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darthmaulification · 3 years ago

Note

Hi Orion! I love your writing so much I can’t wait to read more!!!! How do you think Maul would be with an s/o who takes care of and wants kids? Like daycare, orphanage, babysitting, any of that stuff! I feel like it would just kick his breeding kink into high gear lol!!

A/N: WOW! 😀 this one took a while! 😀 lets not address that this has been in my drafts for just over two months! 😀 lets pretend! 😀😀

girl, anyways, this prompt had me feeling 🥺🥰😍😳🥴 so i wrote something that has SO MUCH set up it’s borderline ridiculous. also, this is a tad different than most my other stories in that the perspective changes and it’s a bit more slice-of-life. 😊

and good GOD this is the longest thing i’ve written, sweet lord. 💀

that does mean i lost the central aspect of your ask, anon, but i hope what i did add was enough! 😖🙏

but did i also have song inspos for this? yeah, yeah i did:

like real people do by hozier

wish you were here by pink floyd (specifically the ‘two lost souls’ line)

anyone else but you by the moldy peaches

hope you enjoy!! 💗

content: self indulgent af and super canon divergent 💀, angst with fluff and mentions of smut, force sensitive!reader, fem!afab!reader, mentions of the Maul Body Slice on Naboo Incident, reader also has a bit of a tragic past (mostly hinted tho), force bond, implied PTSD (of maul and reader kinda), almost break up, implied/mentioned smut that ranges from very implicit to a bit more vulgar, breeding kink at the end

word count: 12,050 (one BIG bitch holy SHIT)

The galaxy is a lonely place.

Despite the sheer magnitude of its population, where each planet has a varying abundance of life, it is often a painfully lonely existence everyone leads. Everybody drifts through the environment they were given at birth, haunting their own homes until wanderlust, fortune, or death takes them somewhere other than where they are. Always, it seems, everyone is a visitor, a stranger, a distant someone far, far from everybody else.

Sometimes though, there are brief moments of collision, when paths cross and companionship is found between people who were independent for too long. Maybe that companionship lasts for only one cheerful or lustful night, maybe it stretches to the morning after, maybe it strains for a week or two, pulled tight until it snaps, or maybe, just maybe, it lasts even longer, becomes a chance to abate the loneliness.

A history ago, on a ragged planet with a bloody sky, a witch births a crimson son who’s connected to the Force with a link stronger than she’s ever seen. He’s stronger than her magick, stronger than the very ichor that pulses at her planet’s core. It makes the witch fear, and in her fear, she becomes angry. The red son lives a life subjected to her anger and fear until he is five, when his younger brother is born, also powerful, also strong. The son isn’t as scared anymore.

It ends when the son turns eight, when he arrives. He is a Force user, like the son, but he is something dark, shrouded in robes blacker than a starless midnight sky. He reeks of the stench of death, it taints the air, stains the ground. Sours everything. He brings with him a battalion of droid troopers and bad intentions. The son is a part of those intentions.

The witch is afraid of him, but she is also practical, so she offers (sells) the crimson son to him to ensure an alliance. The son becomes a bargaining chip, nothing more than a political deal. He gladly accepts, and the battalion is given to the witch in return. He guides the son away with a steady hand on the shoulder and an earful of lies.

The son does not see the witch, the red planet, or his younger brother for years.

Hyperspace travel, shipping yards, palaces, pod races, speeders, bustling markets, cantinas; all in motion— everywhere, all the time. Nothing ever slows down, nothing is never not moving. There is always somewhere to be, somewhere to go, people to see, to avoid, places to be discovered.

It’s movement that’s kept you alive and hidden since you were born, but it’s also this same movement that makes you painfully aware of how ungrounded your life has to be. Ever since you were six years old, since your drunk-angry father came back, since the first Seeker tried to take you, since your mother died, you have had to move. Planet hopping, never staying too long, always jumping from one village to the next.

Each one you occupied for only a week at most, and in that time you’d pick up the odd job that was easy to maintain and came relatively easy to you: babysitting. Children are a commonality in most star systems, though stable homes and parents are not. So you would give back to each tiny village you could, watching the young so that their parents or guardians wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the family afloat and making sure their child didn’t go running off, never to be seen again.

(Truth is that happens a lot, and everyone knows it, but no one likes to speak the words “slavers” and “traffickers”.)

Babysitting also reminds you of your mother, and she instilled in you the love and care that she believed each child deserves. You decided to make that your mission as well, for as long as you could until you had to part ways and move again. The names of every child that you’ve ever cared for sit tenderly in your mind.

For a long time, you cursed the Force for making you live this way, it gave you nothing but heartache, pain, and fear— a lifetime of constantly looking over your shoulder. Seekers followed you for years until you were finally able to figure out how to mask your signature, to make yourself even more of a nobody to the galaxy. (The children remember you, though. They always do.)

But you never stopped moving, despite honing your skills and being safer than you ever had before. It just didn’t seem right to stop, to settle— you had never had it before, so why would you even bother? There was too much danger involved, too much unknown to stay more than a week on some backwater planet in a dingy hotel room.

Too much risk, so you keep moving.

You move, until it’s after many years and space trips, you find yourself on Naboo.

Somewhere, two Jedi face a determined Sith.

Somewhere, the Sith slays the Master and leaves the padawan grieving and angry.

Somewhere, the padawan almost exacts revenge.

In the market, you’re startled by an intensity that knocks the wind from your chest, as if you’ve taken a hefty spill, despite the fact you’re standing perfectly upright. The feeling, to your shock and dismay, tightens on you, like a boa constricting your entire being. It feels like your lungs have stopped functioning, like you’re being ripped apart, and you gasp for breath like a fish out of water, grasping at your throat. What is happening? What is happening?

A strangled, terrifying wave of fear rolls over you like a tsunami just as the excruciating iciness of pain doubles tenfold with your next breath. It claws at your insides like an animal locked in a cage, shredding at your abdomen with a terrible fervor.

You feel like you’re dying.

The vendor across from you looks concerned, and she says something, but the blood pounding in your ears doesn’t allow you to hear it. Instead, you push away from her stand, leaving all the produce and your credits behind, hastily making your way back to your ship on shaking legs.

Each step is Hell, stumbling and painful, as if knives are being pushed into your flesh only to be ripped out before plunging in again. The white hot agony brings tears to your eyes, and they blur your sight alongside the black splotches that mar it as well. Your mind cannot get the ignition of a lightsaber, the searing flesh, and gore out of your head.

Somehow, you manage to fall to your knees just outside your ship, just as a headache the size of a planet crashes down on you. Wheezing, you crawl to your open bay door, each movement burning like you’re walking on hot coals. The pain is so consuming, nothing breaks it, not even when you attempt to pull the Force to yourself, to relieve some of the anguish out of desperation.

It doesn’t work, if anything making it worse, and you writhe on the ground half on your ship’s bay door, half on the hangar floor. With glassy eyes you’re able to see figures above you, pulsing with alarm and worry, but your vision goes black, and you crash into unconsciousness.

Maul wakes from saving his own life shuddering violently all over, in a peculiar mix of pain, anger, and the remnants of his earlier absolute terror somewhere in the middle. Each heave of his chest makes his body scream, sending bolts of white hot pain stabbing across his entire person. He almost chokes on the bile that has risen in his throat, his vision blurry and obscured by black spots that threaten to pull him back into oblivion.

The Force around him shakes as much as he does, trembling with the remnants of unadulterated panic, a delirium so potent it drudges Maul through the events of what just transpired— what he nearly died from. Visions of Kenobi’s electric blue lightsaber, the breaking and cauterizing of his body, his own intestines spilling from him—

Maul writhes on the ground in the sticky, wet puddle of his own blood, spit, and vomit, covered in the mess from head to toe, for what seems like hours until he’s able to roll himself onto his side. Panting and groaning like a wounded dog, Maul gathers up all his willpower and forces himself to focus on that simmering, tempting anger at his core. His bloodshot eyes flit downwards and the sight of his tattered robes atop his marred, raw, throbbing midsection makes him feel all at once sick and furious.

How long has he been here? How long has no one come for him, thought of him and his successful survival? He is meant to have allies, promised that safety net, yet he still is here, alone and only half-alive.

How dare he?

Maul can’t decide if his anger is aimed at Kenobi, or the Jedi Master he slew, or his Master that orchestrated it all. He can’t decide if he’s ashamed and embarrassed about his failure, his near death, all the pathetic things he did in order to still be alive, or if it’s a mix of all of it. All he knows is the wrath that bubbles inside him, warms his cold body to a fever pitch, until he’s snarling and howling up the elevator shaft, into the open, lonely air,

“HOW DARE YOU!?”

It feels like being taken from Dathomir all over again.

There were weeks of suffering after what had happened to you on Naboo.

At first, the mysterious phantom pain was still so intense you spent days in a medic center weeping and incapacitated on a cot, the doctors and healers unsure of your condition. Pain medication didn’t dull the ache, if anything it loosened your grip on the Force surrounding you and made everything hurt even more. For the first time in your life, you prayed to the Maker in your desperation.

It eventually let up, leaving you with its scar.

Months later now, the ache is localized to your abdomen, specifically an invisible throbbing line just below your navel that seems to stop abruptly before it reaches the other side of your torso. But as there always has been, there is no discernable wound or mark on you, there is nothing physically wrong. Your skin is fine, the muscle and organs beneath it as well, everything looks as it should.

But the ache plagues you constantly, sometimes it flares up and leaves you crying and heaving, other times it is so dull you almost forget it's there. But you’re reminded at seemingly the most random intervals; it will strike when you are sitting down reading, or when you’re pouring yourself some caf, or it will wake you in the middle of the night, making you lie awake until morning.

Though one night you don’t jolt awake from the flaring agony of “your” wound, but from something else entirely— a dream. Or rather, a nightmare, as it was anything but the pleasant, if not weird, nighttime visions you usually had, but there was something about it that felt different, real.

You had dreamed of a young boy, obviously not human due to his cherry red skin and small ring of horns, running frantically from someone the dream never revealed to you, but implicitly made you feel utter dread at the thought of the boy being caught. The boy, which you realized was tattooed with inky black markings, had an odd mix of drive and fear on his face. He ran like his life depended on it, as it probably did, and at one point, the boy looked over his shoulder, lips parting to release a silent scream.

There, in the distance, a man completely shrouded by black robes. He lifts a hand and—

You had woken up before anything else happened, but the nightmare left you panting and in a cold sweat. Nothing good came after that, you just knew it. It puzzled you as to why you’d have such a vivid, intensely real dream. It felt like watching a holofilm, but deeper, more personal.

It felt like a memory.

As it would turn out, a near bisection would, in fact, leave a person with a hefty, painful healing period.

Maul spent the first month holed up on his ship, not even attempting to do anything about the agony his body was in. He couldn’t will himself to tend to the wound with bacta, couldn’t use the Force to relieve any of the intensity. All he could do was hunch over the command board of his ship, ashen and shaking, sweating through his clothes in pain.

The second month is spent reteaching himself to walk again which is as humiliating as it is painful. He feels like his legs could fall off any second, that the scar across his center could tear at the seams and spill his guts to the floor all over again. It scares him as it angers him, the icy fear leaves him cold only moments before the heat of his soaring temper replaces it. He gains enough strength from his spite and itch for vengeance to pilot his ship to the nearest moon: Nar Shaddaa. The Smuggler’s Moon.

The third month, Maul is well enough to kill a Hutt spice lord, and everyone else in his way. He does it all to prove the myth of the boogeyman Sith a reality, to send a message straight to his Master, to make Sidious angry. It’s bold and reckless, but Maul is too fed up and angry himself to care about the consequences. Acting out of line is unheard of for a Sith, but Maul decides to shed that shackle and chain. It’s high time he stop licking the boot.

The fourth month, Maul takes full control of the dead Hutt’s spice ring and rules with fear and an iron fist. He kills anyone that crosses him and more. He waits for Sidious, but he never comes. Maybe his former Master thinks him dead, but that’s as unlikely as a bantha growing wings and taking flight. Or Tatooine turning into a water planet.

It comes as both a cold and hot revelation when Maul realizes that Darth Sidious just doesn’t care. Sith shed other Sith like hairs falling from the follicle. A loss of a single strand does nothing to affect the whole. Betrayal comes second nature to them. Usually it is death that takes them, but Sidious sends the very clear message back that Maul is not worth the effort to kill.

Maul stays alive only by the mocking indifference of his former Master and leaves Nar Shaddaa and his criminal empire by the seventh month, furious and abandoned all over again.

Until, when one day he’s in hyperspace going nowhere, he’s not.

He feels a disturbance in the Force.

One day, you feel a tug, like a string’s been tied to your side and pulls you to... somewhere. At first, you think it’s the beginning of another uncontrollable ache, or another one of those visions that have been happening during the day, but when neither occurs, you’re left with that strange pull.

It messed with you again when you were caring for the younglings of the Ithorian settlement that had offered you sanctuary. The chubby youngling in your arms squealed happily when you jolted, despite you almost dropping him. The pull had moved, like it’s other end had jumped a vast distance in mere seconds...

“My apologies, little ones.” You murmured to the group of Ithorian youths crowding you, who all spoke in their native tongue happily, any worry they might have had at your startled expression gone when you swooped up two more of them, making the squeal. With an armful of chattering children, and even more at your feet, you glanced to the heavens, where the stars were hidden by the blanket of the daytime sky.

You hadn’t had time to ponder it further because two of the older children had decided to start biting one another, and then there were more pressing things to worry about.

Later though, at night in the hut you’d been given, you finally had time alone to meditate, something that you rarely did but mattered for figuring out what was happening to you. You channeled your concentration and focused on the tug at your side, uncharacteristically pronounced and apparent for a product of the Force.

You learned it tampers with the energy around you, the intangible line immovable and unaffected by any of your attempts to mess with it. Instead, every time you reached out with your presence to try and dissipate it, the pull grew only stronger, becomes more and more easy to reach, but soars in its durability.

Over time you discovered it really draws you to wherever it wants you to go, guides your feet when you allow it, and protests when you have to turn the opposite direction to actually board your ship when you needed to leave Ithor.

The Force practically sings when you set your small freighter to hyperdrive in the direction the pull demands, apparently the speed and rapidly waning distance pleases it. It crosses your mind briefly, as you stare into the blurred streaks of stars in hyperspace, that you’ve found yourself traveling all over again. Of course, abandoning yet another planet, another village, another group of kind strangers, doesn’t fully bother you (not anymore) as it would some others, you’ve done it all your life.

Except this time— again, you curiously tug at the ghostly string to be delightfully surprised it tugs back (strangely with some aggression)— this time there’s a different purpose as to why you’re on the move again. Something beckons you...

Someone awaits.

Maul is beyond annoyed with the infernal, metaphysical thorn in his side when he arrives on Endor, when it finally seems to let up on dragging him for it’s every whim. It doesn’t disappear, but it does feel dulled, like it’s slacked instead of pulled tight. He’s nearly caught off guard hours after landing, when the line becomes taut, so sudden it yanks him physically and makes him stumble.

Instinctively, Maul projects at the pull in offensive defense, like he had the first time it appeared, but this time it reacts aggressively, sending a near painful jolt throughout his entire body. Coddling his pride, Maul begrudgingly bites his tongue and decides not to toy with it any further. As he allows the Force around him to relieve the tense guards he had placed, the pull seems to take over, urging him to follow.

Unwillingly to aggravate it again, and admittedly very curious but also irate, Maul lets his feet glide in the direction the string pulls him, drifting through Endor’s lush forests like a sailboat at sea. It takes him quite a bit of distance away from his ship, pulling him over a mountain ridge to the lip of a plunging valley. The wind whistles through the trees, and the pull beckons him downwards.

After a winding walk down the mountainside, Maul reaches a clutch of trees, where just past them he’s able to see the gunmetal silver of a ship. Instantly cautious, he hides behind one of the trees, shrouded in shadow, and masks himself with the Force. Nearly completely unnoticeable, he watches a woman descend the ramp of the freighter.

She’s a tiny thing, soft looking too, sticking out like a sore thumb against the harsh edges of (presumably) her ship and the tall, daunting trees of Endor. Her robes are also entirely out of place, delicate fabrics of even more delicate colors, pastels and tans. Maul’s eyes narrow. There’s no reason she should be so deep into Endor’s wilderness, but Maul doesn’t think it's a coincidence either.

The woman’s wide, doe-eyes dart around, scanning the area, seemingly searching for something. Her arms are at her chest, hands fiddling with her loose scarf, and Maul watches as she takes a couple more nervous steps until she steps off the ramp entirely.

... And the millisecond she steps onto Endor’s grassy earth, the pull literally yanks Maul from his hiding spot.

“Kriff!” He curses the same time the woman shrieks in shock, and he immediately regains his footing, taking a defensive stance to cover his moment of weakness. The woman’s staring at him wide-eyed and fearful, so Maul bares his teeth in a snarl, delighting internally when she takes a step back in fear. It’s embarrassing enough that she bore witness to his... unfortunate affliction, so he will not have her

“Who are you?” He growls, shoulders rising in challenge, one that he’s willing and able to give should she try anything. Instead of answering, the woman takes another step back in growing terror that he can feel seep from her, her face going as ashen as a birch tree. Maul’s scowl deepens, of course, such a pathetically dainty looking thing would find it only natural to freeze.

“I will ask you only once more. Who are—” Maul cuts himself off when he feels the phantasmal inkling of a cowering Force signature, one that’s attempted to be hidden from his senses. He meets the woman’s wide-eyed gaze with a low chuckle and grins when her aura quivers in fear. He’s caught her red-handed.

A Jedi.

“Mm. Nice try.” Maul assumes that she must have the answers he desires. Why else would they meet like this?

So, naturally, Maul charges.

You’re barely able to avoid the scary, red-skinned Zabrak when he leaps at you, black robes rippling in the wind. His lightsaber ignites in mid air with a sickening electric pulse, coming down on the space you just occupied. A shriek catches in your throat as you scramble away, eyes blown wide with fear as he swings it, almost catching the flesh of your arm. Briefly, you look to your sleeve, which now bears a singed hole, before whipping your attention back at the oncoming Zabrak.

“Who are you?!” You manage to shout at him, sending a boulder flying at him with a wave of your arm in order to buy yourself some time. Unfortunately, the Zabrak simply stops the boulder with his hand, tossing it carelessly to the side, and you stumble on your own feet, so the getaway fails spectacularly. You gasp, turning on your heel to make a dead sprint in the opposite direction, but your flight is stopped when the Force around you constricts, halting you in your path.

“Speak now, you have answers I want.” He growls and his wrist flicks down, sending you to your knees. His Force signature engulfs you so thoroughly that it feels like you’re barely able to feel your own. You attempt to squirm out of his grip, loosen the intangible hold he has on you, but his aura roars with anger and tightens around you considerably. It pushes the air from your lungs and causes you to wheeze, tears pricking your eyes.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You cry out, yelping when he stomps closer, arm outstretched, hand in a cupped position, clearly choking you without actually touching the muscle of your throat. If it were even possible, the Zabrak’s deep scowl darkens considerably, and it makes you tremble, eyes instinctively going to the intimidating crimson lightsaber held in his other red and black hand. He follows your petrified stare, chuckles, and rolls his wrist to flip his saber from side to side.

“I suppose you feel quite stupid for not having yours at your side.” He starts, and instantly confusion wiggles it’s way right up next to all the fear in your system, “It’s very... irresponsible for a Jedi to leave home without it.”

“Jedi? I’m— I’m not a Jedi!” You trill, lips clamping shut immediately when he sends you a dirty, harsh glare with his piercing yellow eyes. He glowers at you and you whimper, already boxed in so much by his Force presence, but pulling yours even tighter to you. Though it seems he believes you, how couldn’t he with all the genuine confusion you were projecting, because his arm drops, relaxing both his tense muscles and the Force around you.

Gasping, you inhale deeply, reveling in the oppressive weight being lifted off of your body, and your aura stretches around you, the Force happy at being released from his hold. On stumbling legs, and absentmindedly rubbing your throat where the hold still tingles, you rise to your feet, nervous and hunched.

“I’m not a Jedi.” You repeat quietly, cautiously as to not provoke the Zabrak, who’s already so angry, to lash out at you again. Instead, he only glares at you again, causing you to flinch, but he sheaths his lightsaber, the blade disappearing with a hiss.

“What is the meaning of this then?” He barks at you, pacing over and closing the distance between the both so quickly and effectively, you haven’t the time to process before he’s right before you. Looming over you like the Grim Reaper, the Zabrak is much taller than you, broad and muscular, and his black as the night robes seem to swallow you in their shadow. You gulp, drawn to his golden eyes, blistering like hot magma against the charcoal tattoos surrounding them. Anger and hate radiate off his Force energy in waves, overcoming yours with its dominance.

Oddly though, you catch a whiff of... him. He smells like black pepper, of spice and heat, like a fire burning wood and sharp-scented incense...

“Answer. Me.” Your embarrassingly intrusive thoughts are interrupted by the growl that passes his grit teeth, made all the more vicious by his sharp canines and curled lip. You go to speak, but the words dry on your tongue when his hand lifts sharply, and ensnares your forearm in an iron grip.

Suddenly, just as his hand latches around your arm, it’s like the pull that you’ve felt for months strained so tight it snaps like elastic. And then, it’s like the world just sets ablaze.

You feel everything, his hand on you, your skin on him, the heaves of his chest, the swirling, clashing emotions from the both of you. It pulls a sharp gasp from you, that shakes the Zabrak too, and you lock eyes with him, seeing yourself in and from his eyes. The perspectives make you dizzy, and confuses you beyond belief, scares you even. Your Force aura feels like it swells, and you realize it’s blending and combining with his.

Maul.

That’s his name. Maul.

A Sith— No, not anymore—

A criminal? Technically, I suppose.

It was you! On Naboo, you almo—

“That’s enough.” Maul hisses and the hand that was tightly bound to your arm unlatches, and he recoils like he’s been burned. The sudden distance makes the Force around you tremble in apprehension, and despite the fact that you’re petrified from what just occurred, you want to close the gap between you and Maul. Breathing heavily, you look wildly over Maul’s face, taking in his irked expression, and it’s jarring to recognize that you can feel the prickle of annoyance in yourself as well.

“Wha—What did you do to me?” You exhale the question, mouth suddenly very dry, and Maul has the audacity to snort a laugh at you. His amusement floats to you, and it startles you as much as it makes you prickle ever-so-slightly in annoyance.

“I did nothing. Maybe it was you.” Maul replies, mockingly accusatory, in a tone that can be summed up by the word “prissy”. He seems to sense your word choice and be quite offended by it, because the smirk on his face drops near immediately.

“Watch your mouth, girl.” He sneers, pulling back from you further but surprising the both of you when the Force objects. It doesn’t manhandle either of you entirely, but it leaves you wanting to be as close as you possibly can to Maul. Testing the waters, your heart still thrumming a bit with fear, you take a single step towards Maul and are delighted by the relief the Force breathes around you. Maul feels it too, you can tell from how his posture shifts, the grimace on his face leaving, just as you can from how his Force softens ever-so-slightly.

“... What is this?” Maul ponders, and for the first time you catch a glimpse of what his face can look like when it isn’t twisted with rage. You take another step to him, fear all but gone, and he looks to you, eyes wary and narrowed, but curious too. Strangely, you find yourself liking his eyes when they’re like this. Relaxed, calm...

“Watch it.” Maul’s hardened once again, having caught your kind words of him even though they never left your lips. You open your mouth to speak, but he lifts his hand, and begrudgingly you don’t speak, and frown instead. Maul sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This accursed... condition we share will not allow us to part. You’re...” He sighs again, rolls his eyes too when he glances over and scans you up and down. You feel his displeasure tenfold and your frown deepens.

“Come with me.” He grumbles, and he turns on his heel, to go to his ship atop the ridge, but you find your voice.

“No! Why should I?” You say indignantly, eyebrows furrowing at the gall Maul has to first attack you, intimidate you, then expect you to follow him like some lost puppy. He stops in his tracks, whipping around to face you, and startles you with his fury that flares at your opposition. The wrath is as intense as it was before, but Maul’s made it almost normal to you with how many times he’s shown it, even though you’ve only just met.

“We need to have this wrong figured out, and corrected.” Maul hisses through his teeth, getting in your face and at first you flinch, but you stand your ground. Trying to appear as intimidating and sure as you can, you cross your arms over your chest and gesture with your head to the open ramp a few paces away.

“We use my ship, my terms. Or you suffer with this “wrong” because I won’t help fix it otherwise.” Internally, you think it's the most convincing and assertive you’ve been all your life, standing up for yourself in an uncharacteristic display of authority. Maul’s hands clench to fists at his sides, the one nearest his lightsaber on his belt twitches, but you determine he’s so fed up by the whole situation because he nods stiffly, a single dip of his head.

“Fine.” He growls through his teeth and you get him back by smirking. His Force aura goes deadly, and the smirk falls. This time, he grins, but you turn to walk to your ship so you don’t have to see it.

The both of you bristle with annoyance as you pilot your ship from Endor.

The first month is spent acclimating.

After you had both given each other nothing but glares and silent treatments for a couple of days, you both slowly began to encroach on each other’s existence.

Maul learns your Force signature is gentle, tender even, like dipping your feet into a shallow, warm creek. It’s like having the soft morning sun on your skin, or holding flower petals, or running your hand down the silky pelt of a Loth cat. Maul loathes the slowness of your presence, the calm it brings, like a type of sleepiness that dulls him.

He spends most of those first few weeks with you attempting to shake that light fatigue from where it settles on his bones. Maul isn’t used to such a level of softness, nor does he appreciate the inexperience that leeks from it either. You aren’t properly trained in your abilities like he is, and it is annoying.

You’re nothing like him, his exact opposite.

Likewise, you learn that Maul’s Force signature is akin to a wildfire. It’s consuming, spreads far too easily and efficiently, and is hot to the touch like a roaring furnace. For days, you flinch from it like you would if you scald your hand on an iron, too close to the heat. Maul is all fire and flame, all natural disaster, like the most destructive and angry of tornadoes.

It is both bark and bite, the threat and the deadly swing of a lightsaber. Maul not only lashes out at you himself, but his aura does as well, he boxes you in and overpowers you in every way, pushing back your Force signature until it is small and meek. At first, you take his wrath, mostly out of fear of the unknown, of what he may do to you, but you aren’t and have never been weak.

You have fortitude and patience, enough of it that you wait out each of his fiery, temper-filled storms, because you have to show Maul that he doesn’t and can’t scare you like he does others. You don’t allow him to push you into a corner, both physically and metaphysically, firmly telling him that he technically resides on your ship and has no place to claim any amount of ownership.

Maul does not take your defiance to him well.

“You are nothing but cruel!” You shout at Maul, pointing a finger at him and then to the poor Rodian, who lies dead on the floor. The cantina evacuated quickly after Maul had picked a fight with the Rodian and his Trandoshan companion, much to your dismay, and now the Rodian lies dead and the Trandoshan presumably does too.

Maul had tossed him through the window, and you’re fairly certain he couldn’t have survived the four story fall.

“You are nothing but a hindrance!” Maul yells back, pointing a finger just as accusingly at you, his energy lashing out at you like a whip strike. You push back like you’ve done before, what you’ve trained yourself to do over the month and a half you’ve been with Maul, and he reacts violently. Maul clears the room in three large strides and suddenly has your chin in his grasp. His fingers dig into your cheeks, yanking your head up to look at him.

“I should just dispose of you.” He snarls, jostling you in his grip as your hands fly up to grab his wrist. It’s the cold realization that sinks into you as you realize his other hand, still bearing his lightsaber, presses the sheathed, cold hilt to your stomach. You gasp loudly, a large inhale of air, and you wriggle in his hold.

“Let me go, you monster!” You cry, the tears of all your pent up anger and sharp fear pricking your rapidly blinking eyes. Maul’s eyes, surprisingly, go wide with shock, like he wasn’t expecting that, but they narrow again as he smothers it with fury. His hand grips your face tighter, so you struggle harder. The lightsaber jabs at you.

You’re uncertain of what exactly happened next. One moment you're flailing in Maul’s hold, the next your back is hitting the wall opposite of him, slamming your head against it and knocking the wind from you. Dazed and gasping for breath, your first thought is that a third party, someone also one with the Force— Inquisitor is the dreaded outcome— has discovered you, but it’s when you see Maul also half-crumpled on the floor do you realize that the Force simply threw you apart.

You watch through watery eyes as Maul groans, regaining his footing faster than you. He glances around, searching for a threat that isn’t there, until his gaze rests on you again. It’s at this moment you realize he’s no longer holding his lightsaber, and that it’s in pieces on the floor. Maul sees this, and his aura goes red with fury.

“What did you do?” He barks at you, going to his shattered saber and snatching up the glowing red kyber crystal, sneering at it before shoving it roughly into his pocket. You sniffle, wiping away the remaining tears on your face and stand as well, wincing at the pain in your back.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, wrapping your arms around yourself, drawing in the Force like a comfort blanket. Maul snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes, sarcastically responding with, “You never seem to, hm?”

The cruelty stings, and it makes your heart clench with a pain that you decide you really don’t like. More tears, in spite of you, well up in your eyes and it’s impossible to stop them. They roll down your cheeks, big and fat, and drip off your chin, falling to the floor between your feet. Maul looks up from the metal scrap of his lightsaber at you, and something in his aura shifts. You’re really too hurt to care what it is.

“I wish I never met you.” You whisper, and everything hurts. Turning on your heel, you walk from the cantina, almost running into the Devaronian bartender who was just about to try and go back in. He flinches away from you, rightfully wary, but he outright cowers at the sight of Maul.

Maul stands amongst the broken glass, debris from destroyed tables, a dead Rodian near his feet, and the remains of his lightsaber.

For the first time, he realizes he can’t feel you.

It leaves him painfully alone. Everything, cold.

Maul didn’t return to the ship that day, nor did he for two whole weeks after. During that time, you couldn’t feel him, like whatever happened with the Force at the cantina snapped the string that tied Maul and you together. It should’ve made you feel happy, relieved. You were free from spending another second with Maul, free from his darkness.

But... it left you feeling so numb. At first, you thought the emotional anguish was due to the events that transpired at the cantina (the fighting, the death, the blood) but it was more than that, more than just having the pull suddenly and abruptly from you. It made you feel strangely... empty. Like not having Maul was worse than having him.

The thought all together upset you.

Maul is cruel, quick to anger and with a temper like Hell, rude, mean, and self-centered. He was nothing but distant and aloof with you, always sneering and frowning, never happy. You would constantly get the brunt of his bitter words and jabs, all his taunts and snappy teases. Nothing you did to try and bridge the gap appeased him, not fully that is, you did manage to see snippets of him past his intimidating exterior, but those fleeting moments were few and far between.

But they reminded you that you were tied to him, that Maul was more that what the world got to see of him. His near death on Naboo is something that only you have ever and will ever experience like he did, having felt the agony and ache for months. No one can say they’ve felt his terror like you have.

... Nor can they say that about his past. When Maul was with you, you pieced together that the violent, distressing dreams and visions you would have were in fact his memories. Certain things he’d say, names he’d avoid, small quirks in his behavior all pointed to the small, terrified young boy, being Maul, years ago, in another lifetime. Whoever the shadowy, evil man was, you still haven’t fully pieced together.

Through those painful cracks in him, you picked up on the good things Maul had the potential to be. He is rather charming, when he lets himself relax, his golden eyes not sharp like knives but buttery like honeysuckle, the lines of his midnight tattoos not scary, but admirable like art in a gallery. Like the rest of him, really, all toned muscle, gorgeous crimson skin, and desirable physique. You can’t exactly say you weren’t attracted to him.

Maul also showed an immense amount of knowledge, knowing so much about the Force and bending it skillfully to his whim. Once, when he was softened by the evening and a bottle of wine, he showed you how to alter your surrounds, create illusions. It was one of the few times you had ever heard him laugh genuinely, a rich, loud laugh that made you smile too. That was a good moment.

Another good moment was when you stargazed together, however unintentional it may have been, and when Maul told you the myth behind a constellation you pointed out.

Another was when you landed for fuel and somehow managed to chorale Maul into helping you babysit triplet Twi’lek toddlers for their father, a feat that honestly pulled you both into exhaustion. That was also the night you fell asleep next to him, your cheek on his shoulder. What’s more, in the morning he wasn’t closed off, and didn’t push you away (immediately, that is).

There was good in Maul. You had seen it, experienced it.

As you thought about him in his absence, the more and more you... wanted him back. You wanted Maul back for his charm, his intelligence, for his brazen nature, his curiosity, his propensity to growl lightly when you awoke too early in the morning, for the cautious yet intriguing conversations you shared, for the purr he had as he slept, something you never told him you witnessed when he fell asleep at the helm of your ship...

You realized, when Maul had been gone for two weeks, that you wanted to try again not because there was pity, or fear, but because you knew he had the ability to change.

Maul finds himself walking back to your ship two weeks after the incident in the cantina. Two weeks of throbbing numbness, of a deep pit in his core nothing could fill, not the hours of training, not endless meditation, nothing. At first it had been only frustrating and angering, but now he’s desperate.

Maul needs whatever it was that tethered you to him reinstated. He needs to feel you again.

Two weeks gave Maul plenty of time to reflect on his actions. He knew what he did at the cantina was brash, uncalled for, and entirely stupid. He recognized the way it hurt you, even then, but didn’t fully comprehend until he was supposedly free from you but couldn’t get you off his mind.

Ever since leaving you, or more accurately you left him, Maul’s thoughts were plagued by you. Constantly, he found himself thinking of your face, your moon-eyed gaze in his head, how you were so incredibly short and that he found that something he could (and did) take advantage of, but how it endeared him as well. You were his opposite, soft, small in more ways than one, gentle, meek...

You occupied his mind, the memories that played back making him need you even more, like when you smiled, or when he watched your eyes light up at the story he told of the stars, or when he and you vowed never to speak of how you both accidentally gave the Twi’lek children caf instead of chocolate milk, how he woke in the morning to find you asleep at his side, curled against him with nothing but peace flowing from you.

Maul thought of how he and you opposed each other, how you’d clash with him, the way your Force mixed with his like oil and water most days, but he also thought of the times the wall lifted. Most obviously Maul saw your memories, he knew your pain and history of running to nowhere from a danger that constantly threatened you. He felt through the memories the bond gave him your deeply hidden sorrow of desiring a home that you believed you could never get.

Maul, for the first time in his life, was able to directly experience another, and it perturbed him as it did captivate him. He knew your hurt as much as you knew his, and how closer could you get to another person than that?

He didn’t think there was any other way.

Maybe... this tie was for a purpose. Why else would it be?

Maul can’t comprehend the full meaning, much to his dismay, but as he drags himself back to you, all he can think of is how no one else in the universe understands him like you do. There’s no one else but you.

Two weeks later, and he’s back at your ship.

Neither of you said any words when you opened the ramp door to see Maul, slightly disheveled, at your ship. No words were spoken when you felt absolute and utter joy, and when you ran down the ramp to greet Maul, and when you delighted in how he lifted you in his arms and hugged you like he meant it.

No words were spoken when the Force caused an uproar around you, trembling the grass below you and rattling the metal of your ship, as it pulsed between the two of you and finally, you could feel him again, and he could feel you. He says your name in his mind, you say his, the bond establishes itself all over again, like a heavy rope is tied around both of you, this time knotted tight and unmoving.

“I want to change. I want you.” He says when he still hasn’t let you go, and you don’t care that he’s sweaty, because you want all of him too. You nod into the black fabric of his robes, gasping against him when his energy surges and engulfs you. Yours does the same to him, because Maul’s footing falters, nearly sending both of you to the ground. But you’re clutching him so tightly it wouldn’t have bothered you if even the sky fell upon you both.

“I want your change. I want you.” You reply into the charcoal skin of his neck, sighing as his Adam’s apple bounces when he swallows. Your nose presses against his jugular, the alternating pulses of his twin hearts sending ripples through your body.

Change, Maul, is good. I know.

You’re capable of it. I don’t—

It’ll be hard, but I’m here. I— Thank you.

I want you. I want you.

And Maul’s lips plant down on yours and he kisses you like he’s a man reborn without sin. His lips move against yours, fevered and hot, the wet warmth of his mouth swallowing yours, his balmy tongue sucking at your mouth. You shudder and gasp, taken aback by his presence, his wild lips on yours, melting against him in the way that ice cream does on a sunny day.

The Force around you sings something holy, like every voice of every angel rises in crescendo and it’s all so much, that you don’t process the tears streaming down your face until Maul’s hands reach up and wipe them away. This time his fingers on your cheeks are tender.

You and Maul pull away from each, both left ruined and panting by the kiss that could decimate entire planets with its intensity. Your eyes search his, those honeyed pits of liquid gold, entirely captivated by their Midas touch. You reach up to cup his cheek, marveling at the smoothness of his skin. How you’ve missed his vibrant red and inky black...

“It’s all for you.” He removes his hands from your face only to rip his cloak and robes from his body, shrugging the heavy fabrics to the ground. There, shirtless and gleaming, you finally get to see his gorgeous tattoos in person, see the expanse of red and black pulled over sculpted muscles, to see the scar of the wound that nearly took him. The word ugly floats from him, but you ignore it, and instead your hands glide from his face to his shoulders, then down his chest, then to his middle, where your thumbs brush the raised edges of the scar.

“I see and feel only Maul.” You say and he steps so close to you that he’s flush against you, guiding your hands to wrap around him, where you get to feel the bumps and valleys of his toned back. Maul’s hands feel your hips, your waist, then up to your collarbones and neck. He speaks your name, rolls it on his tongue like candy.

“I want only you.” He purrs, and you tilt your head back to bare your neck to him and Maul leans in to place heavy kisses on your throat, sucking lightly with each one. Each kiss has the air around you growing hot, your trembling under the growing heat of the Force. Maul feels it too, from the way his body heaves with breath, to how his arousal makes itself known in his pants.

“My room.” You breathe, both physically and sending those two words with conviction across your bond, to which Maul grins against the skin of your neck, letting his lips linger before he pulls away. He meets your hazy gaze with one just as glossy.

This isn’t the way either of you planned to start with change, but neither of you are objecting, not with how the intensity of the bond soars when you kiss again, all passion and searing, not with how Maul lifts you and carries you to your bedroom, to your bed, where he shows you all his softer parts, both physically and mentally.

True change can begin the morning after over a cup of caf, when you’re too pleasantly sore between the legs to walk.

And it does, because Maul asks if you’ll allow him to tell you about Naboo, then about the man in the shadows, then his mother, and then him.

Change doesn’t come painlessly or without it’s hiccups, but months later time has healed most of the surface wounds, forgiveness has as well.

One night, you and Maul lie awake in bed, facing each other, legs entangled beneath the sheets. You draw invisible patterns on each other’s skin with both your fingers and the ghostly tendrils of the Force that pulses in the air around you. Each touch fills the room with a pleasant, tingly aura, as if it’s all a constant static.

“Maul.” You begin, brushing your hand over his pec, then to his broad shoulder, reveling in the warmth of his skin. He hums, mirroring the tender touch, albeit with a heavier hand, on your hip, fingers splaying across the swell of your pelvic bone. His eyes follow the curve, and you watch as his hand does as well.

“I’ve been reflecting about us.” You say softly, voice so low a whisper it catches in your throat and you have to swallow to continue speaking, “About what we are. What this is.”

Purposely, your words are vague because you know, and Maul knows, what you’re talking about. The Force had brought you both together, and now, as you lie naked and bare and vulnerable to one another, there is no way that you could be apart. Even in the dark, Maul’s eyes seem to glow when he meets your gaze.

“We are something. There’s just no name for it.” He replies, gravelly voice just as low as yours, rumbling the air like boulders rolling down a mountainside. This time you hum in response, drifting your hand from his shoulder and up his neck to cup his squared jaw in your palm. Your thumb rubs against his chin, and Maul leans into your touch. The Force around you purrs, and you revel in the warmth of Maul’s seeping into yours like ink staining cloth.

“... Have I told you I’m sorry?” Maul asks, his voice reserved in a way, quiet too. You know what he’s referring to; the months of hurt, of anger, and maybe more specifically the moment at the cantina when he threatened your life. You hum, technically he hasn’t said the words aloud, but he’s done other things to make it up to you.

“I’ve forgiven you months ago.” You reply simply, snuggling closer to him, feeling the warmth of his aura blankets yours, and you open it to him. He hums in response, and takes the invitation, all gratefulness and relief.

There are so many other words that you could say, things that you should say, but when Maul’s other hand glides across the sheets to lace his fingers with yours, you decide now is not the time. Not when you have him caressing you so tenderly, not when you are both weaved together like a tapestry made of you and his vibrant crimson and black, not when Maul leans in to close the slight gap between your bodies and lay kisses onto your breasts, not when he catches your sighs in a deep, passionate kiss, all tongue and teeth, but also all the heat of him.

Now isn’t the time, you decide as Maul shifts and unlinks from you only to roll with a soft grunt on top of you, his bare body smooth, heavy, and lustful. Your eyes flutter shut when Maul catches your lips with his, anchoring himself above you and with a deliciously slow, distracting roll of his hips, dissolves all the thought from your mind.

Not now, you think one final time before wrapping your arms around Maul’s neck and pulling him into your inviting, ready body.

Maul and you don’t even think of marriage. In a way, it has already happened.

Though the informal honeymoon period is quite nice. Maul surprises you with a trip to Scarif, one that involves a beautiful hotel suite and plenty of time at one of the tropical planet’s expansive private beaches. How he managed it all, you never ask (the answer is probably less than legal), but the gesture is one that warmed your soul so much you smiled until it almost hurt and kissed him until both of your lips felt raw.

A few days into your stay on the resort world, you lie on a towel beneath a towering tree that shades you with its enormous leaves. The salty, warm breeze and light crashing of rolling waves soothes you immensely, a relief from the bustle and crowdedness that usually clogs your Force senses. Maul feels it too, he reclines against the tree, hands behind his head.

He’s shirtless, which is something that he doesn’t actually do much of. You know why, your eyes flit down to the mangled, cobweb-esque scar, but it still makes your heart pang to know he hides his crimson skin, strong muscles, and those gorgeous midnight tattoos.

“It reminds me of failure.” Maul speaks and you jump slightly, hearing his voice both come out of his mouth and in your head. You must have been projecting your thoughts, but you don’t focus on that now. Instead, you frown slightly at the bitter, self-deprecating comment Maul made, because there’s no reason he should think that. Never should he look ashamed like he does, not with what happened to him.

“It tells me of survival.” You retort firmly, shuffling on your knees closer to Maul who only looks at you, looks like he’s watching every moment replay in his mind. You catch a glimpse of a blue lightsaber igniting, and shake it from your head. Offering Maul a comforting smile, you settle between his thighs, placing one hand on his scar, the other on his cheek.

“This is determination, strength. Perseverance. The will to live.” You say as the subtle ache settles on your side, knowing Maul feels it to. Again, thoughts of the lightsaber, then of the Jedi. You push the bearded man’s face from your mind, and remember happier times; like when you and Maul first kissed, when you baked jogan fruit cupcakes with him, when he made you laugh so hard you peed, and when you both laid together under the open sky the night before, taking in each other’s bodies dipped in silvery moonlight.

It works, because the lightsaber sheathes and the bearded Jedi has vanished.

“Mm... I still can’t believe you pissed yourself because of a knock knock joke.” Maul quips and you gasp indignantly, face igniting with a fiery blush. He grins, the boyish smirk that you love to hate, so you smack him on his chest, pushing him slightly against the tree.

“Shut up!”

And the rest of the trip was spent filled with laughter and love, without any pain or shame to hold Maul, or you, down.

Years pass, Maul and you having settled on some nameless, distant Outer Rim planet on a patch of land big enough to farm more than enough for the two of you. A routine of sorts has been established, in late spring you both lay the seeds for your crops, tend them throughout the summer, and harvest them in the fall. Then, you would travel to the nearby village to sell some of your surplus while Maul would go off-world and sell on other planets.

Never in your life had you envisioned yourself a fruit farmer, much less Maul, but the ease and domesticity that came with your quiet yet active lifestyle is too good to pass up. The peace also was an added bonus, the space from others and the lush, temperate greens of the terrain for most of the year made old wounds heal.

Maul didn’t suffer phantom pains as often, in fact he was rarely inhibited by his wound anymore. He also relearned so much, allowed himself to love and grow now that he was out from under the oppressive shadow of the man that once enslaved him. No longer is Maul tied to that anguish, not anymore. It all eased Maul’s temper as well, made him less wrathful. Of course, his fiery, brazen self will never be truly dampened, he will always be a blistering kiln, but now it is not out of rage, but of passion. Confidence. Maul oozes with new purpose.

And of course, by the will of the Force, it all extends to you as well. You hadn’t had that familiar ache in your side in months, hadn’t been witness to nightmare-memories in even longer. You even found it in yourself to heal from your own past, you no longer fear Seekers coming for you, have stopped looking over your shoulder. It’s not that you’ve sworn aware danger, there always will be when you’re Force sensitive, but you’ve grown and become less fearful.

You’re not a runner anymore. You stand your ground because now you have it, a farm and home, and you do it all because you deserve that most basic right. You deserve a home, happiness, love— everything that you have been denied or denied for yourself. Nothing will take your home from you and make you run, not while you breathe, not while Maul is beside you.

It’s time to stop moving, to slow down.

Later, an opportunity arises to solidify that idea.

“I could watch her.” You blurt out the words faster than you can really process them, but Teeubo’s, your Twi’lek neighbor, relieved expression makes you bite back any retraction that your brain could come up with. The smile she wears dazzles in the aura around her too, filling the room with kindness. She shifts her baby daughter in her arms, stepping closer to you.

“Thank you so much, numa.” She replies and before you know it, tiny little Liira, is placed in your arms you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding out. At first, the baby squirms in your hesitant grasp, but once you relax your tense muscles, forcing yourself to calm your aura, Liira’s tiny lekku twitches, and she coos happily. Teeubo leans to kiss her daughter’s forehead, pulling back with a softness in her lilac eyes that only a mother could have. It makes something inside your chest pull, and, distantly, you sense Maul is curious.

“Again, thank you. I should be back soon.” She says and you dip your head in response, smiling softly. Teeubo grabs her bag to head to the market to finish the errand she had forgotten, offering you a goodbye via the tip of her long, left lek dipping inwards towards her chest.

“May the Force be with you.” You call after the purple-skinned Twi’lek, just before the door to her house shuts, leaving you suddenly and abruptly alone with a baby. You stare down at Liira, who’s dozing in your arms, unsure of exactly... what to do. It’s been years since you’ve last babysat, and even longer since it’s been such a young child.

Yet nothing feels wrong. Liira sleeps in your arms, swaddled in her soft, thin linen blanket, her tiny cheek pressed against your chest. There’s something so... simple about it, holding a baby and watching it sleep, that makes your heart swell. You smile, walking as carefully as you can to the rocking chair in the corner, settling down in the seat.

Liira doesn’t stir, only grunts softly like any three month old would, when you start to push the chair with your feet to a steady rhythm. The weight of the baby against your breast feels natural, almost, like you could do this with one of your own. You imagine a red-skinned baby in your arms, with honey-colored eyes—

The abruptness of that last thought makes you gasp, and Liira startles awake, her big green eyes snapping open. Before you can prevent it, her little violet face scrunches and she starts to wail, ear piercing and hiccupping. You bite your lip, brows furrowing, and the only thing you can think to do is hum the lullaby that your mother once did for you.

How you still remember the low, lilting tones after all these years, you don’t know. But they come naturally, easily, and you watch in growing fascination as Liira settles in your arms again. Her tiny arms cross over her chest and her big, sleepy eyes blink once before closing in slumber.

“Good night, sweet one.” You murmur to close the lullaby, kissing Liira gently on her lekku before rising from the rocking chair and bringing her to the bassinet farther in the home. Everything is gentle as you ready Liira for bed, swaddling her, setting her on the bassinet’s cushion, arranging her plushies around her. She sleeps the entire time, and it makes you marvel at how simple it all feels.

Liira captivates you like one of the many, unique nebula star systems boast, she grasps your attention, your yearning like nothing else ever had. Again, as you rock the bassinet lightly to ensure Liira sleeps fully, your mind drifts to that red-skinned, honey-eyed baby. Your baby, yours and Maul’s baby. Perhaps they’d have your eyes instead, or maybe inherit your human skin and hair.

You think of a Devaronian family you once babysat for years ago, and remember that they had seven rambunctious, wonderful children. Smiling to yourself at the memory of the mother, an exasperated but happy woman, you can’t help but think you could one-up her with eight.

Your core warms, and you wish Teeubo would return sooner than later.

Unbeknownst to you, Maul caught the vision you had of a baby and it shook him to his core. You desired a child with him? Him?

Already it’s by some fantastical miracle that the Force blessed him enough to give him you, someone who’s the least worthy of a Force bond, but it’s almost a comedic impossibility that you’d want to give him anything further, much less a... child. He’s a killer, a tyrant, and someone who’s tampered for so long with the Dark side that he spent years as a Sith.

Maul is no saint, has never been, and yet he is tethered to you on a level most can only dream of, his very soul tied to yours, a fate far better suited for some Force-sensitive user who’s sworn themselves to peace, or even a Jedi. Maul doesn’t believe that he’s deserving of you, and yet you want more. Another... someone.

Maul spends the afternoon away fighting every demon he has in the secrecy of his mind. He blocks you from sensing it, not wanting you to worry let alone know, and he struggles with grappling with the idea that if he becomes a father, the child will one day learn of everything he’s done, every crime, every sin, every life he’s snuffed. The child will be born to learn of it’s father’s bloody hands.

The thought pains him, scares him even, but what terrifies Maul even more is his own parent, his mother, and of... he avoids thinking of his name. He is dead to him.

But if there was one thing Maul learned of parenting from Talzin it was how not too. He learned only what parents shouldn’t do, the terror and trauma they could inflict with their lack of care, indifference, and abuse. Maul does not want to do that to a child.

Towards the end of his internal strife, Maul is struck with the sudden realization that he’s been freed of those shackles and chains for years now. He hasn’t seen his former Master in years, his mother in even longer. He’s grown past them, perhaps even outlived them, and has survived. He has survived them.

Maul reconciles his past. He reconciles his former Master and his mother. Maul reconciles himself.

He ends his meditation to become aware that hours have passed and the sun has dipped low in the sky, the evening turning to night. In the golden and crimson hues of the later hours, he rises from the floor, groans at the subtle ache in his bones, and ponders one last thing before he awaits your arrival.

As he thought of a baby, it churned a curious feeling inside him, one that bubbled deep in his core and spread only warmth when he thought of how the baby would be his. He’d be the one to put it in your womb, to start its growth in your belly until it was swollen and ripe and...

Maul shivers back a pleasured snarl as he feels his cock twitch in his pants.

The thought of you, his darling wife, all glowy and round in the belly with a baby (or two, his mind supplies) overdue in your womb, and two heavy, swollen breasts filled to the brim with life-giving milk in preparation for the babies he’d put in there makes him growl. His cock is half erect, and Maul palms it from over his pants.

And the plushness that would accompany the growth of the baby inside you, how your hips would ready themselves for birth, maybe even you’d become even softer, with more space for him to kiss and lick and bite and cum on.

Oh. Oh, he’d like that.

Maul’s arousal only grows when you return home, eyes teary but bright, and tell him:

“I want a baby.”

He ravishes you that night, all wild, all animal, all love.

You thank the Force, the stars, and the Maker all at once that Maul shared your enthusiasm for having children. If not only from his toothy smirk and wanting eyes when you returned home, but from the prominent boner he sported as well.

He kept you up all night, utterly wrecking you over and over again, fucking you senseless. Maul spilled into you, leaving you wet and sticky and with a pussy full of cum, so many times you were certain there was no way you wouldn’t be pregnant by morning.

... The morning of which Maul took you again and again, only stopping when you were cock dumb and quivering, contentedly asking him to stop so you could eat and go to the bathroom. He was barely able to process what you said, but then after you relieved yourself, fruits and sweets were simply added to the lovemaking.

Maul kept it up all day, then the night, and then the following morning until both of you passed out.

As it would turn out, that was the first rut cycle Maul had in decades.

And, true to its nature, it worked.

Months later, you’re tired and aching, holding a swaddled baby in your arms. A boy, your son, as vibrant a red as his father, all wrinkly the way newborns always are, sleeps peacefully. The crown of his head is ringed with tiny bumps beneath his soft skin, where a halo of horns, like his father, will one day grow in. His round cheek presses against your bare chest, the Force making the connection tingle with hidden warmth.

Maul is by your side, having been throughout the entire childbirth, kneeling next to the bed like a man at an altar, his brazen nature set aside to marvel at the newborn bundle in your arms. His golden eyes are misty, and you know yours are too, and he leans in to kiss the forehead of his son, pressing his nose against him.

You watch him linger, watch as his lips gently rest against your baby’s crown, as Maul’s nostrils flare when he breathes in, deeply, slowly. It’s after the warm, fanning exhale and at the second inhale you realize Maul is committing his son’s scent to memory, locking it away in his mind with the aid of his Zabrak biology. It makes your heart swell, and you have to blink back tears.

“He’s perfect.” Maul rumbles, eyes closed, his Cupid’s bow still pressed against your baby’s head. You can only agree, a tired smile spreading across your face, and you kiss the baby’s head too, and then Maul’s cheek. Your husband grins, looking up at you and it’s when he reaches a hand up to cup your cheek, did you realize that you were crying.

“Thank you.” You gasp, bottom lip trembling, leaning your cheek into Maul’s hand, letting tears fall where Maul swipes them away with his thumb. He shakes his head, contemplative, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re misty but playful.

“No, thank you, my love, my darling, my sweetest girl, mother of my son.” Maul says as he rises, and as he does he kisses your arm, your shoulder, then your lips again. You giggle, carefully removing one hand from your baby, to squeeze Maul’s bicep, pulling him to you.

“Oh, hush!” You say through giggles, especially when Maul dips his head to kiss your neck, making you gasp in mock objection when he nips your skin. Clearly, your shared excitement must have been far too loud, because your son squirms against your chest, his red face scrunching like he’s angry. Immediately, you and Maul go silent, watching as the baby’s mouth opens, expecting a wail.

Instead, he simply yawns, tiny arms and legs pulling close to his little body as he settles back against your chest with a soft grunt. Maul and you share a glance, amused and relieved. You peck your son on the head again, lips quirking up when he sighs loudly.

“I apologize, little one, were your mother and I too noisy?” Maul whispers, cupping the baby’s head with his palm. It makes you marvel again at just how small your newborn is, Maul’s fingers appearing as though they could dwarf his tiny little head. Maul sits on the bed next to you, careful as to not disturb his dozing son. Speaking of which...

“You told me names you liked once.” You murmur, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, and Maul hums in reply, both of your stares fixed on the baby, how he nuzzles against your bosom, observing his eyes squeezed shut, his round cheeks, his button nose, his clenched little fists...

“He should be Ravage.” Maul says quietly, and you nod.

“My little Ravage.”

Ravage. There, peaceful and warm, as he sleeps in his mother’s arms, protected by her and his father, who’d give him the galaxy and everything more. He’s made of nothing but love, and it can be felt. It swirls in the air, cradles all three occupants in the room. A tender sentiment arises and is agreed upon by everyone:

The galaxy is kind.

#star wars #star wars darth maul #darth maul #darth maul x reader #darth maul x you #maul x reader #maul #anon #anon ask #orion answers

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softspideys · 4 years ago

Text

The Perfect Date

summary: tom makes it his mission to take you on the perfect first date. the only problem is, you have no idea.

warnings: none

word count: 3.6k

pairings: tom holland x reader

a/n: this was supposed to be a valentine’s day fic but then I forgot about it. oops. plz enjoy anyway

Tom had just started the last lap of Wario’s Gold Mine when he heard Zendaya ask, “Got any plans for Valentine’s Day?”

He tried not to pay attention to your answer, focusing on keeping his lead, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes flickered over to where you were sitting at the kitchen table, absently circling your finger around the rim of your wine glass.

You straightened up at her question, scoffing. “Are you kidding? When’s the last time you saw me date anybody, Z?”

“Hey,” she said, pointing at you accusingly. “Don’t even start with me. I set you up with people all the time, it’s not my fault you’re so picky.”

“It’s called having standards,” you fired back. “Sorry I’m not interested in pretentious jerks who insist on mansplaining Tarantino films to me over their venti-soy-no-foam latte with a triple shot of espresso.”

Zendaya cackled, and though he couldn’t see your face, Tom could tell you were smiling too; your words had no real bite to them.

“Seriously though,” you continued with a sigh. “I think I might just give up dating for a while. Lately it feels like my only options are either crappy blind dates or going through a sleazy hookup app for some mediocre sex. I can’t remember the last time I got properly asked out and went on, like, a nice date.”

As soon as you said that, the gears started turning in Tom’s head. And then he got an idea so good he almost forgot about the race entirely, until Harrison hit him with a red shell and passed him, sailing over the finish line in first place.

“Yes!” Harrison cheered, causing you and Zendaya to look over, startled. “Finally, I won!”

“Wow,” Zendaya said, amused. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever lost in Mario Kart, Holland.”

“Yeah, what’s gotten into you?” you asked teasingly as Harrison got up and did a victory dance.

Tom normally hated losing, but he was too preoccupied at the moment to care. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just . . . a little rusty, I guess.”

You raised your eyebrows, but then Zendaya challenged Harrison to a rematch, and the two of them immediately started a new grand prix while you called dibs on the winner. With the distraction in place, Tom had plenty of time to come up with a plan.

The four of you had been friends for years, but he’d always harbored something of a crush on you. He’d never tried to push the boundaries or pursue you because he liked your relationship as it was already, and didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But this would be different. This was harmless. He was simply going to show you how you deserved to be treated, give you a good date to remember among the bad ones.

Nothing else. Right?

* * *

You eyed the huge bouquet of roses your coworker had on her desk and tried not to feel too envious. She’d made a big show of bringing them in this morning and inviting everyone who walked by to smell them, going on and on about how her girlfriend had surprised her for Valentine’s Day yesterday.

So what, you thought to yourself. I can get myself flowers whenever I want; I don’t need a holiday to have an excuse to do it. It really didn’t make you feel better though.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said, making you jump a mile. You looked up. Tom was peering over the wall of your cubicle, which was . . . unexpected. He hardly ever visited you at work.

“Oh, hi,” you said. “I didn’t even see you come in.”

“Yeah, you were totally zoned out,” Tom said. “Good thing I brought caffeine.” He placed a to-go cup from your favorite coffee shop on your desk. You saw the order written on the side; he’d gotten it exactly right.

“Wow,” you said, surprised but grateful. “Thanks.” You’d already had coffee this morning, but clearly it was shaping up to be a two-cup type of day. You took a careful sip and felt better already.

“No problem.” Tom followed your line of vision to your coworker’s desk. “Pretty flowers.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, a little quietly. You cleared your throat. “So, what’s up? Did we have plans today or something?”

“Oh, no,” he said, shifting from foot to foot, “but that’s actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” He seemed nervous, which in turn made you nervous.

“Okay,” you said, giving him your full attention.

“So . . . are you doing anything this Friday night?”

It was only Monday. You thought for a second before shaking your head. “I don’t think so.”

“Would you like to have dinner? With me?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. That was it? “Oh. Sure.”

You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes widen the slightest bit. “Really? I mean, great. Cool.” He scratched his nose. “So, Friday at six o’clock, then? I’ll text you the name of the place?”

“Sounds good,” you said. He seemed excited, though you couldn’t figure out why. You got dinner with him, Harrison, and Zendaya at least once a week.

“Alrighty,” Tom said, swinging his arms a little and nodding. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. See you Friday.”

“See you,” you said. Did he really come all the way to your office to ask you this in person instead of just texting you like he normally would? Maybe he’d been nearby or something. You watched him leave, mostly confused but also kind of endeared.

“Was that your boyfriend?” your coworker asked, subtly adjusting her flowers again.

You quickly shook your head, turning back to your computer and taking another sip of your coffee. “Oh, no. Just a friend.”

As Tom left your office, he allowed himself to do a small fist-pump. Getting you to agree was the hardest part. Now came the slightly-easier-but-still-hard part: making sure he gave you the best first date ever.

* * *

Something strange was going on with Tom. You first realized it when you brought up the dinner on Friday to Zendaya and she had no clue what you were talking about.

“Tom didn’t invite you?”

“Nope.” She popped the “p.”

“Huh.” You chewed your lip. “That’s . . . weird. Maybe he figured I’d just tell you about it. And I guess you don’t really need an invitation anyway . . . do you think he invited Harrison?”

“I don’t know.” You were on the phone, so you couldn’t see Zendaya’s face, but it kind of sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “Maybe he wants it to be just the two of you.”

“Maybe.” It was rare, but it wasn’t like you never spent time with just Tom or Harrison. You couldn’t remember the last time you had dinner with either of them one-on-one, though. This seemed . . . different. “But I’m sure he won’t mind if you guys show up,” you said with a shrug.

Now Zendaya did laugh. “No, no, it’s fine,” she said. “I think I’m supposed to babysit my niece and nephew anyway. You guys have fun.”

Then there was Tom himself. You hadn’t seen him in person since Monday, but he’d been texting you random questions all week:

Do you prefer a casual or an elegant ambiance?

How many candles on a table is too many? Or do you think overhead lamps are better?

Oyster bars . . . yes/no?

You answered all of them with increasing bemusement, but any time you asked why he would mysteriously change the subject. You couldn’t help but feel like there was something you were missing here.

Finally, he sent you the name of the restaurant on Friday morning: Soul & Persona.

You’d never heard of it, so you decided to look it up. One glance at their website told you this place wasn’t like the casual restaurant-and-bars you and your friends usually frequented. This was fancy. Clicking over to the menu, you inhaled sharply at the prices written next to the items. Luckily, today was payday.

You arrived at the restaurant shortly before six. Another person was already standing outside, and as you got closer you realized it was Tom. Two things about that were already weird: one, he was normally notoriously late to everything; and two, he was holding a bouquet of roses in one hand that were so big they nearly obstructed his face.

He didn’t notice you approaching, busy frowning at something on his phone. “Hey,” you said at last, making him jump.

“Oh! Hey!” He cleared his throat, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I mean—good evening.” He did a strange little bow before thrusting the flowers at you. “These are for you.”

“Wow,” you said, taking them carefully. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You look really nice.”

You were glad you researched the restaurant in advance, because the jeans and t-shirt combo you’d originally planned on wearing would definitely not have been appropriate here.

“So do you,” you said. He did: he was wearing slacks and a nice dress shirt under a jacket, his hair neatly combed.

“Thanks. Should we go in?” he asked. You nodded, and he hurried to open the door, ushering you inside. It was crowded, which made you a little worried. How long would the wait time be?

But Tom went right up to the hostess stand. “Hi,” he said, “we have a reservation for two at six; the name is Tom?”

She looked at her book and nodded. “You can follow me right this way.” She led you to a quiet corner of the restaurant and seated you at a table by the window. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Here,” Tom said, pulling your chair out before you could sit down. Again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

“This place is crazy nice,” you said, looking around as the hostess placed a wine list on the table.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed, a little distractedly. “Um. So. Do you prefer to work in a team or alone?”

You blinked. “What? Where’d that come from?”

He shrugged, fidgeting with his collar like he was nervous. “I—I dunno. Just making conversation.”

“Oo-kay,” you said with a laugh. “Well, I haven’t seen you since you blessed my office with your presence on Monday. How was your week? Didn’t you have to give a presentation yesterday?”

“Yes, and one of the board members literally fell asleep during it,” Tom said, wrinkling his nose.

He seemed to loosen up after that, and the conversation flowed naturally from then on as you talked about your plans for the weekend, your friends, your families, and any other random thoughts that occurred to you.

For dinner you tried a pasta dish while Tom got steak, and you each had the soup of the day for an appetizer. Your knowledge of wine was limited to whatever was cheapest when you went to the liquor store, but Tom had apparently become an expert overnight: he asked the waiter all kinds of questions about their reds vs. their whites before finally ordering a bottle for the two of you to share.

All in all, it was an enjoyable dinner. You always had fun with Tom, of course, but you rarely got to spend time with just him. And though you normally stayed away from expensive places like this one, you had to admit the food was delicious and the ambiance made you feel very sophisticated.

“Can I get either of you some coffee or dessert?” the waiter asked as he cleared your plates. You’d never been one to say no to that, but Tom jumped in before you could open your mouth.

“No thank you,” he said quickly. “Just the check please.” Then he looked at you. “I thought maybe we could walk to that bookstore you like? The one with the bakery in it? We could—we could get dessert there and browse.”

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Cool.” He sounded relieved.

The waiter brought out the bill and Tom grabbed it as soon as he set it on the table. “What are you doing?” you protested. There was normally an agreement among your friends that everyone paid for their own meals when you went out to dinner.

“I’m paying,” he insisted, waving you off as you fruitlessly tried to put your own debit card down.

“At least let me Venmo you for my half.”

“Nope.”

“Tom!”

“Seriously, it’s fine.” He wouldn’t even let you see how much the meal cost.

You could tell he wasn’t going to budge for whatever reason, so you had no choice but to relent. “If you’re sure,” you said, watching him smugly sign the receipt. You made sure to grab your flowers before you got up and followed him out of the restaurant.

The bookstore you liked was a few blocks away, but you didn’t mind the walk. The air was warm but balmy, refreshing on your face. “That was amazing,” Tom said.

“It was,” you agreed. “I’m convinced they put actual crack in that pasta sauce. It was otherworldly.”

He laughed before he asked, a little hesitantly, “So are you . . . having a nice time?”

You looked over at him questioningly. “Of course I am. But I always have a nice time with you.”

“Good,” he said quietly, nodding. “Good.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Tom said immediately. “I just wanted to make sure. So, what are some of your pet peeves?”

“What is it with you and these questions?” Thankfully, you arrived at the bookstore and were spared from answering.

One of your favorite things about hanging out with Tom was that you didn’t necessarily need to be attached at the hip or in constant conversation in order to have fun. As soon as you entered he made a beeline for the True Crime section while you went to look at the new releases.

It was nice to just browse on your own for a while, and you ended up buying a book you’d been wanting to read ever since it came out. Tom was still perusing the shelves after you checked out, so you sneakily went up to the bakery counter and bought some dessert.

He found you sitting at a table in the cafe, reading your new book. “What’s this?” He gestured to the two pieces of cake and cups of decaf coffee on the table in front of you. “You should’ve let me pay!”

You’d been anticipating this, so you merely rolled your eyes. “Cry about it. You paid for dinner; it was the least I could do.”

“That’s not how this works,” Tom objected, but he reluctantly sat down and pulled his cake towards him anyway. The two of you discussed your books while you ate, and you tried not to act like you were eyeing his slice the entire time.

He noticed, of course. “You wanna try?”

You nodded sheepishly. You expected him to push the plate towards you, but instead he scooped a piece up onto his fork and held it out. “Here.” A little surprised, you opened your mouth and allowed him to feed it to you. For some reason it felt oddly intimate.

He was watching you expectantly as you chewed. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you managed to say, swallowing. “Really good.”

It was getting late and the store was closing soon, so you left after finishing your coffees. Usually this was when you’d call it a night and go home, but this time you felt no strong desire to. So when Tom started walking along the river instead of heading back towards the restaurant, you didn’t mind at all, falling into step beside him.

The night sky was clear, giving you a breathtaking view of dozens of stars. Hardly anyone else was around, and the river below was quiet and calm. It was like you were suspended in time. You couldn’t remember ever feeling so peaceful.

Tom’s hand bumped yours as you walked. You didn’t think anything of it at first, but then it happened again, and this time he laced his fingers through yours.

For some reason that was what made everything suddenly fall into place, for you to finally put two and two together and realize what was going on.

Oh my God.

“Tom,” you said hesitantly, shattering the comfortable silence between you.

“Yeah?”

“Is this . . . a date?”

He stopped walking, forcing you to do the same. Under the soft glow of the streetlights you could see he was staring at you. “Wait,” he said slowly. “This whole time . . . you didn’t know?”

Now that he’d basically just confirmed it, everything started to make sense: coming all the way to your office just to ask you to dinner, bringing you coffee, making reservations at a fancy restaurant, paying for the meal—

You were on a date and you hadn’t even realized.

“Oh, God,” was all you could say. You almost wanted to laugh, though nothing about this was even remotely funny. It was like you’d been hit over the head with a brick.

How could you not have known? It should’ve been obvious when he paid for the meal; no, when you realized you’d be eating at such a fancy place; no, when he showed up randomly on Monday, brought you coffee, and fucking asked you to dinner.

You both seemed to realize at the same time that you were still holding hands, and he quickly dropped it and stepped back. For the first time since you’d met, the air between the two of you was awkward. “I—I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

“I should’ve known,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m so stupid, I just didn’t think—” You didn’t finish your sentence. You honestly couldn’t figure out why you didn’t realize it sooner.

Because he’s your friend, a voice in the back of your head reminded you. He’s your friend and he’s never expressed any interest in you before, not like this.

That was true. You’d always thought Tom was handsome, and maybe early on in your friendship you’d fantasized about him once or twice. But he always treated you normally, never outwardly showing any sign of wanting more.

“You’re not stupid,” he said immediately. “I should’ve made it more clear.”

“I’m just confused, I guess,” you said carefully. “I mean . . . why now? And why . . . me?”

He exhaled. “I overheard you the other day when you and Z were talking, and you were saying something like . . . you hadn’t been properly asked out and taken on a nice date in a while. So I guess I just wanted to do that for you. Make you happy.”

Your brain felt like it was short-circuiting. You didn’t know what to say to that, but he seemed to take your silence as a cue to keep going.

“That’s why I came to your office, to ask you in person instead of doing it over text or whatever. And I saw you looking at those flowers your coworker had, so I bought you some. And I picked this restaurant because it was nice but also because it was near the bookstore. And I memorized some first-date questions in case our conversation got boring, but I think that probably wasn’t necessary.” He sucked in a deep breath. “And now that I’m saying all of this I realize how weird it sounds. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly. His previous words were still echoing in your head. I guess I just wanted to do that for you. Make you happy.

He’d taken the time to think about all the things you liked and used that knowledge to plan the Perfect Date. You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something so kind, so thoughtful, so . . . romantic. Did this mean what you thought it meant?

Of course, the only way you were able to translate all of this was with, “Wow.”

But then he added, “And—and I didn’t do all of this because I thought it would lead to a second date or anything like that. I only—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, your stomach plummeting. This conversation was giving you whiplash. “So you . . . don’t like me?”

“Huh?”

“You did all of this . . . just because? You don’t actually want to go on a date with me?” Now you were more confused than ever, and a little hurt beneath that.

Tom’s eyes widened. “No! Well yes, but . . . no. Wait.” He took a deep breath. Now or never, right? “I do like you, but this was separate from all that. I only meant that I wasn’t expecting anything from this. I just wanted you to have a good time.”

You nodded slowly, exhaling. “Okay. So . . . what if I told you that I did have a good time, that I like you too, and I want go out with you again?”

Tom blinked at you owlishly for a second before his face split into a huge grin, one you were sure your own was mirroring. “Then . . . I’d say . . . same. To all of it.”

“Good,” you said, stepping closer. “In fact, I think this has almost been the perfect first date.”

He paused. “Wait, almost? What would make it perfect?” He furrowed his eyebrows, looking a little panicked. You laughed, reaching up and cupping his jaw.

“It has to end with a good-night kiss, doesn’t it?”

Tom relaxed, his hands finding their way to your waist. “Oh. Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

The two of you were still smiling as you kissed, and Tom lifted one of his hands to do a silent, sneaky fist-pump.

Mission: success.

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fic #tom holland oneshot #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x you #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fluff

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lightsovermonaco · 3 years ago

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 13

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 6.7k

Recommended song: "Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America” by Gym Class Heroes

"I have to go."

"Can't you stay five more minutes?"

"I wish."

"Come on, just a few more minutes to cuddle." Pierre flings back the fluffy duvet and holds out a hand. "Please?"

"I have an exam," you say with a sigh but bend to press a kiss to his upturned palm. "I can't skip."

Pierre groans and slings an arm over his eyes. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"I don't have a sim but I have an old PlayStation you're more than welcome to use. I think I still have one or two games."

"That won't keep me busy."

"I'm sure you'll find something. Just stay out of trouble okay? I'd like to get my security deposit back when I finally move out of this hellhole."

"Okay," Pierre grumbles, sitting up to give you a quick kiss. "What time are you getting back?"

"Four. We can go out to dinner or something." You smooth a hand over his hair, smiling lightly. "Or we can go for a picnic and take a walk through Saint James Park."

"Sounds like a plan." He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I'll be counting down the minutes."

You roll your eyes but your smile contradicts the sass. "I'll be home before you know it. Love you, champion."

"I love you too, mon coeur."

He was endlessly grateful for how easily the two of you had fallen back into each other. When he had shown up at your doorstep he had expected there to be awkward pauses and minutes of tense silence, but there had been blissfully little of either. As the days bleed into each other, your relationship only gets steadier, closer and closer to what it used to be. Maybe it was because you had been the one to break the silence or maybe it was because he had thrown himself into his career into someone's bed- whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. He was simply grateful to be welcomed back into your life. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon.

Pierre allows himself a half hour of lounging in bed before forcing himself to get up and shower. Off weeks were hard; all he wanted to do was rest and recharge but he still had to follow his workout regimen and sleep schedule or he risked falling out of the habit, making it that much harder to get back in the groove come race week.

First order of business: clean the clutter you had shoved in closets and the spare room prior to his arrival the day before. Folding the three baskets of clean laundry took an hour, washing dishes another thirty minutes, and vacuuming the entire flat took twenty. Once the counters are spotless and there isn’t a stray sock to be found, he takes stock of your pantry and notes what staples you were running low on.

Two hours later he trudges back up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, arms laden with reusable bags packed to the gills with food. His legs burn and he's slightly winded from the excursion; at least that could count as his work out for the day.

He's just about to start slicing vegetables for dinner when his phone chimes with a text from his PR agent, Sylvie.

You're supposed to be in an interview now. Where are you?

"Oh shit." He scrambles for his laptop which of course was dead. He manages to plug it in at the dining room table and angle it so the background is mostly neutral, just a band poster framed behind him. He checks his hair before logging into the interview.

"There's the star," the interviewer says, far too chipper to be entirely genuine.

"Sorry, I was having connection issues." He queues up his signature sweetheart smile that gets him out of any squabbles. It works, the woman's irritation melting into a more easy expression.

"Let's just get right into it. Since we're low on time I'll jump right in, if you don't mind."

Pierre leans back. He had an inkling where this was headed. "By all means, please."

"We just saw news of your deal with Christian Horner- if you take seventh in this year's drivers championship, it looks like you're at Red Bull Racing next year. How does that feel after being publicly demoted mid-season in 2019?"

A smirk tugs at Pierre's lips. He had known this exact question was coming. He had debated how to answer it without starting waves and still remaining truthful. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his ability to be diplomatic when others may have let their egos get in the way.

"Obviously I'm grateful that Red Bull has recognized the hard work I've been putting in at Alpha Tauri," he starts. "I think I've been able to push the car as far as I can but I still have pace in me, personally. So moving into the Red Bull would let me loose, so to speak, and give me a chance to prove that Red Bull is where I belong."

"Right, you have had quite a spectacular season so far with a race win under your belt and a few podiums for good measure. What do you attribute that success to? Why is it so different now in an Alpha Tauri versus that coveted second Red Bull seat?"

Pierre purses his lips. The answer he was expected to give wasn't one he was willing to voice. Instead he opts for neutral. "I've been able to focus and hone my driving this season. I've found a groove that works for me and with it has come an insane amount of confidence, which is something I struggled with for awhile after going back to Torro Rosso. I think it's really just that I'm finally comfortable in the car and with my team and that makes a huge difference."

"Thank you for that," the journalist says and Pierre nods. "Shifting gears, I have a few questions about your personal life if you don't mind."

This was the part he always dreads. Questions were often prying and he had to subtly skirt around them in a way that offered a satisfying answer without giving away too much. It was an art he liked to think he had perfected over the years but still didn't enjoy.

"As long as you don't mind me staying silent if I don't want to answer."

The woman laughs, the sound sharp and grating. "Of course. Unless I can bribe you into giving me an exclusive."

"Likely not. But you ask the right questions and we'll see."

"You've been seen hanging around a certain London neighborhood lately- that wouldn't have anything to do with you and your lovely lady, would it?"

He had been waiting for that one, too. When the two of you had returned from Red Bull headquarters he had noticed the man taking pictures across the street. He hadn't said anything to you at the time because really, there was no point in getting you worked up when he had a plan to handle it.

The question played right into his hand, in fact.

Pierre sits forward, folding his hands in front of him. "Actually yes. We recently got back together and if you'll let me, I would like to make a request."

The woman leans back and checks her notes. "Well it's not quite what I had planned but please," she gives a flourish with a hand, "you have the floor."

"I know driver's personal lives are something that a lot of people are interested in and that's great. I don't mind sharing things with my fans or letting them get the inside scoop, but there's some things I would rather be left alone. My relationship is one of them. I know you all took note that she hasn't been around the past couple months and if I'm being honest, it's because of comments and press coverage that invaded her privacy. I think some people forgot she was more than just a name on a screen."

Pen poised to take notes, the interviewer prompts, "You said you had a request?"

He doesn’t stop to assess the damage he had already undoubtedly done. Sylvie was probably already on the phone doing damage control with every news outlet she could get her hands on, if her muted and black square at the bottom of the screen was an indication.

"All I'm asking is that you leave her alone. If you have questions or comments you have to make, just direct them at me. Don't follow her around asking about me. Don't comment on her posts unless you're capable of being a decent human. Just… let her live her life in peace."

Maybe he was a love sick fool, but honestly he didn't care if he lost some support from fans. If they had such strong opinions on his personal life, he would be better off without them anyway. And his team could cut him and even if he was unable to secure a seat in Formula 1 after next season, he would survive.

But if he lost you again, he would be broken. It had taken being apart from you for him to realize it and he'd be damned if he was ever disconnected from you like that again.

"That's quite the speech."

Pierre shrugs. "It was. She's the most important thing in my life, right up there with racing.” Now that he had started down the road of truth, he found it impossible to hold his tongue. “I lost her once because people couldn't be bothered to remember that their words have consequences. I won't let it happen again."

"So you see yourself with her for a long time then?" The woman's eyes glitter with the potential of getting an even juicer tidbit from him.

Pierre’s jaw sets, muscles feathering. "That's not something I'm prepared to discuss."

The woman purses her lips and tips her head to the side. There was clearly more she wanted to say. "Well, I have to thank you for what you've given me here. My boss is gonna love the exclusive. I won't push any further. Thanks for your comments, Pierre."

"Thanks for actually being respectful."

“We aren’t all monsters.” The woman shrugs. “I can’t say I haven’t had my moments but I try to be straightforward.”

“Right, yeah. I get that you have a job to do.”

“Anyway. I look forward to seeing what you can do the rest of this season. Good luck.”

He signs off and instantly anxiety washes over him. If she twisted his words he was screwed. Sylvie would be on the phone as soon as the article was printed, no doubt trying to soothe sponsors and investors. She'd give him an earful about being respectful and not poking the bear but he'd tune it out like he always did.

The sooner he got away from Red Bull, the better.

Instead of dwelling on it he busies himself with cooking. It was one of his guilty pleasures. He always requested a full kitchen when he was staying anywhere more than a few days so that if he had the chance to make a home-cooked meal, he had the option. For tonight he had selected his favorite recipe. Parmesan-Cesar chicken wasn't normally something you would ever touch with a ten foot pole but as long as he was making it, Pierre knew you'd at least give it a try.

Music blasting in the background, Pierre sings along quietly as he unpacks the rest of the ingredients and gets to work. He does a little spin between the island and the sink, rinsing the dishes and putting them right in the dishwasher as he uses them. A clean kitchen is the mark of a great chef, his mom had told him, drilling the phrase into him when he was young.

In the middle of cutting potatoes Pierre gets a call. He only has an hour until you're home so he doesn't bother stopping, just puts it on speaker and continues measuring spices.

"Hey Daniel."

"Heard you're in London," Daniel says, Australian accent thick. "And a little birdie told me you and your lady got back together."

"We did," Pierre says, a smile splitting his face. "Finally."

"Thank god, now I don't have to listen to your drunk woe-is-me rambling anymore."

Pierre laughs and sets aside the measuring spoons. "It's not that bad."

"Oh please." Pierre could practically hear the eyes rolling. "The number of times I had to send an uber to a bar after a grand prix is insane. Charles and I should be entitled to financial compensation with the amount of babysitting we've been doing."

"I can handle myself!"

"Not after a martini you can't."

He was right there. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Oh right- I'm actually in town today too, got some stuff to shoot for McLaren before we head to Austria for the race next week. You guys wanna come out with us tonight? We're heading to a bar or two."

"I actually had something planned-"

"She already said she's coming!" Dan's girlfriend shouts in the background.

“Well then why even ask me?”

“To be polite,” Daniel offers with a laugh. “We’re meeting at the rooftop bar at the Trafalgar hotel at seven. That give you enough time to do whatever you had planned that’s apparently more important than seeing your best mates?”

“We’ll be there,” Pierre says and hangs up. He finishes seasoning the potatoes and pops them in the oven, finally getting a chance to sit while they cook alongside the main course.

He's on his feet a few minutes later, decluttering the last bits of mess around your flat. It was clear it hadn't had a decent cleaning in quite awhile- hopefully you'd keep it tidy now that the effort had been made. The guys would tease him endlessly if they found out he was acting like a housewife.

You arrive home just as he’s setting the table. “God, it smells amazing in here.”

“Salut, mon amour.” Hands full with hot dishes, he settles for a kiss to your cheek. “I made dinner.”

“And you cleaned,” you observe. “You were a busy boy.”

“Pyry would kill me if he found out I was laying around all day. I had to do something.”

You hang your backpack on the hook behind the door and take a seat at the table. “Well remind me to thank him again when I see him. This looks delicious.”

Pierre grins over his shoulder at you. “Me or the food?”

You throw your head back and laugh, loud and unrestrained. “The food, you goof.”

Pierre quirks a brow. "Is that the honest answer?"

"Okay, maybe both."

The meal is filled with your ramblings about your exam and your new hobby- this month it was hiking. You went into detail about all the few trails in the city you’d been on as well as the more challenging ones that dotted the countryside. Pierre just nods along as you talk, already planning on staying up late to learn what he could about the topic so he could be a better conversation partner.

The pair of you work together to tidy the kitchen and put away any leftovers. “Did you bring something semi nice to wear tonight or do we have to make a quick trip to the store?”

“I’ve got some Tauri stuff I can wear. And not just team gear,” he adds when you groan. “You know that cream sweater you love? The one with the logo debossed on the front? I’ve got that.”

“Oh,” you say before biting your lip. Your eyes trail down his frame and back up like you’re imagining it on him. A tingle travels up his spine under your assessing gaze. If you kept that up, neither of you would make it out of the apartment tonight. “My favorite. Yeah, wear that. It’ll be on my floor by the end of the night.”

Pierre places his hands on your waist and grins. “Will it? And what will be on the floor from your closet, hm?”

“Your favorite dress.”

“The orange one?” He realizes half a second too late that you would never know how much he adored that dress from the gala. It had hugged your curves in all the right places and left your back exposed, which would leave him free to trace patterns on your soft skin whenever he pleased. He had missed out on worshipping you in it that night and he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to do so now.

You roll your eyes. “I can’t wear that to a bar.”

“Says who?” Pierre nuzzles his face against your neck, breathing you in. A light undercurrent of sweat from your walk home from classes mingles with the usual bright scent of you, only serving to rile him up further. Never in a million years would he have guessed that a simple scent could do him in, and yet here he was, completely wrapped up in yours.

“Says me.” You sigh, tipping your head to the side when Pierre’s nose grazes your skin.

His lips follow until he reaches your jaw before he pulls back. “What one are you wearing then?”

“Does it matter?” You cross your arms, the smirk playing on your kissable lips tempting him.

“I have to mentally prepare myself.” And if whatever you chose was too sexy, he would need to get his handsiness out of his system before the pair of you met up with Daniel and his girlfriend. The last thing he needed was to be on the front of some seedy gossip column when his plan was to ease back into it.

You smile up at him, broad and unrestrained as if knowing your answer would affect him greatly. “The cobalt blue one that makes you stutter.”

The dress in question was just as form fitting as the orange one, but shorter and decidedly more distracting. It fell mid thigh and the spaghetti straps left your shoulders exposed, which coupled with the low back displayed a downright sinful amount of skin. You had worn it at a Torro Rosso event a couple years back and he had scarcely been able to get a full sentence out around you all night.

“That one’s a close second.” He follows you to your room, leaving you to hunt through the closet while he digs through his suitcase, thankful that he had the foresight to check out of his hotel on the way back from Red Bull and bring his things here.

Because there was no way in hell he was missing a second of being by your side while he was in town. Every moment had to count when he had no idea when he would be able to sleep next to you again, not when the season was nearly over and there were two double headers between now and winter break. When so many variables stood between him and you, he had no problem prioritizing you over a routine workout or a full night’s rest.

Pierre changes into the sweater and a pair of dark skinny jeans well before you emerge from the bathroom. He doesn’t bother responding to Dan’s text that includes an address and reminds him to be on time, instead opting to scroll through his instagram feed. He likes a handful of posts from his fellow drivers, including one of Max actually smiling at something off camera.

“Well?”

Pierre’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice. The phone falls from his hand when he drags his eyes over your body, head to toe and back again.

Oh, he was so fucked.

Maybe it was selfish, but with your hair done like that, the barest brush of makeup lining your eyes and in that stunningly blue dress, he didn’t want any other man to have the privilege of laying their eyes on you.

No, you were all his.

The moment you’re within reach, Pierre places his hands on the back of your thighs, just beneath the curve of your barely covered ass. You chuckle and tap your fingers under his chin. “Close your mouth; you’ll catch flies.”

“Just so you know, if you wear that dress I can’t be held liable for my actions.” Up to and including scaring off anyone that wasn’t Daniel or his girlfriend. No one else deserved to be blessed with your radiance. Hell, he didn’t deserve it, and yet here you stood.

“We’ll see about that.”

**********

Daniel and his girlfriend had already made their way through a round of drinks by the time you arrive. It wasn’t Pierre’s fault he couldn’t keep his hands off you and wound up getting distracted on the drive over.

"Late as always," she greets, kissing your cheek. "Dan got us here fifteen minutes early because he wanted the table with the best view."

"Like our names wouldn't have gotten us the table if we asked," Pierre says, wrapping Daniel in a one-armed hug before kissing his girl’s cheek in a traditional French greeting. "The view is pretty great though."

You were already leaning on the glass partition, hands curled over the edge and undoubtedly leaving behind fingerprints on the pristine surface, completely unfazed by the fact that the other patrons were staring. You had eyes only for the London skyline and Trafalgar square lit up below. The bar with its white marble tabletops and strict dress code was absolutely not a place that you should be standing on your tiptoes for a better view, but there was no way he could condemn you when your face lit up like that.

Pierre just places a hand on the small of your back and shoots a look at the bartender currently glaring in your direction, daring the smartly dressed man to say anything. He only raises a brow and resumes filling drink orders.

"You guys know how to pick a place," you say, "I could stand here all night."

"Right," Daniel's girlfriend says, rolling her eyes at Pierre who shrugs as if to say what do you want me to do? He was powerless to deny you anything that brought you a semblance of joy; your smile was everything to him. “Love, why don’t you come tell us about uni? You’re the only one of us currently enrolled, and I’m sure the boys would love to hear about all the drama.”

You and Pierre share a secret grin. You shake your head but allow him to guide you back to the cocktail table. “Drama? I’m an engineering major. The closest thing we have to drama is someone grossly miscalculating a structural load.”

Dan shoots Pierre a mischievous grin. “I heard Stroll might be moving next year-”

Both you and Daniel’s girlfriend groan at the same time. “No racing talk when we’re around tonight,” she says. “I’ve heard enough lately.”

“What’s new in the publishing world?” You ask, leaning into Pierre when he wraps an arm around you. He only half listens to her explain the so-called “top secret” project she’s currently working on, instead opting to get drunk on you.

The light breeze filtering through the surrounding buildings ruffles your hair. You lift a hand absentmindedly to tuck it behind your ear in an attempt to keep it out of your face. Everything you do is amazing to him, snagging his attention even when he should be listening to whatever it was his friends were saying. Your gravity was simply too strong to bother resisting.

“Enough talk,” Daniel’s girlfriend says, waving a hand. “You need a drink, and I want to dance. Let’s go.” Before Pierre can protest, she’s dragging you away to the glass top bar. You throw an apologetic glance over your shoulder and Pierre just winks. He was fine watching you from afar for now.

Pierre’s gaze drops to your perky ass when you lean in to let the bartender know what you want, likely shouting to be heard over the music, your dress riding up a bit with the movement. For having such a strict dress code, this place sure did feel like an upper class club.

You hook your thumb over a shoulder, the bartender’s gaze darting to Pierre before the man nods. The only explanation you offer is a wink, followed by a note on a cocktail napkin and a beer delivered a few minutes later by a server.

This is supposed to be the best beer they have. Just try it.

Leave it to you to constantly push him outside his comfort zone. Pierre tentatively sniffs the foamy glass and shrugs before taking a sip. Not bad, but he still preferred his usual whiskey.

Setting the glass down, Pierre turns back to Daniel. “Congrats on extending your contract with McLaren by the way. Should give you a decent shot at keeping up with the big boys and landing some serious points.”

“Seems like most of us are moving around, doesn’t it? Sainz to Ferrari, Seb to Aston Martin... The only one with any sort of long term commitment is Max and now me I guess.”

“And Charles,” Pierre adds. “He’s stuck in that red monstrosity for the foreseeable future.”

Daniel laughs, taking a swig from his glass. “And you’re moving too, huh? Austria should be interesting,” Daniel remarks, watching the girls at the bar nursing their own drinks. “What with the news of your new contract breaking and all.”

“Potential contract,” Pierre corrects. “Not for sure yet.”

Daniel scoffs. “Come on mate. You won’t have any problem getting up to seventh by the end of the season. Perez is slipping and the news that his seat is in jeopardy will only help your cause.”

Pierre takes a sip of his amber beer and nods. “I’m sure Perez doesn’t appreciate it, but he’s always been a good sport.” You catch Pierre’s eye and lift your fresh flute of champagne in a mock salute. Dan’s girlfriend drags you out on the dancefloor and immediately spins you. Your laugh is nearly audible, the memory of it fresh in Pierre’s mind as he watches you.

“Mate, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Daniel shakes his head and drains his drink. “I really don’t know how it took you two this long to come together. You’ve been dancing around each other for years but neither of you would admit it.”

“I could say the same about you two.”

Daniel shrugs. “Fair point. At least we got it all worked out in a weekend though.”

Pierre rolls his eyes and shoves his friend’s shoulder. “Whatever. Not all of us can have a perfect love story.”

The grin Daniel shoots Pierre is pure sunshine. “How long are you planning on waiting before you ask her to marry you?”

“What?” Pierre sputters, nearly choking on air. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“Oh come on,” Dan says, rolling his eyes. “We all know it’s coming eventually.”

Pierre would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. But he wasn’t sure if it was the time for a proposal, not when you had just gotten back together. The last thing he wanted to do was go through the pain of losing you again because he was too forward.

“One day at a time,” Pierre says finally, dragging himself back to earth. “I just got her back a few days ago. I don't want to scare her off by proposing just yet.”

“Right. Well you might want to get a ring on that hand sooner rather than later,” Daniel notes, gesturing to the two men who had approached the girls. “How long are we gonna let that go on before we step in?” Neither of you paid the men any attention, instead enjoying each other’s company, but the men’s eyes roaming over your body sets Pierre on edge.

“They can handle themselves,” Pierre remarks, shifting on his feet. The weak attempt at self assurance didn’t do much to negate the red tinting his vision. “They’re fine.”

“Her sharp tongue will hold them at bay,” Daniel says, winking at his girlfriend. “For a while at least.” Props to Daniel for possessing inhuman amounts of restraint, but Pierre’s muscles were coiled and ready to interject at the first sign of trouble.

He has to pause to remind himself he doesn't own you. You could make your own decisions about who you spoke with and who you entertained as long as he was the one to take you home. He didn't care if you wanted to flirt; he knew it meant nothing and if you got a free drink out if it then so be it. But those were the rules: flirting, no touching. He'd step in if need be if someone took it too far.

But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

Pierre watches tight lipped as you politely chat with the man, your body language closed off and dismissive. Pierre hates that you even speak a word to him. He knows it shouldn’t bother him because he trusts you, but the stranger is a wild card. Pierre watches like a hawk as the man inches ever closer, slowly interesting himself into your personal space. He waits for you to take a step back, to grant him that silent permission to come over and insert himself in the conversation and get his hands on you, this proving you weren't on the market.

One of the men shouts something at you over the music and you leer back at him, clearly disgusted at whatever he had said. Whirling on him, you open your mouth, likely to snap out a profanity lined retort, when his hand latches onto your arm.

"Oh, fuck no."

Half a second later, Pierre is stalking across the dance floor, no thoughts other than teaching the asshole a lesson. His hands are already curled into fists, ready to swing if the man hadn't moved by the time he arrived. Tolerating someone hitting on you was one thing, but blatantly ignoring the clear dismissals and laying a hand on you? No way in hell was he standing by and letting that happen.

The resounding crack of your open hand hitting the man’s face has pride swelling in Pierre’s chest. That’s my girl. You’d solved the problem before he’d even arrived. You jab a finger in the man’s face, Daniel’s girlfriend right there with you to back you up.

“Fuck off,” you were saying as Pierre approached, “or do you need to go back to kindergarten and learn to keep your hands to yourself? Maybe next time you’ll think twice before laying a hand on a taken woman- or any woman, for that matter.”

Driving your point home, Pierre slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in until your back is flush to his chest. You crane your neck up, the tense muscles beneath his fingertips and the fury contorting your features confirming just how rattled you are.

The lines creasing your brow are soothed away when you realize who holds you. You open your mouth to say something but Pierre places a hand on your throat, thumb and forefinger framing your jaw as he cuts you off with a kiss, his eyes locked on the guy still standing off to the side holding his cheek.

You taste like the champagne you’d been sipping all night. It’s the only thought in his head outside of the jealousy licking through his veins like wildfire as he claims you then and there in front of the crowd. Mine, his heart sings. He flexes his fingers, taking advantage of your surprised gasp to slide his tongue against yours. Mine, mine, mine.

Pierre lets you be the one to break away, lips curling in a smug, kiss-swollen smile as you address the men. “In case you still don’t get the picture, I’m not interested. And neither is she.” You jerk your chin, indicating your friend and Daniel, who had indeed followed Pierre and since mirrored his possessive stance, one arm wrapped tightly around his own girlfriend.

The two men reluctantly slink away after mumbling something unintelligible but undoubtedly indecent. It had been a week and a half since he had been on track and he had plenty of pent up aggression to get out. He didn’t normally opt for using someone’s face as a punching back as a stress reliever, but rulers were made to be broken. Your hand splayed on Pierre’s chest is all that stops him from following and asking them to repeat themselves.

“Just let me hit him,” Pierre says, voice far more level and put together than he had expected it to be. “Just one punch. That’s all I would need.” His knuckles smart like he had already connected them to the man’s face.

“And let you throw away your contract? I don’t think so. The last thing you need is a blurry photo of you knocking someone’s teeth in hitting the front page of every gossip mag in the country. I’m fine, so you can cut the bravado.”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“I was wondering how long you were gonna leave us out here,” you say, trying to regain Pierre’s attention. When it doesn’t work, you grasp his stubbled chin and force him to look at you. “I didn’t expect to be stranded for so long.”

The eye contact is what finally calms his racing thoughts. Seeing the trust reflected in your face is enough to have his grip on your waist loosening to allow you to face him. “Someone convinced me you could fend for yourself. And while it seems that’s true, I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

Your satisfied hum is swallowed by the pounding bass but Pierre feels it rumble in his chest. “Sometimes even a queen needs saving.”

Though his point had long since been proven, Pierre’s hand slides down your back to rest on your ass nonetheless. “I knew you going out looking like this would cause trouble.”

You tip your head to the side, feigning innocence as you press your hips to his. You grin, noticing the hard on that had been bothering him all night. “Looking like what?”

“Drop dead fucking gorgeous,” he says, accentuating his point by sliding his hand up your thigh and under the hem of your dress. “You know I’m tearing this off you the second we get home, right?”

“Why do you think I wore it?”

The sound that escapes him is primal and possessive. The presence of bystanders does nothing to prevent him from palming your ass and kneading the flesh. He presses his lips to your neck and mumbles between kisses, “To torture me.”

You push lightly at his chest, laughing although your eyes dart around the space in search of cameras. Old habits were hard to break. “That may have been part of my motivation. But you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen Dan in forever and I would actually like to have a conversation with him before we sneak off somewhere.”

At least you knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until you got home to get between your legs. “Fine,” he grumbles, hands settling on your hips. “Only because I love you.”

You beam up at him. “Love you too.”

Arm still slung around your waist, Pierre nods at Daniel and follows the other couple back to the table.

After two more drinks, you and Daniel's girlfriend are singing along to the music in lilting, off key voices, simply enjoying the night air. A stray breeze catches your hair just as you turn to look at Pierre and his heart damn near leaps out of his chest.

To his credit, Pierre’s cheeks are rosy from more than just the charged glances you throw at him as the night wears on. He was on his fourth beer, far more than he usually drank these days, and the buzzing in his head was becoming increasingly hard to ignore. When he has to squint to tell the time on his watch, he figured that was enough.

"I should probably get going mate," Pierre says, turning to Daniel. "Early flight."

Daniel laughs and beacons for the girls. He kisses his girlfriend's cheek when she returns with you in tow. "Are we leaving already?" You pout, and Pierre had half a mind to stay simply have your smile make an encore appearance.

"Car coming," he murmurs, dipping his head to give you a proper kiss. God, you were stunning in that dress- he might not be able to string together words coherently, but he knew that much.

"Fine." You cross your arms for a split second to convey your feelings on the matter before wrapping your friends in a hug and saying your goodbyes.

Pierre's hand is already on your ass before you're in the uber. Get a few drinks in the boy and he let his guard down. You laugh and pull out of his embrace to usher him into the sleek black suv. If he had been coherent, he probably would have chatted with the driver about the specs of the engine or maybe even racing if he was a fan. Instead the ride is filled with stolen touches and sloppy, wet kisses to your neck.

"I can't wait till we're home," he mumbles. "You're gorgeous. How did I snag you? You're so far out of my league. No way should you be with me."

"I have a thing for guys that go fast in circles on the weekends."

"Really?" Pierre frowns. "Should I be worried?"

"No. You're the only one I have eyes for." His head is fuzzier than when you left the bar but your laugh breaks through, his stomach flipping at the melody of it. "And we are home."

Pierre blinks, realizing he does indeed stand in your kitchen, with no recollection of climbing the three flights of stairs between the street and your flat. "Oh. When did that happen?"

"After I half dragged you up the stairs." You bend over to undo the straps of your heels, giving him the perfect view. He lets out a whistle that ends in a hiccup.

"Take me to bed, lover," he says in what he thinks is a husky voice. It should be impossible for you to resist.

You roll your eyes and wrap an arm around his middle. "That's the plan. I'll take you to bed, strip you out of that sweater, and you'll be asleep before your head hits the pillow."

"Nnnnnno," he protests, hand sliding down your exposed back to settle at the base of your spine. "I wanna make the most of tonight. I leave tomorrow."

"You don't leave until noon," you point out. "Plenty of time to nurse your hangover and have fun before then, after you drink some water and get some sleep."

"But baby-"

"No buts. Do as I say or I'll send you off tomorrow without a goodbye kiss."

Even in his half drunken state he knew it was a swiss cheese lie, spotted with holes and completely stale. You'd never let him leave without a kiss goodbye because neither of you knew if it would be the last time. He was a race car driver after all, and that came with risks.

But he sighs anyways and slips off the cream sweater, letting it fall to the floor. At least one of you kept their promises.

After confirming he was settled into bed, you retreat to the bathroom. His heart aches at the absence, even though you're mere feet away with nothing but a thin door separating the two of you. He registers the sound of the tap turning on and your soft, off key humming of the last song he remembered hearing before getting out of the uber.

"Mon amour," he croons when you re-emerge in a set of silk pajamas. He reaches out his hands for you and you slide under the covers, immediately slotting your body against his. A leg hitches over his hip, tugging him closer until your middles touch.

"Mmm," he mumbles, nuzzling into your neck. "Je t'aime. Tu es l'amour de ma vie et nous vivons d'amour et d'eau fraîche."

"I have no idea what you're saying," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "But I like it. Feel free to keep going."

"Tes baisers sont du feu et je fond à ton toucher." He presses his lips to your neck before resuming his mumbled French. "Je pense toujours à toi. Je veux être avec toi pour toujours. Tu as mon cœur et je ne voudrais pas qu'il en soit autrement."

"I like the sound of that." You press a soft, sweet kiss to his forehead. God, that tenderness was why he loved you. That, and your personality, and your eyes, and your… everything. "Dormir, my love. I'll be here to listen to your pretty words in the morning."

The single word of his mother tongue on your lips has him smiling. "Oui, tu le feras. Parce que tu es à moi et je suis à toi."

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @lu-morningstar @ggaslyp1 @swiftyhowlz

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future updates!

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly imagine #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #my writing #formula 1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 rpf #formula 1 rpf

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attllhak · 3 years ago

Text

Adoption AU - Wild and Warriors: The Epic Quest For Taco Bell at 3 am

@tortilla-of-courage so you mentioned you’d be interested in my Adoption AU one-shots, and now that things have calmed down in my house a bit I figured I’d post the first one-shot I wrote; the one about Wild and Warriors going for a Taco Bell run. Theoretically, I was going to do a one-shot for each grouping of boys, as an introduction, but I don’t think that’s happening anymore. Either way, here’s the first thing I wrote!

(And, anyone else who would like to be tagged if/when I post more for this AU, let me know here and I’ll make a list or something)

---------------

“anyone know any good substitutes for love and personal fulfilment?”

Warriors sent the tweet without much thought. He didn’t actually care about an answer, he just felt like venting about his most recent break up in a vague way, and thought he was being funny. He could already see Legend rolling his eyes.

His phone dinged a few times, one reply from Twilight, asking why he was up so late (which he’d responded to with the same inquiry, which had Twilight going silent), one from Legend mocking him, one from Hyrule trying to actually help. He was surprised how many of his brothers were up at this hour.

He dropped the phone on his bed, rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t actually all that tired, probably a consequence of having all afternoon classes and a habit of leaving his work to the last minute. Eh, the first year was supposed to be mostly parties anyways. (Not that Time would ever find out he said that.)

His phone dinged again and he groaned, eying the clock and the small bottle of melatonin next to it. 2:43 am. He should sleep. He didn’t have anything tomorrow, he finished his last final earlier that afternoon, though, so a few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

He picked up the phone and woke it up again. He blinked a few times at the new reply.

“crunchwrap supreme from taco bell”

He ignored Twilight yelling at Wild for being up, as apparently Wild did have a final tomorrow still. Not that Wild was paying any more attention.

He snorted, hitting the like button on Wild’s tweet and clicking off his phone. He reached up to stretch, yawning as he did. He eyed the melatonin bottle again. Technically, he didn’t need the supplements to sleep, but with how messed up his sleep schedule was, they did help him knock out when he planned on sleeping at a reasonable hour. This wasn’t a reasonable hour, but sleepiness hadn’t set in yet either.

Before he could decide, his phone lit up with a text notification. He tilted his head back and pointed his phone down to look at instead of dropping his arms.

Gordon Ramsey 2:44 am

lets go

Warriors blinked once. Then again. He unlocked his phone to type back.

what?????? go where?????

A second passed when he got a reply.

taco bell

for your substitute for love

since you got dumped and need something

oops was that too soon

sorry

Warriors blinked at the screen again. Wild lived twenty minutes away from the university Warriors was attending, and the nearest Taco Bell was no closer. Plus, Time had revoked Wild’s driving privileges after he crashed his bike into the barn and broke both and his arm. There was no way Wild was getting to the university, much less a fast food joint. Especially at this hour.

and how do you plan to do that? You aren’t allowed to drive yet Mr. Broken Arm

you have a care

*car

That was a very good point.

you are suggesting that I drive 20mins outside of town to pick you up, drive another 20mins back into town, then drive around downtown until we find an open taco bell, at 3am on a school night before you have a final?

There was a few seconds pause, just long enough for Warriors to consider that he’d given up on it.

we wont be driving all over town

i googled it and found one

its like 10mins form your collage

*from

*college

Warriors considered that.

twilight won’t be happy

only if he finds out

Wild made a very good point.

how do you plan to get out of the house without him noticing?

i have a window war

The response was so immediate, and he was probably sleep deprived enough, that he burst out laughing when it sent.

20mins

He clicked his phone shut and shoved it in his pocket, grabbing a jacket and his scarf on the way out of his room. He was struggling to shrug them both on at once when he realized his roommate was still up too. There was a tense staredown as their eyes met and they both froze.

Volga broke the standoff by closing his book. “And where are you going at this hour?”

Warriors considered that. “My brother bribed me with food to break him out of the house,”

“At,” he glanced at his watch, “two forty-nine am?”

“Yes,”

The silence was tense.

Volga sighed and opened his book again. “Don’t crash and die, I’d hate to have to get a new roommate when I’ve finally gotten used to you,”

“Don’t burn the dorm down while I’m gone,” Warriors joked back, finally getting the fabric to work with him.

“It happened once, and it’s not like you’re any better at cooking!”

“I don’t set what I make on fire, and then freak out and throw it when blowing out that fire doesn’t work,” he grabbed his keys from the dish by the door and waved behind him.

“It happened once, Link!”

“And it’s why we order out now,” he grinned, ducking out the door. “See you later, Volg, be back in an hour or so,”

He could hear Volga’s angry shout through the door, so hurried down the stairs to the ground level as quickly as he could, before Volga woke their neighbor again.

He was still giggling when he got to the parking lot. Volga was just too easy to rile up.

The cool night air woke him up a little more so, and he took a deep breath as he located his car. A hand-me-down vehicle, he inherited it from Time when he was old enough to drive. Mostly this was so he could stop asking everyone else for their cars when he wanted to go somewhere. A little elbow grease however, and no one could tell it was at least 20 years old and not fresh off the lot. He made sure none of his brothers were allowed to drive it, especially after Wild got his bike stuck in a tree, or Legend crashed into a lake, or Twilight picked up drag racing, or Wild got his bike stuck on the roof, or Hyrule lost his car, or Four rolled his truck, or Wild and the barn literally last week. A lot of the crashes in the family came from Wild going ‘oh yeah? Watch this!’ now that he thought about it. It was a miracle he still had the same bike.

The twenty minute drive to the farm was pretty boring, nothing of note really happening.

He turned off his headlights as he pulled into the drive, not wanting to wake anyone, especially Time, up. He shot off a quick text to Wild when he parked.

A window opened and Legend’s head poked out to glare at him. His phone dinged.

Royal Pain 3:12 am

what are you doing here?

He glared back at Legend and typed out a response.

taco bell run

Legend glanced down, presumably at his phone, then back up a Warriors with an incredulous expression.

at 3am????

and if so why are you /here/????

Warriors pointedly looked around the house where Wild emerged from the bushes. Said brother grinned and popped open the passenger door to climb in.

“Hey,” he grinned. His hair was a mess, with at least two visible sticks stuck in it, and he was still in his sleep clothes. Despite this, he seemed fine.

“Legend has us made,” Warriors nodded to their brother, who was still glaring with his head out the window.

Royal Pain 3:15 am

twilight won’t be happy about this

Warriors frowned, trying to shield his phone from Wild as he typed back.

twilight won’t know

Warriors did not like the look in Legend’s eyes as he got the next text.

unless i tell him

Warriors glared up at his brother, working his jaw.

what do you want?

He hated the pleased grin Legend shot him.

the most expensive thing on the menu on your dime

fine

Warriors shoved his phone away with a growl, flipping off the overly smug Legend as he put the car in gear. “Asshole,” he muttered.

“What was that about?” Wild asked.

“We’re buying him food too now,” Warriors growled, flicking back on his headlights.

“Oh, cool,” Wild leaned back into the seat and pulled out his phone. “So the Taco Bell we’re going to only has the drive thru open, and it’s just off main street,”

Warriors nodded, focussing on the road and not that Wild had found the aux cord.

About thirty minutes later, as Wild finally turned down the music to provide directions, he snapped and turned to Warriors mid direction. “Do you want to sign my cast?”

Warriors blinked. “Maybe when we stop, I’m not crashing to sign your cast right now.”

Wild nodded, and pointed across Warriors at the street they had to go down.

They pulled into the drive thru and ordered, then had to wait for the very expensive thing Legend wanted. Warriors turned to Wild as the car idled.

“Do you have a marker?”

Wild blinked at him, then brightened up and offered out a sharpie and his right arm. The cast, under the signatures and well wishes of their family and all of Wild’s friends, was painted in very poorly drawn flames. Warriors raised an eyebrow as he searched for a clear spot to sign.

“Hyrule painted it for me,” Wild explained with a grin.

“Ah,” Warriors hummed as he finally tracked down an empty space by Wild’s elbow.

He scrawled out his name, not much room for anything else, and then handed the capped sharpie back to Wild while he twisted around to accept the food from the drive thru worker.

He shot off a text to Legend to let him know they had his food, alongside an upset emoji. Legend sent him a devil face emoji back. Wild dug through the bag for his food, sharpie stuck in his hair alongside the twigs, which seemed to be multiplying.

Warriors rolled his eyes and pulled back onto the road.

At some point, Wild pulled the wrap out and handed it to Warriors, who ate one handed as he drove. Wild was right about one thing, the wrap did taste very good.

He pulled into the drive of the farmhouse, headlights off, just as he finished off the wrap. He phone dinged the second he put the car in park.

Royal Pain 3:58 am

where’s my food bitch

Warriors looked up to the window where Legend was leaning out and glaring at him.

Wild laughed at the surly look on Legend’s face, climbing out and taking the bag with him. “I’ll feed him,” he promised, grinning. “Thanks for the trip, War!”

“No problem,” Warriors grinned back. “Just make sure you get to bed once you’re inside, so Twi doesn’t suspect in the morning,”

Wild gave him a thumbs up. He shut the door a little too hard, making Warriors wince, and bounced up to throw the bag up to Legend. Legend caught it the second time, when Wild opted to use his not broken arm to toss it, and disappeared inside again. Warriors’ phone dinged again a few seconds later.

Royal Pain 4:00 am

thanks pretty boy

your secret is safe with me

for now

Warriors rolled his eyes and sent him a thumbs up back, then pulled out of the drive again to head back to campus. He was actually starting to feel tired now, so he figured he’d get home and just crash. It’d be like, 4:30 in the morning by then, and he was pretty sure Volga would be asleep. And if he wasn’t, they had a rule that after 4 am until 7 they were allowed to ignore each other, so it’d be fine.

Volga was asleep when Warriors snuck in, passed out in a chair with the book on his chest. Warriors took the sight in, then sighed.

He dropped his keys in the dish, then pulled off his jacket and scarf to hang in his room. He grabbed a bookmark off his shelf and wandered back out to pull the book off of Volga’s chest and set it down so the spine wouldn’t crease. He left Volga like that, however. He didn’t want the books to get damaged, but if Volga was dumb enough to fall asleep in the common room without a blanket, then he deserved what he woke up with.

He was very lucky that Warriors was too tired to find a sharpie.

He fell asleep before remembering to take off his shoes.

(---)

The next morning, so about noon, he was woken by Volga pounding on the door to put his phone on silent.

His phone buzzed on the desk next to him and he pulled it off and up to his head, hitting answer before looking at the contact.

“Hullo?” He slurred, still half asleep.

“Twilight knows,” Legend greeted him.

“What?” Warriors sat up, groaning as his back complained from sleeping on his stomach all night. It took a second for his brain to catch up.

“Twilight knows,” Legend repeated. “Hyrule sold you out, unintentionally, and I can hear him selling you both out to Time,”

Warriors blanched as the words registered. “Oh shit,” he threw himself out of bed, hissing as he realized he slept fully dressed, and scrambled for the things he’d need in order to flee. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes if you get lucky and Wind pulls through, less if not,”

Warriors cursed under his breath as he changed his shirt and tried to make it look like he hadn’t been sleeping in what he was wearing. “Thanks for the heads up, I’d say I owe you but,”

“You’d rather not owe me,”

“Yeah,”

“Look, if you get caught and cave, I go down too. This is self-preservation. Don’t cave and we’re even.”

“Got it, I won’t,”

“You better not,” Legend hissed. “Good luck,”

“Thanks,” Warriors nodded, even though Legend couldn’t see him.

He tossed the phone on his dresser as the line went dead and he went about trying to comb through his hair so he looked presentable.

A hard knock on his door came a few seconds later.

“I put my phone on vibrate, Volga!” He shouted through the door. “You can drop it now!”

“Link?”

Warriors paused, then opened the door. Lana, Impa and Artemis waited on the other side, Volga glaring at them and hovering behind them.

Warriors blinked dumbly at them. “Uh, hi?”

“Hi Link! Good morning!” Lana grinned and waved at him.

“It’s noon,” Impa reminded the group, eying Warriors up and down.

“Oh, right,” Lana nodded, then went back to grinning at him. “Good noon, Link!”

He snorted and shook his head to clear it. “Good noon to you too, Lana. Can I ask what you’re all doing here?”

“We were hoping you’d join us for something,” Artemis smiled at him, also looking him over, trying to find whatever Impa had picked up on. “We’re going on a small road trip since all our finals are over, and we were planning on hitting a few different cities over the week,”

“Mhm,” Lana nodded quickly. “We’re leaving today, and are taking no calls until we get back, and we’re camping in the car, which is why we’re using my van, and we were hoping you’d come with us,”

“I’m in,”

The three girls blinked at him. Maybe he answered too fast, but taking no calls, meaning no contact with his family, for a week gave them time to move past this, and he really didn’t want to deal with a lecture from Time. His friends just offered him asylum, whether they knew it or not.

Impa narrowed her eyes. “What happened with your family?” She asked, already onto him.

“Nothing that’s my fault,” he responded, ducking back into his room. “What should I bring with?”

Lana listed off what they figured they’d take and he pulled out a suitcase, nodding along as he started packing. He fired off a text to the group chat as he grabbed his jacket, tossed over one arm, and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

World’s Best Captain 11:39 am

Leaving on a road trip with some friends. Be back in a week, but I can’t take calls until I’m back. Don’t kill each other!

He put his phone on silent and slipped it into his pocket.

He might have a hellish text backlog when he got back, but it’d be better than the lecture from Time. And besides, he got to spend a week with the best girls he knew.

As far as he was concerned, everything worked out win-win for him.

Wild was right, the crunchwrap supreme from Taco Bell did work wonders in supplying love and personal fulfilment, even if not in the way he meant it.

He made a note to get Wild something as thanks while they were out. Maybe some crash pads. Goddesses knew that his brother needed them.

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abovethesmokestacks · 4 years ago

Text

Kiss Me

Title: Kiss Me

Pairing: Captain Syverson x reader

Rating: T

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Very intense kissing? Some grinding?

I am back on my Henry bullshit, this time with the lovely Captain Syverson. As with my last Henry fic, this came about from a discussion with Brooke, which led to a personalized fic, and she graciously okayed me posting it as a reader insert for the rest of you to enjoy. Partly inspired by the video of strangers kissing for the first time. And if this guy were the one I’d get to kiss? Hold on while I go full koala on him.

The early afternoon sun had seemed blistering when she left her apartment, and the sundress had been the obvious option; light, breezy material, a pretty pattern that combined comfort and style. The sun had nothing on the man sitting down opposite her now, radiating a kind of warmth and confidence that had heat creeping up her chest and neck, her fingers fiddling in her lap.

It had been a spur of the moment decision, an audition call shared by a recent acquaintance on Instagram. Film majors at the nearby college needed volunteers for a course project, weekend appointments, no experience needed, come as you are. Sounded fun, her weekends were mostly open anyway. What could possibly go wrong. She had messaged the contact person, gotten an address and a time to show up.

The first shock, admittedly, had come as she was signed in, given a form to fill out, detailing the project. She. Was going to kiss. A stranger. In front of cameras. For a film project.

“Miss? Are you alright?” The bubbly brunette who had signed her in, Abigail, according to the name tag tacked to her t-shirt, had looked at her, and she realized she must have made a sound.

“No! No, I'm fine, I- I just didn’t realize I’d- That this was-”

“Oh! Oh, you’ll be fine, there will be people in the room, you'll be safe as houses, darling, we won't say your names, that'll be up to you to share if you want.” The twang of her accent had was oddly comforting, but her heart was still racing, and suddenly, the handful of people lined up sitting in the corridor seemed all the more dangerous. She was going to kiss one of them. Fuck. Hastily, she'd filled out the rest of the form, handing it back and taking the number given, finding the nearest chair and trying to rifle through her purse as discreetly as she could for a chewing gum or a breath mint.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She had nearly launched out of her seat when her number was called, probably doing a credible impression of a deer caught in headlights. Abigail had smiled at her, motioning for her to follow.

“I promise, you will be fine. Our project manager wanted to explore the intimacy of the first kiss, what happens in those seconds before.”

“Why strangers?”

“It’s more… honest,” Abigail had said. “Couples know each other, know what to expect. They are comfortable. And it’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing sweeter. I still remember my grandpa kissing my grandma goodnight when my brother and I would stay over when we were kids, the absolute comfort and love between them. But strangers, they don’t know what to expect. There’s a level of trust between them, courage to take the leap.”

That’s… She couldn’t decide if that eased her mind or set it racing even more. She’d simply nodded, letting Abigail lead her to a door a little way ahead, unlocking it for her.

“You can leave your purse on the table on the right when you enter. Then go sit in one of the chairs. I’ll bring the guy in shortly. The camera will start rolling as soon as he sits down, you can introduce yourself if you want, just your name, doesn't even have to be your real one if you don't want to, and you can share whatever else you feel comfortable sharing and then…”

“Then we kiss.”

It had seemed so simple, so straightforward in all its terrifying simplicity.

At first, there is only the outline of him, stark against the light outside the room and showing a muscular frame with tensed shoulders and a wary gait. Folding her hands in her lap, she picks at the fabric of her dress, folding the skirt into tight pleats between her fingers, following the man as he inches closer. Dark jeans that reveal long legs and thick thighs, a worn t-shirt tucked into them that stretches over a chest that is… impressive. His face, though… His face is what sets her heart fluttering all anew. A strong jaw, hidden under a neatly trimmed beard, a slightly pouty lower lip and a perfect cupid’s bow. His nose looks like it may have been broken once, but it’s been set pretty well, lends character to his face, enhanced by the clear blue of his eyes that focus in on her. His hair is short, curling a little at the ends, but kept as neat as his beard, almost like a military man, but she can spot no chain around his neck that would hold his dog tags.

And then, he’d walked in.

She barely hears the murmur to her left when the cameras start rolling.

He doesn’t speak until he’s sitting down, gaze on her, softening a little as he holds out a hand.

“Ca- Shit, sorry. No names, right?” He looks at her, almost a little scared that he’s messed up, and it is far too endearing for such a rugged man.

Without hesitation, she gives her first name, her real first name, a little surprised at herself for offering it along with her hand. His hand is calloused, warm and big, her own palm almost drowning in his clasp when he takes it. “Nice to meet you.”

The man laughs, releasing her hand and relaxing in his seat. “Sy. Nice to meet you, too. Pardon me if I'm being rude, but you don't sound like you're from around here.”

“Here for work for the next couple of months. Gotta say, you've got a pretty good ear.”

His eyes sparkle, a smile tugging at his lips, and god, the heat rises in her again, different from the apprehension that had her worked up just moments ago. He is the kind of man that draws you in, that can make you melt with a look, and she is fading fast. She is going to kiss him. He is going to kiss her.

“I won't hold it against you," Sy quips, hands resting on his thighs, and god, she wants to feel them on her.

"Me not being from around here? Or are we talking about something else?"

"Well, I was thinking the first..."

His words trail off, the suggestion hanging heavy in the silence. It feels like it stretches an eternity between them, but it's probably no more than five seconds. She's about to ask if they should start, if she should move, but Sy is looking at her, gaze wandering, assessing. The way he takes her in,i's not objectifying or greedy, not judgmental. It's… curiosity. Assessing her, planning his move, appreciating her, and she can feel it, feel his gaze move up and down her face, when it dips down for a fraction to her chest.

Everything fades with his first move. There are no cameras, no people, no one but them. Sy moves slowly, deliberately, scooting to sit on the edge of the chair, knee knocking against hers. It's electric, making her flinch and gasp, and that seems to please him. His hand comes up to rest on her knee, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb, locking eyes with her, willing her to relax.

"There we go…" Sy croons when she lets out a small sigh, his voice low and velvety. "Just relax. 'S just you an' me here. Don’t need to think about the rest of ‘em.. I'll be good, darlin', you can trust me. Isn't that right?"

She can only nod, inching towards the edge of her own chair, drawn into his warmth, the gentle timbre of his voice, the smolder behind the blue of his eyes.

"Yeah, that’s right, sugar. C’mon, come closer.”

His voice is hypnotic, not quite a purr, not quite a rumble, but it begs to be obeyed. She leans in closer, the two of them mirroring each other, and the tension is no longer in his shoulder, but sparking between them. His measured breaths fan lightly against her skin, and though everything in her should, by all logic, tell her to run, she finds herself relaxing. Sy’s thumb keeps working tight little circles, and he moves slowly, giving her plenty of time to see his intentions, and God, she welcomes it, tilts her head to welcome him.

It’s no explosion of stars or fireworks. His lips are a little chapped, but he knows how to kiss, working against her in soft pressure and the tease of his tongue along the seam of her lips. It’s not forcing the kiss, just giving her the option, showing that he is offering. When his other hand comes up to cup her cheek, she can’t help the needy whine that escapes her, and Sy smiles into the kiss, deepens it a little, swipes his tongue along her lips again.

She opens, happily surrendering, feeling him push back, soothing his thumb along her cheekbone. He kisses like she is the one thing he has been longing for, his happily ever after at the end of a long adventure. She kisses like he is the single point of stability in a storm, the one safe harbour in the entire world. Their spaces intertwine, slowly phasing and his one hand on her cheek is nowhere near enough. She pushes, Sy gives, and in one fluid moment and a happy sigh, she has straddled his lap, slinging her arms around his neck. She’s not letting go, not leaving this moment, and it’s almost like triumph when he embraces her, palms splaying on her back and she can feel the warmth through the thin material of her dress.

It’s a kiss for the ages, and they’re both hungry, both taking what the other gives freely. Sy’s hands wander, his fingertips teasing at the neckline to brush against heated skin, and she digs short, manicured nails into the skin of his neck, revelling in the groan he lets out. He pulls her closer, and oh. Her stomach does a somersault, a surprised giggle punctuating their kiss. Under her, Sy is hard, and the brief contact makes her all too aware of just how damp her panties have gotten.

There’s a less than discreet cough, and it pops their bubble, their gazes both snapping to the sound.

Right.

The film crew are standing behind their gear, some squirming, clearly a little uncomfortable. Sy gives a laugh, and it’s hard not to follow. She still feels winded from the kiss, head swimming, and she touches her forehead to his, biting her lower lip.

“I think we… might have overdone it,” she whispers, lips brushing against his cheek.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Sy agrees, his shoulders shuddering with poorly disguised mirth. He looks up at the film crew, “So, are we good?”

“Yup, great! We’re really- we’re good, you guys can, uh… Yeah. Good. Thanks. Um. Yeah. Great.”

They both laugh again at the awkward crew member, and she slowly eases off Sy’s lap. It’s too much of a temptation not to glance down, to raise an eyebrow at the visible bulge pressing against his jeans. He gives her a mock-chiding look before getting up himself, taking care to not face the crew as he falls into step next to her.

“Look,” he says as soon as they are out of the building, wringing his hands as he walks, “I know we just met, and that… that back there was for a project. But, god, sugar, you got my head spinning all kinds of ways, and I… it would be rude to ask to continue right away where we left off, much as I… god, I would really, really like to kiss you again, and… other things… But maybe you would be okay with a date? Anywhere you want. You can get to know me better. I’ll answer any questions you have, I’ll bring character references, I’ll pay for dinner and dessert, whatever you want.”

Halting, she tilts her head and looks up at him. The steely look that had assessed her when he’d entered the room is gone, as is most of the smoldering passion when their kiss had broken. It still lingers in his eyes, simmering behind the hope that made them glitter.

“You’ll answer any question?” she asks, smiling at the way he eagerly nods. “Is your name really Sy?”

“Yes. Well, technically. Syverson’s my last name, so Sy’s just a nickname.”

“And your first name? You started saying something else when you came in.”

“No, that was… I was in the army for a couple of years,” he explained, pulling up one of the sleeves of his shirt to show an army insignia tattooed on his bulging bicep. She bites her tongue, wondering if he had any other tattoos on his body, almost missing when Sy continues speaking, “-made it to captain before I got my honourable discharge. Just became a force of habit to introduce myself as Captain Syverson.”

“So, you’d bring one of your army buddies as your character reference?” She slows down to a stop, clasping her hands in front of herself. “I suppose now that you’re out of the army they wouldn’t feel as compelled to make you look good.”

Sy mirrors her, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped in front of him, and yeah, now she can see it, the posture. Definitely army guy. “No, no, god no! The guys in my unit would sooner throw me under the bus if I asked them to vouch for me in front of a pretty lady.”

“Oh, then who’d get the honour?” she asks, blushing at his compliment.

“When you signed in, there was a girl, right? Brown hair?”

“Abigail.”

“Abby,” Sy says, glancing back towards the building. “She’s my sister. Talked me into coming today, said they needed more people.”

“She must have something major hanging over you if she got you to agree to this.” Her voice is light, joking a she inches closer to him.

“Well…” Sy drawls, taking a step forward and gently grasping her hand, “I was promised a really good kiss.”

“A really good kiss, huh?”

Just like before, he makes the first move, hooking his finger under her chin and holding her still while he closes the space, capturing her lips in another kiss. It’s searing, slowly setting her afire, and she wants it, wants him, wants everything he’s giving and everything he’s offering. He keeps it short, and she can feel herself get up on her tippy toes to get more, and damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. She bites her lower lip.

“So how about that date, huh, darlin’?” Sy husks out, and fuck, she can hear the smile in his voice.

“I can pick the place?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And I can pick the time?”

“Any time you want.”

She reaches out, puts a hand on his neck, drags her fingers along warm skin and pulls him down to whisper in his ear.

“Your place. Right now. And dinner… is on me.”

#Kiss Me #Captain Syverson x reader #Syverson x reader #Sand Castle fanfiction

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votederpycausemufins · 3 years ago

Text

back here with the scattered au, i'm having fun with the hybrids! but they're not having as much fun as me. oh well!

@helleborusangel Scattered au made by @hermitcraftheadcanons

Five days ago, pillagers had found the village. Though the villagers had weapons, they didn’t know how to successfully defend against the invaders. Instead, they all ran inside, bolting their doors and hoped that the iron golem would be enough. But Cleo knew better. She knew more waves would just come and one iron golem couldn’t defeat them all.

Though she wanted to stay inside, not have to deal with being around the villagers and the iron golem, she also knew she didn’t want to listen to the villagers being slaughtered around her. Cleo didn’t have much in the way of gear though, so regretfully, she knew she was going to have to steal.

With the golem out of the way, she burst from her stolen home and ran towards the armorers. Though it took a few swings, she was able to break down the door to the frightened villager inside. “I don’t care if it’s gold or chain, just hand me some armor!”

At the sight of a zombie breaking in and demanding things, the villager decided it would be better to comply instead of die, so he handed Cleo a full set of iron armor. In a rush, she put it on, then left the house, putting the door back in a way that it would bolt properly. From there, she then ran to the toolsmith and fletcher’s houses to do the same: break in, demand gear, then help fix the door.

By the time she had enough equipment, the raid had nearly reached the town, just barely being held back by the golem who was on its last legs. She raced towards the thing that was the bane of her existence the past week and gave him some iron bars to heal with. Then, she swung her sword at the pillager that had just been attacking, finishing what the golem had started.

From there, Cleo worked on attacking the pillagers until the wave was complete, then getting up to the roof of her house for a better vantage point. When the next group of illagers appeared, Cleo started with bowing them down from afar, grabbing their attention and pulling it away from the village and its residents.

When the ravager appeared over the horizon, Cleo changed her tactics, doing everything she could to lead it away from the village so it couldn’t tear the place apart. The iron golem was able to deal with the pillagers she left behind, but when she finally defeated the beast and returned, there was one illager left. Since it was focused on the golem, Cleo found it easy enough to run in and finish off the evoker, watching as the totem they wore as a medallion fell to the ground as their body turned to smoke.

Cleo waited with bated breath for another horn to sound, but instead the area was filled with the sounds of fireworks as the villagers left their houses. Her next action was to pull her shield out, prepared to be attacked by the golem, but it didn’t swing at her. Instead, the villagers crowded around her in praise, a few of them handing her gifts. She was handed an iron axe, some various wools, clay, leather, even a flower from one of the children. Then, the librarian approached her.

The villager held out their hand, asking to see the totem. Since Cleo was already dead, she didn’t really have need for it, so she handed it over. In trade, the villager fished around in their pockets, and instead of pulling out a book as a gift, they pulled out a clock, it being the best offer they had as a gift.

Not wanting to turn away the hospitality, Cleo took the clock with a thank you. The following days she was allowed to walk around the village freely, helping out where she could, mostly securing all the doors and helping the golem out at night. She was even able to convince a villager here or there to help fight the monsters with her, their only hang up before being the thought of being turned, now more brave from Cleo’s help.

But as the villagers got better, Cleo got worse. After the raid, she preferred to help out at sunset until sunrise, having gotten what was essentially another sunburn. She ended up crafting doors, spreading them around her now official house and tricking herself into breaking them down. Sometimes when she was out at night, she tried with the villager’s doors. Her excuse was testing their locks, making sure any villagers wouldn’t be taken by surprise, but Cleo could tell something wasn’t right with her.

And when the monsters became neutral to her, her worries just strengthened. The next morning, when the mobs were dealt with, she went to the fletchers to confirm all her suspicions. Instead of barging in, she politely knocked on their door, willing herself to not break it down. The fletcher opened the door, glad to see her when she knew they should be scared. She asked, begged for a health or regeneration arrow. Though they were hesitant, they asked her to return later that day for it, so she did.

In the late afternoon, as the sun was on its way down, Cleo took the specially crafted arrow. Not wanting to wait, she pricked herself with the arrow head right then and there. She took barely any damage from the slight prick of the weapon, but then the potion seeped into her. What should have been healing felt like poison running through her, causing her to fall to the ground. She was barely aware of the fletcher helping her up, other villagers coming to her side.

Cleo felt in horror as they picked her up, her hand falling off from the movement. She was carried back to her base and put in bed, the unlucky villager that took her hand placing it on her nearby crafting table. But right now she didn’t care. The villagers feared her before, but now, they were too comfortable around a zombie.

Zedaph panted as he followed behind Tango as they trekked through the jungle. The place seemed to be endless, and if it weren’t for his coordinates saying otherwise, he would have thought they were going in circles. Unfortunately, it seemed they were pretty far out from spawn. Since they already had a number of issues with the world, Zedaph wouldn’t be surprised that they also had to deal with one of the rarer worlds with large biomes.

“Zed! You can’t just take your shirt off!” Tango said as the sheep hybrid stopped to do just that, needing some way to maybe cool off at least a little.

“But it’s so hot!” He complained. “It’s not like I’m taking off my pants. And I can always put it back on.” And then he threw it jokingly at Tango, making the shirt promptly catch on fire and all but turn to ash. “Um, or not. Oops.”

“Zedaph!” Tango complained, which just managed to make the shirt worse from his frustration fueling the flames.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Zed apologized. “Uh, look on the bright side! I was thinking I needed a new look anyway and this is an excuse for that.” But as Zedaph talked, Tango stopped listening, instead looking down. It didn’t take long for Zed to notice, so he quickly scolded his friend. “Hey! You’re not allowed to complain about me taking off my shirt if you’re going to start eyeing me.”

“Wh- Zedaph!” Tango replied, eyes snapping back up to Zed’s face and some nearby foliage catching on fire. “No! I wasn’t doing- Just look down!”

Zedaph was a little confused, but he looked down. Even though he was no longer wearing a shirt, his chest was still covered by some wool. “Oh my god! Tango!” Tango looked worried, especially at Zedaph’s reaction, but then the sheep hybrid continued, his tone more clear. “I’ve always wanted to take the time to do this!”

“Wait, what?” Tango asked, now more confused.

“Well, you know how if I don’t cut my hair for too long, we have to use shears because it’s too wooly? Well that’s sort of like… everything for me ‘cause being a hybrid gives me hypertrichosis, and if I really wanted to deal with it, I could not shave for a month or two and just go full sheep!”

“Zed I understood like half of that, and only enough to know it’s been around a week and not a month or two so this is super worrying!”

But the sheep hybrid just brushed Tango off. “Well we’ve got more important things to worry about. Like finding Impulse and everyone else!” And Zedaph started to walk again, only to be stopped again by Tango.

“How can you be so calm about this?!” The blaze hybrid shouted, not caring about a nearby tree catching fire and Zedaph’s reaction to the surrounding temperature trying to rival that of the nether. “We’re stranded and lost with everyone else who knows where! Impulse is stuck drowning over and over again while you’re too focused on getting to him to worry about if you can even do anything while it’s obvious you’re changing more into a sheep! We’ve already got issues with respawning, what happens if you stop respawning altogether?!”

By the time Tango paused to take a breath, the surrounding terrain was all charred and there was the smell of burnt hair from Zedaph’s newly singed wool. A part of him was upset about having hurt the other hybrid, but the other part was glad, thinking he deserved it.

“Tango.” Zedaph spoke in a more serious but also calming tone. “It’s obvious I’m not the only one dealing with… this.” And he gestured to the wool. “I’ve already been eating wheat straight, and then you keep burning things up and are getting far too angry. Hostile even. I know this is worrying, but we’re both dealing with this right now and suck in one of the easiest biomes to go up in flames. We sort of just don’t want to get stuck in a death loop of fire. Well, you might be fine, but I won’t.”

Tango thought it over, then sighed, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down. “Right. Sorry. I’m just… I’m worried about Impulse, yeah, but I’m worried about you too. And it felt like you didn’t care.”

“Oh, I definitely care.” Zed nodded. “I’m just caring about stuff that’s more important. Like is that a birch tree?”

Tango’s head whipped around in the direction Zedaph pointed, and sure enough, in the distance and hidden somewhat by the jungle’s foliage, was the white and black wood of a birch tree, it’s darker desaturated leaves standing out against the brightness of the biome the pair currently stood in.

Ren had no clue where he was, only that he was in a taiga. After he had killed- After Etho had died, Ren gathered up all the dropped belongings and started travelling towards spawn. And then he reached the edge of a taiga close to night and set up a base, only to wake back up in the morning with a pack of wolves surrounding the place.

Being alone hadn’t felt the best, so suddenly having the company of wolves was a nice change of pace. Plus, with regen bugged, having some extra help would be appreciated. Not to mention that Ren had killed plenty of skeletons while travelling. So he tried taking a few wolves, only to find himself half an hour later with no bones, and no wolves tamed.

It really frustrated Ren. Sure, maybe he had kept a few of the bones for himself, but he had nearly a full stack when he started trying to tame the oth- the wolves, and none of them decided to listen. So, with all that time wasted, Ren frustratedly put away his items, getting what gear he would keep for the day, and started walking.

He had only travelled about a chunk or so when Ren realized that the wolves were following him. He double checked, seeing that none of them were truly tamed, no collars having appeared, but Ren wondered if that was just another odd feature of this world. If it was, he wasn’t complaining too much, especially since there were more wolves following than he even tried taming.

When night fell again, Ren didn’t really feel the need to bother setting up a base. He and the wolves easily took down any monster that appeared, only having slight issues with creepers. But Ren had killed so many skeletons, he had a decent bow and plenty of arrows, which made quick work of the exploding monsters. Then, once all the monsters were dealt with, Ren set up a new bed and tried to get to sleep, all the wolves joining him until they all just looked like a giant pile of fur.

When the sun rose again, Ren just started following the wolves around. At some point he dropped his communicator, but didn’t really notice, just happy to have another pack to hang with. And if they stayed in the taiga, he wasn’t all too disappointed. For all he knew, he was getting closer to spawn anyway, the wolves helping him along. And it did seem like the biomes were pretty large, so who knew how long it would be until some new scenery.

Gem stopped brushing at the loess as she heard movement nearby. The already loosened block crumbled under her abrupt stop, along with whatever had been encased in it, but Gem was too focused on the noise to care. As she looked around, trying to hear anything else, she stomped her foot loudly a few times, letting whatever was know she had heard it.

Another noise let Gem pin down where it was coming from, and she set down her brush to move towards it, sword in hand. There was another sound, and this time Gem realized that it sounded like another person, so she threw most of her caution to the wind to see who it was.

As she finally reached the source of the sound, she was disappointed to not immediately see anyone nearby. Instead, she was just met by the pillar that had appeared near her spawn. She was about to sigh and chalk it up to her imagination from being lonely, when something new caught her eye.

Walking over to the pillar, Gem kept her eyes on what now sat on the ground in front of it, that being a dark red feather. It was unusual for three big reasons. The first was that those only really belonged to parrots, who hung out in jungles and not wherever she was now. Second, this wasn’t quite the right color for a parrot of any color. Then the last unusual thing was the fact that the feather was much too large to belong to a parrot.

Gem picked the feather up and was surprised how it seemed to turn a brighter red as she picked it up. It definitely was much closer to the color she was used to parrots having, so maybe it was just from the lighting. She put it back down to check, watching as while it did get darker again, her hand didn’t react the same way.

While she wanted to try and learn more, there was the snap of a branch nearby, and Gem quickly looked over in that direction, alert for whatever had caused it. A moment later, an arrow flew past her, causing Gem to run in the other direction, agile as a deer. As she ran, she dropped the feather, not noticing as it fell against the pillar, now a purple color instead of red.

Doc had finally gotten rid of all the goats. For the most part, they were all just further down the island and not completely dead, but for him, that was enough for now. It had taken long enough that he was able to learn more about the thing that appeared at his spawn. Apparently goats weren’t the only thing that would be punished if they attacked the pillar as a skeleton shot it instead of Doc and seemed to be killed by an invisible enderman, or something that had similar particles.

With further testing, Doc was able to get other mobs to accidently attack the pillar and also have similar reactions, which really told him it was something he didn’t want to mess with himself. But in testing the pillar, Doc learned something new and also a bit worrying. In testing if he could actually keep a skeleton from being killed by whatever was killing it - a skeleton because they were the easiest to get to attack the pillar - it ended up shooting and killing him.

At first, Doc wasn’t too concerned about that. He wasn’t losing much, only a goat horn or two, plus he was just respawning the same place as always. But when Doc got rid of the skeleton and grabbed his horns and experience, Doc was surprised to find something new on the ground. A music disc.

Stunned, the creeper hybrid stared at the item. In the past he had been killed by skeletons and this hadn’t happened. But thinking it over, Doc realized how creepers had been ignoring him, and he had been hissing more often than normal. He thought the latter was just stress, but with the behavior of other creepers and now this, maybe something else was going on.

Before he could think about it more, Doc suddenly looked up as water started to pour from above. It wasn’t from rain, he was just a little too high for rain. Instead, it was a stream of water, like a waterfall. It landed right nearby his ledge, meaning it was something that he could reach and use for a way down. And then he watched as something floated down it.

The blue water was tainted with red, glittering as it swirled around in the current. Doc thought he barely heard a yell before suddenly something much larger fell. Recognizing it as a person, Doc quickly jumped after whoever it was, knowing that the water would keep the fall from killing them.

Doc reached the puddle left at the bottom of the fall and ran over to the person collapsed in the water, only to find it wasn’t really a person. Instead, what he was faced with was a very recognizable robot. Before he could try to shake them awake or say their name, he suddenly was hit from behind, and knocked unconscious.

Jevin frowned as the walls shook again. It was very annoying. He just wanted to hang around with his axolotl friends and eat more glowberries. But whatever was making that noise didn’t seem to care. He tried to ignore it, but then the walls shook enough that some nearby gravel got disrupted and fell. For the most part, that wouldn’t be too bad, but part of the pond he was in was lined with gravel which apparently had nothing below it and also collapsed. For a moment Jevin was worried about sinking into the sinkhole that appeared, but he instead found he was very buoyant and didn’t have to really think about floating.

Looking down into the newly formed hole, Jevin was able to see something glowing, and his first thought was that it could have been one of the new glow squids. When his axolotl friends swam down to nibble at whatever it was, he thought that had to be the case, but then he watched as the form below hit them away.

While he knew the mobs were just playing dead, when Jevin saw their small bodies floating down, he worried about what had been his only friends for the past week and tried to swim down to them, only to find he couldn’t. It was like he was stuck in a bubble stream that was pushing him up and keeping him from reaching the mobs.

As he watched helplessly, the thing that looked like a glow squid slowly rose to the top of the pond, having swum up. As they finally surfaced, coughing a bit, Jevin didn’t give them a moment before attacking them. Whatever it was didn’t like that, and attacked back, slamming Jevin into a nearby wall. The initial hit hurt his health enough that hitting the wall was enough to take away the rest of his health, but surprisingly, Jevin didn’t feel like he had respawned. And Jevin didn’t feel like he had respawned.

A noise made Jevin look up again, and a noise made Jevin look up again. Standing in the pool was what looked like some sort of new mob and it seemed to be looking between Jevin and something to his right. And to him, it looked like the mob was looking between him and something to his left. With it not attacking back immediately, Jevin looked to his side to see whatever the mob was focused on, only to see one of the last things he expected. Himself.

Noah watched Grian as he followed behind Pin who currently held seeds in his hand. The writer seemed to be playing some sort of keep away game, with the avian trying to get the seeds for himself. As Noah continued to watch, Goofball walked in, looking just a little flustered and trying to deal with a folder of loose papers that were trying to escape. “Sorry it took so long.”

“It’s fine, Pin kept him distracted.” Noah replied, making the other Watcher realize what was going on. “Yeah I don’t know either.”

“I mean, he’s not still in the experiment, so maybe that’s making his instincts get advanced too much?” Pin spoke up, finally dropping the seeds, which Grian launched himself at. “Did you manage to find Yus or Zem and tell them anything?”

Goofball shook his head. “No, they’re too busy dealing with the hub world fallout. You’d think it would be better than this after Evo.”

“Well, that was a while ago. And not as many people really watched it. I mean, we weren’t even official back then.”

Noah was about to speak up when he was suddenly dealing with a hefty amount of feathers as Grian plopped himself on the couch next to him, letting one wing smack the Watcher in his face. As Noah struggled with the feathered appendage, Pin and Goofball watched as Grian started summoning lots of hay bales, then started spreading them across the ground. “Oh void, is he turning this place into a nest again?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to stop it before it gets as bad as last time, right?”

“Not if we can’t get help from Zem and Yus to send him back to the experiment.” Pin replied, but then he got corrected as suddenly the folder Goofball had come in with was taken from his hands.

“It’s much easier for us to Watch things if we’re not stuck inside the experiment. You know that, right Wrivitar?” And the trio looked at Grian, now holding the folder and a sly look on his face briefly there before he covered it by putting a mask on his face. “Now, time to go over these files.”

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montrealmadison · 4 years ago

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keep me in mind

for @omgcpanniversaryweek day 5: updates/extras/arcs

i was thinking about how much money i would personally pay ngozi to release any more information about what happened in madison and it made me want to post something i’ve been playing around with since i first read the comic! a love letter to sunshine boys, my home state of georgia, and jack “knock knock who’s there oh shit it’s my feelings” zimmermann.

this is inspired by all the writers who have tackled summer in madison (one of my favorite zimbits eras to read about in fic; it’s about the yearning!!!) and especially by @parvuls, whose fic right as things grow i reread about once a week.

They’re doing a cool eighty-five miles an hour down Interstate 20, which is a pretty inconvenient time for Jack to realize that he is just insanely turned on by watching Bitty drive.

He can’t quite pin down what’s driving him crazy. Maybe it’s the way Bitty’s hair catches the midmorning light and turns to gold. Maybe it’s the deep tan, the freckles that are sprinkled over the tops of his shoulders and the bridge of his nose. Maybe it’s the warmth Jack can feel radiating off his sun-heated skin, the muscles standing out in his forearms, the way the corner of his mouth turns up gently at Jack every time they make eye contact in the rearview mirror.

Or maybe it’s the way he sings with joyful abandon, voice soaring out the windows of his beat-up blue Chevy truck. Bitty’s always had a pleasant voice, strong and high and clear, that’s familiar to anyone who’s ever stepped foot in the Haus. Here, though, it’s a little rougher, a lot more country. He’s clearly in his element, keeping steady time with the palms of his hands on the truck’s steering wheel.

Speaking of Bitty’s hands, Jack can’t stop looking at them. They seem to be everywhere: turning the radio up, making sure Jack’s comfortable with the A/C, changing gears in a way that speaks to years of practice driving stick shifts. Jack, who’s never driven anything but an automatic, resolves to ask Bitty for a lesson sometime… just in case.

(It’s definitely not because he’s a little too interested in the way Bitty’s long, sure fingers flex against the gear shift. Or the way his thighs tense and then relax when he pops the clutch. Nope, definitely not.)

Georgia suits Bitty, Jack thinks to himself. He’s beyond beautiful here, lit up from the inside, like he’s captured a little of the blazing sunshine overhead to keep all for himself. The heat of the day has settled over the two of them, smothering Jack’s racing thoughts about all the ways today could potentially go wrong. He suddenly finds he can’t bring himself to worry much about anything when he’s got the chance to just sit back and observe Bitty on his home turf.

They don’t talk much for the first few miles out past the airport—mostly just You doin’ okay? and Yeah, I’m good, Bittle, and then a largely companionable silence. There’s definitely a sense that what lies unsaid between them might currently be too big for the cab of this truck, roomy though it might be, and Jack spends probably too long working through ways to organically bring up the topic. But as they leave 285 and the Atlanta skyline behind for the long, straight stretch of I-20 ahead of them, Bitty reaches over and casually covers one of Jack’s hands with his own.

“I’m real glad you’re here, Jack,” he says, soft, a little tentative. Even though Bitty’s got his eyes fixed on the road, Jack can tell there’s light in them; he thrills at the thought of maybe having put it there. “It means a lot to me that you came.”

Jack curls his fingers around Bitty’s, hoping to God that his palms aren’t too sweaty. He’s gratified when Bitty glances over and smiles at him. “Wouldn’t have missed it. I really wanted to see you. And your parents were so nice to invite me.”

Bitty laughs brightly. Joy, simple and uncomplicated, begins unspooling itself in Jack’s chest, where he’s kept it close to his heart through a whole summer of texting and calling and wanting. He can’t believe he gets to do this, gets to have this. He just has to be brave enough to try.

He looks at Bitty, at home here in the summer sun, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can be.

“Oh, honey,” Bitty is saying, oblivious to Jack’s thoughts, “I don’t know if nice sums it up. I thought my mama was gonna kill me if I didn’t make good on my promise and get you down here somehow. She’s been dyin’ to see you—not to mention cook for you—for weeks. Coach, too, I think, but at least he’s a little less threatening about it. Also, I’m thinkin’ we gotta try to get you sayin’ y’all by the end of this weekend, it’s so much more efficient—”

Jack could listen to Bitty talk all day. He likes the way his accent compresses some words but elongates the vowels, turning his sentences into an easy drawl. The accent’s pretty strong at Samwell, but here it almost sounds like he’s speaking a different language entirely.

He wants to feel Bitty’s lips forming those sounds against his own, wonders if it’ll feel as soft and comforting as it is to listen to. He’s so caught up in how attracted he is to the sound of that voice, in fact, that he almost doesn’t realize Bitty is still talking to him.

“...and then I told my Aunt Judy that that poor boy’s cornbread just ain’t quite done in the middle, bless him, and that he should just put those silly fears aside so he can come on over and meet you while you’re here because I really don’t think you’re as scary as you pretend to be, anyway, and—oh, Jack, I’m so sorry, I’m prattlin’ on and you haven’t even met none of these folks yet! Am I boring you?”

“No!” Jack says immediately, and maybe it’s a little blunt but he doesn’t know how to soften his next words so he just plows ahead. “I just, um. Uh. Was thinking about how I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

Bitty pauses—blinks—presses one freckled hand over his mouth—and then smiles impossibly wide, and, well, that’s about it for Jack’s heart. He thinks it shouldn’t be possible for the human body to contain so much joy, but both of them are sitting there and Bitty’s eyes are sparkling when they meet Jack’s in the rearview mirror and the happiness fizzing up through Jack’s ribcage simply can’t be stopped.

“That can probably be arranged, Mr. Zimmermann, if you can control yourself long enough for me to get off this highway.”

Jack, adrenaline thrilling in his chest, nevertheless makes a show of clasping his hands firmly in his lap.

“I’m on my best behavior, promise,” he says solemnly.

“You are the limit, Jack Laurent,” Bitty says, but he reaches over again and takes one of Jack’s hands and squeezes, hard. An acknowledgment, a promise, a choice. This is something. We have something precious here.

Jack squeezes back, looking out the window, trying to spot the exit sign that will get them off this highway and on to whatever else this weekend has in store.

#omgcpanniversaryweek #omgcp #check please #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #I just love these boys so much okay #my writing #this will probably be the last thing I post this week #but keep your eyes peeled for the bob/alicia mother's day situation I have planned!

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karoiseka · 3 years ago

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Heady

((Welp. This one got away with me. Yeah, I had to work. It was DEAD. And I had a computer to type on. Yuuuuuup. I blame Mjrn for this one. I am pleased with it. And finally found a “first” for when Karo/Than became a “thing” hehe. Enjoy 1630-ish words of fluff! Lesse, Takes place... Post Dragon-song war/post WoD stuff. I’m bad with patchnumbers around here, but pre-SB))

The door and all the windows she could open in Karo’s suite at the Rising Stones were all as wide as they would go, rugs hanging over the balcony outside, and the sweet smell of soap, lilac, and alyssum permeating from within. The battle with the Warriors of Darkness now over a week behind her, and nothing world-shattering to chase after, the Warrior of Light had taken one look at her dirty rooms that had sat empty while she had stayed in Ishgard and set to cleaning.

The bedroom loft had gotten tackled first, clean sheets upon the bed, gear organized--the stuff in good condition put in it’s proper space, and clothes folded and hung appropriately. There was plenty of armor, gloves, and glamored tops that had an embarrassing amount of tears, scuffs, and burns into them that she had piled on the table downstairs to be mended--or tossed if she deemed it irreparable.

Sweet cool air from Silvertear lake rustled the new growth plants--the old had unfortunately died during her long absence--spreading their perfume to mix with the other scents in the air. Karo winced as she reached up, pulling on the mostly healed gash on her left shoulder blade. The axe wielder--Arbert--had gotten a strike in as she had tried to dive away from his devastating blow. It had been just a glancing blow, but the axe was beyond sharp and had dug deeply into her armor. Despite the field healing, she knew it was going to leave a mark, but that was mostly because she hadn’t let anyone else see that it had hit her that hard once the bleeding stopped. She deserved the mark, the reminder of the Warriors of Darkness that had given their all to save their world. A reminder that not all was black and white, good and evil.

It did, however, itch. Healing skin was wont to do so, and it was in the most awkward spot to add even a little salve. The most she had been able to do was soak it and apply her very rudimentary healing magic to it. Squirming a bit, she attempted to will it to stop itching with a sigh, and continued to dust off the bookshelves. She was happy with her collection ranging from useful tomes on various magics that were relevant to the disciplines she was working on learning to pure pleasure reading. It was split fairly evenly as she did like to just curl up by the fire and read, or when she was yet again ordered to stay still and heal. The book in her hand currently was a favorite from when she was younger; a tale about a favored son of Oschon the Wanderer and his adventures all throughout the world--not just Eorzea. As she had grown and done her own fair share of wandering, it amused her how much of the story was fiction, and how much was steeped in old folk tales and lore from around the realm. The author had done their due research and must have been quite the explorer themselves to have woven so many stories from different cultures together.

Putting the well worn book back in it’s proper spot, she spun hearing an unfamiliar footfall upon her step. Heart skipping a beat when she recognized the aether surrounding her visitor, she smiled warmly at the rogue gracing her doorway. He was for once not dressed for battle, like her in more comfortable clothes for wandering the Rising Stones and resting. He had kept his left eye covered, still not comfortable with what the physical trip to the ethereal sea had done to his sight--much less his ability for magic use. She knew that he had made sure to make that noise, for if he had wanted, she wouldn’t have heard him even if he had been an ilm away.

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” Karo wove her way through her books to meet him closer to the door. “Just… had an itch to clean,” she shrugged apologetically, knowing it wasn’t his first time to her roost, but, it was the first time since--

Her face flushed a little as she turned quickly from his inquisitive eyes remembering the retreat from the Amal’jaa camp. Their trip to the ethereal sea had sapped every reserve she had, and she had fainted dead away at her fellow Scions’ feet. Thancred had panicked from what she remembered, carrying her at a dead run away before the others could calm him into sitting and resting with her curled up in his arms. She had felt so safe there, his arms wrapped protectively around her, and she had sworn she had felt a gentle possessive kiss placed between her ears as she faded into sleep.

Karo hadn’t seen much of him since then, their paths barely crossing despite both not leaving the building much at all the past few days. She had always pined for the rogue, but the timing had never seen right. There had been that business with Lahabrea and the possession, the cleanup after had kept them both busy though they had gotten closer talking and catching up. Then the fateful banquet that had broken her spirit thinking those that she was already so close to were gone--including her two best friends in the Scions. Finding a home in Ishgard, more loss, more heartbreak, and the grappling with being reunited with Y’shtola and close after Thancred himself were joyous spots at the end of the Dragonsong War.

He had come back changed from his visit though. The possession by Lahabrea had already changed him once, bringing out a more guarded, but this was different. There was a hard edge that hadn’t been as apparent--or maybe absent altogether. He did not take the fact that Minfilia was still missing well at all, and she didn’t blame him. It was a devastating loss that even now still ate away at her consciousness, feeling responsible despite everyone telling her the opposite.

In a fluid movement Karo turned to face him once more, sitting on the steps to her bedroom loft, catching him looking straight at the wound on her back that was quite visible with the sleeveless chemise she was currently wearing. His visible eye was wide with surprise, mouth gaping a little as she had hid it from view by turning back towards him. Closing his jaw with almost an audible snap, he recomposed his face into something almost unreadable to the bard. In unison they both adopted sheepish expressions, Karo’s head dipping looking up at him while he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

“Karo I-”

“Look, Than-” they both broke off what they were about to say with a laugh, and Karo stood again, suddenly restless, and closed the gap between them looking up between blue-black locks.

“Thancred, look, I didn’t mean to hide that, but I didn’t want you--” she stammered and rushed the next part “--any of you-- to worry,” Boldly she lay a hand on his forearm, the first contact since the desert as he gave her a rueful smile.

“I should have checked on you better, it’s my own fault,” he hadn’t pulled away to Karo’s amazement, if anything had shuffled forward a bit to come closer. Her tail whipped behind her in agitation, ears flattening a bit as she finally gave in and closed the gap between them, holding him close, her head nestled into his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault--it never was. Just a battlefield blunder of mine own doing, so shush,” ear and tail calming as he slowly gathered her in his arms after he got over the startlement of her sudden burst of affection. Reaching up just a bit, she could feel his fingers slowly stroking her hair and ears, so gently she almost was wondering if she was imagining it. With her head pressed to his chest she could hear his heart beat racing as fast as her own as they silently comforted each other in the middle of the messy whirlwind around them.

“Thancred, I--” Karo pulled just enough away to lean up to leave a kiss on his cheek, when he moved at the last moment to capture her lips with his own.

Time stopped as heady passion coursed through the Miqo’te--love finally bursting through as she returned the kiss, snaking a hand up to the back of his head to pull him down closer. His arms tightened carefully around her smaller frame at waist and his own right hand buried deep in her hair, closing reflexively as they explored each other's mouths and lips. Foreheads pressed together they finally broke for air, gasping lightly, Karo couldn’t keep the satisfied smile from her face, nor could he keep the amused smirk from his.

“Well kitten, that was unexpected,” his light tone paired with the fact that he was making no move to release her from his embrace suggested that he was quite happy with the result anyway. “Are we to be making a habit of this?” Thancred hadn’t stopped petting her hair as a deep resonating purr was making her whole body vibrate with happiness. Ducking her head back to his shoulder, Karo could feel her face flushing as she nodded almost imperceptibly.

“If it’s agreeable to you, then yes,” her voice barely audible over the wind stirring through the suite. Shifting slightly, he took a half step back and placed a finger under her chin to bring her eyes to meet his single uncovered one with a smile.

“I’d like that very much,” was his only verbal reply as he cupped her face and continued right where they had left off--cleaning very much forgotten for the rest of the day.

#ffxiv #FFXIVWrite2021 #karoiseka #thancred #thancred x wol #my shippy nonsense #firsts!#ahhhhhhh #cuteness #so #and angst week #and now a shippy sappy week #wheeeeeeeee #I'm so glad I had time to fully write this one at work today #felt like cheating #lol

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tk-writer · 4 years ago

Text

The Great King. [Haikyuu!! - Oihina]

Hinata and Oikawa try to practice together, but someone is too starstruck by the other to focus.

Word count: 1827

~~~~

There was something about Oikawa that made Hinata more nervous than anyone else.

When the third year approached him after the last Karasuno/Aoba Johsai practice match and proposed to help him practice his quick attacks, Hinata practically jumped at the offer. Mostly to piss Kageyama off, but also because he understood how valuable this opportunity would be. A private training session with a highly skilled opponent would only help him soar to even greater heights, especially when that opponent had gifts like Oikawa.

But having the setter’s full attention was more flustering than he thought it would be.

His unbelievable talent and good looks weren’t the only thing that intimidated him. Sure, being in the presence of the Great King was enough to make his heart race and his stomach do flip flops every five seconds, but Hinata knew that his power of observation was his greatest strength. No one else in the prefecture had an eye for detail quite like him.

Perhaps it was the way his dark brown eyes focused so intently on Karasuno’s greatest decoy, or all the comments he made about Hinata’s movements that made it clear he was concentrating on him and him alone. Just knowing that one of the best players in the prefecture was observing him so closely...

Well, it was entirely too much.

“...Earth to shorty! Are you listening to me?”

A sing-songy voice grabbed Hinata’s focus and reminded him where he was. He lifted his head and saw Oikawa looking at him expectantly while spinning a slightly deflated volleyball in his hands. Once he realized he’d zoned out again, he sputtered out a meek apology with a slight bow.

“Y, yeah! Sorry!!”

“You’ve been zoning out a lot today. Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

There was no way he could actually tell him how he really felt. It was way too embarrassing. Instead, he shook his head and ignored the heat creeping up his neck, hoping Oikawa wouldn’t notice his agitation.

“Nothing! Please toss me the ball again, I’ll hit it harder this time!”

He knew Oikawa wasn’t convinced, but he shrugged it off anyway and dropped the subject for the time being, much to Hinata’s relief.

They started talking about proper jumping forms, and Hinata did his best to listen. He met Oikawa’s intense gaze, focusing all his efforts on keeping eye contact and in turn neglected to register his words. He nodded every once in a while, but in truth it was difficult to keep listening when he was looking at him so intently.

It became impossible, however, when Oikawa started touching him.

“... And you twist your midsection, just like this.”

Hinata tensed up as soon as he felt Oikawa’s large hands around his waist. He flinched, more noticeably than he would’ve liked, but managed to choke back a yelp. Praying Oikawa hadn’t noticed, his hopes were dashed when he saw the setter smirking in amusement.

“Relax, shorty. I’m not going to bite your head off.”

“Sorry!!” Hinata spit out.

He flinched again when Oikawa’s fingers brushed against the underside of his forearm, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than ever. Despite that, he obeyed when his senpai told him to lift his arms higher while he was spiking. He heard the third year chuckling under his breath, so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

Was he doing this on purpose?

It seemed so, with the way he always gently placed his hands on Hinata’s waist, the soft snicker he tried to hide every time Hinata twitched, the slight pressure and wriggling of his fingers against the thin fabric of his t-shirt… it couldn’t possibly be an accident.

Oikawa was onto him.

“Uh, Oikawa-san? It’s getting kind of late… shouldn’t we close up the gym now?”

He didn’t really want to stop, but he knew he’d make a fool of himself if he stayed any longer. After he raced through his question in a panicked tone, Oikawa raised one eyebrow and gave him a peculiar look.

“What’s this? Hinata Shouyo wants to stop playing volleyball? Pigs must be flying.”

“Sorry!! It’s just that… I’m having some trouble focusing today and I don’t know why!”

“Hmm, well alright. I guess that’s enough for today.”

Hinata breathed a sigh of relief as Oikawa started making his rounds, picking up the discarded volleyballs laying uselessly around the court. He was full of confidence and self-assurance even in mundane moments like this, walking with his head held high and his chest out like a warrior. He was truly worthy of the title Great King. The first year felt warmth spread in his cheeks, thinking about how much of an honor it was that Oikawa wanted to practice with him and him alone.

Once everything was put away and the net was neatly rolled up, Oikawa put one arm around Hinata’s neck and led him to the nearest bench where the two of them plopped down. It happened so fast Hinata didn’t have a chance to protest.

“So, what’s on your mind? You can tell your senpai,” he purred in his ear, making him shudder in place. He was sitting so close to him, their thighs were practically touching, and Hinata felt his palms start to sweat. He rubbed them against his shorts while he attempted to put words to his thoughts.

“Um… well, I… uh...”

“Come on, why so jumpy? I’m not that scary, am I?” Oikawa poked his side playfully, eliciting a sharp squeal from the first year.

“-Aaaah!”

At first, Oikawa’s eyes widened. Then, his lips parted slightly before the corners of his mouth began to turn upwards. Hinata could practically see the gears turning in his head, until suddenly it was like a lightbulb had been turned on. His eyes lit up while he cracked an all-knowing grin and suddenly Hinata felt very, very nervous.

“Ohhh. You’re ticklish, aren’t you?

“No!! I mean, yeah! I mean, wait, wait!!”

The extra emphasis on that word made Hinata fidget even more. He crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head frantically, doing a terrible job convincing the devious-looking setter who was inching closer and closer by the second.

“I knew it. You were so squirmy every time I touched you. Do you like being tickled?”

“Whahahat?”

Oikawa poked his side again, this time a little higher near his ribs. The sensation felt like lightning and shot through his body, causing him to jump back and let out another undignified squeal. He poked him again, and again, and again, until he finally broke out into cheery little giggles that echoed loudly throughout the gymnasium.

“I don’t hear a ‘no’. Does that mean you like it?”

“Ahahahahaha! Wahahait!!”

Hinata was too flustered to do anything but laugh. His cheeks felt like they were on fire, and he didn’t dare look Oikawa in the eyes. He squeezed them both shut as his senpai gave up the pokes and instead stroked the length of his sides, humming a tune while Hinata snickered and tried to twist away. Then, out of nowhere, he wrapped his hands around his kouhai’s waist like lobster claws and dug in. He alternated between harder squeezes and light scribbles, as if experimenting with different techniques to see which affected him the most. The squeezing really made him cackle, so he stuck with that method for a bit longer.

“Ehehehehee! GAHAHAHA!”

“Not gonna answer? I guess I’ll just keep going, then~...”

Hinata batted weakly at his hands, already spent after just a few seconds. In a moment of misjudgement he raised his arms to try and grab Oikawa’s wandering hands, and once the setter saw an opening, he dug his fingers into his underarms and wiggled them all around until Hinata sounded like he was going to shatter. He clamped his arms down at his sides in defense, but the setter just took hold of his wrists and held them firmly behind his back. This left his midriff wide open, and the third year took the chance to scribble his fingers across his belly. Hinata tried his best to hold back his laughter, but he exploded once Oikawa began circling his belly button with one finger. Unable to break free from his iron grip, he gave up fighting and simply writhed in place as he was tickled all over.

“Pppftblt, Oikawahahahaha!!”

“That’s my name! Wow, your arms are shaking. It’s so hard to get away when I’m holding you, isn’t it?”

Hinata shrieked in response and started to thrash even harder, still too weak to get out of his grasp. Oikawa was tickling a really sensitive spot, a squishy area right next to his belly button, and was so fllittering and soft that all he could do was giggle like a little baby.

“Oho, is this a bad spot?”

Unable to form words, Hinata just nodded as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. It was overwhelming, but it was giving him a rush like no other. He couldn’t stop smiling or laughing, and his stomach felt like a horde of butterflies were fluttering all around. Getting tickled by Oikawa was making him feel so giddy, it was so silly and ridiculous and embarrassing... and much more fun than he ever could have imagined.

“Awww, it's really bad, isn't it? Especially when I tickle it like this?”

The orange-haired player’s laughter reached a new octave when Oikawa scribbled the back of his nails on the same spot, but much more softly and at a quicker pace than he expected. It was almost more maddening than the harder tickles, which he would’ve preferred at this point over these teasy flutters. Keeping up his exploration, he hopped around from one side to the other to gauge his overall reactions. Whenever Hinata’s laughter grew in volume, he’d stay there until the spiker fell into silent laughter.

Finally, after who knows how long, he felt his senpai’s hand leave his body and release his wrists. He opened his eyes, out of breath and gasping for air, only to see Oikawa beaming down at him. His face was already flushed, and seeing that only made it redder.

“Alright, that’s enough for now. I’ll have to remember this, though!”

Oikawa handed him an ice cold bottle of water from the cooler next to the bench and waited until he finished drinking it all before speaking again. Hinata listened through his haggard breathing, now feeling a little embarrassed about the whole ordeal.

“Hey, shorty. Loosen up a little, will ya? We’re friends now, so you don't have to be so nervous around me.”

“Right!!”

Hinata felt his strong arm drape itself across his shoulder again and fought the urge to lean against his chest.

“Oh, and Hinata? I won't tell anyone, but I’m definitely going to tease you about this again.”

“What?!?”

“What.”

Oikawa smiled innocently, as if he hadn’t just tickled poor Hinata to death. He feigned ignorance for the next few minutes until Hinata finally gave up, full of steam and too fatigued to argue. He ran off to grab his backpack and athletic bag before meeting Oikawa at the exit. They shut off the lights and made their way home together, both players feeling warm and dizzy without quite understand why.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #tickle fic #oihina #lee!hinata #ler!oikawa #DONT LOOK AT ME DKJSHJFSJKFHFS #i have nothing to say for myself #goodbye forever kjHDDJKSH

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lifblogs · 3 years ago

Text

Get Lost More Often

1915 words, read on ao3

Anakin decided he was an idiot. He wished he had come to that conclusion before taking a hike around Lake Louise in Banff National Park and getting lost. Obi-Wan had warned him against it, but he’d wanted to go anyway. And here he was, freezing his ass off on his way up a peak. Why did he need to climb his way up instead of returning to Fairmont Château where there’d be a nice cozy bed, and hot chocolate, and one of those electric fireplaces? The wind had had the audacity to snatch his map out of his hands, so now he had to get up high to make sense of his surroundings. Hopefully if he made it to the top he’d be able to see the hotel and plan a route back in his head.

It wasn’t that Anakin wasn’t smart. He just did reckless things from time to time. Okay, all the time.

Anakin stopped his hike upwards, and tried to find the best path to continue onward. Right now the ground was becoming more rocky than ever, giant boulders clustering together. He realized it was the perfect shelter for a predator like a lynx or a cougar, and unfortunately there were quite a few of those. But he figured he’d smell one before he was in danger. Maybe. A very tentative maybe. And then there was the off chance that some other large animal would bother him.

He cursed himself as he grabbed hold of a rock and started to climb, his durable hiking boots thankfully helping him scrabble upward. Through the lush greens of the conifers he was able to see a gap, and past them, down, down, down was the lake: all a brilliant aqua that would surely kill him within fifteen minutes of submersion.

Despite being lost and bitterly cold the trip was still worth it just to get a look at that extraordinary glacier melt.

A twig cracked, and Anakin scrambled up and over the rock. He turned, but nothing caught his eye.

Probably a squirrel. Hopefully a squirrel.

Rather than staying in one spot he had his eyes roam all around for at least a minute. He spotted movement in a tree, and was surprised that it was a lot of movement, a branch making a loud thwack as it snapped back into place. Right above that branch was a black furry mass clambering up the trunk.

Closer inspection showed it to be a black bear.

If you let a black bear know you were there and proved that you were big it was relatively harmless. So Anakin stood to his full height, waved his arms, and shouted a greeting at it.

The bear startled, and nearly fell out of the tree, which set Anakin laughing. And then it was on its way.

Anakin had to be on his way now too, taking note of the lengthening shadows. He did not look forward to the idea of being stuck out here at night.

“Just keep climbing,” Anakin told himself as he took to a rocky path through the thinning trees. “Find the hotel.”

~~~

“He should’ve been back by now,” Obi-Wan told the small young woman in front of him.

He had gone to one of the lodges near the hotel that had local rescue and rangers. The woman he was speaking to was short and slim, and had her brown hair up in a bun. A few curls had come loose. She seemed all business in her brown ranger’s uniform, yet she had come out from behind her desk to comfort him.

Obi-Wan was stroking at his beard, anxious from Anakin’s absence. The woman whose name tag read Padmé Naberrie had a reassuring hand on his arm as he gave her all the information he could about his friend.

“I’ll find him,” she assured him, and then she set to work, gathering gear, relaying information, getting someone to cover the desk.

Obi-Wan sat in one of the beat-up handmade wooden chairs.

Oh, Anakin. Why are you always like this?

This vacation had been Anakin’s idea. Obi-Wan would’ve preferred somewhere warmer, and had thought that’s what Anakin had in mind when he used the word exotic. Heading north to try and see all of Canada’s lakes had, however, been how Anakin defined the term. So instead of relaxing at a beach or even just inviting his friend Cody over for drinks, he was here, waiting for Padmé to head out so Anakin could be found.

When she seemed about ready, a heavy backpack hoisted on her shoulders, Obi-Wan grabbed his own pack.

“I’ll go with you,” he offered.

“No offense, but you’ll only slow me down.”

“But I’m strong,” Obi-Wan argued. “And I can move quickly if need be. Please, I just want to find my friend. He’s like a brother to me.”

She eyed him, probably trying to figure out just how muscular he was under his jeans, flannel, and fleece-lined jacket.

“Fine,” she relented. “But there are two rules and two rules only: do exactly as I say, down to the letter, and follow my footsteps about four to five feet back.” Obi-Wan frowned in confusion at that last one, and despite the seriousness of the situation, her brown eyes seemed to glimmer with amusement. She started leading him out, as she offered further explanation: “You don’t want to get hit with the branches that snap back after I pass.”

“Right.”

Padmé led him over to a large all-terrain truck, and once they got in, they headed out.

“So tell me about Anakin,” Padmé inquired.

Obi-Wan did, even as the road became dirt and then their path took them off of it, the vehicle bumping along and jostling them inside.

~~~

Anakin reached the summit of the peak, but there was a slight problem: it was sundown. Sure, he could see the hotel, but traveling there in the dark? Maybe he could stay here. He had a flashlight, he had plenty of back-up batteries. And there was a bigger problem than the dark and cold if he decided to travel. From what he could tell with where the hotel was positioned, he’d have to hike across grizzly territory, or risk taking a much longer route and getting lost yet again.

~~~

I wonder how Obi-Wan’s doing with looking for me.

There was no doubt his friend was looking for him, or had gotten someone to help. He was just like that: always caring, always ready to save Anakin’s ass despite his feigned reluctance.

Then he had a better idea than traveling in the dark and lower temperatures. He could make a signal fire. So Anakin set to work, and in fifteen minutes he had a decent fire going. Now all he could do was sit and wait, he supposed.

Anakin settled down onto the ground, and then started in on the water and energy bars he had in his pack.

“There, did you see that?” Obi-Wan asked, pointing at a flicker of orange light that was up high in the darkness.

He and Padmé had been traveling on foot for some time now, Obi-Wan following her lead because he had no idea how she was able to figure out where Anakin had been, though he noticed she’d often travel back and forth in straight lines, doing that for many yard sometimes, until she’d hurried them on. Despite his worries for Anakin he liked being in her presence. He trusted her, and he wasn’t totally sure why. Maybe it was her sure and steady demeanor, and the calm, reassuring way she spoke to him.

“Yep,” she told him. “Come on.”

Anakin wasn’t sure how long he sat there, working on deep breathing to calm his nerves every time he heard something moving, which was near-constant. The night was loud with all kinds of night-time creatures, and it left him uneasy. He huddled closer to the blazing heat of the fire, pulling his jacket tight around him, and shoved his hands into his armpits. Eventually, he heard steps clumping against the ground, branches and undergrowth rustling, rocks clattering.

Eventually it grew so close that he was on his feet.

Stupidly, he asked, “Who’s there?”

Turned out it wasn’t so stupid after all because next thing he knew there was a petite woman in a ranger’s uniform stepping into the light of his fire.

Anakin let out a breath of relief, which was cut off in an excited shout as Obi-Wan stepped out from behind her.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” the ranger asked.

He grinned at her, beyond relieved by her presence. “I’m fine. Mostly just cold and hungry.”

Obi-Wan put an arm around him. “Come on, let’s get you back.”

The ranger said, “You know, you really shouldn’t travel out here alone.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you should’ve had a map.”

“The wind took it.”

“Better to stick to a trail.”

“I got that… now.”

But Anakin was too happy at being found to be annoyed. He was actually glad that she clearly cared.

All conversation that didn’t have to do with getting back to civilization died down.

A few hours later—hours of pain-stakingly making their way down the peak and around the lake with only the light of their flashlights—they came to an open area where there was a large truck parked on the dirt.

“Nice ride,” Anakin commented, as he climbed in, Obi-Wan relinquishing the passenger’s seat for him.

Anakin had expected something a bit clipped from the ranger, but to his surprise she grinned at him.

“Want to see how fast it can go?”

Anakin soon had a look to mirror hers. “Hell yeah.”

They set off, the night racing past them.

“Not to be a downer, Padmé,” Obi-Wan cried, “but hitting something and overturning this isn’t really what I had in mind!”

“Relax,” Anakin told him.

“Relax? You were missing all day.”

“Yeah, and I’m here now.” He turned to his savior. “So, Padmé, is it?”

“Yep.”

“Pretty name.”

“I could say the same for you.”

He laughed. “But at least you have the prettier face.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“No?”

“Well… maybe. But hey, maybe I should get lost more often.”

“Do you two mind flirting later?” Obi-Wan asked.

Padmé flashed Anakin a secretive smile that left a giddy feeling soaring through his stomach.

~~~

When they made it back to the lodge, Padmé gave Anakin her number.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” she asked him as she handed him the slip of paper.

“Exotic vacation. Wanted to see all of Canada’s lakes.”

“That’s ambitious.”

Looking her up and down and liking what he saw he responded, “I’m an ambitious kind of guy.”

“Great, then take me out with you next time. Or we could do something else. Are you staying at the Fairmont?”

“You bet!”

“How about I see you there tomorrow night for dinner?”

“Can we do dessert too?”

“Only if you’re thinking about the same dessert I am.”

“Hell yeah, I am.”

She gave him a quick embrace and kissed his cheek before saying, “Great, it’s a date.”

“It’s a date!” Anakin called as he left, getting into Obi-Wan’s car.

“You got her number, didn’t you?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Sure did.”

“I’m getting exiled tomorrow night, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and rolled his eyes, and then pulled out onto the road. “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me, my young friend.”

#AU_gust #AU_gust_2021 #star wars #prequels #star wars fanfiction #star wars prequel fanfiction #star wars au #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #padmé amidala #anidala #au #fanfiction #writing #my writing

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angrylizardjacket · 4 years ago

Text

heard your name in every love song {Ben Hardy} 1

1. when he was looking out for me (i would pretend he was my summer fling)

Summary: When you’re twelve and you have a crush on your babysitter, your parents think it’s puppy love, think it’s cute, and you’ll forget about it soon enough.

A/N: 2266 words. Female!Reader. okay so the sprained ankle in Space Jump is a direct reference to something that happened in my theater class, that being a dude snapped his fucking femur playing Fruit Salad. RIP adam’s femur for the following few months. he’s fine now, that was like 8 years ago. whatever. are all these theater games i mention real? i’ll never tell. here’s part 1. DISCLAIMER: NO CREEPY SHIT I SWEAR TO GOD I WOULDN’T DO THAT; THERE’S A LITTLE BIT OF PINING FROM Y/N BUT THAT’S IT. there’s a few assumptions made abt Y/N’s life; only child, parents (plural, idk how many, doesn’t matter), plays Crash Bandicoot and Mario Kart, takes theater classes outside of school.

the mutant brotherhood: @daisy-lu @hervoidparadise @nedmjpeter @ultrunning @d-r-e-a-m-catchme @clementimee @that-fandom-sucks-tho @cjand10 @rest-is-detail @baileymae @rosesvioletshardy @onceuponadetectivedemigod @hazelstyles94 @bitchylittleredhead @bihemian-rhapsody @sweatyexpertgardenpanda @whereeverythingisbetter @dedxbed @xxencagedxx @glittrixvibe @a-girl-with-stress @sunflower-ben @pxroxide-prinxcesss @mrsmazzello @cubedtriangle @haileymorelikestupid @misscharlottelee @nevilles-insinuations @jovialcreatorkidtoad @brianmaysclog @sambuckywarrior @hey-yo-bedussey @bubblyanis @lifesciencesbois @elektraofcrete @diosanaz @bbdoyouloveme @kirstansworld @okilover02 @cardboardbenmazzello @dreashappyworld @juliarose21 @simonedk @greycuby @emmasunshiine @dinotje @qtrogerina @spiketacus @nympha-door-a @local-troubled-writer @emphatic-af @wh0a-thisisheavy @lustgardn @banginashton

When you’re twelve, and almost at the end of your first year of high school, you get into a fight with your parents as to whether or not you still need a babysitter. Much to your chagrin, however, they don’t see twelve as ‘practically sixteen, which is practically an adult’ and you sulk for the full three days leading up to the night they were going out. The night of, you’re fully intending on staying in your room, until there’s a knock at the door, and you hear a voice that is absolutely not your usual babysitter.

“Be good,” your parents call to you as they’re leaving, having noticed where you’d cracked the door to your room to see who it was. You make a face at them, but you’re surprised to see a kid from Sixth Form on crutches, who is absolutely not Madeline, standing in the hallway awkwardly. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him around school, maybe he’s on the soccer team? You’re not sure.

“You’re not Maddy,” you tell him, opening the door a little wider, and he seems surprised for a moment to see you there. A kind, awkward smile appears on his face as he regards you with gentle amusement.

“Well spotted, I’m Ben, Maddy’s got the flu,” he explained easily, and offered his hand, “you’re Y/N, right?” And he’s trying so hard, but you’re still kind of mad at your parents for insisting on a babysitter in the first place.

“Who else would I be?” You asked flatly, which surprised a laugh from Ben, but you shook his hand anyways; you had to give him props for trying, “why are you using crutches?” You asked outright, since you’re pretty sure he wasn’t using crutches last time you saw him at school. You turned, heading for the living room, deciding to at least give him a chance.

“Sprained my ankle in class the other week,” he explained, hobbling along behind you.

“Sport or just P.E?” You asked, throwing yourself onto the sofa and picking up the TV remote. Ben was quiet for a long moment, and when you look at where he’s sitting gingerly on the edge of the sofa, he’s making a face like he doesn’t quite want to admit the truth.

“Theater sports,” he explained, which piqued your interest, which, of course, you try not to let show on your face, because if your babysitter knows you already think he’s cool, you might die of embarrassment. But also, you suddenly feel incredibly validated for taking those theater classes every Thursday afternoon.

“They’re -” he tries to explain, but you give another eye roll.

“I know what theater sports are,” you tell him, and his smile turns amused.

“You do?” He asks, and you think he might be a little bit impressed, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking, either way, you nod firmly, “well I was in the middle of Space Jump - you know Space Jump, right? Where you start an activity and then someone else calls ‘Space Jump’ and you have to freeze and they have to make a new scene from your freeze, and then someone else comes in -” he explained, mostly to save you the embarrassment of admitting you didn’t know the game, “well I was up on one leg on a chair, climbing the rigging of a ship, you know how pirates do, and I froze, and -” he gestured how he’d fallen off the chair, with accompanying sound effects.

“Couldn’t you have just put your other foot down and balanced yourself?” You offered, and he shook his head, expression adamant.

“It’s all about the commitment to the bit; I was trying to entertain them, and the best way I can do that is to put myself out there one-hundred percent,” he told you sincerely, “you’ve always gotta follow through.”

“You sprained your ankle,” you pointed out, “isn’t that dangerous advice?” He deflates a little, looking down at his leg.

“Follow through but use your common sense, you’ve got common sense, don’t you?” He asked, giving a wry smile, two which you nodded diligently, “don’t get yourself hurt, then,” he suggests, before changing the subject quickly, “you hungry yet? Your parents said we could order pizza.” You’re easily excited by the thought of pizza, a rare treat your parents allowed you whenever you were babysat.

It’s a pretty uneventful night, all things considered, you order pizza, and he lets you win at Crash Team Racing, and you’re falling asleep to a comedy movie until Ben gently suggests that you go to bed. You’re too tired to argue and try and weasel your way into staying up later, so you yawn loudly and wish him a good night before shuffling off to bed. The house is quiet, apart from where he’s watching a Top Gear rerun and waiting for your parents to get home.

You don’t think about it much beyond telling your parents ‘yeah, he’s pretty cool’ when they ask. You don’t think about him much beyond that, at least not for almost a full week, until you’re sitting in your geography class just before lunch, having managed to snag a seat by the window looking out onto the back field, and there’s a PE class doing laps on the field. All are running, except the teacher, and a boy with blonde hair, standing with all his weight on one foot, and a pair of crutches tossed to the side, looking like he’s arguing the teacher.

“I heard when you’re in sixth form you get to push in the front of the line at the canteen,” you hear your friend, Merissa, next to you muse, and when you turn, she’s followed your gaze outside to the field. After a moment, you turn again, and watch the blonde attempt to put weight on his obviously injured foot; it looks like he regrets it, and he sits on the grass, sulking.

“That’s probably Ben,” Merissa tells you matter-of-factly, “he’s on the football team with my brother.” And something about the kind of unwarranted pride in her voice at being in the know makes your face scrunch up. Part of you wants to tell her that you know who Ben is, obviously, but another part of you doesn’t want to admit to still needing a babysitter; it feels childish. So you keep your mouth shut and turn to back to the board.

And the following week, in your weekly theater class, you’re about to take your turn at Bus Stop, wherein your goal is to make the other person on the ‘bus stop’ as uncomfortable as possible until they finally leave, which is when you’ll assume the roll of the innocent bystander, and someone else from the class will come up and try and make you uncomfortable. It’s a lesson on improvisation disguised as a game.

The voice you’ve been practicing slightly pinches your vocal cords, and you’ve barely got a moment to assume a matching physicality, and you worry for a second that it’s not funny, that you’ll just look like an idiot -

Put yourself out there one hundred percent.

You steel yourself, making strange shapes with your hands as you twist yourself into as much of a creature as possible, within reason, using the strange voice you’d concocted, feeling a thrill as your entrance gets the biggest laugh of the class. Oh.

A few months later, in the Summer after your first year of high school, you’re finally thirteen, and are allowed to have the house to yourself for the day, but if you’re parents are anticipating staying out later than midnight, you need -

“Please,” you begged, “just don’t say babysitter, I’m not a baby.”

“Fine,” they acquiesce, “you need supervision, just if we’re out very late.”

Despite your indignation at the situation, Maddy’s got a cello concert, and you’re hoping that that means -

Ben greets you like a friend, wearing a denim jacket with no crutches, and he might be the coolest person you know.

“You still on Crash Team Racing?” He asks with raised eyebrows as he heads into the living room, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s so old school,” you scoff, and he raises his hands in surrender, trying not to look as amused as he feels, watching as you pull out two Wii remotes, “Mario Kart’s much better.” And you hand him one.

He’s not above letting you win, but it turns out, he doesn’t have to; you’re scarily good at the game, which you credit to playing pretty much nothing else for a solid month, and by the time the pizza arrives, the win ratio is about fifty-fifty, and you’ve bonded considerably over your mutual and unreasonable hatred for Waluigi, the only NPC who seems to consistently beat you both.

“Do you get to push in the front of the line at the canteen?” You asked, holding your pizza in one hand and letting it cool for a moment.

“Huh?” Ben’s burnt the roof of his mouth, and is reaching for his drink when you ask, “whaddya mean?”

“My friend Merissa says Sixth Form gets to push in the front of the line.”

“I don’t think we’re technically allowed to,” he says after a moment of consideration, and you hear his nonverbal ‘but we still do’ anyways, “it’s not a rule rule, you know?”

“Are the A-levels hard?”

“Haven’t done ‘em yet,” he answers honestly, burping quietly after taking a drink, and you hum, and take a bite of pizza.

“I’m already scared of my GCSEs,” you admit after a moment of chewing, and Ben laughs gently.

“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” and he sounds like he means it, so you can’t help but believe it, soothed a little in your premature worrying. To be fair, Ben could say anything about school or life and you’d probably believe it; he was cool and older than you, but he treated you like a friend.

You mention in passing that you’d gotten the lead for your class’s skit in the end of year showcase your theater company puts on, and mentions that it’s because you’d been committing to the bit in class, and the pride in his voice when he congratulates you is something you end up thinking about for days.

He ends up babysitting you twice more that Summer, not that you were complaining. It meant you got pizza, and to hang out with the coolest person you knew, a fact which you reiterated to your parents, much to their fond amusement, though you made them swear to never tell Ben that. He brought over Super Smash Bros and you guys would play for hours.

The only problem was that Ben was never allowed to know about the crush you had on him, because everyone in the world knew it was weird to have a crush on your babysitter, and you’re pretty sure he has a girlfriend and -

Doesn’t matter. You’re just started to discover the delightful world of crushes and relationships, and Merissa has a boyfriend on Tumblr, and you know that when you get back to school you can have a normal crush on a normal boy in your year, even if all the boys in your year look like thumbs. And Ben...

Is your babysitter. And a decent guy. And your friend, sort of. So you just hope he hasn’t noticed.

After Summer, he’s studying his A-levels, and Maddy’s got a day job so she can babysit at nights again, and it feels like everything’s gone back to normal, like you can breathe again.

You’ve never really seen him at school; you don’t tend to hang around the back fields, but a few weeks into the first term, you’re having lunch with Merissa and Charlie, one of your other friends, in the library, when you spot him laden down with textbooks, making his way to one of the study rooms at the back. You’re not sure if he’ll even acknowledge you, even though your table is directly along the best route to the back rooms, so you just give him and smile and a nod in greeting.

“Hey, Y/N,” he grins quickly, doesn’t stop, but nods in return, and your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest. Charlie sinks her nails into your arm the moment he’s gone into the study room, and Merissa quietly screeches your name.

“Chill out,” you’re trying to keep a low profile, but both other thirteen year old girls are demanding to know what just happened, “we’re friends.” You say with a shrug that’s far too casual.

“Friends?!” Merissa demands, and you can feel yourself growing more flustered.

“We hung out a few times during summer,” you open your notebook in front of you, trying to distract yourself.

“You hung out with Ben? Y/N he’s a football guy, he’s so old, he’s like eighteen!”

“We’re friends,” you insist, “don’t be, like, creepy about it,” you snorted, and Charlie let out a pterodactyl-like noise. They drop it at your insistence, and you’re just glad they don’t ask you to elaborate.

You don’t see Ben much after that anymore, he’s too busy with his A-levels to babysit, and when you’re fourteen, your parents agree that you don’t need a babysitter anymore. You’re more than happy to let your Summer crush fall to the wayside, and let your memories of Ben, like all good Summer memories, fade into blurry obscurity.

You wouldn’t need to worry about seeing him again anyways, right?

Oh how wrong you were.

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy fanfic #ben hardy fanfiction #borhap #queen #borhap cast #borhap cast imagine #bohemian rhapsody cast #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody cast imagine #the angry lizard writes

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fidothefinch · 4 years ago

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Homeward Bound

For Whumptober Day 28: Mugged (because I am really late for the “lost” prompt and this is close enough).

Warnings: blood, injury, concussion, one moment of implied solicited child prostitution, homophobic slurs, police officers, briefly implied domestic abuse, briefly implied animal injury Despite the warnings, this is, like, mostly soft.

Read on AO3

“Hey, kid, I think you dropped something.”

When Damian turned, he was looking down the barrel of a gun.

He frowned, unimpressed with the ruse. “I do not carry such crude weapons on myself.”

The man jabbed the barrel of the gun forward, toward him. “Shut up or you’ll figure out just how much damage my crude weapons can do.”

Titus growled up at the man, and the man glanced down just long enough to lose his concentration. Damian sprang forward to attack.

- - - - - - - - -

Damian’s head was pounding. He groaned despite himself and tried to pry his eyes open. They wouldn’t focus as well as he would have liked, but he was pretty sure that he was not waking up anywhere familiar.

He took a moment to assess himself, before broadcasting his return to consciousness. There was a cool breeze running down his shirt, and moisture collected on the places where his bare skin had been touching the air. He wasn’t wearing his Robin gear; that narrowed things down, at least. He didn’t hear anybody near him, either, so risked opening his eyes.

Even as they fought to bring the world into focus, he couldn’t figure out where he was.

There were spindly branches above him, silhouettes against a rapidly-darkening sky. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves; autumnal. He could hear birds chirping, all around him, the low hum of traffic beneath that. A lamppost somewhere past his feet flickered on.

He levered himself up with his elbows. He was sitting on a soft patch of ground. When he lifted a hand to his head to stop the beating there, he found dried blood and several blades of grass in his hair.

What the hell had happened?

He racked his memory, but the last thing he remembered was the taste of the orange juice he had had with breakfast. It was clearly the evening now, and the few people he saw around him were bustling homeward.

Home.

He should get home.

With some work, he managed to get himself all the way to his feet, not even needing more than a single tree to catch his balance when he wobbled on tingly legs. He had been out of it long enough to let his limbs fall asleep, at least.

He reached for his phone; Richard would be worried about him by now, surely. But when he got the device from his pocket, a pit dropped in his stomach. The screen was cracked, and when he tried to press the button on the side, it read “Critical Low Battery,” and turned off again.

He would never hear the end of this.

He sighed, tucking the phone back into his pocket so he could harvest its spare parts for later. He would just have to walk, then, until he found a bus stop – or train station – or ferry – that could take him home. And maybe he would figure out where he is, too.

The pavement he had woken next to stretched off in two directions, and he randomly chose one and walked. It wasn’t like it would make much difference, since he expected it to be a long night, anyway. But as he took his first few steps, he staggered sideways.

Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought. His hand found the bleeding again, and with searching fingers he found a large knot on the back of his head, where the flesh had swelled. Looking around, it didn’t look like he had hit his head on the pavement, and there had not been a significant amount of blood in the grass where he had gotten up. Maybe he had hit his head, and moved before passing out?

It didn’t matter, now.

The air was getting colder, and he hadn’t brought a jacket with him. He didn’t want to spend the night outside, so he quickened his step.

A familiar tinkling followed him down the path. He turned, too abruptly for his failing sense of balance, and nearly fell into his loyal friend.

“Titus,” Damian breathed. The dog whined at him. He was limping, one of his front paws held up. Damian knelt next to the dog and took his injured paw. “What did you do?”

He carefully felt around the pad and found no thorns or irritants, but when he felt around the knee Titus yelped in pain.

Damian hushed him. “I apologize,” he whispered. He rose to his feet again. “I will have Pennyworth take a look at you when we return.” As he tried to rise, another wave of dizziness hit him, and he fell backward, nearly hitting his head again.

“Hey, kid!”

Damian whipped his head around to the source of the noise. A man was walking toward him, down the path. Damian hadn’t heard him approaching.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, then stopped short as he spotted the blood on Damian’s head. “Oh, man.”

Damian waved a hand over his shoulder flippantly and rose to his feet. “I am fine.” Gotham citizens weren’t usually so. . . hospitable, and Damian couldn’t help being suspicious of him. Damian would deal with this on his own. “I am on my way home.”

“Are your parents around? I don’t think you should be—”

A hand landed on Damian’s shoulder, and without thinking he tugged the man down and around into an arm lock. “Don’t touch me,” he warned.

The man’s breath caught. “Let go of me!”

Damian blinked, and he released the man’s hand. The man stood to his full height, rubbing his wrist where it had been bent at an awkward angle. His eyes were wide, now, with something like fear. “H-hey, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Damian stepped back unevenly, and Titus stepped in front of him. His ears pressed flat to his head and his teeth glinted in the light form the lamppost. A warning growl emitted from his muzzle.

The man, wisely, backed away, hands held high.

Damian watched him move away until he was satisfied with the distance between them. Then he clicked his tongue, and Titus’s posture shifted as he glanced back to Damian. “Come, Titus,” Damian called. He mustered enough energy to make his voice steady and commanding.

Titus gave one sharp bark to the man before turning tail and obediently following Damian down the opposite path.

They didn’t make it out of earshot before he heard the man pull his phone out. “Yeah, I’m Robinson Park. I think I’ve found a homeless kid.”

Damian wasn’t close enough to tell whether the man was calling the police, and he certainly didn’t want to be dragged into another kidnapping. He forced his feet to move faster, and he ran.

The man had said something about Robinson Park, right? That put Damian almost an hour’s walk from the penthouse, and that was assuming he was moving in the right direction.

He tried navigating with the stars, but there was too much light pollution; the one star he thought he had found turned out to be a plane.

“Where are we,” he asked Titus.

The dog huffed, but despite Damian’s greatest wish, was not able to respond.

Moving at all was better than staying in place. He would be able to figure out where he was when he got out of the park.

The walk felt like hours. Whether it was fatigue, or dehydration, or his concussion, the world would slant sideways occasionally, tripping him up until Titus’s warm flank would help steady him. His mouth was incredibly dry, and his stomach empty. He grimaced when they got too close to any lamplights, as the glow would make the icepick in his head dig harder. It was better that they stay away from the walking paths, anyway; as it grew dark, the people wandering the park became, in Richard’s words, “shadier.”

He could smell the road before he could see it. Hot asphalt, gasoline, and spent cigarettes wafted from beyond the tasteful brick ledge cornering the park from the rest of the city. The sun had set completely by the time he reached the road beyond.

He reached the sidewalk and peered up at the stared up at the street signs, trying to make sense of them. To his great frustration, his brain refused to make words from the letters. There were still a handful of cars idling at the stoplight. One of them blasted bass music loud enough Damian could feel it under his feet. The more tasteful lilt of classical music spilled out from a different car.

One car pulled up to the curb next to him. Damian couldn’t make out the shadowed face of the man driving, but he knew enough to be wary when he asked, “How much?”

Damian shook his head, despite how it made the world spin. As Robin, he would have taken him out on sight. As Damian, all he could react with was a “No,” as pointedly disgusted as he could make it.

“Faggot,” the man sneered.

Damian didn’t have time to reply before a cup burst against his chest, soaking his shirt and pants in ice-cold slush. His gasp was lost under the squeal of tires as the car pulled away. He didn’t have the thought to memorize his license plate until he was too far away.

The light was green, and cars raced by faster that Damian could track, though he was beginning to think that reflected more on himself than their driving habits. The movement paired with the sticky-sweet cherry smell from the ICEE was making him nauseous.

Titus licked the syrup from his bare wrist in commiseration. His tongue was warm against the cooling night air.

Damian shivered, the breeze from the handful of passing cars cooling his wet clothes even more. He needed to get inside soon, or he risked hypothermia.

He waited until there were no cars before crossing the street, and he walked another block, parallel to the park, before finding a small store and slipping inside.

The heat was a blessing, but the lighting was harsh enough he had to squint. Damian’s fingers tingled as they warmed up, and he perused the small aisles for something warm to wear for several minutes.

“No dogs.”

Damian looked up, and the cashier, who was the only other person in the store, had finally looked up from their magazine.

“He has excellent behavior,” he started.

She rolled her eyes. “Out.” She pointed toward the door.

Damian scowled. He wanted to protest more, but he couldn’t summon the brain power for it. “Very well.” He gave her his best glare on his way past.

Leaving the store was difficult, as the outside temperature felt even colder when he hadn’t had time to acclimate to it.

He shoved his numb hands in his wet pockets. His wallet was missing; he could not have purchased anything, anyway.

He voiced his thoughts out loud as he walked down the street, more to keep warm than with a destination in mind. “If my wallet is gone, somebody may have taken it,” he mused. “I may have been the victim of a mugging.” He felt for that tender place on his head again and winced. “Gone wrong.”

Titus loped along next to him, ears high and alert for any sign of danger.

Damian lost track of time and how many blocks he had walked before he spotted the bus stop. Inside the sheltered benches was a large map. “Titus, look,” he mumbled. Titus did not look, but wrapped himself around Damian’s legs, watching his six o’clock while Damian studied the graphic.

It took far too long for him to find the “You are Here” star, and then he couldn’t make sense of the rest of the lines and letters. They seemed to float around his point of focus, blurred around the edges.

“We’ve got him,” somebody said. A radio blipped. Acknowledged. Over.

Damian turned around when a shadow fell over him. It was a police officer, wearing a sympathetic smile. “Hey, kid.”

Damian didn’t reply, looking him up and down. When he saw his hand resting against where Damian knew his Taser to be, he tutted. “You are not going to Tase me, are you?”

The officer’s hand flexed, then relaxed, but didn’t move from the position. “Not unless you give me a reason to.”

Damian shook his head as much as he dared. “You are the one approaching me.” He turned back toward the map in dismissal.

“Got a name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Where are you headed?”

“None of your business.”

“Look,” and the officer stepped toward him, but Titus growled. “Somebody called in some kid acting confused and wandering the city.”

Damian’s shoulders tensed. “I am not confused.”

“Easy, there. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

Damian turned again and crossed his arms. He hated to admit it was more for the warmth than for the intimidation. “Please go on your way. I do not require your assistance.”

The officer whistled under his breath. “That’s a nice bruise you’ve got there. Did you get in a fight?”

Damian’s hand flew to a second, slightly less painful knot on his forehead, but it was too late. The officer had seen.

Damian had been there long enough. The last thing he needed was to be forced into a physical examination. Without saying anything, he moved to duck around the officer and excuse himself.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “Wait a minute, young man.”

Damian stiffened, and the hold relaxed but didn’t release. “Titus, heel,” he commanded, stopping the pending attack. He gave the officer what he hoped was a measured look. “Let go of me.”

“Is there some place I can take you? Do you need a ride home?”

Damian hesitated, and the officer jumped on it. “I can give you a ride in the squad car. I’ll let you try the sirens.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but despite the patronizing, he asked, “and my dog?”

“We’ll call animal patrol to take him to a shelter, and you can go pick him up—”

“No.”

“He’ll be safe, you have my word.”

“Titus stays with me.” The dog sneered at the officer from where he sat by Damian’s feet, clearly still a threat should the officer choose to lunge.

The officer looked at the dog, and back up. He released Damian’s shoulder, and Damian would feel more relieved if it didn’t make him feel less steady on his feet. “If something happened at home, you can report it—”

“Nothing happened.” Not that he remembered, anyway. Damian’s chin rose. “I will return myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, son.”

Damian didn’t think; he bolted.

“Hey!” The officer shouted, giving chase.

Damian breathed harder, through the nausea and the pain flaring in his head. His blood was roaring in his ears. He demanded his body move faster.

Titus guided him, a second, ghostlier mirror-Titus weaving in and out of his body. The loyal dog stuck exactly to Damian’s pace so they wouldn’t lose each other. The streets at this pace looked more familiar, and Damian thought he recognized an alley opening ahead. “Left,” he directed, and Titus ducked into the alley, as instructed.

“We’ve got a runner.” He could hear the officer behind him huffing into his radio. “I’m going to need backup.” He was gaining ground; Damian was lagging.

He had just slipped into the alleyway when Titus pivoted around, barking angrily at the officer.

“Titus,” Damian wheezed. The world spun around him, and he had to brace himself against a grimy brick wall. “Come here.”

But the dog ignored him. In fact, Titus suddenly lunged forward, out of his sight, and the officer shouted.

Titus yelped.

“No,” Damian moaned.

He had to keep running. He couldn’t let the officer take him. He couldn’t remember why, but there had been a reason. . .

He stumbled down the alley, turning blindly around corners until he found himself back out on a dark street. There were a few lights on in the windows above him, but not a soul in sight.

Damian’s head felt like it would split in two, like there was a wedge being driven between the hemispheres of his brain with every thump of his heart. He squinted through the darkness until he made out the shape of stairs, leading down toward a basement floor and locked door. It would at least get him out of the wind.

He got two steps down before he tripped over his own feet, flipping down the last six.

He allowed himself to groan at the bottom, feeling all the new places that stung and throbbed.

He must have hit his head again, because he had to blink black spots out of his eyes as he half-crawled, half-dragged himself (his arm, at least, was definitely broken) to the corner under the stairs.

He curled his knees up and tucked his head down, conserving as much body heat as possible.

He blacked out.

Something wet was tugging on his face.

Damian scrunched his nose. There was still a dull ringing in his ears.

No.

That was whining.

Prying his eyelids open felt more difficult than lifting the Batmobile. The world swayed, and he immediately had to shut them again.

“Titus,” he whispered. And it did not sound like a whine. “I am alright.”

Titus continued licking his face, nuzzling his nose underneath Damian’s arms so he could get a better look.

“Damian?”

Damian tensed.

“Damian!”

There were feet pounding down the short stairway. “Alfred! I found him!”

Damian winced at the noise. It was much, much too loud.

“Damian,” Richard breathed again. His voice dropped into something much softer. “Can you look at me?”

Damian lifted his head with gargantuan effort, and lifted his eyelids again.

Richard’s face swam into focus, a deep wrinkle in his forehead. He gasped, when he saw the lump on Damian’s forehead. “What happened to you?” he asked. His hand rose to the lump’s twin on the back of his head and lightly brushed away some of the grime.

It had grown more tender since last night. Like it had opened a floodgate, Damian was suddenly bombarded with all of the aches and pains of the night before. His left arm and head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, slightly syncopated.

Richard clicked his tongue, and leaned back to shout up the stairs. “He hit his head.”

“Oh, dear.” Pennyworth must have been standing at the higher level, but Damian couldn’t look that high up for fear of getting lost in the nausea. “And he is soaking wet. I will fetch a change of clothes from the car.”

As Pennyworth’s voice got distant, Richard leaned in closer. “We’re going to get you home, okay?” He didn’t wait for Damian to acknowledge him; he slipped his arms under Damian’s knees and behind his back and lifted him smoothly. “It’s okay.”

Damian tutted, but even he could admit it lacked his usual passion.

Richard tucked Damian’s head under his chin as he walked up the stairs, and though it was an awkward angle Damian was thankful for the body heat he was able to absorb from it.

Titus followed right at Dick’s feet, not taking his big brown eyes off Damian for a second. He was still limping.

Richard must have caught him looking, because he explained, “Animal Control found the chip, called us out here to pick him up. He wouldn’t stop whining until we followed him.”

Damian reached down to pat Titus’s head with his good hand. “Good boy, Titus.”

Pennyworth fussed over him until he was in clean, dry clothes. The heat was already blasting in the car, and Damian immediately felt himself melting into the seat beneath him.

Richard would not let go. Titus collapsed in his lap in a furry, warm heap.

Damian wouldn’t have it any other way. He was finally home.

#whumptober #no. 28 #mugged #fic #dc #damian wayne #a boy and his dog #fido writes #titus the dog

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persephonesfill · 4 years ago

Text

choke on me—chapter four

breathe me in (prequel fic)

chapter three

chapter five

a/n: this is a pretty chill chapter, and chapter five is going to be the exact opposite so have fun with this one while you can ;) also for my bilingual readers, if i have any, please excuse my shitty Italian in this chapter, i'm literally just working off of google translate

rating: pretty gen...this time

warning(s): n/a

—————

Carmen couldn't have picked a better day for a carnival; It's not too hot out for it to be August nonetheless. A slight breeze ruffles Tony's ungelled hair, sending his bangs into his eyes. He smooths the hair back with a huff. So much for keeping it casual today. His brief irritation dissipates when he looks, truly looks, at his surroundings.

The scent of cotton candy and funnel cake and something smoky, no doubt barbecue, carries on the wind. There are two long lines of booths, rides, and rest places alike stretching for a good yard. The other volunteers are zooming about, dressed in bright red tees like the Avengers, finishing up last-minute preparations.

"She doesn't half-ass anything, huh?" Clint says. He sounds impressed and…a little excited. Tony can't lie...he's excited too.

"I'll say," Steve says, and there's no hiding the awe in his voice. "I can't believe some of these rides even exist."

Out the corner of his eye, Tony sees Thor lean down to whisper something in Bruce's ear, blue eyes dancing. Whatever he said makes Bruce laugh, a real one, not the sharp little chuckle that's usually full of self-loathing or sarcasm or both.

They're off to a good start. Even Natasha looks pleased, or as pleased as she can be, with her arms crossed in front of her. She's taking in their surroundings too, but Tony knows that a part of her isn't doing it for fun. She's looking for enemies, escape routes, any possible threats to her and the others.

"You can take an agent out of the field," he thinks. He hopes that maybe she'll loosen up by the end of the day, preferably without anyone getting hurt.

"Where's Solomita?" she asks. "I want to know what we’re doing.”

"I know where she is," Tony says and leads the way, picking out Carmen's chirpy voice, throwing out orders and praise with a megaphone, Jesus Christ.

"Make sure you're at your booths in ten minutes! The kids are going to be arriving soon!"

She's crossing things off on her clipboard when Tony and the Avengers following behind him pull up in front of her.

She hasn't changed a bit since Tony's last seen her. She's still tan, still short, shorter than Tony. Her dark wavy hair is pulled back into what she used to call her "business braid" for when she had "shit that needs to be done."

Tony clears his throat, and Carmen looks up, her big brown eyes going wide before a grin breaks across her face and—

Carmen pounces on him, full-on throwing her arms around Tony's neck. Tony catches her no problem and—Carmen's mood is so infectious—gives her a little twirl before setting her down.

"Jesus Christ," Clint says under his breath. "She almost took him out."

"Did not," Carmen says, and Clint has the good sense to look bashful. "This is normal for us. Especially when someone hasn't reached out in two. Years," she says, slapping Tony on the arm twice for emphasis.

"Ouch," he says, rubbing his arm. "I've been busy."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save the world a few times, and suddenly you have no time for your friends," she says, grinning, so Tony knows she's joking. She turns to the Avengers, who've all been standing there awkwardly like they're the new kids in school.

"All jokes aside, I'm thankful for you guys, all of you," she says. "Who knows where we'd be without the Avengers." She sticks out her hand for them to shake and for a split second, nobody moves. Maybe it was the genuine gratitude in Carmen's voice, or the others were still trying to process Carmen's everything, but the smile on her face starts to waver at their hesitation.

Steve is the first to act, taking Carmen's hand in his own. "Thank you, ma'am," he says. "I know I speak for everyone when I say that we're glad the team exists, and we'll help out any way we can."

"Thank you," Tony mouths to him, and Steve gives him a slight nod, letting go of Carmen's hand.

Thor steps up next and, in true princely fashion, bows, bringing Carmen's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her palm. "A pleasure to be here, my lady," Thor says.

Carmen's face is red when Thor straightens back up, releasing her hand. After that, it's like the others shift into gear. Clint apologizes for his comment. Bruce offers her a kind hello until it's just Natasha who steps up until she's right in front of Carmen. Even though they're the same height, Carmen stiffens up, looking at Natasha like she's about to get chastised.

Natasha simply...sticks out her hand. "It’s nice to meet you,” she begins.

Carmen takes Natasha’s hand slowly like she’s expecting some trick.

“I’m actually a fan,” Natasha says. “I saw your work this February while undercover. Very nice.”

"Thank you," Carmen says. If she blushes anymore, Tony’s going to start worrying about her health. "I was actually inspired by your suit. The leather and the bodycon silhouette paired well with Fall and Winter."

"Oh, really?" Natasha says, raising her brows. Natasha looks her up and down, and Carmen, much to her credit, holds her gaze. "I have ideas for your spring collection if you'd like to hear them."

And just like that, the Avengers have won Carmen over forever. And Tony didn't even have to make any threats. Maybe today won't be a disaster after all.

"Yes, please," Carmen says, her voice coming out high and reedy. "I mean since you're offering—"

“Carmen,” Tony interrupts before she starts melting under the full force of Natasha’s undivided attention, “what’s the game plan for today?”

"Game plan. Right. We're here to work." Carmen clears her throat, a flush still staining her cheeks, and flips through some of the pages on her clipboard. "Okay, Tony, you're easy. You're running the basketball booth."

Basketball. He can do basketball.

"Mr. Rogers," Carmen says. Natasha starts humming "Won't You Be My Neighbor" until Steve shoots her an exasperated look.

"Sorry," Natasha says, not sounding sorry at all.

"Please, call me Steve," Steve says. "She already has that song set as my ringtone."

"Steve," Carmen says. "I know you're an artist. Think you could do caricatures slash portraits?"

Steve nods. "Easy enough."

The rest of the assignments go quickly. Natasha gets the sharpshooting booth, Clint's over Ring Toss, and Thor and Bruce will oversee the sack race. Now that introductions and assignments are over, there's a thrum of excitement to the air. Or anxiety. Tony's not sure yet.

"Nervous?" Carmen says to him. She's tucked her pen behind her ear.

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe not. It could just be indigestion."

"Gross," she laughs, wrinkling her nose. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I meant what I said, you know. I'm glad you guys showed up. You know how much A Helping Hand means to me."

Of course, he does. Carmen's like him...in more ways than one. She had been orphaned at nineteen when her parents' plane had gone down over the Atlantic.

And at twenty-one, she had also found herself the sole heir to a family fortune and no family to share it with. She got the idea for A Helping Hand after Tony's own parents had died.

Tony repeats what she had told him all those years ago. "Us orphans gotta stick together."

"Damn right," she says. "Siamo famiglia."

"Siamo famiglia," Tony echoes.

"Congrats on your new additions, by the way," Carmen says.

Tony's brows furrow. "What new additions?" he asks.

Carmen tilts her head at him like she used to whenever she thought he had said something stupid. "You're telling me that those five supermodels you call teammates just came here for shits and giggles?"

"They needed a day off," Tony explains. "I offered. Nothing else to it."

"They came because you asked them, dumbass. They're your friends."

Tony's not going to argue with her, mostly since the others have stopped talking amongst themselves and are looking right at them.

"Anyway," he says pointedly, "can you point me in the direction of my booth?"

*********

For the next three hours, Tony shoves Carmen's words from his mind and throws himself into teaching anyone who steps up to the basketball booth about physics. It wasn't cheating per se; Tony simply calculated the angle the kids would have to throw the ball along with the perfect amount of force. The looks of shock followed by unabashed glee after they made a basket more than made up for any guilt he was feeling.

His break comes faster than he wants it to, but he has to take one eventually and decides the best way to do that is to take a walk. His fellow volunteer, a young man named Jake, says he'll be able to hold down the fort while Tony's gone. Maybe Tony will check on the others, see how they're faring.

“It’s a great day to fly,” he thinks. The sky is a soft pale blue that soothes his heart. Cirrus clouds, like pulled apart cotton candy, lazily make their way across the horizon. Maybe after the carnival is over, he’ll take the suit out for a ride and cruise through the skies.

He wanders without direction, letting his feet carry him wherever they fancy. Seldom does Tony get quiet moments to himself like this. There was always a fire to put out, a project to work on, kittens to rescue from trees, that sort of thing. Not that he ever doubted her, but maybe Pepper was right. Maybe he did work too hard.

The sound of children squealing pulls him from his thoughts and brings a smile to his face. Carmen had spared no expense, not that he expected any less, as he takes in the Tilt-a-Whirl lifting its arms higher and higher. The riders throw their arms up in the air, their laughter carrying on the wind. For today, they would get to fly too.

Tony continues on, the shouts and whoops and laughs fading into the background; he's made it to a quieter part of the carnival where they tucked off all of the arts and crafts booths.

There's the finger painting table where plenty of toddlers and adults alike are flinging paint onto sheets of canvas. One kid rises from the face painting table with Cap's shield emblazoned upon his cheek and a booth over...there's Steve, drawing caricatures for the kids. There's a curve to his lips. Steve's biting back a smile at the little boy trying (and failing) to sit still in his chair as he draws him. Tony's heart jumps at the sight. He's tempted to slide into the line for Steve's booth himself, but something holds him back. It could be the look of contentment on Steve's face or the kid's near infectious excitement—Tony feels like he's intruding on something private. Someone else's life. Someone else's dream.

His heart pangs in his chest as the little boy jumps as soon as his drawing is finished and throws himself into Steve's arms. Steve startles but recovers quickly, giving the kid a polite hug back.

For some reason, Tony thinks of the kid he met not even a year ago when everyone thought he was dead: Harley. Tony didn't hug Harley. He didn't have it in him to hug Harley. The kid deserved it, though, for dealing with Tony's shit. Tony liked kids well enough, but having one of his own? He would never admit it out loud, but it scared him. And Steve...Steve deserved more than a coward.

There's less energy in his steps as he turns around and walks right back to the basketball booth.

He knows he still has time left on his break, but for some reason, he can't bring himself to care.

He finishes his shift with little fanfare, the carnival-goers opting for the rides and fair food after loading up on prizes for the day.

His head's all foggy like he just got up from a nap. He's so out of it, he doesn't even realize that the others are walking up to his booth. Tony blinks slowly, trying to ignore the pressure building in his forehead, a sure sign of a headache.

"Hey," Steve says when they make it to his booth. "You about ready?"

Tony winces, prompting the others to look him up and down.

"You okay? What's bothering you?" Clint asks.

"Just got a headache," Tony says, stepping out from his booth, giving Jake a wave. Jake waves back, trying his best not to look starstruck at the sight of the other Avengers.

"Did you eat at all?" Natasha asks, and as soon as she says something, his stomach growls.

"Guess not," Bruce says.

"You must eat," Thor says gently. "A warrior such as yourself must maintain your strength."

He knows they're right, but being confronted by all of them at once has his hackles rising. Carmen's words are getting all tangled up with Pepper's, and he can't. Stop. Thinking.

"I will," he says, aware that they're watching him more closely now. He hopes that he doesn't look as unsound as he feels. "But why leave just yet? Don't you guys want to check out some of the booths or rides before we leave?"

Steve starts to object, but Natasha is one second faster. "I did want to beat Clint at Shoot 'em Up," she says with a smirk.

Steve looks ready to protest, but Clint cuts him off. "Oh, you're on," he says. "Loser has to do the other's paperwork for two weeks."

"Prepare to drown in files, Barton," Natasha says, catching Tony's eye.

Tony nods at her. A Thank you.

She flips her hair over her shoulder. You're welcome. He doesn't know when they learned to read each other so well.

Clint and Natasha make their way to the sharpshooting booth, Thor and Bruce walking along behind them.

"You sure you're okay?" Steve asks, scanning Tony from head to toe. Steve can see through him so easily, his skin might as well be made of glass.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Tony says. "Come on. Let's catch up before they kill each other."

*********

Natasha and Clint tie in Shoot 'em Up. Since Tony is on a team that consists entirely of children, they extend their competition to every booth in the carnival. Steve warms up as the day goes on, even joining in on their little competition along with Thor. Tony and Bruce are just content to watch.

Thor ropes Steve into the strongman game, which attracts a crowd, but who would turn down the sight of two handsome, well-built men lifting heavy things and showing off their muscles? Tony certainly couldn't, and given the way Bruce eyes the bulge of Thor's biceps, neither could he.

Steve rings the bell easily and wins, of all things, a Captain Ameribear for his trouble.

"Aw," Tony says. "It has wings on its helmet too."

"Are we just going to ignore the fact that it came with a shield pillow?" Clint asks.

Steve blushes, but it's all in good fun. Thor, of course, breaks the game, the bell flying clean off the top of the tower. The game runner in awe (and a little bit of fear) gives Thor a prize regardless. Tony promises to compensate the man as soon as possible. Despite all of that, his headache has receded slightly. He needs to eat now, and that barbecue is starting to smell better and better.

Tony's so caught up in drooling over a rack of ribs or some trashed wings he barely notices the others walking off to the next booth, Steve lingering behind to wait on him.

"Sorry," Tony says. "Guess I'm out of it. You...you don't have to wait on me, you know."

Steve shrugs. "No one's forcing me. Spending time with you isn't a chore. This actually works out."

Tony smiles despite himself. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing," Steve says. "I just wanted you to have this." Steve hands the bear over to Tony, and Tony...Tony melts because Steve is so fucking cute and sweet, and how did the hell did he end up in Tony's life?

Tony takes the bear, and maybe it's the lack of food in his system, but the urge to cry at Steve's kindness strikes him. The bear is cute with Steve's signature red, white, and blue suit and the shield to go along with it. "Thank you," Tony says. "You sure you want me to hold onto this?"

Steve looks at him from underneath his lashes. "Tony," he begins, "it's a gift. I want you to have it."

"Okay," Tony whispers, feeling like the air is closing in on him. It's hard to breathe when Steve looks at him like that, like Tony means something to him.

"Besides," Steve says, leaning in close to him. "I'm gonna clean the booths out. I'm trying to beat the super spies. Can you keep him safe for me?"

Steve's breath, cool and minty, washes over his face. Tony has to blink a few times, processing what just happened before he can even think about speaking.

"Are you guys coming, or are you just going to gaze into each other's eyes?" Clint shouts from the next booth over.

Tony jumps and hurries to rejoin the others, Steve right behind him, staring into his back.

True to his word, Steve cleans out every booth they touch, until he's practically drowning in stuffed animals. They attract a crowd as they make their way to the food court. Tony's feet are aching, and his stomach is outright roaring for sustenance. He and Thor get the biggest plate of ribs they've got to offer. The meat's so tender it's falling off the bone and smoked to perfection. The sauce they used is homemade, all tang and smoky sweetness. He eats until his stomach is about ready to burst.

Thor's singing the cooks' praises and their delicious Midgardian cuisine and rises to go get seconds, Bruce trailing after him.

Clint runs off to the bathroom, and something catches Steve's eye. Tony follows his gaze to the herd of children trying (and failing) to watch them eat without freaking out. Steve rises from the table, taking his prizes with him, leaving just Tony and Natasha behind.

"Sometimes, I can't believe he's real," Natasha says, breaking the silence. There's no need to wonder who's the "he" she's talking about. Tony thinks it himself sometimes.

It's hard not to when kids start lining up single file for their turn to receive a stuffed animal from Steve.

"Me neither," Tony says. "Howard...he'd tell me all these stories of Steve and the 'good old days'...Steve single-handedly storming a HYDRA facility. Throwing himself on a grenade to give others the chance to live. I always thought he was embellishing a little. Making war stories more digestible for a kid, you know? But seeing him, knowing him? You can't help but wonder how someone can be so good."

"He's not like you," Natasha says. He doesn't even have it in himself to be offended. She's right. Steve isn't like Tony and will never be like Tony. A little rough around the edges. "He's not like me, either," she admits, catching Tony by surprise.

"He's the best of us," Tony says. He glances at her. Natasha sits forward, resting her head upon her palm. Her face is smooth, her cheeks still tinged pink from their rowdy tramping through the fairgrounds. She looks...raw. That's the only word to describe her. Raw and real and human. Not the robot switching personalities and names and appearances like most people change clothes.

"You make him that way," she says, shocking him again. His stomach drops, and whatever peace between them quickly disintegrates. What does she mean by that? What could she possibly know about him and Steve and all the complexities of their relationship?

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tony says, his voice coming out thin.

Something in Natasha’s face softens, and she tilts her head at Tony. “I’m not going to pretend I know all of the details, but…you’re good for him. And I think he’s good for you. You’re both...softer. You look happy.”

It’s like someone’s dumped cold water down Tony’s back; he’s so in shock he can barely register what Natasha is saying. He swallows. Natasha knows. Of course, she knows, and if it weren’t her job to gather intel and pick up on context clues, he’d be a lot more worried that the others knew. But she wasn’t blackmailing him or threatening him to stay away from Steve? She...approved of them? He remembers that debriefing after they had defeated Loki, what felt like a lifetime ago, and her casual dismissal of Tony and his relationship with Steve. He wants to bring it up, to confront her, but what’s there to confront?

He brings it up anyway. “Still think he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole?”

Natasha tilts her head at him again, and he hates how sweaty his palms have gotten, and the hummingbird beating of his heart, like his relationship with Steve hinges on her opinion.

“No,” she says slowly as if to weigh her words. “He wants you too much. I don’t think he could give you up even if he wanted to.”

As if summoned, Steve comes bounding back to their table looking boyish and vibrant in the evening sun before Tony can process her words.

"What I miss?" he says with a breathless grin, holding onto one last stuffed animal.

"Nothing much," Tony says before Natasha can say anything incriminating. His eyes dart down to the last stuffed animal in Steve's arms. It's an Iron Man bear, of course, all done up in the telltale red and gold of Tony's suit. "What's the deal, no one wanted him?" he says, nodding to the bear.

Steve looks down at the Iron Bear, and what he says next might actually make Tony melt into a puddle. "Nah. Couldn't bear to give him up."

Tony ignores Natasha's pointed look and hopes that his face isn't as red as he thinks it is.

“Clint, you’re riding with me on the Ferris wheel,” Natasha declares when everyone makes it back to their table, and Steve has successfully made Tony as red as his suit.

“A Ferris wheel?” Thor asks, arching his brow.

“It’s a carnival classic,” Clint says. “It’s a giant wheel that lifts you into the air. Perfect way to end the day.”

“It’s older than Cap,” Natasha throws in helpfully, smirking at Steve when he shoots her an exasperated look.

“Your Midgardian traditions are so strange,” Thor says. “Interesting, but strange.”

“I’m not hearing a no,” Clint says.

“Hm.” Thor turns to look at Bruce, who looked surprisingly (and thankfully) content with himself. “Would you like to ride with me, Doctor Banner?”

Bruce reddens, and Tony doesn't feel so alone because it looks like Bruce has his own beefy blond problem he needs to deal with. "Sure, since you asked," Bruce responds, leaving just...Steve.

Steve shares a look with Natasha, and Tony gets the sneaking suspicion that they planned this. Who knew that the fall of SHIELD would lead to one of the most dangerous alliances Tony had ever seen?

"Tony," Steve begins, sounding like he's about to propose, he's so serious. "Want to ride with me?"

His heartbeat quickens, and he's not sure why. It's not like it's a public declaration of love to ride with someone on a Ferris wheel.

It'd look weird if he takes too long to answer, so Tony says, "Yeah. Sounds like a plan."

They toss their trash and pick up their respective prizes they won throughout the day, Natasha with her light-up sword, Clint with his stuffed dog. Thor's lion hat from the strongman game sits proudly atop his head. Tony wants to make a joke about Hercules, but he also doesn't want to deal with the guaranteed headache he'll get when Thor replies with some mind-bending statement like he and Hercules are gym bros or other. Tony and Steve walk side by side, far behind the rest of their little group, bears in one hand, their free hands brushing with each step.

Part of him knows that if he just reached over...if he took that extra step for Steve's hand...Steve would let him. It'd be so easy…

The line to the Ferris wheel isn't too long, and by the time Tony works up the courage to take Steve's hand, the volunteers are strapping them in.

One of the volunteers lowers the bar over their heads, making sure that they're secure, and that's it. Tony's trapped. He's stuck on this Ferris wheel for the next ten minutes, and Steve is so goddamn close he can feel how hot his skin is from being out in the sun and—

"I'm not gonna bite, you know," Steve mutters when they start to ascend. He won't meet Tony's eyes. "I...I know you're afraid of me."

Tony swallows, his stomach twisting into knots at the thought of Steve thinking he feared him.

"I'm not...Steve, I'm not afraid of you," Tony says. Steve's still looking down. He doesn't know where he gets the courage, but he cups Steve's face and makes him look at him. "You hear me? I'm not afraid of you."

Steve's eyes have always been a weakness of Tony's, and right now, when they're so big and blue and so fucking sad, it doesn't do him any favors. They're almost at the top of the wheel. A stray breeze rustles a lock of Steve's hair, and Tony feels like he's on a cliff's edge.

"Then why—" Steve begins, only to be cut off by Tony's lips. Tony closes his eyes and answers Steve the only way he knows how.

It's cliche, but Tony swears he can see fireworks going off behind his eyelids. Steve's lips are warm and soft and pliant against his. Tony deepens the kiss and slides one of his hands into Steve's hair, the other remaining on his face. He can taste the remnants of cotton candy on Steve's mouth.

They break apart because, unfortunately, air is necessary to live. Tony has half a mind to invent a way for humans to survive without air if it meant he could spend the rest of his life kissing Steve.

This high up, with the sun setting behind them, Tony wishes he had at least brought a jacket.

Steve lifts his arm, "Here," he says. "Lean into me." Tony does just that and tucks his body into Steve's side, his arm is a reassuring weight around him.

The others are too far back to see Tony and Steve. It's easy up here, easy to forget that Steve's Captain America and Tony's a barely functioning former alcoholic with a slew of mental issues.

He looks at Steve out the corner of his eye, takes in his features shamelessly and selfishly, the allure of being above everyone reeling him in. He loves Steve's face, the cut of his jaw, and his long, pretty lashes and those eyes. It's painful looking at him. Sometimes it feels like his heart's gonna swell up and pop right out of his chest when he looks at Steve.

In that moment, he's glad they went to the carnival if only to forget the world for a little while.

#stony #stevetony #steve x tony #steve rogers #tony stark #marvel #mcu #stony fanfic #stony fic #stony fanfiction #superhusbands #my fic #my writing #imperialstark fic #choke on me

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okaybutlikeimagine · 5 years ago

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Since the quarantine started I've been trying to keep myself in shape, and I started to do exercises every day, feeling completely incapable. 😂😂😂 Imagine Billy trying to be some sort of personal trainer for Jonathan, mostly because he noticed that he doesn't move enaugh, but also because it's funny to watch him stuggle while Will and El laugh their asses off.

first of all: i FEEL it!! dude i keep trying to do things and then my mind is like: you’re real funny to think i’m ever doing anything physical ever again

I’M CACKLING i absolutely cannot!! Billy and Jonathan's relationship w/ each other makes me laugh and this??? has me rolling. you just know Jonathan would NOT want this. he'd push so hard against this. (also sorry i kind of gave this a plot WOOPS)

Okay, if this was a modern AU/if i ever could rip my absolute love for the 80’s away from myself enough to WRITE a modern AU, i think this would make the PERFECT ONE. like….. Imagine Billy filming shitty little videos on his camera/phone for social media (snapchat or instagram or like……. Vlogging for his fitness youtube channel or some shit, idk, i don’t use social media enough but you get the idea) and being like: “Alright guys… day one of turning local twig into more than just skin and bones.”

And he’s sauntering to Jonathan’s room as he talks and turns the camera around to find Jonathan’s door open and him laying on his bed like, reading or going through his camera or something looking at and deleting pictures he doesn’t like/need/whatever and Jonathan looks up, just barely perturbed bc it’s just Billy and his door is open so he kind of asked for this and the camera catches the exact moment that Jonathan’s face switches to -oh shit oh no Billy has his camera out- and he just goes: “What are you doing?”

And Billy turns the camera back around to him and you can see Jonathan’s little head and scared little face in the background behind Billy’s shoulder as Billy says: “Training day!” with the biggest, widest, most malicious grin on his face as he fucking trust falls back onto Jonathan’s stretched out form.

And Jonathan starts scrambling trying to get up but he’s really just flailing his limbs, eyes going wide as the camera gets blurry and there’s a thump and an-

“Ooof!”

And then Billy’s cackling.

And Jonathan’s voice is strained- sounds like someone’s practically choking him- as the camera focuses on Billy’s grinning face and skinny hands that are pushing at his broad shoulders and his cheek (which makes Billy grimace bc he doesn’t like his face being touched thank you) and Jonathan says: “Get off, you’re heavy.”

“First exercise! Push me off yourself.”

“What?” Jonathan squeaks. “No! I can’t! You’re like, a million pounds.”

“Million pounds of pure muscle, baby.” Billy says as he lets all that muscle go and becomes absolute dead weight onto Jonathan who is struggling.

“I hate you so much.” Jonathan wheezes, shoving at Billy, pinching him a few times until Billy smacks Jonathan’s hand hard enough to make him whine, laughing about how that’s cheating, jackass

You’re the one who won’t get up, asshole.

Yeah, well maybe after this we need to work on your reflexes, slow poke.

And it goes on like that. At first Billy does it randomly bc it’s kind of just a joke, like: “I think I wanna mess with Jonathan today. Let’s go.”

But then he gets kinda serious about it and it becomes an actual series of videos like: “Day 5, cardio day! If he can do it, then you can do it.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

Billy shrugs, grinning at the camera with an: “I think it’s pretty funny...”

Jonathan shoves at Billy, who in turn shoulders the boy back and makes him lose his balance.

The curly haired boy sends a knowing look to the camera.

“And this is why we’re doing this.”

“Whatever.” Jonathan mutters.

And it’s kind of fun for both of them, honestly!! Jonathan gets into it (even though Billy’s a little aggressive in his ways…) and absolutely does NOT look at any of the comments. Billy does though, and likes to tell Jonathan all of the ones that 1. Playfully make fun of him and 2. Are like…… really oddly and kind of grossly horny for him (bc Jonathan’s face gets red and he always tries to run away as quickly as possible bc our boy is a Shy Lil Bean who does NOT want to hear about how some random girl or guy on the internet thinks Jonathan is “just cute enough to eat the fuck up”) there are also some extremely rude people who shit on Jonathan constantly but they’re bullies and Billy always tells them off right before blocking them completely.

ANYWAY enough of that, let’s get back to the 80’s please!

No vlogging, no comments, just Billy walking out of basketball practice to his car to go hang out with Steve, heading around the back of the gym so he can avoid as many people as possible, when he hears a very familiar sound.

He looks over, out of instinct and curiosity bc yup, it’s a body being slammed into the chain link fence that surrounds the school. And his sauntering slows, curiosity fully taking over because hey, he must know the dudes that’re fighting, and gossip is one of the only interesting things in this town and-

Shit.... Shit, he knows that floppy hair.

It’s Jonathan. Billy doesn’t have a good view of the guy who’s pushing him but the two boys behind him are Jacob and Trevor so he figures the dude acting as the aggressor must be that jackass Zack Olson. The boy’s a punk. Billy keeps a careful watch of the scene in front of him, wondering what the occasion is.

And then the boy, with a hand still on Jonathan’s jacket, reaches his fist back for a punch. Billy does all he can to keep himself from going over there. Something about the need to “fight your own battles” or whatever filtering through his head when-

The boy punches Jonathan’s stomach. Billy’s mind is racing, blood starting to boil, shifting his weight.

C’mon, bud… fight back… I know you can-

He gets shoved back against the fence again, before his shin is getting kicked and-

Nope nope nope-

Billy’s kicked into gear. He’s stalking over there, getting faster with each aggressive move and the assholes are goddamn cackling and Billy’s blood is boiling and it seems like Jonathan’s had enough at this point bc he ducks out of the way quickly and then Billy’s veering for the hole in the fence and he’s stepping through it and he slams his hand against the fence, the rest of it shaking noisily as all 4 of the boys swing their heads over to him.

“Hargrove!” calls one of the boys.

“Get out of here.”

“C’mon… we’re just having some fun-”

“Get… out... unless you want your nose broken in multiple places.”

Fear fills their eyes, but they don’t leave without a scowl.

And then Jonathan is there, coughs a little bit, and Billy’s mad.

“Hey.” Jonathan mumbles, pushing off the fence to walk past Billy but Billy grabs his wrist before he can get away.

“What was that?” He asks, teeth clenched because he’s confused and is trying to make sense of this. “You just let those guys beat you up like that?”

Jonathan shrugs.

“I don’t understand you.” Billy continues, sitting in his hip, still keeping hold of the thin wrist. “Those guys are punks… You beat up my boyfriend, didn’t you? What are you doing letting those guys do that to you?”

“I don’t like to fight.” Jonathan mumbles and Billy thinks he needs to clean out his ears.

“Don’t like to fight?” Billy laughs disbelievingly. “From what I hear you beat Steve up to a fucking pulp and you don’t like to fight? Don’t give me that shit-”

“Yeah, because Steve was saying stuff about Will and… and my mom. So.” Jonathan looks Billy in the eyes but Billy’s too busy being shocked by the words.

He knew Jonathan beat Steve up in an alley. He knew Steve did some pretty shitty stuff leading up to it. He knew Steve incited it. He knew Steve was sorry sorry so sorry... but he didn’t know it got so personal. He didn’t know Steve said shit about the Byers. Steve never wants to talk about it and, frankly, Billy never wants to ask. But this seems important. Maybe he will. Because… well-

“.... He said shit about Joyce? And Will?” Billy’s grip loosens.

“Yeah…” Jonathan mumbles, hanging his head again, shaking his wrist out of Billy’s hand. “But he- he didn’t mean it. He was just mad. He apologized. A lot… it’s fine.”

Billy’s gonna have to ask about that. But for now he’s got a shaking boy in front of him that for some reason he like…. Actually cares about now and it’s weird but it’s not horrible and… and he doesn’t wanna see this boy get hurt when he knows the boy himself can prevent it.

“Huh…. well you’ve got reflexes obviously. Don’t tell me it’s some ‘monster’ side of you or something- you’ve got practice.”

“Yeah well…. I used to….” Jonathan’s voice gets far away. “I used to have to fight my dad off...”

“Oh…. huh.” Billy knew that too. Vaguely. Knows Jonathan’s dad was an absolute asshole and Jonathan used to have to keep him at bay so he wouldn’t hurt Joyce or Will. Still doesn’t make it any less shocking to know that their little family has roots in so much pain and fear. They’re such a good family now. They didn’t let it break them apart. Joyce fought for them and… and Billy can’t think about that too much. “So what, you’re one of those guys? Hero type, won’t fight unless you need to or whatever.”

“You do the same thing.”

“Do not-”

“Most of the time you do.” Jonathan says with an eyebrow raised. “C’mon Billy, you can cut the tough guy shit. I know you now.”

Billy’s not having it. “Yeah, whatever, this is about you. Maybe if you had some more meat on your bones they wouldn’t be able to push you around like that.”

“It’s not that, they’re just jerks-”

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly intimidating-”

“It’s fine, Billy, stop pretending like you care-”

“I do care, you asshole.”

“Then quit worrying. I’m fine, I’ll take care of myself, I can handle it… it’s fine. I just don’t like fighting.”

Billy’s irritated, but he’s too tired to fight because he already knows the two of them could go at it forever. He just watches Jonathan shrug his shoulders harshly as he backs up before he turns, slips through the hole in the fence, and stalks away.

Billy rolls his eyes.

But when he’s with Steve, he brings it up. The fact that he saw Jonathan after school (Steve asked how he’s doing), the fact that he saw Jonathan getting beat up (Steve sat up with concern and asked if he stopped them), the fact that Jonathan told him he doesn’t like to fight (Steve nodded with understanding, like he knew that already), the fact that-

“Jonathan said you said shit about Will and Joyce.”

“Hu-... oh…”

“That’s why he beat you up.”

“I… I didn’t mean it. He knows I didn’t. I swear I didn’t, I was just… it was a lot that was happening and-” Steve is stammering. Billy starts to feel bad about it. “-there’s no excuses. No no, there’s no excuses, I shouldn’t make excuses, I was an asshole and I shouldn’t have said that shit no matter how angry I was because they… they didn’t do anything and Will is such a good kid and Joyce is like… one of the only people that actually ever seems to care and-”

“Babe.”

“And I didn’t mean it, I swear-”

“Babe.”

“H-huh?”

“I know.” Billy says, grabbing hold of Steve’s face to get him to calm the hell down. Steve breathes.

But Billy still doesn’t know what to do about Jonathan. And Steve tries to reassure him that- “He knows what he’s doing. We know he can fight them off he just… doesn’t want to. Can’t make a horse eat the hay or…. Whatever it is. What is it? Can’t get an old dog to… drink from a river?”

Billy rolls his eyes, but his heart beats a little faster.

“You’re such a dumbass.”

Steve tries to be resentful but he’s being kissed so he doesn’t exactly have the opportunity.

But Billy isn’t okay with this!!! He truthfully doesn’t know how Jonathan even has the reflexes he does still bc Lonnie’s been gone for a while and all the boy does nowadays is lay around the house…. Literally that’s it. At any given moment of any given day he’s laying on the couch, laying in his bed, or running around with his camera- and by ‘running’, he really means ‘ambling’ bc the boy has absolutely no sense of urgency.

He likes to say that he had “enough urgency back when I thought my brother was dead. I’d like to take a break now.” but Billy likes to say: “That was two years ago, you lazy fucker.”

So.

And Billy can’t really be lead to believe that sex with Nancy is that much of a fuckng cardio work out. Billy doesn’t know hardly any details of the two and their sex life because he doesn’t want to know but Billy can bet the two of them are the most vanilla people on the planet. And Nancy is tiny, it’s not like lifting her would be that much of a physical strain. For anyone.

So...

He’s like…. upset about this. Jonathans carries himself very differently when he’s at home than when he’s at school but it still bothers Billy bc why. And he figures it must be bc the boy just isn’t physically capable of being confident in a place with so many people. Figures maybe Jonathan just wants to be invisible when he's at school and so he shrinks but Billy just doesn't understand. And now all I can think about is Billy being a really fucking aggressive version of Glinda from Wicked and Jonathan is Elphaba and Billy just stands in Jonathan’s doorway, large and intimidating presence that he is, and says: “Jonathan, I’ve decided to make you my new project.”

And Jonathan, who’s laying in bed eating popcorn and flipping through his photo album as he listens to R.E.M. just gives a very disinterested look in Billy’s direction and says: “You really don’t have to do that.”

And Billy sits in his hip and raises and eyebrow and rolls his eyes and says: “I know…” on a sigh, with a vaguely exhausted and yet somehow cocky “That’s what makes me so nice.” tagged onto the end.

“Think I’m gonna have to disagree-”

“No time. C’mon. We’re going for a run.”

And Billy tries not to give the boy much of a chance, but he makes it so difficult. For as thin and lazy as the boy seems to be, Jonathan has a lot of fucking endurance. He can fight Billy on this forever and Billy really just wants to pick him up and throw him in front of the weights and make him lift them but like… he knows he can’t so he gives up for the day.

But then one day he catches Jonathan asleep on the couch.

So he scares him awake.

“Shit!” Jonathan jerks, sitting up and looking into Billy’s face and sighing harshly. “Billy! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Did that get your heart rate up?”

“Yeah, you nearly scared me to death.”

“Great, we’re going for a run.”

“No.”

“Yes, we are. 5 laps around the house and then we’ll see where you’re at, c’mon.”

“Billy I said no.” And Jonathan pushes himself up and starts heading to the kitchen but Billy just isn’t having this because… because he knows Jonathan was getting smacked around again yesterday. Knows he got harassed after gym class. Billy saw it. He’s mad about it and he thinks he can do something about it so he’s gonna and…

Billy grabs hold of the back of Jonathan’s shirt and yanks him back.

“Billy!”

“You think you’re good? Fine then, fight me.”

“No.”

And Billy keeps hold of Jonathan’s shirt even as he struggles out of the way and Billy knows the boy used to be able to hit and take a punch in return but he just… he needs to really know. If Jonathan can get away from him then he’ll leave him alone but only then.

Jonathan struggles. “Let go of me.”

“You get away yourself.”

“Billy-”

And Billy pulls Jonathan back some more so he can pin him against the wall aggressively and Jonathan shrinks and Billy’s got him against the wall, hand to his chest, arm’s distance away from him, waiting for Jonathan to fight back and-

“Fight back.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Do it. Try and get away.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m at home! I don’t… I don’t wanna fight in my house! Not in the house, just-stop. What if Will walks in?”

And the words strike Billy harshly. Like he’s the one that’s taken a blow, like Jonathan just punched him and-

And suddenly Billy feels like an absolute asshole. Because he’s being a bully. He’s bullying Jonathan in his own home, even when he’s being asked to stop. He’s an aggressor. He’s being their fucking father and maybe the intent isn’t malicious but that doesn’t change a whole fucking lot, now does it? He knows it doesn’t. He loosens his grip, unsure how he could have let himself get this far. He tries to convince himself that it’s not like that... but he knows that Will wouldn’t see it that way if he were to walk in.

He lets go of Jonathan. They stand there in silence.

But Billy’s still just not okay with this.

“I just… I don’t wanna see you get pushed around anymore.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes.

“Then look away.”

Billy growls.

“No, you idiot. Don’t you… you affect Will too, y’know!”

Jonathan eyes Billy darkly. “Yeah, what are you talking abou-”

“What do you think he would think if he saw you getting pushed around? He’s gonna think it’s okay to let people do that to him!” Billy’s getting riled up and really he feels kind of stupid being so affected by these people he gave absolutely zero shits about a little over a year ago but… but now.

Jonathan’s mouth screws up in thought and irritation. Billy’s trying to hit it home.

“He’s not gonna stand up for himself because you don’t.”

Jonathan slumps against the wall. Billy thinks he’s got him.

“I still don’t see why you care.” Jonathan mumbles, eyeing Billy with a curiosity that’s colored with disdain and Billy’s a little sick of that face.

“Because you guys are my family now, jackass.”

Jonathan scoffs disbelievingly. “I really never would have pegged you for being such a ‘family guy’, Billy.”

The words leave something bitter in Billy’s system. He licks his teeth . “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t wanna be like those assholes.”

Jonathan sizes Billy up for a second… and Billy knows he’s got him.

“Fine.”

Billy’s grin becomes shark-like. If that scared look on Jonathan’s face is regret… well it’s too late for that.

And so Joyce comes home from her shift at the store to find her son…. Running…. Around the outside of the house……

“Uhm… Hi honey.” Joyce climbs to the porch, turning around as Jonathan stops in front of her.

“H-uh… huh… huh… huh…h-uh-”

“Don’t stop! Who said you could stop?!” Comes a voice that makes Joyce jump.

Billy jogs up, looking up at Joyce and giving a polite smile.

“Hi!” He says, hands on his hips, slightly out of breath but looking rather unbothered compared to Jonathan who’s currently bent over wheezing.

“Uhhhhhm…. What’s going on?”

“Jonathan’s my new workout buddy!” Billy says triumphantly, patting a large hand harshly on Jonathan’s back and causing the boy to cough in response.

Joyce looks concerned. Billy’s not too worried about it.

“Uh huh. Alright then… well, I’m just gonna start on… dinner…. Then….”

“Sounds good.” Billy pats Jonathan’s back harshly, barking again once Joyce has her back turned. “Alright, 5 more!”

“B-but! We just did 5!”

“Yup, and we’re doing 5 more. C’mon, the longer you stay standing the harder it’s gonna be, now move!”

And Jonathan’s getting shoved and then the two are running, Jonathan flailing a bit more with every step he takes but hey…. All that stuff about Rome and taking time and whatever… Billy thinks that applies here.

And so the two of them work out and Jonathan kind of 100% wants to quit every time they start (esp bc Billy seems to know exactly when it’s inconvenient for Jonathan to start working out and picks that exact moment to bug him) but…. It kind of feels good... he guesses.

And Billy pushes hard at first. And he makes Jonathan eat more. Like… a lot more. So much more, in fact, that the boy vomits and Billy realizes he may need to pull back because: Hey…. maybe he can’t force too much too quickly. He’s just trying to get the boy to carbo-load so he gets some kind of muscle.

He wants to track it too (because maybe this is his calling or something), so he asks Jonathan for his camera and pulls him in front of a wall.

“Uhhh… please just… just be careful with it.” Jonathan insists, holding onto his camera until the last possible second but eventually having to concede to allowing the camera to lay in Billy’s large hands.

“It’s fine.”

“Put the strap on. It can’t fall if you-”

“I’m not putting on the stupid little strap, I’m not trying to look like a loser, I’m just trying to get a picture.” and then he’s twisting and flipping the camera around in his hands, mumbling: “Now how do I…?”

“Be careful.”

“I’ve got it!” Billy barks, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m just looking for the-shit!”

“Ah!” Jonathan cries, moving lightning fast towards his camera and catching it before it hits the ground. His breath is labored from his fear. “What the hell! Be careful, asshole!”

Billy’s heart is racing too, fear flashing in his eyes as he watched the camera start to fall to the ground. He takes a second to collect himself.

“Cool. Good. I was just testing your reflexes.”

“Yeah, it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a clumsy piece of shit.”

“Hey.” Billy growls, reaching to grab for the camera again but Jonathan holds it away. “Keep that up and I break it for real.”

“Yeah yeah.” Jonathan says, completely unconvinced, flopping the camera strap around Billy’s neck and catching his head a bit.

“Hey, watch the hair!”

“Woops.” Jonathan mocks like a piece of shit and Billy’s gonna fight him just for being irritating. Jonathan steps back up against the wall once he’s satisfied that the strap is on properly.

“Alright, say cheese.”

“Cheese.” Jonathan mumbles and the flash goes off.

And the two of them work out every day!! And every week Billy pushes Jonathan to stand against the wall and takes some pictures, some with him flexing (I feel stupid, Yeah well you’ll feel less stupid once you’ve got something to flex, now shut up and stay still).

And Jonathan is sore. Like… all the time. El laughs about it when she tries to mess around with him and he winces in pain. Will is a little worried but it makes him giggle.

One day the two kids are sitting in the room, eating lunch and watching TV, when Billy decides it’s time to lift weights in the living room. And so they do. And Jonathan’s just lifting the bar and it’s difficult. And Billy likes to show off so he’s lifting a shitton and yelling at Jonathan to keep up and it’s hard and the kids start laughing.

Jonathan whines a bit, setting the bar down and asking Billy quietly if maybe they can do this later because…. Well… he’s embarrassed.

And that just won’t do. He’s not okay with that. Because he’s having Jonathan do this so that they can both be good examples for these kids and they’re laughing?

So Billy sets his weights down and walks in front of the kids and El glares him down bc he’s “in the way” and Will seems kind of nervous bc Billy has that glint in his eye and then-

“Ah! Wait! Billy!”

Billy scoops Will up and carries him over to Jonathan and shoves a squirming Will into Jonathan’s arms.

“Weight training.” Billy supplies by way of answer, and Jonathan is laughing bc Will is wriggling and he’s hard to hold like this but Billy’s too busy walking over to El who’s so busy cracking up over on the couch that she doesn’t notice Billy is currently headed towards her on a mission… until he picks her up and then she’s squealing and he turns to Jonathan with a: “Get to it!”

And Billy starts curling with El is his arms and she’s squealing and wriggling and all 4 of them are laughing and Hop is most definitely confused when he comes home in his break between shifts.

But progress is made! And one day Jonathan comes home from work to find Steve lazing around on the couch with Billy, the both of them in crop tops and short exercise shorts, and Jonathan knows this is nothing good. Because there’s a bag next to the couch and Jonathan thinks maybe he should just turn back around and try to hang out with Nancy or something because-

“Finally! We’ve been waiting around for you!” Billy calls out, rolling himself off the couch and picking up the bag and oh no.

“Hey Johnny!” Steve calls from the couch and Jonathan is supremely uncomfortable whenever Steve calls him that but he does it so often and he can’t think too much about it bc the bag is being shoved into his chest.

“Put these on.”

Jonathan peeks into the bag and closes it quickly.

“No.” Jonathan whines.

“Shut up just put them on.”

“Why?”

“Because you wear the same sweats every time we work out and they’re gross, now put them on.”

And now the kids are really laughing…. Like REALLY laughing…. Bc the the three boys are wearing crop tops and short exercise shorts as they work out in the living room and Billy took one of his hair ties and tied up Jonathan’s fringe so there’s a little tuft at the top of his head bc: “We’re doing burpees and your hair is gonna get in the way, dummy.”

And it’s just funny.

Jonathan can’t say he agrees. he also can't really laugh while he’s busy wheezing.

But he’s doing well! And he starts getting some muscle and he didn’t think it’d feel this good but like… gym doesn’t totally suck anymore. And he’s not as tired 24/7. And his body like… starts feeling good when he and Billy start to exercise. To the point that when they take a day off he feels bad... almost empty.

And Billy is so proud of him! And yeah, it’s not like Jonathan’s gonna try out for the basketball team or anything, but when guys try to push him around in the hallway now he’s surprisingly sturdy. He plants his feet and he’s practically a rock and guys are confused by it. When guys try to push him against fences they just can’t. People stop bothering him. They murmur about how “the freak got like… strong all of a sudden”

And Billy couldn’t be prouder. Really, he feels like he should do this professionally.

Although… Nancy is pretty confused when she walks into the dark room in search of her boyfriend (who is absolutely fed up with her nonsense of not listening to him when the light says to stay out) and she hugs him from behind and asks: “Uh… what’s that?”

Bc Jonathan is developing all the pictures they’ve taken and… well…

“Who took those?” She asks, grabbing for them no matter how much Jonathan protests that you’re gonna ruin them, be careful

“Uh… Billy took them.”

“Billy? Hargrove? Took pictures of you… shirtless? And flexing?”

Jonathan’s about to melt to the floor in embarrassment. Nancy is giggling.

“Did you guys take them for me, or what?”

Jonathan’s head is in his hands. He’s gonna die.

“Y’know how I told you we’ve been working out?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“He wanted pictures to... document the progress. He gets a power trip off of it or something.”

“Oh my god, Jonathan, are you wearing a crop top in this one?!”

Jonathan is absolutely going to die.

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