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kirishimas-manly-eyeliner · 4 years ago

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➶ WHAT MAKES THE MHA BOYS BREAK (PT. 2)

pairings: mirio togata, tenya iida, katsuki bakugo, aizawa shota, tomura shigaraki, dabi, hawks, mashirao ojiro, tamaki amajiki

warnings: hinting anxiety/anxiety attacks, reverse comfort, also tamaki’s made me cry so have fun lmao

part one with mezo shoji, tokoyami fumikage, hanta sero, izuku midoriya, shoto todoroki, eijiro kirishima, denki kaminari, hitoshi shinsou here!

WHEN YOU COMFORT THEM THE MOMENT THEY BREAK DOWN: MIRIO TOGATA, TENYA IIDA, KATSUKI BAKUGO

MIRIO TOGATA

there was no way that mirio was completely fine after everything that had happened to him

he had lost his quirk, experienced a battle that could result in permanent trauma, and he lost nighteye-- the leader and hero that he had looked up to for so long

but when you told him that it was okay to be strong all the time, mirio had broken

he broke for the first time in what felt like years

“don’t worry a-ahbout me!”

the saddest part about it?

he was smiling through his tears not even a few moments after his grin broke

his lips were trembling, his eyes were red and his entire body was shaking with suppressed sobs, but he had an unwavering smile.

and that... that was heartwrenching to look at.

his smile fell, his body trembled and he let out a strangled sobbut for some reason, this-- none of it had shown a single trace of weakness. it was a way of him to express very human emotions and reactions as everyone else could.

he wasn’t disappointing nighteye in anyway-- more of showing respect by letting it all out to be able to show genuine smiles in public

how come such human emotions were labeled as good or bad?

“i let him down,” mirio gasped, “i let him down, i hurt him, i could have saved him, and-”

“hey, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. it’s just me baby, it’s just me,” you cooed as you wrapped your arms around him. “shhh, it’s just me. you’re okay.”

mirio’s hands trembled as he gripped tight onto you

his chest was getting tighter as he burst into struggled breaths. he was just so... tired.

a million thoughts zipped through his head at once, but he just had to calm the storm for a while in your arms

TENYA IIDA

it was right after the accident in hosu city, and everything, everything had gone wrong

even though he didn’t show it at first, he felt used as an advertisement for hatsume, and then losing in a battle with todoroki and felt like he was thriving on dumb luck

he just wanted to make his brother proud, that was-

-if he could, anymore.

he felt so weak for letting himself feel this way, his head racing and chest heaving as he struggled to breathe

letting your guard down will just make things worse. tensei wouldn’t want this.

tenya’s body visibly trembled as he let out a shaky breath in his dorm room, thinking everything over in the darkness

“iida?” you asked, knocking on the door.

immediately, his demeanor changed as he shifted over to a braver face.

“hello, y/n!”

just breathe. they’ll be gone sooner or later. breathe.

“why are you up this late at night?” he asked.

“i was just checking in on you, but i should be asking you the same question, sonic boy,” you grinned, until you noticed his hands trembling.

and for some reason, that hurt you. his face was.. so put together with a brave smile, confident eyes, and his head held up high and posture straight and firm

but when you saw his hands trembling and an odd shifting in his chest, you knew something was up

“are you okay?” you tested the words.

tenya tried. he tried so, so hard to smile and affirm with a confident, “yes!”

but he couldn’t.

“i-i’m not- i’m not sure-,” his voice broke into a whisper.

“i don’t know.”

you melted into a hug next to him as you took a seat. “hey, you can tell me anything, okay? it’s okay not to have your guard up all the time, it’s not weak to show emotion. just- if you want, can you tell me what’s been going on?”

tenya took a shaky breath and pushed up his glasses. “of course, thank you for asking, i will.”

KATSUKI BAKUGO

after his fight with deku, all of the willpower left in him to hold himself together disappeared

katsuki had been exhausted after a long day of fighting, not just physically, but emotionally

he had tried to keep his head high for as long as he could, but the moment he went to his dorm room, he just... broke.

angry tears released and he choked out heavy, strangled sobs as he pounded his fist to the ground in frustration

katsuki cursed towards whoever was there, until he found you standing behind him

he was too tired to argue.

“the fuck are you doing here,” he grumbled.

“is something wrong, 'suki?” you whispered. “i was just coming by to drop off your water bottle, you left it during hero training,” you examined his face. “are you- are you okay?”

he loved you, he really did-- but today just wasn’t a good day. “mn-no,” he managed to say.

his chest was heaving and his eyes seemed to be searching the room, as if looking for an exit.

you noticed the dark circles around his eyes and the way his lips trembled. had he been crying?

you slowly cupped his face in your hands, noses touching as you two shared breaths, inhaling and exhaling together

katsuki was too tired to pull away.

he felt so weak.

you could hear katsuki’s breath shaking but slowly dying in volume as he held him tighter

“hey,” you said softly, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “you’re gonna be okay ‘suki. you’re gonna be okay.”

they’re pitying me.

“this?” you said, holding his bruised hand up and motioning towards his trembling figure. “this isn’t weak.” you said, as if reading his mind. “this is strong. this is brave. being emotionally vulnerable is one of the most courageous things anyone can ever do, and you are so much more than that, m’kay?”

he nodded in response. even though he didn’t express it that well, he thought of it

WHEN YOU PROMISE TO STAY: TOMURA SHIGARAKI, HAWKS, DABI

DABI

everyone shut up i love him

all that he’s ever wanted and asked for in life was for someone to notice him for who he genuinely was, to be free to do whatever he pleased

it was late at night and you two were outside, the moon illuminating in the darkness as you slid against the wall of the city in the back of the building

“anything interesting happen?” you asked, staring up into the moon

the night was young and it had been a rough, terrible day at work for both of you, even though you had separate jobs and shfits-- the only thing that pushed you forward everyday was being able to meet with dabi right after, at exatly 11pm.

sure, you did it every day, and it shouldn’t have been that impactful-- but for some reason, somehow, everything about talking to him was so... exhilerating.

he didn’t reply.

“uhhm,” you shuffled nervously toward him. “dabi, you good?”

he let out a shaky exhale, which was odd.

hold the phone.

no, really, someone hold the phone because it was ringing

“oh, sorry, one sec,” you rushed, hurrying to answer. it was one of your co-workers. “hello!”

“uhuh. yeah. oh, cool... got it, mhm, be right ther-”

you noticed how dabi’s body language immediately changed as he turned around and crossed his arms gently over his chest and stared into the sky.

this really, really wasn’t like him.

something had to be wrong.

“uhm, on second thought,” you said. “does tomorrow at... noon work for you? i have plans. yeah. mhm, sorry not tonight. yep, bye!”

dabi’s eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t look at you. “who was that?”

“one of my coworker buddies or whatever. they wanted to have a drink with me, but i said no.”

“why’d you say no?” he deadpanned.

“uhhhm, well, you certainly don’t seem very... how should i say this, at your fullest?”

“but why?” dabi said. “you meet with me every day, and going with your friends is probably a lot easier than this. what’s so different about it..?”

you thought carefully as you shrugged casually, gently leaning your head against his shoulder. “if one of my closest pals were down, i couldn’t just... leave them like that. and even though i know you won’t tell me what’s wrong, i just.. i just don’t want you to feel alone, you know? like everyone in your life has left? and i- i don’t want to do that to you.”

even though dabi stayed relatively quiet for the rest of the night,

just know that was the day he fell in love with you.

SHIGARAKI

nightmares were the worst.

for the record, he didn’t get them often, but when he did, and actually reacted to it... they ended up terrible

he gasped, grasping at the air for his mother’s embrace only to be met with nothingness

he clawed at his skin as his breath hitched, trying to control himself

“tomura?” you asked. “...are- are you okay?”

“get away from me,” he trembled. “i’m a... i’m a monster.”

you furrowed your eyebrows in concern. “hey, hey, c’mon. what’s going on-”

“leave me alone.”

his sudden change in tone made you jump as you stepped back and you watched his figure tremble.

“shigaraki.”

“if something’s wrong, don’t sugarcoat it. if something’s wrong, please, for the love of the world, tell me, okay? i just- i just want to see you... maybe..”

“what?” shigaraki deadpanned. “happy? satisfied? content? joyful? you people all want the same thing.”

“hopeful.”

shigaraki looked up.

“i want to see you hopeful, m’kay? so just... please. you don’t need to tell me word-for-word, but-- if you need something, i’m here.”

he was not going to cry. nuhuh. no way. no way was he going to start crying.

you wrapped your arms around him before he cautiously hugged back, letting himself slowly melt into your embrace, his satin gloves against your clothes

“hey. i promise you, i’m never going to be leaving. no matter how much you mess up, no matter how terrible you may feel-- you mean the world to me. please hold on just a little longer.”

HAWKS

it wasn’t supposed to happen until later, when he was actually able to get home and prepare himself for anxious feeling in his stomach to finally settle

but noooo, his mental state really just said yolo

so here he was, reliving his entire childhood with memories that he’d pushed down for so long, about to snap in a matter of seconds

“keigo~!”

your familiar voice rang through his head.

he just wanted to be held by you.

the most beautiful part about being with hawks his that he genuinely didn’t care about his pride around you. he wasn’t insecure of what you thought of him. he didn’t freak out or try to act like he was fine when you were with him, because... why would he need to?

so instead of putting on a brave face and getting scared of your voice as if being anxious was a crime, he melted into it.

“hey angel, i got you some food at the-”

“y/...y/n,” his breath hitched. your voice, that you often said you were insecure about-- was his safe haven. he felt safe when he heard your voice and let himself crumple. he didn’t have to worry about putting his walls up, because it was just you.

beautiful, loving, kind you.

his love was something special that he gave to no one else.

“k-keigo!”

even though you were far from him, your bags in hand and everything, you immediately dropped them and ran to your boyfriend

“hey, hey, baby, what’s going on?”

he stood directly in front of you, his head down and not saying a word.

you let your breathing sync with his as you reached out to hold his hand, when he threw his arms around you before his trembling body was held in your embrace

“-hey,” you said, shocked by the sudden embrace, before you hugged back, slowly, rocking him back and forth. “you’re going to be okay.”

“you don’t have to tell me anything, just-- focus on me,”

“i’m never leaving you, okay? no matter what you do, you’re still going to be my hero.”

and hawks decided on that day that out of anything else in the world, you meant the most to him.

WHEN YOU TELL THEM THAT THEY MATTER: TAMAKI AMAJIKI, MASHIRAO OJIRO, SHOTA AIZAWA

TAMAKI AMAJIKI

useless. useless. useless.

why wouldn’t his stupid quirk activate before? why couldn’t he be more optimistic? why was he always thinking about something else? why couldn’t he ever stay positive and cheery like everyone else?

how was everyone else so strong?

but laying in a hospital bed, in complete silence and vulnerability...

that scared him.

tamaki blinked back the sudden tears that prickled against his eyes-- nuhuh, no way was he about to cry when so many other people had it worse, no way he was going to break down when nighteye was dead, he was not about to cry if mirio could be strong and so many other people had it worse, and-

“tamaki, snap out if it!”

your cold hands cupped his face, as you stared him directly in the eyes. “what are you doing?”

tamaki jumped back at your sudden question. but for some reason, the way you said it wasn’t angrily, more like... a statement? a question? as if you were asking are you okay?

tamaki shook his head. “i don’t... i don’t kn-know..”

get away, get away, get away.

your hands brushed back a hair from his face as you crouched down in front of him, your hands still helping him cool down. they rested gently on his scalp and along his face as you felt his breathing grow uneasy.

“listen,” you began slowly. “i’m not saying you need to tell me what’s going on, but... i just- i have a feeling that you’re not doing okay. and i know that because no one was ever really there for me back then, so if you want to say anything--”

“--i’m here for you.”

tamaki crumpled then as he let the tears fall.

his entire mask shattered as his breath hitched, trying to hold back the sobs but only came out as strangled breaths.

“hey, hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

you held up his chin and rocked him back and forth, slowly. “just because other people seem to be going through bigger things doesn’t mean that you should invalidate your problems. if something’s hurting you, that’s enough of a problem to take care of it.”

tamaki began to shake as he suddenly clutched onto you, his body trembling as he nodded.

what would mirio, nejire, nighteye, fatgum-- what would they think of him now?

“whatever is going around in your head right now will all quiet soon, i promise you, ‘mkay?”

“it’s okay. it’s okay. you’re okay.”

AIZAWA SHOTA

“you didn’t eat,” you said, staring at the takeout that was left in its packaging.

you heard shota mumble under his sleeping bag. “i’ll eat after.”

“after what?” you said back from the kitchen.

you weren’t exactly mad at him, you could say-- it was more of disappointment, maybe? concern? he had always been so concerned about his students that he forgot to take care of himself-- no wonder why he was so angry lately.

(and no, it wasn’t his resting face, he was genuinely burnt-out the last couple of days and it wasn’t getting better.)

“shota, come on,” you said softly. “or else i’m taking your sleeping bag away from you.”

aizawa’s head emerged from the bag, the light from the laptop giving a lovely display of his eyebags. “oh?”

he smirked, even though he seemed so drained.

“yes,” you said, pointing your nose up in the air and crossing your arms. “and you better go eat before i take it away.”

aizawa raised an eyebrow, but obliged.

you watched him eat, but he kept his laptop on the table the whole time.

he was looking through the profiles of all his students, and that was-- insane

despite how much had happened to him, he always thought of someone else first, putting everyone else above him.

“you’re going to overwork yourself,” you finally said.

“amazing,” aizawa sighed back. “had no clue.”

“oh, c’mon,” you egged. “you matter too, ya know.”

you noticed how tense his shoulders were, how his gaze was fixated to the screen and the way his veins were protruding from lack of sleep, and how red his eyes were.

sure, most of the time, this was normal-- but you just had this gut feeling that something was wrong.

“i suppose you’re not wrong,” aizawa ventured. “but sometimes, you realize that students make up most of the world. i want them to grow..”

his gaze on the screen broke.

“and for them to know a world of love and kindess, not-- whatever this is.”

you looked at him before wrapping your arms around him and kissing his forehead. “but they have a teacher who works so hard already, and you-- you deserve a break. you’re always working so hard, and you have to remember that you matter, too, okay?”

you smiled sadly. “i need to go to work, but please finish the takeout for me, hmm?”

he never told you this, of course-- but yeah, he thought of your voice every time he wanted to take a break. he never forgot the words you said.

MASHIRAO OJIRO

being forgotten was something that came way too easily for him.

everyone in class 1a was so good at everything-- they all either had good looks, a nice voice, talents, a cool quirk, technique, charisma, and he?

ojiro felt like he didn’t have anything.

but what did it matter, right? being the forgotten one was fine to him, at least. he was able to take time for himself.

...kind of.

he was heading back from ua into the dorms, walking alone when he realized it started to rain.

picking up his bags, he ran, putting them under his shoulders so that they didn’t get wet-- it wasn’t a long walk, but it was a lot to have to run back and make sure everything stayed dry

“wait!”

ojiro turned around to find you, carrying your backpack in the air and waving your arms. “slow-” you panted, “down! god, where’d all the rain come from??”

he chuckled slightly, until he noticed your bag getting soaked, and before he knew it, ojiro called you over and said he could carry your bag

“are you sure?” you asked, in-between breaths. “i doubt you can carry both-”

ojiro laughed and waved his tail like a hand. “i can carry it.”

your face lit up. “thanks! okay, now let’s run back, c’mon.”

you two ran as fast as you could, trying not to slip as the rain began to pour even harder against your backs.

but when you opened the doors to the dorms and your bag was completely dry, ojiro smiled.

(also y’all he’s an underrated king DO Y’ALL KNOW HOW PRECIOUS HIS SMILE IS?? PLS-)

“thanks,” you grinned. “your quirk is actually really cool. not just for keeping stuff dry, but uh, thanks. i appreciate it.”

something inside of him made his heart swell.

“really?” ojiro asked. “do you really- is that true?”

he didn’t want to get his hopes up too quickly, but the way you nodded proudly and affirmed it was something he could never forget.

“yeah!” you said. “just because you’re not flashy as other people doesn’t mean that you’re a plain, boring person, you know that? you’re actually really cool!”

“huh. thanks,” he noted-- and don’t worry, he walked back into his dorm room with a grin on his face the whole time.

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hey bbys! reminder to go take a break and drink some water if you’re reading this! y’all are so amazing and beautiful, and please remember that you’re valid as well. what you did today was more than enough, please remember that!! i’m very proud of you for getting through today. ily <3

qotd, what song reminds you of a fictional character 👀

join my family!

list of family members: @kirishimuhhhhh, @xuxisushi-1, @kirishima-my-beloved, @msminsuga, @farfetchedparanoia, @satis-mangata, @moonhere, @renegadedeca, @viridevi, @cherriiirose <3

☂ requests are open for mha + hq!! ☂

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seijorhi · 4 years ago

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Cry-Baby

A commissioned continuation of this soulmate AU by the lovely @pokemonfreak666 - thanks for your patience, bby!!

Bakugou Katsuki x Female Reader, Kirishima Eijiro x Female Reader

TW non-con, nsfw, double penetration, rough fucking, minor mentions of blood, kidnapping

The water’s not hot enough.

It should be; it should burn. The knob’s twisted all the way up, steam rising in billowing clouds, fogging up the bathroom mirror, but it’s not hot enough. You can still feel them on you. Everything else – the blood, saliva, their cum, you’d watched it swirl down the drain, sitting on the shower floor, arms curled tightly around yourself as if that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart and shattering entirely.

But the water’s scalding, and you can still feel your soulmates’ hands crawling over you… their mouths… their cocks tearing you apart from the inside out. Why won’t it wash away? You’ve scrubbed and scrubbed, your skin’s red and raw but the filthy feeling won’t go.

And they’re just outside. Sitting in your bedroom, or maybe wandering around your living room, sprawled across your couch flipping through channels on the TV. Maybe they’re out there looking at the pictures that line your walls, you and your family, your friends. Fuck, maybe they’re in your kitchen, rifling through your fridge for a late night snack after fucking their soulmate six ways from Sunday.

You can’t go back out there. You don’t want to see them.

Is it awful to hope for some kind of horrifying villain attack or massive accident to force them to go and leave you in peace?

… Would they?

You can’t imagine Pro Heroes not running off to do their duty, but before a few hours ago, you couldn’t imagine them holding somebody down and raping them either, and clearly they had no qualms about doing that, so maybe your Heroes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Then again, what difference would leaving make? They know where you live, probably where you work. There’s no anonymity anymore, it’s not like you can just slip away and hide from them.

You’ve been in the bathroom too long already, you know that – you can almost feel their anxious energy seeping through the crack in the door. Too much longer and they’ll surely come bursting in.

Patience clearly wasn’t their strong point, and it’s nothing short of a miracle they let you come in and shower alone. Kirishima at least had been more than eager to come join you, grinning widely and tugging you by the arm towards the bathroom– it’d been Bakugou, watching you pale and flinch through red, unreadable eyes who’d reined him back in.

Maybe he saw how scared you were, how fragile the thread that was holding you together was. Maybe he thought that gifting you these precious minutes alone after what they did would in any way come close to starting to mend the damage they’d just wrought.

Maybe he just hadn’t cared enough beyond getting his dick wet.

You’d grown up thinking your soulmates would make you happy, love you in a way that nobody else ever could. The possibility of ever deliberately hurting them seemed like such a foreign and uncomfortable concept to you. But obviously they didn’t care enough about your feelings or your lack of consent to stop them from forcing themselves onto you, maybe you were nothing but an object to them. Something to take and fuck, because naturally you were made for them.

What did it matter if you didn’t want it?

Your eyes drift down to the timers on your wrists, run down to zero. A quaking sob rips from your throat and you bite down harshly on your bottom lip to stifle it.

“Why am I even here? In less than an hour you’re gonna meet them, and what am I supposed to do then, hmm?” your friend had asked with a laugh. “Be the world’s most awkward fourth wheel?”

You’d laughed with her, knocking your shoulders against hers with a fond little smile, “Well if they’re gonna be in my life for the long haul, don't you think it’s important that they meet the person who matters to me the most right off the bat?”

You’re terrified of going back out there and facing them, but what other option do you have? The only window in the bathroom is too high and too small to squeeze through, and even if you could, getting an apartment on the seventh floor had seemed like a great idea at the time, but it doesn’t exactly lend itself to an easy getaway.

The flimsy lock on the bathroom door is all that’s keeping them out – with their strength it’s hardly much of a barrier at all, but it’s all you have.

Here in your bathroom, under the scalding water, you’re safe. They can’t hurt you.

You’d like to think that now they’ve gotten what they wanted, now that they know that you can’t run and their reputations can’t be tarnished, they’ll go. And there’s a little voice inside your head that tells you it’s a stupid, foolish hope. You know that the moment you set foot outside that door, things’ll never be the same again.

A few years back, you read an article on some tabloid website about an up and coming Hero who’d disappeared out of the blue after joining Hawks’ agency as an intern. Supposedly, they were soulmates, and once the Pro realised it, he’d swooped her up and taken her to some secret safe house to hide her away from the rest of the world, supposedly ‘for her own protection’. It was all rumours, of course. No way for them to actually prove the theory – and no one actually cared about some missing, low level Hero at the end of the day. It was news for a week and then everybody moved on.

Are they gonna do the same thing to you?

Spirit you away to some hideout where they can keep you all to themselves – so they can fuck you whenever they want without having to worry about you running off? You’ll never see your family again, or your friends… they’ll be your entire world, and just like that intern, everybody else will forget you ever existed.

Or maybe they’ll be satisfied enough just forcing themselves into your life, letting you go back to your job, your boring, mundane nine to five, never knowing when they’re going to pop up and take what they want. They’ll come over and play house, acting as if this is a normal relationship, waiting for you to come around and accept them.

Love them.

The thoughts makes bile rise in your throat. Your entire body aches from inside out. There’s bitemarks and bruises littering your skin, marks that won’t fade for days… you can’t let them do this to you again.

As if they can hear your panicked thoughts, a knock sounds on the bathroom door, and your heart clenches.

“Hey, babe?” Kirishima calls out, “You okay? You’ve kinda been in there a while…”

That same voice, chanting breathlessly above you, “I love you, I love you– f-fuck– I love you!”

Panic, cloying and sharp tears at you. You try to answer, tell him to leave you alone, that you need more time, but the words catch in your throat and all that comes out is a pitiful squeak and he knocks again, louder, more insistent and it’s too much.

They're gonna break down the door and hurt you again. Hot tears well up and spill down your cheeks with an audible sob, and you clutch at yourself tighter, willing them away–

“Babe? Talk to us, sweetheart, you’re making us worried.”

The door handle jiggles insistently, and you bury your face between your knees breathing rapidly, they’re gonna break it down, they’re gonna break it down, they’re gonna–

“Move, Kiri,” Bakugou snaps.

You don’t register the snap of the lock breaking or the frantic footsteps that approach, the harsh sound of your heaving gasps drowning out all else. Then suddenly there’s strong, muscular arms pulling you out from the water with a muffled curse.

It’s Kirishima who’s holding you, you realise as a flash of blond darts back behind you to turn the shower off. And it’s suffocating, the way he clutches at you, big hands running along your back, pulling you closer, holding you tighter, words of comfort you can’t hear over the pounding of your own heart spilling from his lips.

And then Bakugou’s face is filling your vision, the scowl on his face growing more pronounced as he studies you – shaking, teary, eyes wide and swimming with fear–

Something inside of you just gives and you don’t fight it when the darkness swallows you whole.

—

When you come to, you’re lying on something soft – a bed, you realise, but not your own. There’s an arm slung over your waist; corded with muscles, tan, covered in fine, golden hair and faint white scars; Bakugou’s.

Which means that the warm breath gently tickling at your neck must belong to him as well.

You’re not naked at least; a quick glance down at your body revealing they’d dressed you in one of your old tees and a pair of panties. You’re not sure whether that observation is supposed to calm or unnerve you; you’d rather be clothed than not, but the thought of your soulmates rifling through your things, dressing you while you were unconscious… is not a pleasant one.

“You’re awake.” It’s an observation, not a question. His voice is gruff, an edge of sleepiness clinging to the words, but it lacks the heat you’ve come to expect from the explosive Hero. He sounds comfortable almost – at least that’s the sense you get as his face presses up against the nape of your neck, his arm drawing you closer with a low groan.

Still, you haven’t uttered a sound.

It feels surreal, lying there in your captor’s arms – and he is your captor, soulmate or no, there’s no denying that fact anymore. There’s a part of you that realises that you should be panicking, kicking scratching and clawing because you don’t know where you are, but it’s certainly not your apartment and you definitely don’t want him touching you after what he’s already put you through.

But rather than the sheer, unrelenting panic that had gripped you before, it’s just… nothing. Dormant, lying simmering just below the surface, and you’re almost scared to draw breath, to shatter the sweet, tender facade between the two of you.

There’s no point in asking where you are, no point in demanding he let you go. They’ve shown you that what you want doesn’t matter here, so instead you ask the obvious question.

“Where’s Kirishima?”

Bakugou grunts, burrowing himself closer. It’s not cold in the room, but his bare skin burns like a furnace, just on the wrong side of comfortable. “Makin’ breakfast.”

Breakfast.

You swallow tightly, but Bakugou isn’t done.

“Scared the shit out of us, fainting like that,” he scoffs. “Should’a fuckin’ known you’d need us to come take care of you.”

His fingers, resting over your stomach, dip lower, sliding roughly beneath the hem of your panties as he grinds his hips along your ass. He’s hard already, you can feel every inch of it, long and thick pressing insistently up against you.

Shame and indignation flare up like a match struck, but before you can even open your mouth to snap a retort, Bakugou yanks his hand out of your underwear to stuff his fingers inside your mouth.

Your first instinct is to bite down, but the blond at your back just growls, “Suck,” and you’re not stupid enough to think that hurting him (or trying to at least) is going to stop what’s about to happen.

Or maybe you’re just scared to test exactly how far you can push them before they really hurt you.

Obediently, your tongue swirls around his thick digits, hollowing out your cheeks and earning a grunt of appreciation from your soulmate.

“Always thought that my soulmate was gonna be someone strong,” he mutters, his hips still rocking up against yours. “Somebody who could keep up with Kiri ‘n me, hold their own in a fight. Never thought you’d be some weak as shit, quirkless little cry-baby.”

It stings more than it has any right to.

Slowly, his fingers slide from your lips, a long, thin glistening strand of saliva connecting the two. It’s hard to fight the whine that escapes you as they return to your pussy, angrily shoving aside your panties before thinking better of it and ripping them off of you completely. The warm puff of breath that ghosts across your skin sends shivers down your spine, and though you can’t see his face when he speaks next you can tell that he’s grinning.

“But fuck, sweetheart, you’re goddamn perfect – everythin’ we didn’t know we needed.”

He kisses you as his index and middle fingers plunge eagerly into your cunt, not the rough, biting kisses he’d gifted you with the night before, no. These are almost tender, sweet – or at least as sweet as a monster like Bakugou is capable of – entirely at odds with way his calloused fingers curl inside of you, fucking you, stretching you out while he cruelly thumbs at your clit.

Katsuki wants you strung out and whining for him. For Kirishima.

He wants you helpless.

“We’re gonna keep you nice ‘n safe, baby. Won’t have to worry about a goddamn fucking thing ‘cept keepin’ your soulmates happy.”

It sounds more like the passing of a sentence than a reassurance, but you can’t tell him that you don’t want this. He knows – he has to by now. He just doesn't care.

You don’t hear it when Kiri comes back, not when Bakugou’s sucking at your neck, your pussy throbbing with need as his fingers drive relentlessly into you, hitting your g-spot with every flick of his wrist.

You might not have noticed the redhead lingering in the doorway, his cock tenting in his pants, eyes dark and glazed over as he watches the show unfolding before him, but Bakugou certainly does.

“Oi, shitty hair. You just gonna stand there and watch or are you actually gonna fucking do something?” His voice is rough and a little breathless, closer to a growl than speech – it makes your gut clench, a shiver run down along your spine.

When your eyes finally do meet Kirishima’s, your heart squeezes, your stomach flipping. Kirishima’s staring at you like a wolf readying itself to pounce, like he wants to devour every inch of you and savour the taste.

He grins widely, pink tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Bakugou’s the one with the bad reputation – as explosive as his quirk, brash at the best of times and overly aggressive even with his friends – you have every reason to be terrified of him, even before he broke into your home to take you.

Kirishima might be kinder, gentler with his touches (at least, he tries to be), but you’re a fool if you think you’re any safer with the redhead.

“Thought you said you were gonna wait,” he says, advancing towards the two of you as he kicks out of his shorts, but the grin on his face doesn’t waver for a second. He’s not nearly as put out as he pretends. “I could hear the pretty little thing moaning all the way in the kitchen.”

Shame would be enough to flood your cheeks with heat, but it’s the sight of Kiri’s cock, flushed an angry red, veiny and thick, hanging heavy between his muscular thighs that does the job. The spit in your mouth dries, your heart thumping unevenly even as pleasure pools in your gut courtesy of Bakugou’s attention. You let out a sharp shriek as he quickens his pace, one hand reaching to grab at his wrist, the other clutching desperately for purchase at the bedsheets, but it’s not enough.

Heat burns at your core, and unwittingly, you find your hips bucking up against him, fervently searching for more.

At your back, the blond chuckles, you feel the deep vibrations echoing through your chest, “Yeah, well you were taking too long.”

There might be more that he says, but at that moment he slides a third finger into your dripping cunt, calloused fingertips slamming against your tight, gummy walls and you’re robbed of the ability to think.

Your first orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, the building pleasure snapping like an elastic band stretched too far. A strangled moan slips out of your lips, and you don’t even notice the teeth sinking into your shoulder, Bakugou once more staking his claim as you cum for him. You quiver and quake in his grip, your cunt tightening around his digits and sucking them in further with a lewd squelching sound that you might be more embarrassed about if you could focus on anything but the pleasurable aftershocks of your peak.

All the while, Kirishima drinks you in, salivating at the sight of your drooling, fucked out expression, the syrupy slick that’s all but dripping out around Bakugou’s thick fingers, still stuffed deep inside of your pussy.

And maybe if he were a better man, he might allow you a moment to breathe and hurtle back down to earth, but patience has never been a virtue of his. He lunges forward faster than a man of his size has any right to, jumping onto the bed and all but tearing you out of Bakugou’s hold. You’re still reeling, panting and sore and dizzy with pleasure as Kirishima’s lips crash against yours, stealing what little breath you have left in a burning kiss.

Your attention’s caught on the way his tongue’s sliding against yours, trying to coax you into kissing back, the sharp, minty taste of him – you miss the way he grasps at his flushed, leaking cock, dragging it along your puffy slit. You miss the sound of Bakugou shedding his own pants.

You’re still weakly trying to push at his chest when Kiri slides his cock into your warm, welcoming cunt, his low, guttural moan lost to your lips. And despite Bakugou’s attempts at preparing you, it still burns, the sheer girth of his fat cock filling you up and stretching you uncomfortably. Tears sting at your eyes, a whimper catching in your throat as he hums in pleasure, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer, impaling you further onto his length.

Yet you’re not given a moment to accommodate the massive cock inside of you – not as you feel another blunt, flushed cockhead pressing up against your already stuffed pussy. Realisation hits a moment too late, your face blanching, your heart skipping a beat as panic – sheer panic – chokes at you.

You try to push back from Kiri’s embrace, only to feel Bakugou once again pressing up against your back, trapping you between them. You squirm in vain, trying to kick and push, fighting even as the blond’s cock, not as girthy as Kirishima’s but still far too big for you to take with Kiri still inside of you, starts to force its way into your plush, velvety walls.

“F-fuck, she’s tight,” he grunts as you arch up against Kiri, your tits, still covered by your thin, cotton tee, squishing up against his bare chest in an attempt to writhe away from the overwhelming feeling of fullness, the burning, stinging, throbbing pain between your legs.

But your soulmates are far from considerate, not even as you start to wail, your nails raking down the redhead’s broad shoulders.

“Your pussy’s a fuckin’ dream,” he continues, swearing with a hiss as he finally bottoms out.

It’s too much, you feel like you’re being split in two. Every twitch and throb of their dicks, every vein, every inch of them is pressed too tightly against you, your walls struggling to take them both. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts so fucking bad, but neither one of them care as you start to sob–

No, Kiri just kisses away your tears, taking your face in his large hands and cooing sweetly when you beg them through gasping, heaving sobs to stop.

“You’re doing so good for us, baby. Look how well you’re taking our cocks – it’s like you were made for us,” he laughs at his own stupid joke, and all you can focus on is the pain as he starts to draw his hips back, your oversensitive walls screaming in protest. “We’re gonna make you feel so fucking amazing, just wait.”

And it’s not his wide, beaming grin that shatters you, or even the hunger blazing in those crimson depths. It’s not Bakugou panting at your back, his hands coming up to shove your top up so he can palm greedily at your tits, or even the lewd almost feral sounds the explosion Hero’s making as he and Kirishima settle into a maddening rhythm, not allowing you a moment to catch your breath and steady yourself as they fuck you.

No, it’s the sheer, feverish love you can see written across his face clear as day, the softness with which he holds you, even as he chases his own pleasure.

This is their version of love, and you – quirkless, weak as shit and entirely at their mercy – have no hope in hell of escaping it.

#yandere bnha #yandere bakugo katsuki #yandere kirishima eijiro #yandere bakugou katuski x reader #yandere kirishima eijiro x reader #yandere bakugou x reader #yandere kirishima x reader #tw non con #tw kidnapping #tw blood #it's like one mention but still #me posting this when my dash is dead instead of at 2am #more likely than you think

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undertheflagrp · 2 years ago

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KANG AZRA is a LEVEL ONE CAVALIER. he excels in HEALTH, LUCK and DEXTERITY. he is also a WANDERER in GLEERIUM.

< HP: 20 > < STR: 4 > < MAG: 0 > < DEX: 6 > < SPD: 3 > < LCK: 9 > < DEF: 3 > < RES 1 > < CHA: 4 >

STATUS | NOTES | INTRODUCTION LOADING...

[ QUEST: BATTLING YOUR BELOVED ]

TW: BLOOD, VIOLENCE

war is a vicious thing, azra learns.

and he doesn't learn that lesson from books, from tales of once upon a time or history books which recall the history of the continent, of gleerium. he doesn't learn it from other people's stories either, tales from men and women alike who are marred by it beyond their skin or from people who never held a real weapon on their hands but enjoy the gossip and glory of it anyway. azra learns from experience, from having blood stained hands and screams of dead men carved in his eardrums. he learns through knowing what it feels like to have his lance go through armor and human skin. he learns from standing in the battlefield and feeling sickeningly satisfied whenever he hit one more soldier, watching them fall into the ground and adding one more soul that he'll have to pay for when he dies.

however, it isn't satisfaction that curls on his chest, poisoning his heart with its deadly claws, when he watches the next man who stands in front of him in his way not only to victory but to survival because that's what war is for them, for the soldiers, while victory is a luxury to those powerful enough that won't put a single foot on a battlefield. it isn't fear of death either that fills his lungs like water would fill a drowning man's. it's something more complicated than those two emotions, something that curls and uncurls inside of him, tightening and loosening its grips on azra's very own soul in the same rhythm of his heartbeat.

❝ father. ❞ he greets the man, recognizable even underneath the armor with the colors of the enemy that he wears. ❝ long time no see. ❞ and the words taste like sand in his mouth, salty and rough.

the man doesn't greet him back, doesn't really say a word, quietly branding the sword in his hand but doesn't make a move forward almost like he's also frozen in place just like azra is; a gesture that leaves the cavalier not knowing whether this is just his father about to ignore him because not even this man would go as low as murder his own son or if it's just a sign that he's letting azra have the advantage, to make the first move, putting on the younger man's back whether or not they'll actually fight.

❝ that isn't fair. ❞ he says, hand tightening its grip on his horse's reins, but the man still keeps quiet, the only thing that azra can here is the sound of the sword cutting the air with its movements and perhaps if he was less in a turmoil he'd also realize how eerily quiet the whole battefield is, like no other battle is happening, like this isn't a battlefield at all. ❝ you can't leave it to me. you can't always leave it to me. ❞ leave it to him to sacrifice so much to obtain so little, to decide whether he'll leave his family or not instead of them kicking him out since that was obviously what they wanted, always leaving him to do the difficult choices just so he'll be pinned down by them.

❝ do you really wish for me to have more blood in my hands so you won't have it on yours? one more sin to add on me so you won't face punishment for it? ❞ azra's voice wavers, hands trembling even if he tries to hold his lance and reins tighter until he feels the leather marking his skin to at least pretend that they aren't shaking. could he do it? it isn't like he loves his father. at this point in life he knows, knows that what he feels for the patriarch of his family isn't love, but it doesn't remove the weight of its title anyway, of the image and morals that he was drenched on since he could remember. however, it isn't like he has the time to process everything and give himself an answer because his father finally moves and either out of self preservation sense or out of all the feelings he has been bottling up towards that man and his family, azra moves too and—

he wakes up drenched in cold sweat, hands trembling while he tries to catch his breath. he's back on the room he rented for the night, walls and ceiling unfamiliarly cozy, and his horse is back on the stables, his lance still laying by his side on the bed and more important his father is nowhere in sight even when the reminders of his dreams are still so fresh in his mind, so solid that he could swear they were real. but the thing is that at this point azra also learned how to deal with nightmares, how to lay back in bed and close his eyes, to take long and deep breaths to calm his heart down and fall back to sleep, praying that this will be the last bad dream of the night.

“I CAN’T AFFORD TO LOSE!”

#uf:accepted #cha eunwoo #lee dongmin #krp #kpop rp

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creative-lampd-liberties · 3 years ago

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I couldn't resist, I need more of your amazing work so prompt 33 roceit please?

I'm more than happy to get another prompt @zozomind I hope you enjoy this one as well, it turned into some intense hurt/comfort

Roceit, 33 "I'll protect you."

Warnings:Unspecified injuries, Unspecified bad guys from the imagination. Some serious Janus angst featuring mentions of death.

☆☆☆

Janus had managed to drag himself through the dense forest, bleeding, for what felt like miles. Until he stumbled on a tiny cottage. His brief moment of hope for rescue shatters when he staggers inside to find it empty. Nothing but a pile of furs on a table and some dry wood stacked by the cold fireplace.

He shivers, the motion pulling at his wounds and making him whimper. He can't go any further. It's getting dark and colder and everything *hurts*. He eyes the fireplace. It's risky, but he's so cold. And likely they'll find him sooner or later anyway. At least he can be warm while he waits for death.

It takes all of his remaining strength to set the wood and summon a single match. He curls up in the furs as close as he dares and closes his eyes. Not for the first time, he wishes to wake up in his own bed. To be greeted by Remus, or even one of the others. For all of this to be some horrible nightmare. Or, not to wake up at all..

Tears prickle at his eyes. He knew he wasn't well liked, but he'd have thought Remus at least would be looking for him by now. But it's been weeks. No one is coming to rescue him. If he's lucky he'll die of his wounds before his captors track him down.

☆☆☆

The door creaking open shocks him out of sleep. A shadowy figure slips through. They've found him. He lies frozen, until moonlight glints on the edge of a sword. And then instinct takes over.

"What the hell! Who-"

He explodes out of the furs, hissing and clawing out blindly. Every move draws a hoarse groan as he scrambles backwards. He has to get his back to the wall. Wedged in the corner, he pants. He's growling, hissing whenever the figure moves, crouched and trembling. A distant part of him thinks he must look exactly like the dumb animal his captors claimed him to be.

"Janus?!"

The voice is familiar. Still, he claws out at whoever is approaching.

"Hey! It's just me. Where the hell have you *been*?"

The figure finally draws close enough to see in the dim light and… is he hallucinating? "R-roman?" His voice cracks disbelievingly.

Roman has dropped his sword. He steps closer, hands out placatingly. All the strength leaves him immediately, and Janus collapses to his knees.

Roman lets out an alarmed noise. He crouches in front of Janus. "You're hurt. Let me see." Janus tries not to flinch away from his hands. He doesn't do a very good job. Roman sucks in a breath every time his probing fingers find another wound, and Janus whimpers. "Sorry, sorry."

Finally he draws back, frowning. "I'll have to bandage you up before we can move you. Can you stand? It'll be easier by the fire."

He shakes his head, shame prickling through him. The adrenaline has faded. His muscles feel like rubber, and his breath hitches on a sob. He *hates* feeling so weak.

"That's okay, let me help you." Roman is *so* gentle with him, freezing every time he makes a noise. It's been so long since anyone touched him with anything but intent to hurt. He's crying by the time Roman sets him down on the furs.

"What is it? Did I hurt you?" Roman cradles his face, fingers soft against the bruises. He just sobs harder. "Oh darling, I'm *so sorry* we didn't find you sooner." ...They *were* looking for him. He hadn't been abandoned. He can't help but let out a whine, nuzzling against Roman’s touch even though it stings.

There's not much left of his shirt, but Roman is still careful as he eases it off. Janus can tell when he sees the extent of the damage because he lets out a wounded noise. "Oh sweetheart…"

The care he takes in bandaging Janus’s wounds is dizzying. Never mind the time he spent in captivity, he doesn't think anyone has *ever* treated him with this much kindness.

The sound of horses sends a sharp terror ripping through his chest, and then the door bursts open.

"Your highness, we found the-"

"Get out." Roman snaps, suddenly between him and the door..

*Oh god*… They were here. They'd found him, and they were going to kill Roman, and then they'd drag him back and it would start all over again and he wouldn't survive it this time and he couldn't stop it and-

"Hey." There were gentle hands cupping his face. "Janus, look at me, it's alright. You're safe."

His lungs screamed for air. "B-but you- they'll...I can't…"

"Breathe sweetheart, please. They're not here and I wouldn't let them touch you even if they were. I'll protect you, I swear it." Roman breathes, slowly and steady, his grip firm. "I've got you, you're safe now, I promise."

His features blur and swim and Janus realizes with a start that he's crying again. Pathetic. "S-ssorry, m'sssorry."

"Sorry? Oh darling, no. You haven't done anything wrong."

That can't be right, why else would they have hurt him so *badly*? He shivers, listing into Roman.

Roman conjures a cloak, thick and fleece lined, and wraps it firm around his shoulders. He scoops Janus up again, cradling him like he's something delicate. Like he's valuable. Janus can't do anything but cling, breath catching as they approach the door.

Roman hushes him, holding him tighter. "It's alright. I'm taking you home now." He doesn't even bother with theatrics, simply opening the door straight into his room. The sight of it makes Janus cry harder. He never thought he'd see this place again. It's so warm in the mindscape, and it smells like paint and cookies and Thomas and *home*

Roman eases him down into his own bed, a frown on his face as he brushes soft hands over the bandages. He settles beside Janus, taking his hand and stroking across the bruises on his face.Warmth trails after his fingers and the pain finally, *finally* starts to recede.

Exhaustion swoops in to take its place. His eyes slip closed, and he jolts, tearing them open. The relieved noise he lets out when he sees Roman makes the other side squeeze his hand.

He dredges up enough energy to clutch back. "Am I dreaming?" His voice is small and feels like it comes from very far away.

Roman's face crumples. "No, sweetheart, this is real. You're home."

"Don't leave, please." Part of him loathes the tremor in his words, but if Roman vanishes now…

"Of course not. I'm staying right here, darling, I promise."

He curls a little closer, pressing his face into Roman's side. Roman's fingers tangle in his hair, and he hums softly as Janus's awareness slips away.

"That's it, love. You can sleep. I'll keep watch, keep you safe" The cadence of his voice follows Janus down into sleep. "I'll protect you. I promise I'll *always* protect you…

☆☆☆

#roceit #tss fic #sanders sides fic #angst #hurt comfort #janus sanders #roman sanders #asks #replies #my fics #101 ways to say i love you

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years ago

Text

Face the Darkness

Prompt 2 for @greenfiredragonfly's Angstember prompts-- "Go. But I'm not Leaving." This time I've gone for some War in Heaven angst! Technically a slight AU as you'll see in the end, but I'm assuming most of the rest works out as in canon.

The Fortress trembled as the ground shifted once more, cracks splitting the desiccated plain in an ever more complex spider web. Solid stone walls vibrated, pouring streams of crushed stone from every corner of the ceiling. The air was thick with dust. Already the loyal forces of Heaven had withdrawn to the distant hills to watch, silent and impassive.

The War had ended. The Fortress of Lucifer had begun its Fall.

The first of the four watchtowers collapsed, shattering across blasted plain. From the wreckage crawled the rebellious angels, bodies already twisting into more animalistic shapes: talons and fangs, scales and gills, rotten flesh and oozing sores.

Outside the walls patrolled guards in solid plate armor wielding swords and spears and whips; in an instant, they descended on the few who had escaped, driving them back towards the gates, towards their fate. More beings inside fought and screamed, clawing at the guards only to be pushed back again and again. Voices raised, accusations shouted at soldiers, at leaders, at God Herself.

The guards were not of the heavenly legions. When Lucifer’s last army was routed, he had declared that all of his rebels would share in his punishment. Those who kept the frightened masses in check had been promised prominent positions as the Lords of their new domain, while the would-be deserters risked punishments more gruesome than anything the enemy had done.

Still, they tried.

Some few managed to pass the final ring of guards, to strike out across the plain that moved and reformed under their feet, cracks and crevices opening wide, whole sections of land suddenly dissolving, raining down into the realm of darkness.

They fled, running across uncertain ground, leaping treacherous drops, praying for forgiveness with every breath, holding out their arms to the loyal armies, beseeching their friends to intercede, to stay the Hand of Judgment.

Those who reached the hills and were welcomed into the protection of Heaven found themselves restored, their flesh returned to normal, bodies untwisted, souls pardoned.

The rest… well, they reached their final destination a little sooner than the rest.

One angel stood alone on a watchtower, eyes scanning the chaos below through a shifting curtain of bright red hair.

The scuff of a footstep, barely audible above the screams. The angel turned slightly—a single glance back—just enough for a glimpse of familiar white feathers.

“Shouldn’t be here,” the angel said, turning back to the destruction.

“Neither should you.”

“This again?” A twist of lips, too bitter to be called a smile. “You’ve already told me what you think. Eons and eons ago.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind.”

The angel clutched at the stone parapet, or tried to; it fell apart, sending another rain of dust towards the frightened crowd below. “And, what, you’re here to offer me salvation? Take my confession and determine if I’m worthy? Enact vengeance for all those I’ve destroyed?”

“My dear friend. I’m here to save you.”

Briefly, there were tears in the angel’s eyes; but already those eyes were changing, restructuring into a new shape. “Don’t deserve it.”

“I say you do.” A soft hand landed on the angel’s shoulder, offering a squeeze of comfort. “There is no wickedness in you. No cruelty. Even at the height of the War’s atrocities, you never lost your kindness. You are only here because you were manipulated by Lucifer, caught in his lies. That is no judgment on you. He could just as easily have swayed me, or Gabriel, or anyone else.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?” With a rumble louder than any thunder, the ground below fractured once more. The fortress rose and fell, another tower crumbling to a chorus of screams. “Come, we don’t have time.”

“What must I do?” The first angel didn’t move, but the second breathed a sigh of relief at the question.

“Cross the plain, no more than that. If you reach the other side, if someone is willing to intercede on your behalf, you will be forgiven.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, my dear, oh, it’s so simple. I will be beside you every step of the way, to guide you, to keep you safe. You can’t possibly fail.”

The angel nodded, still looking down into the broken courtyard. “Tell me this: why me? You could save anyone. Why me?”

A brief, shocked silence. “That’s—why would I…? Because I love you.”

“And what about them?” Down below the future Lords of Darkness moved through the crowds, grabbing weeping angels by the jaw or the neck, inspecting them, claiming their favorites. Torments would begin soon, pains that would become familiar to them all. “They were tricked by Lucifer, the same as me.” One pale, scruffy creature grabbed a trembling, crying being by the hair, dragging them towards a dark door. “Do they deserve this fate because they don’t have the love of a Guardian?”

Flinching, the pale figure pulled back towards the shadows. “That isn’t fair.” Little more than a whisper. “You know they don’t. But I can’t save them. Only you.”

With a deep, shaking breath, the angel finally turned, eyes now glinting gold, pupils stretching into lines. “No. You can’t save me. Not if I don’t want to be saved.”

“What are you talking about?” Hazel eyes shining like earthlight as the darkness closed in. “How can you not—”

“How can I go back? Tell me that! How can I ignore the things I learned? Not everything Lucifer said was a lie, that’s why he was so successful. How can I be happy when I’ve seen things for what they truly are?” In a softer voice: “How can I follow a God who would throw so many away just because they’re unloved?” A sob shook those narrow shoulders, but no tears fell. Never again. “If there’s a way, please, tell me. Because I can’t—”

The entire plain rippled like a wave. Another tower fell, and the one they stood on tilted perilously.

“Dearest, we can talk about this later. We need to go now.”

“Go.” The angel turned back to the courtyard. “But I’m not leaving.”

“No!” The Guardian hauled the angel back, as if ready to fly them both to safety or be destroyed trying. “Don’t—you can’t! Don’t you understand what’s happening? What it all means?”

“Better than you!” The angel turned with a furious growl. “I’ve spent countless ages among them already. I know what they’re like, I know what they’ll do to us, and I don’t want that. But I can’t go back.” Narrow hands reached out, clutching the other’s elbows. “Aziraphale, please understand. I can’t go back. Not with… everything I know…”

They embraced, the Guardian blinking back tears. “You could… you could ask God to take your memories. It would be as if you’d never…”

“I can’t.”

“Not… not even for me?”

“I would forget you, too.”

“But I’ll remember.” Aziraphale leaned back, eyes pleading. “And I will still love you. Nothing will change that.”

“But I will change.” The angel scowled again, though this time not from anger but from the desperate search for words. “It’s… not the memories themselves. I might lose them anyway. I’ve already lost my name; I’m losing my form. I’m Falling. And whatever Falling does to me, whatever I become, I will still be me. But. But to willinglygive up the knowledge I’ve earned. To turn my back on it… I wouldn’t be me anymore.”

The next tremor started, and didn’t end.

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale wailed. “But I don’t have to. If… if this will make you happy…”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again.” One last desperate embrace as the surrounding plain began to crumble. “It’s time. Go.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Aziraphale!” But the Guardian only held the angel tighter. “You—you can’t Fall!”

“I do not believe I will. God knows Her own.”

The outer walls vanished, tumbling into the nothing below, bringing wave after wave of bodies with them. “No, She’ll just rip you out of my arms at the cruelest possible moment.”

“Where you see cruelty, I see kindness. Every second with you is a blessing.”

“Aziraphale!”

“Quiet, love. I’m praying.”

The ground shook, lurched, dropped away—

The Fortress and all within it Fell—

All except two angels, wrapped in each other’s arms. Held aloft by Aziraphale’s wings, they did not Fall but meandered gently downwards.

“What?” The nameless angel looked around in confusion. “How…?”

“I told you. Kindness.” Aziraphale’s eyes were closed. “I asked Her for a few more minutes with you. And a chance to spare you from some of the darkness you must face. I know you don’t think you deserve it, but I think you do. And in the end, that is what mattered.”

“Aziraphale…” Quite without meaning to, the angel smiled in wonder. “I love you.”

When the Guardian’s eyes opened, the tears rolled upwards, leaving a trail of droplets back to Heaven. “I love you, too. And it was worth any price to see you smile again.”

“Price? Wait, what price?”

“All my memories of you.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes. I was quite happy to exchange them to buy you these few minutes of peace and a guarantee that we will meet again. Though I’m afraid after that, things will be up to you.” Aziraphale’s incongruous smile began to fade. “What is it?”

“I… I just… I told you I wouldn’t… and then you…” Golden eyes drifted, staring into the suffocating darkness on every side. “What must you think of me?”

“I think you are the most wonderful being in all Creation. I wish for you to be you, in whatever way feels most genuine, as an angel or… otherwise.” Far below, the Fortress ruins came into view, lit by a strange blue glow. “I think you will have a hard enough time ahead of you without such complicated regrets. And I think,” another tear floating upward, glowing like a distant star, “I truly think, this way things will work out for the best.”

“You’ll forget me! Forget us! Everything we ever talked about, or… or…”

“But you’ll remember.” A gentle kiss on the forehead. “And I will still love you. Nothing will change that.”

The Fortress had landed in a boiling pool of sulfur. Aziraphale carefully set the former angel down on solid ground, a safe distance from the edge, then immediately began to float upwards again.

“Wait!” Desperately clinging to those soft hands, the last bit of comfort in the entire realm. “Don’t go!”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t belong down here anymore than you belong Upstairs. We will meet again in the world to come.”

“But what if… without your memories… you’re different? More like the others?”

“Oh.” For the first time since the Fall, Aziraphale looked troubled. “I suppose you… may see some changes you don’t like…”

“No, not that. I’m not going to love you any less. But… you’ll think I’m just another Enemy.”

“Nonsense. I love you, dear boy. And I have the opportunity to fall in love all over again.” The upward pull began to draw their fingers apart. “Only, I don’t know how long that will take, so… be patient?”

“Aziraphale…”

“Take care of yourself, love.” Their grip on each other failed and Aziraphale drifted away, rising faster and faster. “I will see you again! I promise!”

“Aziraphale!”

Silence, broken only by the stirring of creatures rising from the sulfur and slinking into the shadows.

Hands still warm from the loving touch of an angel, the demon turned to face the darkness.

#good omens prime #good omens angst #angel crowley #angst #angstember2021 #prompt challenge #ineffable husbands #good omens #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale #crowley #war in heaven #amnesia #my writing #is it too sad #it might be

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kingofkingdom-archive · 4 years ago

Text

So Much Like Stars - Part TWO

Pairing: Boba Fett x Female Reader

Part TWO (Read Part One HERE)

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Summary: During a trek through the mountains, you discover new things about both Boba and yourself.

Warnings: Explicit sex, p-in-v sex, hand feeding, breathplay, choking kink, power dynamics/power play, royalty kink (?), dom/sub dynamics, pool sex (kinda you'll see), unprotected sex, coming inside (do not do this in real life), age difference, dirty talk, spit kink, offscreen oral sex, AFAB reader, safe to read if triggered by pregnancy

Word Count: 10k+

A/N: Major apologies in order for the delay on this one! It's been up on AO3 (here) for a hot minute but it took me a bit longer to get around to posting it here. Anywho... here it is. Let me know what you think! I love to get reblogs/comments/messages so very much. As always, no use of Y/N, and please heed the warnings. <3

The early hours of the following day fly by like ash in the wind.

You and Boba leave as soon as you are able, gathering necessary supplies into packs and preparing for the grueling trek ahead of you. You notify your father of your departure - he is not happy about it, but he learned long ago that he has little sway over the decisions you make.

You also find Boba a cloak that fits over his armor and that doesn't hinder his ability to reach his weapons. It's thick around his neck, which is why you'd insisted he wear it.

He'd stopped complaining once you were about a kilometer out from the village gate.

The howling wind swirls around the two of you, snow and ice collecting on your clothes. The journey is not an easy one, but with Boba's natural strength and your knowledge of the terrain the two of you handle it better than most.

Boba's steps are always audible behind you, even when the air around you seems to be screaming. You appreciate his closeness, because far too often people have been lost and never found because they fell too far behind.

It's easy to become lost in a place like this. Being found tends to be a matter of life and death.

The sheer cliff faces and shifting dunes of snow present the most hazardous challenges on your journey. One single misstep could have either of you tumbling down, and as you walk you only gain elevation, increasing the distance between you and the ground below. It's terrain that you've traversed plenty of times, but you don't know how well-suited Boba is to such harsh elements.

You glance back at your companion when you come to a turn, sheltered from the biting wind and driving snow.

"Faring alright back there?" You have to yell to be heard, but Boba nods.

"I'm doing just fine, princess. Seen worse than this."

You raise your brows, even though he can't see your face through your mask. "If you say so. We'll be on this trail for the rest of today and most of tomorrow. Then we'll turn off and find the source."

There is, of course, the risk of encountering an ongrol. The idea of it looms over your journey like a dark cloud, and you keep alert to any shift in the wind or in the landscape ahead. The constant drone of air around you would typically mask the sound of any movement, but your ears have become attuned to listening for things outside the wind. Footsteps, especially those of a creature larger than yourself, will be obvious. The ongrol are not known for their stealth - if they want to attack, they'll do it with a thunderous leap and a swipe of razor-sharp claws.

You'd been telling the truth when you told Boba it was rare to escape an encounter with one alive. Boba had shown you the fire-blaster on his arm, and the two of you have no shortage of weapons, but still you worry. You keep alert, listening to the world around you.

Though your focus has a tight hold on your mind, you can't help but let your thoughts wander to Boba, and to the events of the previous night.

In all your life, you've never met a man quite like Boba.

Not only did he sense your needs intrinsically, it seemed as though he saw right through you the moment he laid eyes on you. You recall seeing his visor tilt toward you in the meeting room; you hadn't known it then, but now you can imagine what he'd been thinking. Boba saw your presence at that table and immediately knew what kind of girl you are.

It doesn't speak well to your sensibilities as a village leader, if you're being honest with yourself. This is the first foreigner to visit your people, and you let him into your home, between your legs? You suddenly feel rather guilty about it, but a small voice in your head reminds you how good it felt.

How good he felt.

Maker above. Nothing in your life could ever compare to the things he made you feel last night. Armor against skin - ice against fire, rough edges against smooth curves. The smell of him in your nose as he pleasured you, unkempt and raw. The splay of his hands on your hips as he took, and took, and gave you so much in return.

Boba knew exactly how to take you apart. And you'd only met him that day.

You didn't delude yourself into believing this could continue. He does not belong here, and you certainly can't leave. Above all else, your people need you, and to leave the planet would be to abandon them.

You steel your heart into acceptance. You'll enjoy Boba's company for as long as he's here, and then things will return to normal. You'll figure out how to hide the kyber and no one will bother you. Your people will live on in peace.

Whether you will ever find peace after knowing what it is to be with Boba Fett is another matter entirely. But you can't dwell on that, or you might decide to do something drastic.

You let that thought slip from your brain quickly, replacing it with memories of last night. Despite yourself, you smile beneath your mask, surely blushing as well. Though your steps forward are certain and sure, your center heats up at the thought of his hand around your throat, of his thick cock moving wickedly inside you.

From the depths of your mind float up a few words he'd said, a phrase you'd forgotten until just now.

Come for your king.

Odd, his choice of wording. It sends a shiver down your spine, but then you give it a moment of thought. Surely he didn't mean king in the context of you, of your village - that wouldn't make any sense. But then again, he couldn't mean --

You furrow your brow. Yes, it was the heat of the moment, but he still said it.

There's a possibility of something more there, something much more than just a bounty hunter in search of a handful of credits and some relief for the night. You remember how he'd asked if you knew his name, like he'd expected you to.

Do you know the name Boba Fett, princess?

Boba Fett. No, you have no knowledge of that name outside the armored man trekking behind you.

Who is he?

You frown, but decide to keep your questions to yourself for now. You're nothing if not careful - keeping your cards close to your chest is a skill you've more than mastered.

Boba Fett, no matter who he is, will be none the wiser to your doubts.

That night, once darkness begins to envelop the air around you, you lead Boba to a small, secluded, empty cave safe from the cold wind. There's a dark scorch mark on the ground, evidence of a past campfire.

"I've used this cave a number of times," you explain as you take off your pack, setting it on the ground with a groan. The weight on your shoulders never gets lighter. "The cold shouldn't reach us here, especially once we get a fire going."

Boba hums, unrolling his bedroll, which is a collection of mats and blankets identical to yours. "I know a few other ways we could stay warm, princess."

You look over at him. His back is turned to you, large and imposing in the dim light.

"Do you?" you ask, light with a hint of a sly smile in your voice. You lean your staff against the cave wall and crouch to begin extracting your own bedroll.

Behind you, you hear a gruff chuckle. The deep, rumbling sound of it makes your breath hitch. Boba Fett may be an enigma to you, but that doesn't mean you feel any less strongly for him now than you did last night.

In fact, the close quarters of this cave mean his words are more than just teasing.

You turn and spread your bedroll out beside the spot where you'll set up the fire, and you see that Boba has set his up so that it's perpendicular to yours, the corners overlapping.

Next you take out the meat and bread you brought along, as well as flint, some firestarter, and a few bricks of coal that will burn through the night. You prop yourself on your knees to get the fire started, and once the flames have sprung to life, you lean forward to set up the small spit to cook your meal.

You're just arranging the cut of meat on the metal spike when you feel movement behind you. The fire beneath you is searing, so hot that when you feel hands on your hips, you lean back into them to escape the heat.

Boba's hands grip your hips tighter and you yelp as he drags you backwards. His fingers land on your thigh, grasping at and arranging you until your back is flush with his chest. Your legs are tucked in between his, which are spread out in front of the two of you.

You look up at him. You're seated in his lap, but the layers of clothes and metal between you prevent you from feeling anything distinct.

He reaches a hand up to tug at your face mask.

"Let me see you," he murmurs.

You let him remove the cloth covering your mouth and nose, and then he slides your goggles off of your face. You're sure you've got marks around your eyes from wearing them for so long, but Boba doesn't seem to mind.

In return, you place your hands on the bottom of his helmet, fingers curling under. He allows you to press the small latch beneath your index finger and slide his helmet off, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your face as soon as you can see his mouth.

You lift Boba's helmet all the way off and set it to the side. He puts a hand on your waist, firm and grounding, fingers curled tightly into your ribs.

"I've been many places in my time, but I admit I've never met anyone quite like you, little one."

His words are smooth as silk, soft and tender in your ear. You smile and raise your brows, glancing from his eyes to his lips and back again.

"Surely you've met more than a few pretty girls in your travels," you reply.

Boba scoffs. His grip on your thigh tightens, pulling you close.

"I have. You…" he shakes his head, and you watch as his gazes slips down to land on your mouth. You bite your lip and your heart races at the way his pupils dilate at the sight of it.

"You're different, sweetheart."

The new pet name makes you shiver, subconsciously pressing closer to him. "Is that right? I can hardly believe I'm much different from anyone else."

You're baiting him, goading him into saying something more. You've never been one for compliments - they've always felt forced, almost disingenuous. Not with Boba.

"The girls I've known either want my head on a pike or can't look me in the eye," he tells you. You chuckle softly - you don't blame them.

"Is that 'cause you'll shoot them if they do?"

Boba grunts and pinches your side, making you squeal. You laugh, full-bodied and silly, at your own joke, spurred on by Boba's tickling.

He leans down, large body curling over you. Your giggles peter out as his lips press against your ear.

"What if I said yes, little one?"

You blink. Slowly, you turn to face him, so close that your noses are brushing.

"If you said yes?" you whisper into the air between your lips.

He hums.

You take a moment to study the scars on his face before grinning, soft and lazy. Your hand, resting on his knee, gives a gentle squeeze.

"Then I'd tell you there's more than a few men in that village who can't look me in the eye."

Your words seem to take Boba by surprise for a moment, from the way his eyebrows bounce up. It's true - when you were younger, boys in the village would try things, stupid dares and pranks you took none too lightly. There's one in particular who, if he looked at you funny, would get a blaster shot to the knee thanks to the shit he's pulled in the past.

They've learned their lessons.

"Is that so?" Boba's voice has gotten slightly deeper. It rolls through you like thunder, filling the small cave with its resonance.

You nod, a smirk playing at the edges of your lips.

His eyes flit down, gaze following the subtle movement of your mouth. It's too much - the closeness, the heat of the fire and of his body and of the way he's looking at you. You bring your hand up to rest on his shoulder, gripping his armor.

And you kiss him.

You press your lips against his, open and pliant, unable to save yourself from how much you want him. Boba groans and returns the kiss, tongue sweeping into your open mouth, licking into you like he's a man starved and you're his next meal. You savor the taste of him, because you can't pinpoint exactly what the flavor on his tongue is, and you know that must mean it's something uniquely Boba.

He shifts his hands to rearrange you, placing your legs on either side of his own so you're straddling him. Your palms come up to rest on his neck and jaw as his land on your hips, pulling you down so you're sitting right on his codpiece. You gasp at the feeling of it through your clothes. Boba bites at your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, before releasing you.

You open your eyes, not having realized you'd closed them. Boba is staring at you, but you can't read the look in his eye.

"What?" you murmur, searching his expression for any hint of what he might be thinking.

He hums, hand on your hip flexing, squeezing. "Nothing, sweetheart, just…"

You wait for him to finish his thought. His brows furrow ever so slightly as he looks back at you. Behind you, the meat sizzles from the heat of the fire, filling the space with its aromatic scent.

Boba shakes his head. "Nevermind."

Before you can respond, he presses forward to kiss you again. You want to encourage him to share what he was going to say, but it only takes a swipe of his tongue against your own to have your eyelids fluttering shut and your thoughts quieting.

He kisses you like the sun - hot and insistent, reminding you how fleeting it all is. You've only ever seen the sun a few times in your life, but its brightness seared your mind in a way not dissimilar to the way Boba's laying his mark on your heart.

You let him kiss you deeply, unhurried, until your brain clicks on long enough to remind you that there's food cooking behind you.

You extract yourself from Boba's hold, which makes him grunt in displeasure until he sees what you're doing. In your pack there's a plate and a cloth, both of which you retrieve and bring back to the fire. Carefully you take the meat off of the spit and put it on the plate, along with the bread.

Boba watches, legs still spread as he sits, leaning back on his hands. You take the plate and sit between his thighs again.

You make to tear a piece of the tender meat off, but you feel a hand on your arm, preventing you from doing so. Confused, you look up at Boba, who simply rips off his own bit of meat. But instead of bringing it to his lips, he raises it to yours.

Wordlessly, you lock eyes with him and open your mouth. His stare is hot, intense, as he feeds you, your lips closing around his index finger and thumb, tongue licking the excess juices off his skin. You take a moment longer than is strictly necessary to taste the pads of his fingers, hollowing your cheeks and sucking his digits like you might something else of his.

You chew the meat once he's pulled his fingers from your mouth. He watches intently until you've swallowed, and then he takes a piece for himself.

As he eats, you find yourself full to the brim with curiosity about him. Once he's finished with his bite, you ask the first question you can think of.

"Last night you mentioned your father. I'd like to hear about him."

Boba raises his brows. He tears off another chunk of meat, offers it to you, and you take it. He speaks as you chew.

"His name was Jango. I -" he seems to consider his words, eyes darting down to the ground as he thinks "- he wasn't technically my father, but he raised me as his son. I traveled with him as a boy, until he was killed by a Jedi."

You frown. "What's that?”

Boba looks at you funny, tilting his head. "You've never heard of the Jedi?"

You shake your head no. "Are they human?"

"Some are," he explains. "They're Force-users, claiming to fight for peace and justice in the galaxy."

His voice is bitter, but you don't blame him, if what he says is true. "But they killed your father."

Boba nods. "They will tell you they fight for what's good and right. But they are no worse than those they call enemies."

"Who are their enemies?"

"The Empire. Dark users of the Force." Boba studies you as you take in this information. You've heard of the Empire, and the Republic, but clearly some information was omitted from your village's records.

"And the Force is…?"

Boba shifts, grabbing some more meat for himself, which he eats before replying.

"I've never fully understood it myself, but from what I gather it's an energy present in all things. The Jedi and the Sith can manipulate it to their will."

You have so many questions, but you know asking them will only make you more confused. Energy in all things? That sounds… well, it sounds overwhelming, to be truthful. It sounds like magic, which your father always told you was the stuff of fairy-stories.

Boba feeds you another morsel and you eat, thinking.

"Can they 'manipulate' blaster fire?" you ask once you've swallowed.

"I don't think so. They tend to deflect it with their lightsabers, which are swords powered by kyber, coincidentally."

You wrinkle your nose. "Swords? I'd take a well-timed blaster shot over a sword any day."

Boba laughs, hearty and full. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close, pressing his lips to your temple.

"That's my girl," he mutters. His words send a shiver down your spine.

Boba continues to feed you as he tells you about his father and his own travels. You learn about his time on Kamino, where Jango's DNA was made into clones, and that Boba himself is an unaltered clone of his father. You learn about Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, legendary Jedi who proved difficult for both Boba and Jango at various points through the years. He tells you about meeting Fennec Shand on Tatooine and about another companion of theirs, a man who just goes by the name Mando.

He doesn't tell you about the scars, so you don't ask.

When you're falling asleep, eyes drifting closed as your head rests on Boba's chest, you wonder at the life Boba Fett's led, how such excitement and pain ultimately finds him here, holding you close.

All you've ever known is this planet, your people. Perhaps the universe, in its vast, unknowable expanse, is really here beneath you, in Boba's stories and his scars. You think maybe it's okay that you aren't meant for more than your cold village, because at least you can travel through the galaxy just by listening to him.

At least you can know the taste of the stars just by kissing him.

The next morning is decidedly less relaxed than last night. You and Boba pack up hastily and you're on the trail when the first light of the morning is just beginning to show.

Hours pass in much the same way that they did yesterday. Snow and wind beat at you, but you press on until you reach the area you're no longer entirely familiar with.

You see the map in your mind's eye as you lead Boba across the rocky terrain. You're sure of your path, even though it's beyond any place you've been to previously. Somehow you just know, like the trail is programmed into your feet. Everything seems normal until the wind shifts and you catch the sound of something else on the air.

Throwing an arm out, fist closed, you immediately come to a halt, and Boba follows suit.

You're in an open expanse of snow and ice, still trekking upwards, but now a good distance away from any sheer cliff faces. You tighten your grip on your staff and listen, ears drowning out the howling wind to pick out the other you'd just sensed.

Something's ahead of you. Something large. You can hear the shifting of its weight, the silence of the space it takes up.

You glance back to Boba and nod. Carefully, quietly, he walks up to stand next to you.

"Up ahead," you tell him, voice as low as possible so as to not be heard by anyone - or anything - other than him. "Something big. It has to be -"

Your mouth snaps shut when you see it. Up ahead, a pair of glowing blue eyes emerge like beacons out of the fog, looming over you even before you can see the rest of its body. The ongrol moves forward, massive steps fading in and shaking the ground under your feet. You clench your jaw and ready yourself for what you know is coming.

You look over at Boba, and when the visor turns to face you, an unspoken agreement passes between the two of you, perfectly clear despite lack of words and facial expressions.

The ongrol doesn't allow you a moment longer, though. Its massive form is now visible through the driving snow - white fur with glowing blue stripes, pointed ears with long, flowing tips, and massive fangs.

You draw your blaster.

The moment it senses the two of you, it looks down and roars. Immediately it's charging forward and you fire off a volley of shots, though they don't seem to do a whole lot of good. Boba's hand comes down like durasteel on your arm and he jerks you back, positioning himself between you and the monster. He aims his fire-blaster at it, hosing it down with a torrent of flame. The ongrol yelps, then snarls, and you watch as it raises its massive paw, claws extended, piercing blue gaze zeroed in on Boba.

In that split second there's a feeling that comes over you, a gut instinct that pours over your body like warm water. It fills your skin, your nerves, your bones, so fully that your mind goes quiet in the wake of your body taking control.

As if you'd done it a thousand times before, you plant your feet and thrust your hand towards the beast, palm open. A feeling like electricity surges through you - not painful, but equally powerful and all-consuming.

The ongrol flies away, launched through the air, as if pulled by some invisible force.

Its cries echo against the mountainside as it falls, tumbling and rolling down a cliff face you can't quite see.

Boba whirls around to look at you, and the last thing you see is his visor coming closer as you collapse and the world goes dark.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the warmth surrounding you. It's everywhere, like you're lying in front of a fire, and your immediate instinct is to turn over and fall back asleep. Your tired brain wants nothing more than to bask in the heat and enjoy it for as long as it will last.

But then your eyes flutter behind their lids, and you catch glimpses of something glowing, bluish-green in a way you've never before experienced. With considerable effort, you open your eyes wide, and the sight before you brings your mind to full awareness. You struggle to tuck an arm under yourself and push up slightly, getting a better view of where you are.

You're lying atop your bedroll, your staff on the ground next to you. Immediately in front of you is a pool of water, still and steaming, that glows a bright, shimmering combination of blues and greens. No, wait… the water itself isn't glowing - rather, it's reflecting light from the walls.

Walls lined with crystals.

You still feel exhausted, despite having just woken up, but the sight of the kyber makes you jolt to a sitting position. Your head swims, dizzy and drained.

From behind you, you hear Boba's voice.

"Woah there," he murmurs, a hand coming to rest gently on your shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut to block out the rocking motion of the world around you.

When you open your eyes again, Boba's sitting to your left, facing you.

"What happened?" you ask, your memory of the events of this morning still foggy and distant.

Boba hums. "Well, you tossed that cat across a mountain with your mind."

You frown and look up at him incredulously. His helmet's off - in fact, he's also taken off the rest of his armor as well as the top half of his flight suit - he's left in his pants, undershirt, and boots.

His arms are bare. It's the most of him you've seen - his biceps bulge, large chest straining against the tight shirt he wears.

Your thoughts circle back to what he just said.

"Run that by me again," you mutter, searching his face for any hint of a lie. Boba blinks, raises a brow, and stares back, keeping the eye contact.

"You used the Force to kill that lion, princess."

His face is stone-straight. He's not lying to you, not that you can tell.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut and rubbing the heels of your hands across them roughly. Stars erupt on the back of your eyelids, and for a moment, your nausea abates. It comes back to you in flashes - the creature's eyes, the sound of its roars on the wind, the feeling that overcame you when you watched it raise its deadly claws at Boba.

It's nothing you've ever felt before in your life.

"So…" you pause, trying to sort through the situation. "So - does this mean… how is that possible?"

Boba puts a hand on your calf, firm and grounding. "You want my theory?"

Hands still pressed to your eyes, you nod.

"The water. It's infused with kyber, which is what has healed your people, but it must have also awoken a Force-sensitivity in you."

You take a few deep breaths, the exhaustion and nausea slowly leaving your body with each exhalation. Boba's thumb rubs your skin softly, a simple back-and-forth motion that brings your racing mind back down into your head.

Carefully, you take your hands from your eyes. The world has finally stopped spinning. You look over at the pool to your right, into its calm, tranquil waters. Steam rises from its surface and dissipates before it can reach the cavernous ceiling above you. Kyber dots the walls, green and blue all around you, mesmerizing and radiant.

Sweat is beginning to gather under your eyes and on the back of your neck and between your breasts. You belatedly realize Boba has undressed you to your undergarments, so you sit there in little more than your underwear and a sleeveless top.

You stare at your hands, fidgeting between your thighs, and look up at Boba again. A million questions are floating through your mind, but you're not sure he'll be able or willing to answer them all. You bite your lip, brow furrowed.

"Does this mean I'm a Jedi?" It's the most pressing question on your mind, because if what Boba says is true, you're not so sure you want any part in your newfound gifts.

Boba shakes his head. "No, little one. All Jedi are force-users, but not all force-users are Jedi. Or Sith, for that matter."

In your lap, you turn your hands so your palms are facing up, cradling one another. Nothing has changed about them - still the same jagged patterns of lines as always. Still the same, but with this new… sensitivity, they feel foreign.

The Force feels like a new limb, a new sense that's now made your body a stranger to your mind.

"What do you remember from yesterday?" Boba asks, rough voice a soothing balm to your racing heart.

You tilt your head, trying to gather your memories together. "I remember walking up the mountain, and then there was the ongrol. I tried to shoot it, but that didn't work, and then you pushed me behind you. You threw your fire at it, and then it -"

Suddenly, you feel yourself getting choked up. It washes over you like a gust of cool air, returning to the emotion you felt in that moment on the mountainside. You blink a few times, swallowing down your panic and fear at the thought of it.

"And then it raised its paw, and I thought you were going to die."

Boba says nothing, just waits and lets you continue.

"All of a sudden this feeling came over me, like an instinct, and then there was this… this buzz that I felt. I just did it. I don't know how I knew how to."

Boba nods. He's looking at you with an expression you can't quite place, soft and severe all at the same time. It makes you shiver despite the heat that surrounds you.

You avert your eyes, instead focusing on his hand where it lay on your leg. His fingers nearly encircle your calf. You reach out and take his hand in yours, drawing it close to you, running the tips of your fingers over his knuckles, his wrist, the silvery scars that interrupt his tan skin.

"From what I understand," Boba murmurs, curling his fingers into yours ever so slightly, "it's supposed to take years of training for a Force-user to wield that sort of power, princess."

You glance up at him. He's smiling at you now, dark eyes sparkling.

Something about his expression, combined with what he just said, hooks into your brain and sours the taste on your tongue. You recall your doubts from earlier, doubts about who he is. Why would it matter if you - a village girl from a desolate snow planet - have more of a gift than most? Why would he care?

Your immediate reaction is that he's flattering you, like he did the other night in front of the fire. For some reason, your instinct tells you this is different, that he's got motives beyond those he's revealed to you.

Instinct has proven to be on your side lately, so you follow it headfirst.

"Why did you call yourself a king?"

Boba's smile vanishes, and the tension between you grows tenfold.

You grasp his hand firmly. Your faces seem so much closer now.

"What?" he asks, even though you know he heard you perfectly well. You narrow your eyes, not liking whatever game he's playing at. Boba Fett doesn't seem to be the type to play dumb, and you're certainly not the type to fall for it.

"You heard me," you say, voice calm and monotone. "Why did you call yourself a king when you were fucking me?"

Boba chuckles, a deadly sound that would have unnerved you if you were anyone but yourself.

He raises a brow. "Interesting question. Didn't you like it?"

"I liked it a lot less when I realized you had no reason to say it, bounty hunter."

Your voice is acidic, like venom hissing out from between your teeth.

"Or am I mistaken?"

Boba hums, but it feels more like a growl with your close proximity to him. "You sure you want to fall down that sarlacc pit, little one?"

You clench your jaw, giving your answer in the way you stare unwaveringly into his eyes.

His eyes flit down to your lips and back up again. You lean back slightly in response, refusing to let him distract you.

"It's not an official title, if that's your concern," he says.

"What sort of title is it, then?" you ask, guarded heart racing once again.

Boba tilts his head to one side, taking a long moment to look at you. His breathing is slow, steady, and you try to match your own to it, but his next words throw you off balance.

"A stolen one."

You blink, a fluttering sensation erupting in your chest - and not in a good way. It's as if your heart has tripped over itself in an attempt to flee him.

He brings his free hand up to cup your cheek, tender and authoritative as he runs his thumb along your lower lip. "I killed the man who last sat on my throne, so the title is now mine."

You frown, despite the digit near your mouth. "What's your kingdom, then? Who are your subjects?"

"Those like me," he responds, without hesitation. "Hunters. Mercenaries. People who are willing to do most anything for some credits."

The dots are beginning to connect in your brain, and you're not sure you like the picture that's forming.

"Criminals. You're - you're a crime lord," you mutter.

Boba chuckles again, a smirk forming at the edges of his lips. "Something like that."

A conflicted feeling rises in your chest. You twist your chin out of his grasp, looking away and into the waters beside you. Had you known this was the man you were dealing with, would you have let him between your legs that first night? You'd like to think not. But then again, a voice in your head reasons vehemently, you knew he was a bounty hunter, and how is that any better?

You purse your lips. At the moment you're not entirely sold on what your conscience is telling you to do, which is to cut him off now and end whatever it is that exists between the two of you.

In your lap, you're still holding his hand in both of yours.

"I want to trust you, Boba," you admit. He puts his other hand on your thigh as you turn back to face him. "But I'm not daft."

He opens his mouth to speak, but you aren't finished. "I know it may not be in your nature, but I would appreciate some clarity here. What does this... this Force sensitivity really mean? I'm not some spoiled, naive princess, either - despite what you may say."

Boba is silent - his brown eyes are as intense as they are unreadable as they look at you. It drags on long enough that you get restless. You let go of his hand and turn away, tucking your feet up under yourself to stand.

The water has been calling to you each time you’ve looked at it, and you can no longer resist its draw. Tentatively, you touch a toe into the shimmering pool, marvelling at its warmth.

You walk forward. With each step, you feel as though you're gaining life, absorbing energy you hadn't known you'd lost.

The water is up to your thighs when Boba finally speaks.

"The Force will die in you if you remain here for the rest of your life, princess."

That gives you pause. You turn around. Boba is shirtless now, but he's still reclining as he was. It takes a major effort not to let your eyes drop down to his abdomen, enticing like a beacon in your periphery.

"You want to know what I’m thinking, is that right?” He asks the question like he half expects you to say no.

You nod. Around you, the warm, steaming water is rippling with your movements, but it shimmers in a manner more than can be described as distinctly natural. Almost without thought, you step backwards, submerging yourself further in its enticing warmth. Your fingers and palms skim the surface.

"I wanted to ask you to join me. To come back with me."

It almost makes you laugh, the way he says it so seriously. A disbelieving smile crosses your features.

"You know I can't leave my people," you reply. "You've known that since the start."

Boba sighs. "I have. I was still tempted to ask, regardless. Ever since the tavern."

That's interesting. This whole line of conversation is peculiar - you get the feeling he rarely needs to explain himself in such a way to anyone.

"Why? What use am I to you?"

He stands, but does not follow you into the water. Instead, he walks over to another part of the cave and leans against the wall, observing you.

"It's always been selfish," he admits. "At first I just wanted you as a crew member. You have a way for negotiating, or at least the type of negotiating that would be useful for my sort of operation.

“But then you revealed yourself to be this needy little thing, so desperate for me to fuck you, and I could just picture you in my ship, or in the palace, spread out and wanting me wherever I am.”

Those words, low and promising, cause a certain sort of wetness to pool in your underwear, one that can’t be blamed on the water that surrounds you. By now, you’re up to your collarbones in it, hands no longer visible to him as they remain at your sides.

You hook a thumb under the waistband of your panties and slide them off, slowly floating down as the water pulls them from your form. When they get low enough, you tuck them under your heel to hide the garment away.

Boba gives no hint that he sees, so you assume he cannot tell.

“You wanted to bring me back as a rare specimen, to show off to the criminals who work for you,” you retort, though something deep within you preens at the idea.

Something hidden and unknown until that night in front of the fireplace.

He just hums. “Yes.”

You can’t decide if his blunt honesty is a fault or a virtue. Right now, it’s mainly serving to bring heat to the space between your thighs. To hide your arousal, you narrow your eyes, trying to focus on why exactly he thinks he can just… whisk you away to some strange planet.

“And now,” you reply, “what's your reason for asking me to come back with you?”

He shrugs. “As I said, without training, the Force will die in you. I have connections to nearly any type of creature in this galaxy, Force-users included. I am your only hope if you want to keep your gift. If not, we go back down this mountain and it’ll be as though I was never here.”

That does present an interesting twist. The gears in your mind turn a bit faster, thinking on what exactly this may mean for you.

You consider where you are in the present moment - the reason Boba is even here in the first place. You consider your duty to your people, and you consider the long life your father has ahead of him.

How much time you have before you'll need to take his place.

How little time you might have if someone else realizes what this mountain holds.

"You said this kyber puts out some sort of signature, one that others can pick up on."

Boba raises a brow, and you see that he catches on to what you're proposing.

You continue, because if you don't, you'll convince yourself the idea is foolish. "This Force-user could teach me to hide the signature, no?"

"I don't see why not," Boba replies. In his eyes you see a glimmer of humor, like he thinks he's got you wrapped around his little finger. The way you're talking, you're on the verge of agreeing to return with him. He's got it in stone - his negotiator, this girl who needs him so strongly.

You see through him, though. He's tough to read, but you're learning to look between the lines.

Boba Fett is a criminal. For your whole life, you've studied law and order, learning the diplomatic ways of other planets and societies. To go with him would be to align yourself with everything you should hate, everything you should fight against.

But you are, after all, more than just a meek princess. You're a leader, a role model, a strong woman and lover of your people. Are you willing to dispense with your morality in favor of this Force training? In favor of following this man who has stolen your heart like he stole his throne?

"Say I did go," you start, and he doesn't even bother to hide his small grin. "Say I go with you. What does that look like for me? I will not be reduced to some pleasure slave, hidden away in your palace."

Boba shakes his head. "You will be free, my dear. You and I will work together, for both of our benefits. When I need a kind, unrelenting negotiator, you will speak on my behalf. In return, I find your training."

It sounds too good to be true, especially considering the major aspect to your relationship he has not yet mentioned.

Your eyes finally flit down to his chest, broad and thick in a way you never knew you'd like so much. His arms and shoulders are equally as enticing, the knowledge of how strong he is only serving to make his body more attractive to you. He is scarred, long-healed gashes across his skin the echoes of unimaginable pain and fire. As your gaze drops lower, tracing the skin of his abdomen as it disappears into the waistband of his pants, you feel something tighten in your chest. In the space between your hips.

Seeing him like this is intimate, almost more so than that very first night, and he hasn't even touched you.

"And what else might I expect, traveling with you?" You ask it knowing he sees the way you're looking at him.

Boba hums, as though he's giving the question some thought. He pushes off from the stone wall he was leaned up against.

"You know where this will go, princess."

His hands drop down to hook into the front of his pants, fingers toying with the clasp there. Your eyes follow the movement, entranced. The tendons and muscles in his arms flex and ripple as he works his hands, movement capturing your eye like a mouse to bread.

"I do," you reply, "but I want you to tell me."

His gaze darkens at your words. You watch as he deftly unfastens his trousers and pushes them down, stepping out of them and towards you. He moves unhurriedly, but with clear purpose.

You feel like you're one of his bounties, caught in the crosshairs of his rifle. Trapped.

Excitement courses through your veins.

"The first place I'll fuck you will be the ship," Boba says as he walks forward into the water, his thick thighs flexing with each step. You're too caught up in watching him approach to think to respond.

"Before we even leave this planet, I'll have you screaming against the durasteel, begging for my cock."

Your brain goes a bit fuzzy at his words, at the force of the arousal that hits you. It's like the moment he starts speaking to you like this, all higher function in your mind shuts off, full only of the images he conjures with his voice.

Boba's getting closer, and before you know it, he's within arm's reach.

All at once his hands are on you, rucking up your top to search out your bare skin, warm under the water. You reach up and put your hands on his shoulders, savoring the heat of his skin on your own.

"Once we get to Tatooine," he continues, pressing his lips close to your ear, voice like honey flowing over you, "I'll get you the most expensive dresses credits can buy, and we'll go to the clubs and cantinas and everyone there will want what's mine."

Your grip tightens, nails digging into his flesh. Boba finally pushes your top all the way up and off. He absentmindedly tosses it behind him, landing with a wet smack against the stone floor of the cave. His palms find your breasts and he squeezes them, kneading, flicking his thumbs over your nipples.

The feeling of it, like sparks shooting through your chest, makes you gasp, light and breathy.

"You'll sit on my lap at the sabacc table, and all those filthy criminals will know exactly how much you love getting fucked."

Boba runs a hand down your side, the other still toying with your breast, and you watch his face as he realizes you're no longer wearing your panties.

His jaw clenches as his fingers curl into the meat of your hip. He dips his head down so his nose brushes against yours, his breath cool compared to the heat of the water.

"You're a temptress, little one."

You can't help the small smile that floats across your lips. "What was that about how much I love getting fucked?”

He hums, dark and deep, the sound nearly a growl with the way it reverberates around you. Boba slides his hands down beneath your ass, and then he's hauling you up and pressing you against the wall to your left. You squeal at the sudden movement, legs locking around his waist and hands gripping his shoulders even tighter to keep from slipping away.

You feel the heat of a cloth-covered bulge against your burning, most sensitive skin. The sudden pressure of it makes you gasp, smiling, breathing in the air he's just exhaled with how close your mouths are.

Boba holds you with such ease. It's as though you're floating, featherlight in his arms.

"Watch it," he mutters, leaning in to graze his lips against the shell of your ear, the broad plane of his chest covering your own.

"Or what?"

It’s clear that Boba is more turned on than annoyed by your teasing, despite his words. He adjusts his grip so his broad palms fit even tighter around your hips, pressing his erection solidly into your bare core once again, rolling his hips wickedly. The water enhances everything - the throbbing in your cunt is amplified tenfold and you can hardly contain yourself.

His words only serve to drive you madder, lips and teeth pressed against your neck.

“Or I’ll make sure every last man in that village sees the limp in your walk before I take you away,” he growls.

You moan at the thought of it, at the thought of walking past your friends and fellow townspeople in such a state. The things they'd say - the whispers - would never get back to you, for you know they respect you too much, but oh, would they talk.

Boba shifts, reaching down to finally free his cock from his underwear. Almost immediately, you feel the hot length of it pressed up against your pussy.

“Yeah,” he mutters, moving his hips and torturing you with the drag of his dick. “They’ll all see how well I’ve fucked you - how good their little princess takes a bounty hunter’s cock.”

Your eyes slip closed as you cry out, shaking with how much you need him. “Please, Boba!”

His shoulder muscles ripple under your palms and he groans. "I need to get you ready for me, little one --"

"No," you cut him off, voice little more than a whine, pulling him closer as best you can in your desperate state. "I can take it. Right now, I need it, I need you, Boba--"

With a grunt, Boba lines himself up, hands like durasteel on your hips as he pulls you close in tandem with the thrust of his cock. You moan, high-pitched and uninhibited, when you feel his hot member pierce your cunt. Your folds part easily for him, the head sliding into your pussy like it was built just for this.

Your legs tighten around Boba's waist as he starts fucking you, dirty promises and filthy imaginings rolling off his tongue. His voice strains with each thrust, and it all just feels so divine.

You think you could live like this, if he'd let you. Get addicted to the way his cock moves inside you and never spend another day without it.

"That's it," he mutters, teeth bearing down on your neck, surely leaving marks that'll turn black and blue in a day or so. On a particularly sharp thrust, you're jolted back, legs trembling in his hold.

"Maker, Boba." You open your eyes and see the way he's looking at you, teeth slightly bared and brows furrowed. He looks vicious as he uses you.

"You're so tight, princess. My fat cock fits in your little cunt so well," he grits out, your body still jostling with each thrust. Your eyes are fixated on his face, on his mouth, watching the words spill out from behind his lips.

For a moment, your brain provides a sliver of sass, making your eyes sparkle with mirth, even as your tits bounce against Boba's bare chest.

"You fuck pretty good for an old man."

Boba growls, a deep chuckle combined with a moan sounding from somewhere deep in his chest. His thrusts slow and he leans back, taking in the way your body is wrapped around him. Your hands fall to your breasts, pressing them together and flicking your thumbs over your nipples.

He snaps his hips up, hard, slamming his cock into you and forcing a whine from your throat. You can feel his balls smack your ass, even under the water. "You're desperate for it, princess. Desperate for this old man to fuck you like you need."

He rolls his hips again, rhythm slow and steady and deep. The air around you seems to rock in tandem with him.

"Yeah, you'll love Tatooine," he drawls, exhaling through his nose. "I could take this sweet pussy right on the throne and no one would say a thing. They'll all watch their King fuck a woman young enough to be his daughter."

You moan loudly, silken walls clenching and fluttering around his cock as it pounds into you.

He hums. "You like that, huh, little one?"

Despite yourself, you nod, squeezing your eyes shut again. Boba's left hand comes up to grip your chin, fingers like iron against your jaw. His thrusts get shallower, lazy, like he's become distracted from the fact that he's currently balls-deep inside you.

Your hands find his chest, getting your fill of his searing hot skin against your own.

"Open," he demands, and you do, tongue resting on your bottom lip.

Boba hesitates for a moment, and in that split second, the world around you is still once again. "This mouth," he murmurs, "is just begging to be filled, isn't it."

The words make you clench around him, an involuntary reaction to the thought of putting his cock in your mouth, of laving it with attention and worshipping it like it deserves.

Your eyes are still closed, so you can't see as he closes his mouth and works his jaw for a moment, gathering saliva on his tongue. You only feel the jarring sensation of spit landing in the back of your throat, filthy and debasing.

"Swallow it, little girl."

Eyes fluttering open, you do as you're told, and you know you'd do it a million more times if it means he'll look at you like he is right now, eyes dark as space itself.

"Thank you, my king."

You don't know what compels you to say it, other than the fact that it just feels right. Boba smiles, a sly thing that makes his dark eyes sparkle with something dangerous, and he begins fucking you again.

His hand slips down to your throat. Not tight, just resting there, a reminder.

Boba Fett licks his lips before speaking, the steam from the water around you making his face look almost eerie in the glow of the kyber. "You take me so well, my queen."

He picks up the pace again, and soon he's jackhammering into you with the same fervor as before. Your mind melts into a puddle inside your skull, only able to focus on the push-pull within you and the building crescendo that accompanies it. Boba's fingers tighten ever so slightly on your neck, and you respond in kind, curling your nails into the meat of his pecs like claws.

The fire within you is licking up your legs, winding through your ribs, and you gasp when it feels so close it's unbearable.

"Boba, I'm gonna - I need --"

He cuts you off with two simple words: "Touch yourself."

And so you do, the fingers of your dominant hand flying down to rub your clit and draw your orgasm to its inevitable peak. You press the pads of your middle and ring fingers to the bundle of nerves and frantically work to bring yourself off.

The sparks that shoot through you at the feeling of your own touch, combined with Boba's continued movements within you, force you up and over the edge of your climax in rapid succession. You cry out, the sound of it echoing far above your heads.

There must be something about the water, because the sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced before. Your whole body seizes, straining against the hand that's wrapped like durasteel around your neck, and a tingling sensation shoots down your arms and legs to your toes. You've heard tales of the afterlife, of nirvana, of pure euphoria, and you think this must be it, because you can hardly comprehend the full-body pleasure that engulfs and drowns you.

When it passes, you go limp in his arms, head draped against his shoulder.

Boba finishes not long after, spilling into you. His spend is hot where it fills you, hotter than the water, and it's like an ancient lock has been fastened shut inside your cunt.

Your king carries you back to the dry stone floor. He lays you down and kisses you softly, heatedly, passionately. He kisses you as a lover should, like you're consummating a bond. A contract, signed in the twist of his tongue against yours.

The two of you do not leave that cave for a long while, taking the time to explore one another's bodies in every way you can dream up. You finally taste his cock, swallow his cum and find you love the taste, and Boba likewise licks and eats your pussy like he's a man starved.

When it's time to depart, you do so a changed woman. Boba Fett's body has left its touchmark on your soul. Now that you know true pleasure, the gratifying gift of submission to him, you couldn't imagine not going with him for at least some time. Leaving with him has become a need more than a want. You'll return someday, to rule and guide your people as you should, but not before you explore life with Boba for a while.

He promises so much, so many experiences and pleasures and truths. You can't let those promises go unfulfilled.

When Din enters the throne room, he surveys the space, as he always does when he walks through a doorway. Little is out of place.

Boba is seated upon the throne, conversing with a supplier, helmet betraying exactly as much emotion as Din's own does. From the grip Fett has on the arm of the throne, however, it's clear the negotiations aren't going to turn out well for the snivelling merchant.

Shand is leaning against a wall, jar of spotchka clutched in one hand, gesticulating with the other. She's smiling, which is rare for her, as she speaks in a tone Din can't quite hear.

Next to her is a girl Din's never seen in the palace before. She's dressed rather strangely - a thick cloak with fur trim over dark clothes, pants tucked into leather boots and some sort of shirt-tunic on her torso.

Certainly not suitable for the weather on Tatooine. In fact, Din would wager that's the clothing of someone from a snow planet.

He walks further into the room and catches the attention of Fennec and her friend. They both look at him; Fennec only for a second, but her companion's gaze lingers. Din thinks he sees something akin to curiosity - perhaps surprise - in her eyes, but it's hard to tell.

Her head turns to look directly at Boba, eyebrows raised. The other bounty hunter dips his head in acknowledgement.

Din stops in his tracks, unsure of the dynamic he's just walked into.

"You're excused," Boba barks, waving a hand at the supplier, who yelps and scurries out of the room.

He then rises from his seat and makes his way down to where Din's standing. He removes his helmet - an action that still makes Din tense up, even with everything that's happened - and tucks it under an arm. He sticks his other hand out and Din shakes it, nodding once.

"It went well, I assume?" Boba's almost smiling, which is a rare sight to see on his usually sullen visage.

Din nods again. "Yes. He's doing… he's doing great."

If he took his own helmet off, Din's smile would be clear as day.

Boba claps his hand against Din's shoulder, an amicable gesture that Din must remind himself is a sign of friendship, not posturing. Old habits die hard.

"I've got someone I'd like you to meet, Djarin," Boba says, turning towards the women who stand, watching them, not too far away.

They walk over. Fennec takes a sip of her spotchka, while the girl glances between him and Boba. For the life of him, he can't figure out where she might have come from, or what her role will be here. She's pretty, that much he will readily admit. Her eyes are bright and alert in a way that tells him she sees more than she lets on, and her stance is simultaneously relaxed and braced for conflict. He knows it well - it's as easy as beskar to spot.

She holds herself like a warrior.

She’s also young - certainly the youngest in the room.

Boba's voice pulls Din out of his thoughts. "This is our newest crew member. She'll be helping us with our… over-the-table dealings, in exchange for training."

Confused, Din tilts his head. "Training? What kind of training?"

"That's where I'd hoped you'd be able to help," Boba tells him. The girl looks from Fett to him, eyes focused right on his own through the visor.

"I need guidance in the Force. Boba said you have connections to people who could help me master my Force sensitivity."

Well, he supposes that's at least somewhat true. Ahsoka may be willing, but given how it went with Grogu, he wouldn't count on her.

"I'll see what I can do," he responds. As is his habit, he props his hand on his belt, hip jutting out just so.

The girl's eyes flicker down and back up again.

Boba clears his throat. "In the meantime, the princess and I have other matters to attend to."

He reaches out to her, and at first Din thinks he's going to grasp her shoulder in his firm grip like he tends to do with all of his close acquaintances.

Din quickly sees that this girl is much more than just a close acquaintance.

Boba’s hand finds its place on her neck, thumb tucked under her jaw and fingers wrapped around the base of her skull, tangled in her loose hair. As if they’ve done it a million times before, they lean towards one another. The girl’s eyes flutter closed, a soft smile on her face, while Boba’s study her unabashedly.

Their lips connect, heatedly, and Din knows his surprise shows in his movements. He glances over to Fennec, who just smirks at him.

The couple in front of him kiss one another completely without shame. Boba’s grip tightens to the point it looks almost painful, but the girl simply presses closer in response. She brings a hand up to rest on his chestplate, the only bare skin visible besides her face and neck.

Despite how warm his cheeks feel, Din can’t look away. He feels a rush of blood out of his head at the sight in front of him.

Boba and his lover kiss for another long moment before pulling away. He slides his hand to her hip, casually pulling her along as if he’d simply taken her by the hand.

She falls into step beside him, looking more comfortable than Din’s ever seen anyone next to Boba Fett. As they walk away, the girl glances back at Din, her observant gaze piercing right through him. Right through the beskar of his helmet.

And then she turns back, content in the embrace of the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett fucks #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #boba fett x female reader #no y/n #female reader #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction

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spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago

Text

let him be soft (and let him be mine) p2

Summary: After Derek pulls another self-sacrificing stunt at the culmination of their most recent case, Spencer runs out of their apartment as he desperately grapples with how it makes him feel

or; Derek's self-sacrificing tendencies meet Spencer's abandonment issues. It gets messy before it gets better

Tags: hurt/comfort, crying, abandonment issues, injured!derek, hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective!derek

TW: abadonment issues, allusions to grief/loss, some religious imagery (a catholic church and a priest have a small role in the plot)

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k Total Word Count: 4.5k

Part One // Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Emily's Edit 1 2 3

Emily (@criminalmindsvibez) and I have worked together on a project based on this poem. Her edits and my fic go hand in hand, so go and check hers out! She posted part two yesterday and just posted part three! It's been so fun to work together, so please go and reblog her beautiful edit <3

Spencer smiles, feeling a little bit lighter after getting everything off his chest. “Thank you.”

As he watches the priest walk out of the nave and into what Spencer suspects is the Sanctuary, he hears something that simultaneously warms his heart and twists his stomach in anxiety.

Derek, calling his name.

“Oh, God,” Derek cries as soon as he’s rushed over to sit next to Spencer, wrapping him up in a tight hug, “baby, I was so worried. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you come back to me but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get Pen to track your phone in the end.”

“I’m sorry, Der,” Spencer says, pulling away and blinking tearily at the anxiety mixed with relief written across his boyfriend’s face. Guilt floods his stomach as he thinks about the terror he’s just put Derek through: the exact same feeling he’s been lamenting over Derek inflicting upon him. How is he any better? If anything, he’s only worse; Derek does what he does to serve others, Spencer’s been nothing but selfish all evening.

“No, baby,” Derek protests, lifting a hand to his face and brushing away a falling tear, “you don’t need to apologise, just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time in agreeing. It’s the least his boyfriend deserves. “Can we go home? I want to eat that Thai food in bed while I tell you. I’ve already cried one too many times in a church for the day”

Derek chuckles at that. “Of course, pretty boy. Come on. Let’s get you home.” He takes Spencer’s hand gently and leads him towards the exit, and when Spencer turns back briefly before walking out of the building, he doesn’t miss the smiling priest lingering near the altar.

⭐️

Derek doesn’t let go of his hand the whole drive home, clinging tightly even on the elevator up to their apartment, and it only serves to make Spencer feel guiltier. How had this not clicked earlier? He never stopped to think about the worry his boyfriend was going through back home, only prioritising himself and his own selfish feelings.

He starts to wonder whether he should actually tell Derek after all. His boyfriend is so endlessly kind and selfless and wonderful and Spencer wants to point out his one flaw? After he’s left him panicked and concerned for his well being all evening?

He anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip as Derek tucks him into bed, seemingly oblivious to his distress as he kisses his head gently before making light work of reheating the take out he’d ordered earlier. Spencer’s stomach spins and turns with anxiety as he burrows himself under the covers, desperate to hide from all that’s to come, unable to escape the helter-skelter of emotions consuming his mind.

Soon enough, Derek makes his way into the bedroom, turning off the main light in favour of their various cosy lamps and flicks on the TV, setting it on reruns of Fawlty Towers with the volume turned down before arranging the takeout on trays before finally slipping under the duvet himself.

“Baby, I know that for whatever reason you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on,” Derek says softly, turning Spencer’s chin to face him and gazing imploringly into his eyes, “that poor lip of yours will be bitten off by the morning. But I want you to know you can trust me with whatever this is. I promise that there is no problem, no issue, no stressor that we couldn’t overcome together. Me and you, we’re a dream team, aren’t we? We can solve this, but not if you’re not completely honest with me.”

Damn it, now Spencer’s going to feel guilty no matter what path he chooses. He either lies and breaks Derek’s trust, or he tells the truth and breaks his heart.

But the priest’s words from earlier flash through his mind, and he takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do. “I’m scared,” he admits, tentatively. It feels like a good place to start.

“Okay,” Derek replies soothingly, eyebrows knitted in concern as his thumb traces the side of Spencer’s face. “What are you scared of, Spence?”

“I’m scared… I’m scared of losing you,” he whispers, casting his eyes downward.

He feels Derek tense next to him, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s confused or something worse. “Baby boy, you have to understand that you’re it for me, I’m never going anywhere—”

“No,” Spencer interrupts, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes again, “not like that. I know you love me, I’ve never doubted that for a second. I’m scared of losing you to something worse than another person. I’m scared of losing you to a gunshot, a stab wound, a bomb blast. I’m scared of losing you to the job, Derek.”

“Oh.” His thumb falters in its soothing movements against Spencer’s cheek before it retracts completely.

“You’re a hero, Der,” he says tearily, not bothering to try and fight them this time, “you’re an inspiration. You’re strong and powerful and the kindest, most selfless man I’ve ever met, but I— I’m gonna need you to start being a little more selfish.”

“I don’t… What do you mean?”

“Remember back in 2007 when that woman was trapped in her car with a bomb under her seat? You stayed right next to her the whole time, even though you knew that if that bomb went off, it was taking you with it. Because in that moment, looking after that woman was all that mattered.”

Derek nods hesitantly, his brows knit even tighter.

“Well, I could deal with that. I accepted it. We were newly in a relationship, and I knew the kind of man you were when I started dating you. I didn’t think you’d give that up for me so soon. But, Derek, it’s been seven years now. We’ve been together for almost a decade, and you’re still the same man. You run headlong into danger with no regard for how it will affect you. And I love your selflessness and generosity, I really do, but I need you to know how that makes me feel.

“It makes me feel like I’m not important to you, Der.”

“Oh, baby, no,” Derek says, distraught as he wraps Spencer in a tight, urgent hug, hand flying to run his fingers through his curls.

“But, no, it does, Derek. Because it feels like one of these days, you won’t be as lucky as you always have been, and I’ll be alone again. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you, I just can’t.” The tears are joined by heaving, desperate sobs as he cries into Derek’s shoulder, both of them holding onto one another with clawing fingers, impossibly close as emotions fill the room.

When Spencer finally calms down enough, he pulls away to find Derek’s eyes red and his cheeks wet, too. “I— I had no idea you felt like this, baby boy,” he says earnestly, looking deeply into his eyes as his devastated emotions play across his open expression. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were anything less than the most important person in the whole world to me, because you are, Spencer.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer whispers sadly. “You didn’t know.”

“No, but I do now. I never stopped to think how this was affecting you, and I’m so deeply sorry for that.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they fall against one another, both accepting that the Thai is going to go cold again and they’ll probably end up with a greasy 2am pizza instead.

“It’s because of my dad,” Derek admits eventually, breaking the silence. “When I watched him bleed out in front of me, I swore I would never let that happen to another person. I would never let another person die on my watch, not unless I was going down with them. And that was an easy principle to live by when I was a cop, it translated well to the FBI, and it worked great when I was single. But now… I have you. And you’re more important than a promise I made to myself when I was ten.

“The thing is, though, that I don’t know how to override an instinct that I’ve built and enforced for my entire career. Spencer, you’re everything to me, and you’re more important than this, but I… I don’t know how to change.”

Another tear slides down Spencer’s tired, puffy face at Derek’s words, mostly because they were exactly what he was expecting. The only reason he’s kept this to himself for so long is because he knew that no possible resolution could make this okay.

“It’s okay, Der,” he says sadly, “I get it—”

“I think I should leave the BAU.”

Spencer sits bolt upright at that, turning to his boyfriend with shock written in every line of his face. “What?”

“Listen, I’m 43. I’ve been on the job for twenty-one years, and I’m getting tired, Spencer. I was planning to bring this up at a much better moment, but I’ve just finished that house on the Mount Pleasant border, and I think we should move in there. I’m ready for a quieter life, Spencer. I want to do things that make me happy, focus on the future of our family, me, you, and Clooney — kids, too, if we decide that’s the way we want to go — and leave this life revolving around death and crime and the bad in the world behind.”

“You’re serious?” Spencer asks, completely in disbelief as he stares at Derek like he’s grown an extra head. This was never a possibility he considered. Not even a little bit.

“I am,” Derek promises. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this just seals the deal, really. I don’t want you to be feeling this scared all the time, especially not if it’s set off even by a couple of bruised ribs. Diving in front of a bullet when wearing a vest is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done.”

Derek chuckles but Spencer just smiles sadly at just how true that statement is. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’d love to focus on the property business full time, renovate more houses and really make a career out of it. Build a proper business, live in the suburbs, be happy and safe and alive with the love of my life for as long as possible,” Derek says, eyes warm and serious as he brushes his hand against Spencer’s face again. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Spencer’s heart melts and he presses into Derek’s side, burying in as close as he can get. The tears that leak from his eyes this time are at least happy ones. “If you leave,” he says, after considering it for a moment, “I think I want to leave, too.”

“Really? You don’t have to, Spencer. You can stay at the BAU if you want to.”

“I know. But I’ve given over a third of my life to this job, and it’s given me all it can, I think. Before Gideon recruited me, I always thought I’d end up teaching, and I always knew I’d love it. Researching and teaching others what I’ve found out for a living sounds like a dream, and the thought of coming home to you, knowing that you’re safe every night as we sit down for dinner and chat about our normal, civilian lives… well, it’s everything I didn’t know I’d been longing for.”

A kind of peace that Spencer hasn’t felt in years settles over his chest as he basks in the thought of a safe and happy future with Derek, one not plagued by the trauma they’ve faced willingly for far too vast proportions of their lives, and he knows it’s the right decision.

“Wow,” Derek says, and woven in with the shock in his voice is relief, clear as day, “we’re leaving the BAU.”

“We’re leaving the BAU.”

Spencer eventually packs the Thai away and orders an extra large pepperoni pizza for delivery, letting Derek rest in bed as he takes over the beavering around. Fawlty Towers continues to play across the TV screen throughout the course of the night, Spencer resting his head on the top of Derek’s chest, careful to avoid his injuries. In that moment, with his favourite TV show playing, and an empty pizza box on the floor of their bedroom, cuddled up safely with the man he knows he’s going to spend forever with, Spencer thanks a God he’s not sure he believes in that Derek, right now, is soft, happy, and most importantly, his.

Let him be soft, and let him be mine.

— Please, let him be happy.

If you haven't already - check out Emily's post, and give some love to the original poem source here!

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @doctorenby @suburban--gothic@strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #cm fic #moreid #moreid angst #moreid fluff #moreid fic #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #derek morgan/spencer reid #derek morgan x spencer reid #spencer reid x derek morgan #spencer reid/derek morgan #my writing

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 3 years ago

Text

Gibbous Chapter 9

Chapter Title: The Thought of Fresh Meat Is Making Me Ill

Summary: It was October. A month full of cheer for the macabre. A month where humans gleefully wore the skins of those they saw as monsters. A month that Virgil generally enjoyed. It was the one month out of the year where he felt the most alive. Yet somehow, for this year’s October, he felt dead inside. Like his body had turned into the rotting corpse of a zombie and his soul was somehow still trapped inside.

Pairings: platonic lamp & platonic sleepxiety

Chapter Word-Count: 5503

Warnings: Verbal/Emotional Abuse, Anxiety, Depression, Paranoia, Arguing, Disassociation, Sensory Overload (Yeah this one isn't gonna be a particularly happy one, Virgil Is Spiraling Mentally Big Time)

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Surprise b*tch, bet you thought you saw the last of me! I'm back for my yearly update--this chapter is dedicated to all the lovely comments people have left on previous chapter! Also!! I rewrote a significant amount of Crescent Chapter 3 and added onto Gibbous Chapter 5, the latter you might want to reread as it adds a bit to the opening scene of this chapter.

Chapter title taken from "I know I'm a Wolf" from the Young Heretics!

In books, there was always a perfect, logical sense of progression. Stories were generally told in a three-act structure. The setup, the midpoint and the resolution. The beginning of a story established the protagonist to the reader. It gave you details about their personality, their way of living, their wants and desires. Then the protagonist found themselves upended by an inciting incident.

Something that caused their way of living to never again be the same. Tension grew and grew as they sought to come about a way to continue living. Until it reached a climax, one where after which, they either thrived or withered away. In which case, the story ended as the protagonist returned to a new sense of normalcy.

One that would last until the next inciting incident came along to shake up their world once again.

Once one found this pattern, it was hard to ever see stories the same way again. There were certain things to always expect—things you could decipher before the story’s end. Real life, however, wasn’t quite like that.

Or at least this was what Logan had come to find. Sure, in many ways events in life played out like stories. There was an inciting incident, something that arose tension as one sought to solve the dilemma. It just wasn’t as neatly bound together like a story or even a math equation. Life was messy, complicated—it threw in plot twists or details that critics would claim lazy and unbelievable.

Logan was harshly reminded of this in the case of one Virgil Raine. He couldn’t understand—he was doing everything right, remaining patient and giving Virgil a chance to open up to Logan on his own time. Yet the human shied further and further away, all development he made since working at the library immediately erased. Virgil even shut out all notions of spending time outside work without explanation. It’d been weeks at this point with no result despite the attempts of Logan, Patton and even Remy, who was arguably the closet with Virgil.

Perhaps this was something that should be expected. Virgil rarely spoke about his past, but what little he shared, he had to fend mostly for his own from a young age. Whoever hurt Virgil caused him to believe again he couldn't rely on anyone but himself.

Logan was not a particularly violent person. He'd been ignorantly cruel once upon a time, yes, but even back then he wasn't one to have the urge to kill people. The wolfish part of him begged to differ, as always. His instincts howled at him to find that person and tear them limb to limb. Better yet, they demanded he snatch Virgil away and bring him against his will to the pack, to safety. As much as Logan wanted this, logically he knew Virgil might never fully trust Patton or himself ever again despite their good intentions. Illogically, he couldn’t bring himself to do the one thing he swore he’d never do again, even if it was for Virgil's safety.

He pondered this, sitting in front of a mountain of paperwork. It was late, too late for him to still be at the library. He couldn’t bring himself to move from his desk, not until he figured something out. He gnashed sharpened teeth in agitation, gripping his hair with claw-like fingernails. It didn't help that normally this time of the month, his cognitive thinking skills were usually in a different state of being. If he wasn't careful, the cleaning staff might find a wolf rampant in the library the next morning.

His phone rang just then, some meme-related ringtone Roman picked out that he’d found funny. Logan snatched it up and answered it.

“Patton, listen, I will be home soon I am just finishing up—”

“I’m not Patton,” The person on the other line cut in, “It’s me, Remy.”

“Oh,” Logan cleared his throat, thrown off by this revelation, “is something the matter?”

“Yeah, something’s the matter alright,” Remy said, his voice hoarse, “I fucked up big time with Virgil.”

It was October. A month full of cheer for the macabre. A month where humans gleefully wore the skins of those they saw as monsters. A month that Virgil generally enjoyed. It was the one month out of the year where he felt the most alive. Yet somehow, for this year’s October, he felt dead inside. Like his body had turned into the rotting corpse of a zombie and his soul was somehow still trapped inside.

He supposed it had something to do with how September slipped from his fingers much in the way that his phone slipped from Jerad’s fingers. Falling all the way down, down, down, breaking upon the asphalt below into a million tiny pieces. Tried as he might, the memory haunted him in the waking world as well as his dreams.

Only, in his dreams, sometimes it was him that fell to the ground. Like a shoddy version of Humpty Dumpty. Remy, Patton and Logan would try to fix him to no avail. They’d always leave, scoffing that it wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t cry or reach out towards them, begging for them to return. He could only lay there, broken and bleeding, watching as they abandoned him. Sometimes Roman showed up to gloat, mocking him for thinking they ever cared for him.

The worst thing about it? He knew it was going to happen in real life. It was only a matter of time. Even Jerad knew this.

“C’mon, you really want to hang out with them and not me, your friend?” Jerad scoffed, “what have they done for you? Have they helped out you when you couldn’t pay rent? Replaced your shitty phone for the best smartphone out there?”

“Well no but—”

“Face it, V-Man, they’re using you. They set you up with a new job, making you beholden to them and it’s sickening! They don’t actually care about you. Once they’ve had their fun jerking you around, they’ll just throw you out with the garbage. And I don’t want you coming to me, bawling like a baby, when it happens!”

As much as Jerad was a jerk, Virgil knew deep down he was right. He’d been so ecstatic at their displays of friendship, he didn’t even stop to consider it was all a façade. Maybe they themselves thought it was real, that they actually cared for him. But eventually they’ll realize the truth. That he’s a loser and nothing more.

Or maybe they already knew the truth and were merely toying with him. Virgil was just a human, mortal through and through. Remy, Patton and Logan were all near-immortal, unkillable save a well-placed piece of silver and a stake of wood in Remy’s case. At least with Jerad, he was honest. He knew Virgil was a loser and made it clear he only hung out with Virgil because it was better than nothing.

Jerad had been nice to Virgil lately—or nice as Jerad could be at least. He’d insisted on occasionally giving Virgil rides to and from work. An offer Virgil couldn’t refuse—no matter how hard his heart thudded against his chest with Jerad’s sharp swerves and his blaring car radio. He taken to asking about Virgil’s day even, asking where he’d been and what he’d been doing. He even took Virgil out to bars and clubs in an attempt to get him to loosen up.

Virgil wanted to tell him he’d rather set himself on fire than willingly enter a noisy nightclub. However every time his lips went to form those words, he found himself saying yes always. So that was how he found himself dissociating in a noisy nightclub, holding onto a pink-colored alcoholic beverage he faked taking a sip from.

A hand knocked jokingly against his forehead. “Yo, Virgin!”

Virgil blinked, his gaze blearily onto Jerad. It was hard to concentrate with all the flashing lights and loud music. He wanted to crawl underneath his beloved purple fleece blanket in his dark, silent bedroom and never leave. But he couldn’t leave just yet. Jerad had been nice to take him along to the club. If he’d asked leave now, he’d get upset. He knew eventually Jerad would get upset at him for something, but he preferred to delay that as long as possible.

“Yeah?” Virgil mumbled, curling his fingers tighter around the alcoholic drink that had been hoisted upon him. Jerad knew he didn’t like alcohol—it was something he ridiculed Virgil about constantly. He always insisted on Virgil drinking, saying he’d stop being a pussy and man up eventually about it.

“Are you high or something? You looked like you were seeing into the third dimension or something.”

Virgil shrugged. Jerad laughed at that, patting him on the back. Virgil tensed from each thud of Jerad’s hand, but he did not flinch or move away. It was a friendly gesture on Jerad’s part. If he wanted to really hurt Virgil, he would’ve put more force behind it.

“Probably not! You’re too much of an anxious wimp,” Jerad said, downing the contents of his drink, “but let me know if you ever get man enough to try it—your good friend Jerad has connections.”

“Okay.” Virgil said, his voice sounding far off in the distance to his own ears.

Jerad laughed again, and then started rambling about something probably among the lines of his most recent hookup, his parents being jerks for not giving him a new sports car or the latest college professor he deemed a complete idiot. Virgil stared at him, nodding all the right moments yet barely processed any of the words being directed his way.

Even with lungs filled with air and a warm beating heart, Virgil felt nothing. He was nothing. A worthless sentient waste of space. Like an ugly mutt nobody wanted that should be euthanized to end its miserable existence.

His phone—the replacement one Jerad gave him—vibrated in his pocket. A text, no doubt from one of the others. The fourth one this night. Virgil’s hand twitched, refraining from looking at it in the presence of Jerad. Virgil didn’t feel like losing a second phone within a month of the first.

“Um, hey,” Virgil interrupted, wincing, “I gotta go use the bathroom, is that alright?”

“’Is that alright?’” Jerad mimicked in a high pitch tone, “Dude, is this elementary school or something? You want a hall pass? Me to hold your hand the whole way there?”

Virgil stared at him.

Jerad rolled his eyes, “Go ahead, whatever. I don’t care if you take a dump, just be quick with it.”

“Thanks.” Virgil bit out, running off before Jerad could change his mind.

He twisted and pivoted around the crowd of sweaty, glistening bodies wearing skimpy clothing. The bright neon lights and loud music warped around him like something out of a nightmare. Eventually he made it to the restrooms and locked himself in the nearest stall. The pulse of his heart roaring in his ears, he drew the phone of his pocket.

Four New Text Notifications from Patton

Patton: [Image of a black cat that looked approximately a year old. It appeared to be nestled close to Patton’s chest, staring up at the camera in wide-eyed stare.]

Patton: Look at what I found on my evening walk! Isn’t she the cutest??

Patton: I’m trying to convince Logan to let me keep her. Maybe you can come visit tomorrow and meet her??

Patton: It’s ok if not! I know you’ve been busy and I want to let you know I’m here for you, you can come to me about anything okay?

Virgil’s vision blurred a bit. He didn’t understand it. Why hadn’t Patton given up already? It’s been weeks since he’s sent Patton a text. He’d been terrified, too, really. And in the few times he ran into Patton at the library, he made excuses and scurried the other way.

Logan was at least kind enough to exchange a few pleasantries and keep their verbal interactions work-oriented. And Remy? They still delved deep into discussions about their taste in music but there was an awkward unspoken agreement not to bring up what happened that one morning. Virgil also shied from hanging outside of work, hoping Remy would eventually forget about him. It seemed to be working; Remy hadn’t offered to hang out in about a week or so.

But Patton? Patton seemed determined to stay in contact with Virgil, sending his dumb silly memes and cute animal videos. He sent good morning and good night texts, while making sure Virgil knew he could respond to them on his own time. On one hand, it made sense—this was the same Patton who saved a complete stranger’s life for literally no reason. On the other hand, he wished Patton would give up. It would made things easier, make it hurt less for everyone.

His phone buzzed with a new text notification.

Jerad: Dude, did you fall in or something?

Virgil swallowed, wiping away any stupid tears running down his face. As he typed a response to Jerad with shaky hands, the bathroom door slammed open, banging against the wall. He almost dropped his phone in the process, silently cursing at how close he’d been to breaking yet another phone.

Several loud booming voices filled the bathroom, peppered with obnoxious laughter every half second. Virgil shut his eyes, resisting the urge to cover his ears also in the process. The noise was too much. It was too much in the club outside, but all those voices echoing off the small crammed walls of the bathroom made Virgil want to scream.

The door creaked open yet again, the voices venturing away from Virgil. Good, they were leaving so Virgil could finally self-destruct in peace. Or so he thought, as a set of footsteps stopped abruptly, wavering. The club music blasted from the doorway, drowning out whatever discussion took place.

Then the door swung shut, the roaring club music muted once more. Virgil waited, breath catching in his throat as the single set of footsteps took a couple strides towards him. Oh god, this was how he was going to die, wasn’t he? This was probably some serial killer with an obsession of killing people in night club restrooms.

This was, of course, the moment his phone started vibrating in his hand. A call. Someone was calling him in the final moments of his life. Virgil looked down at the caller id; Remy. His heartrate spiked, dancing so painfully close to what a heart attack must feel like. Why was Remy calling him? Was he at last going to tell him he was done with Virgil forever?

Virgil almost wanted to ignore the call. But then he glanced at the black boots hovering near his stall and gave it a second thought. If this was going to be how his life ended, it’d probably be best to say goodbye to someone at least. Sucking a breath in, he pressed the green phone icon and held the phone to his ears.

“Hi?” He whispered.

“Hey Virgil,” Remy said, echoing oddly in Virgil’s ears, “what are you up to tonight?”

Virgil glanced down at the black boots menacingly close to his stall, “Umm, I’m just home, chilling.”

“That’s a lie, Hon. I know you’re hiding in a stall of this bathroom.”

“W-what are you talking about?” Virgil couldn’t breathe.

Remy sighed, sounding so similar to the person outside the stall, “Please, let’s talk face to face, alright?”

This was some sort of trick to lure him out of the stall, wasn’t it? Still, with the hand not clutching tightly to his phone, he reached out and unlatched the stall door.

Remy stood there, expression hidden under his black shades. His hair was slicked back with gel, shimmering with a glitter of some sort. He wore his iconic black leather jacket with a black crop top underneath. His whole outfit was black, in fact, down to his ripped jeans and the ankle-length boots. Virgil had seen him wear something similar before to a college event he’d taken Virgil to.

“W-what are you doing here?” Virgil demanded.

“I could ask you the same,” Remy responded, eyebrows raised above his shades, “this isn’t your scene, Virge. What are you doing here?”

“I’m not answering unless you answer.” Virgil said, trying to ignore how much he sounded like a toddler.

“A few of my homies from the art program wanted to celebrate the end of mid-terms. This is the night club most of the college body hangs at.” Remy crossed his arms.

“And how did you know I was in here?”

“A few keen observations,” Remy mustered a thin smile. He tapped his nose for emphasis before drawing his finger close to his lips. Virgil’s eyes widened in understanding. Vampire senses, then. “But mostly, I’d recognize those faded converse of yours anywhere.”

“O-oh.”

“I answered your question, now it’s your turn, Virge.”

“I…” Virgil said, the rest of his words strangled in his throat. His phone buzzed in his hand; another impatient text from Jerad no doubt. He didn’t bother to look at it, choosing to focus on taking a breath in rather than going unconscious from a lack of oxygen.

He could tell Remy the truth. That he’d gone with Jerad—his roommate whom he used to complain to Remy about all the time. But then Remy would ask why he was with Jerad and then—well. Then Virgil would have tell him what happened the time he found him the night his phone broke and well, Virgil wasn’t ready for that. He couldn’t tell Remy about his humiliating mistake.

“I…went here to have a good time completely by myself.” Virgil withheld himself from wincing because wow that didn’t sound weird or suspicious in the slightest, “So you can go catch up with your friends or whatever, I’m good hanging out right here.”

“Right here, in the restroom?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey,” Remy said, his voice washed with some emotion Virgil couldn’t identify, “Let’s ditch this shithole and go somewhere else.”

“W-what—but your friends—” Virgil stammered.

“—will be fine without me. N-G-L they’ll probably too trying to give themselves alcohol poison even realize I’m gone,” Remy shrugged his shoulders, “besides, you don’t seem as gucci as you say you are in here and it’s been a while since we really hung out hung out, y’know?”

Virgil stubbornly directed his gaze away from Remy, jaw tightening. It had to be okay, didn’t it? Jerad was most likely to get too drunk to even coherent colors, let alone that Virgil slipped off without him. Maybe he wouldn’t be mad. Maybe he wouldn’t fly into a rage and come close to hanging him off a balcony. Besides Remy would be even more suspicious if he said no.

Virgil sighed, holding the home button on the phone until it shut off completely. That way he wouldn’t have to deal with Jerad calling him, demanding to know where he’d disappear off to, despite ditching Virgil all the time without warning.

“Alright, fine.”

Remy smiled, his teeth looking a little too sharp for Virgil’s liking. Wordlessly he turned aside and reached for the bathroom door.

Virgil swallowed, shoving the phone in his pocket to be forgotten about. Tried as he might, he still flinched as lively blare of the club’s music and flashing lights greeted him with full force. He froze, cowering before the threshold of the door. A hand landed on his shoulder, soft and gentle.

“Virgil?” Remy asked, his brows furrowing together.

Molten lava settled in the pit of Virgil’s stomach—pity. That was the expression on Remy’s face he couldn’t identify at first. He didn’t want pity; Virgil knew what pity meant. He didn’t want pity of any kind, it reminded him too much of the foster parents that looked at him like he was some feral dog that could be whipped into obedience. And sure, Remy had never hurt him but it didn’t mean Virgil forgotten about that morning spent at Remy’s dorm a month back.

Eyes lit up with a burning, controlled fire. Words hissed through a clenching jaw, “Tell me their name and I’ll beat them up for you.”

If Remy was willing to hurt who he deemed as threats to Virgil, who’s to say he wouldn’t be willing to hurt Virgil? To reprimand Virgil, to let him know how much of an idiot he was being? It sounded absurd, even now, because he’d known Remy for almost a year. Remy had plenty opportunities up to now to do something and hadn’t. Yet he was a vampire; years were nothing to him. He had plenty of time to wait for Virgil to slip up in some way and make his irritation known.

And Virgil knew by now to expect the other shoe to drop in a relationship—it was why he distanced himself, isolated himself to solely to work and his cramped little room at the apartment. He was foolish to believe Remy, Patton and Logan were different. Logan and Patton especially—what was he thinking? Patton saved him, sure, but Logan had been hellbent on locking him in their basement for the eternity of time. Why had ever he allowed himself to accept their apologies, to believe something was going right in his life for once?

“I’m fine.” Virgil snarled, shoving himself forward. It was like marching into a warzone, the music assaulted his ears and rattled uncomfortably against his chest cavity. He grimaced, keeping his eyes towards the floor, away from the flashing lights. He stopped a bit before the ocean of bodies that stood between them and the entrance.

He knew if he looked up, he could make out the back of Jerad’s shirt from his spot at the bar. Stupid, this was so stupid. Why had he allowed himself to get talk into this by Remy? There was no doubt in his mind that Jerad would catch him trying to leave and rightfully demand why he was ditching him for Remy. It was a shit thing to do, after all.

Friends don’t ditch one another without explanation. Jerad left him, sure, but he always had an explanation after the fact. Virgil didn’t think Jerad would like his explanation very much. Especially when it involved Remy, one of the people Jerad had been trying to warn him about.

A hand gracefully looped itself around one of his own, tugging him off to the side rather than through the crowd. Virgil looked to see Remy guiding them towards a set of doors, ones clearly marked for employees only.

“Remy—”

“Shhh, this is a faster way outta here, trust me.” He said, flashing a smile. Perhaps it was meant to be comforting but for Virgil it only caused his stomach to churn.

Right before they made it to the doors, an employee materialized in front of them. “Excuse me, sirs, you’re not allowed back here—”

“Cindy, gurl, remember me, Lansing? Worked here last summer? Do you remember, yeah?” Remy lowered his shades to take a look at her. Virgil peered behind him, unable to view Remy’s face. He could see Cindy’s face, however. Her face pinched up in confusion, frowning, before abruptly smoothening out with a wide grin stretched from ear-to-ear. She looked right at Remy, her gaze shifting entirely off of Virgil as if he no longer existed.

“Lansing, oh! Oh yes, I remember.” Cindy said, with a high-pitched laugh. Virgil shrunk further back into Remy’s shadow, squeezing Remy’s hand tightly. Something was wrong and he didn’t like it. Remy never mentioned working as a bartender—and that wasn’t quite something Remy would be quiet about. Virgil could just picture the outrageous bartending stories he’d have if that was the case.

Remy laughed along with her, light and airy.

“Good, then can ya do a fellow former co-bartender a favor and let us slip through, just this once?”

“Gurl, of course, just if you caught don’t let Gregory know I was the one that let you pass.” She leaned in conspiratorially, face twitching a bit.

“Oh don’t worry, you won’t see us again, in fact forget that you even saw us. I’d love to stay and catch up, but I bet you have things to do.”

She laughed again at that. “Yes, of course. It was nice seeing you, Lansing, but I have to go.”

Cindy hurried off, quickly dissipating through the crowd. Virgil blinked; what the fuck? What the fuck was that—

He didn’t even have time to process the encounter before Remy led them into the dimly lit back hallway of the nightclub. Whether it was a faster way out of the nightclub was debatable. For all his talk about previously working there, Remy seemed just as lost as Virgil in the winding hallway. He led them one direction, only to immediately pivot down the other way.

Remy wasn’t talking. Remy was always talking endlessly, as if speaking was as vital as oxygen to him. He was terrible at whispering too—something Logan would get on him about at the library. That was why he was usually stuck on front desk duty to speak with patrons, helping out at events or doing organizational work in the back office. For Remy to be this silent, like the brooding calm before a storm, well. Virgil’s lungs wanted to seize up right then and there.

Eventually, they made to a door that opened out to an alleyway, right where the night club kept its dumpster. The moon gleamed from her perch in the sky, nearly full but not quite. Like a cookie with a bite taken out of it. Virgil knew there was terms for the different phases of the moon. His mother loved taking him out to see the night sky. She’d point out the constellations and tell him what phase the moon that night was.

He wished he could remember, for her sake, what they were. Considering he knew actual werewolves, you’d think he pay better attention to it. But it was a topic Virgil never felt brave enough to venture and one that neither Patton nor Logan opened up much on their own about.

He stared at the moon, transfixed, that he almost forgotten the reason he was outside in the first place. Not until Remy murmured something before attempting to lead him off somewhere. The gaping dread from moments prior seized hold of him once more.

“No!” Virgil snapped, yanking his hand out of Remy’s grip. He stumbled backwards a few steps, slamming himself into a wall of the building in the process.

“Virgil?” Remy asked, frowning as he took a step forward.

“What the hell was that back there?”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t act stupid!” Virgil demanded, taking a shaky breath, “That lady—Cindy—you did something, I—I don’t know, she was acting weird! And—and you were acting weird! So I’m asking again; What. The Hell. Was. That?”

Remy stared at him, his breath hitching, “Virgil, I was just trying to get you to a quiet place ASAP before you—”

“You’re still not answering the question.” Virgil cut in, his intestines tightening themselves into knots over it. Because maybe this was just a classic case of Virgil paranoia striking again. Maybe he really was driving himself into a panic attack over nothing. Maybe he was accusing Remy unjustly.

Yet, if that was the case why would Remy flinch if Virgil struck him physically with his words?

“Virgil,” Remy said slowly, “I need you not to panic and hear me out, ok?”

Virgil’s heartrate accelerated. Not panic, not panic?! What did Remy expect but for him to panic at those words?

“Okay.” Virgil said, definitely panicking.

“What have you’ve heard about vamps?”

“That they—you drink blood. And your reflection doesn’t show up in mirrors—and—and if you get bitten by a vampire, you’ll either turn into one or get mind controlled.”

“All technically true, well I mean—there’s a fuck-ton more to the turning process than that—” Remy cut himself off, “That’s beside the point. The point is, what you call mind-control, we call ‘enthralling.’ Enthralling is…”

“Is what?”

“Enthralling is, well. It’s a form of hypnosis. Anyone enthralled by a vampire is mostly aware of it and the least likely they are to follow a vampire’s suggestions, the more likely they are to fight against the hypnosis. And it can be activated through eye-contact which is what I did to Cindy.”

Virgil couldn’t breathe. Suddenly pieces were slotted together in mind, forming a picture Virgil never wanted to envision. That faint but visceral memory of Remy with red eyes, the natural charisma Remy held with anyone he met, how Remy managed to steal confidential information from Virgil’s employee file in the back office of Kirby’s Burgers—all of it. He thought Remy, out of anybody, was safe. Past his sassy, laidback exterior, Remy was honest, willing to speak his mind about anything and everything.

If Remy enthralled a complete stranger without blinking an eye—who’s to say he wasn’t above doing it to Virgil? Who’s to say he hadn’t enthralled Virgil into being his friend? Who’s to say Virgil wasn’t an oblivious mouse in a game of cat and mouse? Oh gods, this had just confirmed all of Virgil’s worst fears and more.

“Virgil—” Remy said, reaching out, his eyes hidden beneath his shades. He continued speaking, a mumble jumbo string of excuses probably. Virgil couldn’t stand to stay around and listen to it.

“Stop—just don’t—” Virgil stuttered, taking one step and then another towards the open sidewalk. What was just a few steps then became a few hundred until he found himself leaning against the door to the apartment, hands shaking to slot the key to unlock it.

A few more steps he was inside, the usual musty smell an unexpected comfort. He sat on the couch, seconds stretching into eternity. He half-expected Remy to have chased after him, demanding Virgil to listen, why couldn’t you just listen, you’re so stupid no wonder you’re pathetic—

Virgil blinked a few times, his eyes burning with some sort of irritation. For some reason, Remy let him go. He couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing. His head ached and so did his ears for some reason.

Jerad entered the apartment a few millennia later. Virgil froze at the rattling doorknob, his hand clutching onto his phone in his pocket.

“There you are, you fucker!” Jerad drawled, stumbling over in a drunken stupor. His hand moved towards Virgil, but not with a closed fist. Instead he patted him on the back like earlier, “I can’t believe you did it! You finally got the balls to go and hook up with somebody! I guess I can’t call you Virgin, now huh?”

“Uh-huh,” Virgil murmured, not correcting him on that assumption. He sat there, a bit of tension draining from him. Jerad wasn’t mad for abandoning him. Jerad was still a jerk, but at least Virgil mostly knew what to expect of him. It wasn’t ideal, but that was life. It was better to deal with the devil you knew, then the devil you didn’t know. Virgil was stupid to have ever thought otherwise.

“My parents are being such dicks at the moment,” Jerad said, precipitously changing topics as per usual of him, “sometimes I wish I didn’t have to wait until they were dead to take my inheritance and do what I want to do, y’know?”

Virgil didn’t really know. Did his parents leave him money? They had to have had some sort of savings stashed away. A life insurance of some sort, right? It wasn’t like they were poor. He never thought about inquiring into that. Jerad accidentally slapped Virgil across the arm with a huge hand gesture, still ranting about something. Maybe it wasn’t an accidental hit.

Virgil didn’t know. His tether on reality felt weak, like a balloon close to floating away into the stratosphere. He almost wished he could float away, but the weight in his chest said otherwise. Jerad passed out not long after his rant, slumped half on the floor and half on the sofa. Virgil took this opportunity to slip into the comfort of his bedroom and turn on his cellphone once more.

Seventeen new text notifications and five missed calls from Jerad greeted him, along with one new text notification from Logan. He clicked on Logan’s and his conversation, staring at Logan’s text at the bottom of it.

Logan: Virgil, Remy wanted me to inform you that he is taking a leave of absence from work. Please let me know if you need to take a leave of absence as well or need to confide in somebody as a friend, Patton or I would be happy to listen.

Virgil stared at it some more. Then he tapped out a short response, set the phone on the stool that was his makeshift nightstand and collapsed headfirst into his mattress.

Virgil: K thanks, I’m fine

A/N: Hope everyone is doing well, if you enjoyed the chapter please consider leaving a comment--it's completely free and helps me out as a fanfic writer a ton! I'm technically not in the Sanders Sides fandom anymore, but I still have a lotta fondness for this fic and I will finish it, even if takes me ten years to do so :') -Kat

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #remy sanders #kat writes #werewolf au #long post

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transsergio · 4 years ago

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Emily's Top Surgery (Read on AO3)

Penemily / Gen / 4038 words

Emily has top surgery and their loving, perfect, beautiful girlfriend Penelope is their caretaker.

Notes: I refer to Emily as Penelope's girlfriend intentionally; Emily is a non-binary lesbian and in this particular story, is comfortable with the gendered term "girlfriend". However, if you see Emily referred to as she/her at any point, that's an editing mistake on my part and I mixed up their pronouns with Penelope's. I went through this a couple times to make sure I gendered them correctly, but one might have slipped through the cracks!

Also feels important to say that Dr. Dolan is a totally fictional doctor and not a reference to any real life surgeon

Surgery Day

Penelope has seen her team through too much already. Kidnappings, stab wounds, bullets – their jobs aren’t exactly arts and crafts. Yet, she thinks this might be the most nervous she has ever been. She’s been rapid-fire tapping her heel for the last hour and forty-five minutes, and trying to distract herself with her cell phone. Morgan texted a couple times to check in (once on behalf of Reid), but otherwise, radio silence. The few messages mean more than she can say; she is intimately familiar with how busy they are on a case. But she really wishes any of them were there to squeeze her hand right about now. She’d even take Strauss.

In the middle of Penelope’s billionth Candy Crush level, a doctor materializes in front of her. She startles and fumbles her phone trying to click it off. “Is it over? Can I see them now? How’d it go?”

As the doctor peels his surgical mask off, she sees he’s laughing at her. That’s good, right?

He says, “Everything went just fine, Ms. Garcia. Emily’s in the recovery room now, and we’ll let you back there about twenty minutes after they wake up. They’re going to be a little groggy and maybe nauseous. It all depends on how their body reacts to the anesthesia. They’ll most likely sleep for the rest of the day, but make sure to keep up with their medications, alright?”

Penelope nods fervently. “Absolutely, Dr. Dolan. Can do. Will do! And I’m sorry to ask this again but I really have to make sure, the whole operation was totally fine? Nothing went wrong? Everything…chopped off okay?”

The doctor stifles a chuckle. “Yes, Ms. Garcia. Everything went exactly as planned, no complications as of yet. We’ll see you tomorrow for Emily’s one day post-op appointment to check the surgery site and switch out the bandages for a binder, and then for their first week post-op. Okay?”

Penelope smiles back, still nodding along like Emily’s health depends on it.

The doctor shakes her hand and ducks back into the surgical ward, leaving Penelope to update the group chat.

“Emily’s out!!!!!! Doc says all good!!!!!! Will be with them soon 😍💖🥳”

She types almost as quickly as her heart is beating.

Penelope makes it through another few rounds of mobile games and desperately refreshing her Twitter feed before she risks checking the clock. It’s been half an hour. Shouldn’t Emily be awake by now? What if they never wake up? Could someone be permanently anesthetized? Reid would know. Maybe Penelope should call Reid. No, she can’t do that. They’re all off in Texas trying to catch a serial killer and she doesn’t need to distract them, not when they’re already down two team members. Kevin Lynch is pretty good, she hopes. She’s seen his work and it’s adequate. Nothing like the multi-tasking Penelope pulls off, but in the same ballpark. His boyfriend, Grant Anderson, vouched for him. It was unnecessary, and maybe Kevin shouldn’t have sent the person who got Elle shot to sing his praises, but at least they knew Grant. Kevin was a stranger from another department. A back-up.

“Penelope Garcia?” A nurse calls as she emerges from swinging double doors.

“Yes, right here!” Penelope chirps. She leaps to her feet and scurries over as quickly as her heels will allow.

The nurse walks her through the recovery ward and the steps to Emily’s post-op instructions. Emily has four different prescriptions already filled and two cannot be taken at the exact same time while one is an antibiotic and the other is just for nausea which they might not need and –

“This is all written down, right? Sorry, my head’s just like, woo, swimming right now,” Penelope says. Her eyes are wide and darting frantically between the curtained beds. She hates the fluorescent lights. Her skin is buzzing with all the sour electricity. The nurse assures her they’ll send them home with physical copies along with phone numbers in case of emergency.

They round the nurse’s station and finally, come to Emily. They’re shifting slightly in their bed, leaning forward and sipping at a dixie cup of water. They're groggy and slow, with the IV still in their arm. Penelope’s glad they don’t have a mirror – their bangs are scattered over their forehead in three wispy chunks, a way Penelope knows Emily hates.

“Hey sweetheart,” Penelope coos. She leans over the bed's plastic siding to kiss the top of Emily’s head, and run her fingers through their dark hair. Emily leans into the touch.

They croak, “Hey,” and cough to clear their throat, wincing all the while.

“That’d be because you were intubated,” the nurse says. “Take plenty of cough drops and you should feel much better.”

Penelope assures the nurse they will while Emily drifts in and out of focus.

“Did it work?” they ask.

“Did what, Em?”

“M’surgery.”

“Oh! Yeah, totally. You’ll see in a little bit. You’re just sleepy.”

“M’kay,” Emily says. Their head lolls back into their pillows as the muscles in their face tighten.

“Emily, what would you rate your pain out of ten?” the nurse asks, coming closer with her clipboard at the ready.

“Uh, five? Maybe six.”

Penelope looks to the nurse. “Is that bad? That sounds bad. I thought it wasn’t supposed to hurt right now.”

The nurse jots down a few notes before she answers. “It’s not unusual. We’ll up their pain killers before we remove the IV.”

Penelope plants herself firmly at Emily’s side in the meantime. They’ve redressed Emily in their own clothes, an oversized button-down and sweats. Well, Penelope assumes they put Emily’s bottoms back on. The blanket is still tucked tightly around their body like they’re some kind of soft, hot mummy. They stay like that for another fifteen minutes, Penelope working her nails through Emily’s scalp as they try to relax.

When Emily rates their pain at a four, then a three, Penelope helps the nurse settle them in a wheelchair. They roll a few feet into the hall before Emily claws for Penelope’s arm.

“Where’s the barf bag?” Penelope asks. She has her hand out and ready for the nurse to pass it over, and swings it into Emily’s face.

Emily, thankfully, does not puke. Their slow, steady breath crinkles the blue plastic bag, but all they fill it with is air. They keep a tight grip on the thing for safekeeping, even as they’re helped into the passenger’s seat of Penelope’s car.

“You ready to go home, lovebug?” Penelope keeps her voice low and sweet, like dark honey. Emily nods and Penelope grants her wish, starting the engine and turning out of the parking lot.

-❤-

One Day Post-Op

Penelope holds her breath as the nurse unwraps the medical bandages. She wonders if Em is doing the same. While she’s watching them, Emily’s eyes flit between her and the floor-length mirror fastened to the exam room wall.

The nurse is talking, and they’re both supposed to be listening, but who could expect them to? Emily has spent a couple grand (after insurance) and something like four years waiting for these next seconds. Penelope is just as invested, if not more, in Emily’s happiness. She’s not going to get the camera out, but wonders if she should just in case Emily cries.

Their eyes follow the final bandage as it unravels from Emily’s form.

And Emily’s mind goes quiet. They have two, deep red swoops where their chest used to bulge. Above and below, their body is nothing but smooth skin. They thought this would feel like shock. Like disbelief that they were finally here. Instead, it just feels right, as if this is the way it’s always been and some crappy daydream is over at last. They giggle, and Penelope glows like the sun has risen.

“Wow,” Penelope says, soft. She’s wrenched with admiration.

The nurse is smiling in the corner. She takes out a roll of Steri-Strips and measures them against Emily’s new scars. Scars! Emily finally has scars!

“Now the bruising should lessen in the next three to four weeks,” the nurse says. Oh, bruising. Emily almost hadn’t noticed. Their body is splotched with patches of yellow, green, and purple as if it’s trying to camouflage itself, but Emily’s not hiding from anything anymore.

They’re given more practical information, like how often Emily should be walking to avoid blood clots, how high they should lift their arms, how much they should be carrying – most of which tells them to stay reclined, arms down, to sleep as much as possible, but get in ten minutes of walking every few hours. Penelope hears more of this than Emily does, and again, they’re given written instructions just in case.

Emily takes one last look before the compression vest goes on. This will be the most uncomfortable part of the process, thank god. Emily chose a surgeon who used a tighter suture method rather than the typical drains intentionally. Still, the fit of the binder is exciting. Emily’s never had something lie flat on them before. Their body now falls in one fluid line without anything, even nipples, to interrupt.

“Em?”

Emily snaps to Penelope, who is standing and holding the door for them.

“Oh, right,” Emily says with half a laugh and a daze in their eyes. They thank the nurse, and the receptionist, and a passing surgeon that isn’t even Emily’s on the way out. This is the most gratitude Emily’s ever contained in their life, and they need to flush it through their system.

“And especially you,” Emily gushes as Penelope helps buckle their seatbelt. “You’re amazing. I can’t believe you’re taking time off for me, or that you’re not stir crazy already. Thank you.”

Penelope grins like she might burst, and can’t answer just yet. She gets them safely onto the highway for home first. “Of course I’m here for you, dumb-dumb! Not only because you literally can’t do anything for yourself right now, or because the hospital said you couldn’t have the surgery without having a caretaker, but, well – okay, maybe half for those reasons too. But because I love you. I’m so happy for you, and how happy you’re going to be, and that this is so good for you. I love you so much.” Penelope sniffles.

“Maybe you should have said all that before we left?” Emily asks. “You’re gonna cry the whole drive back, babe.”

Penelope swats at them. “I know, I know! But you’re on a strict schedule, my lovely angel, and you need your meds in like, thirty minutes.”

Emily laughs and catches Penelope’s hand in their own. They squeeze it tightly and press their lips to Penelope’s fingers. Emily only releases when Penelope tugs their grip toward the steering wheel.

“Next stop, Recoveryville,” Pen jokes.

-❤-

Five Days Post-Op

Emily is more or less comfortably laid on their couch. They have an arsenal of pillows stationed behind them, under their arms, and at the bend of their knees, and Penelope’s militant care routine keeping them afloat. For the last four days, they’ve done nothing but watch French art films together, eat ice cream, and order takeout. It’s been a nice break, Emily realizes. One they didn’t know they needed.

Penelope emerges from the kitchen with a bag of Doritos and a bright blue DVD in her hands.

“This looks like a bribe,” Emily says with a wry smile.

“That’s because it is. I am in no place to object to your choice of movies, especially after I promised I wouldn’t make fun of the accents anymore. But I was sorta hoping this would be a good opportunity to manhandle you into watching a real classic.” Penelope blocks the television in her pink pajama pants and Emily’s Yale hoodie. Penelope is well aware that Emily loves when she wears their clothes; she has to be doing this on purpose. And it’s working.

Emily bobs their head from side to side, considering the offer. “Alright, shoot. I’m willing to cut you a deal.”

Penelope slaps the movie cover over her face. Mamma Mia! (2008) Dir. Phyllida Lloyd.

“Oh, god.”

And Penelope reemerges, scowling. “Hey! I didn’t complain when you made me watch that sad movie about the woman with the dead family. This time, no one’s dead! And they’re in Greece! Okay, admittedly no one wants to hear Pierce Brosnan sing, but if you ignore him and focus on Meryl Streep the movie gets a lot better!”

This is not the first time Emily has heard argument on behalf of Mamma Mia! and it likely isn’t the last, either. Movie night in the Garcia-Prentiss household is in a state of constant debate and usually decided by a fair and unbiased coin toss. Emily considers it a miracle that Penelope’s lasted this long without putting up a fight, and considers it part of her generosity as their caretaker.

Emily scooches themself into a more upright position. “Trois coleurs: Bleu is a beautiful movie and you said you liked it, first of all. And I thought we were watching my movies because I’m the one healing.”

Penelope hesitates. “…Yes, but I may have also been doing a little eensy weensy bit of work at the same time because they’re also like, really slow and boring and Kevin needed the tiniest, tiniest bit of help on the Texas case.”

“Traitor!” Emily is aghast. “What about the deal?”

The deal, of course, was the promise they made each other after their third movie night. Emily was texting throughout The Muppets Take Manhattan and not entirely invested in Kermit and Miss Piggy’s wedding. Penelope was hurt, Emily was confused, and didn’t fully get it until Penelope fell asleep twenty minutes into Deux ou trois choses que je sais d'elle. From that point on, they agreed to compromise more on movie selection and to pay undivided attention to the films they did pick.

“You passed out! I thought the deal was void if you weren’t awake during your own movie!” Penelope said.

“Why didn't you wake me up?” Emily argued.

“Oh, yeah, I’m going to wake up the person who just had surgery so they can pay attention to the third sad foreign movie of the day. You need your rest, and Kevin has maybe half of my inimitable skills!” Penelope’s words were jumbling together as she went up an octave. “I know I’m on vacation but the team needed help and I didn’t want to abandon them with some computer monkey who doesn’t know the first thing about my system, much less the way the team works, and isn’t even a regular assist on cases like me and—”

Penelope is cut off by three short raps at their front door. A welcome escape.

“Pen!” Emily calls after her. “We’re not done here!”

“I think we are!” Penelope shouts back. She passes down the hall and peers through the peep hole, though, she really doesn’t need to. She recognizes the voices on the other side.

“We’re not too early, are we?”

“It’s two in the afternoon, genius.”

“I mean in days since Emily’s operation. They might not be up to company.”

“Then we’ll say hi to baby girl and head out, no big deal.”

Penelope swings the door wide open. “Definitely say hi to me, definitely do that!”

Morgan and Reid stand in their building’s hallway, Derek carrying bags of Chinese food, and Spencer juggling some sort of gift basket. Their eyes are tired and Derek’s stubble is looking rougher than usual, but they perk up in the light of their friend.

“Hey, there she is,” Morgan says. He comes in for a tight hug as he and Reid crowd themselves inside. “How’s everyone holdin’ up?”

“Peachy keen,” Penelope says. She squeezes Derek’s shoulder and leads them back to Emily by Reid’s hand. “Look who missed their favorite co-workers!”

“Hey, guys,” Emily says. Their heart warms at the sight of them. “What’re you doing here?”

“Now how’s that any way to greet a friend?” Morgan laughs. He lowers their takeout food to the coffee table and dives onto the couch beside Emily. “You been good to Garcia so far, or do we have to put the hurt on you?” He playfully punches Emily in their arm, and they cower in mock pain.

“Hey, no roughhousing!” Penelope scolds. “If anyone pulls any sort of muscle in the next twenty minutes, you’re all in timeout.”

Emily and Derek snicker in their seats and launch into the most recent case details. It’s a lot of the gory, icky stuff that Penelope doesn’t want to know unless she’s in her bat cave, so she takes Spencer and his basket into the kitchen.

“Doritos, huh?” he notices the bag Penelope drops on the counter. “You were trying to get something from them?”

Penelope answers with her head stuck in the fridge as she paws to the back for Spencer’s La Croix. “I may have wanted to watch one of my movies today, and I may have offered chips in payment.” She fishes a couple cans of LimonCello out, and huffs. “So what’s all this?”

“It’s from JJ. She wanted to come herself but didn’t think bringing Henry over was the best idea,” Spencer explains. He holds his drink gingerly with both hands and peers into the basket. It looks a lot like the one Penelope used for JJ’s baby shower, and is also definitely the same basket. Inside are a few bags of beef jerky, chocolate, a backscratcher with a little pink hand at its end, and an airline neck pillow with the Texas flag patterned over it.

“Awe. I’m definitely baking her cookies,” Penelope says. She leans back against the counter and eyes Spencer up and down. “Tough case?”

Spencer shifts from side to side and looks into the dark pit of his La Croix can. “Not much worse than usual. It was just… long. And Emily would’ve been a big help. None of us speak Spanish.”

“But you didn’t want to call right now,” Penelope guesses. “It’s all over though, right? All good? Everything wrapped up with a bow for good luck?”

Spencer nods and purses his lips. He looks over his shoulder to the living room, where Derek is describing something with his hands and Emily watches, wide-eyed and entertained. Spencer says, more to himself than Penelope, “It’s always good to be home.”

-❤-

Two Weeks Post-Op

“Emily Elizabeth Prentiss!”

Emily freezes with one arm reaching desperately above doctor-recommended height, and another gripping the cabinet door like their life depends on it. They press their forehead into the shelf, groaning, “That’s not my middle name.”

“I can make up whatever name I want! You know what Dr. Dolan said, and this is so far out of bounds!” Penelope stands in the kitchen threshold with her hands on her hips. She sighs and tugs Emily away from the cereal cabinet by their waist. When their arms are safely lowered to their sides, Penelope puts on her serious face, with her seriously furrowed eyebrows, and her serious frown on her lips. She asks, “Do you, like, want to injure yourself? Is this your new favorite hobby?”

Emily is petulant. “No, I want breakfast, and it’s on the third shelf. Let’s just pretend you got it for me, okay?”

Penelope grumbles her frustrations under her breath as she pulls down the family size box of Lucky Charms. She flurries around the space until she’s collected a bowl and spoon and settled them on the other side of the kitchen counter, where a bar stool and carton of milk wait for Emily.

“Sit,” Penelope orders. Emily complies with a glint in their eyes.

“Thank you,” they say, saturating their words with genuine love.

“Oh, stuff it.” Penelope pecks a kiss to their cheek regardless. She tries not to think about how cute Emily is when they’re smug, but it’s a losing battle. The way their nose scrunches, the smirk; not helping. Instead, Penelope picks a smidgeon of a fight.

“Your hair is greasy.”

And Emily’s face falls flat and exasperated. They let their spoon rest in the pool of marshmallows. “Can we do this after I eat?”

“Oh, lovebug. Absolutely not,” Penelope smiles knowingly. “You haven’t washed it in like, four days, which tells me that it’s not as easy as you said it was. Y’know, I was wondering who said washing your own hair was too much work immediately after having an operation? It would have to be someone super smart and beautiful and funny and—”

“It was you, Penelope. We all know it was you.”

“Funny; it was, wasn’t it?”

But Penelope lets them finish their cereal. She was about to eat her own Eggo waffles, after all. Once the dishes are rinsed and in the washer, she marches Emily straight into their bathroom. The tub thankfully doesn’t share a wall with the toilet, making it easier for Emily to scoot in next to the faucet. Penelope folds Emily’s towel (the towel that is dark purple, and not spring green, which Penelope keeps carefully out of the splash zone) (unlike Emily, who does not mind if their towel is damp long after it should be dry, and probably growing some type of mold) (okay, it’s not growing mold, but Penelope insists that it will eventually become mold-ridden if Emily doesn’t start hanging it up more consistently) along the side of the tub. Emily fits the towel under their neck, and Penelope guides them into position.

“Your hair is so thick,” Penelope comments.

Emily says, “You tell me that once a week.”

“Because it is. Now close your eyes.”

Penelope detaches the removable showerhead and lets the water warm her hand. When it’s a comfortable temperature, she douses Emily’s head. She maneuvers carefully around Emily’s forehead to avoid hitting their face, though Emily’s eyelids flutter when they worry the stream is near. Penelope thinks with their long eyelashes, they look like butterflies about to take flight.

She works the shampoo in with a gentle, but thorough touch. It’s when she rubs the lather into Emily’s scalp that Emily lets a soft moan break, and Penelope smiles. She takes pride in her work, whether she’s at her desk or in her soapy bathroom.

The shampoo swirls down the drain as Penelope rinses Emily free. Emily opens their eyes and tries to sit up, but Penelope pins their shoulders to the tub.

“Hold on! I haven’t conditioned yet.”

“Isn’t shampoo enough? We’re going to be here again in three days. It’s a hassle.”

Penelope does not think so. For the low price of two-thousand dollars and the risk of post-op complications, Penelope’s seen her girlfriend relax for the first time in, maybe ever. She’s going to drag it out as long as she can. Which, for right now, means dumping a handful of conditioner into her palm and rubbing it through the tips of Emily’s hair.

The final rinse is cleansing, like the weight falls from Emily’s shoulders. Penelope swipes the towel from Emily’s neck and cocoons their hair inside. She manages to keep their shirt dry, for the most part. Emily sits up with a pain in their shoulders, and does their best to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” Penelope prompts. Their best is not nearly good enough, not when Penelope has the analytical eye of someone who loves them. Penelope plants Emily on their shared bed for the first time since their surgery, already grateful to have a little of Emily’s smell in the room again. She sits behind them and overlaps their legs with hers. Penelope digs into the knots wound through their back as if she's torturing for information.

“It’s almost like you have a stressful job or something,” Penelope says.

Emily snorts. “Yeah, something like that.”

Penelope massages her way down until Emily feels looser under her fingers. She leans her head into the crook of Emily’s shoulder and presses a kiss to their skin. “We could ask for more time off,” she offers.

Emily slouches against Penelope’s body. “We could. But we have to go back at some point.”

“Let’s pretend we don’t.”

Emily exhales. “Sounds good to me.”

#penemily #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #criminal minds #penemily fic #text #mine #cm

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bugsandchatons · 4 years ago

Text

when you weren’t mine to lose

Summary: Change is a scary thing, especially when it feels like nothing has stayed the same.

It's been a year since Marinette became the Guardian of the Miracle Box - a year of struggling beneath a burden she never asked for, a weight that has her leaning on her partner more and more as the hours fly by, of letting him come to her, too, when he needs a soft place to land. A year of falling for the boy who takes on the world by her side with a smile made of sunlight, and fighting the growing urge to tell him what he means to her.

After all, they'll have time enough for that when Paris is safe.

But when the unthinkable happens, Marinette learns the tragedy of loving someone quietly, and the lines she'll cross to save him.

Thank you to @emsylcatac for looking over the first chapter for me!! 💙

[[on AO3]]

***

[one: when I was living for the hope of it all]

The passage of time can be a funny thing.

As Ladybug touched down onto the roof of the apartment that once belonged to one Wang Fu, she thought of how, for every one thing that withstood the hours, another would inevitably change.

There were the facts of Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s life that even passing years couldn’t seem to touch: akumas, for one, rampant and undeterred in the onslaught to claim what Hawkmoth wanted but could never be allowed to have; just as there was the presence of Chat Noir only one step behind, landing in a crouch at her side with a smile made of sunbeams. The rooftops they haunted to keep Paris safe remained more or less unchanged, as did the weight that never left Ladybug’s tired shoulders, and the deepening cracks in a heart that loved too much and too many. There were designs in need of sewing and stacks of homework to get through and secrets to keep, and only so many hours in the day.

But when Ladybug looked back on the year that had passed, it felt like everything had changed. That too much had.

Over the summer, Marinette had turned sixteen. She had a red-spotted box buried in her room that carried more responsibility than she knew what to do with. She was split down the middle and slowly coming apart at the seams.

Ladybug takes a deep breath in through her nose, holding it a moment before letting it go. She’d fix it. She always did.

Behind her, Chat Noir huffs. His clawed fingers are tangled hopelessly in the string of her yoyo, and the look on his face is one of such intense concentration that she almost laughs. Instead, she looks away, nose scrunching.

If there’s one change that’s been slowly driving her to distraction, it’s this: when had Chat Noir gotten so tall? And when had she begun to notice?

“That’s not meant to be a toy, Chat,” she reminds him, though the reprimand is nowhere near stern.

Undeterred, Chat comes to join her at the edge of the roof, his smile bright. “Look, bug. It’s the Eiffel Tower.”

She looks, and the corner of her mouth twitches into a reluctant grin. He has, indeed, twisted the string into something resembling the tower between his hands.

“Good job, kitty. Now give it back before you knot it.”

He stretches, the long line of his spine a graceful curve, before depositing the yoyo back into her waiting palm. He scans the horizon, one hand at his brow to block the setting sun. “Did you see the Ladyblog last night? I didn’t know Alya jumped in that close to get that shot.”

Ladybug sighs. She was the one who’d swung in to snatch her friend out of harm’s way. “She’s going to get hurt one of these days.”

“I think she might be immortal,” Chat whispers, as though he’s uncovered a secret. Ladybug snorts, and he grins at the sound before continuing, “she’s something, anyway.”

The way he says it is fond and familiar, not so unlike how Marinette would sound, were she the one talking about Alya. She glances at him, quick and considering, before deciding it best to let that train of thought go. It steps a bit too close into dangerous territory.

“She is something. I guess after nearly being dunked into the Seine in a mummy’s coffin, nothing can really scare her,” Ladybug muses. “I envy her a bit for that.”

She hadn’t meant to let that last thought slip.

Chat turns to face her. “You envy Alya nearly being drowned in the Seine?”

A laugh tumbles out of her. She lets her feet swing back and forth and watches them instead of him. “No, silly. The ‘nothing can scare her’ part.”

There’s a pause where all she can hear is the sounds of the city below and his even breaths. He doesn’t make light of it like maybe he would have, once. It’s only another sure mark of how things have changed: they’ve both seen too much to keep up any pretense of being fearless.

“What’s scaring you, LB?”

When she chances a look up at him, the fading light has lent a halo to his golden hair. His smile has softened into something open, endlessly patient. He’d take her word or accept her silence.

It had never really mattered to her that Chat Noir was beautiful, before. Lately, though, his quicksilver grins had her turning away before he could see the heat coloring her cheeks. The raw, unfiltered sincerity in his gaze set her heart pounding. He was always there, at Ladybug’s side or on Marinette’s terrace, his laugh a song in her ears, his touch a ghost on her skin.

His friendship meant everything to her. Maybe one day she’d be able to tell him.

He catches her looking and his expression turns serious, green eyes intent on hers. Ladybug’s quick inhale gets caught somewhere on the way to her lungs, and she remembers he’d asked her a question.

“Nothing really, kitty.” Too much. Everything. “Don’t worry about it.”

There’s something sharp in his eyes as he nods. He knows she’s lying, just as well as he knows he can’t press, not really. His hand goes to the back of his neck and his gaze darts away. “If you’re sure.”

She tries on a smile. “I am.”

He stays quiet for a moment, nothing between them but the breeze before he speaks again, his voice sheepish. “So I’ve been meaning to ask you something, but I...I don’t want to make you mad.”

Ladybug bumps her shoulder against his. “You can ask me anything. Well,” she hastily amends, “almost anything.”

Chat’s smile doesn’t make it to his eyes. He fidgets in place next to her, picking at a crack in the cement. “Okay, hear me out. I’ve been thinking, with Master Fu gone, no one knows us. It’s been a year and we’re nowhere closer to figuring out who Hawkmoth is. I know sharing our identities has always been dangerous, but…” his brow furrows behind his mask. “Isn’t it a little dangerous for no one at all to know?”

Ladybug drops her gaze to the streets below, lips pressed into a taut line. She’d be lying to him if she said the same question hadn’t plagued her for months. She lost hours at night, lying awake and wondering what if.

Should the worst happen to them, not a single soul would know what had become of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. The boy behind Chat Noir’s mask could disappear, and she wouldn’t even know where to look. No one would.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” she admits, her voice low. Chat’s ears perk, and she holds a hand up as if to halt his enthusiasm in its tracks. “I have, but...it’s a lot. I’m not saying no,” she assures him, “Just...not today.”

Chat picks up her hand and Ladybug jumps, just a little. She watches, silent, as Chat brings her knuckles up to his lips, a faint, careful memory of a kiss, before releasing her fingers.

It’s been months since his casual overtures of affection had all but stopped. She wants to snatch his hand back as it withdraws and hold on, for just a moment more.

“Whenever you’re ready, my lady,” he says. “And if you decide you don’t want me to know your name, I would still be willing to tell you mine.”

Their eyes catch and hold in the dark. His offer is a tempting one. He’d give everything he had to her, she knows, without expecting anything in return.

It’s precisely when something is important, that it's important to say it, no matter what.

It hits her then, in a punch to the chest that steals her breath, just how much she’d like to lean in, close the chasm between them, and kiss him. But if there’s one more thing time hasn’t touched, it’s the same fear that snaps at her heels whenever she tries to take a step.

Instead, Ladybug jumps to her feet, yoyo in hand. “I-I’ll think on it, Chaton. There’s pros and cons either way, and it’s a big decision to make, and I—”

He stands up more slowly as she stammers, his smile soft and just a little sad. Her voice dies in her throat. “I know, bug. Just remember you don’t have to do it all alone. I’m here for you, you know?”

She did know. It was the one, unassailable truth of her life—Chat was by her side, ready to lighten her burden whenever he could, whenever she’d let him.

Ladybug steps forward, catching the slight widening of his eyes as she rises on her toes to slide her arms around his neck. She tucks her nose into the curve of his collarbone, where he smells like sunshine and leather and something like home.

She feels his breath hitch in his chest before he bands his arms around her waist and pulls her in closer still. His heart pounds against hers, a harmony she knows better than most.

Chat turns his cheek into her hair, his breath warm as it ghosts over her ear. “What’s this for?” he murmurs, but she can hear the smile in his words.

For everything I can’t say, Ladybug thinks, and squeezes him just a little tighter. For burrowing his way under her skin, for melting into the marrow of her bones, flooding her veins and drowning her heart, until he grew into something vital she’s not sure she could live without.

She should tell him she loves him, that she always had, but the words felt heavier than they might have once.

Tomorrow. Ladybug takes a deep breath before releasing him and stepping back to solid ground. There was always tomorrow.

When she glances up, she catches a flash of something in his eyes, confused or curious or both. It was getting dangerous, how well he could read her.

“Goodnight, Chat Noir,” she says, the words soft.

He watches her, measuring, before letting the moment pass by unremarked. Her stomach flips, a dizzying blend of relief and disappointment. “Goodnight, my lady,” he murmurs. “See you tomorrow.”

Ladybug stays and watches him go, a black blur vaulting away until the dark claims him completely. “I have time,” she whispers to the wind and turns for home.

After all, there would always be tomorrow.

She sets her phone and the Ladyblog aside and rises to her knees, opens the terrace hatch, and lets the night inside. Chat Noir drops in and lands in a crouch on her mattress, stark black against the pink of her bedding. The smile he offers her is a convincing one, well-practiced and charming, but she knows him better.

***

Hours later, when a tell-tale tapping on her window draws her attention to glowing green eyes in the dark, Marinette wonders if the world is desperately trying to tell her something.

“Did I wake you?”

‘No, minou,” Marinette assures him, shifting back into her nest of pillows. “It is getting late, though.”

It’s a statement and an invitation in one. They’ve developed a sort of shorthand since the first time he stumbled onto her balcony, broken and so lonely she ached from only the echoes of it. She can say so much in so few words, and he can hear the meaning that hides in between her breaths.

He hesitates, uncertain and almost shy in a way that never fails to find her smile and bring it to the light. She pats the bed beside her and lifts the blanket. His own smile turns a little less brittle and he crawls over to settle in at her side, warm despite the chill he brought in with him.

Chat burrows under the covers before dropping his chin onto her shoulder. His wild hair is downy soft against her cheek. “What are we watching?”

She sifts her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and he melts into her touch like a starving stray. Like always, it cracks her heart.

She’s learned her partner hurts, sometimes. She doesn’t know why, but she wonders, as she wonders how she never really saw it before. He has so many fragile fault lines running beneath boundless bravado and spirited humor, and though he tries not to show it to Ladybug, whatever it was the led him to Marinette’s terrace keeps him visiting more and more, restless and wounded, something unspoken clawing beneath his skin.

Marinette knows she probably shouldn’t have let him in, logistically speaking, and she certainly shouldn’t let him stay. She has her secrets to keep and he has his, and their little slumber parties have just become another. It’s asking for trouble, she knows.

But he’s her best friend. If there’s a tempest that chases him away from his home and out into the night, if it’s all she can do, she’ll be his port in the storm.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir take on Mr. Pigeon, round...what? Fifty-four?” Marinette murmurs. She feels a groan rumble out of his chest, transforming into a quiet laugh.

“Come on. All of Paris has to be sick of that fight by now.”

In the glow of her screen, Marinette smiles. “Oh, definitely. But I could never deprive Alya of her well-deserved page views.”

Chat shifts around to look at her, his sharp grin softening into something warm that sets loose a swarm in her belly. “You’re a good friend, Marinette.”

She bites back a sigh. A better friend might tell him the truth: that she’s not entirely who he thinks she is, that she knows him better than she ought to. That she knows he hides what hurts.

Then again, she keeps her scars to herself, too.

Marinette flicks the bell at his throat. The light tinkling of it cuts through the quiet. “Yeah, yeah. You only say that because I take you in and give you pastries.”

“No,” he objects immediately, his expression serious. “Well, maybe a little, but it’s not the only reason.”

She sinks deeper into her pillows, smiling all the while. Her hip lines up to Chat’s, soft cotton against battered leather. They lay side by side - thigh to thigh, knee to knee. It’s no different than sleepovers with Alya, except that it absolutely is. She doesn’t have to ask if he’s staying, and somewhere along the way, he stopped asking if he should go.

“Bedtime, minou,” she mumbles.

Chat leans down into his pillow. He faces her with bright eyes searching hers for something that, one day, Marinette is scared he’ll find.

“Goodnight, Marinette.”

Goodnight, my lady.

Marinette shuts her eyes. Tomorrow, she swears. Tomorrow.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fics #ladynoir #marichat #ml fic #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #fic:when you weren't mine to lose #aw heck i did the thing #its been a hot minute since ive posted fic and omg the nerves #i forgot them #ml lovesquare

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stacispratt · 3 years ago

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big god

okay so i posted this a while ago and then immediately deleted it because i hated it so much and NOW it’s about 4x longer but still just as incoherent i think BUT ANYWAYS!! big thanks to @consumedkings for letting me play with our ocs like action figures in her delightful universe!! this is essentially just. a character study of wes in the ancient names universe

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's always when Ell's not around.

"You need someone who will love you as much as you love them," John says. "Someone like me."

Always then, that John tries to dig his fingers under the chinks in Wes's armor and pry him open. Like he's just desperate to get covered in the brilliant red of Wes's blood, smeared with gore— like all he wants is to reach inside and get a hold on Wes's heart. To get such a firm hold on it that Wes will never, never be able to forget him.

He's seen him the same, with Elliot. Wes has seen the spark in his eyes when he sees her get vulnerable, the twitch in his fingers. Desperate to pry her open, too. But he doesn't get to do that right now— Joseph is busy doing it, taking Elliot's confession. And John is jealous, something inside him roiling with it, so he's taking it out on Wes. Trying to prove to himself that at least one of them is all his.

When Ell said "Not to you. Joseph." Wes had seen it, watched the careful progression flit through John's body language— fear, jealousy, fury. Panic, when John returned to their little house and Wes had taunted him with a "Don't tell me you're jealous—"

John had snapped his hand out to grip Wes's wrist, Wes had grabbed John's shirt, and. And.

Wes only stares up at John. His hands are planted into the mattress on either side of his head, caging him in. If Wes relinquishes even an inch, shows even the tiniest reaction, the smallest twitch in his expression, John will take it and run. He'll grab the thread and pull and pull and pull until Wes is nothing more than a pile of string, free for John to take and reform as he wishes. To make him into something new. Something that better suits John. Better suits Eden's Gate.

So Wes keeps his face blank. He doesn't grab for John and beg Oh, God, give me something warm and safe to stuff inside my chest. God, stuff me full of love until I can't take it anymore.

But John sees something, because he lurches forward, presses all of himself to Wes, and pushes their lips together. “You need me, Wes,” John breathes into his mouth. “You and Ell. You know why?" he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Because you need someone who understands you." Their lips brush. "Someone who's never felt– never felt as loved in return for the love they've given."

It's the most honest John has ever been with him, Wes thinks. His stomach twists.

"I can give you that," John whispers. "Eden's Gate can give you that."

“Shut up,” Wes groans. “I don’t want your cult.”

“No, you’re right." John brings his hand up to cradle Wes's face in his palm, thumb just under his eye, pinky finger curled under his jaw. Wes always likes that, John holding his jaw. Firm or with feather-light touch. Either way, it makes Wes's eyelashes flutter. “You just want me.”

Wes squeezes his closed eyes shut even tighter and rolls on top of John. He pins him down, bites his lip, and repeats, "Shut up."

“He’s got his claws in me, Ell,” Wes whispers, the next morning, fearful even in the crook of her neck. No one else will hear them, alone in their cabin at Joseph's Compound (John's at one of those little Seed family meetings, where he and Ell are definitely the main topic of discussion), but it feels wrong to say at all, even when it's so hushed no one but she could hear it. “I’m afraid– I’m afraid even when we get out of here, I’ll never really leave. I’ll never be able to leave.”

She holds him, rubs his shoulderblades, and says resolutely, "We're going to get out. No matter what bullshit the Seeds feed us." She pauses, and insists, hard enough to convince both of them, "We're going to get out."

Oh, and that. John's and Joseph's insistence that they're not going to get out of this scot free— that the Feds will see everything they've done. See the violence coiled in Ell's muscles, the blood caked under Wes's fingernails. Whenever Wes tries to tell himself they're not right, tries to say It's self-defense, tries to say They'll understand, he feels anxiety crawling under his skin.

Paired with the sensation of John's hold on him, so powerful it's like physical touch, he's… he's got this terrible, sinking feeling that his mind—his identity— is never going to leave Hope County. That he'll be firmly rooted in his fear and terror and violence for the rest of his life.

Maybe he'll never even leave physically. Maybe he'll die here. Maybe he'll get stuffed full of flowers.

God, he hopes not. For Ell's sake.

They've already lost Joey.

WRATH, DO YOU STILL WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

He imagines it, written into his chest. They wouldn't even have to write the WRATH. John already did it for them.

Wes remembers to breathe and takes a shuddering inhale, his face still pressed under Ell's jaw. "Right," he says, fighting to keep his voice even. He shakes off the ghostly sensation of John's nails in his flesh, the imagined burn of a knife in his chest, and forces himself to really feel her arms around him. To appreciate how steady she is. "We're going to get out."

Ell turns her head and kisses his temple.

Faith takes Ell on a walk. He offers to come with, a little anxious at the idea of being apart from her, but Faith dismisses the idea with a giggle. "Deputy Honeysett can take care of us, I'm sure," she chirps. "We're even taking Boomer, too. We'll be perfectly safe, Wes."

He holds Ell's gaze for a moment, until she nods, just a little. He relents, "Okay," despite his prickling neck.

"Besides," Faith chimes, "I think Joseph wanted to have a word with you."

That gives Elliot pause, makes her open her mouth to protest. "Wes, you shouldn't—" she starts, because Elliot might have a soft spot for Faith, but Joseph is just about her least favorite. She confessed to him because she felt like she had to. She doesn't want Wes to have to do the same.

It's okay. He can deal with Joseph. He can choke out the confession he wants to hear.

"I know," Wes interrupts gently. "It can't hurt. It's okay."

Ell lingers, then steps forward and grabs the back of his neck, hauls him down for a chaste kiss. "Don't forget who you're dealing with," she murmurs against his mouth. He nods, takes a deep breath, and she pulls away.

He watches her, Faith, and Boomer walk for a few moments, then turns on his heel.

He finds Joseph at the alter. "Wesley," he says, without even turning to face him.

"Wes," Wes corrects, and seats himself in one of the pews in the first row. Joseph merely hums. "Faith said you wanted to, uh… talk."

Joseph stays silent for a second, just staring at the window of the church, casting light on the dust floating in the air around them. Wes blinks at the window, in the shape of the cross of Eden's Gate, and briefly recalls his first night here.

Then cloud crosses the sky, the ray of sunlight disappears, and Joseph turns to face him.

"Yes," he says, as he looks Wes over. "I've been thinking. About the myriad of ways this situation could turn out."

Wes snorts and looks down at his hands, resting comfortably on his thighs. "How many different ways are there for the world to end in holy fire?" he asks, a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth up. "Or do you doubt your own visions?"

"No, I don't," Joseph says, almost immediately. It's not frazzled, though— he's just as unruffled as ever. Wes looks up. Joseph stands right in front of him, hands held casually behind his back. "John does."

Wes closes his mouth.

Joseph smiles, just slightly, without his eyes, and sits beside Wes on the pew. "But," he says, "he did get me thinking. About… creating safety nets. In case God's plans are not exactly as I imagine."

Just as Wes starts to think what a safety net for Eden's Gate could possibly be—finally, actually eliminating him and Ell?—Joseph says, gentle as Wes has heard him be yet, "If the world does not end as soon as I imagine, you will have to be protected from the law," and Wes feels himself lock up.

"I'm not the one who needs to worry about the law," he says, voice tight, and resolutely does not look toward Joseph, even though he can feel Joseph's eyes on him. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"You must know that's not true."

Wes keeps staring, silent and frozen, gone stone-still with fright. Joseph's face stays placid. After a moment, Wes swallows and croaks, "It's self defense."

"Deputy Honeysett has already killed one man with nothing more than a blunt object, and the two of you went on a mass Cleansing of my followers before the Family even appeared. She's a hazard to herself." Wes opens his mouth to defend her, but Joseph barrels on, "And you're no better, Deputy Beltran. Operating as judge, jury, and executioner within Hope County. There is no excuse for the things you've done here."

"You're the one who started a fucking war in the—"

"Wes," Joseph interrupts. "My group of devoted followers have been targeted, attacked, and gutted by a foreign cult. We look… sympathetic." Wes's skin starts to itch, as he anticipates the punch coming on. "If you were to align yourself with us, we could protect you from suspicion. If the very group you slaughtered accepted you, it would look… better, for your case. You would not seem so dangerous. Not such a loose canon."

"I'm not a loose canon," Wes protests, and the effect is weakened by the uncertainty in his voice.

Joseph answers him calmly once more, like he's barely even listening to what Wes has to say. "You are. You and Ell operated by your own rules and executed your enemies as you saw fit." Joseph shifts, tips his head. "My people. The… redemption it would show, to align yourselves with us, would place you in the right. You and Ell. Both of you would seem sympathetic. Two people lost in the fray."

Wes's head feels fucking cloudy. "Align myself?"

Then he makes the mistake of actually looking at Joseph. The moment he does, he sees Joseph's warm eyes (somehow, despite it fucking all, despite the cruel calculation Wes knows he's capable of), sees the concern in the lines of his face. Sees Joseph reach for him, feels cool fingers on the back of his neck, as the Father draws him in, and gently, very gently, rests their foreheads together. "Yes," he murmurs, as his thumb runs up into Wes's hairline. "You understand what I'm saying, don't you? That this is the best way to protect yourself." He pauses, then elaborates, "To protect Elliot."

Wes's eyes close against his will, and his fingers twitch in his lap.

Joseph's words creep into him and start to take root. Less of a loose canon if I'm sided with Eden's Gate. More of a victim, less of a killer, if the people on my side are the corpses stuffed with flowers.

By extension, Ell would look less guilty, too.

"We can protect you," Joseph murmurs. "I can save you. If only you'd let me."

They're breathing the same air. Maybe if Wes could just catch a breath of the crisp air outside, something brisk and fresh, he'd be thinking clearer, but right now, he's thinking As a backup. Just in case things don't go to plan, and even louder, To protect Elliot, to protect Elliot, to protect Elliot, so he says, "How would I…"

Joseph inhales and curls his other hand around Wes's bicep. Anchors himself tighter into Wes. "Your last name," he says. Warming Wes up to the idea, giving him a moment to soak in each word. "If you were to change it."

Wes scrunches his eyebrows. "Change it?"

Very faintly, Joseph breathes, "If you were to become a Seed." He only gives Wes a second to absorb that, lest panic sets in, and he continues, "You would align yourselves clearly with us. Place yourself under our protection. Under John's protection, my protection." Joseph pauses, then reminds, "And in turn, you would help Deputy Honeysett."

Wes hesitates. Joseph lands the killing blow.

"Deputy Pratt, too, would be protected with this. As he is aligned with you." Wes flinches, opens his mouth to blurt out demands about where Staci is, and how Wes needs to get him, needs to keep him safe, and Joseph continues, "He is safe, in the Whitetails. You can keep him safe."

Wes doesn't give himself too much time to think about it, to talk himself out of it. He told himself he'd do whatever he needed to get out of Hope, with Ell and Joey and Staci, and he's already fucking lost one of them. He already lost Joey, he lost her, and if he lost Ell too, lost Staci— he wouldn't know what to do, and if– if they made it out of Hope, only for their actions here to be what does Ell and Staci in, he would never– never—

"Okay," Wes blurts, and flutters his eyes open to look down at Joseph's bare chest, at the EDEN written over his ribs. "I– okay."

For a moment, Joseph squeezes his neck so tight it's painful.

Then he releases Wes entirely and leans back to look at him once more. "Good, Wes," he says. "Good."

Wes signs the document Joseph has. Under Your new name: he writes Wesley Abraham Seed with shaky, wobbly lettering, and feels his stomach turn uncomfortably. He tries to tell himself, for Ell and Staci, for Ell and Staci, for Ell and Staci, on repeat, again and again, until Joseph guides the paper from him and praises, "There. You've done well."

For Joey.

Wes flexes his hand around the pen in his hand. Seed, he thinks.

Then he thinks, Fuck, and barely remembers to say anything to Joseph before he stumbles out of the church like a drunken man. He doesn't even know where he's going until he collapses onto his and Ell's bed in their cabin.

"I think I'm a fucking idiot," he says into the pillow, as his stomach turns and turns and turns.

It'll be a fucking miracle if he ever gets to go home.

#I STILL HATE THIS BUT I HATE IT LESS NOW I HOPE IT'S OKAY ASH ILYSM #my fic #oc: wesley beltran #oc: elliot honeysett #john seed #fc5

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years ago

Text

You’re Safe Now

Prompt: aaaa, i love your story ‘imposter syndrome’!!!! I love the dynamic between black and purple, it’s so sweet!! but what would happen if purple was a little kid, and a stowaway on a ship, and black ended up finding them? how differently would black react to an even sweeter and tinier purple??? (if you could write a small one shot or somethin based off of this, please do!!! only if you wanna, though!!!!)

Ahhh yess! ahhhhh yesss more of protective black, this time with little baby purple!I didn't wanna full on call this an au in the tags, but this is an alternate version of my longer fic 'impostor syndrome,' except purple is a lil bb. you don't have to read that first but you can if you want to--this one is more of an alternate timeline where there's very little context in the first one important

Read on Ao3

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, but nothing explicit

Pairings: impostor!black adopts lil bb crewmate!purple, nothing romantic

Word Count: 3471

Black is a senior Impostor. Deadly. Dangerous. This is hardly the first mission they've been on and it is far from the hardest.

...it is the first one with a stowaway.

“You fucker!” Red claws at their suit with the fury of a frenzied animal. “You’ll fucking pay for this!”

Black muscles them into the airlock and slams the door shut. Red pounds their fists against the glass.

“I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? I’ll—“

Black’s fist slams the button and the airlock opens. Red’s furious body vanishes in the sudden decompression.

At least the anger was a welcome alternative. For all the work that humans had done to build up their reputation as fearless, remorseless, and absolutely uncaring about anyone other than themselves, so few lived up to it. Especially in death.

Black rolls their shoulders back and strides off down the corridor. The ship is empty now, save for their own steps echoing off the metal walls. Good. They can barely breathe with the stench of human fear roiling off of every surface. And soon enough they’ll be off this damn ship, back to Polus.

They shake their head as they round the corner. They really are getting on, aren’t they? Mission after mission after mission. They all blur together after a while.

Black stops.

Tilts their head.

Takes one big breath in…and out.

What is that?

Another scent. Not fear, that won’t go away for a while, but something else, riding the undercurrent. Something…less acrid, less bitter.

They take another breath. Their maw begins to snarl.

Red was the last crewmate. There aren’t any more humans registered on this ship.

So why can Black smell another one?

They fall into stance quickly, one hand going to their knife, the other checking the rest of their weapons, before stalking along the corridor. Their footsteps are silent against the metal floor. Their suit melts effortlessly into the shadows.

Their maw rumbles in anticipation.

Electrical. Of course.

No one would bother to hide in a death trap unless they were certain they weren’t going to be looked for. Black feels their mouth turn up into a smile.

Blur together they may, but a mission does have its fun moments every once in a while.

Their footsteps barely give them away over the humming of the room, creeping inside under the flickering lights. They close their eyes for a moment to scent the air again.

The human is close.

Black turns, pivoting effortlessly on the balls of their feet. Their gaze lands on the space between the lights panel and the back of the computer terminals.

There you are.

They creep closer. Closer. A shadow falls over the machines. Inside, there is a human.

Black leans forward and—

—stops short.

There is a human here, but not—well, not what they expected.

They’re not wearing a suit, that’s the first thing. Instead, they’re wearing a shirt that dwarfs their frame and a pair of trousers covered in singes. Their hair is tied back messily, but not enough to keep it from getting caught on different parts of the machine.

For another, they’re fucking tiny.

Not just because they can fit into this small space—how did they even get themselves in there?—but because their head looks barely bigger than Black’s hand.

Also, why is there a human juvenile here?

Black shakes themselves. No. Now’s not the time to lose concentration. They refocus on the child.

The child looks back at them, blinking slowly, their hands cupped around something in their lap. They tilt their head as much as they can as they stare at Black.

Black tilts their head.

The child mirrors it.

They tilt their head the other way.

So does the child.

They lift their hand up to give a little wave.

The child’s arm looks hurt, they realize, as a little wave comes back.

“Hey, there,” Black says after another moment, “what’re you doing?”

The child scrunches themselves further into the gap. “Hiding.”

“I can see that.” Black runs a finger down the machines. “What’re you hiding from?”

“Everybody.”

That takes Black by surprise. If the child were just trained to hide from Impostors, sure, but…everybody?

“Did the—does the crew know you’re here?”

The child shakes their head. Black squints as they take their bottom lip between their teeth, chewing so hard it looks like it must hurt.

“Hey, hey,” they call, “don’t do that, you’ll make yourself bleed.”

“I’m supposed to.”

Fucking what?

“You’re what?”

“I’m supposed to be quiet,” the child says, and damn right they didn’t mean make themselves bleed, “this keeps me quiet.”

Black shifts, crouching down properly to stare at the child. They’re so…small.

“Why are you supposed to be quiet,” they ask, lowering their own voice, “what are you afraid of?”

There’s a pause. Then: “nobody wants to see me. They don’t like to know that I’m here. So I’m quiet and then I don’t get in trouble.”

They curl up a little tighter.

“…I don’t want to be in trouble.”

Unbidden, Black’s maw snarls. They dragged a child onto this ship and forced it to hide away? Under threat of…who the fuck knows what?

“I’m sorry.”

They snap out of it when they see the child flinch away.

“Hey, shh,” they caution, “you’re going to hurt yourself on the wires.”

The child doesn’t listen, still shying away. Only when Black realizes their maw is still rumbling and forces it to shut the fuck up do they relax a little. Black sighs, glancing over their shoulder.

“Come here.”

The child’s eyes widen.

“Come here,” Black repeats, holding out their hand, “or at the very least, come out of there, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

They shake their head furiously. “Can’t. Can’t come out. They’ll be mad. Can’t be found.”

“Whoa, hey, easy, it’s okay, no one’s mad.”

“You are. You will be. I’m not supposed to make noise. I’m not supposed to be found.”

“I’m not mad,” Black says patiently—since when have they ever been patient with something that wasn’t a mission?—still reaching out, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

They keep shaking their head. “Getting spotted means punishment. Punishment hurts. No. I’m safer back here.”

Another wave threatens to fully split Black’s maw. What the fuck happened to this child? Why the fuck are they here? Children are supposed to be safe, cared for by their people, not cowering in a dangerous place because being seared by wires is safer than being out in the open.

And why did the crew know nothing about it?

For now, though, the now-familiar scent of fear hits them and they bite back a curse.

A child is a child, human or not.

“Hey,” they call quietly, trying to soften the rasp of their voice, “hey, listen to me, just listen, okay?”

They shift, trying to make their posture as non-threatening as possible.

“I’m not mad at you,” they continue, watching the child’s eyes follow their every move, “I’m not going to punish you. I just need you to come out of there, okay?”

Those eyes narrow. “Why?”

“You’re hurt.” They indicate the child’s arm. “I want to have a look and make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

Unconsciously, they cradle it to their chest, even though the suspicious look doesn’t go away. “Grown-ups don’t care if I’m hurt. They just want me to be quiet.”

Black swallows their rage. “I care,” they say instead, “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But I hurt myself and you don’t like that.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being in pain,” Black says through forced patience, “and I want to help.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed. Black ignores it and wiggles the fingers on their outstretched hand again.

“Because you’re still too close to the wires,” they say instead, “and if you stay back there much longer, they could hurt you very badly.”

The child’s gaze finally softens and oh, oh, they look so small.

“Come here,” Black calls again, gentleness seeping into their voice, “please?”

“…you promise you aren’t mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Promise you won’t hurt me?”

“I won’t hurt you.”

The child shifts a little. They hug their injured arm to their chest and take their lip between their teeth again. Black lets out a soft noise, wiggling their fingers again.

“Come on, baby, you can do it.”

Finally, finally, they start to move. They shakily try to get on all fours, crawling out from the gap, only to let out a sharp cry when their shirt gets caught on the machines.

“Shh, shh, easy,” Black soothes, “it’s okay, you’re just a little stuck.”

“I can’t—I can’t move—I—“

“Easy, just look at me, okay?” Their frightened gaze snaps to Black. “That’s it, baby, just look at me, I’m right here.”

“I’m stuck!”

“I know, baby, I know, shh—“ Making sure their gaze is still on Black’s helmet, they reach a little further into the gap— “try and take my hand, baby.”

They reach, crying out when they try and rest their weight on their injured arm.

“Shh, shh, other one, baby, you can do it.”

Their hand is so small and soft and fragile. Black fights down another wave of anger and holds tight.

“I’ve got you now, baby, now try and come to me.”

“I can’t, I’m stuck, I’m—I—“

“I know, baby, just try for me.”

Out of their line of sight, Black grits their teeth and lets a single tendril flick out, disguised by the shadows, and yanks their shirt away from the blockage. They barely have enough time to reel it back in before they suddenly have a lapful of human child.

“Hey, hey, easy, baby,” they murmur, “you’re alright now, see?”

The poor thing is still trembling in their lap, their face all but buried in Black’s chest. Black coos, wrapping their arms tightly around the shaking bundle and softening the suit into something a little less abrasive.

“Shh, shh, baby, it’s okay, you’re out of there now, you did great.” Their maw rumbles softly. “I’m right here, I’ve got you, you’re okay now.”

It takes far too long for scared little fingers to reach out and clutch at Black’s suit.

“There you go, baby, just hang onto me,” Black rumbles, rocking them a little back and forth, “you’re okay, everything’s gonna be okay now.”

“They’re—they’re gonna be mad at me—“

“Who’s gonna be mad at you, baby?” Whose ass do I need to kick?

“The—the crew, I’m—I’m not supposed to be here—“

Stowaway, Black’s brain realizes finally, they’re a fucking stowaway.

“The crew is gone,” they say instead, gently pulling the little thing closer, “it’s just you and me now, baby.”

The child stills. Then they look up and Black almost coos at the blatant hope on their face.

“…you mean it?”

“Yeah, baby,” Black murmurs, running their hand through the child’s hair, “just you and me. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“So…” Those little fingers clutch a little tighter. “…I don’t have to be scared?”

Oh, baby…

“No,” Black says softly, “you don’t need to be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You won’t be mad at me and punish me if I do something bad?”

“No, baby.”

“Oh.”

Black blinks as the smell of fear slowly begins to fade, replaced by the softer, sweeter scent from before. In their lap, the little one shifts closer, their arms going shyly around their torso.

“Can I—can I stay here for a little longer, then?”

“Of course you can baby, we can stay here as long as you like.”

The child immediately snuggles up to them with an eagerness that takes Black by surprise. Less than a moment ago, they were shying away from them, suspicious, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, and yet here they are. Curled up in Black’s lap.

Black’s grip on them tightens marginally.

Children are supposed to be kept safe. They are supposed to be raised to know what care looks like, to know what it is to be treated well so that when they do go off on their own, they can recognize what it looks like when someone mistreats them.

Hiding away, afraid to make a noise, stowing away on a spaceship is not what that means.

The child squirms in their lap and they look down.

“Am I holding you too tight?”

They shake their head, still squirming. “Tickles.”

“What does, baby?”

“Your tummy.” They shift again. “Tickles.”

Ah. Black’s maw is humming, contented with the knowledge that the child is safe now, here in their arms, in their lap. A smile tugs at the corners of Black’s mouth as they rumble a little louder, watching as the child squeaks.

“Alright, alright,” Black murmurs after a moment, stroking their back and making their maw be quiet, “that’s enough.”

The child goes to hug them again only to wince.

“Your arm.” Black touches it gently, noting the way they hold it awkwardly. “Can I have a look?”

The child nods, cradling the limb to their chest and placing it in Black’s hand. It’s fairly badly bruised, but other than that, intact.

“Can you bend it and unbend it for me?” They do. “Thank you. I don’t think it’s broken, I think it’s just bruised.”

“It hurts.”

“I can tell.” They give their waist a squeeze. “How about this, let’s go to the medbay and I can get you some bruise cream and an ice pack?”

“I’m not supposed to—“ they stop themselves, swallowing heavily— “you said…you said the crew was gone?”

Black nods. “Just you and me, baby.”

“So I can…I can have the ice pack? A-and the cream?”

Oh. “Yes, baby, of course. You’re allowed.”

They nod shyly. “Then I…I want to go.”

“Can you stand up for me?”

They try, only for their legs to give out almost immediately, tumbling back into Black’s arms.

“Hey, whoa, easy, baby,” they murmur, “it’s been a while since you stood up, hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh, shh, none of that now, it’s not your fault.” Black gets them settled again. “May I carry you?”

The child’s eyes go wide. “You—you would?”

“How else would we get to the medbay?”

“O-okay.”

“Yeah?” The child nods. “Can you give me your hands, baby?”

Black takes the offered hands, guiding them around their neck and softly bidding them hold tight. In one smooth motion, they slide an arm under the child’s legs and stand, pulling them into their arms. They stand still a moment, letting them get used to it.

“Alright?”

The child nods, tucking their face over Black’s shoulder. “Why isn’t your tummy doing the thing anymore?”

“Do you…want it to do it again?”

Another nod. Well, that’s easy enough. Black smiles as the child sighs, relaxing into their maw as it rumbles softly again. They make their way to the medbay, setting the child carefully down on one of the beds and fetching what they need. As they turn around, they see the child staring at the floor with their eyes shut.

“Hey,” they murmur, hustling back over, “hey, what’s wrong, baby?”

“It’s really bright,” they mumble, “hurts.”

Right, they’ve been in the dim light of Electrical for…who knows how long. Black turns the lights down a little.

“Better?”

“Mhmm.” The child’s gaze lands on the scanner. “What is that?”

“That’s the scanner. It scans your body to see if you’re healthy.”

“Wow.”

“Mhmm.” Black holds up the tin of bruise cream. “Can I put this on for you?”

“Will it hurt?”

“No, I’ll be very careful.”

“Okay.”

As Black starts to spread a thin layer of the cream over the worst of the bruising, the child lapses into silence, occasionally swinging their legs back and forth.

“Are you an Impostor?”

Black’s hands falter for a moment.

“Yes.”

They’re going to be afraid again. They’re going to find out I killed the crew and they’ll—

“Does that mean you can shapeshift?”

Black’s head jerks up. “What?”

The child cocks their head. “I heard that Impostors can shapeshift, is that true?”

“Yes…yes, we can shapeshift.” Black gestures to themselves with their free hand. “Technically, I’m doing it now.”

“You don’t actually look like that?”

“No.”

“Oh.” The child swings their legs again. “Can I see you shapeshift?”

“…if you want,” they say after a moment, “but I’m going to need you to close your eyes for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I get embarrassed when people watch.”

“Oh. Okay.”

As the child closes their eyes, the rush of trust leaves Black more than a little heady. They close their own eyes, rolling their shoulders to let their human shape form, finding a smile still on their face as it settles into place.

“Okay, you can look now.”

The child cracks one eye open, only to gasp in delight and reach out for Black’s face.

“Easy,” Black chides lightly, “I still need to finish your arm.”

“But you’re really pretty!”

Unbidden, heat rises to Black’s cheeks as the child cups their face in their hands, staring at them with the wonder of someone seeing the stars for the first time.

You are the most adorable thing I have ever seen.

“I like this face,” the child declares, squishing it a little, “I like it a lot.”

“I’m glad,” Black chuckles, “and I’m happy for you to look at me while I finish tending to your arm.”

“Can I play with your hair?”

In response, Black takes their free hand and rests it gently on their head. “Try not to pull, okay?”

“I won’t.”

The child lapses back into silence as Black finishes fussing over their arm. Their fingers card shyly through Black’s hair, uncaring about the slight pressure the bandages put as Black finishes wrapping the bruises.

“There,” they murmur as they finish, “all done.”

“Oh.” The child looks down. “Thank you.”

“Of course, baby.” The hand doesn’t leave their hair. “Having fun?”

The child nods, their own flush blooming on their cheeks. Black chuckles, raising a hand to gently cup their face.

“What’s this for?”

“Can I stay with you?”

Black blinks, a little taken aback by the sudden question. The child’s hand trembles on their head and they reach up, holding it and giving it a soft squeeze.

“You’ve—“ they swallow— “you’ve been really nice to me and I—I like you, so I want to—can I stay with you?”

Oh.

“Yeah, baby,” Black murmurs, smiling as the child’s face starts to split in a wide grin, “you can stay with me. I—oof.”

They barely have a moment to open their arms before the child all but throws themselves at them, hugging them tightly. Black chuckles, their maw purring, holding them tightly.

No one is going to hurt you ever again, baby, I’ll take care of you.

“Thank you,” comes the shy mumble.

“Of course, baby,” Black murmurs back, pulling them away enough to see their face. They frown, seeing something in their hands. “What’s that?”

“It’s a, um…” They hold it up, studiously not meeting Black’s gaze. “It’s my flower.”

Black’s eyes widen. “Indeed it is.”

A little purple flower with two green leaves.

“It’s pretty.”

“Mhm.” The child looks up at them and raises it to—

I am going to die. I am going to die, right here, because this is too cute.

The child tucks the flower shyly behind Black’s ear.

“Now you’re both pretty.”

“Oh, baby, thank you.”

The child nods, still looking away. Black can’t stop smiling.

“Hey,” they call softly, “what should I call you?”

“Um—“ the child twists their hands together— “I don’t, um…”

Something twists in Black’s gut as they realize that probably their name hasn’t been…fondly recalled.

“You can pick a nickname if you want,” they encourage, “I won’t mind.”

“I don’t have any nicknames.”

Black thinks for a moment.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What?”

“Your favorite color,” Black repeats, “do you remember how the crew used to call each other by their colors?”

The child nods. “Are you—are you going to call me by my color?”

“Is that okay?”

“Mhm, but then…do I call you Black?”

Black smiles. “If you like, yes, I’m Black.”

“Hi, Black,” the child says shyly, “I’m Purple.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Purple.”

“C-can I still stay?”

“Of course, baby,” Black murmurs, “you can stay.”

#among us #fic #dragonbabbles

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