks as you remembered the nightly actions, immediately knowing how to break out of the strange awkwardness “What I can do though is…” you curled your hand around his neck, slipping into his lap with the eyes trained on his for any sign of discomfort “Alright?” still, you did ask.

But Bruce seemed fine with it, responding with the softness in his gaze that could easily steal your breath each time. It felt almost wrong to look at him then, making you close the remaining gap between your faces and kiss him gently. Enough to make Bruce gasp and cradle you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist with ease. He tasted like tea and blueberries, a combination which you would have never guessed would be that sweet. When you finally pulled back, the daze clouding your eyes and the tongue chasing the aftertaste on your lips, Bruce breathed out the belated permission:

“Yeah… You’re so-” hanging on to every word he spoke with the breath held in your throat, the interrupting noise of the door opening further in the study felt like a disappointment.

Unable to hold back the groan, you quickly stood up from Bruce’s lap and ventured into the space to find Dory beaming at you from the doorway:

“Ah, good morning, miss” she raised the silver tray with steaming porcelain and smiled warmly, “Do you fancy a cup of coffee to start the day?” there was no judgement whatsoever in her gaze.

As if your presence had been accepted and taken as a fact rather than something worth examination. As if you were welcome there. Ignoring the repercussions, you quickly crossed the space and picked up the cup with the widest grin you could muster.

“Dory, you’re a lifesaver” before she could turn away, you pressed a kiss to her cheek, chuckling at the woman’s shocked gasp, “Thank you,”

You waved the housekeeper goodbye and settled at the table, a coffee cup warming your hands. Once you had that first glorious sip of the beverage, you noticed a pair of eyes trained on you. Bruce had not moved from the armchair since you stood up, and you could still see the intensity in his gaze, hidden in the unreadable depths. While he was always an enigma, this particular expression was even harder to puzzle out. It looked almost as if Bruce was entranced by you and simultaneously terrified of what he saw when he stared at you. Or perhaps of what he felt when it came to you.

Both options seemed too dangerous to think about. And so, you took another sip of the coffee and glanced at him expectantly:

“So… riddles?” the word was enough for Bruce to leap up from the chair and stride over to the desk.

He picked up a few pages and spread them over the table for you to see.

“Yeah… Those are the ones I have so far” pointing to the photos of the cards he received, Bruce continued the explanation, “That’s from Mitchell’s house. This here is Savage and the last ones are what Riddler mentioned on the livestream yesterday” he took a step back, letting you pore over the clues.

The sense of dread was not going anywhere. You read the riddles once then again, hoping to find the answers within the words. It was difficult to ignore the lingering frustration that Bruce kept such a crucial piece of the mystery from you. You chose to file the feeling for later and met his pensive gaze above the table:

“I might not be Bilbo Baggins, but I think I may have some ideas…” the reference made your lips twist into a sardonic smirk, hoping to push through the uncertainty.

“What?” Bruce looked utterly perplexed, staring at you with confusion in his eyes.

How even. Resisting the urge to hide your face in your hands out of exasperation, you chose to meet his lost gaze with an incredulous stare of your own:

“Riddles in the dark? Nothing?” upon the lack of recognition in his handsome face, you groaned, quickly throwing in the remark, “Well, one day I have to educate you on good literature” you finished it off with a warning glance and pulled the pictures closer to look at them again.

Bruce stayed silent for a long moment, yet you could feel his eyes on the side of your head as if thinking about what to say. Then he finally took the seat opposite you by the table and spoke:

“I’m lost when it comes to who’s the rat, he speaks of… I mean, clearly, all victims had something in common, so corruption… and the like” you glanced up to see a frown on his face as Bruce kept on talking, finally comfortable with speaking his thoughts in your presence, “But what if they also shared a case in the past. Maybe that’s the key” the tentative spark in his eyes was the sole reason to lean over the pages and look at them.

Because you could not turn down the possibility of helping him. Not now, after everything. Even though the clues were not easy to guess. Using the fact that Bruce seemed to be focused on the topic of the rat, you chose that photograph to stare at, reading the words quietly to give them a rhythm and voice. Without looking up, you commented:

“As in the rat is a previous informer that holds the city’s secrets in the palm?” it was impossible to get rid of the bitterness in your tone, especially, as you added, “Whose reveal would make things even worse than they are, according to Colson?”

“Yeah…” the grave tone of his reply was enough to meet his gaze.

Bruce looked concerned, too, fully aware of the pure assumptions and guesses that made up your conversation. There was too much uncertainty to act on anything. Yet you were already running out of time, unable to foresee what would be the Riddler’s next move. Whether there was another murder in the works.

Sighing with frustration, you tried to rake your head, searching for cases that were important enough to warrant an informer’s influence and were public knowledge. You did not need long for a particular idea to pop into your mind, making you suck in the air, startling Bruce. Well, shit.

“It’s the Maroni drug bust, isn’t it?” you whispered out the question, trying to block the unwanted memories and stay focused.

It was too late; the words had already done their damage.

“That’s my guess” oblivious to your unfolding crisis, Bruce shrugged.

He picked up the laptop lying on the side and switched it on.

“Jesus…” as soon as you spoke, eyes fixed on the table to prevent any further signs of weakness, Bruce froze.

The blue gaze swept over you with concern as he asked:

“What?” the complete attention he offered assured you there was no chance of getting out of it without answering.

But you were still going to try, faltering, and starting again, unable to look at him as the words poured out:

“No, nothing, is just… Well, at the time, my mother used to think he had something to do with what happened to my father. Because dad was an investigative journalist and he liked to dig where he shouldn’t,” it was difficult enough to recount, the weight of it pulling you further down than you ever wanted to be again, but the silence told you Bruce was listening so you continued, “And she had this theory that Maroni had him killed to make sure he stayed silent” finally, you looked up at Bruce to find him watching you intently, hanging on to every word as if what you said was worth remembering “But it was just that, a theory” trying to lighten the mood, you flashed him an unconvincing smile and shrugged, diving headfirst into work “They all worked on the drug bust… And probably whoever had informed the GCPD must’ve benefitted from it”

The meaningful pause was all Bruce needed to get the hint. He gave you a final, searching look before brushing off the sensitive subject and scribbling something on one of the pages. Before you could ask, he spoke again, a strange conviction in his eyes:

“I think it’s the Penguin” upon your questioning glance, he elaborated, a nervous stutter making an appearance among the confidence, “The clue says something about a rat with wings, and he fits the picture” he shrugged.

For a moment, you wanted to agree, but something did not seem quite right. You understood his logic, and it made sense. But it also didn’t. The last thing acceptable would be a mistake when it came to something this important. And sure enough, the bird metaphor he was going off was not exactly precise.

You did not tell him that both bats and falcons could be understood as rats with wings. Neither of you needed that.

“Maybe… But also… I don’t know. He doesn’t strike me as a snitch” rambling with dejection, you met Bruce’s sceptical look and shrugged again, hoping to get rid of the attention, “But I’m not you so…”

You downed the cold coffee from the cup and stood up from the table, pacing over to the expansive window overlooking the park below. The low clouds only added to the melancholy and uncertainty. Suddenly, it was hard to find the spark, to fight for what you believed. Because what if you were wrong? What if Bruce was right, and you had it all wrong? What then?

“What do you mean?” the incredulous edge to the question made you look over your shoulder at the man.

Another shrug, your hand reached toward the window and pressed against the cold glass. Anything to break through the sudden numbness. A chair scraped over the wooden floor as Bruce stood up.

“Well, you’re in charge here. Sherlock Holmes wannabe and all,” a sarcastic grin bloomed on your face, shown only to the reflection looking back at you.

You could hear the approaching footsteps as Bruce got closer, evidently unable to continue the strange conversation without facing you. Turning to look at him, you immediately noticed the frown etched between his eyebrows and pursed lips as he stared, desperately trying to understand you:

“Is that… What are you saying?” Bruce gave up with a sigh, now close enough to touch you if he wanted to.

He didn’t. But now you knew what it had been all this time, what were the issues that did not seem to let go of your mind since you woke up. You could tell he felt it too, the familiar worry filling his eyes as he hesitated, awaiting your answer like a death sentence.

“I can’t wrap my head about the fact that it’s you” there it is, “That you’re the vigilante everyone’s-” you never got to the end of that sentence.

Bruce closed the remaining gap and cupped your cheek, closing your mouth with a kiss. This time it was not chaste, the tongue prodding your lips to open for him, the teeth nipping at your bottom lip. There was no choice but to let him swallow the traitorous gasp and grab a fistful of his shirt to pull him flush against you, your back hitting the glass with a shallow thump. The desperate tone of the kiss was impossible to miss as Bruce’s fingers dug into your hip, bruising the flesh underneath the jeans, and all you wanted to do was let him continue. The hunger was always there, lurking underneath the pretend composure and indifference. Only it was increasingly harder to ignore.

A frustrated whine escaped your throat when Bruce pulled away, your eyes inadvertently darting to the strings of spit still connecting his mouth with yours. A quip pressed itself onto your lips, but you only got as far as opening your mouth to speak.

“Shut up,” Bruce uttered the command with a strained voice, quickly attempting to soften it but never hiding the wince of discomfort, “Please,”

Torn between the desire to understand him and the want wreaking havoc in your veins, you chose to give in to the chaos. Making sure he held your gaze, you fluttered your eyelashes, finding the perfect tease for the occasion:

“Yes, sir”

You took pleasure in the moment when it clicked. When the words had their effect. Bruce sucked in the air sharply as if suffocating. His blue eyes darkened, the pupils widening as desire took hold of his senses, and he crashed his mouth into yours without care. You met him halfway, smirking against his mouth because, of course, it worked. Because kissing him like that was worth the uncertainty. Because there was nothing else you would rather do.

Only one thing could stop you. Or, rather, one person.

Hearing the door to the study open with the telltale creak, Bruce jumped away from you as if burned. His cheeks were aflame, telling the story without anyone needing to ask. Alfred certainly did not, apologizing profusely before treating you both with a tray of cookies fresh from the oven. Needless to say, the mood was different. Something had shifted. But you did not question it, focusing on the riddles with renewed interest.

***

By the time you made it home that afternoon, the city had been bathed in darkness again as the rain thundered down hard on the steel, glass, and pavements. You could not sway Bruce when it came to the Penguin, and he bid you goodbye by simply stating that there’s a matter he needs to attend to that relates to the case. All you had were guesses, but each seemed worse than the one before, so you chose to ignore them, and focus on work. Still, you placed the burner phone by the laptop on your desk. Just in case.

You managed to write exactly 345 words out of the 2k long feature on the future mayor before you lost the plot, rebellious thoughts turning towards Bruce as if to spite you. Soon enough, the cursor was blinking on the word doc, and the mind was centred on the memory of his lips against yours. Fuck. In moments like this, alone and without any working distraction at hand, it was impossible to ignore it. To pretend it was merely a passing fancy, an attraction that would burn out on its own if you paid it no attention. Because if there was one thing you knew about yourself, it was that you never backed down from closeness. Never consciously returned home to give the other person space they did not ask for. You never shied away from a night of carefree fun, especially not when there was an undeniable desire underlining every word and every move. Yet that was exactly what you had been doing.

You chose to return to your cold and solitary apartment because you knew that another night spent with Bruce by your side would not end with just making out. And, for some reason, you were scared to take that step, to let him in completely. And equally petrified of the worst turn of events, the one where he would break your heart soon after. Now you were sure that it was a possibility, something Bruce was capable of. You had already given him the tools.

The cursor kept on blinking, humouring your despair. The phone stayed silent, urging you to find a different occupation. And you did try, forcing out another 500 words before closing the laptop in resignation. Luckily no one remembered about article deadlines in the face of high society murders. Even the election hardly mattered now that it was obvious who would be elected. A spoiled story was hardly breaking news, even if the Pulitzer Prize winners would try to make it into one. Not that you were one of those.

Eager for an escape from the constant chatter of the anxious mind, you sat on the sofa, tv remote in hand. But there would be no rest. Your hand holding the fork froze halfway between the bowl of pasta and your mouth. The helicopter footage of the highway downtown was the reason. Or, rather, the headline was: ‘The masked vigilante wreaks chaos on the express road’. You forced your brain to focus on the newscaster, instantly getting the gist of the story. It finished half an hour ago, and, right now, the coverage was showing the aftermath in the form of a pile-up and a burning truck. According to the correspondent, the Batman has been chasing someone down the highway and then flipped their car to get his target out of it, speeding away shortly after. There were no more details. But you knew anyway. That was how his little side quest involving the Penguin turned out. Fuck.

You moved from the sofa before you knew what you were planning to do. Throwing the phone into the purse, you checked whether the keys to Wayne Tower were safely stored in the coat pocket. The next thing you realised the apartment doors closed behind your back, the noise echoing through the hallway. There was no plan whatsoever. Only the feeling that you had to find Bruce. You had to see him as soon as possible and perhaps tell him what an idiot he was for the car chase. Or kiss him. Or both of those. The desire to call him was there too, but you quickly brushed it away, choosing to get to the tower and wait there instead. But fate had other plans, as always.

***

The unnameable sense of dread had made its home in the pit of your stomach as you exited the platform by the tower, the pulled-up hood hiding you from the wind and rain. Glancing at the phone, you were surprised by how early it was still, with the clock not having even struck ten. Another night spent waiting on Bruce in the study did not seem like such a terrible idea, or, at least, you tried to convince yourself to stop the spiralling anxiety.

Suddenly, not so distant explosion ripped through the air, making you stop in the middle of the crossing, two corners away from your destination. The dread settled like a heavy fog over your mind, making it harder to walk forward. If there were any doubts left whether what was happening was the worst nightmare coming true, the commotion all around you got rid of them. More and more people started walking in the same direction as you; gasps and yelling interrupted the steady stream of rain and made the blood freeze in your veins. You staggered to a stop once you caught the view of Wayne Tower.

The windows that belonged to the study and the neighbouring rooms were ablaze with the fire raging inside. The explosion took out the glass from the frames and made the smoke pour through the gaps. You clenched your fists in the coat pockets, urging your mind to stay calm. Somehow you knew Bruce was still out, that perhaps he had no idea it was happening. You also knew that this was no coincidence. Just another step in the plan for the Riddler. Another one that you missed. You pushed through the crowds, needing to get closer to the doorway and try to sneak inside without anyone noticing. Because even if Bruce was not inside, Alfred and Dory were. You had to help them.

Even if helping meant perching on the steps until the fire brigade arrived, followed by the GCPD. They did not question who you were, accepting the bullshit story you came up with on the spot and listened to the directions you gave as they kicked in the doors and spread over the foyer. As soon as you saw Dory walk down the stairwell, you let out the breath you did not know you were holding. Everything after felt like a delirious blur. Bruce was not picking up; you both tried to reach him before the paramedics made it in. They left with Alfred carried on the stretcher. You pieced the story from what you saw, understanding that Pennyworth was the one who picked up the explosive sent to Bruce. All other details were held back for the master of the house to arrive. You did not even know what state Alfred was in. Only that he was unconscious and taken to Gotham Central Hospital for the initial checks.

Ten minutes after the paramedics left, Bruce called back the landline. You were sat on the stairwell by the kitchen as Dory talked to him, explaining the situation in a hushed, worried tone. He was on his way, terrified and already half-consumed by guilt. Before you could ask her for details, the phone in your pocket started buzzing insistently. You whispered an apology at the woman and quickly ventured down the only hallway that seemed quiet, picking up the phone without hesitation:

“Where are you? Were you in there when-” the anxiety reverberating through the line still made you gasp despite knowing that Bruce was far from alright.

Leaning against the wall, you closed your eyes to let out a steady breath, piecing together the response:

“No, no, I’m here now. I saw the explosion as I was coming up” for whatever reason, you were still breathless.

And Bruce was still strangely quiet. Save for the ragged breathing on the other side of the line. He did not ask outright, but you felt like answering the question that seemed to hang between each of your breaths.

“I’m fine,” you all but whispered the words, adding the sentence as an afterthought, “I’ll meet you at the hospital,”

Were you fine? Probably not. But he did not need to know that. He should not know that.

You did not expect a reply, so when Bruce spoke again, you nearly dropped the burner phone onto the carpeted floor.

“Thank you” the gravelly tone made you shiver, tearing into the illusion that it was anything but casual.

That you did everything on a whim, not acting on the deepest of feelings that terrified you more than death and eternal damnation. That it was all an act.

Ignoring the flight instinct, you allowed yourself a one-worded reply:

“For?” there was no expectation in your voice, too used to being disappointed by the universe that you no longer trusted hope.

What good would it do?

“Staying,” Bruce sighed and hung up the call before you could analyse his response.

You wanted to tell him that you did not really have a choice. That leaving is not an option anymore. But all you did was walk back towards the kitchen; the soothing smile aimed for Dory already on your face.

***

The hospital staff did not buy the story you tried to sell them regarding why you should be allowed to see Alfred. On the one hand, you were grateful they did not, hoping it meant he would be safe there. On the other, after ten minutes of waiting, you got tired of the pale green walls in the corridor and the uncomfortable wooden chair. But you still stayed, pacing up and down the hallway outside Alfred’s room and waiting for Bruce to show up. At times, it was difficult to ignore the question simmering in the depths of your heart. Why did you stay? Because sure enough, you did not expect anything from Bruce, not even gratitude. But you had to be there for him, just in case he needed company. It was only that. Right?

Your fifteenth walk down the corridor was interrupted by the heavy footsteps rushing through the doors to the hospital wing. You quickly whirled around to face Bruce, unable to stop the shallow gasp at his state. Wet strands of brown hair were falling over his eyes, drops of rain trailing down the collar of the jacket and onto the floor. He was underdressed for the cold weather, shivering slightly. Yet it was the look on his face that struck you the most. He was utterly heartbroken. The hard lines seemed to be permanently etched into his expression with the resignation written into the depths of his blue eyes. Upon your sight, Bruce stopped and let go of a little bit of tension, making his shoulders sag and frown deepen. Suddenly you did not feel like closing the gap, worried that it was the last thing he wanted.

“Where’s he?” Bruce took a few cautious steps towards you, eyes darting around the hallway as if unable to concentrate on anything.

All the while, he was avoiding looking at you for longer than necessary. So, you stood your ground, pointing towards the second door in the corridor:

“Just through that door there. They wouldn’t let me in, but the doctor is waiting on you” when his eyes settled on you, you offered him a small smile.

You were never comfortable with subtle gestures, preferring to rely on touch and affection to show that you cared. But then Bruce changed it because it was evident that he was completely different, not used to physical tenderness or other fervent expressions. And certainly not in the public eye.

You tightened your fists and forced your body to obey the wishes of common sense, keeping the distance Bruce had set.

“Why are you here?” he was still looking at you, the uncertainty tinting the question.

The softness from your conversation on the phone had been lost in translation, making you shrug with resignation and pour feelings into the response.

“Because I want to be” it was that simple.

You were willing to fight him for it, already preparing another argument to make sure Bruce could not talk you into regrets about the decision. But you never had to present it, for his features softened, the expressive eyes revealing a gleam of recognition. He nodded once and put his hand on the door handle, the final murmur breaking the tense atmosphere:

“You can leave now, I’ll-” you never let him finish the thought.

“No, I’ll stay” interjecting sharply, you waited for him to meet your gaze and grinned, eager to give him at least that much should he allow it, “You’re welcome, darling,” you winked, chuckling when the last thing you saw was Bruce rolling his eyes as he entered the hospital room.

Then it was just you and the pale green walls again. Unable to stay seated on the uncomfortable chair, you paced over to the leaflet stand and flipped through a couple of pages. It was impossible to take your mind off reality even for a little while, but you had to give it a shot. After the leaflets, you studied the educational posters lining up the walls, presenting the importance of regular check-ups. When you were eager to declare yourself insane, the door behind you opened, followed by quiet footsteps and an uncertain voice:

“Miss? Mr Wayne says you can come in if you want” turning to face the speaker, your gaze fell upon a young nurse, smiling at you from the doorway.

Finally. Ignoring the desire to grin like a Cheshire cat, you returned her tentative smile and nodded:

“Thank you” without waiting for Bruce to change his mind, you dove into the room, quietly shutting the door behind you.

The space was divided into the hospital room and a small hallway, the glass window separating the two and assuring that the patient was not bothered by the visitors. That is where you found Bruce, his gaze fixed on Alfred laying on the bed on the other side of the window. Beneath the murky light of the fluorescents and in that awful greenish hospital gown, he looked so different. His head was bandaged with the cuts visible on his face and hands resting atop the white blankets. None of the usual strength or energy present. The fear rose underneath your skin as you closed your eyes on the sight and turned to Bruce instead.

He seemed frozen, staring at Alfred with that familiar frown fixed on his features. Glancing down, you noticed that his hands were clenched into tight fists, fingernails likely marking the skin of his palms. You had to do something, only you did know what would help.

“How’s he?” a tentative question was the safest start as it was enough to make Bruce acknowledge your presence.

His gaze slipped over you almost unseeingly before he went back to looking at Alfred.

“Stable. But nothing is promised until he wakes up, and no one knows when that’s going to happen” the lack of emotion in his voice felt like a chill passing through your body.

Combined with the response, you could tell that it was bad. But you still had to act. To try to make it better. Closing the distance with slow, measured steps, you whispered the reply, filling your voice with all the reassurance you hardly ever felt:

“It will happen. He’s going to be alright,” a weak smile, which had bounced off his closed-off expression noiselessly.

Once you have been told that sometimes it was better to lie to someone than hit them with the painful truth. Occasionally lies were better than the uncomfortable reality. That they were worth it. Back then, you argued. Now you felt complicit in the crime.

Bruce did not buy it, offering you a glance before diving into a spiral. The only warning you received was his sharp inhale.

“It’s all my fault, though. All of it” raising a shaky fist, Bruce thumped against the Plexiglas before leaning on the wall and focusing the reddened stare on you, “Riddler sent that card to me, and I should’ve been the one to open the damned package,” the self-directed hate poured from each word he said, instantly answering questions you never wanted to ask.

You knew the blame well, the feeling of being the one responsible for all the evil of this world. It was painful to see it reflected at you from someone who did not deserve the feeling or the ache it always inflicted. Closing the distance between you to a mere minimum, you eyed him closely, hoping to level the tone and reason with him:

“Then you’d be the one lying here, in the hospital bed” you knew you had his attention from the way Bruce winced at your argument, giving you the force to strike, “Is that what you wanted to happen?”

Deep down, against reason, you had been hoping that he would deny it. That he would back off, saving you the pain of the revelations. But he did not, turning to face you instead, the cold blue eyes offering no mercy:

“Yes,” Bruce pursed his lips as if trying to keep the words in, but it was too late; the anguish started rushing out, “Nobody would care if something happened to me. And if that’s what it takes to save this city…” he faltered as if remembering about your presence.

The indifference felt like another stab in the heart, making you question the stupidity that led you to the here and now. The stupidity of having started to care. But it was too late. You could not get rid of the tenderness that threatened to slowly suffocate and kill you. Only this time, you did not smother it, making sure it permeated every vowel as you spoke:

“I would” the softness of your tone was startling when heard in the heavy silence of the hospital room.

It felt almost wrong.

“What?” you could see the hints of alarm on Bruce’s face as he raised his head and stared at you.

He gasped quietly upon the affection held in your gaze and took a step back, creating the perfect gap for you to fit in. You placed your hand on his shoulder delicately and used your free hand to angle his chin so that Bruce had no choice but to meet your gaze:

“I would care if something were to happen to you” the confession felt strange, revealing the vulnerability you preferred to hide, so you gladly took the spotlight off yourself “And Alfred would, Dory. That’s not nobody,” the flash of pain in his eyes kept you going, using the hand on his shoulder to gently brush your fingers against the side of his neck “What you’re saying is utter bullshit, though. Who cares if Gotham could be redeemed when the price could be you?” you meant that one too, making sure he could see the conviction in your gaze “Go home, Bruce. You won’t help anyone right now” smiling softly, as he leaned into your touch, you allowed your fingertips to venture higher, tenderly stroking the underside of his sharp jaw.

After a beat, Bruce closed his eyes and covered your hand with his palm. The room was silent save for the steady hum of the machines in the background and his ragged breathing. It almost felt like the calm after the storm, with the emotions easing off. But you were not allowing yourself to put down the guard just yet.

Using the quiet moment, you rose on your toes to press a kiss to Bruce’s cheek and squeeze his shoulder, leaning back just in time to catch his slightly dazed look.

“What… What are you going to do?” swallowing hard, Bruce placed the question without the previous bravado in sight.

In truth, you had no idea. Only that it would be impossible to stop worrying about him, Alfred, and everything else, but you would have to try your hardest. And then you grinned, entwining your fingers together and raising them to your lips to place a kiss on his knuckles:

“I’ll go home too,” a minuscule white lie obscured with a shrug, “I’ll come by in the morning” in case that was too presumptuous, you quickly followed the statement with a ramble, “Unless you don’t want me to, in which case-”

It was Bruce’s turn to squeeze your linked hands and shut you up by placing his fingers against your mouth. You did not miss how his touch lingered or how his eyes darted to your mouth for a split second. It felt almost reassuring.

“I want you to visit in the morning” the blush spread across his cheeks as Bruce offered you another of those rare and precious smiles.

It was all the convincing you needed to return the grin:

“As you wish, sunshine” using the momentum, you let go of him and moved to the door, throwing a final look at Alfred; the silent prayer on your tongue, “Let me know if anything changes. Goodbye”

You did not want to risk another glance at Bruce, disappearing into the pale green hallway and hoping to ease the fears. Somehow.

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fickleminder · 3 years ago

Text

Inner Demon

Crack-ish fic inspired by this post. (Or: the one where the human exchange student gets possessed by a lesser demon.)

Content warnings: mild body horror

It’s quiet... Lucifer realizes one morning. Too quiet.

Normally his days would be interspersed with episodes of wrangling his brothers and dealing with whatever mess they’ve caused with or without your help, but it seems as though everyone has been on their best behavior lately.

In fact, if Lucifer had to narrow it down, the most notable difference would be that you’ve stopped chatting everyone’s ears off about whatever you’re currently hyperfixating on. Despite the bumpy adjustment period when you had first started living at the House of Lamentation, your talkative and easily excitable nature eventually grew on them. Levi and Satan especially, are always more than happy to chat with you late into the night now.

While Lucifer would normally capitalize on this opportunity to savor the fragile, likely short-lived peace, his big brotherly instincts are screaming that something’s amiss. His sanity is at stake, but your well-being takes precedence.

“How have you been?” He asks at the next family dinner, watching your body language carefully.

You jump slightly at his question, and the room falls silent as the other brothers turn their attention to you. “I’m good, thanks for asking Lo— Lucifer.”

The first-born narrows his eyes. You’re slightly pale and sweaty, trembling almost imperceptibly in your seat. Perhaps you’re ill and trying to hide your symptoms. “You’ve hardly eaten anything. Are you not feeling well?”

“I feel finE!” Biting back a shout through gritted teeth, you grab the dinner fork and violently stab at your untouched salad.

“Geez human, what’d a bunch of leaves ever do to —”

Mammon’s offhand comment is cut off by a hissed “shut up”, causing raised eyebrows and slack jaws all around.

If the fact that you just breached basic fine dining etiquette isn’t ringing any alarm bells — Lucifer should know, he’d drilled it into you himself in preparation for a formal gathering several weeks back; the habits stuck, often earning you light teasing from his brothers when they observe your precise use of the salad fork for appetizers — your cruel words towards your first man are.

“Hey normie, you don’t look so good.”

“Levi’s right, honey. Maybe you should go lie down for a bit and we can —”

“I said shUT UP!”

Your chair flies backwards with a high-pitched screech as you stand up abruptly, clutching your head and pulling at your hair. As you stumble backwards, muttering unintelligibly under your breath, faint wisps of black smoke begin emanating from your skin.

Satan recognizes the signs in a heartbeat. “Possession,” he breathes in horror, unable to believe that some lowlife is currently inhabiting your precious body. “Everyone, we need to —”

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST STOP TALKING —”

Dark liquid drips from your eyes like tears, the same viscous substance gathering at your lips as your body doubles over and heaves with the effort of expelling the intruder. Beel steps in front of his frozen twin while Lucifer and Satan prep exorcism spells, ready to force the bastard out of you.

With one final, loud retch, you fall to your hands and knees. The puddle of tar on the floor coalesces into a solid mass that quickly darts towards the first- and fourth-born.

“Lord Lucifer, Lord Satan, please save me!” The lesser demon begs feebly at their feet, scrambling to put as much distance between you and himself as possible. “Have mercy, I’ll do anything! Just make the human SHUT UP —”

Lucifer grants his wish by letting Satan go wild. It’s technically mercy; he would have done much worse to that scumbag. Instead, he joins his remaining brothers in fussing over you.

Beel props you up while Belphie rubs your back soothingly. “How in the nine circles did you manage to get him out yourself?!” Mammon demands to know.

“I may have gotten possessed by a demon, but they also got possessed by me,” you rasp with a crooked grin. “Say, did I ever tell you guys about this song we used to sing back in school...”

#writing #obey me #obey me fanfic #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor

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crab-instruments · 2 years ago

Text

What’s Coming to Me Part 19

Master <Part 18 Part 20 End>

Pairing: Crosshair x Sniper Reader (GN)

Rating and warning: killing and ambivalence to killing, angst

Beta Reader: @unfocusedfish

a/n: Check in next week for the epilogue!

Since The Bad Batch was no longer on planet, you began to wonder what Omega did in the meantime. It would keep the terrifying possibilities that played in your head at bay, though it was getting harder to fight them off. Based on your last encounter, she seemed antsy, wanting to leave as well. With her attachment to The Bad Batch, you had a hard time convincing yourself to abandon her. It was possible The Batch would want to take her as well.

Poking around on the security cameras, you saw her and the same medical droid from before sneaking into The Batch’s barracks. You smiled softly, she really idolized them. While you couldn’t see what she was doing, you kept watch of the camera outside the door for a bit. A few minutes later, fully armored troopers marched down the hallway, heading straight towards Omega. They yanked her out of the room and shoved the droid out of the way. You could only watch as she was placed in a holding cell.

Well… That just about confirms Omega’s loyalty.

A frustrated groan escaped from your chest. What were you to do, help her escape and reveal yourself without The Batch? Did you owe support to Omega now? The confusing web of who was your enemy and who was your ally was giving you a headache, unraveling your already fragile and fracturing sanity.

In the same moment you reached for your sniper, your holopad dinged again with new information. The Marauder had landed back on Kamino. All you could do was curse and wait. Bouncing to the landing dock cameras, you saw that The Bad Batch was in the process of being detained and heading for the same holding cell Omega was in. You hesitated, unsure of your next move, but it was becoming clearer that a move needed to be made.

The boys were stripped of their armor and weapons, keeping their heads down until they saw Omega waiting in the cell. The reunion was short lived, as Hunter and Crosshair got into an argument. The hole in your chest grew larger as you watched the brothers fight. After a few minutes of waiting, troopers came up to the cell. They gut punched Hunter for something he said and Crosshair followed them out, not even a secondary glance back at his squad.

With every heartbeat and ticking of the clock, you watched as they led Crosshair closer to you, to the medbay. This would be your chance. There was no more waiting. You had to face Crosshair head on.

Staying low, you crouch-walked your way through the hidden tunnel system, finally breaching normal lighting. You stayed out of sight, switching your sniper to stun for close range combatants. You didn’t want the blaster shot echoing around the walls, giving away your position.

Right as you turned a corner, you caught sight of the two troopers escorting Crosshair to an operating room. Mounting your sniper on the corner, you took two shots and both troopers fell to the ground, stunned. Crosshair had watched from the corner of his eye but his head snapped forward. He froze in place, never turning towards you. You couldn’t read his face or see what was going on in his head. A few seconds ticked by as you waited for him to react, but he kept staring firmly ahead.

“Shev’la.”

When he spoke, his voice cracked. It was low and resonated in the Force around you, a painful, prolonged electric shock. It almost brought you to your knees. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I look at you, Shev’la, so run away. Escape while you can. I need you to… Please.” As if acting in defiance, your body refused to move. Even your lungs protested, suspended in your chest, rejecting the idea of abandoning the clone no matter how much he pleaded.

Crosshair knew he had changed and saw you as an unknown variable. He was scared, just like you were. Frustrated and broken, he commanded you again through gritted teeth. “Get out of here, now! There will be more troopers coming. I can’t keep fighting this. I can’t… I don’t…” The clone hid his face in his hands, thinking. Struggling.

The report filed against Hunter… He had been the one to it. None of his brothers had changed, Crosshair could only watch while he drifted away from his brothers. He started to see them as traitors against his will. The thought of him going through a similar turmoil broke you.

You couldn’t let him suffer any longer.

Your sniper dropped to the ground with a clang. The sound startled Crosshair but you were already behind him, wrapping your arms around the clone. Crosshair flinched at the embrace, his muscles tense and rigid. You buried your face in his neck, needing to have him close. With your right hand, you opened your palm to show the rock, one last attempt to keep him anchored here with you. Slowly and carefully, he took it from you and for a moment, the world melted around you. It was just the two of you again. There was no Empire, only two lost snipers.

Pain struck your head, forcing you to face reality. Crosshair had used your symbolism of trust to bludgeon you, attempting to knock you off. The emotional pain hurt worse than the physical, but you had to reason that you would have to return the favor and save the clone who once saved you. Your grip around his shoulders tightened and you wrapped your legs around his torso. Crosshair smashed your back against the closest wall. You weren’t going to let him shake you off that easily.

The clone twisted his body a few times, peeling your fingers off before finally flipping you to the ground. The landing disoriented you for a moment, much stronger than you were expecting. When you gained your bearings and the hallway stopped spinning, you noted your sniper was right next to you. If he really was Crosshair, the Crosshair you knew, he would have not made such a rookie mistake. Your eyebrows furrowed as you made eye contact with him. Crosshair, looming a few feet in front of you, deliberately dragged his eyes from yours to the rock and back before shoving it in his pocket, as if sending out a desperate signal. This was the last chance he could give you.

Crosshair started to march towards you. With regained determination, you grabbed your sniper off of the ground. Your finger pulled the trigger, stunning Crosshair. He made no attempt to dodge. You were at his side before he fell completely to the ground. Whipping your rifle on your back, you picked up Cross and carried him across your shoulders before busting through a nearby empty operating room.

You laid Crosshair’s body on the operating table, the machines whirling to life. Before attempting to remove the chip, you moved whatever objects you could in front of the door and jammed the scanner. It would at least buy you time to remove the chip and think of a way out of this mess.

Your slicing device made quick work worming its way into the system, connecting to the medical equipment and overriding the safety features. Finally a moment to breathe, you wiped your eyes, removing any evidence of emotional battle you went through in the hallway. There was nothing you could do about the pain that throbbed through your entire body. Once you looked back at the screen, you could clearly see where the chip was located on the scanner and removing it from Crosshair was a button push away.

You looked at Crosshair, feeling a heavy weight on your shoulders. Remembering the look in his eyes when he stood over you with the rock in his hand, you were reminded he put his trust in your hands. You let out a breath and deliberately pressed the button. For the first time since the order, you had control over your life and you were making your own choices. You watched as the machine did meticulous surgery, unaware of the riot right outside the door.

Sirens filled the air once again. You glanced at your holopad to see the cell the rest of The Batch had occupied empty. They were making their escape now. Everything was happening too fast and it became so hard to breathe. There wasn’t enough air in the room and your vision became fuzzy, dark around the edges. Doubt started to creep in.

The ding signaling the completion of the surgery made you flinch. Your feet carried you over to the bed, hovering over the still unconscious Crosshair. With a gentle, hesitant hand, you grabbed the side of his face, memorizing every crease and line. Somehow, now that the chip was removed, his slack face seemed more at peace.

You were back in the cave, storm raging outside. An unconscious Crosshair, who once again risked his life to save yours, laying in front of you. The threat of being killed by the clone when he woke up still hung over you, heavily. The same declaration to never put him in danger rang in your head, even if he sought to destroy you. You leaned over, tilting his forehead towards yourself. Softly, you placed a kiss on his forehead, along the line of his crosshair tattoo. He was the only person to see you at your most vulnerable and lived to tell the tale.

A loud bang outside the room shocked out of your reverie and you patched up the side of the lanky clone’s head. You guessed there were approximately seven hostiles directly outside the door, too many to handle by yourself and protect Crosshair. You placed a bomb on the door and pulled up your holopad, checking the loading bay cameras. Smoke had filled the area with blaster shots lighting up the screen. Time was running out if you wanted to catch up with your squad.

You wouldn’t be able to carry Crosshair and shoot your sniper either, so you put the clone over your shoulders, readied the cursed lightsaber, and braced yourself for the explosion. You set off the bomb, blowing out the door and much of the wall, effectively subduing the troopers while you escaped down the hallway. Using the lightsaber defensively, you blocked the incoming shots from troopers you encountered.

The chaos was a good diversion, Kamino’s resources split between chasing you and The Bad Batch. With every step, you allowed optimism to seep into your body, seeing the way out of all this kark. You rounded the last corner that led to the main loading bay, only to find it full of troopers waiting for you. You slowed down as you controlled your dread, keeping a tight hold onto Crosshair and turning towards a smaller bay.

As you ran through the door, pain struck your left leg. You stumbled, tripping forward with Crosshair falling out of your arms and sliding on the ground in front of you. One of them shot your leg, the smell of your burning flesh filled your nostrils. You reached behind you and shot your sniper at the door access panel, buying you another minute.

Getting up, every cell in your body screamed at you, but you ignored the ache seeing the finish line right in front of you. You couldn’t put much weight on your damaged leg, so you limped over to Crosshair and did your best to carry him to the closest ship. A starfighter that could sit two people and would in theory work with the program you created to fly. Getting Crosshair into the ship was a challenge, as his tall, lanky body worked against you. You buckled him into the gunner’s seat and you got situated in the pilot’s seat.

Just as you closed the hatch to the ship, the door burst open. You laid back, hiding from view. Pulling out your holopad, you checked the security cameras over to the hanger where The Bad Batch was. They were still fighting, possibly waiting to get their brother. You sent a ping to Tech with no words, only familiar coordinates to the desert planet you missed so much.

You sensed troopers get close to your ship. Quickly, you turned off the holopad and even held your breath to hide. A large bang and more chaos sounded from the other hanger, causing the troopers to fall back and focus on the traitors they knew the location of. The Bad Batch understood what your message meant. Using this distraction, you sat up and hastily started the starfighter with the slicing tool you prepared.

It took a few tries but the starfighter was hovering. You were moderately embarrassed by the pride you felt in getting the ship off the ground, but there wasn’t time to celebrate. The ship took damage as you played bumper speeders with the ships closest to you, knocking over a few in the process. This fumble worked in your favor, as you removed a number of ships that could chase you.

The Marauder disappeared into hyperspace, leaving you and Crosshair in the minefield. The di'kutla me'sen refused to jump into hyperspace after them, even after you hovered over the console threateningly. You banged on the navigation panel in frustration and tumbled forward into some buttons as the starship was shot at. This was apparently necessary to prep the ship, as it was now ready to jump. You pulled the lever and fell backward into the seat again, unprepared for the force of the acceleration. Buckling in, you prepared to make a few jumps to lose any tails.

Your muscles never got a break as you white-knuckled your way through the galaxy. Crosshair was still knocked out, or was acting like it. You had no capacity to check his comfort level, rigid and focused on getting to Tatooine. Hours ticked by as you used what little evasive maneuvering tactics you could pull off until you were satisfied you were no longer being followed.

When the planet was finally in view, you started landing procedures. Alarms rang and lights flashed on the screen. The landing gear was smashed. In a moment of desperation, you hysterically cackled at your absurdly bad luck. You would have to crash land the ship having only read the user manual. At least sand would make for a soft landing, right? Escaping hell only to die due to pilot error.

As the starfighter broke through the atmosphere, you were alerted to the fact that you were going way too fast for a safe landing. You did everything in your power to slow down, pulling up on the yoke until your arms gave out. The thought of dying after getting this far crossed your mind as the sand filled the view.

You closed your eyes and begged the Force that Crosshair would survive this, that he would be reunited with his brothers once again. It felt incredibly ludicrous to plead with something you barely understood for salvation, but the Force owed you one, arguably.

The only thing you could see out the viewport was an expansive sea of sand, details of the canyons and rocks pillars coming into view at a terrifying pace. With your remaining strength, you steered the ship to dodge the land formations, but it was futile. The ship pulled hard to the right and the side was clipped, sending the two of you spinning and hurling towards the ground.

When the ship collided with a sand dune, your body jolted against the acceleration straps, causing burns along your upper body. Your head rammed into the ceiling, adding to the pounding headache you already had. It was unclear how long it took for you to stabilize and the rest of the world to stop spinning in the stationary starfighter. Releasing yourself from the straps, you fell to the floor, adding more concerning noises to the orchestra of alarms and screams from the engines failing due to sand in the rotors.

Your holopad was on the floor, looking even more cracked than before. Picking it up, you tried to turn it on but the splintered black screen only reflected an even more broken image of yourself. You sighed and tossed it. The holopad was the only way to figure out where you were or contact others for help. With another heavy sigh, you pulled yourself to your feet.

You tried to release the top hatch, but it only popped up a tiny bit before sand started pouring in. The sky was still visible, so you weren’t completely buried. Your legs wobbled as you balanced yourself on the pilot’s seat to push the top open the rest of the way. A wave of heat from the dual suns rushed over you. It would have felt like heaven if you had a moment to enjoy the fact you weren’t on Kamino.

Crosshair appeared mostly unharmed, at least from what you could gather. At this point, you wouldn’t find it hard to believe if you were actually dead and this was your brain’s way of granting your wish for Crosshair to live. The clone slumped forward as you released his seatbelt and you attempted to support him. You dissociated from your body to work through the pain, forcing your body to only get Crosshair to safety. The next moment you remember was after the two of you were out of the ship and walking towards a rock formation you could use for some shelter.

In addition to your injured leg, the sand under your feet made it difficult to walk, the weight of the two of you sinking slowly into the ground. The two suns continued to climb higher in the sky and mirages danced in the distance to taunt you. Just as you thought the heat was going to kill you, a breeze swept by, bringing a tiny bit of absolution. It was enough to push you forward, to keep going.

It became concerning when the breeze didn’t subside, instead growing stronger. The sky grew darker but it was nowhere close to sunset. The air was filling with sand as a sandstorm approached.

A guttural yell ripped from your chest but it was inaudible in the howling wind. Were you meant to fail? Was this a sign to abandon the one who changed you, that you were meant to be alone?

With a few more steps, you tripped, Crosshair falling next to you. What you wouldn’t give to hear his voice, have him give a snarky remark about how horrible of an escort you were. Anything to remind you that you weren’t in this on your own.

The wind was loud in your ears but not as abrasive. Looking up, you discovered you weren’t that far from the shabby shelter you had sighted earlier. You used the last bit of your will to live to stand and drag Crosshair’s body, settling down in a divot in the large rock.

There was no use fighting the darkness that overtook you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You were starting to get tired of waking up disoriented after passing out from exhaustion. You saw the world through blurry eyes and heavy eyelids. It was dark but it felt safe, not the same place you took shelter from the sandstorm. Your body ached but nothing freshly stung, as if already treated. Down to your blacks, your armor was in a neat pile on the floor across the room. It shimmered with the reflection of the moon that shined through the window.

The surface you were laying on was comfortable but you were weighed down with something draped over you. As you tried to move, the arm wrapped around you tightened haphazardly, bringing you closer to his chest. You felt a sigh escape from Crosshair’s lips brush against your neck, causing you to shiver.

This is the shack on Tatooine. How did we get here? Did we make it?

Soft footsteps approached, but you didn’t dare move to see who it was. As quietly as he could, Hunter kneeled in front of where you were laying. His empathetic face filled you with warmth. He understood you were immobile so he adjusted to you. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“Crosshair refused to let you be out of his sight, attaching himself to you, even though we told him you’d be more comfortable resting on your own. He’s quite stubborn, as I’m sure you’re aware.” The awkward pause that followed reflected that Hunter was still deciding what to say when you woke up, unsure of himself. “You took the chip out of his head, right?” The Sergeant tapped the side of his head in the same spot where Crosshair had a scar. You gave a small nod in response. “Good. He’s… back to normal. Well, as normal as any of us can be. Maybe a little more docile, but that’s because of you, not the chip.

“The rest of the squad is on the Marauder outside, Siari and Nuwa are asleep on their cots. We made it here and when the two of you didn’t show up, we went looking. We found Crosshair carrying you in his arms across the desert under the stars. It would’ve been romantic if the two of you didn’t look like you both escaped a fight with a relentless rancor.”

He sighed, somehow the Sergeant still had the ability to throw in a dig after everything. When Hunter started again, his voice was filled with remorse. “Omega filled in what you were doing once the order was given. That… Kriff… We didn’t understand…” The clone Sergeant couldn’t hold his eye contact, silent while he searched for the words. “Shev’la, I’m sorry we didn’t do more. That we abandoned you, that we didn’t—” You interrupted him with a short, clipped hum. Hunter did the best he could to keep his squad alive without any time to process everything himself. You were just glad he and the rest didn’t want to kill you, that this moment could even happen.

Hunter gave a small smile in understanding. Before anything else could be said, Crosshair’s low, sleepy voice cut in.

“Hunter, if you don’t shut your mouth and let us sleep, you’re going to wake up at the bottom of a lake on Felucia, with amnesia and someone else’s identity.”

The Sergeant chuckled lightly and conceded, hands held up defensively. “Alright, Shev’la is practically caught up anyway. Just remember there are two little girls who will want Shev’la’s attention when everything cools down, so you’ll have to learn how to share.”

“Hmm… Maybe when they can outshoot me.”

Once Hunter was out of sight, Crosshair pulled you impossibly closer once more. He didn’t say anything else, he didn’t have to. Everything he needed to say was expressed with his embrace.

For the first time in your life, you fell asleep feeling safe and excited to see what the next day would bring.

Part 20 End

Notes:

Everyone: it's going to hurt so much when they see each other again, so much angst

Me: SUCK BRICK CROSSHAIR

Mando'a:

di'kutla me'sen - stupid starship

Star Wars Cursing: Kriff

Tag List: @rintheemolion @salamiwrites @lokigirlszendaya @jinxedleo @dionysuskid21 @awkwardwookie @welcometothepedroverse @gabile18 @xxglossii @imalovernotahater @littlemisscare-all @seeley-marie23 @badbatch-simp24 @goddess-of-congeniality @sunipostsstuff @admiralmaple @dwarfnip @whatshxrname @ttzamara @crosshair-is-the-superior-clone

Tags Not Working: @techssexythighs @ladydiomede

If you want to be added to the tag list, just send me an ask or fax me a picture of a crab

#what's coming to me #crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch x you #bad batch x you #bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #tbb x you #crab fics

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