#agentzaftig

[coppermarigolds]

the greatest things must end. Shepard/Garrus

He still catches her scanning the horizon, sometimes. Even standing on the beach, with the waves at her toes and the wind tugging hair across her shoulders, her eyes stray toward the meeting of sky and sea.

To be fair, she’s not the only one. He stays tuned to emergency frequencies all hours of the day and night. Beneath canopied stars, he stands and stares up at the moon, eyes keen for any flares of blossoming fire. 

(He only does that on nights he can’t sleep, he tells himself. Problem is, those nights aren’t exactly few and far between.)

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?” he asks her one morning. It’s a peaceful one, lazy and still. The breeze coming off the ocean has a bite to it, but Shepard burns like embers, her limbs tangled up with his.

“What?” she murmurs. She’s still half asleep, but even then, the one cracked-open eye peering at him is alert. Ready. 

“The waiting.” He curls a talon through her hair. “To see if it was all just temporary. If the Reapers are going to come back after all. Or if there’s something else out there even worse than them, just waiting for the right moment to show its ugly face.”

She smiles, but there’s a thoughtful look in her eye.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “Sometimes it feels like my body knows the war is over, but my mind’s still racing to catch up.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s what life is,” he says. “The moments of downtime between catastrophes.”

“Mmhm.” She sighs, burrowing down against him. “But Garrus?”

“Yeah?”

She cranes her head up, just high enough to kiss the side of his face. “I wouldn’t spend these moments any other way.”  

[fourthage]

Tagged by @blithers

Rules: Post 10 gifs from your favorite tv shows without revealing their titles, and tag 10 people.

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Tagging the last ten people in my activity feed: @agentzaftig, @lorna-ka, @evildespotfrommoon, @yoruhiiragizawa, @ferociousqueak, @keroseem, @sirenship, @geth-outta-here, @probablylostrightnow, @feishade

[coppermarigolds]

6 ERELOY

@mightylauren also asked for #6 with Aloy/Erend! Thank you to you both!

“Explain it to me again—why do we have to pretend to be married?”

Erend’s not particularly adept at admitting things to himself, but even he can’t deny that right now, Aloy looks about as disgruntled as he’s ever seen her. And that’s saying something. Because if there’s one thing he knows about Aloy (and he knows a lot of things about her), it’s that she doesn’t suffer fools lightly.

(Which always makes him wonder why she’s let him stay in her orbit for so long, but he’s not about to bring that up right now.)

He clears his throat, then regrets it when Aloy rips her baleful gaze from the bond-token and shoots it at him, instead. Hammer to steel, her eyes can hit just as hard and sharp as her arrows. Or her tongue.

Then the inconvenient thought of Aloy’s tongue makes him clear his throat yet again. The grooves in her forehead go deeper, darker.

“Erend,” she says, low. A warning.

“Right.” His mouth is dry, his brain is screaming at him to lick his lips, and the thought of that bond-token around Aloy’s neck is doing very uncomfortable things to his body temperature—

Focus, you lumbering oaf. Focus!

“Well, you see,” he says, “certain members of the Oseram—not me, of course, but some people—have, uh, particular beliefs about the different roles and duties assigned to different—”

Aloy sighs. “What you’re saying is, your patriarchal ealdormen will have us thrown out of Oseram territory if we’re not married.”

“Not thrown out, exactly.” Erend finally dredges up enough moisture to swallow. Fire and spit, what he wouldn’t give for a frothy, refreshing mug of ale right about now. “I mean, let’s be realistic—no one could ever throw you out of anywhere you wanted to be. At least not without an entire army of Thunderjaws or something.”

Aloy’s eyes are still narrowed, but at that she cracks a tiny smile, and Erend’s breath comes a little easier.

“But,” Erend goes on, “let’s just say things will be easier if we go in…undercover, as it were. Think of it like a battle strategy. You’re gonna weaken your opponent’s resistance before they have a chance to deploy it. Make ‘em work for you instead of against you.”

Aloy makes that little noise in the back of her throat that means she’s about to cut through a load of garbage. Erend’s grown to love that sound over the years. Less so when it’s directed at him.

“‘Opponent?’” Aloy echoes, her voice dry as the Claim after a dust storm. “Isn’t this your grandmother we’re talking about?”

“Well, yeah.” Erend shrugs. “But, you know, family. It’s complicated.”

Aloy just stares at him, eyebrow climbing higher up her forehead, and Erend sighs.

“Look, my father was a real piece of work,” he says. “And his mother…well, let’s just say we never had the best of relationships. But she’s been around a long time and she has the respect of the clan. We’ll have a lot easier time getting access to this ruin you want to explore if we’re on her good side.”

Aloy crosses her arms. “And you think pretending to be married will accomplish that.”

“It’s as good a tactic as any,” Erend says. “If my grandmother’d had her say, I would have been married off ten, twelve years ago at least. Me and Ersa both. ‘Course, Ersa always thought those traditions could go get stuffed, and she had no problem saying so. Just like you. I guess you could say there was more than one reason we left the Claim, she and I.”

A breeze picks up, cutting a swath of cool air through the sunbaked expanse of the courtyard, and Aloy tilts her head into it. The muscles in her neck strain beneath her skin, sending the spray of freckles rippling, and Erend can’t keep his eyes from drifting to the hollow of her throat. He imagines the bond-token resting there, in that glistening little space between the knobs of her collarbone.

“All right,” Aloy finally says, and Erend jerks his mind back to attention. “If you think this is the best shot at getting to that ruin without causing another war, let’s do it.”

Somehow he can’t stop his face from lighting up like one of the beacons at that Nora blessing ceremony. Even at the thought of just being fake-married to her.

“You mean it?” he blurts, then mentally kicks himself for sounding like a kid offered a sweet cake. 

Aloy gives him that look. “You know this is just temporary, right? I really need to get into that area of the Claim to find–” 

“Oh, I know, I know. Temporary only,” he assures her, pulling out his best crowd-pleasing, hold-your-fruit tone. “But…say, it’s not really that terrible of a notion, right? I mean, you could do worse. You could pretend to be married to, uh…”

He casts about in the corners of his brain for the name of some truly awful, villainous bung who hasn’t already met doom on the end of Aloy’s spear. His mind goes blank. Damn. 

He scrambles, sputters, and then his mind goes blank again because Aloy is laughing. 

“No, Erend,” she says, bringing her hand to his shoulder. “It’s not a terrible notion, and yes, I could do worse.” 

Hammer to steel, her smile shines brighter than sparks flying off the forge. He only wishes he could see it more often. 

“So I just put this around my neck, right?” she’s saying, and she slips the bond-token’s cord over her head, smoothing down the chiseled stone until it falls into place below her throat. 

Erend swallows.

“That’s right,” he says. “Looks good on you.” 

Fire and spit, his mouth is an idiot. He flaps it open to assure her he doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s not trying to tie her down, but then he realizes she’s not giving him that look like he expected.

She’s still smiling. 

“Bet yours will look good on you, too,” she says lightly. “Why don’t you put it on so we can get moving?” 

And he’s never been so glad to put on a necklace in his life. 

[coppermarigolds]

And of course, Joel

favorite thing about them: His fierce and unshakable love for his daughters, biological and not. Also that even in his late 40s/early 50s he’s hot as a molten chocolate cake. And that deliciously deep Texas drawl. …But mostly the first thing. Really.

least favorite thing about them: Why’d you have to murder [redacted] in cold blood, Joel. Why. Please tell me how you’re going to explain that at family dinners back in Jackson.

favorite line: “Man, I miss coffee.” - Joel Miller, zombie apocalypse survivor

Man after my own heart

More serious runner up: “No matter what, you keep finding something to fight for.”

brOTP: Him and his actual brother, Tommy. I like the implication that no matter how much they clash (read: a lot), when the chips are down they’ll still be there for each other. OTP: My Joel/Tess feels, let me show you them *opens 1200-page tome* Inseparable hardened survivor Battle Couple who trust each other implicitly and he follows her lead? Why yes, I will take ten.nOTP: There are currently 110 Joel/Ellie fics on AO3 and I’m just like, what is wrong with you people, HE IS HER FATHER (figure)random headcanon: First thing he does after the game is teach Ellie how to freaking swim. unpopular opinion: Seeing as I only played the game less than a month ago I don’t think I’ve been in/around the fandom long enough to get really involved in discourse. But I have sometimes found myself thinking that, while a zombie apocalypse is a pretty good setting for a game and all, I would be perfectly content if they released a companion game where the whole outbreak never happens and it’s basically just a Hot Dad Simulator where you play struggling-but-hardworking single dad Joel going through daily life taking care of his beloved precocious pre-teen daughter. I feel like in this day and age of Stardew Valley and Dream Daddy and such, there should be a market for this. Help me out here, Naughty Dog!song i associate with them: Is it cheating to say this one?favorite picture of them: Don’t you want to just…undo that second button

[coppermarigolds]

Fringe and Mass Effect!

Fringe: 

Favorite Female: Olivia, of course.

Favorite Male: Lincoln Lee! I named my cat after him; you can’t get much more complimentary than that. 

3 Other Favorite Characters: Astrid, Walter, and Peter, with an honorable mention to Broyles, though I’ll never be able to look at him again without thinking of Sylens. 

3 OTPs: Peter/Olivia, Lincoln/Olivia, and…I’m drawing a blank on a third one.

Funniest Character: Walter!

Prettiest Character: Tie between Olivia and Lincoln.

Most Annoying Character: Not that I don’t also love him, but Peter really got on my nerves occasionally, haha.

Most Badass Character: Obviously Olivia, she defines badass.

Character I’d Like as my BFF: Astrid, because she’s so smart and patient and likes coffee.

Female Character I’d Marry: Probably Astrid for the same reasons as above!

Male Character I’d Marry: Have I mentioned Lincoln Lee? The cute nerdy version. The less nerdy version was okay too, but I have the softest spot for the bespectacled one. 

Character I Hate/Dislike: Walternate. I was never all that crazy about William Bell, either, though “hate” is overstating it.

Mass Effect:

Favorite Female: Huge Surprise #1: Commander Shepard.

Favorite Male: Huge Surprise #2: Garrus Vakarian.

3 Other Favorite Characters: Ashley Williams, Tali’zorah vas Normandy, annnnd…I literally don’t know how to choose a third one. I love them all. Kasumi? Legion?

3 OTPs: Shepard/Garrus, Shepard/Garrus, and Shepard/Garrus

Funniest Character: Drunk Tali.

Prettiest Character: Jack.

Most Annoying Character: Harbinger! “This hurts you I know you feel this we fight as one leave the dead where they fall–” SHUT UP SHUT UPPPP

Most Badass Character: Shepard.

Character I’d Like as my BFF: Tali.

Female Character I’d Marry: I’d go for my homegirl Ashley.

Male Character I’d Marry: I’d marry Garrus then divorce him just so I could marry him again

Character I Hate/Dislike: This is an unpopular opinion, but: I don’t like Joker. He just rubs me the wrong way for some reason. Well, a couple reasons, but no need to get into them because, like I said, unpopular. 

[coppermarigolds]

8, 20, 32, 35, 45, 50, 53

8. Favorite trope to write.

Probably friends to lovers. Practically all my OTPs have that in common! Or if not friends to lovers, then at least coworkers to lovers, or “people who are wary and distrustful of each other yet thrown together in pursuit of the greater good who eventually fall in love,” to get even more specific. :p

20. Post a snippet of a WIP you’re working on.

Why wasn’t this crowd contained before I got here? Why didn’t the other agents have this situation under control?

She reached the edge of the crowd, lengthening her stride. Behind her, the people drew closer together, the pathway disappearing, and she risked a look over her shoulder.

Agents lined the walkway, visors canted toward her, rifles held out and ready. Cass caught her breath, and understanding formed a sudden, cold knot in her stomach.

Part of the evaluation, she thought. They could have stepped in to help me, but they didn’t. They wanted to see if I could handle it on my own.

She turned on her heel and entered the spaceport, affecting the most confident pose she could muster, letting the other agents’ glances bounce off her shoulder blades. Yet her stomach was jelly and her hands trembled at her sides.

I could have been killed. That crowd hadn’t been faking their anger. They didn’t know anything about evaluations or DPOS training protocols. If things had gotten out of control, if the crowd had attacked her, would her fellow agents have defended her?

Would they have turned their guns on the crowd and opened fire?

32. Easiest character to write.

Man, it’s been so long since I wrote fanfic consistently that it feels hard to answer that. And now I’m mad at myself for letting my fanfic habit dwindle, lol. It’s just so hard to find time for fanfic and original writing on top of jobs and other adulting stuff. Looking back over what I have written, I think I would say Lana Beniko, even though I haven’t written her all that recently. She has a distinctive voice that makes it easier to parse what she might say in a given situation. (I love her voice, by the way. It’s so soothing. When I’m logged in I’ll often just click on her over and over to hear her little ambient comments because I just like listening to her. Lana

35. Tell some backstory details about one of your characters in your story _____.

You didn’t specify a story, so I’ll assume you meant my novel-in-progress! One of the main antagonistic figures in my novel, Naomi, was very close friends with the mother of my two heroines: they went to college together, worked for the same organization, and generally helped each other advance through life until they had a sudden falling out. Naomi’s interest in the two protagonists is in part influenced by her complicated relationship with their mother, but perhaps not in the way you might immediately think. 

45. Worst piece of feedback you’ve ever gotten.

I’ve generally been pretty lucky with the feedback I’ve received on fanfics. Feedback in original writing classes is a bit more of a mixed bag. I had one guy in a novel-writing class give me grief for having a male character named Patience–which illustrates exactly why I have a male character named Patience. (Don’t even get me started on all the ingrained misogyny that factors into baby-naming.) I also had a short-fiction class where one week I just wasn’t feeling up to writing, so for the assignment I took one of my old Nate/Velanna fics that fit that week’s theme, changed the character names and a few details to make it more generic fantasy rather than specific Dragon Age, and posted it for the class. The instructor, a 70-year-old woman who admitted she didn’t read fantasy, needled me for the ENTIRE rest of the class about how flat and clichéd she found those characters to be. She seemed to like everything else I wrote–every following week she would say something like, “if you would apply what you did here to the fantasy writing, then maybe it would be good!” Eventually I just wanted to be like “Okay lady, you don’t like fantasy, I get it. Enough already!” I wasn’t really sure whether to be more insulted on my own behalf, or on behalf of the Dragon Age writers. Needless to say I didn’t repurpose any more fanfic for that class. :p

50. Weirdest story idea you’ve ever had.

I have a number of original story ideas brewing, but probably the weirdest one (and one I’d probably be more likely to self-publish than attempt to traditionally publish if I ever actually write it) is the idea of having a plane crash in the ocean, and the survivor(s) rescued by a deep sea alien-like civilization that no one knows about even though they’ve been living underwater for years. The idea was inspired by the often-repeated refrain that we know more about outer space than we do about our own oceans. 

Edit: Oops I forgot 53!

53. What does writing mean to you?

A lot of things, really, but largely it means getting to create the content I wish I could see in the world. All too often the popular media of today focus on people and things I’m not interested in or can’t identify with. And there have been so many times, in so many fandoms, that the canon hasn’t gone the way I hoped, or has left loose ends dangling, etc. Writing means I get to provide my own satisfactory stories where the world fails to do so!

[coppermarigolds]

6 Aloy/Erend

6: illusion

She’s barely past Meridian’s threshold, but already Aloy feels that prickle on her skin, the intangible sense telling her something’s not right. 

Erend isn’t there, for one.

He’s always there, when she comes back. Or nearly always. Sometimes she rides up smack dab in the middle of an emergency only the Vanguard can solve, but more often than not, someone’s caught sight of her hair long before she reaches the entrance, blazing in the sunlight like a herald’s banner. And the news of her approach passes mouth-over-ear up the tower until it reaches him, and she finds him leaning against the gate, wearing a casual pose that’s all lies and an incandescent grin that’s all truth. 

But not today.

She dismounts, giving her Charger an absent smack on the flank, and weaves her way through the urban throng. She still draws stares, but not as many as she once did. Small mercies, she would usually think, but right now that something’s not right sensation still has her in its crosshairs and all the dodging in the world won’t get her out of it. 

It only grows when she ascends the tower and catches sight of Avad. He’s flanked by attendants and priests and guards as always, but his usually mellow face is drawn. Almost haggard. It makes her heart drop, veering dangerously toward her stomach. 

“What is it?” she demands, as soon as she’s within earshot. “What happened?”

At the sight of her, Avad’s face smoothes out, but she can still glimpse shadows smudged into his skin. “Aloy,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

She swats the niceties away like a hovering dragonfly. “Is something wrong?” she presses. “Where’s Erend?” 

Avad holds up his hands, palms out. A less than kingly gesture, but a soothing one. At least, Aloy supposes that’s the intent. 

“No one is in any physical danger,” Avad says. He pauses, and for the first time, Aloy looks close enough to see the red rimming his eyes. “The anniversary was three days ago. It’s been two years. It was…difficult. For all of us.”

Anniversary of what? Aloy almost bursts, before it hits her: Avad’s drained face, Erend’s absence, the memory of dusty blood smears shimmering in the heat.

“Ersa’s death,” she whispers. 

Avad nods. His mouth tilts up in a sad smile, but his eyes are dim. 

“If you can spare the time,” he says, “I know it would mean a great deal to Erend to see you. He never spoke it aloud, yet…in the days leading up to the anniversary, he spent more and more time on the parapets, looking out to the horizon.” 

There’s no judgment in the words, but Aloy stiffens anyway. Her toes curl in her boots, as though itching for the road again, but she quashes the impulse. 

“Where is he?” she asks. But Avad hesitates just a moment too long, and the silence is an answer all in itself. 

-

Erend’s gotten used to seeing double, but seeing triple is another thing. No…more than triple. When he looks down at the tavern table, he swears there’s something like five or six ale mugs swimming before his eyes, nothing left in them but bitter dregs.

Still, it’s better than seeing Ersa. Better than seeing her blood-caked face or her trembling pale hand reaching up to touch his cheek. Better than seeing her staring into him, staring past him, disappointment like a knife’s edge etched across her face.

And right about now, that’s the only thing he can convince himself to care about. He’ll drink a whole damn keg of ale if that’s what it takes.

He reaches out, groping for the one mug in the crowd that’s not empty, but instead his hand hits something scalding hot. He scowls down at it, blinking in bleary confusion until the strong scent of tea hits his nose. 

“Hey!” he protests, or tries to. It comes out in more of a slur. “I didn’t order this stuff–”

Then there’s something else on his hand, something warm and soft and very firm, curling his fingers around the steaming mug. 

“No,” Aloy says, releasing his hand and sliding onto the bench across from him. “I did. Drink up.”

“Oh, now you show up,” he mutters, because every now and then he can be a mean drunk, and chances are she’s probably just a figment of his imagination anyway. “What’re you doing here?”

She just looks at him steadily, unimpressed and unfazed, but that still doesn’t mean she’s real. The Aloy in his imagination is never fazed by anything, either. 

Still, the Aloy in his imagination doesn’t bring him tea. 

He glares down into the mug, the fragrant steam curling around his face. Feels real enough. Tastes real enough, too. Unfortunately. He never did care for the stuff.

He looks back up, half expecting the bench to be empty. But the red riot of her hair still fills up his vision, and when he squints, he can see light from the fireplace flickering orange and gold over her face, a pale imitation of her locks.

“Aloy?” he tries again. “Really you?”

And when her face softens into that expression he’d give a limb for, he knows she’s not something his subconscious conjured up. His ale-sick mind could never, ever do her justice. 

“I’m sorry, Erend,” she says, her soft voice slipping beneath the tavern bustle, reaching his ears alone. “I wish I could have been here with you. On the anniversary.”

“Yeah.” He takes another gulp of the tea, grimaces as it burns all the way down. “But I know. You can’t always be in Meridian.” 

She shakes her head. “No. I can’t.” 

“I wouldn’t want ya to be,” he says, doesn’t realize he’s actually spoken the words aloud until he sees her brows lift.

Fire and spit. He’s a fool. He’s the dumbest, drunkest lunkhead to ever stumble ass-backwards out of the Claim. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he blurts. “I would want that. I do.” Some days that’s the only thing he wants, even more than he wants the sweet burn of ale flowing through his veins. “Just meant…I wouldn’t want you to be chained up here on account of my sorry ass. Not when you can be out…” He bats vaguely at the air with one meaty paw. “Saving the world.”

Aloy doesn’t say anything, but her face is enough. She lifts one hand as the barmaid passes.

“Another tea for him, please,” she says. “On me.”

Erend manages something that feels like it might be a grin. “You gonna stay here until I sober up?” 

“Yes.” She pauses, settles her wrists on the table. “If you want.”

“More ‘n anything.” He swallows tea, barely even tastes the bitterness. “Might take a while, though.” 

She smiles, warm as the firelight. “I’ll wait.”

[coppermarigolds]

48 Ereloy

48 - rampage

He’s out in the fields, investigating a disturbance beyond Meridian’s towers when the Stormbird surprises him. Wouldn’t think it possible for something that size to be capable of sneaking, but he turns around and there it is, cresting a hill and bearing down on him fast. It’s big as death and twice as ugly. 

He has just enough time to hoist his axe before the Stormbird knocks him sprawling. His armor absorbs most of the hit, but he still takes a pretty good knock on the head. When he pulls himself to his feet, for a moment the world spins enough to make him think he’s back at the pub.

And the bird’s already coming back around for another pass. 

Erend looks at his axe, then back at the machine. A trusty weapon, his axe, but the whole of the blade is maybe the size of the Stormbird’s right eye. Just the beat of its wings might be enough to crumble Avad’s fancy palace towers. 

Not great odds. 

Maybe it won’t be so bad, he thinks. There are worse ways of going out than this. Better an epic, if short, battle against a massive death machine than something like tripping down the tavern stairs and bashing his head on a stray rock. Ersa would never let him live that down, for as long as the afterlife lasts. 

But this…maybe she’ll be proud of him, if this is his end. Maybe it’s even why he keeps taking these solo missions out to the middle of nowhere, just him and the sky and a world full of metal monsters that want him dead. 

He plants his feet on the soil and lifts his axe. Stares the Stormbird right in its soulless eyes as it hurtles toward him. The drumming of its wings almost deafens him, shaking the ground. He can see tiny pebbles jumping around his boots, and in the distance, a cloud of dust streams toward him. 

Wait. That’s not from the Stormbird. 

It dawns on him seconds before the machine swoops in with a shrieking caw, beak gaping wide. He tucks his shoulder and rolls away at the last moment, lumbering upright and squinting into the distance, ignoring the bird’s outraged screech. Just ahead of the dust cloud is a Thunderjaw, stampeding faster than he’s ever seen. Its enormous legs churn the earth, and atop its neck a figure balances, limbs braced, bowstrings drawn taut in her hands. Her hair billows behind her, red as a cry for blood.   

Erend grins. When he turns back to the Stormbird, this time he hefts his axe a little higher.

Sorry, Ersa, he thinks. I won’t be seeing you today after all. The odds just got a whole lot better. 

[coppermarigolds]

20. Eyes, Miller/Muss :V

So, this bit of ridiculousness is obviously show!Muss and Miller, not book!Muss and Miller. Set pre-canon.

-

This was it. This was that moment, that hurdle every relationship reached, if it lasted long enough. Frankly, Octavia was surprised this one had. 

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she winced. It wasn’t that Miller wasn’t a great guy, it was just…

Well. Miller actually wasn’t that great of a guy. He was lazy as hell on his best days, a crooked cop on his not-so-good days, and had a drinking problem every day. 

Octavia’s frown deepened. She stared hard at herself in the mirror, watching wrinkled furrows dig into her face and wondering just how many Miller himself had put there. 

“Okay,” she muttered aloud, planting her hands on her hips. “We’ve established he’s not a great guy. So why are you even contemplating taking the relationship to the next level?”

The next level. Ugh. What did that even mean, anyway? It was just one of those cheap, meaningless phrases people threw around when they were trying to avoid confronting issues head-on. Which was exactly what she was doing right now. 

“Think, Muss,” she commanded herself. A little voice in the back of her head sniggered at her for standing alone in her apartment, talking to herself in the mirror. She told it to shut up. Firmly. 

Miller wasn’t all bad. Obviously. Otherwise she would never have started seeing him in the first place. He had a stubborn streak that, while exasperating most of the time, could be endearing when he applied it to something worthwhile. He could be sweet when he wanted to, in his own…unique way. And the sex was actually pretty good, when he wasn’t too drunk to–

Octavia cleared her throat, cutting off that line of thought before it could devolve into a string of less-than-optimal memories. 

The fact was, at the end of the day, nobody was perfect. God knew she herself had her own collection of flaws and closeted skeletons. And it wasn’t like she was going to propose to the guy. Just…casually ask if maybe he had considered the notion of them moving in together. For the water-ration benefits, if nothing else.

Casual. Right. “You’ve got this, Octavia,” she told herself, lifting her chin and smoothing down her clothes. “You can do casual.” 

It wouldn’t be that bad. Worst case scenario, he laughed in her face. Wouldn’t be the most awful thing a boyfriend had ever done to her. 

She wasn’t entirely sure if that was an encouraging thought, or not.

- 

Even though they didn’t live together–yet–she’d spent enough time in Miller’s apartment to know it almost as well as her own. As he opened the door for her and she stepped over the threshold, she could see every piece of furniture, every knickknack, every item he owned and know whether they were in their proper places or not. There was his table with his service pistol carelessly tossed on top. There was a tumbler half-full of booze. There were the dishes he hadn’t bothered to put away after eating. There was–

She stopped dead in her tracks. 

“What the hell is that?” 

Miller followed her eyes, wearing his usual bored expression, as though he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“It’s a coffee pot, Muss,” he said, in a well obviously tone of voice. “Need your eyes checked, or somethin?’”

“I can see it’s a coffee pot.” She took a deep breath. “Why is it sitting on your counter? You don’t drink coffee.”

“Nah.” A look of faint disgust passed over his face, and Octavia held back a snort. The man could drink a fish under the table, yet the thought of a sip of coffee repulsed him. What a catch. 

“You can’t live without it, though,” he was saying. It took a moment for Octavia’s brain to process the words. Miller was looking at her expectantly. 

“Okay,” she said. “So–wait. I can’t live without it? That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.” 

“Not an exaggeration.” He ran his fingers through his hair, giving her a pointed look. “I’ve seen you before your first cup of coffee, and after. Like night and day.”

“We live on a space station.” Octavia crossed her arms. “Technically there is no night and day.” 

“Technically. You’re trying to change the subject.” He waved a finger at her. 

“I am not–”

“It’s all in the eyes, Muss.” All of a sudden he was in front of her–damn those long Belter legs of his–and his thumb was on her jaw, his fingers tapping gently beneath her right eye. 

She swallowed. “What are you talking about?” 

“Before you get your coffee in the morning.” He was slipping back into that aggravating tone like he was explaining something to a five-year-old. “Look into your eyes, and it’s all dead in there. Then after the coffee, you’re a different person. Like a light going on. And you can’t tell me that sludge they have at the office is any good. So.” 

Octavia opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“So…this is your very twisted, roundabout way of giving me a gift?” 

He grunted. “Yeah. Sort of. I was thinkin,’ you could use it when you’re living here.”

She could feel her eyes bugging. If she was the religious type, she might be praying that they didn’t drop out of her skull and roll under the couch. 

“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

He shrugged. She knew it meant yes.

She couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. It built and built until she was nearly doubled over, gasping for air, irony and relief cresting over her in waves.

By the time she could breathe again, Miller was giving her a familiar wounded look.

“Could’ve just said no,” he muttered. 

“No, that’s not–” Octavia smothered another ill-timed burst of laughter. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying yes. I’m laughing because I came over here intending to ask you if you wanted to move in together.” 

Miller looked at her under his brows, but one of them was slowly inching upward. “That right?” 

“Yeah.” She grinned, pushed up on her toes, and kissed him. After a moment she pulled away, still grinning, nimbly dodging his attempt to pull her back in.

“And now that we’ve got that taken care of,” she said, backing toward the kitchen, “I’m gonna make a cup of coffee.” 

[coppermarigolds]

@theherocomplex tagged me to post my favorite excerpt from what I wrote in 2017. Thanks for the tag! 

Since a lot of my writing energy last year focused on my Rogue One soulmate AU (aka a shameless self-indulgent wallowing in mushy tropes I REGRET NOTHING), it seems appropriate to pick an excerpt from that fic.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

She’s famished, actually. Her last meal was back on Wobani, a loaf of bread so stale it nearly chipped her tooth, and a tin of misshapen lumps that might have been meat of some sort. The Rebels hadn’t exactly taken time to feed her before ushering her off to be used as a bargaining chip for Saw.

Yet she has no money, and nothing to barter with except the necklace that never leaves her neck, and the thought of being dependent on Cassian’s goodwill sends unpleasant prickles cascading up and down her arms. Besides, she’s gone without food for longer periods than this, when supplies ran short, when missions went wrong, when Saw’s people were lax in carrying out their extraction plans.

“I’m fine,” she says.

Cassian gives her a look that conveys volumes of skepticism, and she finds herself wondering if she’s lost her ability to tell a convincing lie, or if he’s just that good at reading people—at reading her.

Both prospects are disconcerting.

“You need to keep your strength up,” he says. “We could be here for a while yet. Now is as good a time to eat as any.”

Jyn puts on a beatific smile, the one that always made Saw want to either hug her or deck her, depending on his mood. “You know, nagging isn’t a very endearing behavior.”

In a soulmate, she doesn’t add. Better to dance around that topic. Good thing she’s always been light on her feet.

Deep down, she has to admit she’s trying to push his buttons. It’s petty, she knows, but not without a purpose: there’s no better way to find out what someone is truly made of than to discover how easy it is to annoy them, especially in tense situations. She thinks this qualifies.

But Cassian confirms her initial assessment by merely looking at her, expressionless aside from one quirk of his eyebrow.

“Neither is stubbornness for the sake of stubbornness,” he says.

“Really?” Jyn shoots back. “Judging from your droid, I would think you like stubborn.”

Oh, kriffing hell. That wasn’t supposed to come out. Whatever happened to not blundering right into topics like soulmates and compatibility? she berates herself. So much for being quick on her metaphorical feet.

Yet for the first time, Cassian looks a little caught off guard. His eyes widen just slightly, and then comes the last thing Jyn expects: he laughs.

“Fair enough,” he says. His laughter fades into a chuckle, but his eyes are still lit with a quiet smile, defenses fallen away, warmer than anything she’s seen in longer than she cares to admit. When was the last time anyone looked at her like this, with something other than boredom, disgust, or calculation?

Despite everything, Jyn can almost feel herself smiling back. She doesn’t step away when Cassian walks toward her, holding out his hand.

“Here,” he says. “Get something to eat.”

Jyn looks down at the credit chit in his palm, then up to his face, her lips pursing.

“Please,” Cassian adds, softly.

Jyn takes the chit.

I’ll tag @thievinghippo, @servantofclio, and @agentzaftig!

[coppermarigolds]

Murklins - Fennec/Boba

Murklins - in the dark

At the beginning, in the first hours after she wakes to the shock of still having a pulse, Fennec has only one question. 

“Why?”

She’s half-lying on a pallet made of animal skins--half, because instinct told her to bolt upright and the searing, grinding pain in her abdomen had other ideas. The figure in the shadows at the other side of the small hut had started toward her, as though to set her upright, but stopped when she let out a snarl worthy of a krayt dragon. 

That gives her some comfort, though not much. She’s all too aware that even her fiercest scowl is no match for a weapon. And this man is in no short supply of those. 

He edges forward, enough for her to see his face in the dim rectangle of light fighting its way through the half-open door. 

“Why?” Fennec asks again.

Her rescuer doesn’t have eyebrows--interesting, that--but he raises the ridge of skin above one eye anyway.

“Why what?” he says. 

Fennec sits upright with a hiss, part pain, part impatience. She gestures at the latticework of tubes and wires implanted in her abdomen, wedged in where skin and muscle used to be.

“Why did you save me?” she asks, enunciating each word, biting them like off like pieces of overcooked bantha steak. She’s lived in this galaxy long enough to know every good deed comes with a price attached. 

He stays silent for a long moment.

“Something was taken from me,” he finally says. “I need to get it back.”

Fennec gives the hut’s interior another once-over. Aside from her, him, a second rudimentary sleeping area, and an impressive assortment of weapons, there isn’t much to speak of.

“You don’t strike me as the partnering-up type,” she says. 

His eyes meet hers, holding less than a second before he looks away.

-

“How did you even know how to fix me up?” she asks, later. She’s not used to having so many questions, and she hates it more than she cares to admit. For someone who earns her keep by ending lives before they end hers, nothing is worse than not having all the information. Than being caught off guard. 

It happened to her once. It won’t happen again.

Her new partner is nothing if not reticent, and she half-expects he won’t answer at all. She’s almost surprised when he grunts out a response, not looking up from the blaster he’s cleaning.

“Experience.”

Fennec looks him over. “On yourself?”

She didn’t fail to notice the blotchy scars all over his head, like someone used his face as the canvas for an acid painting. It’s a fair bet those aren’t his only blemishes.

He only nods, and carries on cleaning.

Fennec reaches over and swipes the can of solvent, forcing his gaze upward.

“Show me,” she says. 

She’s gotten used to his long silences before he says things. This time, the response is immediate. 

“No.”

“Look, we both know I owe you.” Fennec’s temper threatens to flare, but she bolts it down with help from years of practice. One doesn’t last long as a sharpshooter without an abundance of patience. “But you’ve got me at a disadvantage, and you’re asking me to watch your back. Those two things don’t mix well.”

He snatches the solvent back and returns to cleaning his weapons, saying nothing. But she can tell by the slight tension in his jaw that he’s thinking it over.

Finally he sighs, and in one motion, sits back and pulls his tunic over his head. 

Fennec’s breath leaves her in one long, hushed, “dank farrik.” 

If she’d thought his head was scarred, his body looks like it was chewed up and spat out by a rancor. His maze of cybernetics puts hers to shame--if he’d disrobed outside in the light of the twin suns, he might well have blinded her--and what swaths of flesh remain are twisted and puckered, tough with ropes of scarring.

“What happened to you?” Fennec asks.

He’s already yanking his tunic back into place. “Ever seen a Sarlacc?”

Her eyes narrow, weighing him. “You’re pulling one over on me.”

His answering look is so withering that it erases her doubt. She sits back on her heels, picking up her sniper rifle, going through the practiced motions of taking it apart without needing to think about them.

For a while, there is only the crisp, businesslike clicking and snapping of weaponry coming apart, fitting back together.

“What was it like?” Fennec murmurs.

Boba Fett sighs.

“Dark.” His voice is distant, as far away as Tatooine is from Coruscant. “Just pure black.”

Fennec suppresses a shiver. It’s impossible not to think of the moments after that moof-milking scum shot her in the gut and left her to die, the way everything around her had gone utterly silent, utterly dark, black as the charred bits of skin around the edges of her wound. She tries to think instead about the belly of a Sarlacc, about the feeling of being pulled down into the grip of nothingness.

“Was it quiet?” she asks.

Fett shakes his head. “Not at all.”

Fennec exhales. 

“Thank you for telling me that,” she says. 

Fett doesn’t reply, but she can sense the atmosphere shifting around him. It’s almost like he needed to speak it aloud, just as much as she needed to hear it.

“Here,” he says, and picks up his gaffi stick, tossing it to Fennec in one smooth motion. “Help me out with this?”

She catches it with one hand. “Be happy to.”

[coppermarigolds]

I know it's so obvious but 15 Reylo

I’m sorry. I have no excuse for this. Mildly NSFW.

15: trembling hands

In retrospect, Rey figures, she probably should have told someone about it. 

She honestly didn’t think she’d even have to. It’s been years, after all. Surely by now, someone has noticed the moments when her eyes glaze over a bit and drift off to look at something–someone–who isn’t exactly, entirely there.

Maybe they all do know about the Force-bond and they’re just not letting her in on it. Maybe it’s some great big Republic-wide secret and everyone is snickering at her behind their wine glasses right now. 

Standing at the other end of the immense banquet table, the vision of Ben smirks in her direction. Rey stifles a sigh, but she can’t deny the quiver in her chest that’s caught somewhere between warmth and relief. In all the years she fought along the Resistance to restore the Republic, no one ever warned her of this particular side effect of success: along with democratic government comes endlessly long, dreadfully boring state affairs which, for some reason no one can quite figure out, always seem to require the presence of a Force sensitive individual. 

She and Ben take turns, whenever there’s one on the agenda. This just so happens to be her lucky night. 

Ben walks over, taking his time, fingers trailing unnoticed along the backs of galactic dignitaries’ chairs. Even though she shared an orbit with Han Solo for little more than a day, somehow Rey just knows Ben got that saunter from his father. 

“Enjoying the party?” Ben asks, finally stopping behind Rey’s chair. 

She casts a mute glare over her armrest. His hand rests on the back of her seat, inches from the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. She can feel the heat of it jumping to her skin like sparks. 

“Is the food good, at least?” Ben leans in closer, until his chin is on her shoulder, his hair tickling her cheek. “Ah, nerf tenderloin with redor sauce. Lucky you. That’s delicious.” 

Rey risks a quick glance up and down the table. No one is looking at her.

“I’m sure it will be,” she mutters, little more than a whisper, taking care to ensure her lips barely move. “Once we actually get to eat it. Why is it that all the speeches at these events have to happen before the food?”

Ben laughs, a low dark vibration that rumbles all the way down her spine. “Because otherwise, no one would stay awake for the speeches.”

Rey swallows. At the head of the table, the dignitary presiding over the event is still making his way through a litany of ponderous opening remarks. The scent of the perfectly grilled nerf wafts from the table like an instrument of torture, and Rey’s stomach responds with an ill-timed growl.

She stifles a yelp, clapping a hand to her abdomen. Beside her, Ben breaks into a full-blown grin, and it makes her breath stutter in her chest. Even now, reconciled to the light, his smiles are still all too rare. Yet when they do appear, they outshine even Jakku’s sun. 

“I don’t think he’s going to be done talking anytime soon.” Ben’s voice is like the purr of a fine-tuned engine in her ear. “If you’re going to make it to the meal, I think you’ll need something to…”

He slips to his knees beside her chair. Rey can’t stop her eyes from going big and round as moons. “Something to what?” she squeaks.

Somehow, Ben is scooting his immense frame beneath the table, positioning himself directly in front of her. Directly in front of her, on his knees, half-hidden behind the luxurious tablecloth, his fingers drifting to slip beneath her dress and curl around her calves. 

“To keep your mind occupied,” he says, and something warm and wicked flashes through his eyes. His hands creep up to her knees, gently pulling them apart, brushing along the inside of her thighs. “If you want.”

She’s already breathing way too fast. Any minute now, the guest next to her is going to turn and give her a funny look. “Ben,” she mouths, hands gripping the armrests. Her belly is starting to flutter, hips already beginning to swivel.

And he’s still grinning. Damn him. His fingers inch higher, and then his mouth is hovering just above her knee, breath hot on her skin. 

“Please,” he whispers.

The Force is a damned pervert. Rey can’t decide if she loves it or hates it.

She lifts one hand from the armrest, reaches down as though to adjust the napkin on her lap, and pushes Ben’s head further between her thighs. He hums as he goes to work, and Rey fights the impulse to stiffen in her chair, her palm curving around the base of his skull, fingers clawing in the ridiculous plush mass of his hair. 

The tiniest whimper escapes her. She sucks on her lower lip, casting a glance at the speech-giving dignitary. Still droning on and on about…something.

Her eyes drift closed as the crescendo builds. Her fingers tighten, trembling against Ben’s scalp, the heel of her other hand grinding against her chair’s armrest, fingers splayed, then flexed, then gripping white-knuckled as the waves crash all around her–

“Master Jedi?”

Her eyes snap open. The dignitary seated across the table has her fixed in a pale watery stare, an expression of mild bemusement on his face. “Master Jedi, are you quite well? You look flushed.”

“Oh! I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” Her voice is too loud. She clears her throat, lets a smile split her face, tries to rein it all back in. “I was just–just, ah, enjoying the smell of the food.” 

It occurs to her, in a moment’s flash, that the drone of the speech has stopped, replaced by the clinking of silverware as people finally dig into the meal. She clears her throat again, ineffectually, releases her handful of Ben’s hair and raises unsteady hands to her fork and knife. She can feel the pads of his fingers trailing along her thighs, leaving her little trembling aftershocks, sure as she can feel the warmth of his satisfaction through the bond. And maybe just a hint of smugness.

“Enjoying with your eyes closed, eh? You don’t have to fib, Master Jedi.” The dignitary winks, and Rey’s heart stops. 

“I–excuse me?”

“We all know how dull the speeches are,” the dignitary says. “No one can blame you for escaping into a bit of your–what is it? Jedi meditation.”

Below the table, she can hear Ben’s chuckle, followed by the last ghostly brush of his fingers before the bond slips closed. 

“Meditation,” she echoes, and puts on a sheepish smile. “Yes, that’s right. You got me. Meditation it was.” 

[coppermarigolds]

agentzaftig replied to your post “theherocomplex replied to your post “dust motes", for Velanna and...”

So much regret...

look at your life

look at your choices

[coppermarigolds]

Cass 21 :D

Cass is the antagonist (?) in my original novel. This isn’t actually part of the novel, although who knows, maybe it eventually will be!

21. Backward

“We want you to interrogate him.”

Cass’s brain was smart enough to inform her: this is a test. Don’t screw it up.

Her mouth, unfortunately, wasn’t so quick on the draw. “Wait, what? Me?”

Her superior didn’t look amused, though it was hard to tell for certain under the visor. Which was, after all, the point. 

“You were assigned to this mission to be evaluated, weren’t you?” the superior said. Despite the inflection in her voice at the end of the sentence, it wasn’t a question. “The evaluation must cover all aspects of the duties you’ll be required to complete throughout your career. Otherwise, it’s worthless.”

“I understand.” Cass modulated her voice with an effort, smooth as her uniform when it came off the presser every morning. “Any intel I should know about the subject before I begin?”

It felt weird calling another living, breathing person “the subject.” She was reminded of the specimens laid out for dissection in her zoology labs back at the academy, spread-eagled and pickled in their own juices. She took a deep breath, pushing away memories of the stench of formaldehyde. Just part of the job, she reminded herself.

“Subject’s name is Patience Malleroy.” The superior tapped a command against her visor. “His file should be up on your neural interface now.” 

Pain lanced through Cass’s temples before the sentence was finished. She suppressed the automatic gasp with all the willpower the academy had drilled into her, but hiding the grimace wasn’t so easy, even beneath the visor. She jerked her fingers up to her interface in an attempt to mask it, toggling the command to open the subject’s file. 

MALLEROY, PATIENCE JAMES, the opening page informed her in a no-nonsense font. The subject stared up at her from his profile image, mouth set in a sullen twist, blue eyes touched by defiance. Typical mugshot.

A guy named Patience? Cass thought, scrolling through the digital pages on her visor. No doubt he’d been teased about that all his life. She could probably use that to her advantage during the interrogation, though the notion left a sour tang of reluctance in the back of her throat. She was no stranger to being known for one thing and one thing only, herself. 

Her implant gave a mechanical growl and thrummed against her skull, sending another burst of pain clawing behind her eyeballs. She clenched her teeth and finished skimming the last pages as quickly as she could manage, exiting the file and switching the visor to standby mode. The pain subsided, slowly and grudgingly, like a naughty child sent to time-out, promising to return with an even bigger tantrum next time. 

The superior watched, impassive. “Are you ready?”

Cass dipped her chin in a sharp nod. “Yes ma’am.” 

The superior keyed in her authorization code, and the door slid open. Cass stepped inside, letting her visor scan the room for her. 

The subject had been tacked up against the wall, secured in a standard-issue interrogation board. He was tilted back at an angle, arms spread out, feet slightly apart, wrists and ankles shackled to the board. It wasn’t painful, Cass knew from mock sessions back at the academy. Still, just the sensation of being strapped to the board, powerless, lacking solid ground underfoot, was enough to get some subjects to confess. 

“Hello, Patience,” she said, locking her hands behind her back, stopping a few feet away from the board. “Or do you go by James?”

He glared at her and said nothing. Well, that was disappointingly predictable.

She upped the power on her visor just a notch, letting it scan his vitals. His cardiac and pulmonary rates were elevated a little above normal, but nothing drastic. He wasn’t afraid or even particularly uncomfortable yet. This probably wasn’t his first go-round in an interrogation board, though if his file had held any such details, she’d missed them in her haste to banish the headache. Cass kept her face painstakingly neutral as she lashed herself with a string of mental curses. That kind of sloppiness got people killed, implant-pains or not.

“What’s your name?”

She was so busy chastising herself that she almost missed the question. “Excuse me?”

Now he looked amused. Cass dug her nails into her wrist, imagining the superior watching through the window, already jotting down red marks on her evaluation file. 

“Your name,” the subject repeated. “You guys do have names, don’t you? Or do you just go by serial numbers?”

It was a dig, but not a particularly original one. Cass tilted her head, considering, then let her hands loosen and fall to her sides.

“I’m Cass,” she said. 

His expression didn’t change, but the implant never lied: it blipped red, registering an increase in the subject’s respiratory rate, a slight dilation of the pupils. She’d surprised him. 

Cass hid a smile and stepped closer to the board. 

“So,” she said. “Now that we’ve got introductions over with, let’s talk about your sister Temperance. Here are two things we know for sure: one, that you helped her escape the compound, and two, that we’re going to find her. We both know it’s only a matter of time, so why don’t you make things easier on her and tell us how you did it?”

His heart rate increased again at the mention of his sister’s name, and Cass felt her breath come a little easier. This was going to be simpler than she’d thought. The files had contained an entire section on the subject’s bond with Temperance–unsurprising, considering they’d been sent to the compound within two years of each other as children. He was the classic protective older brother who would do anything for his baby sister. All it would take would be a few abstract threats, a hint or two about Temperance’s likely fate once she was caught, and–

Pain exploded through the left side of her head, unfurling from beneath the implant and knocking her sideways. She skittered and lunged like a newborn foal on a bed of straw, fighting to keep from dropping to her knees. Her fingers scrabbled against the wall, searching for a lifeline, and her other hand clawed at the implant. 

Several feet away, Patience had craned his head up off the board as far as it would go. He stared at her, openmouthed. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She felt her mouth stiffly opening and closing in time to the pulsing waves of pain, and a small part of her wanted to laugh at how much she must look like the robot that Patience and all his fellow residents thought she was. 

“Cass?” She saw Patience’s mouth moving, but his voice sounded like it was coming from miles away. Oddly enough, his heart rate was really going now. “You said your name was Cass, right?”

Across the room, the door slid open, and Cass gathered up enough determination to stagger toward it. It shut behind her with a gentle, pleasant whooshing sound that didn’t belong anywhere near an interrogation room, and Cass let her full weight sag against it. 

Vaguely she registered the superior leaning over her, activating her own implant, disapproval settling like an anchor in every line of her face. 

“I need medical in interrogation observation room one-oh-eight,” she said into her radio sensor. “My trainee is rejecting her implant.”

“No,” Cass choked out, heaving herself to her feet, tottering in place. She felt like she’d downed the contents of an entire hole-in-the-wall bar in one night. “Not rejecting. Just…adjusting. I’ll be fine. Just need some time.”

I can’t be rejecting it. It was the only coherent thought swirling in the pain cacophony, bouncing from one side of her brain to the other. Not after all that training. Not after all those years at the academy. Not after…

The implant blitzed and flared, dizzying flashes of red, yellow, white, orange pulsing in her eyes, and her last coherent image was of her parents’ disappointed faces. 

[coppermarigolds]

F, FitzSimmons & U, Daisy/Mack

I know by now there have probably been eleventy million FitzSimmons “morning after” fics, but this one is mine. :p The Daisymack prompt was answered here about a hundred years ago, because I’m a slow writer.

-

F. An absent look or touch.

Jemma was used to rude awakenings. It was difficult, if not impossible, to spend half of one’s life on a quinjet without being jolted from sleep by the sudden roar of an engine or the chatter of early-rising colleagues. 

Waking up to sharp yells in a foreign language, however, was a less familiar sensation. As was–

“Bloody people next door,” Fitz muttered, not looking up from the tablet in his lap.

–waking up to someone else in her bed. Especially when that someone was her best friend of ten years. 

Jemma pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking away the morning bleariness. Fitz was sitting propped up on the pillows beside her, half-dressed, close but carefully not touching.  He glanced up from the tablet, eyes darting from her to the paper-thin wall and back again.

“You’re awake,” he said, and drummed his fingers on the mattress. “Obviously. Did you sleep well? Before the yelling started, anyway?”

“I did.” Jemma kept her voice cautious but bright. It was mostly true, at least. She’d just taken a little while to actually get to sleep, lying awake for a time and listening to Fitz’s quiet breathing, watching a sliver of moonlight move across the floor, wondering how exactly this morning-after conversation was going to go. That was normal enough, wasn’t it? She knew Fitz almost as well as she knew herself, but the road between friends and lovers was always going to be a little rocky to navigate. A bit of awkwardness was to be expected, she’d told herself, and the thought had calmed her enough to lull her into sleep.

She took a deep breath and leaned on the headboard next to Fitz, craning her head toward the tablet. “What are you looking at, there?”

She watched him absently bite down on his lower lip, and the sight brought a sudden rush of extremely pleasant memories from the previous night, distracting enough that she almost missed his answer.

“There’s a little zoo not far from here. See?” He angled the tablet up toward her, revealing a series of pictures, each displaying a different species of monkey.

“Monkeys? Fitz.” She couldn’t stop the giggles from bubbling up, knocking her off balance, bumping his bare shoulder with hers. Her breath caught in her throat, but she kept herself from tensing. It felt…good. It felt natural.

“We’re here to work,” she went on, fingers finding the space between his ribs and giving him a gentle but pointed poke. “Remember?”

Fitz finally pulled his eyes from the tablet and ran them over her body, still naked, half-hidden beneath the sheet. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think we’ve already done a pretty fine job of mixing business with pleasure.”

Jemma felt something cool and soft brush her leg beneath the covers and realized it was his hand, absently stroking just above her knee, his thumb drawing little circles on her skin.

“Ooh,” she said, suppressing a shiver. “Who’s got cold hands now? No, no–that didn’t mean stop.”

She heard a clatter as the tablet landed on the bedside table, and she grinned, leaned forward, let the sheet slip down a little further. 

“I don’t think Mack would appreciate taking a detour for a zoo trip,” she murmured, muscles clenching involuntarily as Fitz’s hand slipped a little farther up her leg. “But we probably have enough time for some monkeying around of our own, wouldn’t you say?”

She didn’t bother to hide her grin as Fitz groaned and flopped back against the pillows, giving her what she suspected was the sternest look he could manage at the moment. 

“How long have you been waiting to use that pun?” he grumbled even as he gripped her hips, maneuvering her into position above him.

“I promise it just came to me,” she said innocently, grin widening.

“Good.” He fixed her with a stare of mock solemnity. “Because monkeys are serious business, Jemma.”

She laughed, leaning forward to kiss him, and all further thoughts of monkey business faded into the background.

[coppermarigolds]

agentzaftig replied to your post “Which Until Dawn walkthru did you watch?”

you're welcome

It’s all your fault

I guess I did get you hooked on AoS, so I spose turnabout is fair play. :p