#are we getting another fucking tag of the same ship to the left? perhaps.

[fandaniel]

i dont know. i wanted to write a cigarette play thing. with wol hermes and astaroth (ascian cherry). everyone be nice.....

content warning; sadomasochism, cigarette burn, brief thought of killing, one draft it might be shit swagever i lost steam at the end

Astaroth looked around every corner, yet there was no one in the Rising Stones. Holidays. They’re probably all sleeping in, or even taking a day off. How boringly simple. Good for them. Sitting on top of the mahogany round table by the entrance, he takes a small metal holder of the cigarettes he rolled his morning, opening them up, taking a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was nice when he didn’t need to act so mindlessly around the Scions, endless ‘I wasn’t aware’, ‘I didn’t know’, as if he was a simple hired arm.

Placing the cigarette butt in his mouth, lighting with practiced ease, inhale, exhale. Probably only two huffs in before he hears the front door open, he peeks up slightly, it’s not like he wasn’t allowed to be here when others weren’t. “Hey,” he can’t help but perk slightly, of course, Hermes would be early, it’s in his nature. “Whatcha got there?” Pointing at the box in Hermes’ hands.

He seemed almost flustered, cute. “Astaroth, I didn’t expect you here.” Walking into the building, placing the box wrapped in a red ribbon on the bar corner. “In my down time, I had started going to the culinarian guild. I wanted to, well, make everyone cookies. They’re not… Amazing, per say, but it’s-” Hermes' eyes darted to the side, recalling everyone around him telling him to stop down talking himself so much, probably. “They’re good, promise.” Giving a tilted smile, he approached Astaroth on the table, keeping a good 5 malms distance. “I wasn’t aware you smoke…”

Oh, right. I don’t do that around the Scions. “From time to time.” He mumbles. Then he gives that practiced boyish grin, “You want one? C’mon, c’mere, I don’t bite.” Playful, flirty, things he could only be around Hermes.

Hermes' ears perked up, “Oh! No, thank you. Um, for the smoke.” Dragging his feet until he sat next to Astaroth on the table. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude for pointing that out. I don’t mind. I just don’t know much about you, I feel.” He said with a chuckle. Astaroth couldn’t help but track how Hermes’ eyes watched his lips, how he seemed more shy than usual. It was rare they got a moment alone like this. “Don’t worry about it, you can ask me anything, you know?” “Right, right.” Hermes’ trailed off, filling the room with an awkward silence, the silence you get when there is a question hanging on someones’ mind. Astaroth took another puff before Hermes’ cleared his throat.

“Can you put that out on me?” Hermes mumbles, then coughs as if trying to cover up his words, before Astaroth can even speak, Hermes talks again. “Sorry, weird for me to even ask, I just- Uh, the last time we, well.”

In the heat of the moment, maybe Astaroth planted the seeds of his interests in his dirty talk, sadomasochism. Hermes seemed to respond well, physically, hell, he didn’t even do anything he talked about, but those lovely whimpers, hips stuttering into him with each word. “Yeah, of course I can. Where do you want it, my dove?” Astaroth’s voice dropping low and personal, his thumb brushing against Hermes’ bottom lip, feeling that impressive little heart beat of his.

Hermes’ breath hitched, his mind processing what he signed up for, but those cheeks were so pink, his pupils wide with interest. He takes note of the front entrance again, Astaroth almost wants to tell him who cares, they should look the other way, they owe it to you to mind their business, but he knows Hermes’ will agree if, “I’ll do it quick and sweet, I want to lick the wound then heal you. Is that fine?” He takes a drag, smirking at him.

After a moment's hesitation, Hermes’ nods, “They said they’ll be here an hour from now, that’s enough time, I believe.” An hour? Fuck, I could ride him to heaven and back in that time frame with time to spare. Baby steps, Astaroth, this isn’t Amon you’re talking to. Hermes’ unbuttons the top three of his robes, showing the soft skin of his shoulder to Astaroth, he gestures for the upper arm, the soft fatty part, seemingly more lean as the days go by as the Warrior of Light. “This should be a good spot, right? I’ve never…” He trails off, unsure of himself.

“It’ll be good, Hermes’. It won’t hurt nearly as much as Ifrit’s flames, I won’t press hard.” He wants to be good for him, doesn’t want to actually hurt him, despite how badly he should for the task of spying. Could take him here, now, but what do I gain? He pushes those thoughts aside. Hermes’ gives a timid nod, looking at him through heavy eyelashes and lust. “Then, I won’t worry.” He always makes it so intimate even when I can see his damn robes tenting.

Astaroth takes another hit of his cigarette, the end lighting a bright red, the smoke being blown into Hermes’ face. Then lowering it onto Hermes’ outer forearm with a gentleness unfamiliar to him, he watched intensely at Hermes’ expression, how he gasped, how his eyes fluttered closed, eyebrows hitched together, then the softest of whines in pain as Astaroth moved the cigarette from his skin. “Hah…” That sound was so close to the pitch Hermes’ has when he’s getting off his peak.

The wound isn’t deep, leaving a small red mark on Hermes’ arm. “Good, hm?” Astaroth was happy with his work, no matter how minor, a stupid grin on his lips. “Yeah, I-” Hermes’ frowned slightly, “No licking?” Way to spur him. Astaroth pressed Hermes’ back against the table, in an instant, his lips were all over the wound, there was barely any blood or anything, but the warmth of him and how his tongue felt on his skin was enough.

He peeks up, looking at Hermes’ flustered face, “Better now?” Half straddling him, he feels Hermes’ cock twitch slightly in response. “Yes.” He says breathlessly. “Let’s get that wound cured and disinfected then.”

[when42-0fallasleep]

I guess i named that mafia AU "Que Sera, Sera" now so heres some profiles (read: random headcanons)?

(You can now read about all that AU ranting by the tag que sera sera au in my blog now i guess)

Brick Himesh-Jojo

A 6' redhead asshole with a (lowkey) temper

"We are mafiosi, the difference we have from all those... gangs and goons is, we are, to put it in your dictionary, "classier" than them."

The only lose thing he wears is his red tie (and his dress shirt after some "wrestling marathon" with Blossom in the future, perhaps)

A walking chimney

There is a contingency plan for a contigency plan: beat the shit out of everything related to the problem

"No Butch, I don't have a "crush" on Blossom. I am courting her."

He has a gun under the back seat of his car, a gun under the driver seat, another in the glove box, and another is attached to his belt

Boomer Himesh-Jojo

A blonde, 5'11, smooth af motherfucker who sometimes comes to flirt with Bubbles on a daily basis because "he knows the owners"

He looks nothing like a mafia's son at all. Maybe he looks like the American boy type at most, but never a mafia's son.

"Yeah I have a crush on her, she's too lovely not to."

He knows like, everyone's background.

Never touch his vinyl collection if your name is not Bubbles/Charlotte Kathleen Hepburn

He sneaked a gun (and a tracking device) in Bubbles's handbag and kept doing it after she was kidnapped even when she returned the gun again and again (she eventually gave up and keeps the gun there)

He does not like getting his hand dirty does not mean he will not do it.

Butch Himesh-Jojo

A black haired walking 6'3 tank of a manwhore who will twerk because he can

Either his boxing gloves or his brass knuckles or his baseball bat, rarely a gun

Actl the first time he met BC was when she was 15 or smth, hanging out with her family on a camping/hunting trip and he felt for that girl with a rifle at first sight

"I wanna let her ruin my ass for anyone else."

If Brick decides to let Butch run free, then it means that he want nothing left of the target

He actually like body worshipping and the cowgirl position more than he lets out

It can be said that he is everything you expected and unexpected from his look alone.

Rosalia "Blossom" Ramirez

A 5'4, real life redhead version of Rapunzel (her hair nearly reaches her knees if she straighten it)

Has a secret PUBG account under the name @/roseissofuckingtired9324 and uses math to play snipper

A future legal con artist (law student).

"Pursuant to the emotional regulations established in our society, I hereby formerly and with complete sobriety declare an exiguous level of affection toward Brick Himesh-Jojo."

She switches between English, Spanish and French when she is angry and swear in all of those languages.

Every year since she was 12 she has made a bulljour for every year

"Fuck deadlines. Law sucks," and she proceeds to rant and writing her reports at the same time.

Charlotte "Bubbles" Kathleen Hepburn

Do not, think that at 5'2 and blonde she has no ability to punch you in the face

She loves coquette things so much that almost everything she owns has a ribbon bow tied into it.

She is a disney princess (since smt it feels like she can communicate with animals, and she was kidnapped once)

Her AO3 username is @/babybluecoquetteribbon and she writes romance fanfics. She also has a playlist on her spotify with that same username for each of her ship

"Buttercup, can you try this cookie I've just baked for me?"

No sketchbook of her has stayed blank for more than two months

She smt makes clothes for her sisters (and the boys after she starts dating Boomer)

Auguri "Buttercup" Martines

6' tall and super strong black haired girlboss

She cooks, she clean, she punches you in the shin (if you cross the line)

Her favourite food is potato chips and sponge cake

She smt smokes, and she usually ask Brick for a cig after he dates Blossom. They actl are best friends since they both have more unexpected common interests than they thought

She wants to open a snack bar after graduating

She actl doesnt mind all the shady stuff that much. She knows she has a type when it comes to men

She got into boxing as a way to relieve stress

(Just for the comparision, their heights are somewhat like this:

Yeah I like to let the greens being the tallest ones)

[space--daemon]

I was tagged on my main @skydaemon for this game by @i-know-how-my-story-ends

1.) How many works do you have on AO3?

14, but 3 of them are archive locked (only registered users can see them) because I wrote them as an embarrassing 15/16 y/o and I’m not interested in the world reading that.

2.) What is your AO3 wordcount?

118,848.

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

I’ve written for bmc, taz, black sails, tlt, and dunmeshi on ao3 but I will write for most fandoms I enjoy.

4.) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Fuck you (marry me) (tlt)

The audacity of these bitches: an autobiography by kabru of utaya (dunmeshi)

10 things I completely fucking hate about you (no offense) (tlt)

Melting pot: life in second age melini (dunmeshi)

Working up an appetite (dunmeshi)

5.) Do you respond to comments?

As often as I possibly can, even if it’s just <3. I love commenters so much!

6.) What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

It seems to depend on who you ask. I think it’s And Many More, an ntn fic set before the events of the book. https://archiveofourown.org/works/53502670 But so many people have said that my melini cultural history museum fics (especially melting pot) have made them angsty so… https://archiveofourown.org/series/4190293

7.) What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I mean… working up an appetite? https://archiveofourown.org/works/56746999 But in terms of happily ever after, I’d say either fuck you (marry me) https://archiveofourown.org/works/50096647 or 10 things I completely fucking hate about you (no offense) https://archiveofourown.org/works/43566183

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

Never - everyone who comments is so nice!!

9.) Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I have now written one (1) smut. It’s a ‘what if kabru and mithrun dunmeshi had sex as besties?’ fic and i am inordinately proud of it. https://archiveofourown.org/works/56746999 if ur interested

10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest crossover you've ever written?

I don’t write 100% crossovers (as in, two continuities mixing) but obscure fusions (placing characters/details from one continuity into the setting/plot of another) are somewhat my brand, especially in TLT. I think 10 things I completely fucking hate about you (no offense) was probably the fusion nobody expected but i absolutely adored writing it. https://archiveofourown.org/works/43566183

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Never. Or the thief has replaced it with an identical copy.

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but that’s something I’d love to have done or try doing myself. I think my Spanish and French are just about good enough that I could translate a present-tense fic (my past tense is a lil shaky) and I would love that as a project.

13.) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No but I ABSOLUTELY would. If anyone wants to co-write something, my DMs are open <3

14.) What's your all-time favorite ship?

Impossible to judge. Perhaps the Mary Celeste. I like a bit of mystery.

15.) What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have several jossed wwdits fics that would have been so fun if i’d got them out before certain events. But now, I just don’t think they have the same vibe. Like, you could still enjoy them, but because we know what happens next, it kinda detracts from the overall experience.

16.) What are your writing strengths?

I’m pretty good at aping someone else’s style, I try to maintain strong character voices, I’m funny and people tend to like the ideas I have.

17.) What are your writing weaknesses?

If I’m tired of a fic (not necessarily of the fic itself, but of writing it) I often do the bare minimum. Fuck you (marry me) strikes me as an example. People seemed to really like that fic and there were only one or two chapters left, but I had very little motivation to write. The final chapter was written essentially by pushing through until I’d finished it, and certain things I’d tried hard to do in the beginning (e.g. give harrow’s narration a very distinct and obvious voice) fell by the wayside in favour of getting it over with. https://archiveofourown.org/works/50096647

I also often publish barely edited fic for the same reason.

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fics?

Like it, will do it depending on POV. If the perspective character understands the language, i might write it in English for ease of comprehension. If they don’t, i might write it as is. I would usually put translations in the notes, but I don’t think I’ve actually had occasion to do it so far.

19.) First fandom you wrote for?

On AO3, Be More Chill in 2018. I will not link that, I refuse. (It’s on my page, but it’s archive locked.) In life, i think i was writing self-insert discworld fanfiction around the age of nine or ten.

20.) Favorite fic you've written?

Arrghhhfyygyuyyhwiwjaywusuusgayajshrhj….

In terms of execution, I think part of everything alive again. https://archiveofourown.org/works/48395794 It was the first time I’d ever written something as part of an event, and the first time I ever got art for my fic - how gorgeous is it, by the way??? I wrote it all without external input (I normally publish at least somewhat as I go, but for BRE, we posted it all at once on one day) and I am so proud of myself for getting it done to a level I’m proud of. But not very many people read it, I think partly because it’s a chunky beast to try and get through all at once. So when it comes to the reader response, I’d say my melini cultural history museum series https://archiveofourown.org/series/4190293. So many people have commented on that and for such short pieces, it’s a lot of positive feedback relative to the effort I put into them. But besides my shameful 2018/19 fic, I honestly love everything I’ve put on ao3.

Anyone who wants to do this, consider yourselves tagged. <333

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 2: No Vacancy

Title: Backroad Romance

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3,119

Tags: First Kiss, Dean Winchester and Castiel are Alone in the Dark, Mild Angst With a Happy Ending, Sam Ships It, Making out in the Impala

On AO3 Here

“You’re shittin’ me, Sammy.” Dean groans and smacks the steering wheel with his palm. “There’s no room in the whole place?”

Sam’s voice floats into the Impala, high and tinny over the burner phone’s speakers. “No vacancy, Dean, I’m sorry, I checked with them three times--”

“--Nah, nah, it’s cool, we believe you,” Dean interrupts, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear so he can rub his face while steering around a bend. Cas reaches over and deftly slips the phone away, fingers pinched like he’s removing a block from a Jenga tower.

“Did you and Eileen find accommodations?” Cas asks, holding the phone out in front of him so Dean can listen in.

There’s a short pause, then: “Yeah… yeah, we did, but guys, the room is really small, like, a closet, I swear, and there’s only one bed, and--”

This time it’s Cas who interrupts. “--and you wish to engage in private romantic activities. Dean and I completely understand.”

They’re on a straight stretch of highway, but Dean still manages to swerve clumsily into the shoulder. He hastily course-corrects and bites down the urge to snap at Cas for-- for what? For talking like that? For using his deep, rough voice to say any words even vaguely related to--

No. It’s not Cas’ fault that everything he does steadily turns Dean into more and more of a creep. Dean shakes his head firmly and tunes back in to the conversation just in time to catch Sam awkwardly stumbling over his reply. Dean leans over, cutting him off with a whistle into the phone.

“We’ll be fine, little brother. Be a gentleman. Don’t hog the sheets. Girl like Eileen doesn’t come around every day.”

He can feel the bitchface radiating through the speaker and motions at Cas to hang up. Cas frowns and gravely says “Dean would like to end the conversation. Goodbye, Sam,” before flipping the phone shut. He drops it into the cupholder.

Dean makes a show of focusing on the road to avoid looking at Cas. He knows Cas is staring at him; it’s just something the guy does, sitting in the passenger seat and gazing at Dean as if the whole world isn’t flashing by outside.

Dean’s long stopped commenting on it. Let the dude stare.

He clears his throat. “We’ll probably have to find a logging road or something. Pull in and hole up for the night.”

“All right,” Cas replies. He opens the glovebox and pulls out the local map they picked up this afternoon when they rolled into Matlock, Washington, to investigate a haunted post office. It was a gray, dinky, bleak town and the poor ghost lurking around the mailroom seemed more melancholy than anything. She allowed them to dispatch her into the afterlife with very little struggle; that is, after some creative sweet-talking by Sam.

Eileen had teased Sam mercilessly about it before Dean had even gotten a chance. That’s how Dean knows she’s The One.

There was, of course, no motel in town. Sam and Eileen hit the road before Dean and Cas, because Dean insisted on getting a burger for dinner at the tiny diner on Main Street (a mistake). Now he’s staring down the barrel of a night alone with Cas, in cramped quarters, on a dark backroad. If they hadn’t already driven all day to get to Matlock, Dean would push on until they found a motel with vacancies, but he’s exhausted and Cas is just human enough these days to actually be tired too.

“There’s an access road nearby,” Cas says, tracing the map with his index finger. “In a quarter mile. Left.”

Dean follows his directions and sure enough, there’s a bumpy logging road branching off from the highway, stretching deep into the pitch-black trees. Dean pulls in about five hundred feet before turning off the lights and the ignition.

It’s silent. The darkness is all-encompassing, pressing in on Dean, so heavy it’s like he can feel it on his eyelids when he blinks. He takes a slightly shaky breath. Cas is utterly still, as usual, not a single rustle or exhale indicating his presence in the gloom, but Dean feels him there as intensely as he’d feel a roaring bonfire. His heart thuds in his ears.

Why is he freaking out? He’s slept in the car with Sam a million times. But even as he thinks that, he knows, he knows, that this is different. His brain starts whirling through logistics -- who’s gonna take the back seat? Is Cas even gonna sleep the whole night? Or will he wake up and just sit there, staring at Dean for hours, inches away?

Dean needs to shut off his brain. He taps the seat and says “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean,” comes the immediate response, measured and reassuring. “Would you like to talk?”

Relaxing against the seat and slinging an arm over the backrest, Dean peers over to the passenger side. “Sure.”

The moon’s out tonight, far above the trees, and the grayscale of nighttime slowly bleeds into view as Dean’s eyes adjust. He can just make out the sharp angle of Cas’ nose, the slope of his chest and the outline of his hands folded in his lap. He’s always so upright, so proper. Dean wonders what it would feel like to undo him.

“Are Sam and Eileen having sex?”

Dean chokes on air. Sputtering, he braces himself on the seat and coughs until his eyes stop watering. “What?” he wheezes. “Why-- Dude, why would you ask that?”

He sees Cas turn his head to regard him. Even in the dark, Dean can imagine the piercing gaze.

“It was unclear to me what you meant by ‘be a gentleman.’” Cas lifts his hands to shape the finger quotes. “I assumed the two of them would take advantage of their privacy to engage in physical intimacy. Was your comment meant to discourage Sam from having sex?”

Dean throws up his hands desperately. “Okay-- okay, first of all, quit talking about my brother doing it. And second, no, I wasn’t ‘discouraging’ him, just reminding him to treat Eileen like a lady. You know, romance her a little.”

The darkness is a godsend as Dean’s cheeks flush hotter with every word. He’s surprised they’re not glowing. He taps the seat in a random pattern as Cas sits quietly, seemingly digesting the information.

When he responds, it’s slow and thoughtful. “In the pornography I’ve watched, the participants always begin undressing one another rather quickly. And in my own experiences, there has been very little that I would label ‘romantic.’ What is classified as ‘romance,’ Dean?”

Well, shit. The last of Dean’s composure evaporates, sizzles away like a drop of water meeting his burning face. He drops his head into his hands and groans.

Cas leans forward, his knee brushing Dean’s. “Have I made you uncomfortable?” he asks, voice laden with concern.

Dean’s throat is tight, his fingers sweaty against his forehead. He forces himself to take a deep breath and to at least open his eyes against the shadow of his palms. “Uh-- no. No, Cas. You, uh-- you should be able to ask that kinda stuff. Human stuff. I get that it’s, uh-- it’s important to know. For, y’know. So you can--”

There’s a hand on his knee. A warm, strong hand. Long fingers. Weighty. Dean’s heart kicks into overdrive. He slowly, very slowly, lowers his hands to peek at Cas.

“How do you like to be romanced, Dean?”

There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing in Dean’s brain. It’s a chamber of silence. A void. He stares at the outline of Cas’ wild hair, mouth slightly open.

“...Dean?” The hand on his knee shifts slightly and Dean’s blank brain runs zero interference as his own hand darts out and stills the one threatening to leave his leg. As soon as his skin makes contact with Cas’, though, everything zings back online in a rushing roar.

Play it off, Winchester. Crack a joke. C’mon. “Hah, funny, buddy, you really got me there--”

“--Kissing’s nice.”

He snaps his mouth shut too late. The words float away, unrecoverable.

Cas tilts his head. Then, slowly, very slowly, as if he’s afraid of spooking Dean, he turns his hand around under Dean’s so that they’re palm to palm. An invitation.

With a pounding heart, Dean accepts it. He laces their fingers together. His palm feels even sweatier when it’s rubbing up against Cas’ dry, smooth skin.

Sexy, Dean. Way to go.

Somehow, even though it was Cas asking the questions, he’s the one leading now, shifting closer, laying his left arm along the backrest behind Dean’s shoulders. Their faces are so close that they’re sharing air, just two shadows suspended in a frozen moment.

“May I kiss you?” Cas murmurs gently, his breath washing over Dean’s lips. It smells like rain-refreshed air, like a promise of sunshine, alleviating the weight of the darkness. Dean tentatively chases it with his tongue, wetting his lips and leaving them parted.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. Because fuck, he wants this. He’s wanted this for so long.

And Cas wants it, too.

Dean always imagined that his first kiss with Cas would be an inferno, fireworks, showering sparks, all those cliches. That it would yank him from his body and send him floating through the ether.

It’s not like any of that. It’s better. It’s real.

Cas’ lips are just lips -- a little more chapped than Dean’s used to, perhaps, but they meet his in a familiar brush, followed by the typical tentative press, leading into a hesitant swipe of the tongue.

He’s kissing Cas. Cas, who he’s built up in his head for so long as this untouchable, impossible ideal, who stormed Hell to drag him out, who smote demons with his bare hands, who is so inconceivably old that Dean should be just a speck of sand under his eternal gaze.

Instead, that same Cas is busy dragging his fingers down the side of Dean’s neck. A crest of goosebumps follow, shivers trailing down Dean’s torso, and he gasps a quivery breath against Cas’ lips. He’s not used to being led. Normally he’s the one in charge, giving as good as he gets, focused on hitting the highlights, satisfying his partner. There’s a whole formula.

He’s never trembled like this before.

“Dean,” Cas whispers against his mouth, reverent, his voice somehow gravelly even as a breath. He suddenly pulls his hand free from Dean’s and grips his bicep, dropping his other arm from the backrest to wrap around Dean’s waist. Without preamble, he twists, tugging Dean across his lap. Dean yelps and hurriedly adjusts his legs, ending up with his knees on the seat, straddling Cas’ thighs. His fingers and toes are zinging in excitement.

Goddamn. Who knew being manhandled would do it for him?

The crown of his head presses against the roof of the car and he slouches forward until their foreheads are touching. He pushes his hands into Cas’ hair.

Cas surges forward again, nudging Dean’s head to the side and pressing his lips to Dean’s neck. Dean groans, low and shaky, as Cas parts his lips and sucks a trail up to Dean’s earlobe, his tongue soothing in the wake of his mouth, dragging over every mark that he coaxes to the surface. Dean knows his neck will be littered with bruises tomorrow, but he finds he can’t bring himself to care, not when Cas’ teeth are busy grazing the shell of his ear.

“Jeez, Cas,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to Cas’ shoulder. He's hard already, hips twitching a little, but he keeps his hands firmly in Cas’ hair, tugging the soft, thick strands, guiding Cas’ mouth back down to his neck. His pulse hammers under each press of chapped lips.

He pulls back and captures Cas’ mouth again, sliding his tongue into that wet heat. They trade open-mouthed kisses, a bit sloppy, while Cas’ hands glide up Dean’s back under his flannel. Dean’s absolutely flying, his pounding heart easily winning the battle against the tiny voice in his head dredging up reasons to stop, reasons to run.

He wants to stay .

Their kisses have escalated to a panting, frenzied give-and-take, and Dean’s tired of hunching over. He drops his hands onto Cas’ shoulders and starts leaning back over to the driver’s seat, trying to pull Cas on top of him. Cas whines when their lips separate, but he catches on quickly. A little too quickly. He grips Dean’s waist and shifts him along the bench seat with such force that Dean’s arm goes flying and his elbow smacks right into the middle of the steering wheel.

The horn blares, rending the night.

Both Dean and Cas jerk upright, instantly on high alert. Reality takes a moment to catch up with them.

Cas recovers first. “That startled me,” he says, voice wrecked.

Dean lets out a long breath. He’s still got one leg up on the seat, the other one cramped awkwardly next to the steering wheel. He drags a hand across his face and lets out a breathy laugh. The next thing he knows, he’s doubled over, laughing so hard his cheeks hurt and his eyes water.

He’s just so goddamn happy.

Cas watches him, head tilted in the shadows. Dean lets his laughter run its course, petering out with a sigh of mirth and hand slapped on Cas’ knee.

“What a night, huh?” he says.

Cas lifts a hand and strokes Dean’s cheek with his knuckles. Even after all that making out, this one gesture seems inordinately intimate. But Dean just smiles.

Cas swipes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone one more time before slowly, almost reluctantly, letting his hand fall. “You need to sleep.”

Dean nods and glances into the backseat. “You do too, don’t you? At least a bit? Maybe we can both fit back there.”

They get out of the car -- the cool night air rushes into Dean’s lungs and fizzes through his chest, bringing the events of the past half hour into blood-rich focus in his brain. He steels himself for the freakout, for the doubt and the deflection, but it doesn’t come. He feels right.

They crawl into the backseat, awkwardly shuffling and shifting, ending up with Cas sitting mostly upright (insisting that he’s fine) and Dean laid out on the seat with his head in Cas’ lap.

He drops off to sleep faster than he has a long time, Cas’ long fingers carding through his hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the light that wakes him, pale gray seeping under his lashes and rousing him from a blissfully dreamless sleep. He lifts his head and immediately winces -- his neck is stiff as a board and his back aches all the way down to his tailbone. He’s really getting too old to be sleeping in the car.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean twists around and peers blearily up at Cas, who’s gazing down at him with one of his rare enigmatic smiles. Dean yawns and stretches as best he can, his back popping. He pushes himself up until he’s sitting next to Cas.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

Cas leans over and, before Dean can react, presses a warm, dry kiss to Dean’s cheek.

Sore body or not, this is the best morning of Dean’s life.

They extract themselves from the backseat and stumble into the damp early-morning air. Dean pops the collar of his flannel after a single glance into the side mirror. He’s got a lot of hickies.

They take a second to stretch (Dean admires the way Cas’ pecs shift under his dress shirt as he reaches for the sky) before sliding into the front seat. Dean backs them out of the logging road, the verdant green pines on either side nearly overwhelming his night-accustomed eyes.

Cas calls Sam as they roar down the highway again. It’s only 5 a.m., but Dean handed Cas the phone and told him to give Sam a wakeup call. The kid deserves it after a good night’s sleep in a real bed.

They pull into the parking lot of the Cedar Crest Motel just past 5:30. Dean ends up having to park on the street, though, because the lot’s at capacity, not a single spot unoccupied. He pats Baby in apology as he leaves her, and he and Cas make their way to the room number that a very irritated, cranky Sam snapped at them over the phone.

They’ve almost reached it when Dean suddenly stops dead. He grabs Cas’ arm. Cas shoots him a questioning glance.

“Look." Dean points up at the motel sign. There, huge red letters, blinking through the pale morning light, spell out a clear VACANCY.

“It’s hardly been six hours," Dean says. "No one would’ve checked out in the middle of the night.”

Suspicion rising rapidly, he strides to Sam’s door and knocks as obnoxiously as he can. As soon as the door creaks open, he reaches through and grabs Sam’s shirt, yanking him outside. Sam protests and slaps at Dean with one hand, shoving his bird’s nest hair out of his face with the other.

“What the hell, Dean!”

Dean just throws one arm up at the sign, staring at Sam with raised eyebrows. As soon as Sam sees what he’s pointing at, he shrinks into what Dean immediately recognizes as guilty little brother posture. He’s not even trying to hide it.

Sam clears his throat awkwardly, eyes darting between Dean and Sam, before holding out a placating hand. “I just-- I just thought, maybe you could use some time alone,” he explains hastily, backing up a bit into the room. “If we all ended up here, Dean, you’d insist that we share, you know you would.”

Dean knows Sam’s right (he’s careful with their fake money, so sue him), but he keeps glaring regardless.

“I just wanted some time with Eileen,” Sam mumbles, deflating a bit. “And I thought, y’know, with how you and Cas have been acting lately, that you’d-- uh, that you’d want some time together, too.”

Dean sputters. “Acting? We-- what--”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says, deep voice cutting off Dean’s protests. “We had a very pleasant night.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he straightens up, a knowing grin stretching over his face. His eyes dart to Dean’s popped collar. “Oh yeah? Did you now?”

Dean shoves him into the room and slams the door shut. There. He turns to Cas, who looks amused.

“Give me at least a couple days before blabbing to my brother,” Dean says, but he finds himself smiling. Cas nods. He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, just for a moment, squeezing before letting it fall again.

“Of course, Dean.”

[choptop-sawyer]

Hi again 😎💫 im here to dig at ur brain again bcs i. M. Aaa sorry i just love ur stuff but. I have this kinda rly specific storyline type hc area and I'd love to hear any hcs you might get from it if its at all jr thing. But um I keep sometimes thinking back to the idea of kinda, vaguely growing up in the same area as the Sawyers, being childhood friends (and being stupid 2gether, running arount the countryside, ditching school & playing in corn fields) -

But then having to leave in your late teens to school / whatever (I mean 😎 my sappy ass also thinks abt mutual pining w Bobby but you know...... nearly unrelated.......)

Then, later on (Bobbys now Chop Top, Nubbins is..... dead I guess but also >:( maybe not, the family is up to being a mess etc) returning to town to take a break from work or whatever. N meeting up w the family again, i mean, oblivious to the bullshit they get up to but.... yk

This is a bit rambly i should probs have waited to sleep but I can't get the thought of returning to the Sawyer door wearing Bobbys tie dye sweatshirt that hr borrowed u years ago and all the impact of being a former family member bc u were also kind of an outsider or whatever but also the drama of leaving so uwu sksjd

This got so long. All i wanted to ask is: sawyer family headcanons for a childhood friend returning to town after being away for years. Rip.

THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS god I love the image too of just standing in the doorway,, you're not home, you've changed a little bit, but you still fit into some of the old aspects you know so well they fit you and cover you.

Actually this is great because that fic that I swear exists has pretty much the same premise but!!! I can make this one less tragic than that one. 😎

(This is mostly Chop Top n you centric please don't mind)

Also this timeline is all fucky. I think that as soon as Chop came home from Vietnam the Sawyers had basically uprooted themselves and were living in North Texas because of the... Hardesty incident. But like can we pretend that that never happened they r still there in Newt? Just for this. (Hope you like it!)

Chop Top's Childhood Friend Returns

You don't think you would have turned out the way you did without the Sawyers.

They were the main element of your childhood, a mystery that you had to be a part of. A mystery, because they were closed off. Mistrustful. The sickness of small towns carried to the extreme, because they were mostly alone. The loneliness made them more miserable, the misery made them more isolated. A cycle, a legacy.

So it was a a miracle that you were even allowed to be apart of some of it, but you attribute that miracle to Bobby.

He seemed to think you were as much of mystery as what you thought the Sawyers were. Two kids looking through a small window into another world. But he liked that. He liked that you were something different, something new. From beyond that small world of loneliness that lived in the house.

You learned quickly that he had a desire for anything beyond that world. So he'd invite you out with him, when you were kids, to run free in the tall grass, when you got older, to drive with him to places unknown. He had a knack for finding these odd places, and he always brought you along with the music cranked up loud on the radio.

Bobby told you many times that he wanted to see the world. He had this lust for life that went beyond the restlessness of the young. He also said that he wanted to bring you along with him when he saw the world. You didn't ever mention how that always made your heart skip a beat when he said that.

Maybe you should have. But the past is the past and you can't change that.

You knew the other Sawyers too, but Bobby tended to avoid them sometimes. But occasionally, you got to hang out with them.

Nubbins was an enigma. You didn't think Nubbins was his real name. But that's the only one you heard from him, but the name situation was the least confusing thing. He was the most open person you knew. And yet you couldn't understand him, and decided at some point that you wouldn't ever. But he was fun. His energy was infectious, if he was filled with joy, you couldn't help but laugh with him too. That was Nubbins, so absent of any purposeful deceit that he was almost a mirror, you saw yourself around him, sometimes it was uncomfortable, but other times it was fun.

Bubba was the opposite. He seemed to be legitimately wary of you. Bobby once told you that Bubba didn't like to leave the house, ever. He stayed and did the chores. You wondered if he minded, being stuck with all the chores but Bobby said he didn't. It was comforting for him. Always having something set to do. You only saw him once. Nubbins had made him tag along when he needed him to hang some things from a tree. Bones from indeterminate animals, a clock with a nail through it. You don't think Nubbins actually needed Bubba to reach the branches (he climbed pretty well) but he just wanted his little brother to see his work. Bubba didn't make eye contact with you the entire time. He was wholly focused on his task of helping Nubbins. But he was gentle when he helped his brother, careful, and for that you liked him.

Drayton was... well. He was the one Bobby argued with the most. He was his brother, but with how much age between the two, it was almost hard to believe sometimes. Drayton was the one that everybody in Newt knew the most. People liked him well enough, but they said he was odd behind his back. He knew that. You don't think he trusted anything outside the insular world he and his family had existed in for years, and was at odds with Bobby because he didn't get why Bobby wanted anything to do with the world outside.

Oftentimes you would see Bobby after he and Drayton got into it. He'd be fuming, but he'd smile when he saw you. You'd leave with him whenever he came to you. These adventures were the most fun you had when you were there.

The other times you'd go off were when he'd convince you to skip school. Bobby never went himself. He didn't get the idea of all those kids sitting in classrooms for hours, doing nothing but writing and listening. Why do that when you can find things out for yourself? Get into some trouble? In his mind, he was saving you from a very boring thing.

You two knew the area around Newt well. The fields and the flat expanses were the best kind of playground. Your dreams were still set in them. A kind of sunshine filled melancholy.

Bobby told you things in the grass. His dreams yes, but his own thoughts. On music, on late night radio, on movies, on you. He perhaps thought of you as wonderful as voices on the radio, stars on the screen. He never told you that though. But your name was never far from his mouth when Bobby talked about the things he loved.

You and him loved each other as much as two kids who didn't know how to could. He was always on your mind now, with not much tangible objects to remember him with. A photograph taken by Nubbins, your faces blurred because you were laughing. A button, the pin on the back bent. A sweatshirt, which he tie dyed himself, and gave to you one night. The colors were faded. You never did get to return it.

The years away did nothing to lessen thoughts of him. No, they just blurred all together now, and the stream of the sunshine filled melancholy was almost endless. You needed a break. There was only one place you could think of that could help you with that.

So you came back. All things led back to this place eventually. Newt was dying, or dead. Didn't you see somewhere that when a ship went down, it took everything with it? You didn't want to stay for long. But you had to see all of them, you had to know that they were all not these strange figures you had dreamt up.

You went right to the house. You'd never actually been allowed inside, Bobby just always said something along the lines of 'Grandma and Grandpa are napping upstairs' or 'there's a mess' (never mind that he could care less usually about messes.) But you figured he had had a good reason. Maybe he was embarrassed.

When you knocked on the door, your heart was pounding. And that was all. Nothing happened, no indication that anyone was there. You waited, the sweatshirt was too hot but you didn't want to take it off.

Maybe you should come back another time. You were just about to turn around and leave when the door burst open, almost whacking you in the face. And there (you couldn't believe your eyes you couldn't this was a dream) he was.

Bobby had a hammer raised over his head, grinning, he was poised to swing it down, but then he saw you and he felt as if he was in a dream too.

It's been so long. He thought he made you up, a dream to carry him through misery, and you looked the part, even as you stood before him on the doorway. The light of the setting sun shone behind you, heat waves shimmered in the dusk, and you... you.

Facing each other, you stood, just staring. Over head the sky grew colorful, in the fields the grass whispered in the wind. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. Bobby dropped the hammer and grabbed for your face, and he held it, fingers digging in so tight it hurt.

"H-hey you." He said, and fell to his knees, releasing your face. You numbly touched the marks his fingers left. Bobby still looked like a man who had seen a ghost.

You called his name, and his eyes looked lost, like he hadn't heard it in a long time. He looked up at you, and you could really get a good look at him. His face was leaner, he looked sickly and wiry, but his eyes were just as you remembered. You sank down to the porch to sit with him.

"Fuck... FUCK I didn't... I- I thought ya'd forgotten all about me... uh.. uhm. Fuck! I mean, r-really! Turnin' up out of the blue like you're some kinda... ghost or whatever... WHOA man... like, ya here to return m-my, my sweatshirt? You're wearin' it, you can keep it! You look better in it anyway... heh, fuck." He rambled on and on, hands tensing and twitching as if they were moving to touch you again, just to reaffirm your existence. Did he know how glad you were to see him? Did he know that you hadn't felt right for the longest time being away?

You forgot all about the sweatshirt, the hammer he had raised with a sadistic grin. You reached out and held one of his twitching hands, and he stilled and stopped talking. There was a peace now.

It didn't seem possible for your heart to feel this full. But it was. And by god, if this wasn't the best decision you made in your life to visit your old hometown, if only just for this moment.

Bobby stood, with your hand still in his, pulling you up. He smiled at you, and you knew you still loved him, and in your deepest heart, you knew he loved you too.

But this time around, maybe you and him could love each other right.

[jaskierswolf]

Weight on My Shoulders

A very self-indulgent prequel to my not so kinky soulmate AU (Tumblr/AO3).

Any references to events or messages involving my own darling soulmate @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde is purely coincidental. I promise we are much more needy than this.

Ship: Geraskier (pre-romantic)

CW: Far too much pining, mentions of anxiety, long distance friendships

_____

Jaskier pouted as he wrapped himself up in his weighted blanket and duvet. Even with the additional weight he was struggling to sleep properly, but it did help. What would really help was a hug from his soulmate, but that was off the table. Geralt was a bazillion lightyears away, all the way in America, and Jaskier was stuck in miserable, grey England. They’d been talking online for two years, and the distance wasn’t getting any easier. If anything it was getting worse, and Jaskier wasn’t sure how much more he could take of it.

“Jask, you’re falling asleep, love,” Geralt hummed from the too bright screen that was lighting up his room. “Go to bed.”

“I’m in bed,” Jaskier huffed.

“Go to sleep, we can talk more in the morning.”

Jaskier whined, sinking further into his blanket burrito. “But I have work again tomorrow, I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk to you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Geralt sighed, smiling warmly at him through the screen, “But I will be here when you wake, I promise.”

“I’d rather you be here with me.”

It was pathetic. Jaskier knew it was pathetic, but he just felt a warmth in his chest, a ghost of Geralt’s arms around him.

“I’m always here” Geralt hummed in his mind.

Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s mental embrace, letting himself soak in the glow of his soulmate’s warmth. He was struggling to keep his eyes open which didn’t really matter but he only had a few hours each day to video call his soulmate and he hated wasting any of them. It had been worse the last few days. Essi and Pris had announced they were going to honeymoon in New York, and whilst they wouldn’t see Geralt, they would be a whole lot closer than Jaskier had ever been. He’d even considered asking to tag along in their suitcases so he could afford the trip to the States.

He just missed Geralt so fucking much.

“I love you,” he mumbled again, wiping the tears from his eyes that he hadn’t even realised had formed. “I love you more than Dandelion.”

He tried to laugh but it sounded weak to his own ears. Dandelion was a musician, just like he was hoping to be, a beautiful tall elegant man with gorgeous long blond curls, and a laugh that could outshine a thousand suns. He was also Jaskier’s celebrity crush and inspiration. Jaskier had been obsessed since he was sixteen, secretly hoping that Dandelion was his soulmate. Not much had changed since meeting Geralt in his dreams. He was still completely obsessed with the musician, only his daydreams tended to include Geralt as well, a fact that his soulmate thankfully found endearing.

“Wow,” Geralt chuckled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s high praise.”

“It’s true! I would renounce my love of Dandelion for mere seconds in your arms,” Jaskier insisted, “and then I would never let you go and you’d be stuck with me.”

“It would be hard to work with a Jaskier in my arms.”

Jaskier scoffed, rubbing his eyes. “You’ll manage.”

“Sleep, Jask,” Geralt’s words were a low hum, added weight to his blanket and Jaskier could feel himself slipping. He supposed it was only a matter of time really, it was nearly midnight and Jaskier had to get up at an ungodly hour for work. “For me.”

And really that was just unfair. Geralt knew that Jaskier would do anything for him. He was just that desperate for attention, although despite his slightly less dramatic personality, Geralt could be equally needy, if you knew how to read him.

“That’s cheating,” Jaskier whined.

“I never said I play fair.”

“Betrayed by my own soulmate,” Jaskier pouted as Geralt hung up the call and his tiny little bedroom fell into darkness. Without the light of his phone, Jaskier was fighting a losing battle. “I love you, dear heart.”

“I love you too, a lot. Too much.”

Jaskier scoffed, turning to hug his pillow. “Never too much, never enough. Goodnight, my love”

“Night, Jask.”

_______

When he awoke the next morning, Jaskier had a notification on his phone. It wasn’t unusual. Geralt often left him little messages, pictures of Roach, or things that had reminded him of Jaskier throughout the day. Sometimes, if Jaskier was lucky, Geralt would leave him gifs of Dandelion, and on even rarer occasions, awkward selfies that were never flattering despite Geralt’s godlike appearance. Jaskier treasured every single one. But no, that morning he had a more unusual notification.

It was from Lambert.

They’d talked a couple of times, mostly in a group chat whenever Geralt wanted to include Jaskier on family film night or playing games online, which Jaskier was shockingly terrible at, especially the shooting games the boys preferred. Lambert had never DM’d Jaskier before though. There had never been an occasion to, so why bother?

So Jaskier was feeling more than a little anxious about clicking on the message.

“Geralt?” he tested, although he was pretty positive that his soulmate was asleep. Geralt would usually at least say good morning when he was awake, but there had been nothing but silence through their soulbond.

It came as no surprise when Geralt didn’t answer.

His phone buzzed again in his hand, another message from Lambert.

“Bollocks,” Jaskier groaned, sitting up in bed so he could find his glasses. They were buried under his blanket and looking a little bent out of shape but that was nothing new.

L - Guess who’s coming to England on a business trip!

Jaskier’s heart jumped and hope soared through his body, a flutter of wings in his chest as his pulse raced, only to be destroyed in the next second.

L - It’s not Geralt, shit. I should have started with that.

- It’s me.

- I’m coming to England. Found out this morning. All expenses paid. - I’ll be in London for a week, if you want to meet up?

Jaskier stared at his phone. He was excited, of course he was but he couldn’t help the ache in his heart. His friend was coming to England. Geralt’s family was coming to England. That was one step closer to meeting his soulmate in person, but it wasn’t far enough. He felt like shit. Guilt tore through him. Lambert was clearly excited about his news and yet all Jaskier could think of was how he wasn’t Geralt.

Maybe he could give Lambert something to take back to Geralt. They’d sent letters and parcels back and forth but it would be different like this, and he should be excited. He should be over the fucking moon.

And truth be told, if he hadn’t felt so incredibly needy already he probably would have been more excited, but his heart was feeling fragile. Jaskier had spent the last week or so wondering if Geralt loved him back in a romantic way, or whether they would just be the dearest of friends. Whatever it was, Jaskier would be fine. That’s how soulbonds worked. They would be perfect for one another, platonically or romantically but Jaskier fell hard and fast.

Surely Geralt would love him back in the same way, right?

Jaskier was too afraid to ask at this point. He just kept saying “I love you” and hoping that Geralt would hear the truth. Neither of them had spoken about dating other people, but Jaskier knew there was no hope for him. Perhaps the odd fling, but he’d tried that once and without the connection he had with Geralt, he just wasn’t really into it.

He sighed dramatically and picked up his phone.

J - That’s fucking brilliant!!

He added a stream of emojis for good luck.

J - and all expenses paid for?! Drinks are on you, darling x

L - You should be so lucky.

- Pay for your own drink you cheapskate.

Jaskier squinted at the screen, pushing his fringe from his face. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and he ignored the dryness in his throat. Logically, he knew he should get up and get some water but his bed was comfy and he didn’t quite want to face the day yet, especially as Geralt was asleep. Things just felt heavier when Geralt was asleep.

He sighed again and tapped out a message.

J - Can you sneak Geralt in your suitcase?

- I’ll pay for the luggage fee <3

Lambert started typing immediately and Jaskier waited with bated breath. It had been a joke but there was always a chance that Lambert would be allowed a plus one… right?

L - I’m afraid not

- I’m sorry. I know you want to meet.

- Geralt is just as upset. The bastard hasn’t spoken to me all day.

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh at that. He’d sensed something had been bothering his soulmate, especially when Geralt was the one to insist they video-called before Jaskier went to bed, but it was nice to hear that he wasn’t the only one being pathetic and unreasonably grumpy. Sometimes it felt like Jaskier felt everything and Geralt was just putting up with him because he didn’t have much choice. In his heart, Jaskier knew that wasn’t true, that Geralt just showed his love in a more sedate manner.

Opposites really do attract.

He sighed and switched chats, typing out a quick message to his soulmate.

J - I miss you. I love you. I will be unbearably needy today. Sorry!

Flipping his phone to the camera app, Jaskier snapped a quick selfie. He looked like a mess of stubble, glasses and ratty hair… but Geralt never seemed to mind.

J - Isn’t your soulmate the best?

- Love me?

- I love you

- I already said that but it’s true.

Jaskier cursed and threw his phone onto the end of the bed before remembering that he hadn’t answered Lambert yet. He pouted and scrambled to find his phone again, struggling against the weight of his blanket. The blanket did wonders for his ADHD but it could be a pain in the arse to move sometimes. Reluctantly, he switched back to Lambert’s chat.

J - I can’t wait to show you around! Ooh we could go to the natural history museum, I’m sure some of the stuffed animals look just like you! Or maybe a show!

L - Not sure how much I’’ll be able to hang out, but we’ll have to get a photo to show Geralt.

- He’ll probably be jealous.

- But he’ll manage.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. Siblings could be the worst. He’d never really gotten on well with his own sisters but he could imagine having Lambert for a brother would be a hundred times worse. Still, he smiled at his phone. Geralt would be jealous. Geralt wanted to meet him. That was a good thing, no matter how much Jaskier pined to see his soulmate over Lambert.

This was a start.

One day.

They would meet one day, and then Jaskier would never have to let him go. He just had to be patient… for now.

[boltwrites]

Misfits - Chapter 1

Fandom: Star Wars - Clone Wars / The Bad Batch Pairing: The Bad Batch / Reader (Polyamorous)  Rating: M (Rating May Change) Tags: Polyamorous Relationship, Force-Sensitive Reader, Slow Burn

Work Summary: After a year working with the 501st, you've been assigned a new post - Clone Force 99, aka the Bad Batch. You're concerned about the transition - you found it hard enough to fit in with the 501st, and now you had to acclimate to an entirely new squad. As it turns out, the Bad Batch is very accommodating.

read it on ao3 | or read more below

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were nervous about your new assignment.

“Nervous” wasn’t a trait most people used to describe you. No, your former lifestyle dictated that you weren’t really allowed the luxury of nervousness – force sensitives left to fend for themselves, especially those expelled from the Order, had to grow a thick skin in order to survive. Force sensitives were valuable and much sought after, and not just by the Sith. From the day you had left the Order, it had been up to you to survive, to take care of yourself, and to make your own way in the universe.

But you were still a person – a sentient being that craved some sense of normalcy and security. And you had found that, for a fleeting moment, with the 501st. You hadn’t been thrilled with the arrangement – getting roped into a war that you wanted nothing to do with wasn’t exactly on your agenda the night you were approached by ghosts from your past and led to the Temple you had left behind so many years ago.

The Jedi had created a new program, meant to bolster their numbers in the face of the growing Sith. To create an alliance with unaligned force sensitives: the Jedi would provide protection and a generous stipend for the work provided, and the force sensitives would fight alongside the present Jedi. You hadn’t really been a huge fan of the idea, for multiple reasons… but you had been presented an offer that which you could not refuse. So you didn’t.

And it had been stable, for a bit. You hated to admit that you had grown to enjoy the company of the 501st, but you had. Your General, Anakin, was understanding, and not so uptight. He was so unlike the Knights you knew when you had been present at the Temple – he was reckless, and fearless, and he followed his own heart instead of the code. Perhaps that’s why you didn’t mind his command; you knew that he wasn’t so swayed by Council politics and related trivialities, and that he cared about his men first and foremost. You had grown fond of him, even discussing your personal philosophy regarding the force with him on a few occasions, and even sparring with his padawan, Ahsoka, on several occasions. A teenager holding a higher title than you was alien, but in the relaxed nature of the 501st, you had hardly noticed it.

But, as much as you enjoyed the company of the Jedi, perhaps the person you would miss the most was Rex. Holding the same rank didn’t seem to phase the clone Captain, as Rex had been more than happy to show you the ropes and introduce you to the men. He accepted you as his equal immediately, and you had been fast friends, bonding over your similar roles in the battle and joking about the most trivial shit that left you on the floor in stitches, Rex hunched over wheezing at perhaps the worst pun you had ever constructed. He had introduced you to the other members of the 501st, saved your ass on multiple occasions, and in turn, you had confided in him about how out of place you felt within the military structure afforded you.

“I don’t fit in,” you had rambled, waving your hands emphatically after one too many drinks at 79’s. “I mean – I’m a Captain, right? Like you. But I’m not a clone, obviously.” You laughed, feeling stupid for even pointing it out. “I mean, I know there must be more out there like me – force sensitives the Jedi picked out of thin air, coerced into joining this war…”

You had rolled your eyes, and Rex had raised an eyebrow. In turn, you had waved him off, nowhere near finished your speech.

“But – the point I’m trying to make – is that it’s not like I’m fighting alongside people that are like me. Even when we work alongside the 212th or some other battalion, I think I’ve only seen one other non-Jedi force sensitive.”

“And it’s worse, you know? You guys – the men – they all call me Jedi. Because honestly, what else do you know? What do you know besides Jedi and Sith? There’s nothing really to call a person like me – but calling me Jedi isn’t right, because then I go up to Anakin or Ahsoka, and yeah, they’re nice to me, but they don’t treat me the same as other Jedi. I’m not one of them. And I’m not one of you. So where the hell do I fit in this?”

Rex hadn’t had an answer for you, and you sure as fuck didn’t know.

Maybe that’s why you were assigned to Clone Force 99.

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

“Have you worked with these guys before?” you asked, fiddling with your bag as you waited in the hangar on Coruscant. Rex stood beside you, hand on his hip as he surveyed the sky above you, no doubt waiting for your transport.

“Once. You remember when you were off on that stealth mission with Hondo?”

“Ugh, I wish I could forget.”

Rex chuckled, shaking his head at your sarcasm. “I first met them then. Don’t worry. You’ll fit right in.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, and he raised both back at you, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Care to elaborate as to why, you bastard?”

Rex grinned wider, shaking his head and turning his eyes to the sky once more.

“They look at the world differently. Like you do.”

You hadn’t expected that, and you stood in shock, watching Rex as he searched for the ship that would take you from him. You thought, for just a moment, you saw a tinge of sadness in his eyes, that a sliver of grief passed over you both in the force at the thought of your parting. You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, a ship started to descend, the roar deafening anything you might have wanted to say.

The ship landed, powering down its thrusters, and your heart flipped involuntarily. You didn’t want to be nervous – you really didn’t. You had come to know clones over the time you had spent in the GAR – close to a standard year, at this point. You knew that in order to earn their trust, you couldn’t appear afraid, or out of place. You had to act as if you belonged, as if you were already their friend, in order to actually become their friend. It was surprisingly similar to working with scoundrels in the Outer Rim – faking it until you made it.

So, you squared your shoulders and tried to seem confident, and Rex’s subtle smile and firm nod only spurred you on as he stepped to your side, prepared to introduce you to the men you would be working with for at least the new few missions.

The hatch hissed at the airlock released, the ramp lowering so that the crew could disembark.

You knew little about Clone Force 99. Your reassignment had been swift, ordered straight from the top – above even the Jedi, from the Senate itself. According to your official order, Clone Force 99, a special operations unit, was in need of a force sensitive for several missions. They didn’t operate under a Jedi General, and seeing as they were a spec ops unit, the Jedi couldn’t waste any of their precious men on such a small squad. You, however, as an unassociated force-sensitive, were ripe for the picking, and considering that you had previously been assigned to the 501st, a battalion that already operated under a Jedi Knight and Padawan, you had been the obvious choice for the job.

So, you knew that they were a special unit and that they didn’t work with Jedi on the regular. Great. That was such a detailed summary of how they operated. You were so prepared.

Well, you considered. You had gone into battle previously with even less information. It had been even worse when you were operating in the Outer Rim. It could be worse.

You tried to remain optimistic as the steam cleared from the change in pressure and temperature, the hatch hissing as the troopers disembarked. You stood transfixed as they did, and as each appeared, your eyebrows scrunched further together.

You had been told this was a clone force. As in, a clone-based unit. No Jedi, and obviously no nat borns, as beside the Jedi and force sensitives, they were restricted to the Navy, not the GAR. But these men…

It was strange. They looked so different – one large, one tall and slender, another with long hair and broad shoulders. But their biorhythms in the Force were all so similar. The force sang around them like it did with other clones – there was a distinct taste of battle to them, of shared battles, countless. Their signatures sang together, like the rest of the clones’ did, as they had grown and battled together, as they had trusted one another from the day they all met on Kamino. It spoke of a deep camaraderie that was never present among nat borns, that was specific to clones and them alone, and it dazzled you.

“Captain Rex. Good to see you.”

You blinked, snapping yourself out of your analysis of the force, only to see the clone with the longer hair greet Rex with a firm grip to the forearm. As he drew closer, you started to notice the resemblance – the same skin tone, the curve of his nose, the color of his eyes – and it was confirmed through your eyes as well that this man was, indeed, a clone.

“Good to see you too, Sergeant,” Rex replied with a nod, stepping back to gesture to you. You straightened up, standing formally to address the man you would be working with from now on. You weren’t one for formalities, but you did want to make a good impression with him. Some clones were not as openminded as Rex, and they tended to be sticklers for rules and orders, offended by the slightest deviation. Until you knew the Sergeant’s preferences, it would pay to be formal.

“This is Captain Andar. She’s the force-sensitive that’s been assigned to your unit.”

You offered Rex a small smile – he knew how much you valued the term “force sensitive” and how you wished to remain distinct from the Jedi, so you were grateful that he remembered your preference.

The Sergeant frowned, looking from you to Rex and back again, and you felt anxiety coil in your stomach. The downward tilt of his lip and his disappointment in the force compounded, leaving you feeling uneasy.

“We requested General Skywalker.”

Oh, there it was. They had expected a Jedi. Not you, some half-baked, half-trained force sensitive who wasn’t even allowed to hold a title higher than Captain. You should be used to it, at this point, the disdain and the dismissal. But it still hurt you a bit more than it should have, when you were reminded that you were only second best.

“Hunter, we’re stretched thin as it is,” Rex sighed, shaking his head a little. “I did submit your request, but this came from the top. The Senate has disallowed the allocation of the Jedi anywhere other than the front lines. We have a severe shortage of Generals – Commanders, even – but I assure you, Captain Andar is more than capable. She’s one of the best men I know.”

You smiled at Rex, a soft thanks for his kind words, even as Sergeant – Hunter, was it? – looked you up and down.

“So, you’re a force sensitive,” he addressed you. You nodded, trying to get a read on him. His large skull tattoo, which took up the majority of the left side of his face, drew your attention. Most clones turned to tattoos in order to assert their individuality – you had actually seen a few of your comrades getting their tattoos, as it was a communal activity among them. You laughed along with Rex as you watched shinies cringe at their first ink, and you even has a few pieces yourself, hidden below your clothing.

But somehow, Hunter’s skull seemed different. There was a lot about clone culture you still didn’t fully understand, and this may just be a part of it. His tattoo, however, wasn’t quite as intriguing as his hair – long and free-flowing, not tied back besides his headband. There were a few long-haired clones in the 501st, but they always kept their hair tied up neatly, either in a tight bun or a ponytail. Hunter’s was clearly too short for either of those options, and it made him look rugged. You wondered what he was trying to convey with this combination of identifying markers. Clones used everything they had to assert their individuality – to designate themselves as them, to emphasize their personality, role in the military, and who they wanted to be. What did Hunter’s want to present to you with his appearance, you wondered.

But, you couldn’t just stare at the man all day – for fuck’s sake, he had just asked you a question and you’d already spent a good half a second staring at him instead of answering.

“Yes – I possess the same abilities in the force as a Jedi such as General Skywalker or Commander Tano –“ you frowned a little. You were probably closer in skill to Ahsoka, despite being far older. That tends to happen when you’re expelled from the order at fifteen and spend more time trying to simply stay alive rather than train. “- I am more than capable of completing missions where force-related skill is necessary. And, I don’t have to answer to the Council.”

You added the last part on the end with a little chuckle, because Anakin had often asked for your assistance specifically because of that fact – the Jedi Council knew that it was a risk allowing you and the other unaffiliated force sensitives into the GAR, and it was for this exact reason. You had made it work with the 501st, though, and you wondered if this new unit would find that loophole as useful as Anakin had.

Judging by the raised eyebrow, Hunter was mildly impressed by at least something you said.

“Oh, she’ll fit right in, then,” Hunter seemed to soften, just a touch? As if understanding something you weren’t yet privy to as he flashed Rex a grin. Rex smirked back, patting you on the shoulder.

“Told you,” he mumbled to you, and you rolled your eyes at him. Well, at the very least, the Bad Batch didn’t hate you.

Yet.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Judgement

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | seven

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Things have changed, things have stayed the same.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: e m o (i can't stress this enough), illusions to mental health issues (?), emo, mature themes and language, EMO, family-trauma related angst, emo

Notes: I wanted to completely cut Din's perspective out of this chapter to emphasize the reader's pov. Hopefully it tracks? Big lovey-dovey shout out to @pedros-mustache for bonking me in the head with a proverbial pool noodle. ily friends. Be kind to yourself. Cheers x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

This is fine. You’re fine.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay

You’re

You think, perhaps, the sting is made worse by the normalcy of it all.

You think, perhaps, that this stabbing—this splinter in your gut, prodding prodding prodding—would not be so sharp if it were different between you—if things were different; if it were clumsy and cumbersome and mauled. Ruined.

But it isn’t; it’s the same. You and Din and his boy, his adi’ka—it’s ordinary. Evergreen.

You suppose you should be grateful—grateful your dynamic hasn’t shifted, hasn’t sullied any. Grateful you still have your Mandalorian piloting you home. Grateful you have his foundling to keep you company, to keep you preoccupied.

But you feel false.

It’s as if you slipped into an alternate reality—one where you and Din touched each other, held each other; one where he buried his frustration to the hilt in your womb and you moaned his name like your tongue was formed for it—and then were snapped back to this one here—this nothing, this void—without anyone taking note of your absence. Because your routines—those domestic tableaus—remain unchanged. They are well-oiled and operate regardless— undeterred, succinct.

The days start the same.

You set aside a warm bowl of fruit and porridge, steam rising to greet him as it fans over his helm. Good morning.

Exiting the fresher, you find the dishes washed and dried—the towel folded neatly into a square beside them. Good morning.

You return the bowls to their shelf, nestling them right next to your unfulfilled expectations and embarrassing desires—butted against your silly, silly heart.

“Anything good?” he asks one night, passing through the galley as you thumb through the news on your holopad

You nearly choke on it—your throat closing up tight around the casual banality of the question. Because that’s what you two share now: you have things. You have quips and lines and normal and none of that disappeared after you’d made each other unravel not four paces away, pressed there against that wall—the wall that stands there even now, a tall and mocking reminder.

You wonder, if you sealed your ear to the bulkhead, could you still hear yourself? The symphonic reverb—your girlish pants, Din’s hoarse rasps— trapped there in the seams of the steel siding like the grooves of a record, to be played and played again.

“Never,” you say, like you’ve always said, and do your best to flash him a grin—the one you’ve worn before, the one, perhaps, you hope he likes. The one where you go dimpled and dove-like.

And then he makes for the cockpit and you are left

without.

The afternoons stretch familiar, too.

Din flies the ship and you watch the child—steering him clear of disasters and shenanigans the best you can. He tugs gentle at your hair; you nip at his little hand until he’s dissolved to giggles—the same the same the same, all of these acquainted patterns continuing to revolve on. Din lands and prepares for his hunt—banging around the belly of the ship, gathering weapons and ammunition and rations—and your eyes skitter along after him, following his hulking figure as he steps past where you and Munch are seated, heading towards the mouth of the Crest.

Din.

You’re half afraid of what it will sound like now— what it will feel like, bruised and jagged in your mouth. Like it doesn’t belong there, like it has no right laying claim to your tongue.

“Din,” you call hurriedly to the span of his broad back as he leaves the ship, your spine straightening out of the chair. You say it; you speak his name and to your surprise find it is none of those things—none of those ugly fears, none of those roughened gums. It’s worse.

Because scarier still, it comes out cotton soft; it comes out comfortable and true. It tastes like home maybe — like a version of home where people could come and go and laugh and not be frightened. Where they could hold little children in their arms and sleep and breathe and be and say I am here with you. Here we are. How special. I have chosen this. I have made this with you.

Din.

His shoulders tense and his feet stop short, just before the apex of the ramp. He turns to you, slow. Controlled.

“Good hunting.”

Din looks at you, the heavy umber of his eyes settling on your own, and he freezes—stock-still, his blood and muscles and bone thickened to paste, rendering him motionless. His dark gaze scans over you—the wisps of hair dancing around your face, the sag of your shirt lolling from your shoulder, his son in your lap. You bounce Munch on your knee and he gurgles out a quieted hum, glancing between his surrogate parent and you.

“Thank you,” Din replies, stilted, and you think you discern a subtle scrape of his modulator; you think you sense his lips part, pained and breathy, the cusp of another thought—of more, anything more— corralled by his sense of duty, hampered by the armor that plates him.

You untangle the boy’s claws from your hair and slip your fingers around his wrist, waving his green hand in a delicate to and fro.

Goodbye, it says. We’ll be right here when you get back.

He stays. For another glimmer of a millisecond he remains, sunlight pouring in through the opening of the Crest—shining off his beskar, off the gunmetal grey covering his body—focus trained on you both—before he pivots, cape whipping behind him as Din vanishes like he does without fail—away. Away.

To vapors.

Three days of this—three miserable days. Seventy-two suffocatingly mundane hours.

You figured this would be easy. You figured it could be as painless as you chose to make it. You were two consenting adults, after all—you both had needs, and you both met them—and you thought that this would be simple.

What you failed to take into consideration however, is that Din Djarin is anything but a simple man.

Because he is all these things, paradigms and paradoxes, coiled into one very tightly wound warrior—a warrior who can dismember a blaster just as effectively as he can sop up baby vomit from his foundling’s brown robes—one handed, no less. In flight. Din is all sharp edges and smooth silver, he’s cold and calculating and roguish and endearing and you can’t grapple with the dichotomy of him—with all these mismatched pieces at odds with themselves that somehow fit perfectly, inexplicably together.

You were naïve to assume you could go back—as if you could unremember the shape of his fingers as they filled you; as if you could make yourself forget how needy he bowed against you, how hot and thick his cock rested in your palm when he pitched his hips and released his desperation in white streaks along your skin.

And when your mind isn’t wholly consumed—smothered with the crushed velvet sin of that time-capsuled memory—it’s tortured in other ways, with crueler techniques. Pointed. Specified.

You watch him. You wish you could look away, but there isn't anywhere else to look. There isn’t a corner you can escape to, nor an inch of the Crest that isn’t him—isn’t an emblem of him, isn’t an extension of his personage.

You see him - day in, day out - interact with the child and Maker, it’s so precious and he’s so damn good. Two arms, cradling Munch snug to his chest—you know their strength now, you know their weight—and you observe as Din holds this boy with the same hands that unmade you—that molded you like clay and parted your wet heat. You see this man—so stoic, so reserved—dote on his child in a way that you never were, and bit by bit, it breaks you.

You caught them napping together once, compressed in that dingy of an alcove by the refresher. Your feet halted in their tracks at the sight and you held your breath—he’s a light sleeper, you didn’t dare wake them—Din’s helmet nodded to his chest and the kid, open-mouthed and adorable, nestled into the crook of his arm.

It made you want to sing. It made you want to cry.

You had to pry your boots from the floor and force yourself to move, to scram. You had to be anywhere else but there, ogling like a spectator at a zoo, nose smushed against the glass, watching the last of some great species simply be as nature intended—calm, drowsy, at peace.

You busied yourself then, scuttling preoccupied about the Crest but the image never evaporated, it never faded—it dogged you, tacking itself onto your psyche: the picture of him there, Din and his boy, holding on to one another like anchors while they slept, and you can't resist drawing the question.

Is that what it’s supposed to look like, to feel like—a father’s arms around your shoulders? Is that what safe looks like? Is that what family is?

You wouldn’t know. You cannot recollect the glow of it—the memory of such an embrace—on your own skin, and isn’t that what makes it all so achingly befitting, so inevitable. As if the Moirai—those weird sisters—spun this string of fate tailored to your being and plucked it like a harp, curating a melody for you and you alone.

Because you see Din give what you never got, and it makes you want. You want him. You curse yourself for it, but fuck you want him—every sordid part of you is tugged and pulled in his direction. You want him, magnetically, you want him you want him you wa—

And Din is fine. A Mandalorian pillar, undisturbed. He is bedrock. This is the Way.

And while he withstands the weathering, you crumble beneath it. It's eroding you. Like tides crashing monotonous against a beaten shore, you are in granules—and these morsels, ever-fine, they nick you - gritting - sanding you raw, abrading you rugged.

You thought you could ignore them at first. They were but lace whispers behind your ear—muted and tickling and just far off enough to deflect. But with each passing moment those feathered words grew loud—rude and vocal and you couldn’t keep them out. Round and round, they wriggled into your most tender swathes of skin. Skipless. Poison.

He regrets it.

He didn’t want it.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He didn’t want me He doesn’t want me I’m not wanted

These thoughts, insistent and pervasive, they are sewn into the bed of your mind one ugly seed at a time. You water them. You don’t mean to, you don’t wish to cultivate these errs but you know they will fester and grow with or without you. So you tend them—watchful, you garden—and they push up through the soil, sprouting weeds, choking the dirt. Marring it fallow.

But you’re okay with this. You’re fine—look at you, you’re fine.

///

The planet of Jelucan is bustling.

It’s got a pulse of its own, energetic and thrumming; there’s an electric current charging the cool air. It’s alive. This place is alive. Towers and buildings are chiseled into the cliff faces of the mountains framing the city, reaching tall towards the pale blue sky overhead. The capital—Valentia, you learned—is almost offensively busy— far busier than any of the backwater territories you and Din had explored in the recent months. There’s so much noise, it’s cacophonous— speeders dodging pedestrians milling about the throughway, engines whirring and backfiring, merchants arguing, hawking foods and goods from their windowed shops and brightly colored stalls, politicians and well to-dos seemingly gliding above it all as the common rabble of varying species and origins mingle and mix.

You suppose it reminds you of Coruscant. You suppose that makes you nervous.

Because you’ve been holed up in his ship and flitting through the Outer Rim, seeing the stars and the moons and planets and there’s just so much life—everywhere, everywhere— this galaxy is chalked full of it; it’s spilling over the sides with it all. And Maker, these months have felt like an adventure; they’ve felt like a fantasy, like an escape. You’ve eloped, caught in the whirlwind romance of it all—shirking your duties, your career, absconding from your shitty, shoebox of an apartment back home.

But Valentia is all too quick to ground you, all too eager to remind you of that blissfully forgotten reality; it taps on its wristwatch, gutting you with a look:

your time, my dear, is up.

The cobbled pavement underfoot is stony and industrial, each step landing too hard, too hollow—like everyone can hear your chipped heart pounding through your boots—exposing you, coloring you a liar.

This is fine. You’re fine. You’re okay with this.

You’ve been telling yourself that—bargaining, pleading—attempting to manifest into fruition; speaking it to yourself like a chant in hopes it’ll stick—in hopes you’ll fall for the ruse.

But it’s as if each dulled footfall shakes the rust from your neglected truth, revealing all too plainly that no. No, you’re not. You aren’t.

You and Din do not walk in tandem—his gait is longer, and he’s a stride in front of you—but there isn't so much space between your bodies that his presence doesn’t distract you completely, doesn’t eat you up and make you fizz. Your gaze could latch anywhere in this packed, teeming city, and you would still see him. Still feel him—on the nape of your neck, in the wet pink of your cunt. Throbbing reminders of the man that has knotted himself so seamlessly into your world.

You shake your head, locks rustling— as if you could rock him loose from where he clings on to your mind— when you feel a spindled hand at the wing of your back. Startled, you spin towards the touch.

There’s a woman— she isn’t human, but judging by her general appearance she’s some species close to it. She’s old. Whittled. Her maroon eyes are clouded, her silvered hair swooped back into a low bun, wiry frizz haloing the crown of her head.

She’s petite, but it looks wrong— inorganic. Too knobby, she’s all elbows and boney angles where she shouldn’t be. It’s as if she’s shrinking, right there before you. Time, pressing her in— pressing her down.

She’s lived a life in the sun; she wears lines on her face, deep and haggard, and her skin is pulled taut around her skull like hide stretched over a tanning rack. She’s ancient, prehistoric.

She’ll probably outlive you all.

An alien language you don’t recognize comes spilling fast from her thin mouth. You can’t decipher the string of words rushing like river water, the current unstoppable, but you garner she’s insistent; there’s no misconstruing the earnest fervor in her voice. Something woolen is held tight in her grasp—a blanket, by the looks of it, intricate and pleated—and she’s handing it to you like her very existence depends on it.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, confusion evident on your brow, “I’m sorry I don’t—”

She continues speaking, urgent and desperate and pleading—gesticulating as she offers you the throw, the shiny golden thread needled into the patchwork winking in the afternoon sun. The child slung at your side chirps curiously, saucer-large eyes following the shimmer of the fabric.

“I’m sorry, it’s beautiful - really - but—”

You’re jobless and blowing through your savings at a blistering speed. You barely have two measly credits to rub together; getting supplies is tricky enough as is. Purchasing something as ornate and superfluous as a blanket was out of the question. Munch coos sadly, a twitter of his voice, and it ruptures your heart to say it, “I can’t afford something like this.”

The bell on the door to the adjacent shop grabs your attention, producing a Twi’lek as it opens. She’s younger, perhaps around your age, and her lilac lekku bob as she bounds over to you.

“Hi,” she breathes, lips pulling back to reveal a charming smile as she glances between you two. “Everything okay?”

Before you can get a word out the elder resumes chattering, incensed as she addresses the other store attendant—you think it might be Old Corellian, some archaic dialect you presumed died out eons ago, predating the Battle of Yavin by centuries.

Just how old is this woman?

There’s a hushed exchange between them—the Twi’lek’s attempt at the language proving stiff. Her cadence is clunky, nowhere near as smooth and lilted as the other woman’s, but they must come to some sort of a conclusion, because they face you—two sets of eyes, burrowing blinkless into yours. The girl takes a small half step towards you, speaking - blessedly - in Basic.

“The blanket. It’s for you. She wants you to have it,” she explains, “for the little one.”

A twitch notches your eyebrow, gaze flickering back to the older woman, something akin to a crinkled smile worn into the grooves of her wizened face. She nods, fervent and solemn—a seriousness set in the desperate way she bores into you, urging you to understand. To see.

More foreign utterances pass between them— the younger woman listening to her soft vowels and gritting consonants for a beat, before continuing to translate.

“She says, you have a beautiful family. It makes her—” the Twi’lek pauses, choosing her next words, “yearn for the past, to reclaim time.”

Family. A beautiful family. A beautiful—

You consider telling them.

You consider correcting her, informing these kind souls that you’re only temporary. A fleeting thing— like the seasons, autumn dying cold into winter— you’ll leave when the time comes. You consider telling them that that’s the arrangement you agreed to, and that you’ll be delivered back to Coruscant and deposited off at your doorstep with nothing but a cheap, portable cot and an unused blaster the bounty hunter had unfathomably given to you once upon a time. That they’ve mistaken you for someone else—someone important to Din and his foundling. Someone relevant. Someone permanent.

But, you don’t.

You don’t rectify their assumption. Your silence betrays you, confirming the lie, and you grant yourself to revel in it. Like slipping into silk sheets, you roll in the luxury of the imaginary sentiment— letting it swaddle you, comfort you, kiss your skin.

And just for a moment, maybe you allow yourself to believe that this is real: the three of you, a perfect band of misfits; entwined together, fated and star-crossed.

A family.

“She hopes you know that what you have is special. She says, she hopes you hold onto them—never let go. Never.”

Fuck.

Can they hear it? Can they hear the way parts of you fracture like slate and quake to the asphalt in shards? Can they see the shiver in your knees—how your nails dig into the rough tweed of the satchel hung long beside you?

You steal a trepid glance back at Din who has since stopped and stands idle in wait—there in the middle of the lane, a single stone splitting the sea of people passing through. He’s unreadable, his visor illegible. He appears statuesque, arms immobilized in plaster by his sides—inhuman under all that effacing steel as life moves in flurries, eddying around him.

The kid babbles, snapping your focus off the Mandalorian and returning it to the two women. They adorn their sincerity openly, as one would a badge, extending the blanket to you—you, a perfect stranger.

Shit. Tears prickle the wells of your eyes. There’s something lodged in your throat— a canary in a cage, batting violent against its bars. You attempt to swallow it down with an ugly gulp, but it provides no relief. This emotion you’ve leveed—your joy, your pain and embarrassment, your desire and need—it swells in you, threatening to slosh over. You blink it back, keeping it confined safely behind your lash line.

“I—thank you,” you manage, looking between them. Awed and humbled, you accept their offering, handling it with the care of something holy—something sacred—and drawing it to your chest. Immediately, Munch latches a claw into a drooping corner of the woven material, a happy hum sounding from his droll grin. “Thank you,” you murmur again, reverent and breathy, reversing away from them—refusing to drop their gaze until you must—before finally righting yourself and walking on.

You’re shaken. You’re shaking.

And it is on shaky feet that you meet Din some steps later, pausing once you arrive next to him. His helm shifts; you register the sweep of his eyes roving over you—the burn of them along your shoulders, sloping down to the blanket folded against your breasts, slipping lower to his adi’ka sitting in the satchel at your hip. He’s clutching at the new token, dipping the edge of it into his tiny mouth to teethe.

And then,

he lifts at the wrist, orange glove tips raising - reaching - towards you. Din takes the hem of the quilt between his fingers experimentally, massaging the feel of the fabric—his knuckles brushing the exposed skin of your arm, searing into your flesh like a hot iron, lingering there mesmerizingly.

It’s the first he's touched you. It’s the first he’s touched you since, since—

His hand drops, hinging back to his side.

“Ready?”

His modulated voice crackles indiscernible and your stomach leaps to your neck. Are you breathing? Kriff, you’re not sure. You have to check—deliberately drawing in a gust of chilled air, the rush burning your lungs as you suck it down. With a nod of your head, a placid smile glosses over the shudder of your features, dousing the singe of your nerves.

“Ready.”

///

You think about that old woman later that day, and the many days that follow, her visage marked with centuries and regret and history. Life, evident in the spider’s web of wrinkles engraving her. But there was love too, clearly wormed into the lines of her face. So much of it— almost too much for a galaxy this hard and war-torn. The things she’s possibly witnessed: the atrocities, the devastation, the loss.

The wisdom she has gained while all of those she’s ever known succumb to the inevitability of age, as her past decays around her. The knowledge she absorbs while she withers—while time does nothing but skip by. Blameless. Forever onward.

In your dreams that night, she appears in front of you like mist rising off a lake, astral and ephemeral— there, but not. Haunting you, inescapable wherever you fix your eye. The woman nods silently. She’s mouthing something to you, but the words never come.

You understand.

tags:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @sammysdaisy @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey

[thesleepy1]

My King Shall Have Everything

A/N: A fuck load of people seemed to like my last Merthur fic. I even got a request for a sequel from @antobcq who wanted a 5+1 fic where Arthur couldn’t get anything done without Merlin on his lap. I haven’t done one of these fics in ages but I’m down with this prompt. I also love the headcanon where Merlin is a better court member and adviser than Arthur and completely leaves Arthur in the dust during diplomatic meetings. Unbeta’d as always, we die like Arthur.

Extra note, this turned out much longer than I expected it to. This might be my longest fic yet. I didn’t mean for it to be like this but I spent too much time on it to just leave it alone. And much to my surprise, it’s a linear storyline as well. I hope you all enjoy it and feel free to give me some feedback. Do you prefer the linear storylines or short snippets of scenes? Also, kind of sorry for the slight angst. My bad. It got worse towards the end, I was getting really tired and wasn’t completely sure how to end it. It’s not on the highest note is all I’ll say.

Pairings: Merlin x Arthur, slight Gwen x Morgana

Summary: Five times Arthur couldn’t get anything done without Merlin on his lap and one time where Merlin couldn’t get anything done without Arthur on his lap.

Word count: 10,485

Warnings: Lap sitting, fluff, physical touch, sexual content, grinding, angst, wounds, violence, character death, more warnings to be added, more tags to be added, proceed with caution, breeding kink, impregnation kink, mentions of dub/con, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, eugenics, blood, gore, hurt/comfort, angst/comfort, whump, injuries, begging, character death, mentions of public executions, long fic, foul language, asphyxiation, strangulation, choking,

Arthur was good at many things, but being on time was not one of them. Especially, when at the end of the hall he had to attend a council meeting with some of the most stuck up people he had ever met, and that was saying something considering he had to spend the last winter with his extended family. His advisers had been up his ass all week about the new rising kingdom beyond the continent. A kingdom so far away, he had just heard of it several months prior. It was like the kingdom had appeared overnight, suddenly a new ink blotch taking over the lower side of the map.

Personally, he didn’t believe it was real in the first place, having a squadron of knights and hired mercenaries sail over to investigate this so-called Kingdom of Le Lubrique. Much to his disbelief, they didn’t come back empty handed and instead returned with a message. A greeting, as his advisers and Merlin had called it.

To Arthur, it was merely stiff aristocrats getting together in too large a room to talk about dull nonsense. Something he had enough of in his own kingdom. Every other month he was already forced to put on a brave face and converse with the other ruling kings and queens of the continent; he didn’t need another to add on to the mix. He already loathed the balls he was required to host.

“You’re late,” Merlin hissed at him as he entered through a side door so as to not alert the others of his presence.

“That’s kind of the point of me coming here long after the time I was supposed to, Merlin,” Arthur rolled his eyes, sneaking behind the other advisers present to his seat. Merlin begrudgingly followed right on his tail.

“This is serious Arthur, you should have been here ten minutes ago!” Merlin nagged a tad too loudly.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the great king of Camelot himself. I’m delighted to see you have graced us with the honor of your belated attendance,” said an adviser from the guest kingdom with a tone that made Arthur want to stab him, wars be damned.

“I hope you could excuse my tardiness just this once,” Arthur began, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. He looked over to Merlin for help, but the warlock looked clueless as usual. “It...was just that I was caught up with...making sure my...uh...husband’s family were making themselves at home. The in-laws are visiting, you see. You know how hard it can be to keep them happy.”

Merlin looked like he wanted to hang Arthur with his own entrails at the king’s quick thinking. Camelot’s advisers seemed to be considering throwing themselves from the window. And the guest advisers seemed content with Arthur’s answer; though not pleased.

“Oh, believe me,” one of them began, a tall woman with high cheekbones and piercing brown eyes, “I know exactly how tiring in-laws can be.” She let out a high pitched laugh like the sound of dying blue jays; the sound made Arthur want to join his advisers as they inched towards the open windows.

“Well, yes, hahaha, they can be quite a hassle. Especially people that are related to my husband here,” Arthur clapped his hands, smiling at Merlin as he took his seat at the head of the table, “Shall we properly begin then?”

Arthur truly and wholeheartedly regretted agreeing to the whole thing. It was hour after hour of mindless words with little to no meaning. They just went on and on about things that meant little to nothing. He tried to tune out their voices but the tall woman’s laugh was like the crack of a whip, bringing him back to reality each time someone made a vaguely funny comment.

“Are you alright, Arthur?” Merlin said in a hushed tone next to his side. Concern had brought his dark eyebrows together. Arthur was tempted to take his fingers and smooth out Merlin’s worry, but perhaps that was too intimate an act for a meeting. Then again, when did Arthur care about what other people thought of him and his husband.

“I’m fine, Merlin,” Arthur sighed, “Just so bored with all of this.”

“How could you be bored? Have you been listening to half of what they’ve been saying? For a kingdom so small they have so much potential. Their farmlands double ours, as well as their ores, and their medicine is even on par to Gaius’s.” Merlin continued on with such a light in his eyes that Arthur was distracted like a moth to a glowing flame.

“Arthur, have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?”

The king shook his head softly, slightly ashamed for not paying attention to his husband. “I’m sorry. I’m just so distracted. I need something to ground me if I’m going to survive another dreadful hour of this,” he groaned, thinking over if the fall from the window would kill him or lethally wound him. Either way, he’d be away from this horror with Merlin at his bedside playing nurse. At the private thought, an idea crossed his mind that had him delighted.

“You know what would help me?” Arthur began, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What?” Merlin gave him a suspicious look, having seen the grin on the king many times before.

“It’ll really help if you were on my lap.” Merlin gave him an incredulous glare, ready to smack him across the back of the head for such a suggestion during such a crucial conference. “Please, Merlin? You really do help me focus.”

The warlock seemed to be thinking over Arthur’s request, a frown twisting his face. He looked like he was going to say no, but the pleading look on Arthur’s face made him change his mind. “Just this once. I don’t want to make a habit of this, Arthur,” Merlin warned in a hurried voice.

“Just this once,” Arthur lied through his teeth.

The second king of Camelot sat himself on the first, his side pressed against Arthur’s chest. Arthur wound his arm around Merlin and held him tightly. The action seemed to have garnered the attention of the visitors who looked at the pair strangely. And for some odd reason, the visiting ladies of the guest kingdom seemed to be glaring intently at Merlin.

“We are ever so sorry to be boring you, your majesty, but there is still much to discuss,” a visiting high lord coughed, glaring at the pair. “I apologize that our talk of declining population, racial biases against commoners and sorcerers, and ever so low birth rates have made you tired, but considering it may be the undoing of Le Lubrique, I deem it vital,” he practically snarled.

Arthur’s grip on Merlin tightened, his other hand palming Merlin’s thighs. The warlock couldn’t hide the grin that was stretched across his beautiful face at the touch. The king absolutely loved that grin. Arthur glared right back at those who dared question his behavior, for him showing his love for his king. He sounded in a stern voice that left no room for argument, “No apologies needed. Please, continue.”

“Don’t let us disturb you,” Merlin added with a more snarky tone, commanding the same amount of respect. “You have our full attention.”

-----

“Must I attend? You’ll be there, is that not enough?” Arthur whined as Merlin buttoned up his shirt.

“We are hosting a party in the Kingdom of Le Lubrique’s honor. Their queen has traveled all the way here to properly meet us,” Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur’s cheek for the effort. “Must I continue?”

“Only if you wish, my dear,” Arthur pointed to his other cheek, waiting for the same treatment as the other.

Merlin rolled his eyes, pressing another kiss to Arthur. “I’m serious, Arthur, this could mean an all out war or the strongest of ally ship. I mean, have you read the reports of what their kingdom is like? It sounds, and excuse for my word choice but there really is no other way to describe it; magical. I would love to visit the country myself. If we make a good impression they might invite us for a stay,” he continued, tying a red handkerchief with Camelot’s crest around his own neck.

“And that’s why the second king of Camelot would be in attendance.”

Merlin left Arthur in their room after that, knowing that Arthur would follow him. “Are you really going to make me sit there and listen to them go on and on about their plan to repopulate their country, or over tax their people for the food that’s in abundance? Come on, Merlin, we could have our council handle it.” Arthur stepped in front of Merlin to block his way. “Why don’t we head back to our room and make this a more entertaining night?” he wiggled his eyebrows to make sure Merlin got his point.

Merlin heard him loud and clear and rightfully ignored Arthur’s attempt to get into his pants. He sidestepped the man to continue on his path, turning a corner to the ballroom. “Do you hear yourself? What kind of impression would that give Le Lubrique if you just suddenly disappeared?!” Arthur turned to run back to their room just to prove Merlin’s point, but the warlock quickly magicked him back to his side. “You’re coming with me whether you like it or not.”

And that was how Arthur ended up sitting on his throne, bored out of his mind and unwilling to be civil or sociable when he could have spent the entire evening snuggled inside Merlin. He could have been in bed by now, having Merlin moaning his name underneath him, but instead Arthur watched as the guest and court mingled and danced. The instrumentalists bobbed their heads in tune to their upbeat song.

Despite refusing to speak to anyone besides Morgana, and Merlin, and occasionally Gwen when she could spare a moment from dancing; he had learned quite a bit about their guests. The fact that although they had a vast amount of farmlands, they had little people to work in them. Which came as a shock to Arthur because he had learned earlier on that Le Lubrique consisted of mostly sorcerers.

Le Lubrique’s queen was the tall woman with a voice that made Arthur’s ears bleed. Her lady in waiting seemed to be a distant relative from their shared trait of high cheekbones, drowning brown eyes, and dark hair. The two were glued at the hip, her lady in waiting obsessively trailing behind her like a newborn duckling wherever they went. They were both strong magic users if Merlin’s gushing was anything to go by. And also very beautiful with fancy perfume that complimented each other so nicely that they smelt like heaven, from Merlin’s words of course, not his. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he would think Merlin fancied them; the queen and her lady in waiting.

Even when the queen was dancing with a number of council members, the servant would be right next to her. It was quite amusing to watch them struggle to sway in time with the music. Arthur had already made bets with Gwen on the number of times party guests would refuse dances with the pair because they refused to separate. So far Arthur was winning.

That was until the queen smugly asked Merlin for a dance. Her lady in waiting immediately stepped away like someone had called for her assistance, leaving the queen alone with Merlin. Much to Arthur’s disappointment, Merlin happily accepted the dance. He took the queen’s hand and off they went, twirling around as if they were the only ones in the room. His hands on her shoulder and waist, her hands virtually tearing his clothes from his chest.

The way the queen of Le Lubrique looked at Merlin made a sick feeling build up from the pit of Arthur’s stomach. She was undressing him with her eyes, the brown in her gaze turning an almost pitch black from lust. The woman said something that made Merlin taken aback, something about dragons and druids, but it was hard to hear from the chatter of the room. For all Arthur knew, it could have very well been a spell.

Merlin recovered quickly with a grin and laugh that had Arthur’s heart skipping a beat. Then the two of them had the audacity to continue dancing as if nothing had happened, the queen still shamelessly pulling at Merlin’s fine clothes that only Arthur was allowed to rip away.

Arthur didn’t know why Merlin didn’t stop the queen when she pulled his handkerchief from his neck. The king was almost killed for even playing with Merlin’s handkerchief and now this woman was doing the same without losing an arm and a leg? Completely unfair. That was proof in itself, she had casted a spell on Merlin.

“Merlin,” Arthur called out to his husband sternly only to be ignored once more. “Merlin,” Arthur stepped away from his throne, making his way towards his husband and the queen.

“I think you should go to bed before things get ugly,” Morgana gently warned Gwen, gesturing towards Arthur’s outburst. “It could either go well or we’ll die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Thank you for your concern, my love,” Gwen replied with a smirk, “But I want to see how this unfolds.”

Morgana laughed at that, glancing between Arthur and Merlin. “Suit yourself.”

The two high ladies watched as Arthur pulled Merlin away from the queen of Le Lubrique, dragging him away from the woman as she stared on in horror. To Gwen's and Morgana’s surprise, the queen tried to pull Merlin back into her arms. Merlin seemed to be in a daze throughout the whole skirmish. His eyes glazed over, even from afar.

“Should we step in?” Gwen asked with concern, ready to intervene.

“Arthur can handle it, probably.”

The queen called her lady in waiting to help her. Three heads tugged at poor Merlin like he was flax rope at a kingdom fair. The lady in waiting tried to block Arthur from getting a good grip on Merlin while the queen tried to take more of Merlin’s clothes off. A crowd was forming and Morgana distinctively noticed coins being passed around in bets.

“Are you sure, my love?”

“Oh, It's just getting good,” Morgana grinned like a Cheshire cat. “How much are you willing to bet, my beloved?”

Finally, as the crowd began cheering, Arthur twisted out of the lady in waiting’s grip and grabbed hold of Merlin’s waist. The king lifted the warlock up in a bridal carry and turned on his heel for his throne, the crowd parting in heckles and laughs. Arthur blatantly ignored them, sitting down on his throne with Merlin in his lap. Unfortunately, he was unable to retrieve Merlin’s handkerchief, a matter he will surely not hear the end of for quite some time. But between a measly piece of fabric and Merlin’s life, Arthur would choose Merlin time and time again, his own life be damned.

Taking a moment to throw a sneer at Gwen and Morgana who were snickering, Arthur tried to shake Merlin out of the haze. “Are you alright, Merlin?” He stroked Merlin’s arms gently, trying to bring him back to the present. His blue gray eyes were a stormy glaze, seemingly out of it. It made an ugly feeling swirl around in Arthur’s head, the fact that some queen had touched his Merlin in such a way made Arthur sick.

Merlin shuddered in Arthur’s hold, looking down at himself and then at the ballroom floor where others had returned to dancing. Confusion crossed his face, “Of course, I’m alright,” he furrowed his eyebrows, “How did I get here?” Merlin rubbed at his temple, trying to soothe the ache that had formed there.

“Arthur carried you like the jealous brute he is,” Morgana explained, passing Gwen a handful of coins.

“Jealous brute?” Merlin questioned, looking at the trio for a real explanation.

Arthur was about to defend himself when a member of Le Lubrique’s court approached them. “Haha, I couldn’t help but notice the spectacle that you put on there, sire,” the man addressed Merlin.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

The man laughed again, mirth in his eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t,” he said vaguely, “The queen does have a way with words.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arthur butted in, holding Merlin a tad too tight. Merlin squirmed in Arthur’s lap but Arthur seemed to hardly notice.

“Well, you are a warlock, aren’t you, sire?” the man addressed Merlin once more. Merlin nodded despite himself. “A warlock as well as a dragonlord under the queen’s attention is bound to feel the efforts of her magic. And her special attention for that matter, hahaha.”

“Sorry,” Merlin began, more confused than before. “What do you mean by that expactly?”

“Our queen is a lovely dragon tamer. Her family is the last of their kind. Although taming a dragon is much easier when you have someone who can speak to the creatures,” the man laughed as if telling a joke only he knew the punchline to and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Least to say, the rest of the night Arthur didn’t let Merlin out of his sight. He had no idea what a dragon tamer was and Merlin seemed as lost as he was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. No one was going to “tame” his lover. Whatever that meant. Morgana and Gwen could laugh and call him jealous all they want, Arthur only had Merlin’s best interest at heart.

“I doubt having me be a lap warmer is in my best interest.”

-----

It had been weeks and Arthur naively thought they were done interacting with the kingdom of Le Lubrique. He had hoped to be finished with the rising kingdom, to leave them alone as long as they left him be.

He was rarely fortunate these days. Never even.

Apparently, Merlin was not deterred by almost being kidnapped by the queen and her lady in waiting. Merlin even said he enjoyed their company and their attention to his every breathing word. Arthur loved the man, but sometimes he could be quite an idiot.

Merlin, without Arthur’s knowledge, had invited a member of Le Lubrique’s court to stay at the castle. Who else to volunteer to come to Camelot but the queen’s lady in waiting. She was only supposed to be in the kingdom for a couple of weeks, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. That couple of weeks turned into a couple of months and eventually the woman practically lived there. She had made herself at home on day one, much to Arthur’s dismay. He couldn’t really kick her out without making a bad impression towards her kingdom, despite what her queen had already done.

He was a king. Much to his reluctance, he had to act like it. And that meant acting like you liked people that you hated to the core.

“And these are our forests,” Arthur gestured to the thick wall of trees that signified the beginning of the woods. “I typically take neighboring kings hunting here. If you’re interested, we can go if you’d like.”

Sylvy, the lady in waiting, sat on her horse with her head held high. For someone with a position like her’s, she acted like she was queen herself. Arthur had spent the whole day trying to show her around for the utmost time. She was never satisfied with what he showed her, as if she were looking for a break in the walls of the kingdom.

Every morning she demanded to be taken around on a tour and every afternoon she was left with a deep frown on her face. Nothing made her happy it seemed, and Arthur had truly tried to make her feel at the very least, welcomed. It was just so difficult to do so with the knowledge of what she had done to Merlin. Had enchanted him, put him in a daze of some sort.

If Camelot still had the ban on magic, she would’ve been dead the moment she laid a hand on Merlin. On the crown’s orders, she would have been hung or burned, some form of public execution. Her dark hair would go up in flames as the fire burned higher and higher, her head would hang low as the bucket was kicked out underneath her. Arthur was still considering having her prisoned for what she did and simply explained to her queen that there had been a freak accident. If he were a lesser man, a lesser king, he would’ve done so and let it be a warning.

“I despise hunting as a sport, it’s just mindlessly cruel,” she snarled, her lips curling as a show of disdain. She held the reins to her horse like a vice, afraid that she’d be ripped from the saddle and forced to participate in such barbaric practices. At least, that was what Arthur thought was swimming through her mind.

“Yes, yes, but some like the adrenaline rush of a good hunt,” Arthur explained without real passion, merely a form of continuing the dry conversation. Sylvy had woken him up so early that morning he barely had a chance to give Merlin a goodbye kiss. “Some have to do it to survive.”

“There are other ways to live,” Sylvy began, urging her horse to turn by towards the main part of the kingdom, seeing as they were on the outskirts. “Le Lubrique for one replies solely on farmlands. We have no need for meat or the slaughtering of innocent animals. Everyone can live without such a horrible act; people and sorcerers alike. Meat is simply murder.”

Arthur half heartedly nodded, trailing behind her while trying not to fall off his horse. “I can’t argue with you there.” He didn’t want to argue with about anything her to be truthful, he had had enough of that already.

They traveled at a moderate trot in silence before she spoke up again. “Why haven't you invited me to a council meeting? I’ve been here for ages. Surely you have these sorts of things at least once a month.” She tried to act nonchalantly, but Arthur could see right through her. “I mean, there must be all sorts of things to discuss. An heir to the throne for one, seeing as neither you nor king Merlin can bear children.”

“We just haven’t had any council meetings, nothing interesting to report that couldn’t be done with a quill and parchment is all,” Arthur lied with a fake smile she could not see. “And an heir doesn’t need to be of blood. They just need to be taught how to properly command a kingdom like a fair and just ruler. To know what’s best for a kingdom, who to trust and who to leave behind in the woods.”

A look of abhorrence lingered on Sylvy’s face at Arthur’s words, bothered that he would even say such a thing. But Arthur was right, it didn’t matter if his heir was not his child as long as they were just and fair to all that passed them. Arthur could only imagine what Le Lubrique was like if all their subjects thought the same way Sylvy did. It must be all out war for them if a bastard appeared in court one day; though in reality royal bastards were a dime a dozen.

Sylvy went quiet for a moment, calculating her words while mulling over what Arthur had said. “With a kingdom as large as yours, surely there’s action all around? Suitable women all around. Something worthwhile must have happened during my stay,” her voice took on a tone that Arthur didn’t like, a light flush painting her cheeks like some teenage girl with a crush, “What about king Merlin?”

“What about my husband?”

“What has he been up to?” Sylvy asked indifferently, trying to hide her curiosity from Arthur. If only she would try to hide that damn blush. Merlin was physically attractive, Arthur knew this as an undeniable fact, but to be so unabashed while in front of the man’s husband? What was he? The first king of Camelot reduced to chop liver. Unbelievable!

“Well, he’s the second king of Camelot. A king’s job is never done. There is always more work than one man can handle. I should know, I used to be the one doing all the work.”

They reached town just as Sylvy took on an accusatory tone, “Then what are you doing here?”

Arthur resisted the urge to strangle her in front of so many people. His fists clenched around his reins so hard his knuckles turned ivory. “I’m showing you around, just as you had requested,” Arthur gritted through his teeth, trying so very hard not to glare at her.

“And here I was, hoping to attend a meeting with the second king.”

“Really now?” Arthur could feel the mare under him shuffle on her hooves at his fury. “You know what? There might be one later today.” What he had planned was so unbelievably petty and a tad childish, but at this point, he didn’t give a damn. Sylvy was getting on his last nerve. “I’ll have a servant call you when it’s time. For now, why don’t you explore our lovely town by yourself? Walk around without a king hovering over you and all. That way, I could get back to doing my job.”

Sylvy brightened up in spite of Arthur’s words. A smile was forming on her face, her high cheekbones pushed up even farther. Her brown eyes crinkled at the notion that she’ll be able to see Merlin. “I can’t wait,” she said, unsaddling and handing the reins to her horse to Arthur. “I must get ready,” she said to herself loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“Take all the time you need.”

Arthur would regret those words later that night when he sat among his advisers. Sylvy, their honored guest was over half an hour late and the others were beginning to feel on edge. Many of them were not planned for a meeting so soon after the one they had earlier that week. It was an unprompted get together for the lady in waiting’s sake, Arthur had explained to them.

On days like these Arthur was glad he was king and that there’d be grave consequences if he were murdered by one of his advisers. They would be in the right to do so, kill him that is; but he was hoping to live long enough to raise a couple of children with Merlin.

“Why are we doing this, Arthur?” Merlin asked, hiding a yawn with his hand. While Arthur was riding around the kingdom with Le Lubrique’s queen’s lady in waiting, Merlin was left to run the kingdom by himself. The haunted task of commanding and keeping an eye on so many people was taking its toll on the sorcerer. Merlin hadn’t properly slept in days, too busy keeping the kingdom in one piece.

“Sylvy wanted to be present for a council meeting. As a member of Le Lubrique’s court, we have to answer to her call until her stay is up.” Merlin gave him a look that called Arthur out on his poorly constructed plan. “And I may or may not want her to know that you’re taken.”

Merlin rolled his eyes along with most of the present court. They should all be used to Arthur’s antics at this point. What were they expecting? An honest to god meeting to discuss important topics with their visitor from foreign lands? Never. A fake meeting just so Arthur could flaunt the fact that Merlin loved him and not some conceited queen and her lady in waiting? That was more like it.

“Sometimes I can’t believe I asked you to marry me,” Merlin yawned again, giving Arthur a tired look in more ways than one.

“Feels just like a dream, doesn’t it?”

“More like a nightmare.”

“You love me,” Arthur opened up his arms so Merlin could take his place on the king’s lap. Merlin shook his head at the gesture, so incredibly done with Arthur. “Come on, Merlin. You know you like it here.” He teasingly patted his lap. “You can rest until our guest arrives.”

“Fine,” Merlin said begrudgingly after a moment of hesitation, his mind clouded by the want for sleep. “But you better wake me up when she comes.”

“Of course,” Arthur assured, inviting Merlin over once more. This time Merlin made himself home on Arthur’s lap, his head going to rest on Arthur’s chest. He curled in Arthur’s lap like second nature, having done this so many times over the years. Arthur wrapped his arms around the younger man, making sure he was supported and comfortable. Merlin fit perfectly nonetheless. Within moments, a soft snoring sound could be heard from the man on Arthur’s lap, content in where he sat. The second king finally got the rest he deserved. “I wouldn’t wake you for the world,” Arthur whispered, rubbing soothing circles on Merlin’s arm and leg.

Another half an hour passed achingly slowly without the esteemed lady in waiting’s presence. Arthur was about to call off the whole thing and make his way to his bedchamber when at last, the doors to the room opened to reveal Sylvy. She was no longer dressed in her usual servant attire with its cream apron and blue gray dress. Instead she had ransacked the queen’s wardrobe, wearing something befitting a ball.

The dress was elegant and detailed with silk and satin; a deep shade of bourbon that brought out her brown eyes. Her hand was even done up in cascading dark curls that perfectly fell from the knot atop her head. A glittering wine hair piece sat nestled against her hair, matching perfectly with the studs in her ears. She was beautiful even without the time spent enhancing what was already there, but now she stood ready to rule a kingdom.

Sylvy took her seat across from where Merlin would have sat. “Where is king Merlin?” she asked, not noticing that the man in question was currently sleeping on Arthur’s lap.

“I’m sorry for how unprepared we were, but I can relate to your troubles of not having enough hands to run a kingdom. My husband had taken the task of ruling all alone while I tended to your needs.” Arthur pressed a kiss to Merlin’s hair when he stirred in his sleep, continuing on his over sweetened words. “He’s beyond exhausted, but still wanted to take part in our meeting. Please understand that he really did try his best to stay awake.”

The emotions that crossed Sylvy’s face came in a blur; she was unreadable. But one thing was for sure, Arthur had won this small battle. He had shoved Merlin’s unquestionable favor for him in the lady in waiting’s face. Merlin was his and his alone. For good measure Arthur pressed a deep kiss onto Merlin’s lips, the sorcerer smiling in his sleep.

His advisers on the other hand felt cheated. If the death glares shot his way were anything to go by. Though there was one from Sylvy as well. A lot of people wanted him dead at the moment. But he was perfectly happy. They could string him up after the meeting for all he cared, the unintelligible look on Sylvy’s face was worth it. She was utterly speechless.

“I’m ever so sorry we were late to start, but would you like to commence this meeting?” Arthur asked like a gentleman with a cocky grin, making sure to stare right at Le Lubrique’s envoy.

-----

When Sylvy left Arthur rejoiced. She was finally out of his hair. Things could go back to normal and he could go back to spending his free time with Merlin instead of on horseback through a bare orchard. No matter how many times Arthur explained to Sylvy that their crops were not aided by magic like Le Lubrique’s, Sylvy insisted on seeing their “mortal” development.

Everything was put back into its rightful place. He couldn’t wait to put everything about Le Lubrique behind him and move on.

He was back on the throne with Merlin, leading the kingdom just as they were before the whole ordeal with Le Lubrique. Their advisers especially liked the fact that Arthur was back with Merlin; it meant less work for them. The moment that Sylvy left their grounds, Camelot’s advisers piled parchment after novel after demands on his table.

Those selfish bastards.

The so-called requests were so thick that Merlin didn’t even make a sarcastic comment comparing it to Arthur’s ass, and, or his thick skull; the warlock simply went to work. If Arthur himself wasn’t already terrified of the workload, he would have shocked himself to the grave at Merlin’s willingness to submit to their advisers. The two kings of Camelot knew when they met their match.

What felt like weeks passed where Arthur and Merlin did nothing but what their advisers ordered. They were slaves to their own court. The two didn’t leave their room for anything, not food, not training, not even a breath of fresh air. Their knights would occasionally knock on their door to make sure they were both still alive, but once the knights of the round table had been turned down a couple dozen times, they stopped caring. Merlin and Arthur shut off the world. They were practically locked in there, all because of their own doing.

Well, mostly Merlin’s doing. He was the one who invited the envoy over and wanted to make peace with the new kingdom. Arthur had nothing to do with that prolonged visit from the devil, he was only paying the price. His hands ached like it had been shorn off at the wrists, his back screaming for him to rest. He didn’t remember the last time he touched his bed, the neatly tucked in linens calling him to slumber. But he couldn’t, neither of them could until their work was done. Their kingdom depended on it and their kingdom came first, Arthur and Merlin’s comfort second. They both knew what they had signed up for when they decided to wed.

“A-Arthur,” Merlin groaned late one night, the sun mere minutes from the horizon.

Arthur immediately looked up from his book, putting his full attention on Merlin who was on the other side of the room. Neither of them had talked in days besides the few grunts they exchanged while passing over important text. The fact that Merlin was straining his voice now meant something serious was going on.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur coughed, his throat parched and dry as a desert.

“I-I-” Merlin began, rubbing harshly at his hurt eyes, “I think that’s the last one.” The sorcerer signed one more parchment with a flick of his wrist, setting it aside to dry along with the rest.

And the thing was, Merlin was right. There was no more work to go through, to tirelessly read; everything was finally done. “I’m so tired I don’t think I can see straight, b-but that was it!”

“What?”

“We’re finished, you clophole," Merlin smiled, taking Arthur’s breath away.

Arthur leapt out of his seat, pure joy masking the aches and pains as he rushed over to Merlin’s side. The king pulled the sorcerer from his chair, lifting the man into the air, Arthur kissed Merlin like it was their wedding day. Deep and full of all the longing he had for the man, grasping at him as if he could protect Merlin from the world.

He only pulled back for air, inhaling lungfuls before pressing his lips back against Merlin’s. Arthur missed his husband so damn much despite having worked across the room for each other. He hadn’t touched the other man in ages, it was heaven to feel his heartbeat beneath his pained fingers. To kiss down Merlin’s pale neck and mark him until the whole castle knew exactly what they had been up to. To pull at Merlin’s clothes, ripping his tunic right off of his chest, the buttons flying across the room.

“Arthur,” Merlin moaned, gently pushing Arthur back so he could speak. “I liked that shirt.”

Arthur thumbed at Merlin’s trousers, holding his hips tight enough to leave marks that Merlin would feel for days to come. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“But my mother made me that one,” Merlin complained, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck. His strong hand went to cup Arthur’s cheek, making the king look at him. Forcing the king to calm down and evaluate things. “We have to get something to eat too, dear,” Merlin told Arthur in a loving tone. “We’re both too exhausted for this.”

“I’m never too tired for you,” Arthur bit back, leaning into Merlin’s hand. He may have been putting his weight on Merlin’s desk so as to not fall over, but Merlin didn’t need to know that. Arthur could most definitely ravage Merlin while on the brink of death.

Merlin pulled Arthur close to kiss him softly, “If we go to bed now, then we can spend all of next day together,” Merlin tried to bargain, eyes teary from lack of any sort of sleep. “You’re going to hurt yourself, you ass,” he chuckled with a small smile that made his eyes crinkle with mirth.

“I don’t want to,” Arthur whined, “I’ve worked for weeks on end. Now I want my reward for behaving.” Arthur sat back on Merlin’s desk, pulling the man on top of him. The desk groaned under their combined weight, but Arthur hardly cared when he had Merlin on his lap and straddling his thighs. “You’re all I want.” He embraced Merlin, the warlock half naked and moaning as Arthur kissed along his arm. His mouth sucked at Merlin’s skin, teeth leaving markings on pale skin claiming Merlin as his. Arthur worshiped Merlin until his stormy eyes were hazy with unabated lust.

“Just you….”

Arthur slumped forward, out like a dying candle before he even knew it. Merlin had to stifle a laugh, though he doubted anything would wake Arthur then. The king was out cold, snoring like there was no tomorrow. Too bad Merlin had to carry his fat ass over to their bed. The warlock was beginning to rethink their plans for tomorrow. Sometimes he wished Arthur wasn’t such a stubborn ass and listened to him. It would save them both the trouble, Merlin was right most of the time after all.

“Get some rest, you oaf,” Merlin said to the asleep man, tucking him into their bed. Arthur’s blonde hair was like a halo against their stark white pillow, the dark bags underneath his eyes a contrast with the paleness of his skin. His old tunic was a dull red from overuse, the buttons holding onto the fabric for dear life. Merlin stripped Arthur of his boats and stuffy tunic leaving both men in their trousers. A much better way to sleep if anyone asked.

“Good night, Arthur,” Merlin whispered into Arthur’s ear, snuggling up against the king. He threw the blankets over himself and laid on Arthur’s chest. The pull of sleep had Merlin out just as quickly, the moment he allowed his breath to even out, there was nothing that would stop him from getting the well earned sleep that he so needed.

“Rest well, Merlin,” Arthur answered in a murmur, pulling Merlin in close. “Sweet dreams, you idiot.”

-----

“Arthur, calm down and try to see reason!” Merlin all but yelled at the king without his crown. The man in question was in his knight gear, armor and chainmail strapped tightly to his body for protection. His sword hung to his side, within reach at all times. Arthur could feel something ominous looming on the horizon, it was Merlin who was still seeing the world with rose colored glasses.

“I tried to see reason. I tried to play nice. And this is what I get in return,” Arthur gestured to the pile of charred wood on the round table. Wood that was once the homes of innocent farmers who played no part in the altercations of royals. People that Arthur was supposed to protect, their livelihoods and homes included. “We were nothing but good to them and this is what happened. Dozens of houses burned to nothing overnight!”

“We have to act now, Merlin.”

“Going in there with your swords raised in offence isn’t going to do anything but start an all out war,” Merlin insisted, urging Arthur to reel himself in, to not lash out at the closest thing. If it were anyone else Merlin would have already smacked them over the head for raising their voice at him. Unfortunately, Merlin was sleeping with the man and didn’t want to be smothered in his sleep. “That’s what Le Lubrique wants; a reason to fight. We can’t give them that.”

“Then what exactly do you expect us to do, Merlin?” Gwen piped in across the table from Merlin. Morgana stood to her side, eyes darting between all the speakers in a frenzy. “They attacked first. It’s only right that we return what they have given us.” Gwen picked up a piece of wood, charcoal rubbing off on her hands as she turned it over. “Arthur is right, we just can’t sit idle.”

Merlin stared at Gwen, hoping that she would be on his side on this. She solemnly shook her head, denying her friend’s offer. Gwen wanted to go on the offence just as much as Arthur, her friends were harmed when Le Lubrique’s soldiers set fire to a section of the kingdom. They burned down acres of farmland, dozens of homes with children and elderly. Luckily, nobody was killed in the process but many were harmed. Gwen wanted vengeance for them. She was a loyal ruler, loyal to her people.

“And we won’t,” Merlin bargained, “We won’t let them gain any more than they already have. No one here knows exactly what they want from us, but we do know that they’re willing to play dirty to get it,” he went on, talking with his hands to release some of the tension. “Let me be a spy and-”

“Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“No,” Arthur said firmly, daring Merlin to argue. “You stay right here with me. I will not have you risking your life for measly information.”

“It's not measly information, Arthur. It could be the difference between thousands dead and a simple treaty. We don’t know what Le Lubrique wants, but if we do, we could try to bargain with them. No blood needs to be shed,” Merlin tried, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, forcing the man to look at him. “The queen wants me. She made that very clear. She won’t hurt me if she thinks I’m on her side.”

Arthur stared at Merlin, watching the sorcerer for any sign of hesitation. When he saw nothing of the sort Arthur sat down in his chair with a huff. Merlin really wanted to do this. Spy work is equal to a as rushing in with their flag flying and swords shining; both could end with Merlin buried six feet under. Even the implication had Arthur feeling like hell.

“How am I supposed to get anything done with you gone?” Arthur questioned genuinely, much to the snickers of the knights and ladies. “I can’t function without you,” this was whispered softly to Merlin, just for Merlin.

The anger and stress dissipated from Merlin’s eyes, his shoulders slacked in resignation. Realization slowly but surely dawned on the sorcerer. Arthur was simply afraid. The first king of Camelot was worried, on the brink of tears from it if anyone looked close enough. Merlin rolled his eyes, even after all these years Arthur was still undoubtedly the same.

Without a care for the other people in the room, Merlin sat down on Arthur’s lap, hands on the other’s chest to stabilize himself. Merlin leaned in close and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s lips, cradling his jaw like it was something breakable. “Everything will be alright, Arthur. I can protect myself just fine,” Merlin reassured in a careful voice, stroking Arthur’s cheek. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“I always feel empty without you, Merlin." Arthur pulled Merlin in for another kiss, this one deeper than the last. The two only pulled away for air and even then they went back for more. They couldn’t have enough of the other, constantly needing to feel the other person. A give and take only the other could provide. “What am I supposed to do if you don’t return?” Arthur asked quietly, resting his forehead on Merlin’s. “How am I supposed to live?”

“I promise to you, you’ll never have to find out. You’re stuck with me," Merlin smirked, running his fingers through Arthur’s hair. "Till death do us part, darling.”

Arthur wished he could believe Merlin’s promise. He swore on his mother’s grave that if Merlin fulfilled his promise that he’ll listen to everything Merlin has to say. He’ll never question Merlin again, never talk back to the warlock, shove his stubbornness down and never speak of it again. Arthur would have done anything for Merlin, only the man asked.

Not a month later Arthur received news in the form of a messenger. Le Lubrique had declared war on any who dared try to take the last living dragonlord from them. Merlin was theirs, they stated, the dragonlord belonged to dragon tamers. The two are vital for the continuation of dragons in the old religion. One to gain their trust, the other to keep the creatures in chains where they belong. Any and all who tried to take away their dragonlord would be faced with lethal consequences.

At that Arthur sent the messenger to be put into the stocks. Lethal consequences. Arthur will show them just how deadly he could be. Le Lubrique will pay, a month without Merlin was torture but if they dared to lay a hand on Merlin they would all burn. Gwen was absolutely right, Arthur required vengeance, he wanted them all to feel just what angering Camelot will do, what angering him will do.

And after making such a claim over Merlin’s life, Arthur will show them no mercy. Le Lubrique had declared war on Camelot and Arthur would answer tenfold.

------

It took around two weeks for Arthur to prepare for battle against a kingdom full of sorcerers. Another week was spent traveling with his soldiers over land and sea. Through it all he couldn’t help but be eaten alive by the nagging feeling that he was too late. That he would arrive only to find ash; bones if he was lucky. Day and night he was slowly being killed by the fact that he could very well be walking into his husband’s grave.

“He’s going to be okay,” Morgana reassured him one day as he leaned against the railing of their ship. They were perhaps an hour if not less from shore and Arthur hadn’t slept a wink. He could feel exhaustion mixing with the worry brewing in his mind, ready to overflow at a single inconvenience. His sword was once again at his side, the memory making everything so much worse. “Merlin will be teasing you for worrying so much if he were here.”

“But he isn’t, is he, Morgana?” Arthur said more harshly than he intended. “He could already be dead for all we know.” And it would be all Arthur’s fault, though he kept that notion to himself. By the look on Morgana’s face, she must have been thinking the same thing.

“It's not your fault, Arthur. Merlin chose to go on his own free will.”

“But I was the one who allowed it,” Arthur bit back, standing straight on his feet. “I sent him to his death.”

“You don’t know that,” Morgana crossed her arms. She should be used to Arthur’s self destructive behavior but even this was getting too much for her. “If what that messenger said was true, Merlin’s probably being pampered to death.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to have said because Arthur’s despair did not lighten. It seemed to have gotten worse. “What if he likes it better with Le Lubrique’s court? I’m no warlock, I can’t compete with their magic!”

“Arthur, you’re overthinking this,” Morgana was done with Arthur’s antics. She was ready to gag him and throw him in the ship’s makeshift prison cell until they had properly docked. “Merlin will run right into your arms the moment he sees you. I’m willing to bet on it, just you wait and see. Merlin loves-”

At Morgana’s silence, Arthur looked over to the direction of her gaze. Their ship was making speed but Arthur suddenly wished they had stopped right where they were and sink. The sight took Arthur’s breath away, making his blood go cold. Le Lubrique was burning and it looked like it had been burning for a very long time. There was no shoreside to speak of, just endless flickering flames. Where the castle should have been standing tall like a beacon was nothing but flames, ruble, and ash.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled even though his voice would not carry that far. “Merlin!” he called again, his heart sinking to his stomach. He wanted to drown at sea. He never wanted to reach the shore, to be lost in the ocean and never have to face what he already knew was there. The absence of what he knew should’ve been. “Merlin!” he shouted even though it was futile.

“Arthur, please!” Morgana struggled to pull him back from the side, afraid he’ll jump and swim the rest of the way himself. Or worse. “Just an hour, please. That’s all you have to wait for. You- you don’t know for sure.” Even Morgana was not so sure of her words, the picture in front of them was hard to paint as lies.

“I sent him to his death….” Arthur whimpered, “I killed him. I killed my husband.” The king sank to his knees, kneeling next to Morgana. The woman could barely hide the tears in her eyes at the sight. Everything she wanted to say, every reassurance died on her tongue. Whatever she said could very well be a lie and nothing more.

“We will make them pay, Arthur. We will make them pay for what they’ve done,” Morgana decided instead, pulling Arthur to his feet. “They won’t get away with this,” she stated sternly, much like their father when he had set his mind to something.

Less than an hour passed where the tension was so thick, one could slice through it with an unsharpened sword. All on board prepared for battle, despite the fact that the fires never stopped burning. Regardless of the fact that they might be too late to be of much good. The fighting had already begun long before they docked, a civil war where the same flag was flying on opposite sides.

“Go search for what is left, we’ll handle everything else,” Gwen informed Arthur when they stepped foot on the raging battlefield. She was dressed in chainmail armor just like everyone else, Camelot’s colors making her blend in with the searing fires. Her helmet was covering most of her face, giving her the appearance of a frightening soldier ready to take lives at a moment's notice. If Arthur was in a better mood, he would have been sorry for the folks who would come face to face with Gwen, the quick footed soldier instead of Gwen, the gentle, kind hearted high lady. At the moment he was on the verge of breaking and was ever so glad that Gwen was as cut throat as she was.

“Thank you,” Arthur told her from the bottom of his heart, “We should have listened to you from the start.”

“You followed your husband’s request, I can’t fault you for that.” She pulled Arthur in for a hug before sending him off. “Go find our king.”

Gwen didn’t have to tell Arthur twice, he was off before she finished speaking. The only thing is his mind was finding and holding Merlin. Nothing else mattered. Not the war thriving around him, swords clashing, arrows flying, Camelot’s red against the duality of Le Lubrique’s purples; nothing. The sorcerer was all that was worth living for and Arthur had a guess as to where Merlin would be.

The castle with Le Lubrique’s flag flapping against the blistering wind was as good as any place to start. Arthur climbed the hill that the palace stood on with lead in his stomach. It felt like every step he took he was merely walking into a trap. The castle should not still be in one piece, the battles around the structure should have made it no more than debris. However, it still stood on weak support.

Going against the nagging voice in the back of his head Arthur called out for his husband, “Merlin!” He walked closer to what would have been the courtyard. Around the perimeter were burning shrubbery that must have been a sight to behold at one point in time. Now there were nothing more than flares and the source of black smoke. The cobblestone center was stained with a drying red that Arthur did not want to face the source of. “Merlin!” Arthur sounded out in the courtyard.

“Arthur,” a hoarse voice groaned weakly. Arthur ran in the direction it came from, his sense of self preservation be damned. Merlin’s life could be on the line.

“Merlin, stay with me. Keep talking!”

“I-I’m over here,” Merlin hissed out helpfully, not informing Arthur where, “here” exactly was. Why did Arthur have to marry such a buffoon? Sure, no one could compare to Merlin, but at the very least he could have courted a smarter man.

“I’m coming, just stay where you are,” Arthur said hastily, rushing through the crumbling courtyard. “Don’t you dare die on me, I’ll kill you myself if you do!” he threatened, searching every nook and cranny for the warlock.

“That’s my line, you ass,” Merlin moaned in complaint, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Come up with your own catchphrases.”

Sometimes Arthur couldn’t believe his choice in a partner. Merlin was really making banter with him while possibly on the brink of death. He was definitely going to kill Merlin for this. “Make me, you bastard,” Arthur cursed, rounding a sharp corner that fell apart as he passed it. His breath was taken away for the second time that day when he saw Merlin on the ground.

They were in what must have been a parlor, the stained glass windows shattered on the ground as a number of the fine furniture burned to cinder. Arthur could imagine the room as something beautiful if he were to be invited over for tea. Now he just saw it as a smoking mess, something that he was glad was going up in flames. Though, without him or Merlin in it would be nice.

“There you are!” Arthur exclaimed, rushing over and kneeling on the floor next to Merlin’s frame. The sorcerer was half naked with sharp nail marks littered across his pale skin. Merlin’s neck was a raring red as if a hand had been wrapped around his throat which didn’t let up until he passed out from the lack of air. His form was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and tears, his rib cage stuck out in unpleasant angles. It looked like he hadn’t been fed in days. The sight made Arthur furious, but Le Lubrique’s court could wait. Arthur had to get Merlin to safety first.

“Took you long enough, you oaf,” Merlin hissed through his teeth, his lips chapped from dehydration. The corner of his mouth was bleeding as if he had been back handed across the face. Arthur reached out a hand to touch it, to make sure Merlin was real and not just some illusion made by a sick sorcerer. “Stop that, it already hurts to talk,” Merlin coughed, his eyes hazy.

“What happened?” Arthur couldn’t help but ask, shrugging off his cape to throw over Merlin’s bare chest. It didn’t offer much coverage but it was protection against the flying embers. As a bonus it covered the markings that made Arthur’s skin crawl.

“I arrived under the guise of an envoy, just as we had planned. Everything seemed to be going fine, but they found out I was a spy early on. It was like they could read my mind, and I don’t doubt that they have the knowledge just for the spell,” Merlin explained, pulling Arthur’s cape close, the soft fabric offering a sense of shelter. “But they didn’t seem to care that I was there under ulterior motives. They were only glad to have me, mind and body,” Merlin shivered at the thought. “Le Lubrique’s queen wanted me to father her children.”

Merlin paused to let the thought sink in. He watched Arthur for his reaction. Arthur’s face twisted in a disgusted sneer, baring his teeth at the implication. The king clenched his fists until his nails dug deep enough into his palm to drag blood. Arthur wanted to feel the pain, something to ground him farther so he didn’t march off to kill someone who might already be dead.

“Le Lubrique wanted dragons as slaves, no king would be dumb enough to go to war with a kingdom with dragons on their side; no matter its size,” Merlin went on, his eyes glowing yellow at the notion. “They needed me as a stud.”

Arthur was repulsed at the notion that Le Lubrique would even conceive of such a thing. He must have looked ready to vomit because Merlin quickly added, “Le Lubrique’s queen even tried to make herself appealing to me when I denied her advances.” Arthur could only imagine what the woman did. Sylvy’s antics immediately came to mind. “She magicked her hair blonde and made her eyes your shade of blue.”

Arthur couldn’t help but darkly chuckle at that. Of all the ways to make Merlin fall for someone, blonde hair and blue eyes weren’t it. “Did she really think looking like me would get you to bed her?”

“No,” Merlin began again with a pained yelp that he tried to hide. “What she said was what made me comply.”

“What did she say?” Arthur growled, his earlier fury seeping back into his bloodstream. “What did that harlot say?”

“She threatened your life, Arthur. Your honor, your dignity, and reign as king. Everything,” Merlin got teary eyed at the memory. “The way she took her pleasure from me was painful, but it was nothing compared to the thought of what she said she would have done to you.”

Arthur was shaking with rage, his whole body trembled with the urge to tear Le Lubrique’s queen apart, limb by limb by his own bare hands. His hand hovered over his sword subconsciously. He wanted to kill her, needed to destroy her for what she’s done. For the fear she incited into Merlin. Arthur was bloodthirsty; he hoped that Gwen was just as demanding of blood.

“I wanted to kill her.” Merlin’s quivering voice brought Arthur back to the present. “Let me kill her, Arthur,” Merlin begged his husband, his lip beginning to bleed.

“Of course,” Arthur wiped Merlin’s tears away with his thumb, his hand caressing Merlin’s cheek gently. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you in a heartbeat.”

“Now, Arthur. I want to kill her now.” Merlin tried to sit up but the cry of pain had him falling right back to where he was. “She deserves to suffer.” His eyes lit up in a gold light, trying to magic his way upright but failed and fell down once more. The warlock’s body was in a worse state than he appeared, he shook in a cold sweat like an infection induced fever.

When Merlin began coughing fistfuls of blood at the strain Arthur was forced to act quickly. The king straddled Merlin’s legs, sitting down on his lap to keep Merlin on the ground. “Shhh, I’m here, Merlin. I’m safe, I’m alive,” Arthur barricaded Merlin with his arms. “I’ll bring you her head, I swear.”

“Let me do it, Arthur. I can kill her myself,” Merlin barked, another fit of coughs had him squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’ll bring her to you, alive. You can do anything you want with her court,” Arthur tried a different approach, tears forming in his eyes at the sight of Merlin in this state. “You can make her pay for what she’s done, make her feel the same pain. But please, Merlin,” Arthur begged, stroking Merlin’s face as tears fell on the man’s face. “Stay with me. Keep talking.”

Merlin opened his eyes at Arthur’s request, pain painting them a disorientating blue. “It hurts, Arthur. She did so, so many horrible things,” Merlin admitted in the burning parlor room. He reached out angry scarred arms to wrap around Arthur, pulling the king flush against his chest. “Everything aches, it feels like I’m being burned alive.” Merlin had Arthur in a death grip, there was barely enough room for either of them to breathe. It felt like home.

“They will pay, this I swear,” Arthur made an oath, kissing Merlin to make it true. “By the end of this day their bodies will be put on display for all to see.” He kissed down Merlin’s neck, burying Le Lubrique’s queen’s markings with his own. “Do you want her kingdom as well, Merlin? Say the word and it's yours.”

“I want you. I want her gone. I want her kingdom. I want it all,” Merlin’s mind was spinning with searing fever, screaming pain, and the constant pleasure of Arthur licking at his throat. He squeezed Arthur’s neck with his shaking arms. “Give me everything.”

In a burning parlor of a dying country with a queen and court that abandoned it, the first king of Camelot made a vow to the second king; an apology and a promise. Everything the licking fire was eating, everything destroyed by its own queen; the country, and the sea that surrounded it. The never ending farmlands, the people that survived, and the bones that would be buried by ash of its own making. The entire kingdom; dead, dying, or thriving. All of it would be Merlin’s.

All of it is Merlin’s.

“My king shall have everything.”

[lesetoilesfous]

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you wanted to live” + handers = tears ;_; Happy Friday!

Oooooh this was the BEST prompt, thank you so much!!!!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Handers

Characters: Anders, Garrett Hawke

Tags: immediately post Chantry explosion, suicidal impulses, frank discussion of grief and discrimination, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Rating: Mature

“If you want to kill me for this, I won’t stop you.” 

Everything is on fire. The Kirkwall sky is bloody with heat and flames that lick smoke up into the firmament like some terrible beast from Calenhad’s day. There’s screaming, and an awful cacophony of metal on metal and stone, and softer than that the slick squelch and spray of viscera. Hawke had left one home burning once. He wonders how it is that he found his way into another one.

Anders is as still and pale as some terminal invalid, peacefully awaiting their restful end. It’s jarring, against the tumult of the night, as if he is somehow separate to it, cut from a different cloth to that which Hawke and the rest of the city are made of. There’s a light wind, utterly oblivious to the chaos, and it pulls a loose strand of hair past Anders’ ear. He’s going grey, Hawke notes, distantly: glitters of silver woven between the red and blonde which shine in the dancing firelight. 

He doesn’t look scared.

Hawke feels heat rising in the back of his mind, quick and red as fresh blood. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression you wanted to live.”

For the first time since breaking formation to confront the Knight Commander herself, Anders’ facade cracks, a comma of a frown wrinkling his brow. He opens his mouth, but Hawke goes on, striding forward to pace in front of him because he has to do something with the energy bunching in his muscles and he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else. His voice bounces against the broken stone buildings around them like thunder, and behind him Dog is barking. He doesn’t stop. 

“I was under the, perhaps idiotic impression, that I made you happy.” Hawke blinks, and his eyes sting, and he tells himself it’s the smoke. When he turns back to Anders, he can’t quite look at his face. “I thought - and I know, I know, some thick Fereldan dog lord, what the fuck was I thinking - but I thought, I really thought, that you actually wanted me. Wanted this.” Hawke gestures briefly, explosively to the burning buildings around them. “I guess not.”

Anders is really frowning now, though he makes no move to stand or take his staff. “Garrett, this isn’t about y-”

“Isn’t it?” Hawke’s voice pitches up with his incredulity so sharply it hurts, and he grimaces, dragging a hand down over his beard hard enough to feel the bruising press of his fingers against his jaw. There are tears running down his cheeks now. It’s the smoke. “I thought you trusted me. I thought you felt - Maker, safe? Void, Carver was right, I’ve always been thicker than a fucking genlock.” 

Anders does stand, now, and Fenris moves, tattoos burning white and strange as lightning against the smoking city. Dog growls, and Fenris falters, even as Hawke looks up to meet his eyes. Fenris purses his lips, but stops. Anders’ staff is still resting against the block of stone on which he’d been sitting, like the spear in a warrior’s grave.

“Garrett, this burden isn’t yours to bear - “

“But I thought you were!” Hawke roars, and glares when his voice breaks as if his lover had ever been fooled by his pretension at bravado. Anders’ narrow jaw tightens, and he steps forward, grabbing Hawke’s forearms with a strength that belies his slender build. 

“I was. Garrett, listen to me,” Anders’ hands are squeezing Hawke’s arms tightly enough to hurt, and his grip doesn’t loosen until Hawke meets his eyes. They’re dark and brown in the strange twilight of the burning city, and his face is thick with ginger freckles. “You can kill me, if you want. But I won’t die with you believing I didn’t want you, or trust you, or love you, with every ounce of everything I am and ever have been. I love you, Garrett Hawke, more than every star in the sky. And I’ll die happy, knowing that.”

Hawke tries without much effort to pull away, and doesn’t fight the sob that rips its way out of his throat, grimacing as more tears run down his cheeks. “Then why do you think I could kill you?” He looks at Anders, now, who’s become abruptly very still, and presses closer, fingers curling uselessly where his arms are still trapped in Anders’ grasp. “I can’t - I’ve lost everyone. I’ve lost everything. I can’t survive losing you, too. Don’t ask me to do that. Please.”

Far off, on the streets of Kirkwall, there’s the sound of screaming, and below that the guttural, twisted roar of monsters. But beneath the smouldering ruins of the Chantry, arms going numb in Anders’ fingers, Hawke thinks he might as well be standing on the moon. Anders’ grip loosens, a little, his expression caught halfway between surprise and frustration, the way it freezes when he’s confronted with a particularly challenging remedy. “I thought - I didn’t think - I thought it would be easier this way.”

Hawke laughs, rough and aching. “Yeah, well. Don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m not famous for taking the easy way out.”

Anders’ mouth curls up at one corner into the shadow of a small, humourless smile. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

He lets go of Hawke’s arms, then, and turns away, face falling behind the same stone mask of impassivity he’d worn before, and Hawke’s stomach lurches. He sways forward, catching Anders’ hand. Anders doesn’t turn back to look at him. In the wind and the explosion, clumps of hair have pulled free of his hair tie, and now they conceal his face in curtains of dirty gold. Hawke tries, once, and fails, to speak past the thickness in his throat. His fingers tighten around Anders’ thin wrist.

“Anders, please. Maker damn me to the Void if he must, please, don’t take yourself away from me.”

Anders still isn’t looking at him. The rest of their friends are silent, expressions uncharacteristically grim. Dog is looking between Anders and Hawke, and after a moment she sits and whines, frightened. When Anders speaks, he does it so quietly that Hawke has to strain to hear him over the burning city. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. I won’t do this to you.”

Hawke scowls, and pulls on Anders’ hand. Anders resists him. “Do what?” Hawke pulls again, harder this time, and Anders stumbles backward, snarling as he turns to face him. Hawke returns the expression, “Do I get a say in this decision? Or are you going to make it for me?”

“You’ll be a criminal, Garrett! You’ll be hunted for the rest of your life. We both will.” Anders hair pulls back from his face, and in the bloody light of the setting sun creeping between clouds of ash, it looks as if he’s burning. 

“So?” Hawke throws up a free hand, clutching Anders in the other as if he’s the only thing holding him onto solid earth. “Been there, done that.”

“Not like this.” Anders’ teeth are bared with the furious grief of the confession, and Hawke can see now the tear tracks in the sweat and ash on his cheeks. “You’ve never been hated like this. I won’t do that to you. I won’t let them hate you.”

Something gives way in Hawke’s chest. Pulling Anders’ closer isn’t difficult; Anders is strong, but Hawke has been learning how to fight with his hands since he was old enough to hold a knife, and he’s never had the luxury of fire in his fingertips. Hawke catches Anders’ shoulder with his other hand, and then moves his hand up to the back of Anders’ neck, holding him still when Anders tries to pull away, squeezing his eyes shut. “I will. I’ll tear the Grand Cathedral down brick by brick. I’ll set the fucking world on fire. I’ll make them hate me.”

Anders shakes his head, but he isn’t trying to pull away any more, just crying, silent and eerily still. When he speaks his voice is a rough whisper. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what this is like. I never wanted to do this to you.”

Hawke moves his hand from the back of Anders’ neck to his chin, cupping it between his forefinger and thumb and lifting his head. He waits until Anders opens his eyes. “Tough shit. It’s already done. That ship sailed six years ago and I don’t know any pirate quick enough to capture her.” Hawke stops, and hesitates, and looks into Anders’ eyes. He presses a rough, clumsy kiss to his lover’s forehead. “You’re my heart, Anders. Don’t make me live without my heart.”

Anders chokes, and laughs, and then his free hand is coming up to clasp Hawke’s cheek and the back of his ear and pull him close for a kiss. Their lips are salty with tears, their breath stained with smoke. It doesn’t matter. It feels like coming up for air. Hawke shuts his eyes, and for half a heartbeat, the burning city and the screams, the templars and the monsters, Meredith and Orsino, all of them twist and disappear into the oblivion behind his eyelids, and there is only Anders and the scrape of his stubble and the flicker of his clever tongue.

Anders pulls back, and his breath scrapes against Hawke’s nose and lips, and Hawke holds onto him like a drowning man on the open sea. “It’s not going to be easy, you know.”

Hawke laughs, and slides his fingers into Anders’ sweat-damp hair, cupping the back of his head. “Haven’t you heard? Nothing ever is.”

[lucycola]

The Lone Survivor: Part 5

TOS!Spock x Fem!Reader

Spock saves the reader from an icy starship crash, only to accidentally form a bond with them in the process. They are called to investigate a happening in the morgue, seemingly to face the unseen enemy that caused the crash in the first place.

PART(S) ONE TWO THREE FOUR

WARNINGS: Blood, violence, death, corpses, language, and sexual implications. The body eating gets vivid so if you can’t ride, please don’t. 

I’m so so so so sorry this took so long to come out. I’m not good at actions scenes so I did my best! Part 6 will be out soon. If I missed you on the tagged list I’m so sorry! 

Part 5: Isn’t is lovely? All alone. My heart made of glass, my mind of stone.

Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy tried to shield you from the carnage, but you broke through their human shield to see Commander Craft surveying the morgue with a grim expression.

Only a portion of the crew were brought aboard-the rest were still being recovered by multiple teams below. Along with Craft came other starships to help with the recovery. The tundra below was harsh and made recovery an even more difficult process. Bodies that were still intact were brought aboard the Enterprise to be identified. The others well were left in makeshift morgues below waiting to be put together with their other pieces.

What you hadn’t known before yesterday was that some of your crew had been devoured.

More had been devoured now. Bodies were littered about the morgue, torn from their bags. Some were only half eaten at the limbs and thighs. Heads and torsos were still left in contact where it was less meat and more viscera and soupy organs. The poor morgue workers were left alone.

“Blunt force trauma,” McCoy noted into his recorder. “Why didn’t it eat them?”

“It appears...it only ate the Calvary crew. The ones that had been on ice,” Kirk murmured, fist pressing into his teeth.

“It likes its food served cold,” you said, absent mindedly.

“Fascinating,” Spock said.

You glanced over the logs last input by the crewman, “He listed finding my father. Right here! Doctor L/N. My father’s dead. It must have kept his form.”

“Which must be why the creature could not be detected on our scanners. It perfectly mimicked the dead,” Spock said, bouncing ideas off of you, “It may be possible to feign the absence of a pulse or temperature-or perhaps it can alter its physical state enough to where it appears to be a lack of both.”

“Why did it take so long to recognize Doctor L/N, then? The man’s been dead for years.”

“The bodies were beamed up in droves, Jim,” Bones answered, “Then picked through. After were found the Calvary’s lone survivor we stopped bringing up one by one.”

“How...” Commander Craft said slowly, through ground teeth, “Could you be the only one?”

“I don’t know,” you answered.

“Four hundred men dead and you...still alive having wrecked in an escape pod,” the commander snarled, seemingly refusing to even look at you. He still surveyed the frozen dead.

“What?” you asked in disbelief, “I was in an escape pod?”

“Don’t play cute with me,” he jerked to look at you finally, eyes blazing, “You launched the pod right before the ship went down. My crew scouted out the area you were recovered from. Only a single pod launched with only you in it. Or did your husband not tell you that’s where he found you?”

“Spock, is this true?” Kirk asked.

“It seems I may have accidentally omitted such a finding...as I was not aware of it.”

“You’re a Vulcan-you don’t miss things,” Craft spat.

“One forgets my human half-although I have never found myself so personal with you, Commander, to share such a fact.”

Craft looked to you and back to Spock and then back to you again.

“You were both with one another the whole evening?” Commander Craft asked.

“I had two guards posted out side their quarters,” Kirk said, his temper flaring, “I doubt she’s in cahoots with the damn thing. Spock looked into her mind and it seems she’s nothing but a scapegoat for a monster to get its next meal! Now you can stop targeting my officers and start cooperating.”

You reached for Kirk’s arm desperately, “Captain, I didn’t put myself in that pod. Captain, I didn’t do this-you’ve got to believe me still.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What see is your crew in bits and pieces down here and that thing is going to do the same to my men,” Kirk said, patience wheedling thin. “Bridge, this is the captain. Issue a red alert. Lockdown all decks.”

“But captain,” a woman’s voice replied, “You just issued a command stating that the ship take a landing and to disregard any other orders.”

“Lieutenant, where was I when I gave such orders?”

“On deck three.”

x

The red alert beacon seemed like it would never fade into the background but it was eventually drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in your ears. Kirk had ordered you all to stay together after a trip to the armory and that you were all going to the third deck, whether the commander liked it or not.

The assent to the third deck was painful as the commander and Kirk had it out with one another. The lift felt extremely cramped, but the tension in the air made it worse.

Splitting up the party had perhaps been briefly suggested by your husband to cover more ground, to which the commander argued, “Don’t let Spock take her anywhere. I don’t trust those two!”

“No ones going anywhere unless it’s with me,” Kirk retorted, “Set your phasers to stun. We don’t know who the real crewmen will be apart from this thing. We don’t want to kill anyone else.”

“Then how to do we know you’re not the imposter then? How do we know the real you isn’t already on the third deck or even the bridge by now?” the commander asked, nearly spitting.

“I wouldn’t have asked to land. I’m getting really tired of you,” Kirk said.

The doors to the lift finally opened, showing and eerily empty third deck washed in the red light.

“Daddy?”

A small voice, a woman’s voice in fact so far away you could barely hear it.

The doctor stepped passed you eyes bugging out of his skull, “Didja hear that?” He whirled back around to you, “Did ya’ll hear that?”

“Indeed, doctor,” Spock replied, “It seemed to be coming from that corridor.”

“Daddy!” came the woman’s voice again, now sobbing and strangled.

“Joanna?” the doctor asked, immediately breaking away with full stride.

You seized him around the waist, trying to prevent him from going, “Wait-doctor-!”

“Simon!” came a wavering moan from the adjacent hall.

Commander Craft was less vocal than Bones and bolted immediately with a tailing Kirk who was then seized up by Spock, “Captain, don’t-”

“Daddy!” Joanna’s wail was blood curdling and McCoy broke free from your hold like a frenzied horse. You bolted after him immediately.

“T’hy’la!” Spock began to which in the confusion Kirk said, “Go after them-I’ll get Craft!”

x

Could it possible the creature could multiply? You hadn’t seen it for yourself, but fear blazoned in your body and drove your legs to pump themselves as far as they could go. You were younger than Bones, but your weak leg gave out. Spock was faster than you anticipated and with thundering footfalls you felt him upon you.

He swept you up quickly, “That was foolish.”

“It’ll kill him, Spock!”

“I do not think it can be many places at once or it would have acted upon the crew sooner.”

“It’s just throwing its voice?”

“Possibly.”

He was moving at a light sprint, cradling you up like a baby.

“If it likes its food cold it will go for the bridge. It’ll wreck the ship to the snow below,” you breathed, clutching onto Spock’s uniform.

“I suspect the same thing-” his running faltered a bit, “-it will pursue the captain in attempt to control the ship.”

“Fuck.”

x

“Jim!”

“Sam?”

Long ago had Kirk lost sight of Craft, now lurking beyond every corner. It seemed the third deck was empty and he found out quickly why it was so quiet, save the bells. He came upon the mangled bodies of his crew, not eaten, but twisted like rag dolls in their heaps.

Now it was mimicking his brother. The bastard of a thing-whatever it was.

“Jim, help!”

“I’m coming, Sam!” Kirk called, moving carefully down the hall, phaser in hand. It was leading to him to his own cabin. He knew his brother was dead, but it was almost like he couldn’t stop himself. It was a painful desperation and it burned like fire in his chest.

He opened the door and stepped inside. His room was the same as it had always been. Bed in one area, dress and mirror in the other. His antique weapon collection of old era muskets, sabers, and spears freckled his walls but were hard to be seen as the lights were oddly set dim.

“Captain!” a distressed voice cried from the corner. A female voice.

“Y/N?” Kirk asked, moving closer, “Kitty, is that you?”

The person moved from the corner and into the light and indeed to the captain it appeared to be you. But how? Kirk questioned.

Your face was beaten and your body was bloodied. Your dress which once was white was almost completely dyed scarlet and it was ripped all the way down, revealing your right shoulder and breasts.

Kirk snatched the blanket off the bed and brought it to cover you. “How did you get here so fast? Did it do this to you?”

“It ran as soon as it heard you. It was a man. He looked just like you. I thought it was you,” you cried.

He skimmed the tears off your face with his thumb, “There, there. I’m here now.”

“You’ve got to help me. Spock tricked me, Jim,” you said, moving closer. “I need you.”

x

The third deck was so confusing you (the real you) thought you and Spock would get lost but you honed in on the doctor’s desperate cries of “Joanna!” like breadcrumbs.

You both came to a dead end to see the doctor there, bumbling at the wall, clearly confused.

“Doctor!” you cried in relief.

“I heard Jo one second and the next-I’m at a loss!” he attempted to explain, scratching the back of his head.

The doctor stared at the bare wall as if his daughter was apart of its making. She was there in his ears and the next she wasn’t.

“She was never there,” you sighed, still cradled in Spock’s clutch.

“It was a trick, Doctor,” Spock concurred.

“Lemme down,” you reached for Bones almost desperately.

You felt like you had to touch him to truly know he was alright. His face looked alright as well as the rest of his body, but his eyes were still large with bewilderment and grief. Joanna had not been there, but she had sounded so real and seemed to be in so much pain as the ghost of your own father had been.

“Doctor, are you well enough to care for my wife? It seems she has reinjured her leg to some extent,” Spock inquired, allowing you to bear weight on your good limb.

Bones reached for you immediately and then asked Spock, “Where the hell are you going?”

“I must relocate the captain and Commander Craft for their safety,” Spock explained, already having turned promptly to leave.

He broke out into another sprint, which looked faster than it had while you were being carried. Vulcans were faster, stronger than humans naturally, it seemed.

Bones fussed over you and you shushed him, “It’s just a limp-I’m fine-no, we are not going to sickbay!”

“Where do you suggest we go then? We might as well be sitting ducks.”

“We’re going to catch up with, Spock,” you said in a definite tone.

“In your condition and mine? it’ll take this old man two weeks to get you there,” he said, shaking his head.

“Hey,” you grinned, “It’s not the first time you’ve walked a pretty girl down the aisle.”

Bones face heated up with a large grin.

x

The door shifted open and Spock was greeted with the sight of his nude wife fondling his captain. Except you were had been left in Bones’ care behind him. Something white hot and broiling ignited in his very being.

You could feel it from down the hall.

He’s mad-why is he so mad? you questioned internally, limping as fast as you could.

Kirk fired his phaser immediately into the creature’s belly, after letting it draw itself close. The mirror version of you somehow enclosed its hand around the firing phaser, crushing it completely.

Kirk shook his hand free, screaming. The creature seized Kirk by the shoulders and flung him effortlessly into the wall. He hit part of his antique weapon collection, spears and swords clattering to the ground with him.

“Captain-!”

“I’m alright.”

The imposter whirled around and grinned like a Cheshire, “Well the infamous Mister Spock! I can read the crew’s thoughts y’know. Plenty of gals seem to like you. But you only like this one, don’t you?”

The imposter ran her hand down her naked form, taunting him.

“Too bad your captain got the upper hand on your wife first. Didn’t even stop himself when given the opportunity.”

“That’s a lie, Spock,” Kirk choked.

Spock shot at the creature, phaser still set the stun. The creature was knocked back only a little, seemingly unfazed. Spock shot multiple times only with the same result.

“I like it rough,” the creature laughed, “Keep on.”

“Why did you place Lieutenant Y/L/N in the escape pod when you could have devoured her?” Spock inquired.

“I seek the weakest link of all that visit my land. I seek their fears, their sorrows and hers was most adequate for my use,” it said, “The other ships that follow after every crash always tend to stay longer when there’s someone to blame. Everyone likes someone to blame.”

“How many other starships have you sabotaged?” Kirk asked, moving slowly about the weapons on the floor.

“Enough to feed me my due.”

Kirk launched one of the old spears at the imposter and it grazed its belly, spurting purple blood.

“Run, Captain!” Spock ordered.

The creature seized the spear and thrust it a Kirk as he ran to the door. Spock was faster and quickly moved in front of Kirk, catching the spear deafly with one hand. The blade was merely inches from his nose. The phaser clattered to the ground.

“Fascinating,” the creature said mockingly and changed it form from you to Spock himself.

x

Eventually you and Bones were able follow the trail of downed crewman to the captain’s cabin. Upon opening the door you were gifted with the sight of two of your husbands wrestling with one other over some ancient spear.

Where the hell did that thing come from?

Long forgone on the floor was Spock’s phaser and you knelt to grab it.

“Jim!” Bones exclaimed.

Kirk was once again a heap on the floor, already having been assaulted twice by the imposter and saved by Spock. He was bleeding from his right flank.

Bones quickly moved to him, dragging you long with him.

“We’ve got--got to kill it--” Kirk stuttered, staggering upward. You caught him under the arm, supporting him. “The phaser doesn’t seem to work on stun. You have to set it to kill.”

Bones caught the other, “But how can we? Which one is it?”

You shakenly pointed the phaser even though it seemed it had no effect.

“Alright you two!” Kirk yelled, ‘Stop or we’ll be forced to shoot the both of you!”

The wrestling came to a still and the spear was tossed aside, rolling to your feet.

They were identical, completely. Fuck.

“T’hy’la, it is I,” said the one on the left.

“No, that is incorrect,” said the one on the left.

Down to the nose, the hair, the faint hue of green in their cheeks and lips. The familiar warmth pulled you at the back of your mind.

“Kitty, what are you doing?” Kirk began.

You moved forward, with two fingers extended, “Husband, attend.”

The one of the left immediately came forward and you felt the warmth surge closer at is it, enveloping your mind as your fingers touched.

“Fools!”

The one of the right’s entire mouth opened up as if it was a venous fly trap, launching itself at you and Spock. You fired the phaser, blasting a hole on its left side but it still came.

Kirk was faster on the draw, and launched the spear into the creature’s mouth, splattering purple liquid everywhere. Its lifeless body hit the ground with a wet thud.

The spear had ripped through its body and pierced itself into the wall behind it.

“Good shot, captain,” Spock said. “And you as well, wife.”

“Second time’s the charm,” Kirk said, holding his injured side.

You let out a dry sob, mixed in with a laugh. Bones patted your shoulder, letting out a large sigh.

PART SIX

tagged: @groovyfluxie @dontgivedeath @lumar014 @pringtella @moonchildlonan @superninjapervert420 @love-wanderlust15 @ischysiaclark@imyourspacegirlfriend @hiddlestonme @fandoms4ever97 @mywellspringoflife @rebelchild93 @nilalunis16

[winter-fox-queen]

Kisses Like Wine 6

Summary:  The Thief gets into trouble, the reader makes a plan.

Warnings:  A little violence, some introspection.

We are drawing close to the end. :D

I’m tired of you.  You’re no better than my family.

He used the USB stick with its code to get into the vault.  Liberated the stone.  Got out of there.  If he was not, indeed, the world’s greatest thief, he would have failed utterly, because his focus was destroyed.

Your words kept echoing in his ears.  He’d had a lot of terrible things happen to him.  He’d been poisoned once and laid at death’s door for three days, just on the edge of death, the pain like the unrelenting fires of hell but he couldn’t let himself fall into a coma.

It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as what you said.  She’s just frustrated, he soothed himself.  It was a very frustrating night and you were not at your best.

He wanted to do something.  He imagined doing something.  Scenario after scenario, and they all ended the same, you saying that you understood what he’d been trying to do.  That you forgave him.

Maybe.  Maybe.  That you loved him.

That thought set him back.  Love was never part of the plan.  His plan was to show you a way out of your cage, but not replace it with another one.  You had to take your freedom, you had to build your own life.

He kept telling himself that he never wanted that life to be with him.

You were right.  He was a liar.  Something had changed.  Maybe it changed the night of the ball.

All this made him careless.  For the first time in his life, the first time in his long and very successful career…he was being tracked.

He got on a plane, headed to the final diamond, a five star hotel overlooking the Rhine.  Half hoping you would be there, doubting you would be.

He never made it out of the airport.

***

The last thing I was interested in was the Heart of the Rhine.  But here I was, working as a maid, looking for a way in.

Unlike the Compass, The Heart was usually in a vault, hidden behind a wine cellar.

“Are you any closer to getting the Star?”  My brother asked me when he called to check in.

“Do you know the Heart of the Rhine is worth twice what the Star is?  Twice.”

Silence.  Then, “Really?”

“And it is incredibly lovely.  I figure…get the Heart, then I can either just bring it home for the family, or trade it for the Star.  Get papa to let you know his preference, will you?”

“We’ve spent so much money getting you this far, we probably should go for the better stone…recoup our losses.”  He *almost* jokes.

“Did you email me what you found out?”

“Yep.  And overnighting your shopping list.  This is…this is it, right?  You’ll be done after this?”

“Miss me?”

Another silence.  “It’s not the same around here, no.  But…I don’t know how much more dad will let you do.”

“I know I’m not his only plan.”

“No.  The other plan is not…I’d avoid our boy, if I were you.”

I felt chills…”What are they going to do?”

He hung up.

I stared at the phone, cursed, then slipped it back in my apron.  The day before I thought I’d seen Lars, a huge piece of work that our head of security sometimes brought in.  I new he was on retainer, and usually worked for us a few times a year.

I changed, took off my wig, and went looking for him, scratching my scalp.

He was not hard to find.  I had to troll him in a bit, walking all over the place, but I knew once he got sight of me, he’d zero in.

“Hey, Lars!”  I handed him one of two cups of coffee I’d gotten.

He nodded at me.

“So, any luck finding the Thief?  Dad told me to connect up with you, compare notes.”

“I’m done with that…someone else has him, and by the time they’re done, there won’t be anything left to bother with.”

I tried to make the spike of panicked fear I felt act like rage.  “Are you fucking kidding me?  They kill him, and we won’t get our property back!”

He shrugged.  “Your father’s not that worried.  He must think you’ve already got it in the bag.”  He took a sip of his coffee.  I wish I’d poisoned it.  “ But, you should know that.”

I channeled every privileged woman I’d ever met, straightened my spline, looked down at him, and said, “Do you like working for my family.”

He started to look uncomfortable.  “Yeah.  But that’s your father’s call.”

“True.  And I think his call will be a definite no when I show him the pictures I took of you screwing my sister on his desk.  You should work for the porn industry…”

“You’re bluffing.”  He growled.

“Am I?”  I took a step towards him, as if I wasn’t scared.  “You will take me to where they are keeping him.  If you have people you can hire to get here fast, do it.  We will go in and retrieve the thief and you…you get to keep your job.”

“He’ll fire me if I get you killed.”

I stepped back, sighed.  “Lars.  Do you really think he’ll care?  He just wants the diamond.  In a year, maybe two, our head of security will retire.  Don’t you want a nice, cozy position that pays well and has lots of benefits?”

He licked his lip.  “I might be able to get a guy.  Maybe two.”

**

The Thief was cursing himself.  He started with French, then in celebration of where he was imprisoned, German.  Spanish, his mother tongue.  Arabic was next, and maybe, after that, Russian…

All the while, he was thinking.  He didn’t have long…the taste of blood in his mouth and the pain in his ribs told him they’d roughed him up while he was out, but not much.  He was duct taped, but they had not searched his person, so did not know about the very sharp blade he kept in his shirt cuff, and he was working, working.

Whatever drug they’d used (Was this karma?) had faded, leaving him clear minded.

Were you safe?  You had to be safe.  Please God, keep you safe.

Maybe this was you.  Maybe the torture had not begun in earnest because they were waiting for you.  And you wouldn’t really hurt him.  No matter how much he deserved it.  He’d beg for your forgiveness then say, punish me, punish me so you know I am telling the truth, not lying to avoid the pain.

He heard voices.  They were speaking Gaelic of all things.  Had he’d displeased anyone from that part of the world?  He didn’t think so, but anything was possible.

He heard someone at the door, so he held his hands together carefully (he was almost free) and let his head hang down.

Someone came close, smacked him gently.  “You must be awake by now…open your eyes.  It’s time to talk…”

He raised his head.  “And what would you like to say?  What’s the weather like outside…it was supposed to be nice, but with a bit of a chill.”

“You have amassed a rather…stunning collection of wealth.  The gentleman I work for thinks it is time you share.  So, you tell us where you keep your valuables, and perhaps we will let you live.”

Their eyes met, and the Thief said, “A wise man would not let me live…”

They could both hear gun shots, on the other side of the door.  “Hold that’s thought,” he said almost amiably as he went outside.

The Thief got up, threw the duct tape on the chair, and caught the door before it could close.  At the doorway, he could swear he heard you yell out to someone…not angry, mad.  In charge.  He smiled and drew his pack of cards out, selected one and threw it on the chair.

He slipped out.  The place was a large warehouse…a good place to take someone, you could do what you wanted and no one would hear, throw the body in a box and ship it.  He was tempted, to go and find you, but…the card would be enough.  The game was afoot.

Thank you to you lovely people for being on my tag list, if you want added or dropped just let me know.  <3

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[princesssarcastia]

first hp and now MCU *sigh*

sighs. anyway the reason the jane foster au thing is taking literally seven years is that I’m physically incapable of writing for the MCU without fixing everything I thought was dumb about it.  can’t just do a canon re-write because I Refuse To Condone XYZ.  The things I thought were dumb are many and myriad, but here’s one of them:

In Infinity War, they won’t destroy the mind stone while it’s still attached to Vision because they “don’t trade lives,” even though Steve made the same damn sacrifice, whatever.  But the thing is the avengers then immediately travel to Wakanda and start trading Wakandan lives for Vision’s.  They trade so many lives for Vision’s, and in the end it doesn’t even matter because they have to kill him themselves anyway.  SO all those Wakandans died for nothing.  They died for the aesthetic of the avengers having an army.  They died because no one thought through “yeah, T’Challa is totally down to sacrifice his people’s lives for one android he isn’t close with.”  They died because, let’s be honest, the lives of those random Wakandan soldiers meant less to not only the white main characters, but also the white movie creators. hmm. what could possibly be the impetus there.  mostly stupidity, but probably also some racism, lbr.

anyway.  all this to say what follows is a snippet where a) the battle to save vision isn’t taking place in Wakanda proper because the avengers don’t trade lives...other than their own.  In fact, it’s taking place in the arctic circle, where Wakanda has a shielded research station with no civilians that Shuri can appropriate to fix Vision without having her citizens die needlessly.  b) it’s just the avengers there, because they’re willing to put their own lives on the line for their friend and their principles. c) they’re using the mind stone as a lure to keep Thanos’ giant monster army focused on them, in this unpopulated place, rather than a city or a country.

you didn’t really need to know that, actually, because this fic snippet is about bruce banner.  explicit tw in the tags you may want to check for if you don’t mind a spoiler.  anyway, oh well, long walk for a short drink of water:

The walls shake with something other than the wind, and Bruce grits his teeth against whatever extrasensory response the other guy is having.  If he doesn’t want to come out to play, then he doesn’t get to raise the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck.

The other guy.   After two years being trapped while he gets to play, maybe Bruce is the other guy now.  Maybe the Hulk—

“Doctor Banner,” Shuri says without looking away from her interface.  “If you’re going to help, then help.  Otherwise stop distracting me and get out.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four...”You’re right.  Sorry.”  He turns back to his equations and keeps calculating what kind of energy source they can create here to replace the mind stone.  Vision may be able to survive without it, but it’s ridiculous to ignore that it serves a purpose in keeping him not just alive, but functional.  There’s a difference between surviving and living and the Avengers aren’t risking their lives just so he can—

Boom.

Dammit.

Shuri’s guard, the one T’Challa left with them—Ayo? Was that her name?—steps further away from them and speaks into her bracelet—kimoyo beads.  Bruce strains to ignore it because he doesn’t need to know what he’s missing outside, doesn’t need to know how poorly the battle is going for his friends, his—his shield brothers, Brun would call it, without him.  There’s no doubt in his mind Shuri could save Vision without him and there’s no doubt in her mind, either; he’s here as a courtesy and because it’ll go faster, at least.  Because he’d be useless otherwise, sitting there with his thumb up his ass while his friends fight and die without him, without them, dammit Hulk—

“Princess,” Ayo calls. 

“Not yet.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know how long, I’ve never done a neural reprogramming for an android before.”  Shuri purses her lips.  “Longer than this, certainly, to revolutionize a field that doesn’t even exist yet.”  She reprograms another synapse.  It looks like maybe thirty percent of them are done.  Thirty percent, after four hours.

Bruce glances at Ayo from the corner of his eye because he’s a masochist and he can’t help himself.  Her face is troubled, and so is Okoye’s on the projection hovering over her wrist.

“Ayo, tell her she needs to hurry up!”  The projection twists like the general has taken her hand from her face.  There’s a flash of silver, a war cry, and a brief, incomprehensible glimpse of something black and twisted and horrible.  It cuts out in the middle of the creature’s answers screech.

Ayo slowly lowers her hand back to her side, and Bruce tries to focus back in on his work.  Tries to focus on the math, on the energy readings, on Vision’s life in here instead of all the death out there, because if he doesn’t—

“I really am going as fast as I can,” Shuri says in a small voice.  Twenty.  She’s just twenty years old, what was Bruce doing at twenty?

Don’t go there.  Don’t go there, Bruce.  Shouldn’t have come back to the Arctic, that was just asking for trouble.

Focus.

What would happen if he lost it, and the Hulk refused to come out?

Focus.  Focus on Vision, on saving his life.  Save lives.  Save his life.

“So you're saying that the Hulk... the other guy... saved my life?”

Another explosion rocks the room, rocks the station, rocks the damn arctic ice pack they’re standing on.  It’s the biggest one yet.    “Evacuate the southeast quadrant.  All personnel in the southeast quadrant, evacuate to the next defense point.”  The intercom doesn’t even crackle as it activates over their heads and Bruce is struck by how odd that is; it’s almost more unnerving that the idea of the situation escalating to the point of evacuation.  Ayo pulls up a map of the station on her kimoyo beads and manipulates it, pulling up what he assumes is the southeast quadrant.

“That's nice. It's a nice sentiment. Saved it for what?”  

“How bad is it?” Bruce asks.

Ayo’s eyes dart to Shuri, who is nothing but relentless; he hasn’t seen her stop once this whole time.  “Bad.  They have breached the facility’s outer defenses.  Princess, perhaps we should—”

“No!”  Shuri all but shouts.  “I will not evacuate, I will not abandon this mission, we’re not finished yet.  Tell someone to come fill the gap.”

“Princess, if they have not already done so, then they may not have the manpower to do it.”

“Then call reinforcements!”

There are no reinforcements because this is a hail-Mary, vigilante mission and all the Avengers on-world are already here.  T’Challa isn’t bringing any more of his people into this, and Steve and Natasha and Tony would never ask him to.   When they fail, that’s it, it’s done.  And so is Vision, and this will all have been for nothing. 

“I guess we'll find out.”

Bruce pushes his glasses off his nose and pinches his brow.  He can’t even think about this; he’s thinking about it without thinking it, a glaring absence that lets you see the shape of it regardless.

“This wasn’t just a Wakandan station, right?  I mean, you guys opened it up to other countries for the science and information exchange?”

A pause.  “Yes.”

“Any military?”

A longer pause.  “...Yes.  Dr. Banner, what are you...”

She trails off as Bruce looks up.  There must be something in his face.

“Did they leave anything behind when they airlifted out earlier?  Weapons?” He adds, because there’s no use beating around the bush.  No time. 

“Probably, but you will find nothing there of any use.  Wakandan technology—”

“Is much more advanced, I know.  But you don’t really have any projectile weapons.

Ayo’s nose crinkles up in disgust, but is already turning back to her charge.  “Of course not.  So primitive.  Princess, we will need time to evacuate to the ship, please.”

Shuri cuts a glance at him, seemingly ignoring Ayo.  “What do you need a projectile weapon for, Dr. Banner?”

“Something desperate.”  He pulls his glasses off and sets them on the table.  “Stay here, Shuri, finish your work.  Save him.”

Bruce has never asked anyone else to risk their life when his own would do. He’s not fucking starting now, when the whole universe is at stake. 

Between him and Shuri, Ayo reluctantly lets the issue go, but he can tell if Thanos’ army gets a single step closer to her Princess, Ayo will throw her over her shoulder and sprint for the quinjet, mission be damned.  He marches out of the room and follows Ayo’s directions to the nearest storage area; the American one, as luck would have it.  Because of course the American team brought guns to the Arctic Circle on a science and information exchange program.  Of course.  A few M11s just lying around, lost in the hasty shuffle to abandon this place.  Bruce picks it up and just holds it.  Feels the weight in his hand.  Ayo was right, they are primitive; primitive and ugly and violent and only good for one thing. Another impact.  The station shakes again, and the lights flicker above his head. Now.  It has to be now. He doesn’t have a radio, but he knows where the southeast corner of the building is, so he keeps the gun in a tight grip and heads that way. Three corridors away and he starts to hear noises.  Yelling.  Screaming.  Gunfire.  Energy bursts.  The ring of Steve’s shield, the whine of Tony’s repulsors.  And above it all that same horrible screeching noise from those creatures invading their planet at the behest of a genocidal maniac trying to kill Bruce’s friends. Kill the Hulk’s friends. Louder, and louder, and louder, until he can’t even hear himself think which is good because he doesn’t want to think about this he never wanted to think about this again even though he did, a lot, like after Lagos and Sokovia and Sakaar. The team has driven them back from the breach in the facility, that’s good.  Wind and snow come howling in through the massive hole and Bruce shivers and tells himself its from the cold. Outside is...pandemonium.  His friends are like brief sparks of light in a sea of writhing, angry, violent darkness trying to tear them apart.  There are so many of them he can barely see the horizon and they show no sign of stopping. In the distance, he makes out Steve, locked in fierce battle with something that looks less like a bargain bin eldritch horror and more like one of those Black Order people. He’s losing.  Even Bruce can tell that. “Now would be a really good time for you to get angry” He’s always angry.  But the anger isn’t enough anymore. “Bruce, what are you doing out here?”  Tony screams at him, flying towards him with his hands still targeting energy blasts at the enemy.  “I thought you said the Hulk can’t come out, you can’t be here!  Go help Shuri!” Ten, nine, eight, seven—oh, fuck it. “Won’t, not can’t, Tony.” One breath.  Two breaths.  He squeezes the grip so hard it starts denting his palm. “Those are functionally the same, big guy, so get the hell out of here.  We got this!” “No you don’t, we’re losing!”  Bruce takes a short inhale through his nose.  “They’re not functionally the same when I can force his—our hand.” That finally makes Tony look at him, and Bruce doesn’t know if he catches it on his own or FRIDAY points it out to him, but he finally sees the gun.  He dissolves his faceplate and looks at Bruce with wide, exhausted eyes.  “No, no, Bruce, don’t you dare, Bruce!” He lunges, but he doesn’t make it before the gun goes off, the bullet tears through Bruce’s mouth and then—and then nothing. The Hulk roars.   Anger isn’t enough anymore.  Self-preservation will have to do.

[bunny-hoodlum]

Asynchronous With You: Ch 6

ship: naruhina

rating: teen (quite possibly mature or explicit later)

tags: Modern Day AU, Foster Siblings, Family, Angst, Unrequited Love, Poor Communication, Missed Opportunities

summary: An awkward journey full of self-denial and missed moments between two foster siblings. Perhaps their love will find the right timing someday.

"I think everyone should know," she said.

They were walking the usual route to their high school, the train station coming up ahead. Naruto kept a protective though furtive gaze on Hinata as he walked behind her on the steps.

He swore she's never modified her skirt. It would be against the dress code she's forced to protect. So he has no idea why it feels like he's seeing more of her than usual.

"Know what?"

Usually he's already doing this, because he's worried about perverts. Even in grade school, he was worried. If it weren't for their teachers educating them on Stranger Danger, he probably would have had to do it himself.

He had to learn it the hard way before Kurenai-obasan took him in, but so did Neji apparently. That's why he's gotten good at being less obvious with his suspicion, and also why he can better tell apart intent based on their body language.

He used to perceive everything around him to be potentially malicious. He never realized the toll that had been taking on him until Neji taught him how to really see.

He stood close behind her on the platform as they waited.

"That we're fosters."

A burst of wind shot through the platform, ruffling overcoats and business suits and whipping pleated skirts and loose hair in a sudden frenzy.

The PA announced the train's arrival, and it wheezed to a stop soon after.

He observed Hinata as she flattened her skirt down and smoothed her bangs, but none of it registered in his brain.

It was simply auto-pilot for him to follow her onto the train, then using his larger frame to block the other passengers from nearing his little sister.

Right. His foster sister.

In all of their nine years together, they've never told anyone. It wasn't that it seemed weird, it just… never occurred to them?

But now it did seem pretty weird.

"Why, though? In a couple years, it's not going to matter anymore."

She turned her face against her shoulder to look at him, but he didn't know what she was thinking. It was the same schooled features she put on last night when visiting Neji, like there was a one-way mirror and only she could see through him.

Then she looked away.

"You're not going to introduce a girlfriend to Kurenai one of these days?"

"Hmm?" The suggestion bloomed in his mind and quickly withered. The idea wasn't… very appealing. Something about inviting judgment onto his life and stuff. He defends himself in every aspect but at home, and he'd rather keep coasting on the good thing he's got. "Dunno. Hadn't ever thought about it."

He certainly wasn't going to introduce any of the one's he's taken to bed when the apartment was empty. He's rarely done it with the same girl twice, mainly because he can't help but lose interest.

He blames it on sexual incompatibility.

"Well, I know I will."

He misses the melancholy hedging around her words, and latches onto the opportunity for an easy ribbing.

"You're gonna bring a girlfriend over?" he's happy she shoots him a look so that she can see his corny grin, otherwise he worried she might've mistaken him for serious.

He's nonplussed by the severity of her glare, but then she says "Maybe when you're not around," and he no longer knows what to think.

"Wait, what? Hinata?" He's craning left and right in hopes of catching a smirk or a giggle from her, but she's evasive. Has she? "Hinata, are you--?" And since third grade she said? "Also, what's that supposed to mean 'when I'm not around'? Huh? Hey, what's that supposed to mean 'when I'm not around'?? Hinata???"

"We're getting off topic--"

"Bullshit! I have questions!"

She ignored him.

"I vote to tell our friends that we're fosters. And I'd like to have it taken care of during Lunch. What's your vote?"

Is this what she sounds like during her Public Morals Committee meetings? Because it was doing something to him.

Oh, right. She wanted an honest answer.

But… "What do you get out of announcing this? I mean, aside from knowing how to introduce me in the future or whatever. Have you thought this through at all?"

What's the rest of the school going to say?

The guys who share their skin mags with him might get wary and reject him. The girls he's dumped might try to get to him through her. Teachers might give up on disciplining him, essentially offloading their responsibilities onto her as both Public Morals Committee and his sister. And he wasn't having any of that shit again.

All kinds of things could bite them in the ass one way or another.

She hasn't replied to him at all, and he thinks she's upset again, but he has to make his point.

"Hinata, the way things are now isn't broken, so what are you trying to fix?"

"It would help me."

"Huh? How? With what?" He waited, and she was silent. A drop of dread sank in his chest for her. "So something is wrong," He leaned in closer, causing her to shrink. He sighed. "Hinata, for someone who wants the world to know we're fosters, you sure don't seem willing to rely on me like a sibling."

"I don't favor Neji-niisan over you."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to," Tension clutched at their throats. "People always have more history with their blood. I can't really compete, y'know?"

He can't compete at all, actually.

Sometimes he thinks his only true brother is Sasuke, but he still wants to work at this. She just has to let him.

"I'm sorry. I just thought it would be less lonely if we could talk to each other normally again. And we only see each other at school these days, so…"

He envisioned her waving to him in the halls between periods, or her having a reason to cheer him on during a deadlift tournament. It would prevent people from making the wrong idea about them.

Damn, he felt stupid now.

"Fine!" He intoned with mock-annoyance. "If it'll make you happy."

She looked over her shoulder again, and what she found was his warm, supportive smile.

________________________

Hinata gathered her friends, Kiba, Shino, Ino and Sakura.

And he gathered his friends, Sasuke, Shikamaru, and Chouji.

Ino had tsked in distaste when she saw Sasuke, had gone as far as to drag Sakura away so that the others sat in-between them. He caught some sort of nickname from her lips, but wasn't sure what she had really said.

As Naruto stood before them alongside Hinata, his gaze fell on the skinny lad scribbling away at his sketchbook, and immediately his fight instinct was switched on.

"What's your monochromatic ass doing here??! Did anyone invite him?!" He jabbed a finger in Sai's direction.

The monotone, softboy, little creep didn't even look up.

"I'm making a record of these proceedings for posterity," he lifted the sketchpad and flipped it around.

Inkified Naruto was pointing right back at him with an agape snarl. Sai then proceeded to show everyone else individually, and they all cracked up, one by one.

Ino was absolutely dying. Stomach-clutching and tears rolling, the whole nine yards. She snatched the sketchpad from Sai and begged if she could keep it.

"Whaddya want that for??" Naruto interrogated. He was so about to punch Sai and throw his art supplies in the pool. This was Hinata's announcement and the softboy was ruining it.

Ino mockingly tilted the sketchbook side to side. "Something to keep your ego in check, Charato."

Hinata faintly snorted. He wasn't sure until he saw how she had her face turned around and her shoulders were lightly trembling.

He frowned at her, feeling betrayed.

"Ahhhh, alright, enough! Me and Hinata have gathered you all here for a reason! So shut up and listen! Hinata, tell them!"

Hinata jolted out of her humor, her face flushing as though this were the first time she's done public speaking.

"Uh, Uhm… Naruto-kun and I… we're foster siblings. We, uh… we live together," Hinata froze up under their collective stares. With a stiff smile, she half-heartedly sang "Ta-da," and punctuated it with rather embarrassed jazz hands.

"And as our friends, you're the first to know," Naruto added. "Also we don't care if the whole school finds out. So don't worry, we're not sharing this out of confidentiality."

Their collective shock evaporated rather quickly.

Sakura was the first to speak. "Well, that answers a lot of questions. And raises plenty more." She ended it with a growl and a glare. That accusatory look irked him.

"Feel free to ask away! I've got nothin' to hide!"

Sakura flattened the back of her skirt as she rose up like a dignitary representing The House of Hyuuga. And then like a certain video game attorney, she pointed at him.

"I always wondered why you obsessively protected Hinata in the past, but never showed any romantic initiative towards her. Now I have to ask, knowing the sex maniac that you are: Do you ever sneak into her bedroom?"

"No," He answered unconvincingly. He looked at the jury one by one, unsure how much of their scrutiny was sincere or misperceived. Sasuke was leaning forward, arms circling around his knees. He looked a little too interested in the idea of him and Hinata… doing things… "I-I've never done that! I would never do that! Hinata's special to me, okay?! You've got a filthy fuckin' mind, Haruno!"

"Me?! You've tried to sneak into the female locker rooms!" Sakura took off her shoe and slugged it at him. "Multiple times!"

Naruto hunched up and twisted away as the shoe smacked his shoulder and bounced away.

Hinata moved in between him and the one-woman mob. "Okay, this is getting out of hand--"

"I will never fucking do that to Hinata. I was in an orphanage for six years. And they're not all run by saints."

Dammit.

This was way more than he ever wanted to share.

He took a few steps back before turning tail. He jogged downhill as fast as he could.

What was he doing?

Uzumaki Naruto doesn't run away.

But it was either that, or… have them watch him cry.

________________________

AN: So this is missing a scene cuz I cut it. I might not use it anymore, and instead I'll see if the backstory I had expanded upon will be worked in later on in the plot. Because before I started writing this, I had anticipated that things would actually get cuter from here on out. (Also anticipating that I may work in at least one smutty chapter in the future. Yeah, it's totally diverging from this fic's original concept when I posted it for Secret Santa, but that's okay!) And the total Ego Death I unexpectedly wrote just feels kind of Deus Ex Machina in a way to Naruto's vices. I just can't have him maturing right now. That's a plot route I don't have any material for, and I don't quite see it as not defeating the other stuff I had planned to write. (I'm also happy to state that I'm starting to get a better picture of how to condense this content on AO3, because I honestly feel like this could be Ch. 2 now. :B I mean, it's too short on its own if I do, but it kinda has that hook for the rest of the story.)

I hope you enjoyed this update! 😘💕💕💕

[nyctolovian]

Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Pirate AU, Kidnapping, First Meetings, Waiter Crowley (Good Omens), Pirate Azirphale, Dark Aziraphale (Good Omens), Alcohol

Summary: A weird Pirate!Aziraphale and Civilian!Crowley fic. Written for @whitesuitcrowleyzine

In Crowley's defense, he was already planning to quit his job. He'd had quite enough with dealing with snobby rich people showing off their incredible wealth with luxury yacht dinner parties that he had to serve at. He might as well go out with a bang while wildly flashing middle fingers. The plan just wasn't fully formed yet (what he had at the moment meant that there would be two fires, which was one fire too few) when the pirates hijacked the yacht, waving around guns and knives.

It was mayhem as the pirates took down anyone who fought back and herded everyone else below deck with yelled threats and guns ablazing. Several people broke down in tears and huddled together. As all this transpired, Crowley went largely unnoticed and, not wanting to change that anytime soon, he dared not make any superfluous movement. So he followed the walls of the yacht and tried to make his escape, still carrying the serving tray like a proper professional. The commotion was beginning to dwindle, and Crowley had to be quick.

Just as he neared the staircase, ready to bolt, the weight on his tray shifted as someone lifted a glass from it. Crowley straightened and froze, caught red-handed. The person walked to stand side by side with him and took an elegant sip from the glass and sighed. "This red wine is simply lovely." By now, the commotion had died down to whimpers and sniffles as the pirates stood around on the deck, weapons brandished. Their eyes were pointed in his direction, or more precisely, at the man beside him, who swirled his glass gently and took another sip. Voice light in the way dangerous people kept it to let people know they were enjoying themselves, he asked, "Do you happen to have more of this on this yacht?"

Crowley cleared his throat and answered as calmly as his quickened pulse would let him, "I, I believe so."

"Excellent!" Placing a hand on the small of Crowley's back, he took a step forward, pushing him along. "Now," the pirate said cheerily, lightly pulling his jacket to primly fix it. "I have several announcements. You've been boarded by Eden so consider yourselves under new management."

Crowley didn't know it could but somehow the atmosphere grew thicker with tension. The complexion of the crew especially bleached. Crowley had heard of them—the Eden. He had heard tales from seafarers and such while they were at port. Many, many tales. Frankly, Crowley hadn't been paying attention to any of them, but he reckoned any ship with half as many tales as this one couldn't possibly be good news.

Interlocking his fingers over his belly, the pirate captain went on, "If I see a single silly move, it's off with your head immediately, you understand? I hereby demand you to hand over, well, everything that is valuable. Captain's orders."

Some people immediately began to strip themselves of their jewels and watches while others stayed frozen, like deers caught in headlights. Some of the service crew were huddled together in a corner, and the pirates approached them. Crowley never liked the bunch much, but he kind of wished he was standing there with them. Perhaps huddle together like little ducklings, all wearing the same white-top-black-bottom coat, feeling the safety in numbers, in blending in with one another. Instead, he was stuck standing right beside the pirate captain, still diligently and stupidly carrying the ridiculous serving tray.

Speak of the devil. “Ah, yes,” he said. “And some of that alcohol as well.” He turned to face Crowley with a smile. Upon laying eyes on the waiter's face, however, his eyebrows rose with interest. “How odd. Why are you wearing sunglasses at night?”

He swallowed. “Eye condition. Coloboma.”

The pirate stepped closer and Crowley instinctively leaned away. “Is that so? I believe I've read about that term before," he said. Slowly and deliberately, he pinched the pair of shades and slid it off.

Pale blue eyes connected with Crowley's and his breath hitched. He was tempted to break eye contact, his already jackrabbiting heart practically galloping at this point. Without the dark lenses, it was even more obvious how unusually fair the pirate captain was. His hair was a fluffy white cloud and even the suit he wore was off-white. The wrinkles on his face deepened delightfully as he broke into a smile of fascination. He was… for the lack of a better word, beautiful.

“Slits for pupils,” the pirate said. “And the colour, my, it's practically golden, isn't it? Almost like a snake's.”

"Or so I've heard as well," Crowley bit out.

"They're absolutely gorgeous."

"Wha…?" Blinking, he broke eye contact and gazed sideward.

"Has no one ever told you?" the pirate said, bending to meet Crowley's gaze again.

Gulping, Crowley shook his head. His cheeks felt strangely warm.

There was a sparkle in the pirate captain's eyes as he gently folded the sunglasses and slipped it into the pocket of Crowley's white suit jacket. With a smile, he patted the securely placed pair of shades. Then, he grabbed the serving tray that Crowley was still carrying and carelessly tossed it backwards. The earth-shattering clatter and the shattering of wine glasses made many of the yacht passengers scream in terror. By some miracle, Crowley merely flinched and quickly returned to his ramrod straight position, hands tightly clenched by his sides.

With a satisfied nod, the pirate captain released his jaw. Then, at last, he pulled out of Crowley's personal space, but only to command, "I wish to be shown where the alcohol is kept."

Stiffly, Crowley nodded and the pirate captain waved a couple other goons to follow along. As Crowley shuffled through the kitchen, he'd be lying if he said that the idea of grabbing a knife from the counter to stab someone and bolting didn't cross his mind at all. But he quickly kicked it to the ground. Numbers were not in his favour, and these were pirates for god's sake; they'd probably slit his throat open faster than he could pick up a blade. So instead, he opened the cooler and cold air rushed out to greet them, sending shivers through Crowley. One of the goons let out a low whistle at the sight.

"This is quite the trove. Do the bourgeoisie plan to drink themselves to death?" the captain remarked.

"Much as I hope they do, they drink less than half of what they stock up. It's to show off for the most part," Crowley muttered.

With a hum, the pirate captain sauntered in and lifted a bottle to inspect it. His jaw dropped dramatically at the label. "We are taking all of this, for sure. Now, chop chop!" He clapped his free hand against his wrist.

The pirate goons pushed past Crowley and grabbed two crates each before hauling them out. Crowley, the lanky dude that he was, could only manage one anyway and, thankfully, that was all that was left. He could feel the captain's stare at the back of his head and tried to convince his brain to ignore it. He followed the goons up to the deck and his eyes widened.

She was quite the beauty, even Crowley who was no expert at ships could tell that. A short distance away, the Eden loomed over the yacht, its flag raised high and proud upon the mast. A real pirate ship.

The footsteps of the pirate captain caught up with Crowley and he ducked his head and. Then, he quickened his pace as best as he could with trembling limbs and sweaty palms

Astern of the luxury yacht, speedboats were tied, and there were several people already dropping their plunder off. As Crowley’s crate was taken from him to be transported, he noticed hostages being shoved onto the speedboat and some were kids.

His stomach lurched at the sight.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. He needed to get out of this. Somehow.

His heart's rapid palpitation reached his throat. He took his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and slid it back on to still his nerves. As casually as possible, he tried to turn and slink away. He’d say he was doing a pretty good job at it since he nearly slipped round the corner.

“Where are you going, Mr Waiter?”

Crowley froze. Taking in a deep breath, he spun around with a schooled expression.

The pirate captain was looking at him with an almost cherub-like smile. He ambled over before removing Crowley's sunglasses and studied Crowley's eyes once more. "They really are gorgeous," he whispered, placing his fingers over Crowley's jaw and tilting his head this way and that, as though to watch it catch the light. "Like jewels. Precious."

Crowley shivered.

"You're a smart boy. I'm sure you know by now my feelings towards objects of high value."

"You're not going to… gouge 'em out or something, right?"

"I quite like the head they're attached to as well actually."

"So you're…" Crowley swallowed around the lump high in his throat. "You're beheading me?"

The pirate sighed loudly and rolled his eyes before pursing his lips with displeasure. "How do you feel about joining my crew?"

Crowley's eyes widened so much, he was surprised they didn't pop right out of their sockets like marbles. "I… uh… what's the job description?"

It was the pirate's turn to be surprised. His eyebrows raised and his lips parted. "I haven't actually thought about it. Perhaps the odd job here and there while you learn the ropes," he replied. "Unless you have any suggestions."

Crowley blinked. The pirate captain looked at him expectantly. "Uh. 't hurts without it," he said, which wasn't a lie anyway. "Glasses."

"My apologies," the pirate said. To Crowley's relief, he returned the pair of shades back to the bridge of his nose. "It is a downright pity."

"Not many feel that way. I've been called the devil more times than I can count. Even had salt thrown at me once."

"Oh, I can imagine." The pirate laughed, a surprisingly genuine one.

"Don't your lot disapprove of," he scrunched his nose as he searched for the words, "demonic things."

"Ah. Yes, pirates are terribly superstitious. It's the sea, I believe." He gazed outwards.

Crowley followed his gaze to look at the dark waves, rocking the yacht, a constant reminder of water's presence and prowess.

The pirate continued, "She's a fickle beast that rears her head every now and again. She can be very difficult to appease, and the creatures that lurk within her even more so. It'd be amusing, I think, to see what tales other ships might spin about you."

"So I'll be the freak show?"

"A lovely addition to the freak show, my dear," the pirate corrected. "We're quite the menagerie. We have a witch, the antichrist and his merry band—"

"The antichrist?" Crowley repeated in disbelief.

"We're still working that out," the captain replied. "And of course there is myself. Well," he fixed his cap and pulled his jacket, "a bit unusual, aren't I?"

Glancing him up and down, Crowley nodded. If he had seen this man walking down the streets today, the first word that would probably pop up in his mind might be "time traveler" (yes, he knew that those were two words but let's not worry over the technicalities). He wore a lovely light suit that looked like it belonged in the early 20th century at least. Perhaps he'd even think "angel", what with the man bearing the face of a cherub. He looked fluffy, white and roundish. Sort of like a polar bear. He looked nothing like a pirate, which was probably what made him feel so intimidating. Upon further thought though, polar bears could be quite the menace, couldn't they?

Clearing his throat, Crowley held out a hand. "Well, I have been planning on resigning from my current job," he said. "Could do with a career change."

"I'm Aziraphale Fell. And how may I address you?"

"That's a mouthful. Crowley. Anthony J Crowley."

The pirate frowned. "What does the J stand for?"

He shrugged. "Uhhhh… Just a J, really. So we have a deal?" He raised his eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

"A deal with the devil," Aziraphale said, glancing skyward as they shook on it. "I wonder what my mother would say about that." When he glanced back down, he frowned. "Oh, your poor sleeves."

Crowley looked down as well. The once pristine white sleeves were streaked with black.

"Was it the crate? It really is a pity, you look quite dashing in white," Aziraphale said, running a finger along the inside of the sleeve.

Crowley shivered.

Of course, there was no way Aziraphale did not notice it, hand tightly grasped around his. "Though I do suppose you'd look dashing in anything." He smiled and added, "Or nothing at all."

[buckybarnesbingo]

BBB Week 6 Roundup!

Little bit late, Mod Meg was on vacay over the weekend.

Title: Cute Quaterbacks Collaborator(s): Tori/samandbucky Link: AO3 Square: B4 - Sharing Clothes Rating: Teen Ship(s): Steve/Tony Major tags/warnings: AU, School, Fake Relationship, Protective!Bucky Summary: Steve and Bucky grew up as childhood best friends and are now roommates in college. Bucky dares Steve to bring a date to one of his upcoming football games after Steve suggests he could date anyone he wanted to. Enter Tony Stark. Word count: 1767

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Title: The Curse Collaborator(s): Tori/samandbucky Link: AO3 Square: K4 - Kiss Rating: Teen Ship(s): Bucky/Clint Major tags/warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Magic, Curses Summary: Clint gets hit during an alien attack with some dark magic, Bucky and Steve can't wake him, so they go to the only person they know who can undo the curse: Stephen Strange. Word count: 1364

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Title: A Regular Harry Houdini Collaborator(s): Bird Link: AO3 Square: K4 - Prisoners/Captives Together Rating: Teen Ship(s): Sam/Bucky Major tags/warnings: Minor Episode 5 Spoilers, Post-The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Captured, First Kiss Summary: “You know, if Steve kissed me in the middle of an escape attempt, he would bring it up after,” Sam said. “I thought we weren’t talking about Steve,” Bucky grunted, closing his eyes. “I’m going to take a nap.” “I can’t believe you’re pretending to take a nap right now.” “I’m 106, Sam. I’m allowed to fall asleep whenever I want.” Word count: 1365

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Title: K5 Card B096 Soulbond Collaborator(s): Rufferto Link: Tumblr Square: K5 - High Fantasy, Curses, Shiny Sword Steve Rating: Teen Ship(s): Stucky Major tags/warnings: Fantasy Warrior Bucky, Curses, Art, Sword Steve Summary: When Bucky went off to war Steve was cursed into a sword. Bucky managed to find him because they share a bond but he's cursed. Bucky now carries Steve into battle wherever he goes looking for a way to have Steve at his side again. This was done on Hot Press Water Color Paper with Windsor & Newton and Arteza paints. I don’t much like the scan, there’s something always lost when a watercolor image is scanned but I will try some other time to get a better photo of it. Word count: none it is art.

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Title: Benevolent Overlord Collaborator(s): IndigoNight Link: AO3 Square: K1 - Bucky Bear Rating: Gen Ship(s): Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers Major tags/warnings: Fluff, PTSD, Codependency, Alpine the Cat Summary: “Hi,” Bucky says, wincing a little at how hoarse and rough his voice sounds from disuse. The kitten just hisses at him again, huge green eyes narrowed into slits. “Yeah, I get it,” he agrees with a grimace and a commiserating nod. Word count: 4921

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Title: I'm James Buchanan Barnes Collaborator(s): e_hytes Link: Tumblr Square: C2 - Art Style: Black and White Rating: Gen Ship(s): No pairing/ship Major tags/warnings: #buckybarnes #wintersoldier #jamesbuchananbarnes #mcu Summary: A drawing of Bucky/Winter Soldier black and white Word count: N/A

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Title: Someone Like You Collaborator(s): Nicnac Link: AO3 Square: C4 - Prison Rating: Mature Ship(s): Bucky/Reader Major tags/warnings: Enemies, Uneasy Allies, Hydra Agent Reader, Negotiations Summary: Taken from their SHIELD prison cell, the reader finds themself alone with The Winter Soldier negotiating for their life. Word count: 2693

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Title: Sambucky Incorrect Quotes Collaborator(s): snowstark Link: Tumblr Square: U2 - Partner-In-Crime Rating: Teen Ship(s): Sam/Bucky Major tags/warnings: Enemies to lovers vibe, Humour Summary: “Bucky, we tried things your way already.” “No we didn’t.” “I did it in my head and it didn’t work.” Word count: N/A

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Title: darling, you’re the one i want in paper rings Collaborator(s): cyanica Link: AO3 Square: C5 - teasing Rating: Gen Ship(s): steve/bucky Major tags/warnings: first time, demisexuality, period-typical homophobia, fluff, friends to lovers Summary: "Okay, I don't know why I’ve never – you know!” Bucky said after a moment, a soft laugh spilling from his lips – something so genuine and bashful, that Steve wasn’t so sure what to make of. “You're just – you're the only one I've ever had eyes for. You're the only one I’ve ever wanted.” Or, whatever deity had constructed the fragmented pieces of their souls together, they were made of the same smithereens, and Steve was sure he had known that as a child, holding Bucky’s slightly larger hand and accepting that they were of the same love, without even knowing what such a concept was. Word count: 1630

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Title: Unexpected Alliances - Chapter 4 Collaborator(s): PoliZ Link: AO3 Square: C5 - Lending a Hand Rating: Mature Ship(s): Stucky Major tags/warnings: Fantasy AU, enemies to friends/lovers, referenced/implied torture Summary: Buckthorn’s refusal to use his fae magic to support his captor’s cause has left him battered and broken; when he is given a dangerous shifter as his cellmate, they overcome their differences to become allies and perhaps something more. Chapter 4: Upon reaching the shifters’ camp, Buckthorn meets another of Stephen’s companions who seems to have a chip on his shoulder when it comes to fae folk. Word count: 1034

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Title: A Story Told in Flesh, Chapter 3: Together In Dreams Collaborator(s): ChrissiHR Link: AO3 Square: B2 - Rocket Racoon Rating: Explicit Ship(s): Bucky x Darcy x Steve Major tags/warnings: Big Swingin’ Dick!Steve, smut, nsfw, dream sex, sex positive Summary: Bucky and Darcy get massages and discuss Aesir medical treatments; Darcy has an erotic dream about Bucky & Steve. Word count: 1270

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Title: Written In The Scars (On My Heart) Collaborator(s): IndigoNight Link: AO3 Square: K5 - Just Do It Rating: Explicit Ship(s): Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes Major tags/warnings: Past Rape/Non-con, In Heat (but not A/B/O) Masturbation, Sex Toys, Mildly Dubious Consent, Body Worship, Self Body Worship, Rimming, Fuck Or Die (sort of), Porn with Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Inability to Orgasm, Body Image, Reference to Past Medical Experimentation, Self-Lubrication, Touch-Starved, Touch-Averse Summary: He swallows hard, struggling with himself one last time and losing. “I need your help,” he manages to whisper, voice cracking. The air in the room immediately changes. The wound up tension drains out of Steve, his posture and voice going soft. “Sure, Buck,” he says, cautiously moving back toward him. Bucky can’t move, his arms locked tight around his knees, and he can’t lift his gaze higher than Steve’s knees either. Steve pauses when he’s still a few feet away, squatting down and angling his head in an effort to see Bucky’s face through the curtain of his hair. “Anything. What do you need?” It’s everything Bucky can do to hold still, every cell in his body vibrating with the need to throw himself into Steve’s arms. He opens his mouth, but his throat sticks and he has to swallow again before he can force the words out. Slowly, by sheer force of will, he drags his gaze up to meet Steve’s eyes. “I need you to fuck me.” Word count: 41k

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Title: Acceptance is the first part of Healing Collaborator(s): Laevateinn Link: AO3 Square: C4 - Denial Rating: Teen Ship(s): N/A Major tags/warnings: 1e3 : Power Broker, TFATWS coda, TW for : implied sexual abuse/assault, dissociation, PTSD, flashbacks, Angst, hopeful(ish) ending Summary: "You good ?" Wilson asks him, after he fought against eight men. "You okay ?" Wilson asks him, when they get to Sharon’s house. "You hurt ?" Wilson asks him, when they get out of the car. Yes, Wilson. All good. Now if the guy could shut up and carry on, that'd be great. Why would he be "not fine" anyway ? It's not as if anything that happened that day hasn't happened before. Word count: 906

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Title: The Maze Stumbler (Moodboard) Collaborator(s): Turtles Link: Tumblr Square: B3 - Labyrinth Rating: Teen Ship(s): Darcy Lewis & Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Major tags/warnings: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Thor, Cocktail, Labyrinth Summary: Something, something, Thor spikes the punch at the party and they all decide to re enact the Maze Runner… or something like that. Sam and Bucky wake up in the middle of a maze, nothing but Darcy’s voice in their ear giving them directions and critiquing their methodology Word count: N/A

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Title: The Maze Stumbler (Fic) Collaborator(s): Turtles Link: AO3 Square: C1 - Stranded Rating: Teen Ship(s): Darcy Lewis & Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Major tags/warnings: Thor's Asgardian Booze, a labyrinth, Dubious Timeline, Everybody Lives, Crack Summary: Don’t drink Thor’s Asgardian booze. Ever. Word count: 1657

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Title: 5 Times Steve Received Plums from Natasha or Sam and the 1 Time Steve Realized the Plums weren’t from Them Collaborator(s): Girl_Back_There Link: AO3 Square: K5 - Bucky/Steve Rating: Teen Ship(s): Bucky/Steve Major tags/warnings: 5 + 1, Bucky and his Plums, Angst and Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug Summary: Steve keeps finding plums in his hotel rooms or his bag. He thinks it is Natasha or Sam trying to be a good friend by making sure he is eating and keeping up his energy in the search for Bucky. Each plum he finds reminds him of Bucky growing up in pre-WWII New York. The times they would give each other a plum as a way of saying “I’m sorry” or “I love you.” Word count: 2998

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Title: Faith and Desire and the Swing of Your Hips Collaborator(s): IndigoNight Link: AO3 Square: U2 - French Kiss Rating: Explicit Ship(s): Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes Major tags/warnings: Crossdressing, Nonbinary Steve Rogers, Oral Sex, Body Dysphoria, Gender Exploration, Supportive Flirting Summary: “You look gorgeous, doll,” he drawls, dragging up as much of old Brooklyn as he can to infuse into the words. Steve startles, even though the doorway and Bucky in it are clearly reflected behind him in the mirror. Steve’s eyes flick to him and away again, his face going pink from the tips of his ears and spreading all the way down to his chest. He fidgets with his skirt, hands smoothing over the folds of it self consciously. “It looks a little silly,” he mutters, chewing on his already chapped lower lip. Word count: 5470

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Title: Stay Collaborator(s): Bird/plutosrose Link: AO3 Square: C3 - Free Square Rating: Explicit Ship(s): Sam/Bucky Major tags/warnings: Post-Canon, First Time Summary: “So, are you keeping the outfit?” Word count: 1919

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Title: It's Not a Miracle You Need Collaborator(s): UisceOneLove Link: AO3 Square: Y3 - At a Crossroads Rating: Teen Ship(s): James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Major tags/warnings: Post-Endgame, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending Summary: Sitting out on the dock of Tony's lakehouse while the others slept, Steve thought about where he was expected to go from here. It's a good thing Bucky's around to help him see where that can be. Word count: 1584