#as well as show typical violence and canonical major character death

[aurumcalendula]

My Silver Lining | Legend of Anle

'I won't take the easy road'

AO3 | DW

[anika-ann]

The (Un)Expected - S.R.

Type: one-shot, soulmate AU, good ol' meet-cute (soulmates meeting for the first time prompt)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8k

Summary: 

A soulmark shows the first words your soulmate will speak to you. A soulmark tells you there is the person for you out there. A soulmark tells you what to expect.

For that, Steve’s is a source of comfort and anxiety to him. You always had a complicated relationship with yours.

But maybe they will teach you a lesson in the end – that the only thing one should really expect, is the unexpected.

Warnings: brief angst, mention of cancer (not reader), canon-typical violence, mention of death (no major character), blood and injuries, language, FLUFF so take it easy on sugar before reading

A/N: written for the Community Revival Extravaganza hosted by the wonderful @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420 . Thank you both so much for hosting and stirring life in the fandom! I loved seeing the traffic and positivity on my dash - you're doing god's work 💕

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Steve Rogers was a sickly child.

He spent too much time to his liking in his bed – and even more time outside of it despite feeling sick for he couldn’t bear resting anymore, craving to explore the world instead – and was sneaked into a doctor’s office by his mother quite often as well. She only got him in as a favour, courtesy of her own good name – a nurse working double shifts and lending a helping hand wherever she could, a single mother working herself to a bone to take care of and set example to her only son.

A single mother, a nurse, a good person – a beautiful soul. She left this world too soon, but she left an imprint on Steve’s heart larger than any other person, perhaps besides Bucky, ever could.

All that told him, even as indirectly, that his soulmate would be one special dame. She would be kind, she would be brilliant and for that alone, he knew she would be beautiful.

Steve knew that as soon as he could read, as soon as he could decipher the words on his skinny forearm.

In a world where first words your soulmate would tell you were laced into your skin for you and your soulmate’s eyes to see only, his words told him his soulmate was a little miracle.

'I’m not a doctor yet.'

Steve had spent a fair amount of time around nurses and doctors to know that all nurses were women and the overwhelming majority of doctors were men – by the time he was ten, barely a few women were allowed to attend medical schools, let alone graduate. But you, you would be on your way to reach that. Brilliant. Driven. Desiring to help people, to heal.

It was only when other children, other guys and girls alike, began laughing at him for being too little, too weak, too bony, when his heart began to ache for a different reason than illness. If you were to be all these amazing things he had dreamed of, what were you to do with a sickly fella like him? With your words to him being these, it was a fair assumption to make that you would meet due to his health issues, perhaps a smart dame taken under a more experienced doctor’s wing during your studies. How disappointed you would be when your soulmate, the one person meant for you and chosen by destiny itself, would be… that?

That upsetting idea haunted him, hurting more than the bruises that had formed under fists of bullies Steve kept trying to save those even weaker than him from, more than stick and stones and words alike.

Then again… there was a little silver of hope in his heart, a little shy voice in his head. If you were to be his true love, then certainly you’d accept him, yes? If he tried, if he tried hard enough to be a good man, the best possible version of himself, if he worked hard to protect and feed his future family, set a good example for your future children as his mother had, worked towards making a better world, you’d accept him? If he could live with not being as great as others but never stopped trying, you would respect him and perhaps even loved him for what he was?

Then, of course, war came and those thoughts were pushed aside.

Then, he grabbed at his chance to fight that war, to do his part, to help – and incidentally, he also earned his chance to literally grow. Healthy. Strong. More worthy; but remaining good, because that was the one part of him he wanted to hold on to no matter what, that one part he would wish his love, wherever she was, would love him for, even if he suddenly shrank back into the back of skin and bones he used to be.

Then, he lost his best friend Turned into a failure.

And then… then he died.

One of his last thoughts were of you, a beautiful woman with vague appearance but strikingly kind heart and sharp mind. He prayed you’d get a new soulmate somehow, even as those cases weren’t heard of. He prayed you’d live a happy healthy life without him, at least as good as he would have tried his best to give you, to build with you, even as his own heart was breaking to pieces, regret veiling his body as water and snow and icy wind would, regret for missing his chance to meet the most special person in his world.

When he closed his eyes and still saw the white of ice and the blue of the deep sea, he’d swear he saw your face, crystal clear, for the first time – and the last time – in his life.

Seeing you, a stunning mirage, his last thought was that you were an angel gently leading him into afterlife.

When he woke up to a new millennium, one of the first things he did was checking his forearm; he words still sat there, taunting, mocking and heartbreaking, another screaming reminder of him not belonging here.

As years passed by, the sense of alienation subdued. Steve Rogers learned to belong, even as a piece of his heart was missing, longing for the past life – and the life he had never got to have – always humming in his chest quietly.

The mark on his forearm remained, a sad memento to a soulmate he had never met, turning him into a martyr.

But many people had rejected the idea of soulmates in this time, rebelling against their so-called fate, taking off on a path of searching love on their own. Steve learned they did so for various reasons – a sense of adventure before they’d truly find their one true love, a quest to choose the fortune and love on their own terms, a fuck-you to the universe when their soulmate turned out to be less than they imagined and hoped.

His own reasons, as he reluctantly started to look for a person to share his life with, were rather unique, but no one looked at him through their fingers for that. If anything, those who cared about him encouraged him, wishing for his happiness.

It was only when he got Bucky back – one of his greatest regrets not erased, not lessened since Bucky had endured unimaginable pain, but transformed, a piece of Steve’s past brought back to life – that he began to wonder about the almost blasphemous thought he had forbid himself from entertaining when he had been first brought back to life from ice.

Were you still there somewhere?

And then, a shier thought:

Is there still a chance for me to find my true soulmate?

And then, the shiest one of them all:

Is there a chance for me to find happiness with you?

When he had thought of that before, he was certain that since you were still alive – he had read reports of people claiming their soulmark changed colours if their loved one died – he had thought of you as an old lady who had hopefully lived her life as he had genuinely wished for her.

But what if fate, that little minx who had taken his best friend for life from him only to give him back, had somehow blessed Steve with a soulmark decades before you were even born? What he hadn’t lost his chance, what if you were still young enough to build a life with him? Was that even possible? There were aliens, flying suits of armour, other realms, downright magical weapons… he had been given a second chance at life. There were things happening Steve would have never thought possible before. So was there a chance…?

The idea of you being a doctor became much more plausible too – in this century, female doctors were a much more common occurrence. That, naturally, did not diminish your brilliance whatsoever, the fundamental idea of who you’d be never changing in Steve’s mind. The image only became less surreal in one way and a whole lot more surreal in another.

For his own sake, he didn’t give in into that hope fully; at least he told himself that despite lying awake at night, a ghost of a woman he had never met lying next to him, radiating non-existent warmth he wished with his whole being he could touch.

He wasn’t chasing after the ghost, didn’t allow himself that – there was no way to do so to his knowledge anyway – for the chances of success were rather slim.

But there was always hope, wasn’t there?

And the longing for love, whether it was in the hands of fate or in his own to find it, remained, built into his very body; etched into his bones, flowing through his veins, laced into his skin beyond the words on his forearm, always humming quietly in his heart.

In the age of information and science, the concept of having your ideal partner for life chosen by some mysterious abstract entity called Fate was literally otherworldly. Alien. Absurd even.

And yet, it still ruled the lives of many.

Which, in all honesty, was almost even more fascinating than the existence of soulmarks itself – the belief people had for them despite being no logic to them at all.

Perhaps it was the little piece of human soul, an inner child people so desperately wanted to cling to for its own beauty and purity, a child who never wanted to stop believing in magic, fate, dragons, mighty knights and kind-hearted ladies, in all things of fairytales and happy-endings the most. Because to a point, that was what soulmarks were – and little fairytale-like book of destiny.

One that not even science seemed capable of beating.

And you should know; you were somewhat of a scientist yourself. And despite how unfathomable the nature of soulmates was, you could not say that you rejected the idea of them, of someone who was born to belong with you, someone you could share your life with, the right partner in the crime of life. Basic bodily needs aside, wasn’t that the most fundamental need of all? To love and be loved; to belong?

Who wouldn’t wish for that reassurance that they could have that, that some strange force of universe itself created a person like that for them? They were the god’s strongest soldiers you supposed; because you were certainly not immune to that tempting comfort.

But you weren’t obsessed – and you prided yourself in the fact. Mostly because the sheer fanaticism of the world over soulmarks, the one thing that kept defying science – besides alien portals, magical blue cubes, demigods walking the Earth and things alike – was dialled up ad absurdum.

There could be billions of dollars poured into research of curing cancer. Cure autoimmune diseases. Helping the homeless. Slowing down global warming. Erasing poverty and famine. Protecting nature, endangered species. Discovering new worlds, exploring space.

But no. Governments poured billions of dollars into researching soulmarks. How was it they existed? How was it you could cut through skin, you could cut off skin and the mark would reappear somewhere else? What was the grand scheme of them? Why was it that only two people who belonged together could see them and the person speaking the words could only see it on their soulmate’s skin after they spoke the words, almost like a fail-safe that couldn’t seem to be broken with any tricks?

It wasn’t a question of physics as far as people knew; they had tried to build sets-up of various optics, thermovision cameras and complex sets of lenses and mirrors, and none of the reports you had ever heard of claimed success. It wasn’t genetic markers either; no one had discovered a sequence of DNA responsible for soulmarks, let alone turned whatever discovery they would have made into a tool of reading anyone’s but their own and their soulmate’s mark. It didn’t seem to be chemistry either; no one had made a groundbreaking discovery or at least they hadn’t informed the scientific or any other community so far.

But by gods, forget the space race. Attempting to be the first one to somehow read everyone’s soulmark and then create an algorithm to monetize it as the one and only soulmate dating app, now that was a competition overflowing with cutthroat madmen. Not to mention the crowds looking to temper with soulmarks, to make another one appear on someone’s body; or worse, to erase the original soulmark and instead design one capable of manipulating the outcome of a soulmate match.

You found the force of that obsession insane – and frankly, all the attempts morally wrong. While dedicated to science and loyal to discovery, you found soulmarks to be something sacred, one of the things that should not be touched by filthy human hands; god knew humanity, while doing a lot of good, had mucked up about just as much.

You were not alone in that belief. There were, in fact, numerous demonstrations against scientists experimenting with soulmarks, people protesting against anyone creating such tool and using it to temper with natural course of things no one fully understood, not for the lack of trying. However – as expected everywhere where politics and money were involved – these protests were in vain.

They were as vain and futile as the research of the marks itself.

As for your own soulmark, you had a rather complicated relationship with it.

On one hand, it gave you a sense of peace – there was someone for you, even as sometimes it did not feel plausible at all. You had time too – because based on those words, you would not meet your soulmate until in your twenties at least. You had plenty of time to become who you were meant to be before a man could turn your life upside down, even as that was not supposed to be what soulmates did, at least not in a bad sense of the word.  

On the other hand, it was a ball and chain. You would not find you soulmate sooner than in your twenties and sometimes, you missed them despite not having met yet. When imagining what your meeting could be like based on their first words etched into your skin, you feared they might be a little disappointed – even as you did not let that stop you from pursuing the life you wanted. And despite you wanting to choose the career either way, it felt like someone – be it god, fate or another cosmic entity humanity was yet to discover – had chosen the path for you the moment you had been born if not before.

'Doctor, are you alright?'

Four simple words that couldn’t be more ordinary and yet extraordinary for they represented one of the most meaningful encounters of your life. The source of as much comfort as anxiety.

You couldn’t stand hospitals ever since you were a child. The cold environment reminded you of the strange icy feeling that had settled in your chest over the months you had been visiting your dying father, your naïve eyes watching cancer bite off his energy and smiles first, before it swallowed his whole body and soul. He had been a ghost long before he passed; and in your mind, despite all rationality even years after, that ghost haunted any hospital you visited.

Learning what your soulmark was as a child, you had spent countless nights crying, soul torn into pieces, pushed and pulled between the visceral desire to live up to your soulmark and the crippling nausea at the mere thought of dealing with people drowned in misery caused by any illness in the cold institution they called a hospital.

However, the curious kid you had been, you had fallen in love with science itself.

And that one day at school, when a classmate of yours had brought their father to the class to talk about his job as a doctor, you had burst into tears. You began to sob in the middle of him explaining to third-graders that he was not a medical doctor, but a physicist with a doctorate earning him the degree of a doctor as well. You remembered your teacher leading you outside of class, concerned and absolutely baffled, trying to sooth you helplessly even as you were completely inconsolable – because you did not need consolation.

You were crying the happiest, most relieved tears of your life.

You could still be a ‘doctor’. And you genuinely wanted to be one, not just because of what your soulmark read. You had always wished to help people indirectly, even as you looked back at your life now. Sure, your soulmark could have been adding fuel to your drive when your motivation had been running low, but this was who you desired and was meant to become.

A molecular biologist. A doctor in making. Researching the effects of medicinal drugs with hopes to improve them.

A scientist not researching soulmarks, thank you very much.

And yes, there was the lingering feeling of missing a person you hadn’t even met yet – especially when Doctor Simmons’ face lit up like fluorodeoxyglucose in PET scans whenever she saw Doctor Fitz – but you had other things to focus on. And you had time. There was no pressure.

You were not a doctor yet, after all.

Naturally, just because you dodged the joys and sorrows of being a medical student and later on, a medical doctor, it did not mean that you had it easy. No one working on their doctorate did. But when you decided to pursue your degree and work in research, you signed up for that.

You signed up for a lot of things.

It was a little peculiar for you to be on the SHIELD campus in the science division without a doctorate. It was a known fact that SHIELD only recruited best of the best, this Science ad Technology in particular: you needed at least one doctorate to even walk through the door, which was something you were reminded a lot because you did not meet that requirement and here you were.

But SHELD owned the best equipment and you were fortunate enough to get in by the lovely game of fate, being good and driven enough and having met the right people at the right time. SHIELD Academy’s Science & Tech division had the unique equipment you often needed for your research. Your research was interesting enough for people who had perhaps more power over your little life than fate itself. Stars aligned.

It was no walk in a parc, but you were no fool; jumping after that opportunity after having one too many doors shut into your face was a no-brainer. Even though it meant signing up for a whole extra load of shit.

You signed up to be the weird girl. The privileged girl. Hell, even the stupider than local average girl, because you were only an engineer at this point.

You signed up for being the young girl, even as you had met a few people there who had started younger, having actually earned their first PhD at age 17 or less.

You signed up for mockery and misogyny, for as you were aware the level was blissfully low here compared to other workplaces, especially where science was concerned; in exact science, you observed, more than anywhere you ever heard of, it was customary to keep that one insufferable employee, because they were simply that good at their job, no matter that they had cost the department a few other employees.

You signed up for living on campus with other SHIELD recruits, which meant living in close quarters with other divisions; as a result, some days the whole area seemed to swim in testosterone emitted by the hulking special agents in making from Operations.  

But that was okay. You could do it.

There were bright sides too, many of them. Like pursuing your dream career. Being among like-minded people whose brain, to a large point, ran on the same wavelength. Hooking up with a handsome but notbrainless recruit from Operations or Communication here and there, some flings, some relationships, because if you were to wait for the love of your life, you might as well not wither completely. You were only human and you had needs along with your lifegoals.

You more than willingly signed up for working with Agent slash Doctor Jemma Simmons.  With her two PhDs and rich experience from the field, she had left the action behind in order to work on her third PhD and help humanity without having her life on the line every day. She was hard-working, with no-nonsense approach and lovely sense of humour with plenty of stories to back it up; she was overall pleasant person to work and be friends with and despite having been through amazing and terrifying experiences other people couldn’t even imagine, she remained surprisingly down-to-Earth.

Sure, she had her quirks like insisting on having a gun at hand at all times and stashing a few small vials of altered Molotov cocktail, a mixture of chemicals which would ignite upon the vial breaking, in one of the nearby cabinets – but you supposed there were worst things to get used to than that in a coworker or a friend. She used to be an active agent after all; in fact, unofficially, she remained one. Much like anyone, you knew that certain habits died hard and being through what she had been – she confessed to you that she once spent months on a nearly deserted ancient planet, among other things – left a mark. If this made her feel safer, you’d take it.

Another great thing about Jemma, Doctor Simmons, was that she was adorably English and was in dedicated relationship with Doctor Fitz who was a Scotsman, so that was the spice of long workdays at times; especially if you agreed to play Scrabble with them and a few friends in the evening.

But there were things you had not signed up for when following the alluring promise of a prestigious spot and unique equipment.

And one of them was a damn Nazi revival group in the form of fucking HYDRA attacking the lab while you were in the peaceful process of waiting for your PCR to finally be finished.

Influx of men in full tactical gear interrupting Jemma updating you the vacation plans, Fiji and all the rare species of fishes that could be observed there when scuba diving.

When you heard the first shouts, breaking of glass and dull echoes of gunshots from afar, your immediate thought was that you had been having a good day and that the experiment had been coming along nicely – and that whatever mess was happening was for sure about to ruin all your progress.

By the time panic settled in, Jemma was practically tackling you down, hand over your mouth to muffle your startled squeak at the sudden movement, her eyes alert and serious, screaming at you to keep quiet.

The sickening shouts of HAIL HYDRA, COOPERATE AND YOU’LL GET HURT LESS was what sent your brain crashing into reality; that and the distant agonized cries of people, coworkers and recruits you knew and met in the hallways every day, following the sounds of gunshots growing in volume and frequency.

You could hear Jemma shuffling next to you further.

You yourself were unable to move beyond stifling a cry behind your suddenly sweaty palm as another female voice wailed in pain.

Blood seemed to freeze in your veins despite your heart thundering in your ribcage and your temples and it helped you shit at all that you were aware that was such thing was literally impossible. By the time Jemma’s hand grabbed yours again and squeezed hard, you realized you were shaking – half in anger, half in paralyzing fear, half in utter shock. It didn’t matter it didn’t add up.

What mattered was the gun in Jemma’s hand. She was holding a gun, ready to shoot, because there were enemy agents, fucking HYDRA burst through the door, guns blazing. And killing people.

You were whispering with exasperation worth of a shout before you knew what you were doing.

“Why?! Why the fuck-“

“Probably the samples they brought in today, precious cargo,” Jemma whispered back frantically, loading the gun and reaching into another cabinet behind her. You only stared at her in utter confusion and mute horror, rapid heavy footsteps approaching and sending your already racing heart into a madness. “Gun or cocktails?”

“I can’t shoot a-!”

Before you could finish, the familiar sound of the sliding door opening and a horrifying echo of tactical boots reached your ears, a set of vials pressed into your palm.

You gulped, pulse thundering in your temples.

Those goddamn Simmons’ cocktails as you named them since she had insisted on keeping around.

You couldn’t believe the moment was here that you were actually grateful for them, even as they seemed to burn in your hand even with the vials themselves intact.

Your eyes snapped to Jemma’s face to question it wordlessly at least, but she wasn’t looking at you; she was listening intently, lying in wake as if she was the predator and not the prey you felt like.

Your own breathing seemed too loud as you allowed yourself to squeeze your eyes shut for but a moment, a desperate attempt to wake up from the nightmare; but the morning didn’t come.

Instead, a gunshot rang in the room, glass shattering somewhere above your head to your right, sending a waterfall of shards flying next to you.

And causing you to cry out in fright.

Which revealed your position to the agents flowing into the lab.

Without a thought you snapped your eyes opened, jumped to your feet and threw two vials in the direction of a black blur with a shockingly clear red patch of the mythical Hydra monster in the middle; peripherally, you saw Jemma attacking as well, deafening noise of gunshot nearly blowing your eardrum.

You crouched back behind the counter so fast you felt vertigo swing you to the left, sharp pain erupting from your palm. It was pure miracle your right hand didn’t clench in instinct and shatter the two remaining vials, setting yourself on fire as well.

As well.

Someone was screaming – a man, you realized – the acid smell of burned flesh and plastic and various chemicals punching your nose and your stomach hard. You had hit someone with the vial. They screamed because of what you had done. You had-

You had no time to feel sorry. You had no time to properly think fucking serves them right.

More steps, more gunshots, movements you weren’t sure how happened or came to you in the first place, flashes of light and crimson and noise and godawful smell--- and pain erupting in the back of your head and suddenly you were barely catching yourself on the counter with your slippery palm--- your fingers brushed metal, knees weak but hands grabbing with all your might, lifting and swinging, a sickening crack on your right before you were falling, landing on your wrist, back hitting the cabinet door and making even more noise as you sent equipment clattering around.

However, the loudest sound was another gunshot; but the strangest sound was unfamiliar whizzing and metal hitting metal and someone most definitely shouting “clear!” that sounded as distant as a whisper over the ringing in your ears.

Instinctively, your head snapped to the voice as you tried to prop up on your hands to see; the world swam in front of your eyes, dizziness forcing you to fall back on your ass and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes to stop the world from spinning, a sting in your palm drawing a hiss from your lips.

You could hear Jemma’s talking to someone, her words blurred into a mumble despite her voice sounding firm and methodical; footsteps, quick and heavy but somewhat soft, accompanied by a brush of air against your skin, making you open your eyes again just as navy blue with speckles of silvery grey glinting in a flickering light filled your vision.

Then, a face; an extremely handsome face even as a helmet made of blue similar to the rest of his suit covered the upper half of it, framing a pair of the dreamiest blue eyes you had ever seen, as beautiful as blurry as a dream indeed.

Somewhere in the back of your brain it started clicking into place – that the man in front of you looked a whole lot like Captain America and he was there to kick HYDRA’s ass; he was hunk and looked righteous and unfairly pretty, the cut of his jaw sharp enough to appear as if sculpted by ancient masters of art and it might be softened by the leather strap holding his helmet in place but that only brought out the sheer beauty of his lips even with a small bloody split on them.

And he was talking to you, his leather-clad hand gently grasping your arm as you involuntarily swayed to side when moving your head to take in the entirety of his large figure.

“Doctor, are you alright?” he asked slowly, velvety voice sweet and heavy with concern at once, the gentle but firm hold on your arm growing stronger when you blinked owlishly, the connection between the meaning of his words and his apparent intention to talk to you slow and fragile.

Your tongue felt as if made of lead even as it tasted of bitterness of adrenalin, but you willed yourself to answer, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

“’mm… not a doctor yet.”

As you responded, you brain began to clear; and it occurred to you that it was a fair assumption for him to make.

You had grown used to clarifying, but hadn’t done so in months, because everyone already knew. However, he was an outsider to this lab and he couldn’t know you were the exception to the local rule. And you were wearing a lab coat, one that now had to be covered in mixture of chemicals you did not wish to identify, but perhaps you should try, because your forearm was beginning to burn.

The beautiful man kneeling in front of you silently observed you for what seemed like an eternity and half, surprise written all over his face. You couldn’t blame him; you were the weirdo of the lab. The fact the person who had purposely stacked explosives at hand was less of an anomaly than that was a thing to consider, but your head hurt too much to think about that and your heart was still beating unhealthily fast and his error seemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of things of HYDRA having attacked your lab and Captain America being right in front of you, holding onto your arm.

His soft baffled smile as he hung his head and shook it a bit with a breathless chuckle, and then lifted his downright shining gaze back to you, well that certainly made for a spectacular distraction from such unimportant thoughts.

Did his thumb just brush your arm as he still held you up a bit?

And had anyone ever told him he had a stunning smile that could melt hearts even if it was barely there and it was certainly melting yours?

“Apologies, miss. I’m going to help you get to medical, alright?” he suggested, those damn gorgeous eyes roaming your face with what almost seemed like wonder, even as his voice sounded all kinds of reassuring. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Safe. You were safe. Because there had been HYDRA agents, but Captain America and actual SHIELD operatives had come to the rescue. And because Jemma was-

Jemma. Your straightened, dull ache pounding in your back as you did so, vision clearing a fraction with the sudden realization that you couldn’t hear your friend anymore. Your friend whom you owed your life very likely, but even if you didn’t, you would have-

You craned your neck over Captain America’s impressive frame, head snapping from left to right, nausea rising with the movement, but that didn’t matter, you had to-

You turned your alarmed gaze back to the man who was still holding you, an urgent question on your lips.

“Jemma? Is she--- Doctor Simmons, brunet, lab coat-“ you paused, realizing bitterly that you had just described half of the Science and Technology. “Female. She’s a doctor and an agent too, she was with me had a gu-“

A warm squeeze on your arm, the concern which had grown even more evident on Captain’s face melting away and giving way to a soothing smile.

“She’s alright. She’s already left to be checked up and to give her statement.”

Your shoulders sagged, your head dropping a bit; the violent vertigo that seized your body at that was not pleasant and you tried to blink it away, gaze catching the reflection of the still-blinking fluorescent lamp on the Captain’s shield.

Oh. That was probably what had made the whizzing sound before. As your brain conjured an image of that, a spinning shield flying through the air, you cursed yourself mentally for letting your mind even go there since you had already felt like you were the flying piece of metal and the thing you’d hit eventually would be the floor.

“My head is spinning,” you muttered absently as you attempted to refocus your gaze, praying to gods of religion and science alike you wouldn’t throw up on the poor caring man.

Why was he still sitting here with you? Surely there were much more important things to tend to than one little post-grad? How was he so kind and gentle? Wasn’t he known for inspiring speeches in a deep serious voice and for beating up villains with both his physical strength and brains?

So many questions and no answer in those pretty blue eyes.

In fact, the number of your questions grew exponentially when the hand on your arm released the pressure and gently rubbed your elbow instead; his free hand carefully cradled the back of your other hand, the contrast of leather and his warm skin surprisingly sensual, suddenly making you understand why so many regency era literature spoke of hand-holding as indecent even as it was barely Fifty Shades of Grey level of filth.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Captain Rogers said, snapping you from your thoughts. “Let me help you up and they’ll check you up too, including this nasty cut, okay?”

Huh?

Purposely slowly as not to make the vertigo worse, you glanced at your hand in his, feeling a fresh sting just by looking at your palm, your gaze instantly snapping away.

And falling straight onto two intact vials full of liquid of a distinct colour, lying carelessly about two feet away from Steve Rogers’ tactical boots. Your heart jumped in your chest, your hazy mind finally growing aware of your surroundings.

“Shoot! Careful around those, they’re highly flammable!” you warned him swiftly, his gaze snapping to the vials in question, while ours slowly trailed over the utter, utter messthe lab had become.

The sheer amount of broken glass, spilled chemicals, broken pipettes, torn papers and unidentifiable piles of junk was staggering and it was actually a miracle nothing had exploded yet – and as a cherry on top, a few feet away, a relatively small portable PCR machine, the very equipment you had been using, downright murdered along with your experiment and a smudge of blood around it. Jesus.

“Okay, that’s good to know. More the reason to get out,” Captain Rogers remarked, slight amusement lacing his voice, only growing stronger as he continued. “Keep a lot of these around?”

You could have scoffed, but you didn’t. You have no idea, pal.

“My friend is paranoid…” you explained, still staring at them, even as you mentally added ‘or not’, since those little things might have very well saved your life. As your gaze returned to Captain Rogers, your eyes caught on something else, having you sit up straighter in sheer horror. “Is that a stab wound?!”

You gulped at the sight, even as your uninjured hand instinctively reached out towards it – as if you could fix it. The already dark suit, a lovely navy blue, appeared downright black at left his side, right where it seemed to be singed by a flame.

Had that injury been there the whole damn time he had been sitting here with you, eternally patient with your slowed brain, Simmons’ cocktails lying around in one huge chemical dump in risk of exploding any damn minute?

You logically knew the answer had to be yes, but it made zero sense – and his answer made even less sense.

“Bullet, actually. Some sort of chemical damaged the Kevlar lining and they got a lucky hit. It’s just a graze.”

“A gra-“ you choked on the word, spit stuck in your throat causing you to cough and a groan escape past your lips as the sudden rapid movement sent your head pounding again.

“Hey, you-“

“You’ve been shot and you called my cut nasty?” you questioned through the tears, earning a smile worth giving up a career for – painfully warm, kind and… almost fond.

You truly must have hit your head hard.

…as if it hadn’t been evident before.

“I heal fast. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be alright, doc.”

A knee-jerk reaction – again. What was it with him? Had he hit his head, forgetting you had already explained – you had, you hadn’t imagined that, right? – and now he called you a doctor again, turned into a familiar nickname, no less.

“I’m not a doct---- holy shit.”

It slammed into you like a train, struck you like a lightning, even as neither of those things had ever happened to you – yet, you imagined it had to feel like this.

A massive force, a force of nature, realization as bright and as unexpected as a lightning from a clear sky.

Doctor, are you alright?

He had asked that. He had asked that. He had said your words. He had said your goddamn soulmate’s first words to you, what must have been minutes ago, and only now it hit you.

You were left staring at him with wide eyes, myriad of emotions written all over his face, including  slight amusement and what you had earlier inexplicably identified as fondness, because the reason why he was still sitting here with you – though perhaps that was what he always did when rescuing, what did you know, you didn’t, this was your first meeting, that was why he had said the words – was that unlike you, he had realized you were his soulmate right away.

He kept watching you, silently letting you process the crucial revelation, a tight but no less kind smile on his lips.

“You said my words,” you said oh so intelligently. “You--- what… what did I—say?”

It was perhaps the stupidest question of all you could have come up on the spot, but you genuinely couldn’t remember – and wanted to know what words he had been looking at his whole life.

…this part of life? Or before the ice too? How did he feel about that? How did he feel about you? Was he disappointed? He didn’t look like he was, but didn’t even know what you had said—

What you did know and remember was that you were supposed to be smart and yet it had taken you an eternity to even notice you were facing your soulmate you had been probably spewing complete nonsense, you were now stammering like an idiot and for someone who had been worried, always, even if in the back of their mind, if their soulmate would find them good enough, you were generally making a bloody awful first impression.

But seriously, what had been your first words-

“You said you weren’t a doctor yet,” Captain Rogers reminded you, voice soft with affection of someone who had imagined hearing those words at least as many times as you had wondered about yours, hoping they would be pronounced by someone who’d respect you and cared about what kind of person you were, and would hopefully, eventually care for you. Loved you even. The tender way the syllables rolled of his tongue, spoken as if they tasted of honey, nearly chased fresh tears to your eyes. Alright, perhaps your first impression hadn’t been as bad as it appeared in your – albeit injured – head.  “But if you really don’t remember saying that, that’s not a good sign. We need to get you medical attention. Come on. Hold on.”

Blinking slowly, still processing the light and yet suffocating feeling that found residence in your chest as it was starting to truly settle that this man, this painfully beautiful and criminally gentle man, was your soulmate, he was leaning closer to you, his hands guiding yours to wrap around his neck, a wordless order you had obediently followed, and then one of his arms was sliding under your knees and his other wrapping around the middle of your back.

And then your vertigo hit you anew because you were suddenly up in the air, hands gripping hard at anything you could reach – conveniently, the only thing was him, because he had lifted you upin his arms, some of your weight resting against his chest – despite the pain that shot up your left hand.

“Whoa-“ And then, because your memory did serve you at least a little: “You--- have been stabbed.”

“Shot,” he repeated patiently, fondly almost, and you did recall he had said that.

You recalled despite the scent of pleasant aftershave and peak man suddenly enveloping you as much as his arms and the firm armour – or perhaps that was the muscles underneath? And those pretty blue eyes were watching you with a glint of amusement and a surprising amount of affection for a guy saying he had been hit by a bullet, while effortlessly carrying the girl he had just met in his-- very, very strong, muscly arms and perhaps your head was not only spinning because of the sudden height you found yourself at.

…amusement? How was he amused? Was that-- was that a joke? Was he making fun of his bullet wound, playing it down? 

“That’s… really not better.”

He grinned down at you as he made his way to the exit.

Walking. Watching you. Grinning and not even really looking where he was stepping.

Oh no.

Oh no, he was one of those people. You had met men like him at Operations, except for some reason – perhaps some sort of a soulmate telepathy – you had a feeling in him, that the peculiar recklessness many people from suffered, the disregard for their safety, because they could handle it, was dialled up to eleven in him. On a one to five scale. Because scaling mattered; you were a scientist. You’d know.

However, he did make it out of the laboratory without blowing anything up – perhaps at least that recklessness was balanced up by enhanced senses of a supersoldier and indeed, healing fast. And you hoped with your whole heart that walking out unscathed was a conscious effort, be it for him (somehow you doubted that) or for the cargo he was carrying (you had no doubt about that, not when he was looking at you like that). At least he had kept the helmet on; you were thankful for that, even as you’d love to see him without it.

See your soulmate.

You knew what he looked like everyone knew what he looked like. If they had missed the WW II. ed, they could barely miss the news about an alien invasion he had had a hand in stopping, the fall of majority of SHIELD, and other exciting horrifying news.

“I’ll be fine, doc. Now let’s get you away from exploding vials and lab equipment you could knock me out with. I’d rather be safe when I ask you out for dinner.”

You gulped, gripping him a bit tighter as a memory hit you – literally.

The PCR machine. You had done that. You had grabbed it and used it to smash into a HYDRA agent’s face, using the nearest improvised tool of defence. Jesus.

I really did that?

“You… saw that?” was what you asked instead, a few second ticking by as the rest of his words registered in your brain – and god, you really hoped your cognitive abilities would restore soon and the head injury had not caused permanent damage. “Oh.”

As much as your heart started pounding at that, a pleasant somersault in your stomach for a change, it was a little unfair to sort-of ask you when you were in your current predicament. Being carried like that, so close to him, so gentlemanly and tenderly handled despite your weight no doubt straining him, especially since he had been shot – grazed –, yoursenses wrapped in everything that was him and pulling you in, you were fairly certain you might say yes to just about anything he’d ask.

And not just because he was your soulmate.

Your soulmate carrying you in his arms, while wearing a very flattering suit of armour.

“If you’d like, of course,” he added with slight hesitance that only made your heart race further, because he was laying out his own heart for you already, expressive, genuine, and maybe sweetly handsy but not pushy despite his title and rank technically giving him every right to do whatever the hell he wanted. “But either way, I’ll save the real question for when I know you’re not suffering from a concussion. That sounds good?”

“Yes, Captain,” you replied dutifully. It did sound good, his consideration warming you from inside out. His voice sounded good too. “Sounds good to me.”

His smile was bright as the sun itself and basking in its light and warmth felt just as precious. Except he was to be your private sun forever shared with other to a point, but yours. Chosen by fate itself, defying all you had ever believed, beating time by decades, only so you could find each other.

“Looking forward to it, doc. Maybe I’ll get to know your name too while we’ll be at it,” he teased lightly, but without malice. “My name is Steve.”

Steve.

You knew that. You liked that.

Hand trembling a little, but not because you worried he’d drop you as you partly let go of his shoulders, you reached for the clasp on his helmet, a fluttery feeling in your chest eager to indeed see Steve rather than the Captain.

You felt your lips curl up and mirror his when he gave a tiny nod at your brief hesitation, your fingers finally undoing the strap and revealing his face with his help.

His hair was adorably ruffled, a slight shade of dust on his cheeks whispering of where the protective gear had been; but scientifically speaking, as well as speaking directly from heart, he was absolutely beautiful, his tender smile telling you he thought the very same about you.

He was meant to be yours; as you were meant to be his.

And you couldn’t wait to get to know him.

You could tell there were people around you and they were probably staring; but for the moment, you didn’t care at all. You had just met your soulmate.

And you weren’t even a doctor yet.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Steve. But I have to admit…” you said, teasing him with a pause, rewarded by his eyes earning a curious glint, “that the Doc nickname is kinda growing on me.”

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Oh this feels like coming back to my roots 🤭 but hey, this challenge is a revival of all thigs good of the past, so why not go with the good old-fashioned soulmate meet-cute with a little angst beforehand, right?

AND BEHOLD I WROTE SOMETHING SHORTER THAN 10K. SHORTER THAN 8K ACTUALLY! It’s an extravaganza miracle 😂

Also. There might be some unrelated smut in the works, but I will not finish that today so... won't be part of the cum together extravaganza... ah well 🤭

Thank you for reading and potential feedback 💕

May the Fourth be with you and the rest of May be kind ✨

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Older Favorites 8: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week we have the eighth edition of older favourite fics, check under the cut for 19 fics that were uploaded or last updated more than two years ago! Don't forget to comment and kudos if you enjoy them

when will these two wizards kiss already by allmadeofstardust (13590, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

A series of canon divergent episodes, exploring potential first kisses the wizards might've had in the final episodes of C2.

Reccer says: Back when C2 was finishing up, I always looked forward to this series updating XD it was a really fun way to feed the beast that spent every one of those last episodes waiting for a Shadowgast kiss to happen. And the ending of the series is really lovely too.

Like 80/20 on the Kinsey Scale by jakia (2772, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Caleb sleeps with Essek and panics about his sexuality. A story about friendship and identity.

Reccer says: I liked it!

By the Light by MoonwalkingCrab (31993, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, Major Character Death, Temporary Character Death

After not hearing from the Nein for months and assuming he had been forgotten, Essek receives a plea from the Nein to help save Caleb. Canon-Compliant until e88!

Reccer says: I Love love LOVE this fic. I came into the fandom right at the end of C2 and have read many really good pre-97 fics - This one is probably my absolute favorite. AMAZING Essek characterization, really nailed the loneliness at his core, I love the take and the headcanons! Also also, while this is absolutely a Shadowgast fic, this is also very much an Essek & The Nein fic. Every interaction is amazing, love the level of detail, adore the pacing, just a really good and soft and well rounded fic!!

in the times in between by jakia (8098, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: mention of miscarriage

While refining a spell, Caleb spends a few days accidentally visiting his parents over the course of a decade and a half. Essek helps the final time.

Reccer says: Kind and sweet, plus excellent mom behavior from Una at the end.

infinity in the palm of your hand by mousecookie (5752, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Major Character Death, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence

Alternate ending to e116 - The Mighty Nein find a rusted iron door in Aeor, as well as the fallen body of one Essek Thelyss.

Reccer says: Really well/solidly written, with an *amazing* twist that I did NOT see coming - Very good emotions, very good characterizations, just an all-round lovely read written during the fandom's 'When will Essek return from the war?' phase X3 Also also I just ADORE the title!

only code it knows is rote survival by Chrome (12637, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

In a world where Trent makes it back to Eiselcross before the Nein do, Essek spends a night under the effects of the Feeblemind spell. Caleb undertakes a duty of care, and the Nein learn how Essek feels about them beneath everything.

Reccer says: Wonderful characters and lovely writing!

like coloured indigo inscribed with my name by KmacKatie (30648, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

An exploration of tradition, culture, what is worth sacrificing in finding yourself and family.

Reccer says: I think about this fic a lot. The highs, the lows, the sweetness, the angst. It's existed in the back of my mind for so long that it's kind of hard to describe the particulars of why I love it; I just do. I love the snapshots into Essek and the Nein's lives; the moment in Chapter 4 when the wizards kiss stands out to me as an example of that. The heartache of Chapters 6 and 7 is so well done; the strings of unanswered texts (and Essek's deleted replies) at the end of 6 and "I can’t eat soup without thinking of you." in particular (ESPCIALLY the latter) have stuck with me for years. Essek showing up at Caleb's birthday party after everything... there are tears in my eyes as I am typing this. I just love all of it so much, but the angst in particular really left a mark. And I love the ending so much too. All of it is just iconic and wonderful. To end on a lighter note, shout-out to the remark about Deirta and kumquats, which surfaced in my psyche recently after being dormant in there for so long XD

a certain future by wristpockets (26997, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek keeps trying to outwit The Mighty Nein, and gets stuck in a time loop trying to do so. He's trying to befriend them now, trying to earn their trust, but that's only because it's his best option... right?

Reccer says: While the Shadowgast is a relatively minor aspect of the story, it's a great character study.

Echoes by MithrilWren (1759, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

“Essek finds himself... unsettled by Caleb's new telepathic powers.“

Reccer says: Shadowgast, but with some Somnovem interference! This fic is short, but it packs a punch! I still get a shiver down my spine thinking about the ending.

Somewhere Just for Us by bluebirdsongs (12835, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb takes Essek on a date to the version of the dance hall that lives on the Tower's 8th floor.

Reccer says: This is one of my all-time favorite Shadowgast fics, hands down. It is incredibly tender and sweet, with so many layers of emotion. The concept is brilliant and so well executed. I love Caleb introducing Essek to Zemnian cuisine and this fic is 100% the reason for it. And the flirting and the banter and the DANCING. There's a moment when they're dancing that made me yell in delight when I first read it back in 2021 and I still adore it. And the ending!!! Augh, it's all just so heartfelt. It deserves all the love in the world. (Also, it never fails to make me crave a preztel)

russet inconveniences by marleybone (7328, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek needs a roommate and finds one in Caleb Widogast.

Reccer says: You know a fic is good when you think you've submitting reccs and then you remember the title and immediately have to go pull it up to recc too XD this one is just so fun!!! Caleb is a menace of a roommate and I love that that never stops, even as Essek realizes he's got feelings. The tag "minor inconveniences to lovers" is fantastic XD

Unspoken Love by marsmystic (4187, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

“ Caleb and Essek return to Aeor together. A relationship develops. Or was it already there?”

Reccer says: This fic sparks joy! Wizards being besties!! Essek and Caleb’s relationship is so sweet in this. It really highlights how the romantic aspects of it stem from their friendship, which is one of my favorite flavors of shadowgast.

The Mind and The Malady by SaltCore (38945, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

There is a remedy for his illness, of course. There is always a way to unwind magic, but there is always a price. The cost of Essek’s life, now that he’s contracted Hanahaki’s disease, can be paid two ways—one is higher than Essek can bear and the other, well. The other can only be paid by someone else.

Reccer says: Beautifully written and wonderful worldbuilding! Always a fav to reread!

some things time can't fix by Chrome (25930, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek is arrested for treason. The Dynasty severs the daemons of prisoners before executing them so they can’t be reborn.

Reccer says: Daemon au! This fic made me feel so many emotions

Like a Steel Trap by kaeda (12519, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek is very much into Caleb's keen mind.

Reccer says: Wizards loving wizards for wizardly reasons!

a mirror to the sky by renquise (7432, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek shows up on Caleb's doorstep in the bitter cold of winter and shows him something private

Reccer says: Self bondage fic my beloved! The tension between the two is so good!

To Mourn a Mischief by toneofjoy (81716, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

It's an Ever After-inspired AU with magic, where Caleb is trapped with Ikithon but ends up wooing Essek. Follows the plot of Ever After but has some good twists and turns!

Reccer says: The writing gives that fairy-tale feel, and though it follows the plot of Ever After, it's different enough to be exciting. Also love the surprise guests near the end, and the Jester/Essek and Caleb/Beau friendships are so good!

The following two fics each received two recs:t

(your face in my hands is) everything good i need by mllekurtz (TheKnittingJedi) (25884, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

The last person Caleb Widogast, Professor of Modern History, expects to find as he walks in a random pub in a foreign city at the end of a long conference is Dr. Essek Thelyss, eminent Latinist and his sort-of intellectual crush.

Reccer 1 says: This is the first fic in my bookmarks and I've long since lost track of how many times I've reread it. So many moments have ingrained themselves in my memory; Caleb's hands on Essek's elbows when they first kiss. Their later spicy makeout getting interrupted by Essek getting a call. Caleb trying to pin Essek to his door the moment they get to his apartment for kisses and Essek having to get him to slowdown for a minute. Essek thinking Caleb looks like a god as they lay in bed together. "I want a clean break". Essek touching Caleb's new beard first thing when they reunite after Caleb's grown it. Their candelit video calls. I have to stop myself before I just list everything that happens because it's all SO GOOD. Essek Week 2021 produced some just magnificent fics and this is easily towards the top of that list. Reccer 2 says: The exquisite writing, the Demi Essek, the literal sleeping together, and the way their relationship evolves over time.

we never do go over (we always gotta go through) by Chrome (17169, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

In which Essek uses Convergent Future to save the Nein in Aeor and has to take the journey out of Aeor with five levels of exhaustion.

Reccer 1 says: SUCH a classic, I distinctly remember reading this one on my laptop at the back of the forum room my study hall was in, right when it was posted. The physical toll of powerful magic is something I ALWAYS love to see explored, so this was already a success on that part. Add in 5+1, hurt/comfort, and Shadowgast tenderness and getting together? This fic still lives rent free in my head for a reason. Reccer 2 says: Such tenter feelings!

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring fics that include good/complicated mom Deirta. Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal (Start)

WC: 588 CW: (updating as the fic continues), Gen but ships may be added Danny Fenton/Wally West pre-relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood, Major Injury, Minor Character Death

They were going to lose.

It's a simple, unavoidable fact and it hits Danny like one of Superman’s punches. He fumbles in his attempt to triage Barry’s leg before the limb was lost.

The man standing in the middle of the ruins of Metropolis would win. He and his army of hive mind clones would sweep across the rest of the planet. Humanity would fall.

They were going to lose.

He finishes tying off the field tourniquet, not sure how he manages, not with his hand slick with Barry’s blood. Something of his thoughts must be showing on his face because Barry reaches out and grips a weak hand around Danny’s wrist.

“Kid?”

It was still a stupid nickname. Danny hadn’t been a kid since before joined up with the Justice League as a field medic four years ago. But Danny was the same age as Wally and many of the other Teen Titans— all long grown out of that name— and so he got lumped in as ‘kid’ to the more senior heroes.

And now all these wonderful, heroic, brave people that Danny had come to be friends with were going to die. The monologue happening in the middle of the street made that much clear. No hero would be left alive; any chance of a future uprising would be snuffed out this very day.

Because they were going to lose.

Danny smiles softly at Barry and pries his hand away.

“Kid, whatever you’re thinking—” Barry could have no idea what Danny was thinking. No one could.

No one could, because no one knew what Danny could do.

Danny had played to the curse perfectly for seven years. A curse set on him in a stupid moment of one last teenage angst fueled vent. He had just wanted to be normal.

Sam and Tucker were going off to college. Danny wasn’t, not with his grades. Jazz was practically waiting for her girlfriend to propose. Danny couldn’t imagine even dating with his secrets. Jack and Maddie had a new contract with the GIW. Danny had stopped trying to reason with them.

Everyone else was moving on with their lives while Danny was stuck half dead. A freak of nature. A man out of life yet still living. A walking corpse.

He just wished he was normal.

He’d forgotten that he shouldn’t wish.

A wish is only a curse waiting to happen.

Well, he got it— his wish that was a curse. As long as Danny never used his powers in any noticeable way he would just be seen as a regular kid to the rest of the world— just plain, normal Danny Fenton. If he got caught using them even once— if he got caught being not normal, his powers would be gone, taken by the curse. Without his powers keeping his core humming happily along and sustaining his half dead body, Danny would be gone.

Danny had forgotten he shouldn’t wish.

But he did.

And suddenly, just like that, to everyone else, Danny was normal— no ghost attacks to fight, no GIW hunting him, no Team Phantom.

Sam and Tucker drifted quickly away without the team to bond them. Jazz checked in less and less— no need to worry about her little brother being shot. Jack and Maddie… well, they stopped having a reason to talk with him too. They had to prove the existence of ghosts! There was no time for… well, someone as normal as Danny.

Normal turned out not to be so great.

-----

AN: I got sent the the field medic prompt going around, for some reason? (there was no comment sent with it). It's a cute idea with some fun responses, but not really my jam to write. I'm not much into exploring ageless immortal, dimension hopping Danny in my own work. I have more of a weakness for exploring what makes Danny still human. And, as @mokulule pointed out: "I see you mentioning no angst XD".

(Have you all caught on yet that I like my angst?)

So of course I had to ask if I were to write field medic Danny, how would I get him there? And how would I hurt him once he was there? So I threw out all of the prompt and I bounced it around with Moku, her prodding me along with great questions and thoughts, and now here we are.

Because apparently my brain didn't want to warm up on one of my current ideas. This will be a one shot so help me-

(BTW: While in the very vaguest sense this started with a prompt, the above writing is not a prompt. This will be finished, it's 99% planned out already, just needs the writing.)

[shadowtriovibes]

before the origin of love

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Blood, Major Hogwarts Legacy Spoilers, Canon Divergence, Ancient Magic Theory

Summary: request [paraphrased]: "You know the part during the game when MC visits Ollivander's alone and Rookwood Apparates her away? Can I request an angsty version of this where Sebastian is with f!MC? Rookwood is angry they killed all his men and casts Imperio on Sebastian to force him to attack her. Even though she’s expecting to die by Sebastian’s hand, he eventually fights the curse off because love is more powerful than dark magic."

a.k.a. y'all thought lily potter was the only one with ancient love magic? think again!!!

“Show your face, Rookwood!” you shout into the darkness. “Come out and fight me!” “My dear, why should I fight you?” Rookwood laughs from high above you, still unseen. “This is child’s play, after all…” You feel like time stops as you see a bright green curse rocket through the air toward Sebastian, who is powerless to do anything to stop it. The curse hits him in the chest with such force that he’s knocked backward, his head tipping forward as he lets out a sickening groan. But instead of watching your friend die while you stood by helplessly, you watch in abject horror as he tilts his head up and locks eyes with you – smoky-green, soulless eyes.

The moment you and Sebastian step outside Ollivander’s shop, you realize that the typically bustling streets of Hogsmeade are disquietingly empty. It’s nearly sundown now, and instead of seeing a friendly mix of witches and wizards doing their holiday shopping or stocking up on supplies for the winter months, you find yourselves all alone.

“Take out your wand,” you murmur to Sebastian. “Something’s not right.”

Wordlessly Sebastian draws his wand and takes a step closer to you, warily glancing up and down the empty streets.

Then in the blink of an eye, a well-dressed figure Apparates into view just across the way – Victor Rookwood, you realize, complete with that infuriating hat of his.

“Rookwood,” Sebastian boldly calls out. “So we meet again. Didn’t you get enough of a telling-off last time?”

You silently aim your wand at him, daring him to take one step closer.

“Well, well… looks like your friend Sirona isn’t here to stick up for you little menaces this time,” Rookwood says with a sneer. “I’m afraid you two are on your own. In fact, I’ve ensured that we have a moment to ourselves.”

Sebastian quickly lifts his wand and aims it squarely at the man’s face. “What do you want, Rookwood?”

“Oh, come, come, no need for such theatrics,” the man drawls, slowly creeping closer to you both. “In light of what Ranrok now knows, you must agree that our interests are aligned.”

Sparks crackle at the tip of your wand as you lift it toward Rookwood.

“Our interests will never be aligned,” you murmur.

Rookwood glances significantly at Sebastian before he challenges you.

“My dear, you would let goblins take what is rightfully ours? The final repository belongs to wizardkind. We would be fools not to work together.”

Beside you, you observe the slightest falter in Sebastian’s aim. You should have known that someone like Rookwood would immediately be able to pinpoint and exploit his biggest weakness – his resentment toward goblinkind, his uncompromising belief that only they carry the blame for his sister’s curse.

You imagine him thinking, Could he be right? Are we fools to allow Ranrok’s goblins to continue ransacking Isadora’s Repositories? Could we instead be using them to cure Anne?

But before Sebastian says a word, Rookwood’s eyes land on the long, thin box in your hands.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” he demands.

Quickly, you slip the box safely inside your robes. You shake your head only slightly, but Rookwood easily detects its significance.

Rookwood continues, “Might this sudden visit to the wandmaker have something to do with our… mutual pursuit?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say softly.

Suddenly, you see Rookwood’s countenance shift as his true motives become clear.

“That repository is my birthright!” he shouts, stepping toward you with a hand outstretched.

Instantly Sebastian steps in front of you and points his wand at Rookwood once more. “I know one thing for certain, and that’s that Charles Rookwood wouldn’t have wanted you anywhere near it!”

Rookwood laughs darkly as he takes a step back.

“The arrogance,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on Sebastian’s determined expression. “I should have known better than to try to reason with a Sallow, after all – you’re no better than your sister, you simpering fool.”

In a frighteningly low voice, Sebastian asks, “What would you know about my sister?”

“Nothing, of course,” Rookwood sneers. “I only meant that I’ve always thought that children should be seen and not heard.”

You inhale sharply, absently lowering your wand as you process Rookwood’s words – the very same that Sebastian had told you were the last words Anne had heard before she was hit with her curse.

Sebastian understands the implication a split second before you do, and you can see bolts of green light shooting down the length of his wand before you even understand what he’s doing.

“Avada–”

Before he can finish his spell, you feel a hand on your shoulder and suddenly you’re hurtling through time and space as you’re forcibly Apparated away from Hogsmeade, landing in a crumpled heap in the snowy grass. You’re smack in the middle of a desolate bandit camp somewhere in the Highlands.

Beside you, Sebastian is catching his breath while his hands tremble with rage.

“Where did he go?” Sebastian demands. “Where did the bloody coward go?!”

“Careful, Sallow,” Rookwood’s voice calls out from the darkness. “Wouldn’t want to get yourself into a bind!”

Sebastian suddenly shouts as thick lengths of rope appear out of thin air and wrap themselves around his body, forcing him to his knees.

“Sebastian!” you yell. “Finite!”

Your spell deflects right off the enchanted ropes, and Sebastian grits his teeth.

“I’m okay,” he insists. “It’ll be alright, just – just get him, you can do this.”

Desperate, you find yourself alone while Sebastian struggles against his ropes. You’re keenly aware of the dozen or so fully-grown wizards Apparting into the camp with their wands drawn. You’ll have to take on every single one of them by yourself, you realize, with nothing but your own wand and the ancient magic coursing through your veins to defend yourself.

It feels endless. Simply deflecting their spells takes nearly all of your focus, even if you try to spare some for Sebastian while he struggles uselessly against his bindings. You toss curse after curse at Rookwood’s men and eventually you’re forced to start tossing actual barrels and crates at them as well, until finally you pare down the lot of them to the last executioner with his wand trained squarely at your heart.

“Bomarba!” you holler, and across the field, the burly executioner goes flying into a pile of rubble and melts away into smoke, the last to abandon his mission and surrender.

“Show your face, Rookwood!” you shout into the darkness. “Come out and fight me!”

“My dear, why should I fight you?” Rookwood laughs from high above you, still unseen. “This is child’s play, after all…”

You feel like time stops as you see a bright green curse rocket through the air toward Sebastian, who is powerless to do anything to stop it. The curse hits him in the chest with such force that he’s knocked backward, his head tipping forward as he lets out a sickening groan. But instead of watching your friend die while you stood by helplessly, you watch in abject horror as he tilts his head up and locks eyes with you – smoky-green, soulless eyes.

Imperio.

 “So go on, then,” Rockwood demands. “Play!”

The ropes that had bound Sebastian’s arms to his side quickly fall away, and before you can even react he lifts his wand and rounds on you.

“Confringo!” he shouts, and a blaze of fire soars just past your ear.

“Sebastian,” you call out. “Can you hear me? Don’t do this, please!”

You know it’s fruitless. Sebastian himself had taught you that the Imperius curse cannot be fought off, even by the most powerful wizards who have ever been trained to resist its impenetrable influence. Despite his dueling skills and his broad knowledge of the Dark Arts, you have to assume that Sebastian doesn’t stand a chance against Rookwood’s voice in his ear.

“Levioso!” you counter, hoping to merely hold him off long enough to get to Rookwood and force him to free Sebastian.

But to your chagrin, the Sebastian you’ve known and loved since your first days at Hogwarts is indeed one of the most disciplined and talented duelers you’ve ever fought, and even though he doesn’t want to, he’ll surely give you a run for your money.

“Diffindo!” he growls, and the edge of his curse just barely nicks the side of your calf. You cry out in pain and collapse to the ground as you press a hand to the bleeding wound.

“Want me to release your little friend?” Rookwood calls out. “It’s simple, darling. Join me against Ranrok and I’ll let him live!”

You know deep down that you can’t ally yourself with Rookwood. Despite Sebastian’s initial hesitance, you have to imagine that if he were able to understand your position, he’d do the very same thing that you’re about to do.

It wasn’t the goblins after all, it was him, you can hear him say. We can never join him, not after what he did to Anne. There’s only one way out of this.

Merlin, you think. This is it.

Without your ability to wield ancient magic or the wand made of the Pensieve artifacts, Ranrok may never gain access to the final repository, you convince yourself – especially if he splinters from Rookwood. Sebastian can give the wand to Fig after you’re gone, he can hide it somewhere Ranrok will never find it…

It could all work out, you reckon, if you die.

“Never!” you call out to Rookwood. “I’ll never join you!”

“Then you’ve made your choice,” Rookwood’s voice echoes back. “I’ll let the Sallow boy show you what happens to anyone who says no to me.”

Rockwood’s twisted laughter rings out all around you as Sebastian’s opalescent eyes look you up and down. He lifts his wand and aims it at your heart, and you close your eyes with your own wand at your side.

“Avada Kedavra!”

…

…You’re still breathing.

How are you still breathing?

When you open your eyes, Sebastian is standing before you looking entirely drained, his eyelids drooping as he sways from pure exhaustion. However, just before he collapses you catch a glimpse of his eyes – his usual warm brown ones, the same magnificent eyes you’ll never tire of seeing after all this.

“Sebastian!” you shout, running over to support him as he tumbles to the ground. “Wh-what just happened?”

“Did I get him?” he asks in a whisper. “Rookwood?”

Stunned, you cast Lumos and peer across the empty field until you notice a figure lying in the snow far at the other end – Rockwood, you assume. He isn’t moving, and his legs are bent in a sick, absurd way as if he’d fallen from the watchtower that he now lays below.

“Yes,” you breathe. “You did, b-but… Sebastian, how did you–”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. He’s clinging to your arm as you help him to sit up and rest his head between his knees. “I have no idea, I just… I couldn’t do it.”

“He wanted you to kill me,” you surmise.

“I wouldn’t,” he says hollowly. “It… felt like my head was being split open right down the middle, with one half of me forcing my body to move and aim my wand and the other half knowing that I’d rather die than use that curse on you.”

“Oh, Seb,” you whisper.

You’re both quiet for several long moments while Sebastian takes deep breaths, his face still hidden between his knees. You slowly rub his back through his cloak and wait for him to sit up. He looks haunted when he finally does – even more so than he usually looks.

“I hurt you,” he mumbles. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, love,” you say softly, the pet name slipping out so easily that you barely even register at first. “I’m okay, it’s just a cut. Some Wiggenweld will fix me right up when we get back to the castle.”

“Can I?” he asks hesitantly, and you reluctantly let him pull your cloak to the slide so he can see the gash on your calf.

It isn’t deep, and it isn’t even bleeding anymore, but the ripped trouser leg and drying blood stains make Sebastian curse under his breath nonetheless.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers. “Why did I do that?”

“You have no choice,” you remind him desperately. “No witch or wizard has ever fought off the Imperius curse like that before, Sebastian, and you spared me my life. I don’t care about a bloody cut when I should be dead.”

“Never,” he chants mindlessly. “Never, I wouldn’t.”

That’s when a thought occurs to you.

“Sebastian…” you say softly. “It’s possible that there are… other types of ancient magic in addition to mine.”

He frowns. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe there’s something… something primeval, something elemental to our magic that you accessed,” you wonder aloud. “Professor Fig told me that his wife Miriam had spent years studying ancient magic, and it can’t only be that which I have the power to wield. Perhaps you were able to defy Rookwood’s will because you – you connected with a magic that’s more powerful than even an Unforgivable.”

“More powerful than that kind of darkness?” he asks softly. “...That type of magic exists?”

“Of course, it must,” you say simply. “Darkness can’t be more powerful than light, can it?”

He considers your supposition as if it’s the first time the thought has ever occurred to him.

“So… so what, the power of ‘friendship,’ something like that?” he asks, a corner of his mouth quirking up into the first thing resembling a smile that he’s shown since you entered Hogsmeade hours ago.

“Something like that,” you tease him. “Maybe the power of ‘love.’”

You’d meant it entirely in a platonic way, but as soon as the words are out of your mouth, Sebastian goes red and ducks his face.

“That’s – that’s ridiculous,” he mumbles. “I mean, love, that’s… Who said anything about love?”

You’re quiet while you watch Sebastian try and fail to gather his thoughts. He’s flailing, and all of a sudden you realize something clear as day that you can’t quite believe you never recognized before.

“Sebastian,” you murmur. “...Do you suppose you broke through an Imperius curse because you’re in love with me?”

“Wh-what?!” he laughs.

“Because if you did, that would be probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, in all the books I’ve ever read,” you continue. “And if that were the case, I would have to tell you that I’m madly in love with you, too.”

Sebastian is stunned into silence.

“You love me?” he eventually whispers.

“I do,” you tell him. “And… and I never really thought about it before, because it doesn’t really feel all that different from being friends with you, except – except I would have let you kill me rather than kill you, even though I know what’s at stake.”

“I still think you should’ve,” Sebastian jokes quietly. “You’re much more important than I am.”

“Regardless, we couldn’t have let Rookwood find out about the last Repository, and I would have taken the Killing Curse to stop him,” you sigh. “I trusted you would have taken the Pensieve wand back to Fig.”

“I would’ve turned my wand on myself first,” Sebastian says plainly. “Without a second thought.”

Merlin, you can’t believe he actually says things like that.

Rather than continuing to dwell on what could have been, you offer him a hand up and support him by the elbow while he shakily makes his way to his feet. He still looks pale and rattled, but he’s able to start to walk toward the exit of the crumbling ruins – still clinging to your hand.

“Come on,” you murmur. “When we get back to the castle you can rest.”

“What about the Repository?” he asks weakly.

“Let me and Fig worry about that,” you murmur. “You’ve already done more than enough for me today, love. You need to recover.”

“M’not even hurt,” he protests, but he sounds utterly depleted.

“Hush,” you whisper. “Just keep holding onto me, alright?”

It’s not easy getting Sebastian back to the castle; he keeps pitching to the side on the back of your broom as he fights to stay conscious, but you manage to keep him from falling off. Despite his protests, you take him straight to Nurse Blainey so he can get some proper rest (and so someone will be forced to keep an eye on him for you).

“Be safe,” he murmurs while you squeeze his hand in his infirmary bed. “Please.”

“I promise, Seb,” you tell him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Just be here waiting for me when I get back.”

“You’ve made sure of that,” he grumbles, but he offers you an encouraging smile before you leave for the Map Room one final time.

[hugmekenobi]

The Bad Batch (1)

Chapter One: Aftermath

GIF by @sinfulsalutations​ 

Hunter x femaleJedi!reader

Series Summary: You joined the Batch 8 months ago and everything was going well. But then, Order 66 happened and suddenly the galaxy around you changed. Now, not only do you need to be careful given your new ‘social status’, but you also need to navigate your feelings towards a certain Sergeant. 

Chapter Summary: You and the Batch have to deal with the way the galaxy has changed. And secrets get revealed along the way.

Genre: Friends (idiots) to Lovers

Warnings: Use of (Y/N) (but I’ve limited it as much as I could), swearing, canon-typical violence, character deaths, slight canon deviation (particularly in later chapters), the Force works according to what I need, angst, mild injury description, reader also digs herself a hole with some poor early choices

Word Count (Ch 1): 18.9K (so sorry, episode one is a long one)

Rating: 18+

Author’s notes: Like I said, just putting this out there cause I finished this last year and I just have it sitting in my docs and figured I’d give it a shot! Majority of the dialogue is from the show but my own parts and voice is in there too! I’ve written the reader to be someone who makes mistakes and isn’t a flawless character because that’s how I want her to be so I can understand if that’s not for everyone, I even got annoyed myself sometimes lol. But yeah, still very nervous about sharing this but if you do read, hope you enjoy! :) 

MasterList

Kaller.

You watched as the young padawan left your group to head back to his master. You remembered when you had been his age. Life had been so different. You never imagined that where you were right now is how your life would’ve worked out. Fighting in a war? Or at least facing conflict of some kind? Sure, that seemed inevitable given the way your life was set out but going from a life of relative peace to a soldier (not that that label was very well accepted but it was what you believed), to a civilian, back to a soldier but fighting with a group of defective clones? No. Nothing could’ve prepared you for that.

“Credit for your thoughts?”

You smiled and turned to face the, more modulated, but all too familiar covered smokiness voice of Sergeant Hunter of Clone Force 99. You’d ran in to him and the rest of the group a long time ago- it was coming up on 8 months ago now- when they were on a mission on Devaron, one of the many planets you had settled in. You’d watched as they got themselves into a bit of bother with a rather large battalion of Separatist droids and you knew you had to help. With your assistance, along with their rather unorthodox tactics, the droids had been taken care of quickly and you found yourself not wanting to leave them so when Hunter offered you a spot on his squad, you hadn’t hesitated. At the end of the day, you were back doing what you enjoyed- helping people. Of course, something you hadn’t fully thought through and something you quickly realised was that, with them being soldiers of the Republic, you were often in the presence of a Jedi which wasn’t ideal. You huffed out a breath before replying, “That would just be a waste of your rather limited funds.”

“You’re okay though?” Hunter asked, lightly touching your shoulder.

Even though his helmet was on, you could feel his eyes looking into yours. You pushed away the heat that began to spread through your body. The last thing you needed was to get that warm and fuzzy feeling you so often felt in front of the clone with enhanced senses. That had been getting harder and harder lately. Yes, upon first meeting him, you’d noticed that he was a rather attractive, but you’d hoped that feeling would only run surface deep, but you’d been wrong.

Over the months you’d been alongside him, that feeling only grew until it became a deeply engrained part of you. There were moments where perhaps you thought those feelings were reciprocated. A few months into your new membership, after spending your time sleeping in one of the ship’s passenger seats, the two of you began share his bunk in both the ship and their barracks because, according to him, ‘sleeping in one of those chairs wasn’t a suitable way to live or prepare for missions’.

Moreover, you were often paired up with him on these missions, but you convinced yourself this was nothing more than him being a good friend and sergeant. Yes, it was all platonic. Friends platonically shared a bunk and often woke up in each other’s arms. Yes, it could only possibly be platonic. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Hunter, can we do this already, I wanna attack some droids!” Wrecker complained loudly.

You drew your hood and mask up and followed Hunter over to where Echo, Tech, Wrecker and Crosshair were standing.

You took your weapon from the sheath slung over your back. You’d melted down a bunch of vibroblades to make this. It wasn’t quite the length of a sword, but it was close enough, and it was the nearest thing to a positive reminder of home you had.

“I still don’t understand why you use that and not a blaster. Logically, a blaster is more practical for a battle.” Tech observed.

“You know Tech, sometimes you don’t need to understand everything. This works just fine for what I need.” You replied simply.  

“Okay. Everyone ready?” Hunter asked.

You and the others nodded.

You took a breath to calm your pounding heart. This mission would be the closest you’d come to encountering the many Jedi masters scattered across the galaxy. You’d always managed to not stick around too long after the job was done. You tended to hang back, usually with Crosshair, avoiding any and all interaction whilst the others spoke to them, but you sensed this mission would have you in closer proximity than you would like. You couldn’t put a finger as to why you felt this way, a large factor was probably you and the group were the only reinforcements available so there wouldn’t be many buffers, but there was also something else that was bothering you- you were going to tell them after the mission today and you had no idea how it would go down or just how bad their reactions would be. You couldn’t dwell on it for too long though, Wrecker had dislodged the boulder and it had begun its course down the cliffside, so you all began your descent to the droids below.

--

It was child’s play really. You gelled well with the rest of them. Every droid you came across fell victim to a stab of your weapon and Wrecker didn’t need your help getting rid of the tanks, much to your relief. You weren’t sure you would be able to get away with that today. It was over relatively quickly. Chopping off the last droid’s head, you began walking over to where Caleb and his master were taking cover. Maybe you could hide behind Wrecker and go mostly unseen.

“If you’re done hiding down there, I suggest you launch a counter-attack.” Hunter said, removing his helmet. “Another droid battalion is approaching.”

“The General is the one who gives the orders around here.”

The Jedi Master put her hand up to appease the clone captain. “He’s right Captain this is our chance. Launch the counterattack.”

“Yes General.” He said a tad reluctantly before addressing the rest of the battalion. “Alright men let’s go!” He ordered before he, the Padawan and the General made their way out their bunker towards you all.

Wreaker pushed his way past Echo, leaving you a bit more exposed than you would like. “There you are little Jedi. You missed all the fun!”

“Watching your team in action was the fun.” Caleb replied with a smile.

“Care to introduce your new friends Caleb?” She asked.

Fuck. You watched as the General lowered her hood. That was Depa Billaba. There was a very strong chance she could recognised you. You adjusted your mask over your nose, making sure it suitably covered as much of your face as it possibly could.

“Yes Master. This is Wrecker, Hunter, Echo, Tech, Crosshair and…” He trailed off and looked past Wrecker slightly. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name earlier.”

You coughed and stepped forward beside Wrecker as you told her your name.

The Jedi Master let out a hum as she heard it. “Forgive me, that name sounds very familiar. Have we met before?” Depa mused, her eyes peering into your own.

You avoided her gaze quickly. “No.” You replied before retreating back into the safety of the group.

Hunter watched you carefully. He knew you didn’t like interacting much with the other people the mission involved but this time you seemed even more uncomfortable than usual.  

She stared at you for a moment longer before returning her focus back to the group as a whole. “While I’m not sure fun is the sentiment I would express. I agree with my padawan. Your exploits were quite impressive.”

“Exploits?” Wrecker repeated, confusion in his voice.

“Don’t overthink it, Wrecker.” Crosshair said, before walking off.

You followed him; you really didn’t want to be a part of this interaction.

“Thank you General.” Echo said.

“Now would one of you please explain where my actual reinforcements are.”

“Re-routed to the Capital. We’re all you’re getting.” Hunter answered.

“Ha! We’re all you need!” Wrecker added.

“Actually, if my intel is correct, the general will not need any of us. The Clone War will soon be over.” Tech said.

“Better tell that to the clankers headed our way.” Depa’s clone captain countered.

“I am referring to the encrypted comm chatter. Clone intelligence is reporting General Obi Wan Kenobi has found and engaged General Grievous on Utapau.” Tech explained.

“If he captures or kills Grievous, the Separatist command structure would collapse.” Echo theorised.

“And most likely the droid armies along with them.” Tech added.

“A fascinating theory yet unfortunately not something we can control from here. I suggest we focus on the task at hand.” Depa suggested.

“Any orders?” Hunter asked. “Or shall we do what we do?” He added before putting on his helmet.

“Let’s blow something up! Yeah!” Wrecker cried enthusiastically.

“Well Caleb, shall we let them ‘do what they do’?” She asked her young padawan.

“Only if I can go with them.” He answered happily.

“Very well.”

“Hey kid you ready for this? We move fast.” Hunter told him.

“Good, that’s the only way I know.” He replied smoothly before running off.

“I like him!” Wrecker said before him, and Echo followed.

Giving a quick salute, Hunter too ran off.

--

You had noticed the group had dispersed so you and Crosshair ran towards the squad too. You were keeping pace with Caleb at the back but as you were running, your body ran cold, and you knew it wasn’t the Kaller climate. Something was wrong, you could feel it. You knew Caleb did too because you both slowed down at the same time and that was when you heard the blaster fire. You turned around and your heart sank to your stomach.

“Master.” Caleb said, his voice filled with concern.

“Caleb, wait!” You tried to grab him, but he turned and began to run back to the sight where his master was fending of a group of clones.

“Master!” He cried out again, igniting his lightsaber.

Hunter and the rest of the squad too began to hear the blaster fire and stopped and turned around to see what was happening.

You watched helplessly as the Jedi Master took multiple blaster bolts and as you heard her final cry, you felt a pain that wasn’t just from this. It felt like the pain of an entire galaxy, and it took everything in your power not to fall to your knees. You couldn’t give yourself away. You inhaled deeply and saw Caleb making his way back to you, but you heard Hunter and the others approaching and as they did so Caleb stopped and looked warily at the group of clones.

“Stay away from me!” He demanded, before running off into the forest.

“Kid, wait!” Hunter called after him.

“What the fuck was that?” You asked, coming to stand beside Hunter.

“Wha, what just happened?” Echo asked.

“The comm channel is repeating one directive. Execute Order 66.” Tech explained.

“Yeah, I heard that too. What’s Order 66?” Wrecker inquired.

“I am not certain.” Tech said with a slight sigh.

“Well can you get certain?” You snapped aggressively.

The others all turned to look at you.

You sighed. “Sorry. Just shocked, that’s all.”

Hunter studied you for a moment before addressing the group. “Echo, Tech talk to the Reg captain. Find out what you can.” He looked to you and Crosshair. “We will track down the kid and make sure nothing happens to him. Wrecker, stall anyone who tries to follow us.”

--

The three of you ran into the woods. You knew you could find him quicker than Hunter could track him but until you knew what exactly this order was, your secret would have to remain a secret.

“He’s close.” Hunter said quietly.

You looked in the trees around you and you spotted a huddled brown figure on a tree branch. You nudged Crosshair and subtlety pointed up. “There.”

Hunter followed your gaze. “Come on down kid. We’re here to help.”

You noticed Crosshair fiddling with his sniper. “What are you- No!” You watched in horror as Crosshair fired on the branch and the young Jedi deflected the bolt.

“Liar!” He shouted before jumping away.

“What are you doing?” Hunter asked, stunned.

“Following orders.” Crosshair answered.

You just stared at him. “You don’t even know what the order is.”

“Stand down.” Hunter ordered, pushing Crosshair back. “Until we know what’s going on.” He walked off, tugging your arm gently to get you to follow him.

You shook your head at Crosshair before following Hunter.

“Good soldiers follow orders.” Crosshair said once the two of you were out of earshot before he walked after you.

--

The comm linked chirped and Wrecker’s gruff voice came through. “Hunter, you’ve got regs in bound.”

“Copy that.”

“We have a situation.” This time it was Tech’s voice.

“Tell us something we don’t know, Tech.” You answered.

“It appears the regs have been ordered to execute the Jedi.”

You immediately stopped walking. You felt lightheaded and your knees were definitely threatening to buckle and this time you weren’t so sure you could resist, so you leaned against a tree.

“What? Which Jedi?” Hunter asked.

“All of them. They’re saying the Jedi have committed treason.” Tech clarified.

“That would explain things.” Crosshair said.

“It doesn’t begin to explain things!” You snapped, pushing off the tree to walk towards him.

“I suggest you get back here.” Tech inserted.

“Can’t, haven’t found the kid yet.” Hunter explained.  

Crosshair turned and raised his rife. “Wrong.” He fired.

You watched Caleb fall and ignite his lightsaber and come running at Crosshair.

“Stop!” You shouted at Crosshair before trying to grab his rifle, but he pushed you back and continued firing at the padawan.

“Crosshair, stand down!” Hunter ordered.

Caleb landed a blow to the rifle causing it to fall from Crosshair’s grip.

“Don’t!” Hunter called out.

Caleb landed a hard kick to Crosshair’s chest, causing his to crash into the bottom of a tree.

You turned to face Caleb and spoke calmly to him. “Take it easy, kid.” You took a slow step towards him. “Easy.”

You heard the sound of Hunter’s blaster hitting the ground and he also began to slowly walk towards the boy. “We’re on your side.” He said.

Caleb turned and ran.

You shot Hunter a look and the two of you ran after him. As you approached where he was, you saw he had stopped at the edge of a cliff. You and Hunter both slowed your advance.

“Stay back!” He cried.

Hunter removed his helmet, and you followed suit by taking down your hood and mask.

“Just hear us out.” You said gently.

“No. You killed her!”

“The others did. We’re just as confused as you are.” Hunter replied.

You saw the fear and uncertainty in Caleb’s eyes. You inhaled deeply. It was worth a shot, so you reached out into his force signature. Caleb, listen to me.

Caleb turned his gaze towards you, his eyes wide with surprise. You’re a-

Yes, but I’ve not been a part of The Order for a long time.

They killed her. I can’t trust them.

They didn’t kill her Caleb. He wants to help you. Let him, no harm will come to you I can promise you that. Trust him.

Do he and the others know about you?

No. You knew there was no point in lying to him.

Then how am I supposed to believe I can trust them when you haven’t even told them who you are?

There were a series of reasons for why I- You can- Please Caleb listen to me.

No!

Caleb don’t- You shook your head slightly in mild discomfort. He’d pushed you out. You wouldn’t be able to communicate with him like that now unless he was the one to instigate it.

Hunter’s eyes darted between you both. He couldn’t think of how, but he could’ve sworn the two of you just had a conversation. He brought his attention back to the frightened padawan in front of him.  He slowly continued his approach.

“Stay back! Stay back!” Caleb shouted.

“We can help you. Come with us.” Hunter moved forward again and reached his hand out.

Caleb glanced at you whilst backing towards the edge. I won’t tell him, but I can’t go with you.

You nodded sadly but you couldn’t blame him. If you were in his position, you weren’t sure you would go either. Suddenly, you all heard the sound of regs heading in your direction and you knew your time was up.

“No!” Hunter called out but it was too late. Caleb turned and jumped across the river and with one last look back, he disappeared into the woods.

Perhaps, if you were smart, you would’ve followed him, but you didn’t want to leave your squad and you needed answers too. You’d kept it a secret this long, it would just be a little harder now. You and Hunter watched him go and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Crosshair approach.

“Where’s the Jedi?” He enquired.

“I stunned him when he jumped. He didn’t make it.” Hunter answered soberly before turning away.

Crosshair glanced at you. You only glared at him and turned to follow Hunter.  

--

The ship came out of hyperspace. “We are coming up on Kamino.” Tech announced.

“It’s good to be home. How long’s it been?” Wrecker asked.

“One hundred and eighty rotations in a standard cycle but galactic zone changes put the adjusted figure at around two hundred and five.” Tech explained.

“What?” Wrecker replied, face filled with confusion.

Echo sighed. “A long time.”

“You got that right!” Wrecker replied with a laugh.

Despite everything that just happened, you chuckled slightly. Something you never grew tired of was the dynamic between all of them. You adjusted yourself slightly from where you were platonically sitting on the floor, leaning against Hunter’s legs. You noticed that Crosshair was staring at you both.

“What?” Hunter asked, without opening his eyes.

“You sure that padawan died when he fell?” Crosshair asked.

“It was pretty easy to deduce, Crosshair.” You snapped.

Crosshair looked back to Hunter.

“Sure I’m sure. Why?” He replied, looking over at him.

“Well usually when someone falls you look down. Not across.”

“Or some of us don’t like to watch.” You added solemnly before standing up and moving towards the front window.

Hunter got out of his seat and followed you.

--

As you entered the rather wet and thunderous planet atmosphere, two ships set themselves up on either side of The Marauder. “Unidentified transport transmit your clearance code.”

“Clearance code?” Echo repeated. “Don’t they know who we are?”

“Must be a protocol drill.” Tech stated before transmitting the code.

“Authorisation confirmed. Proceed to landing bay one-tac-one.”

--

As the ship landed and you all walked out, you could not only see but feel that something was different.

“Shock troopers? What’s the Coruscant guard doing here?” Hunter thought out loud as he saw a group of red and white armoured clones walk past.

“Something strange is going on here. This doesn’t feel like a simulation.” You said.

Tech looked up from his datapad. “You are correct. This isn’t a drill.”

“Oh, man. What did we miss now?” Wrecker complained.

“The end of the war.” A shock trooper replied.

“Say again, trooper.” Hunter requested.

“General Grievous was defeated on Utapau. The Separatist leadership has collapsed. The war is over.”

“Just like I said.” Tech pointed out.

Wrecker gasped and sounded genuinely impressed. “It is just like you said!”

You weren’t so impressed. Kenobi- your friend- was probably dead now anyway. The end of the war did not feel right to you. Something was wrong and it wasn’t just the dead Jedi. As you were standing there, two regs carrying a stretcher passed you and a hand came free of its covering and a lightsaber fell out of its grasp. You took a step forward and stared at it and felt that cold feeling rush through your veins again.

“Is there a problem?” The shock trooper addressed you.

You tore your gaze from the weapon in his head and spoke calmy. “No problem.”

Hunter came beside you and brushed his fingers against yours. “We’ll just head to our barracks then.”

“Best hurry. There’s a mandatory general assembly at 1500.” The trooper informed you all as you walked away.

--

“It’s not just the clones on Kaller. All the regs are acting strange.” Hunter observed.

“Let’s test that theory.” Tech said before approaching an oncoming group of regs. “Excuse me, Trooper. What division are you from?”

“Step aside.” The clone responded roughly, elbowing Tech.

“Oh. Well, they seem the same to me.” Tech said frankly.

You gave him a small smile and patted his shoulder sympathetically as you walked past him.

--

“Ahh. Good to be back.” Wreaker said as you all entered the barracks.

“The smell’s getting worse.” You and Echo said in unison.

“You’re both still new. You’ll get used to it.” He said cheerfully enough, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Speak for yourself.” Crosshair said, pushing past the two of you.

“Well, I’ll get the board.” Wreaker pulled out his vibroknife and began adding to the tallies that were etched on the wall.

You took off the strap that had your weapon in it and laid it down on the table in the middle of the room and sat down next to Hunter. Your knees touched under the table.

“Eleven more successful missions. Ha! Like there was any doubt.” Wrecker said proudly before heading to his bunk.

“Kaller wasn’t a win.” Echo added.

“Says who? We completed our objective.” Wreaker argued.

“Not every objective.” Crosshair said.

You glanced at him suspiciously. Ever since Kaller, he had been acting strange.

“Those two let that Jedi kid escape.” He continued, pointing in your direction. “Or do you want to keep lying to us?”

You clenched your fists tightly to stop yourself from doing or saying something stupid.

Hunter stood up and walked towards the window. “I don’t like to think of executing our commanders as a mission objective.”

“An order is an order.” Crosshair stated.

“Since when?” You questioned as Hunter turned to face him.

Crosshair stared harshly between the two of you before Echo spoke up.

“None of this makes sense. Those clones served alongside General Billaba for years. How could they turn on her like that?” Echo said, a hint of anger coming through.

“Because of the regs programming.” Tech replied.

You looked at him. “Come again?”

“What programming?” Hunter asked.

“It’s been well documented that the Kaminoans inhibited the cognitive functions of clones to engineer them to follow orders without question.”

“Ha! We sure don’t!” Wrecker said smugly, pushing his Lula toy into Crosshair’s face who was having none of it and pushed against it.

“Obviously we are different.” Tech said. “They manipulated pre-existing aberrations in our DNA, resulting in your brute strength, Crosshair’s sharpshooting skills, Hunter’s enhanced senses and my exceptional mind. My guess is we are immune to the effects of the programming. Though I can’t be 100% certain of it.”

You stole a look at Crosshair who only narrowed his gaze at you. You looked away. “What about Echo? He was a reg before he joined you, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, if all regs were programmed, why didn’t I react like the others?” Echo asked.

“The damage you sustained on Skako Minor most likely wiped out all your present behavioural modifications. You are more machine than man… percentagewise, at least.” Tech answered.

Echo sighed. “Lucky me.”

You gave Echo a sympathetic smile before a PA announcer sounded. “All personnel report to the staging area for a briefing on the state of the Republic.”

You grabbed your weapon casing and jumped out of your seat and walked towards the door. You needed this briefing. Maybe after it you would finally be able to make sense of all that happened.

“This is one meeting I don’t want to miss.” Hunter said, following you.

“First time for everything.” Tech said before he and everyone else made their way out.

--

You were stunned by the image on the screen in front of you. Chancellor Palpatine had certainly had a rough time of it. His skin looked like it was about to fall off his face, it was scarred and damaged to the point where if you hadn’t been heard so many of his previous senate meetings, you might have struggled to recognise him. But what shocked you even more were the words that were coming out of his mouth.

“And the Jedi rebellion has been foiled. The remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated.”

Jedi rebellion? They wouldn’t have- they couldn’t- would they? No. You had your issues with them, but you couldn’t believe this. You felt sick to your stomach.

“The attempt on my life has left me scarred and deformed but I assure you my resolve has never been stronger!”

You were too focused on the screen in front of you to notice Hunter glance up to the platform where the top Kaminoans were. With them he noticed someone he did not recognise.

“What is it?” Tech asked him.

He turned to him slightly but by the time he looked back up, the person was gone. “Nothing.” He replied. Then he felt a hard grip on his wrist, and he looked down to see your hand there before he looked back at you and saw that the colour had drained from your face.

“The Republic will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire!”

“Galactic Empire?” Echo repeated quietly.

“For a safe and secure society.” Palpatine finished with a smile and applause rang through the assembly.

“Still don’t think the regs are programmed?” Tech pointed out.

You glanced around you; everyone was cheering in unison. Everyone was happy about this new reign. Everyone except the six of you. All this assembly did was confirm your suspicions. You couldn’t ever tell them what you were. Not only would that put you in danger, but it would put them in danger too. You had to do everything in your power to supress that part of you, you’d gotten good at it when you were on your own. You only started to embrace that part of you again when you joined this group. You had to do this, or you were screwed.

--

As you all walked down the corridor from the meeting, you were still trying to process what you had just witnessed.

“Galactic Empire? We’re soldiers of the Republic.” Echo said.

“Republic, Empire… What’s the difference?” Crosshair inserted.

You scoffed in disgust. “I can think of a few.”

“The systematic termination of the Jedi is a big one for me.” Tech responded.

“That being the main one.” You agreed.

Just then, Hunter held his hand up to stop you all. “We’ve got company.”

You all turned round and what greeted you left you quite surprised.

“Hello.” The young child said with a smile and wave.

“What’s that?” Wreaker asked, bending down.

“Adolescent human female. Origins… uncertain.” Tech replied.

“Or in layman’s terms, Tech, a young girl.” You said with smile and a roll of your eyes. You walked forward and kneeled down in front of her. “What’s your name?”

“My name’s Omega. I was wondering when you guys would come back.”

“You know who we are?” Hunter asked, nudging past Tech.

“Hunter, Echo, Tech, Wrecker, Crosshair and (Y/N).” She said looking back to you. “You’re Clone Force 99. Although-”

“Yeah, I know. I’m clearly not a clone but I helped these fellas out of some hot water, and they’ve needed me ever since.” You grinned up at Hunter who shook his head, a small smile on his face.

“Technically-”

“No, Tech. Everything I’ve said is true.” You turned back to him with a smirk.

Omega let out a small laugh.

“What are you doing on Kamino, kid?” Hunter asked.

“Her job, of course.” A smooth, calm voice answered for her.

You stood up and saw a female Kaminoan approach your group. “She is my medical assistant. One with a curious mind that causes her to wander. Come Omega, there is work to do.” She turned away and Omega followed her but not before giving you all one last wave.

You glanced at Hunter and the others and were pleased to see that they all looked just as confused as you were. In your time on Kamino and all that you knew about it, that was quite unexpected.

“This day keeps getting weirder and weirder.” Hunter said.

“Can’t disagree with you there.” You said.

--

You didn’t know if it was because you’d been living off rations for so long, but this canteen food was quite possibly the best food you’d tasted in a while. You were at what was now your usual table.

“Clones being programmed. Nothing controls me.” Wrecker said authoritatively, standing up at the table.

“Wrecker, it is a logical conclusion that your affinity for destruction would stem from your conditioning.” Tech explained.

“You take that back!”

“I am merely stating a scientific hypothesis based on factual data.”

“Well, I’ve got a fact for you. I like to blow things up because I like to blow things up!” He yelled, slamming his fists down on the table. “Got it?”

“Well, I’m convinced.” Crosshair sneered.

“Will you sit down.” You hissed, grabbing Wrecker’s arm, you didn’t want any more attention being drawn to you and the squad right now.

Hunter joined your table, sitting across from you. “An Imperial’s been sent to evaluate the clones. Everybody’s talking about it.”

“What kind of evaluation?” Echo inquired.

“Hopefully not mental. Clearly, we’d never pass that.” Tech said.

You couldn’t help but huff out a laugh at the looks on the others faces. Then another strange thing happened.

“Hello again.” Omega said as she sat down at the table next to Hunter.

You all just kind of stared at her.

“Omega. From earlier? In the corridor?”

You cleared your throat. “Sorry. Come on guys, back to basic human interactions please. Staring like this is just weird.”

Hunter spoke up. “Yeah, kid we remember. Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“No. I’ll stay.” She said before dipping into her food.

“You want to sit with us?” You asked sceptically.

“That’s never happened before.” Tech added.

“I like you. You don’t fit in around here either.” She said.

“What are you really doing here on Kamino, kid? Don’t you have a family somewhere? Parents?” Hunter asked.

“Parents?” She repeated, looking at him slightly puzzled.

“Check it out. The defects squad’s got themselves a new recruit. Another member added to the Sad Batch. Gotta say, I preferred it when they brought back the hot loner.”

Don’t be an idiot, don’t be idiot. You don’t want attention right now, you thought to yourself. So, you just joined the others in glaring at the two regs that walked past your table. You went back to focusing on your food, but you seemed to have lost your appetite now. Then all you heard was a squelch and you looked up to see Omega standing on the table, one roll in hand, the other seemed to have exploded all over the one reg’s neck and the side of his face.

“Who threw that?” He demanded angrily, eyes scanning the area.

“I did.” Omega said seriously. “Now apologise to my friends.”

“I like this kid!” Wrecker said.

“What did you say to me?” The reg pointed in her direction and began walking towards her.

“Whoa, whoah, whoa. Back off.” Hunter stood in front of him. “I suggest you keep moving.” He said firmly.

You and Wrecker both stood up behind Omega. You hoped this would be all you had to do.  

“Know your place, lab scrapper.” The reg started to walk away but as he did so a bunch of food trays hit him.

You all turned to look at Wrecker who was holding two more trays. “Oops.”

You put your head in your hands. “Wrecker, did you have to?”

“That’s it.” The reg said heatedly.

“Oh yeah!” Wrecker shouted before throwing the trays, those ones hitting another reg straight in the face.

“So much for lack of attention”. You grumbled to yourself before landing a punch to a clone that was coming from your left.

A quick look around told you that everyone was doing just fine, even Omega was handling herself and Crosshair… well, he was just being Crosshair, eating his meal, not phased by what was happening around him. That was until a clone kicked Echo into his tray and his food went everywhere… then he got involved.

You came round the table to go to the clones near Tech, but a clone stood in front of you. “You’d be better off getting out the way. Save yourself the black eye and sore ribs.” You stated.

“I’ve got a better idea. Come back to my barracks. Save us both the fight. Unless you into that sorta thing.” He said with a smirk.

“I just threw up in my mouth.” You said with a disgusted scoff.

“Sorry, guess I just thought clones were your type or is it only the one’s with a higher military rank?” He jeered.  

You glowered at him before darting forward and landing a punch to the right side of his face and a quick kick to the middle of his body sent him onto his back. He groaned. “Did try to warn you.” You said smugly.

You stepped over him and made your way to Tech. You both were able to easily deal with the few clones that came over but then you heard a crash. You turned to see Echo being tackled to the ground. You had to turn away quickly to push back another clone that had advanced towards you. As you did so you heard Tech call out.

“Echo, watch out!”

You looked and saw the reg bring down the metal tray straight on to Echo’s head and he slumped to the side. You ran over to the reg and pushed him away and knelt down by Echo. “He needs to go to the medical bay.”

--

Machines. That was all he could see. No, he couldn’t be back there. “No! Get them off!” Echo sat up quickly, pushing the scanners away.

“But my tests are not yet complete.” The small droid said calmly.

“Echo. Echo, it’s okay. It’s me. Omega.” She soothed, moving the droid to the side. “I understand. I don’t like being hooked up to their machines either.”

Echo looked at her and took another few breaths to calm himself down.

The droid spoke again. “Hello, CT-1409.”

“His name is Echo.” Omega pointed out.

“I am AZ-345211896246498721347. Your assigned medical droid.” The droid said with a spin of his body.

You walked through the medical bay doors alongside Hunter and were thrilled to see that Echo was awake.

“Ha told you he’s alive. You owe me two credits!” Wrecker said smugly to Crosshair who only shook his head.

“How you doing, Echo?” You asked.

“CT-1409’s condition is stable.” The droid answered. “But I have some distressing news for the four of you. According to your test results, you all appear to be genetically defective clones.”

The droid’s sincere and distraught tone meant you had to turn away to choke back your laughter.

“I will leave you to process the shock of this revelation.” He said gravely before going away.

“We’ve got a problem.” Echo announced.

“Not really. We’re more deviant than we are defective.” Tech interjected.

You studied Echo’s face, and you could tell whatever he had to say had nothing to do with any medical information. “You’re not talking about that are you?”

Echo nodded. “Admiral Tarkin’s here. He’s the one evaluating the clones.”

You scoffed in disgust which caused the others to stare at you.

“How would you know anything about him?” Crosshair asked.

“Uh… I had a life before you guys you know. I heard rumours.” You said quickly. You couldn’t tell them the reason you knew he was kind of an asshole was because of your time in the Jedi Order where you had argued with him as he helped the Order ruin the life of your friend. It didn’t surprise you that he was already an important person in this new Empire. He was definitely someone you needed to avoid, if there was even the slightest chance he recognised you, you all were fucked, and you couldn’t have that.

“This is the same Tarkin form the Citadel rescue when you, uh… How shall I put this?” Tech paused.

“Blew up.” Wrecker finished the sentence.

“And turned into that.” Crosshair added, taking his toothpick out his mouth.

“Way to be sensitive guys.” You said with a shake of your head.

Echo sighed. “Yes, and he’s not a big supporter of clones.”

“We’ll soon find out. We’ve been summoned by the prime minister.” Hunter said, crossing his arms.

“Guess he didn’t find that mess hall fight amusing. But I sure did.” Wrecker said.

“Come on. Let’s get this over with.” Hunter said.

You all made your way to go but Omega called after you. “Wait!” She darted in front of doorway. “The fight was my fault. I’m going too.” She said determinedly.

“Not happening. We’ll handle this.” Hunter said firmly before walking past her.

“But I-”

“Listen, kid.” Hunter turned sharply to look at her. “Our squad’s nothing but trouble. For your sake, keep your distance. Got it?”

Your heart went out to her as you watched Hunter walk away. “He was a little harsh, but he’s right. I love them all, but we tend to end up in tight spots and as you’ve seen, we’re not the most popular group there is. I’m sure we’ll see you around though.” You placed a hand on her shoulder before walking out the door to join Hunter and the others as they waited for you.

--

You began walking towards the prime minister’s office but as you were walking a shock trooper addressed you harshly. “Where do you think you’re going? The training facility is that way.”

You all turned to look at the trooper.

“Training facility?” Hunter asked.

“For a battle simulation. Admiral Tarkin has requested to see more of your squad in action.”

“Then we’re not being reprimanded?” Tech questioned.

“No, you’re being tested.” The clone answered severely.

I sure as hell am not, you thought to yourself, this was the last thing you needed. “Well, you guys enjoy that. I’m just going to head back to the barracks. Good luck, sure you’ll do great.” You said casually with a click of your fingers. You slowly etched your way out the group and began to walk past Hunter and the shock trooper. As you did so, the trooper grabbed your arm.

“That includes you.”

Hunter reached his hand out and he felt the others behind him take a step forward, but he caught himself just in time and waved them back. He was sure you could handle this yourself plus he didn’t want to get his squad into any more trouble.

You looked down at the grip the clone had on your forearm and looked into his helmet, an unimpressed expression on your face. “Is this not part of the clone evaluation?” You asked him.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re an observant fellow and those eyes of yours can see that I’m obviously not a clone.” You removed yourself from his grasp. “So, I’ll not be participating in Admiral Tarkin’s evaluation.”

“He requested your presence too. As far as he’s concerned, you’re an equal part of this squad so that means you’re being evaluated too.”

Shit, you thought to yourself. You could only hope enough time had passed and the hood and mask would be enough that he wouldn’t recognise you. You made your way back into the group, ignoring many of their quizzical stares.

“Now, go gear up.” The shock trooper ordered.

“So, we’re not in trouble, and they want us to fight more? Ha! Maybe this Empire thing’s not so bad after all.” Wrecker said merrily.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” You muttered as you headed to the training facility.

--

As the lift to the training facility began to rise, you kept adjusting your ensemble. You couldn’t afford any slip ups when you were doing this.

“It’s fine.” Echo muttered to you.

You glanced at him but before you could say anything else, you all were in the facility, and you kept your head down whilst Tarkin spoke to you all from the observation area where the prime minister was too. His suave voice echoed around the room. “The value of all clone troopers and other personnel…”

You didn’t need to lift your head; you could feel him looking at you.

“Is being challenge by the Empire. To demonstrate your effectiveness, a combat-proficiency test is in order. Take your positions.” He finished speaking.

“We’ve done these a thousand times, guys. You know what to do.” Hunter stated before putting on his helmet.

“A battle simulation? Give us a real challenge.” Wrecker voiced through his helmet before you all broke off into your positions.

You crouched behind one of the barriers that had Tech and Wrecker behind them too, whilst the other 3 took up their positions on the opposite one.

You waited a few moments before you heard the whirring of the training droids, and the towers came online and fired down on you. You knew Crosshair would be sent to the towers and sure enough, you saw him make his way over to them. You didn’t have a blaster, but you did have another vibroblade strapped to your thigh, so you took that out and threw it at one of the droids. It implanted itself deep within the face of the droid and it collapsed to the floor. You noticed a few more fall too as the other’s shots met their targets.

--

As Crosshair took the towers down, Hunter signalled you all to move in. You ran out from behind the barrier and drew your modified vibro-weapon. You picked your knife up from the fallen droid and dodged a few of the shots headed your way, managing to cut down a couple more before you took shelter behind another barrier. You couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated, if you could use your ‘special’ skillset effectively this could all be over so much quicker.

You peered out from behind it to see Wrecker doing exactly what you wished you could do: just taking on all the droids. You made eye-contact with Tech who only rolled his eyes. To be honest you were grateful for Wrecker’s antics at this point, you needed this to be over. Plus, it was enjoyable to watch him get so much fun out of a drill like this.

“What else you go? Gimme more!” Wrecker shouted up to the watch platform.

Admiral Tarkin thought this had been over much too quickly. This group hadn’t been tested nearly enough. “If the Galactic Empire is to be stronger than the Republic which preceded it, it’s soldiers must follow suit. Switch to live fire.”

The prime minister didn’t like that idea one bit. “Admiral Tarkin, I must protest. I don’t care so much about the woman, but live rounds could damage my clones and my facility.”

“For which you will be fairly compensated. Do it!”

The prime minister reluctantly nodded towards the Kaminoans at the control panel.

 --

You had been studying their interaction, something didn’t look right. You attention was brought back to the current situation as new, more advanced droids appeared in the area in front of you. This combined with what you had just seen above you didn’t look good. “Wrecker, hold on a minute!” You called out as he began running towards them. His shots were useless, even his brute strength didn’t have an effect.

Then it all went to hell.

You watched as the droids used live rounds, one of them hitting Wrecker. You darted out quickly, managing to cut the arms off the first droid. You ran over and grabbed Wrecker’s right arm. “You alright?”

“I felt that one.” Wrecker said, his voice straining slightly.

Tech had dashed out to grab his other arm so together the two of you were able to scurry behind the barrier before the other droid’s blaster fire made contact with you.

You sat helplessly whilst blaster fire surrounded you. Why was it the one time you actually needed to use the abilities you had the one time where you absolutely could not. If it got bad enough, you might have to anyway. You knew where that would leave you, but what about the others? A whistle brought you out of your head and you looked over to see Hunter giving the three of you hand signals.

“Oh! I hate hand signals!” Wrecker complained.

“They’re not too difficult to understand Wrecker once you know them.” You said, taking your knife back out and throwing it into the arm of one of the other droids. It didn’t do much to stop it, it just focused its attention on you causing you to duck quickly.

“Perhaps if you memorised them.” Tech suggested.

“Why don’t you memorise them?” Wrecker snipped back.

“We have.” You and Tech said at the same time.

“What we did on Felucia.” Tech clarified.

You jumped out from behind the small wall, jumping over the head of the droid that had your smaller vibro-blade in it, grabbing it as you did so. You knew that was foolish but if you needed to, you could talk your way out of it. You’d done it before.

You distracted the droids to allow Wrecker the time to move in. You slid on your knees, avoiding the blaster fire, and sliced through the legs of one of the droids. As it fell, you stabbed your weapon through the head of it, rendering it useless. Great, two down, lots more to go, you thought. You felt a blaster bolt whizz past your head as you ran quickly to where Hunter and Crosshair were taking cover. “How do you think we’re doing?”

“Could be better.” Hunter replied.

You saw that Tech was in the middle of reprogramming the droid. If all went according to plan, the playing-field should even out shortly.

--

Admiral Tarkin watched this display with intrigue. “These are rather unusual tactics.”

“The clones of experimental Unit 99 have a tendency to veer from standard combat protocol. Something that the woman who is a part of their group has also embraced.” The prime minister explained.

Tarkin peered down at you. There was something about you that didn’t quite sit right with him, and he needed to know what it was.

--

Oh, thank fuck, you thought. Tech had successfully reprogrammed the droid so now your life was simpler. With Tech taking down most of the advancing droids, the rest of you were able to finish the ones that remained. Everything seemed to be going fine… right up until it wasn’t. Tech had already started to struggle keeping the connection with the droid he was controlling and to make matters worse, a last droid appeared at the top of the training facility and fired at Tech’s droid. He fell to the ground.

“Tech!” You cried out. You saw Hunter throw his vibroblade into its arm and you used that to run up to it to stop it from continuing its fire in Tech’s direction but you severely under-estimated how fast it would react. Before you could use your weapon, it landed a kick to the centre of your chest that sent you flying backwards. You collided into Hunter, who quickly got to his feet and grabbed you. The two of you scrambled to get to cover. You leant back against the barrier and Hunter kneeled in front of you. “Sorry about that.” You said sheepishly, trying to get the air back into your lungs. “That was really dumb.”

“Are you okay?” Hunter asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m sure I’m supposed to feel like my entire chest has just caved in on itself.” You said with a laugh.

Hunter sighed, hoping you couldn’t pick up on the extent of the relief he felt. He looked away from you. “Crosshair, we need more cover fire!”

You looked to see how Tech was. He was still on the ground and that droid wasn’t stopping its assault. You needed one of them to come up with something quick or you really wouldn’t have much of a choice. If you had to die in order to save your squad, then you’d do that but at the same time you really hoped there would be another option. Crosshair’s voice then sounded.

“Wrecker, knife!”

You watched as Wrecker threw his knife into the air and Crosshair’s shot hit it perfectly. It spun in the air and hit the middle of the droid’s head, deactivating it. Out of all the shots you’d seen him do, that was by far the most impressive. You rested the back of your head against the block in relief. Your secret was able to stay a secret still.

“Here.”

You looked to see Hunter holding his hand out to you. Calm yourself down and just take the hand like a normal human being. Nice and casual, you reminded yourself. You took it and let him bring you to your feet. “Thanks.”

Hunter wanted nothing more than to keep that feeling of your hand in his for as long as possible, but he knew this wasn’t the place or time. Not to mention, you probably didn’t view it in the same light he did. He let your hand go once you were on your feet. “Nice work.” He directed to Crosshair.

You had made your way over to Tech and helped him to his feet. You glanced up at the observation platform to see Tarkin walking away. Please let that be the last I see of him, you thought.

--

Omega looked at the man who was studying the birthing pods and she felt a sense of unease.

“Extraordinary. Aren’t they?” The head scientist Nala Se said.

“That remains to be seen. Tell me about Clone Force 99.” Tarkin requested.

“They are medically defective clones whose cellular mutations enhanced traits desirable in a soldier.” Nala Se responded.

“And the woman who is with them?”

Lama Su told him your name before continuing with explaining your background. “She came back to Kamino with them the last time the clones were here. According to them, she assisted them on a mission, and they offered her a place on the squad. As far as I’m aware, she’s been with them ever since. Her tendency to stray from the normal rules also means she fits in well.” The prime minister replied.

Tarkin thought for a few moments, but your name didn’t ring any bells with him unfortunately. “Where did she come from?”

“They met her on Devaron. As to her original origin, I do not know.”

Tarkin pondered this before continuing. “How many of these enhanced clones do you possess?”

“Five are all that remain.” Nala Se answered.

“They could be an asset to your new Empire. Their female included, she’s bonded with them in a way I’ve not seen their fellow clones do.” The prime minister added.

“Yet reports indicate they exhibit a concerning level of disobedience and disregard for orders.” Tarkin countered.

“A side effect of their mutation.” Nale Se explained.

“Yet one that has never hindered the completion of their missions.” The prime minister inserted.

“Then they executed Order 66?” Tarkin asked.

“Since both the Jedi General and Padawan on Kaller were eliminated, one would assume-”

“Assume nothing.” Tarkin interrupted the Kaminoan prime minister. “Only the general’s death is confirmed. A counter-report filed by one of their own, says the Padawan escaped. Let us see where the loyalty of these clones and their friend truly lies.” Tarkin said before leaving the room.

Omega watched as he left. She didn’t like him, and she worried about what he had in store for all of you.

--

You removed your mask and hood as you entered the barracks and sat down at the table, head in your hands. What the fuck was that evaluation? Live rounds? What the hell? Apparently, Wrecker shared your unhappiness.

“Live rounds? They used live rounds! On us!” He said, throwing his helmet on the table.

“We were there, Wrecker. We know.” Tech replied.

“I tried to warn you about Tarkin.” Echo added.

“Yup. Major Dickhead.” You concurred.

“Who’s that Imperial snake think he is?” Wrecker voiced angrily.

“Stow it already. You got shot. It happens all the time.” Crosshair said coldly.

You stared at Crosshair and made eye-contact with Hunter who nodded back at you. Good, at least I’m not the only one who has noticed this, you thought.

“There’s a fundamental difference between taking fire in battle and being used for target practice.” Tech refuted.

“Exactly! We’re not dummy droids.” Wrecker agreed, looking at Crosshair.

“That much we agree on.”

Shit. You quickly put your hood and mask up and went to stand next to Crosshair as Admiral Tarkin entered the room. You felt Echo and Hunter’s eyes on you as you did that, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t exactly avoid him now so this was the closest you could get.

“That was quite an impressive display.” Tarkin said, walking down the middle on the line.

“Didn’t have much of a choice.” Hunter answered.

“Our new empire may have methods which seem a bit unorthodox but so does is this squadron. Particularly your presence here, (Y/N), is it?”

“Yes.” You said quietly, avoiding eye-contact. You felt his cold hands through your mask as they placed themselves on your chin, angling your face up to look at him. You resisted the instinct to tear his hand away and send him crashing into the barrack wall.

Hunter had to fight the urge to pull his hand off of you, but he noticed your left hand moving. The signal was clear, you were fine. He looked to the others who were all frowning in Tarkin’s direction, well, all except Crosshair who kept his expression neutral, and shook his head to stop any of them from saying anything.

“Your choice of weapon is rather unusual. How did you come by such a device?” Tarkin asked you.

“I made it myself. Gathered a bunch of vibroblades together.” You replied.

“And no blaster?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like them.” You answered simply.

Tarkin paused. In all his time in military command, he’d never come across an ordinary soldier who didn’t fight with a blaster by choice. Only the- no that couldn’t be possible. He continued his questioning. “You weren’t a part of this squad in the beginning.” Tarkin stated.

“That’s correct.” You answered curtly.

“Yet they allowed you to join them after only knowing you for a brief amount of time.”

“I made a good impression.” You said coolly.

“Clearly. Tell me, your military and fighting background, what was it?”

“Self-taught.” You lied smoothly.

“I doubt that. A person of your skill had to have received training from somewhere.”

“I pick up quickly, working with this squad helped me figure a few things out.” You replied easily.  

You were good. He had to hand it to you, but his suspicions were not yet quashed. Your voice and eyes felt familiar to him. There was only one way he’d know if he was right or not. “Take of your mask.” Tarkin ordered.

You felt your heartbeat start pounding in your ears. “No.”

“That’s an order.”

“Not one I’ll be following and if you try anything, you’ll end up in the medical bay.” You said defiantly.

Tarkin narrowed his gaze at you but before he could say anything, a clone voice grabbed his attention.

“You got a mission for us sir?” Hunter asked, wanting Tarkin’s attention to be away from you.

“Indeed.” Tarkin responded, releasing his grip on you, until either you slipped up or he had further information he would just have to wait. There was a larger issue at hand here. He walked to face the clone who spoke to him. “We have tracked a group of insurgents to the Onderon sector. They must be dealt with.”

You took a shaky breath as he turned away from you. That was too fucking close.

“What sort of insurgents?” Echo asked.

“Separatist forces intent on keeping the galaxy at war. If you neutralize this grave threat, you will be looked upon most favourably as I assess the needs of the Imperial army.” He informed you all before walking out of the room.

You felt all the eyes in the room turn to look at you. “Problem?” You asked casually.

“What was that all about?” Wrecker asked.

“What?” You said with a shrug of your shoulders.

“If you were trying to get yourself thrown in the brig, that was an excellent way to go about it.” Tech added.

“I wasn’t trying to- I didn’t- I-” You broke off with a sigh.

“What’s going on?” Hunter asked you, his tone softer than what it usually was, as he moved to stand in front of you and laid a hand on your shoulder.

You looked into his eyes. You hated this. You wanted nothing more than to tell him- to tell all of them- what you were but you couldn’t, the time where you could safely tell them was gone and now it was killing you inside, way worse than it was before. “Nothing.” You shuffled away from him. “Come on, we got a mission to get on with.” You left the room quickly and walked down the corridor to the ship.

--

Echo and the others came to stand by Hunter who had watched you go. “She’s been acting strangely. Have you noticed?”

“Of course, I have. She’s been different since the mission at Kaller.” Hunter agreed.

“I too have observed several alterations in her behaviour since landing here.” Tech added.

“Do we think she’s okay?” Wrecker asked.

“Why are we talking about this? She’s right, we have a mission to be getting on with.” Crosshair frostily.

Hunter glared at him. “Since when don’t you care?”

“Never said I didn’t but I think we all know why you do.” Crosshair replied. “I’m just focused on the mission as we all should be. Certain feelings should be pushed aside.”

Hunter turned away from him. He wouldn’t have this conversation again. “Come on, let’s go.” He could only hope there would be a moment where you would feel comfortable enough to tell him what you were going through.

--

You were sitting on the steps leading into the ship after Tech and Echo arrived, trying to push your anxiety and self-loathing away but to no avail. All that had happened had overthrown any denial you were able to hold on to.

You couldn’t convince yourself otherwise; your entire relationship with them had started with a lie.

You had lied about the biggest part of your life to your team. No matter how you acted around them, no matter how much of it was genuine, your lie remained, and that lie was going to have to stay a part of you forever and you couldn’t do it anymore. This part of you would either kill you or them and you cared too much to see that happen to them. After this mission, you would leave them, as much as that hurt you to decide, you knew it was the only way out. You’d been on your own before, you could do it again. You stood up and walked over to Echo who was staring at the datapad. “Find any more intel on the insurgents?”

Echo looked up from the screen. “Negative. Imperial files are locked down tight.”

“That’s annoying. Maybe Tech-”

“Yes, give me time. I’ll crack them.”

You turned to see Tech walking down the steps. “Yeah, I figured as much.”  

“I’ll say this for the Empire. They know fire power. You should see the new armoury.” Wrecker announced as he and Crosshair came over with what you assumed was a box filled with explosives.

“That impressive huh?” You asked.

“He actually cried.” Crosshair revealed.

“Hey, we both did.” Wrecker protested.

You let out a small laugh. That was the Crosshair you’d been familiar with, the one you’d seen glimpses of earlier was unknown to you, but it was good to see that he seemed his usual self.

“There’s no room on board for that.” Tech said.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll make room.” He sighed happily as he made went to pick up the container. “A new mission and unlimited explosives. Things are back to normal.”

“That’s not going near my rack.” Tech objected as he followed Wrecker on to the ship. “I refuse to sleep by a projectile again.”

You smiled fondly as you watched them go on board. You were going to miss that. “Hey.” You lightly grabbed Crosshair’s arm as he walked past you. “Where’s Hunter?”

Crosshair looked past you. “There.”

You turned to see Hunter walking through the doors.

--

Hunter noticed you looking over at him. He knew you shouldn’t affect him this way, in fact his life would be a lot simpler if you didn’t, but he couldn’t help it. Within two months of you joining his squad, you had grown to become a key part of him, and he couldn’t stop it, not even if he wanted to and right now, whatever was happening with you, was driving him crazy. He wanted to help you, but he didn’t know how, and he couldn’t know how until he knew what was bothering you which you clearly didn’t want to tell him or anyone else for that matter. A familiar voice brought him back to the current moment.

“Hunter!”

He sighed and turned to see Omega running to catch up to him. “I told you to keep your distance.”

“I know, but I need to talk to you.” She said.

He kneeled down in front of her. “Alright. What is it?”

“That Imperial officer, I think he has it out for you. I overheard him talking to Lama Su. He doesn’t like clones or (Y/N).”

Hunter let out a chuckle. “Ah, that’s nothing new for us. But we get the job done and (Y/N) has already made it clear to him she could handle any trouble he throws her way.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“A mission’s a mission. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then let me come with you.” Omega pleaded.

“Kid, you’re not a soldier. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous here too. Things aren’t like before. We need to leave Kamino.”

From the distance, Hunter heard Wrecker calling for him. They were ready to go. “Change takes getting used to. You’ll see. Just give it time.” He stood up and began to walk away.

“Hunter.” Omega called quietly after him.

He turned to face her.

“Um, never mind.”

He carried on walking to the ship.

--

You stood next to Crosshair as Hunter approached. “She okay?”

“Ah, something about her I can’t figure out.”

“Well, she’s a kid, they’re not supposed to be easy to figure out. Hell, most adults aren’t.” You patted his shoulder before going on board the ship.

I’ll say, Hunter thought to himself as he watched you climb the steps.

“Well, I guess kids aren’t quite your area of expertise either.” Crosshair added before he followed you up.

--

Omega watched Hunter board the ship and watched as it flew away. She hoped they would be okay.

“Omega, come along. I told you to stay close.” Lama Se beckoned.

Omega turned away to follow her out the docking bay.

--

The ship landed in the Onderonean jungle, and you all left the ship, helmets, and masks on, hoods up. You could hear the sounds of many creatures roaring in the distance.

“What was that?” Echo asked.

“You don’t want to know.” Tech replied bluntly.

“Well, at least it’s not a swamp.” You added brightly.

“Close enough.” Crosshair griped.

“The Separatist encampment’s two clicks south. We’ll continue on foot and do a full perimeter scan.” Hunter ordered. He stopped Wrecker as he went to run past him. “Covertly.”

“Oh, come on. It’s been days since I’ve blown something up.” Wrecker moaned.

“Easy, Wrecker. Your programming’s kicking in.” Tech pointed out.

“Hey, don’t start with that!” Wrecker said before knocking Tech in front of him.

You smiled to yourself and shook your head at Tech. “Was that really necessary?”

“I was merely pointing out-”

“I know, I know.” You said with a laugh. “Come on, you’re the man with the scanner, lead the way.”

--

The rest of you followed behind Tech as he scanned the jungle area.

“How many droids we talking about, Tech?” Hunter asked.

“I can’t tell from this distance. Something’s blocking my scan.” Tech replied, hitting the side of the datapad.

“Clankers always travel together in packs. Let’s get a closer look at what we’re walking into.” Hunter said.

You all climbed up one of the large trees and laid down flat.

“Tell me what you see, Tech.” Hunter directed.

“I’m clocking twenty-five heat signatures ahead but zero droids.” Tech answered.

“Tarkin said insurgents, not droids.” Crosshair said.

“I’m not sure they’re either.” You pointed out as you peered through your macrobinoculars. You passed them over to Echo.

“She’s right. There are children down there.” Echo stated.

“Children? Out here?” Hunter said, confusion in his voice. He grabbed the binoculars from Echo and sat up as he looked through them.

You sat up and looked at him. “Something’s not right, Hunter.” You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“What are you waiting for? Give the order.” Crosshair instructed, the scope of his rifle focusing in on one of the people.

“Negative. Stand down.” Hunter ordered.

“What?” Crosshair responded.

“You mean, we’re not blasting any droids?” Wrecker asked.

“There aren’t any droids, Wrecker.” You replied. You felt the like there were many sets of eyes on you.

“Well, so what do we do?” Wrecker asked.

“We finish the mission.” Crosshair answered. “Make the call, Hunter.”

“We’re not alone. Now stand down.” Hunter commanded.

Just as he did so, a group of who you guessed were the so called ‘insurgents’, surrounded you all. You drew your weapon and kept your eyes on them.

“Let’s hear them out.” Hunter pushed your sword down. “Trust me.”

You looked at him and nodded. You followed his lead and put your hands behind your head, as did the others, but you noticed that Crosshair hadn’t yet done so. “Crosshair.” You hissed.

Crosshair only let out an incredibly irritated sigh before he lowered his rifle and raised his hands.

--

Before you began the walk down to the camp, the troops came and took some of the equipment you all were carrying, including the helmets. One of the soldiers took your hood and mask down. You went to quickly push them back up, but he held his gun up at you.

“Don’t.” He said sternly.

“Hey, easy with that.” Hunter said to the soldier, turning back to look at you.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” You said calmly, lowering your hands slowly. The others had their helmets taken so you would have to make do too. “I’ll leave it down.” Please let there be no one here who could possibly recognise me, you thought.

--

The sight which greeted you left you lost for words. Aside from a few soldiers, most of the people at the camp were ordinary civilians, not a weapon or threat amongst them. What had Tarkin been talking about?

“These aren’t Separatists. They’re Republic fighters.” Echo said.

“Why would Tarkin send us to attack our own forces?” Tech asked Hunter.

“Because we refuse to fight for an Empire.”

Oh, of course. It would truly be too much to ask that you could go an entire day without the threat of being recognised. That voice belonged to Saw Gerrera and you’d only helped him utilise some more of his forces after Obi Wan, Rex, Anakin and Ahsoka had assisted him earlier in the war. You stepped behind Wrecker, hoping his size would shield you a little bit. He turned back and glanced down at you, but you just shook your head gestured for him to turn back around.

“You’re Saw Gerrera. Trained by Captain Rex and General Skywalker to fight for the Republic.” Tech stated.

Hunter watched as the man stepped towards him and took his blaster out it’s holster.

“So, the newly declared Empire sent you to wipe us out?” Saw said, turning away from the clone in front of him.

“Well, we’re here to neutralise a group of insurgents.” Hunter explained.

Gererra chuckled and turned to face him. “Well… here we are. What are you going to do? Strike us down like you did the Jedi?”

Your blood ran cold as he said that. The images in your head so vivid it was like you were back on Kaller.

“Is that a request?” Crosshair sneered.

“Enough.” Hunter said firmly. “We expected to find battle droids, not-”

“Civilians? Times change, targets change.” Saw interrupted. “Why don’t you take a look at the insurgents you were sent to destroy.”

Hunter studied at the group in front of him, they looked worried and afraid. These people weren’t a threat that needed to be taken out.

“Makes you wonder what else they’re lying about.” Saw said before turning to address his group. “Let’s mobilise. Pack up the camp.”

Hunter took a few steps towards Saw. He glanced back to see the others following but you weren’t where you had been standing when you first arrived. Wrecker coughed and tilted his head back. He then noticed your silhouette behind him. He turned back to face Saw. “What’s going on here? Who are these people?”

Saw stood up and responded to the clone. “Villagers, croppers, former Republic fighters, all now displaced refugees since Palpatine unjustly appointed himself Emperor.”

“According to reports, the Jedi made an attempt on the Supreme Chancellor’s life. His actions were a defensive measure.” Tech said.

You couldn’t help but scoff.

Saw paused. “You boys got yourself someone else?”

Stupid. Dumb. Idiot. Shit. Fuck. You could’ve kept thinking about all the words that described the stupidity of your actions, but you knew you would have to move out from behind Wrecker anyway, so you stepped out and as soon as you did so, you saw the flash of recognition in Saw’s eyes. You reached out quickly. Please don’t. They don’t know. I’ve been with them for a while and now more than ever they can’t know. Telling them puts them in danger and I can’t have that. Please.

Hunter looked between you and Saw. You had that same intensity in your eyes that you did on Kaller before the padawan jumped.

You let out a sigh of relief as he gave you the tiniest nod of his head. Again, you ignored the side-eye the others were giving you.  

Saw looked away from you and back to the clone with the goggles. “And I figured you for the smart one. With the Jedi decimated and the clone army under his command, Palpatine will have control over the entire galaxy. Unless we stop him.”

“The war is over.” Crosshair said.

“If we give up now, everything we fought for… everyone we lost, will have been for nothing. I won’t let that happen. The Clone War may have ended but a civil war is about to begin.”

You didn’t know what to make of this. You weren’t keen on the idea of this new Empire, but you didn’t like the war either, too many people got caught in the crossfire, too many people got hurt but this regime would probably do just as much damage. You couldn’t remember the last time there had been peace in the galaxy.

“With a handful of fighters and limited firepower? You don’t stand a chance.” Hunter said straightforwardly.

“Not alone we don’t.” Saw insisted.

“We should leave if we’re gonna make the rendezvous.” A soldier informed Gerrera. “What do we do with them?”

Saw paused and looked at the group in front of him. “The clones and others.” He paused slightly and looked in your direction, but he saw your gaze quickly drop down. He continued. “Once helped us free Onderon, so we’ll give them a choice. The old ways are done.” He pointed the clone’s blaster at him.

You took a slight step forward just in case.

“You can either adapt and survive, or die with the past.” Saw carried on as he turned the blaster around before he handed it back to him. “The decision is yours.” He finished before turning of the lamp and walking into the jungle with the rest of his squad.

You watched him as he walked away, and you reached out one last time. Thank you. You saw him stop for a brief second before continuing to walk on. You put your hood and mask back on and waited for Wrecker to gather the gear. You stood next to Hunter and pulled on his arm but just as the two of you were about to walk away, you both stopped. You made sure to stop a second after he did. You had that suspicious feeling again and you knew Hunter did too but neither of you could see anything. You glanced at him, but he just gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, you knew that meant he wasn’t sure what it was. You both turned to go, unaware of the probe droid in the treeline.

--

“At least with the Republic we knew where we stood. Tarkin and this Empire are a whole different story.” Tech stated as you all made your way back to the ship.

“Why are we debating this? We need to complete the mission.” Crosshair said.

You turned around sharply to stare at him. “Wake up Crosshair. They sent us to eliminate innocent civilians.”

“Who said they’re innocent?” Crosshair replied, holding your stare.

“What’s wrong with you?” Hunter said frustratedly, turning back to face Crosshair.

“Me? What about her display back there? That didn’t strike you as unusual?” Crosshair snarled, turning to look at you.

You avoided Hunter’s gaze as his eyes flicked towards you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about Crosshair.”

“Technically he’s referring to-”

“Not now, Tech.” You interrupted quickly.

“That aside.” Crosshair continued. “I’m following orders.”

“Exactly.” Hunter countered, taking a few steps towards him.

“Those insurgents are plotting against the Emperor.”

“Are you serious? Why does that matter? This Emperor isn’t providing safety or security, him and this regime are going to crush people and tear them apart. There’ll never be an end to the conflict that people have had to deal with for so long.” You said angrily.

Crosshair only glared at you before looking back at Hunter. “If you don’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done, then you’re not fit to lead this squad.”

You watched as the two of them stared each other down before that recognisable feeling of being watched returned to you. “Hunter, I think-” You didn’t need to finish your sentence, since Hunter had already drawn his blaster and fired it past Crosshair’s head. You looked to see a probe droid crash to the ground.

“We’re being followed.” Hunter said before brushing past Crosshair.

You all followed him towards the site where the droid fell.

“That is a probe droid.” Tech explained.

“Oh, joy.” You said sarcastically.

“Tarkin’s spying on us now?” Wrecker asked.

“The Jedi never did that.” Echo added.

“Not that you know of.” Crosshair refuted.

“No, they didn’t.” You argued, immediately regretting it. What was your problem? Were you trying to get yourself killed? Clearly you were suffering from an ill-timed case of word vomit. For months, no for years, you were able to keep this secret why all of a sudden was every word that came out of your mouth one that could lead into it. You glanced around the group; everyone was staring at you. Perfect.

“How would you know?” Tech asked.

“Um, you know, I hear things and from what I’ve heard, the Jedi were pretty stand-up guys.” Maker, what the fuck did you sound like? Never in your life would you have described the Jedi, or anyone for that matter, this way.

While he desperately wanted to know what was going on with you, he also wanted to save you from any more awkwardness. “Omega.”

“What about her?” Echo asked, turning his eyes from you to look back at Hunter.

You huffed out a breath and nodded a thank you as Hunter walked past you, before following him back to the ship.

“She warned me about the mission. And Tarkin.” Hunter replied. “She said not to return to Kamino, that it’s not safe for us anymore.”

Wrecker grunted. “Maybe she’s right.”

“We’re taking the word of a child now?” Crosshair asked stonily.

“I would not discount Omega’s insight. A state of heightened awareness is not unusual for an enhanced clone such as herself.” Tech said simply, looking up from his datapad.

You angled your head to face Tech as he leaned against the ship’s doorway. “She’s a what now?”

Wrecker just laughed. “Good one Tech, you almost had me.” He joined you on the steps of the ship.

“When Nala Se spoke of five clones, Tarkin assumed that meant us, but Echo’s a reg. The fifth is Omega. I confirmed my suspicions after analysing her DNA while we were in the infirmary.” Tech explained.

“And you waited until now to mention it?” Echo asked, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Well, I thought it was obvious.” Tech replied plainly.

“Hey, Tech, here’s an idea. If it seems obvious to you, it’s probably not to the rest of us. These are things that are good to know well in advance.” You said with a shake of your head, standing up and joining him in the doorway.

“We’re going back for her.” Hunter said, turning away from the jungle.

Crosshair stepped in front of him. “Disobeying orders again over a kid? Bad play, Hunter.” He pushed a finger into his chest.

Hunter just pushed his hand aside and stepped past him. “She’s one of us. We’ve added a new member before, and it worked out.” He said, glancing at you.

You met his stare, but you couldn’t help but feel the guilt of what you were doing come crashing through you.

“We’re not leaving her there.” Hunter continued before stepping past you and into the ship.

--

Lost in thought, you stared out the ship window, your eyes following the droplets of rainwater as they slowly trickled down. You found yourself picking two beads of water and waiting to see which one would reach the bottom first. It was funny, you knew of Kamino’s climate before coming here and the times you had the weather had always been the same, dark, and stormy, yet you were always surprised to see it be that way. You couldn’t imagine anything good was waiting for you all once you landed but you knew Hunter was right, Omega had to leave with you all. Tech’s voice took your attention away from the trickling water.

“I’m getting no response from com-scan.”

“That’s unusual.” You said quizzically.

“Indeed.” Tech replied.

“Bring us in. We’ll find out what’s going on.” Hunter directed.

Before you stepped out from the ship, you drew your hood and mask back up- to protect you from the harsh weather more than anything else right now. You all walked towards the- now sealed- bay doors but before you all entered, Hunter spoke. “Stick to the plan. Split up, find Omega, meet back here at the ship.”

You nodded and walked over to open the door and you weren’t comforted by what greeted you. The bay was encased in darkness, the usual hustle wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The eeriness of it made your skin crawl. You stepped forward but before you could make it very far, shock troopers came out, blasters drawn, and your group was surrounded in an instant.

“As expected.” Crosshair sniped.

“Shut up, Crosshair.” You hissed back. You looked over to see Admiral Tarkin make his way over to Hunter. Dammit. Your mask and hood would be useless now, that probe droid would’ve caught you without it. You could only wait with bated breath and hope that time and Tarkin’s general distaste for the Jedi would have meant he still wouldn’t recognise you.

“The Empire does not tolerate failure, Sergeant.” Tarkin said, his displeasure evident.

“There were… complications.” Hunter replied.

“Yes, the probe droid’s report was quite detailed. Conspiring with Saw Gerrera. And you made your position quite clear.” Tarkin said, directing his gaze at you.

At least he didn’t recognise you. You’d be dead already if he had, you thought before replying, “Yeah, that position being I’m not a fan of a system or an Emperor that likes to go after innocent civilians. Not to mention, some of his employees are assholes. Oh, sorry, that’s a big generalisation, I meant at least one of them is.” You responded, glaring at him.

Tarkin did his best to maintain his composure. The probe droid had managed to send an image of your face and he was annoyed to admit that your profile meant nothing to him but this attitude of yours was becoming a problem and it would have to be dealt with. He nodded to the shock trooper closest to you and smirked as the butt of his blaster made contact with your cheek and then your stomach.

You grunted and kneeled down in pain. “Make that two employees. That feel good?” You panted, looking back at Tarkin. You took Echo’s outstretched hand and stood up, taking a few deep breaths to get air back into your lungs.

“Quite. You would do better to learn your place.” Tarkin answered.

“You need to stop.” Echo whispered.

“I can handle it fine.” You muttered back.

“You might, but he can’t.” Echo said, jutting his head in Hunter’s direction.

You glanced over to see Hunter’s fists clenched at his sides; his jaw tight as he stared at Tarkin. Any other day, you would’ve let your thoughts run wild with what that could mean, but now was not the correct time for that sort of thought process so you just skipped to the last part of your routine and dismissed it as nothing special. It was nothing more than a leader who cared about the general wellbeing of his squad, if it had been anyone else, it would’ve been the same.

“I assume you know the punishment for treason.” Tarkin resumed, speaking to the clone sergeant.

You went to open your mouth again but Echo’s tug on your arm stopped you.

“Treason?” Hunter replied, shocked.

“Throw them in the brig.” Tarkin ordered.

--

This was how you would die.

This was the way Tarkin would kill you.

No, not by finding out your Jedi secret.

But by locking you in the brig with Hunter wearing only his blacks.

The material clung tightly to him, accentuating every ripple of muscle he had. You simply could not handle it. Yes, the two of you shared a bunk and when he had the time, you knew he would remove his armour and sleep in them, but it was usually always dark, and you were too exhausted to actually notice and appreciate what they did for him. You weren’t the most focused waking up either, so you’d never had, what you supposed was the pleasure given the way your body was reacting right now with heat spreading throughout it and your heart rate dramatically increasing, of seeing him in them.

Now it was happening at the worst possible time.

You were trapped.

In a tight space.

With every other squad member.

Who in the galaxy had you wronged to receive this punishment? To have him in front of you, looking like that, and not being able to act on every impulse that your body was wanting to do, was torture.

It felt wrong, not to mention a little bit creepy, to let your mind wander this way when there was no way his had ever done the same, but you couldn’t help it. This was going to kill you.  

“You’re staring.” Echo uttered quietly to you.

“Shut it.” You shushed back, no malice behind it, before turning away from Hunter swiftly and you sat down on the bench, so out of it that you didn’t notice the small child sitting in the corner of the cell or really register that Hunter had been looking at you just as intensely.

Hunter couldn’t help but look at you. If Tarkin wanted to give him a hard time, this was a good way to do it. Being trapped in the brig with you was doing things to him that he should be better at ignoring. Your top layer had been taken off you so you were left wearing your leggings and undershirt which meant much of your skin was exposed and it was making his mind create images and thoughts he absolutely should not be having. He began thinking about the various ways he could make the goosebumps on your arms disappear, but he stopped himself. It was not the correct time for this, it was never the correct time for it, but he couldn’t help himself. This was going to be a struggle.

“You’re staring.” Wrecker whispered to him.

“I’m not.” Hunter replied defensively, before looking away from you quickly and facing the back of the cell.

Echo glanced between the two of you as you both looked away from each other at the same time. He sighed internally. He couldn’t believe you both were so clueless. Everyone else could see how you felt about each other but nothing had happened. He’d lost track of the number of conversations he and the others had with each of you individually about it, only to be faced with pathetic denials and excuses from both of you. They’d even tried a couple of times to set up situations were the two of you were alone, to try and force one of you to talk because it was just getting ridiculous and still nothing happened. You both were, somehow, too oblivious to what you felt for one another.

“Well, the plan wasn’t a total failure.” Tech spoke up.

You looked at him and followed his gaze and there was Omega. Huddled against the wall of the cell. Wow, your brain had short circuited after seeing Hunter. How did you not see her? What happened next wasn’t helping either. You watched as Hunter made his way forward and kneel down in front of her, it took all your willpower to not stare at the muscles in his back.

“I warned you not to come back.” Omega said.

“Had to. We were looking for you.” Hunter responded, making sure he was keeping his eyes on her and not you.  

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched her face light up in surprise.

“Me?” She replied.

“What do you say, kid? You wanna come with us or did we get captured for nothing?” Hunter asked.

“You came back for me?” She repeated.

“That’s right. Or you can stay on Kamino if-”

“No, it’s like I said before. I want to go with you.” She said eagerly, standing up.

“How touching.” Crosshair sneered.

You turned to look at Crosshair before glancing back at Hunter as he stood up and stared back at Crosshair. You cleared your throat, trying to disperse the awkward tension that had arose.

“Uh, Hunter, how are we breaking outta here?” Wrecker asked.

“I’m working on it.” He replied sternly, his eyes staying on Crosshair.

“You know what you should work on? Explaining when you went soft. I have a pretty good idea though.” Crosshair said, his eyes focusing on you.

You looked away awkwardly. Apart from Echo, Crosshair had been one of the main people who had spoken to you about the whole Hunter situation despite your many denials. Even though he’d done it in his Crosshair way, you had never got the impression it was a serious problem for him. Until now.  

Hunter stole a glance at you before looking back at Crosshair.

“Stow it, Crosshair.” Echo said.

You noticed Omega glancing in your direction. You gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile and stood up and walked just behind Hunter, so you were standing next to her.

“Don’t you see we’re locked up in here because of him?” Crosshair said angrily. “He had us disobey orders.”

“So what?” You asked.

“I never thought you disobeying orders was a problem.” Tech added.

“Yeah. We do it all the time.” Wrecker agreed.

“Good soldiers follow orders.” Crosshair said aggressively, taking a few steps closer to Hunter. “Every choice you’ve made since Kaller has been wrong. First the Padawan, then Gerrera. You’re becoming a liability.”

You shook your head in disbelief but when you saw Omega look anxiously back up at you again, you put your arm around her shoulder. Judging by your most recent displays, if you spoke up more, you would probably only make things worse.

“We can debate my choices later.” Hunter replied. “For now, let’s focus on getting outta here.” He took a step away from Crosshair.

You studied Crosshair as he went to sit down. He was clutching the side of his head. Something about him now just felt weird to you, he felt like a stranger. You felt Omega leave your side and watched as she made her way over to him. She was a medical assistant after all, maybe she could figure out what was going on with him. You sat back down on the bench and placed your face in your hands, wincing slightly as you forgot about the bruise that was forming on your cheek.

“Does it hurt?”

You lifted your eyes to see Hunter kneeling in front of you, his eyes focused on you. You shook your head. “Nah not really. There’ll be a bruise but it’s fine if I just leave it alone. I should’ve seen it coming though, there was only so much of my charming demeanour Tarkin could take.” You said with a small smile. Before you could say anything else, you looked past Hunter to see a shock trooper approaching. You stood up.

Hunter mirrored your actions and turned to see what was going on.

“CT-9904, you’re coming with us.” The trooper dictated, whilst another brought the shield down.

You took a couple steps to the right whilst Hunter darted in front of the trooper. “Oh, no, no, no. We stay together.” He said firmly.

The trooper only hit his blaster into Hunter’s stomach.

“Hunter!” You quickly made your way over to him and grabbed his arm to haul him back to his feet. “Are you okay?” You asked softly.

“I’m fine.” He replied, grimacing slightly as he straightened up.

“Yeah, being on the receiving end of one of those isn’t the greatest feeling in the world.” You let go of his arm and made to step towards the clone, but he held his blaster up.

“Stand down!” He ordered.

You and the others stilled and all you could do was watch as Crosshair left the cell and walked out the door with them. You didn’t know what they wanted with him, but one thing was certain, it could not possibly be good.

--

You were situated on the other end of the cell, opting to lean against the wall rather than the bench. You told yourself it would be more comfortable for your back and not because you had a better view of Hunter that way.

You straightened your back against the wall. It had been a while since you’d all been sent to the brig, and you were getting fed up. You couldn’t be bothered wrestling with your inner turmoil anymore. All it would take would be a simple flick of your wrist and the switch controlling the shield would be lowered and you all would be able to leave. You could deal with the other soldiers easily enough and then you could leave them and… and never look back.

You sighed sadly but as you looked to where Hunter was sitting, that feeling of sadness changed in to one of amusement as you saw Omega mimicking each movement he made. That was another reason to do this, at least you guys had actually done something to piss Tarkin off, Omega was just a kid and didn’t deserve this. You inhaled deeply. “Guys I can-”

“I’ve got it. Why didn’t I think of it before?” Tech interrupted before pausing to looking back at you.

“No, go ahead Tech.” You said quickly. Just because you’d been at peace with that decision didn’t mean you wanted to do it, doing that would still put them in danger so if Tech had a plan, then you weren’t going to stop him.

Tech moved Echo aside and sat where he had once been before continuing. “This isn’t a prison.”

“Yeah, well I beg to differ.” Echo said.

“This is a Kaminoan facility. It was built prior to the Clone Wars. There were no barracks or prisons when it was constructed.” Tech clarified.

“Well, how does that help us?” You asked.

“Because while these cells were retrofitted to hold normal individuals, they could not possibly account for someone like Wrecker.” Tech replied.

“Oh! You mean I could punch our way out?” Wrecker asked eagerly, standing up.

You glanced over to where the troopers were and noticed them looking back to where you all were.

“Ssshh.” Hunter and Omega both said.

“Oh. Right. You mean I could punch our way out?” Wrecker repeated at a whisper this time.

“If you punch the correct spot.” Tech confirmed.

“Right. Show me where.” Wrecker said, rubbing his knuckles keenly.

“If this is gonna work, we’ll need some cover. Form a wall.” Hunter ordered.

You, Echo, Hunter, and Omega stood up to conceal the area of the wall Tech was examining. Omega had taken up what was your usual position next to Hunter, so you just stood next to her.

Hunter glanced down at Omega and then looked over her head at you only to see you look back at him and shrug with a small smile on your face.

“Hit this. Here.” Tech directed to Wrecker before coming to stand next to you.

“Right.” Wrecker kneeled down. “Tell me when.”

“Now.” Hunter said.

Wrecker punched the area and quickly sat back down.

The rest of you stood casually and waited for the troopers to look away again.

Wrecker examined the spot that he hit but let out a grumble. “Nothing happened.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?” You asked Tech quietly. You needed to know if your services would actually be required.

“Try it again. A little harder.” Tech said.

“You’re all clear. Make it count.” Hunter said.

“Okay.” Wrecker said before pulling his arm back and crashing his fist into the metal wall.

Again, you all waited for the soldiers to look away from you.

“Oh, it still didn’t work.” Wrecker said.

You kept your eyes on the soldiers in front of you, but you felt Tech leave your side to examine the wall.

“Oh yes, it did.” Tech corrected.  “Look.” He pulled back part of the metal to reveal an opening behind the wall.

“I’ll never fit through that.” Wrecker pointed out.

“Astute as always Wrecker, but I was actually going to suggest-”

“I’ll do it.” Omega agreed.

“You sure, kid?” Hunter asked.

“I’m sure.” She confirmed.

“I’ll go with her.” You said, looking at Hunter.

He nodded. He knew you could handle these guards just fine; he didn’t need to be worried. “Okay. Omega, get to the console and hit the lever to lower the ray shield.” He looked back at you. “The guards are all yours.”

You smiled before glancing down at Omega. “Come on, Omega, let’s go.” You both stepped back and squeezed through the gap in the wall. You let Omega start climbing first, you followed closely behind.

“Incoming.” Echo warned as the group of shock troopers approached.

“Wait, where are the other two?” The guard at the front asked.

“You tell us.” Hunter replied calmly.

“Harm them and you’re a dead man.” Echo said.

Another one of the clones spoke into the commlink on his wrist. “Operations, we need a status report on prisoners 0219 and 0220.”

--

You and Omega paused as you heard this echo up through the vent, she had stopped just on top of it, you were just behind her.

Omega felt the vent buckle under her slightly and she glanced back at you.

You held your finger up to your lips and raised your hand to tell her to wait. You kept an ear out for what was happening below you and from the sounds of it, Wrecker was doing his best to provide an excuse, but he didn’t quite have the knack for that sorta skill, for as long as you knew him, he never had.

You kept listening and knew you had your opening once you heard the guard ask again for where the two of you were. You nudged Omega’s leg and gave a single nod of your head. As she hit the vent and came tumbling down with it, you jumped down quickly after her and you noticed that most of the guards were trapped under it, so your job had just gotten a lot simpler. “Hit the switch, Omega!” You called before landing a kick to the trooper that had gotten up to grab her and that kick sent him right into Wrecker’s oncoming fist. You took in the scene around you and sighed.

“What?” Hunter asked, walking over to you.

“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d have more to do.” You pouted. “Omega did a lot of my job for me. Nice job, kid!” You said smiling at her.

Hunter chuckled before addressing the wider group. “We need to find out where they took Crosshair. Let’s move.”

--

You all carefully made your way through the hallways before stopping at the next new corridor. You sighed. “We’re not going to get very far without our gear.”

“They started moving all your things to the hangar. Your gear might be there too.” Omega suggested to Hunter.

“This way.” Hunter directed.

The six of you began to quickly head towards the hangar. You only hoped you would be able to find and help Crosshair in time.

--

The group of you silently made your way into the hangar and you were pleased to see that all your kit was there. You grabbed your hooded layer and hastily put it on, and you immediately felt comforted. You knew you shouldn’t have let it, but the ensemble you had put together provided you with a deep sense of security, something you’d only ever found at one other time in your life and that involved lying next to a certain someone in the quiet and darkness of space. You were losing one, so you were glad to still have the other.

You slung your sword over your back and tied your smaller vibroblade to your thigh. You looked around you to see the others finishing putting their gear back on, though Wrecker seemed to have lost something.

“Tech, power up the ship. The rest of us will go after Crosshair.” Hunter instructed, grabbing his blaster.

Yet again, you felt a disturbance in your veins as you heard the beeping of the door behind you. You turned to look towards it. “I don’t think we’ll have to go far.” Just as you said that the door opened. You and the others ducked swiftly before peaking over the crates in front of you and what you saw filled your heart with dismay. Amidst the shock troopers that ran through, came another soldier, armour all black, sniper rifle in hand. You weren’t fast enough.

“Is that… Crosshair?” Wrecker asked, his tone filled with disbelief.

You saw out of the corner of your eye that Hunter had stood up and walked into the middle of the room, so he was standing across from Crosshair. Your eyes darted between them, you had to be ready just in case. You wouldn’t let anything happen to Hunter.

“Best stand down, Sergeant.” Crosshair warned. “Make it easy on yourself.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Hunter replied.

“We should’ve killed that Jedi. You disobeyed orders.”

Your heart stopped. What had happened to him? You bit your tongue to stop yourself from saying anything that would only prove to escalate the situation. You took a moment to glance down at Omega who had taken cover by the crate you were positioned at. You laid a hand on her shoulder, hoping that it would provide some comfort before focusing your attention back on Hunter and Crosshair.

“I did what I thought was right.” Hunter answered.

“You never could see the bigger picture. Now surrender.”

One look at Hunter and the others told you everything you needed to know. No one here was surrendering.

“Is that an order?” Hunter asked.

“Heh. I guess it is.” Crosshair responded with a smirk.

“Well, I guess I’m disobeying that one too.”

You took a deep as the two of them stared each other down. You knew one of them was getting ready to shoot and you just knew Crosshair would be the one to shoot first so if it looked like Hunter wouldn’t be able to get out the way in time, you would be ready. “Stay close, Omega.” You whispered to her whilst keeping your gaze on the men in front of you.

You waited, everyone else tensed their blasters but you waited.

You’d had a lot of practice in patience. In everyday situations, you weren’t great at it but when it came to scenarios like this, you pretty much had it nailed.

You tuned out the thunder in the background and watched.

You exhaled deeply as you watched Hunter duck out the way of Crosshair’s shot and you turned back to face him, your back against the crate, as he hunkered down in front of you. “Don’t do that to me.” You chastised him but your voice was filled with relief.

Hunter couldn’t let his mind wander about what your relief meant in regard to him right now, so he only nodded at you before putting his helmet on and taking up position next to you.

“Omega, keep your head down.” You told her as blaster shots pinged off the crate and your surroundings. You cursed under your breath as the shock troopers threw smoke charges, concealing your view, well only partially concealing yours. You could sense where the others were, but you couldn’t reveal that without answering other questions and given Crosshair’s new allegiance, you most certainly couldn’t do anything to remove the smoke yourself. You and Hunter ducked as a blaster bolt fired past your heads. “Tech, we gotta move. Now!” You called into the comm on your wrist.

“I’m working on it.” Tech responded.

“Wrecker, clear the smoke on three.” Hunter directed.

“You got it, boss.” Wrecker replied, grabbing two crate lids.

“Omega, stay low.” Hunter reiterated. “One… two…”

“Three!” Wrecker finished, jumping up and hitting the trays together, the impact dispersing the smoke.

You watched as he flung the lids into the oncoming soldiers, one making contact, but Crosshair managed to get out of the way of the other before getting a shot away in Wrecker’s direction. You quickly moved a finger, keeping your hands at your side but it wasn’t enough, the bolt still made contact with the upper left part of Wrecker’s chest, and you watched with worry as he fell down. “Omega, don’t!” You grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her next to you just as a shot whizzed past. “He’s using Wrecker as bait.” You told her, keeping her from going again.

“But he needs help.”

“I know.” You said, looking at her with a nod. You turned to face Hunter. “What’s the plan, Hunter?”

“Tech, we’re out of time.” Hunter called to the ship, looking away from you.

“Almost got it!” Tech called back, powering up the engines.

“When I say go, you both head for that ramp and don’t stop. Got it?” Hunter said, his helmet turning from Omega to look at you. “Echo, we go for Wrecker.”

“No way, I’m not-” You began to protest.

“I need you to be safe.”

Any quick retort you were about to give vanished from your lips. “What?”

“I meant I need you to make sure the kid stays safe.” Hunter corrected quickly. Now was not the time.

You sighed, of course that’s what he meant. “Okay.”

“Go!” Hunter stood up and repeatedly fired his blaster in the direction of Crosshair and the other troopers.

You grabbed Omega’s hand and the two of you ran to the ship, but you couldn’t shake the deep feeling within you that Echo and Hunter would need your help. Clearly Omega felt similarly because you both stopped at the same time. You noticed a blaster on top of one of the crates. You grabbed it and handed it to her. “Go to the stairs of the ship. Trust yourself and take the shot. You’ll know when.” You told her urgently. You watched her take the blaster with a nod, fear but also determination behind her eyes.

“What about you?”

“I’m going to circle back around this crate. Don’t wait for me.” You both split up, you making sure you moved to the crate closest to you, your eyes never leaving Crosshair.

Just as you got yourself situated, you saw Crosshair raise his rifle towards where Echo and Hunter were struggling to get Wrecker to the ship.

You lifted your hand, closed your eyes, and called on the Force to push him down. Just as you did this, you heard Omega’s shot hit his blaster and you opened your eyes to see Crosshair sprawled on the floor. You knew he wouldn’t stay down very long. With Hunter and Echo’s gaze fixed on Omega, you darted out and grabbed Wrecker’s feet to help bring him on board the ship.

Crosshair couldn’t understand what just happened, one minute he was getting ready to fire his rifle, the next he was knocked to the ground. He recovered quickly and stood up, drawing his other blaster.

“I told you to go.” Hunter said, voice straining slightly with Wrecker’s additional weight.

“That wasn’t going to happen.” You replied, ducking your head as some of Crosshair’s hurried shots rang around you. You all made it onto the ship, and it took off, leaving Crosshair and Kamino behind you.

--

“Ouch!” Wrecker complained as you stuck the needle in his shoulder between the gaps in his armour. “Hey, hey, hey. What’s that gonna do?” He asked anxiously as he saw the next needle you brought out.

“You’ll be okay. Just hold still.” You replied.

“Is this what you were looking for?” Omega asked, holding the stuffed toy up to Wrecker.

“You found my Lula!” Wrecker gasped, taking it from the small girl.

You used that moment to quickly stick the other shot into his neck.

“Ow!” Wrecker cried out.

“I saw an opportunity and I took it.” You said with a smile. “It’s done now, don’t worry.”

Omega giggled and moved out the way as Tech came over to Wrecker.  

“Hold still.” Tech instructed, holding out his scanner.

“Don’t examine me. I’m not a computer.” Wrecker said huffily.

“This will take just a second.” Tech responded.

“Get that thing away from me.” Wrecker grunted.

You huffed out a laugh and looked away from the two squabbling clones to see Omega heading for the cockpit. You took a few steps forward and turned around to look at Hunter, tilting your head in Omega’s direction, indicating that he should follow.

Hunter nodded and walked with you into the cockpit. He glanced at you, not knowing if he should speak first. He wasn’t sure how this was all was supposed to work.

“Go on.” You murmured. You stayed back a couple paces, waiting for him to go first.  

He took a deep breath before approaching Omega. “Your first time in space?”

“First time anywhere.” Omega replied, looking back at him.

There was a slight pause before he spoke again. “That was an impressive shot back there. Where’d you learn to do that?” Hunter asked.  

“I don’t know. She told me to trust myself but I’ve never fired a blaster before. I guess I got lucky.” She said, with a shrug of her shoulders.

Hunter faced you. “You told her to take the shot?”

“Figured you’d need to the help. I didn’t want anything to happen to you.” You told him as you came to stand beside him. “Or Echo, or Wrecker.” You included quickly.

Before Hunter could say anything else to you, Tech and the others wandered through.

You took that moment to step aside and sit down in the seat behind the co-pilots chair. That was a bit close. You chuckled as you saw Echo come through bearing much of Wrecker’s weight, it definitely looked like a struggle. “How’s he doing, Tech?”

“He got lucky, but he’ll be fine.” Tech replied.

“It’ll take more than a blaster shot to take me down.” Wrecker said with a laugh.

“You were down.” Echo corrected, removing Wrecker’s arm from his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, not for long.” Wrecker responded with a chuckled before grabbing his shoulder in pain.

“What’s the plan, Hunter?” Tech asked, swivelling his pilot’s chair slightly.

“I thought we could go off on our own. Lay low. But with Crosshair gunning for us, I’m not so sure.” Hunter answered.

“What about your friends? Could any of them help us.” Omega asked, looking back at Tech.

You barked out a laugh.

“That would be a short list.” Tech replied, before looking back out the window.

“I can think of one.” Hunter revealed. “Plot a course for J-19.”

“J-19?” You and Echo asked.

“We know a guy.” Hunter said, glancing between you both before looking back at Omega and turning the co-pilot seat towards her. “Strap in kid, you’re not gonna want to miss this view.”

You smiled warmly as you watched him and as you saw Omega study what Tech was doing to prepare the jump to hyperspace but that smile quickly became one of sadness. You were dreading the conversation you needed to have once you reached this new destination. You sighed and left your seat just as the ship entered hyperspace.

--

You stepped away from the cockpit and were just about to take your sword off and lay it down when you heard Echo say something that made you freeze.

“I still can’t believe Crosshair just fell down like that.”

“Yeah, that was pretty weird.” Wrecker agreed.

“Anyone see what happened?” Hunter asked.

“Oh, that was (Y/N).” Omega answered innocently.

Shit. You were rooted to the spot. You thought you’d gotten away with it.

“It couldn’t possibly have been her, she was nowhere near Crosshair. She was helping get Wrecker on board the ship.” Tech corrected.

“Yeah, how could she have done that?” Wrecker asked.

“Her attention was on Crosshair when he was getting ready to shoot. I saw her close her eyes, raise her hand slightly and the next thing that happened was he was on the ground.” Omega explained.

Fuck.

“Ha nice one kid, way to cheer me up. No way she can do that.” Wrecker said with a laugh. He turned to face you, expecting to see you smiling at such a ridiculous suggestion but instead he was met with your back.

Hunter had turned to look at you, only to see you frozen in place. Omega couldn’t have been right, could she?

“She does not possess such an ability.” Tech argued. “Only the…” Tech trailed off, turning to look at you. You had been behaving differently ever since Kaller and this could be a reason as to why. Was it true?

“Yeah, sorry Omega, only the Jedi can do that and she certainly isn’t one. We’d know.” Echo added. “Right?” Echo turned to look at you only to be met with the sight of your back at the other end of the ship. “(Y/N)?”

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t lie anymore. You felt all their eyes on your back.

“I’m sorry, did I say something I shouldn’t have?” Omega asked worriedly.

You sighed and finished taking off your weapon. “No.” You probably would’ve had to tell them when you told them you were leaving, they wouldn’t have let you get out of that one without a series of questions. You squeezed your eyes tight before opening them and turning to face the many pairs of eyes that were focused on you. You might as well start over. You introduced yourself again with a new piece of information. “Hi. My name is (Y/N) and I used to be a member of the Jedi Order.”

Next Chapter>

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The Last To Know | Part Two

The Last To Know Masterlist

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

As training progresses, you and Brady only continue to find new areas in which to compete which one another - both in the air and on the ground. Your distaste for one another grows at the same pace as your reluctant respect for your talent as pilots and musicians.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Original Characters, Era Typical Sexism/Misogyny, Alcohol Consumption, Tobacco Smoking, Class Disparity, Allusion to Death in Combat, Canon Typical Violence, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Weapons of War, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: This story contains an alternate universe where women have been allowed to fly in combat with the USAAF - in a very limited experiment. Reader is a trumpet player. Brief references to Reader's family and backstory. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7530

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

Fools. He was surrounded by incompetent fools.

“If you don’t get a move on Croz, you’re gonna be dead!” Brady’s Bombardier, Hambone, shouted across the tarmac.

He watched the dark-haired Navigator execute the most inelegant slide down the fuselage of the plane onto the wing before hopping down to the ground. Hoerr, his Co-pilot, sucked his teeth in dismay as he eyed the stopwatch in his hand before following after him. With a heavy sigh, Brady turned his head to see you and your crew exchanging high-fives, all ten of you the first to reach your designated safety zone across the runway from your aircraft.

“Winners of our crash-landing drill, folks!” Their instructor shouted as Brady executed his slide and jump to the ground with efficiency, jogging up to who Crosby just barely made it to the chalk circle drawn on the blacktop.

Sniffling against the chill of the morning, he glanced over at their final time in Hoerr’s hand, shaking his head. “We’ll definitely be practicing that again.” He huffed and tucked his hands into the fleece-lined pockets of his sheepskin.

It wasn’t that third place amongst twenty crews was a poor showing – the men had done rather well for their first timed trial. The issue lay with the fact that you continued to effortlessly outperform him. Impress the instructors, earn accolades, seemingly outsmart him. All while looking that attractive in a flight suit. While looking at him that icily.

“Well done ladies.” Croz panted, flapping his crush cap in your direction in some semblance of a wave as you led your crew towards the trucks waiting to take you to the Mess for lunch.

As you offered the man a polite nod, Brady cleared his throat, begrudgingly adding on his congratulations. “Yes, well done.”

Your eyes snapped to his coldly, the physical impact of your gaze nearly making him flinch.

“Guess we’ll survive anyway when I do crash my plane, huh Brady?” Your voice was filled with a venom that he was quite certain was unwarranted, the comment seeming to have come out of nowhere.

“Personally, I don’t plan on ever putting my crew in a position where they have to enact this drill.” He snapped back defensively, hackles raised, watching your beautiful mouth twist into a wry smile.

He really needed to stop using those dangerously pleasant adjectives when it came to you.

“Man plans, Brady…” You taunted before continuing on your way, the obedient line of women behind you each shooting him a haughty glare as they followed in your wake.

“Yeah, yeah, God laughs.” He bit off angrily, fishing out his pipe in search of something to busy his hands with.

A long, low whistle sounded to his left and he lifted his eyes to meet Hambone’s glinting smile. “She sure don’t like you.”

Brady’s lips twisted in distaste at the accuracy of that statement, but any response died on his tongue as the sound of an encroaching engine overtook the airfield. While the 280th and 418th had been putting on a show for the visitors from Wing, Cleven had offered to take the newly repaired plane of his squadron member, Hollenbeck, out to test its replacement engines while his Lieutenant completed some base duties.

The fact that the normal roar of the plane was significantly muted had everyone turning to watch the B-17’s approach. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the bright winter sun, pale but obstinately returned to the sky after the wet welcome the 100th had received with Walla Walla’s entire annual rainfall in the span of five days, Brady’s brow furrowed deeply to see three engines feathered. His heart all but stopped when the fourth fell silent, propellers twirling idly in the slipstream as the aircraft glided across the runway.

Cleven could not be more than twenty-five feet off the ground as he cruised above the control tower, the collective jaws of all those gathered below gaping open as the brass hit the deck on the observation balcony. With a graceful, yet eerily silent swoop, the plane turned to line up with an open stretch of runway before seeming to float down to a gentle landing. Cheers of relief and reverence erupted from all around him as members of the ground crew raced out to check on the status of the engines when, to everyone’s collective shock, they began to start up again one-by-one. As Cleven smoothly taxied toward his hardstand, Brady shook his head in awe at the man’s sheer audacity.

If he was hoping to make himself stand out in the minds of the higher-ups from Wing, he undoubtedly achieved it.

“Brady, you coming for chow or what?” Hoerr shouted and he nodded quickly in reply, following the group onto their transport truck for the Mess as he tucked his forgotten pipe back into his pocket.

The normally crowded Mess Hall was quiet – two squadrons off on training flights courtesy of the additional thirty-five B-17s that had arrived from the Boeing factory in Seattle over the course of the last several weeks. He assumed they would return soon enough to endure the stringy chicken drowned in mayo to form what the Mess officers were claiming was chicken salad, served on thick slices of bread. Lucky them. Settling at the table with the officers of his crew, he forced the sandwich down quickly before savouring the crisp, tart apple that accompanied it, eyes involuntarily following you through the chow line. It seemed someone else was on rear guard today, freeing you to chat with that blonde Pilot, Hart.

The pair of you seemed close, from what he had seen. And it appeared he had been watching too often and noticing far too much.

“Tough as a ten-cent steak, that Thornton.” Curt’s New York accent pierced through his cloudy thoughts from the table behind, the man’s voice always discernable amongst the crowd. Particularly when he spoke your name next, making Brady’s ears focus more intently. “…pretty sure she eats a bowl of nails for breakfast and spits ‘em out as tacks for lunch.”

Brady could easily imagine the man’s impish grin as the table roared with laughter, though he himself could find no fault with his words – much as that galled him. Next to Thornton, you were by far the toughest in the 280th and he found, despite your personal incompatibilities, he would probably not hesitate to fly on your wing.

Setting down his apple core once he had picked it clean with precise bites, he settled back to produce his pipe and tin of tobacco, methodically packing his pipe before striking a match to light the dried leaves slowly. Absently listening to the rest of the conversation around him, he reflected on the fact that they would be moving onto the next phase of their training soon. The next base. Rumor had it they were shipping out to Utah, the actual desert, rather than this arid smudge between the forest and the mountains.

Aside from the arrival of enough planes for every crew, there were interesting developments on the ground as well – discussion of a Group band. According to their Group CO, Alkire, every Group had a band. Brady had already written home requesting his family send his saxophone and clarinet in anticipation, his reputation as a performance musician well known amongst his squadron. What remained uncertain was if it would be a fully integrated band or not. There were…differences of opinion amongst the various factions involved.

‘The calibre of talent drawn from five hundred rather than four hundred would surely be higher.’

‘Would it not encourage fraternization with them spending so much more time amongst one another?’

 ‘Big bands don’t have women.’

‘The numbers would surely be impressive if we let them join.’

‘They gotta take that over now, too?’

‘You’ll write them off before you even hear them?’

Smoke curled from his nostrils as Brady exhaled heavily, as-yet undecided where he stood on the subject, not that anyone was asking for the opinion of a Second Lieutenant. The cacophony of the 349th and 351st squadron’s officers arriving for lunch, looking tired but satisfied after their extended flight, interrupted his introspection and had him rising to his feet.

“Gonna go grab our flight plan for this afternoon.” He muttered to Hoerr who offered a nod before turning back to Hambone’s animated story about the acquisition of his gold teeth.

Walking along the boards which had aged markedly under the heavy use of their Group since their arrival earlier in the month, Brady stepped into the Ops centre, nodding to a few of the pilots from the 418th, including Pratt whom he had given a wide berth in the past few weeks. Pressing himself into an empty spot along the wall, he watched quietly as Flescher and Dutch pored over neatly typed sheets with Alkire – most likely the flight plan he had come in search of.

The whine of the door hinges raised his head, and that of every other man impatiently waiting with practiced expressions of patience, and Brady felt his throat clench in a reflexive swallow as you stepped into the dwindling free space, utterly alone.

“Hey there Bo Peep, lost your sheep?” Pratt quipped, chuckling in delight at his own cleverness, reminding Brady just why he had parted ways with the man after too many similar instances.

The grim set of your mouth at the resounding laughter from the rest of the Pilots in the room opened a pit in his stomach. Confirmed to him that you were just as aware as he that the nickname was going to stick with you for the rest of your career in the USAAF. If only your Co-pilot had seen fit to give you one earlier, as some kind of defence.

“Ah, Lieutenant.” Dutch’s booming voice cut through the racket like a hot knife through butter, beckoning you over to the open doorway into Alkire’s office. “Here are the flight plans for the 280th. See to it all the ladies have one, we’ll assemble at the hangar in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Your reply was calm and professional, seeming otherwise unaffected by the wildly unfitting moniker.

If anything, you reminded him of some sort of ice goddess – perfectly molded from hard, frigid material. Not a sweet, tender character from a nursery rhyme.

The 418th’s CO, Flesher, stepped forward and passed out the rest of the pages, Brady accepting his flight plan with a sharp nod of thanks, before he followed you out into the cool, bright afternoon to get on with his training, trying his best to drive you from his mind.

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

December 1942

The salt flats of Wendover Field, Utah felt endless, the arid landscape stretching far beyond the horizon, even during flights. There was no hint of lush deep forests capping mountains or slanting towards the sea here as there had been in Washington. And the differences did not end there. Whereas Walla Walla had greeted you with rain and temperatures in the high forties, Wendover was ceaseless blue skies and temperatures ten degrees cooler. Despite the fact that the 280th’s fifteen-chair all-ladies band was endless practicing holiday tunes, it made it difficult to truly feel in the holiday spirit.

There would be no white Christmas here, contrary to the wild popularity of the Irving Berlin song of the same name that had come out that summer.

Stepping into smoke-laden air of the officer’s club behind Keever, you tucked your cap beneath your arm, notebook clenched in hand, prepared for a difficult negotiation. Williams, leader of the 100th’s official all-male band, stood to wave the pair of you over to a table in an out-of-the-way corner. A table that was heart-droppingly also occupied by John Brady. Sighing a curse as you navigated your way through the couples dancing to records on the cramped floor, you assembled what you hoped was a neutral expression and almost cut Keever off in your determination to take the seat opposite Brady rather than beside him. Anything to put as much physical distance as possible between you and that man.

Offering Williams a quick nod of gratitude as he pushed in your chair, you took a moment to study the club. Rank certainly afforded you entry here, as often as you could want, but you found you preferred the quieter atmosphere of the ad hoc women’s club. There was no rank in there, no bar, just an odd jumble of mismatched furniture, books, magazines, and records. It was a place where you could just be, rather than this crowded party-like atmosphere, brimming with music, chatter, and gambling.

“Thank you, ladies, very much, for agreeing to go over your setlist with us, I think it would be in all of our best interests if there’s no overlap when we play on the nineteenth.”

“Completely agree, Williams.” Keever planted her elbows on the table aggressively. “Given that you have the privilege of larger numbers, might we have first pick? White Christmas.” She named the year’s most popular song without even waiting for the go ahead, pinning him with her beady, challenging glare.

Flipping open the notebook, you retrieved a pencil from your uniform pocket and looked between the two of them as Williams sighed heavily, casting a glance in Brady’s direction.

“We’ve been practicing that one pretty heavily.” Brady replied slowly, clipped tone betraying how dearly he wanted that song to fall onto their set list.

“As have we.” You replied flatly, raising your chin slightly.

Williams tapped his lips pensively before glancing at a folded scrap of paper in his hand. “If we give you White Christmas, we get Jingle Bells.”

Keever arched an eyebrow slowly, not glancing in your direction once. You found it terribly frustrating as you would have liked to impart to her how much that loss would hurt the horns in particular.

Eventually she nodded firmly. “Agreed. Next…”

Licking your lips slowly before pressing them together tightly, sealed like an envelope, you began a new list in your notebook under the heading entitled ‘Final’ trying to take satisfaction in the fact that you would have the song of the season, at least. With each passing exchange, it became increasingly apparent that you were only there to take notes for Keever. She was completely uninterested in your opinions, never once consulting you as she continued her adversarial negotiation with Williams.

“Well, Williams, that it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Keever offered a hand to shake across the table once the eight-song setlist had been secured.

Without waiting for you to finish writing down the final agreed-upon title, she promptly departed, leaving you to collect your items.

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant.” You offered a polite smile, rising to shake Williams’ hand just as two warm, broad palms landed on your shoulders with a cry of glee.

“Bo Peep!” Bucky’s voice was much too loud for his proximity, making you squint slightly at the force of it.

“Captain.” You nodded warmly. “I was just –”

“Sitting down. I’m buying you a drink. No, you too, Brady.” There was a dismissive wave across the table and the man in question froze before sinking back down into his chair. “Whatever you were all doing was far too serious. What’ll you have?” The rosy-cheeked man raised a dark eyebrow once he had exerted enough pressure to coax you back into your seat.

“Soda will be fine, thank you, sir.”

“Quit that, it’s Bucky. I’ll be right back with a soda for Bo Peep and a whiskey for the rest of us.” He winked before meandering to the bar.

“I apologize, Lieutenant, it seems you were spotted.” Williams shook his head and you laughed ruefully.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time, stepping into his kingdom.”

The clatter of glassware announced Bucky’s return, the soda slid in your direction before the whiskeys were doled out, the eager Captain taking over Keever’s vacated seat.

“To sunnier skies.” He lifted his glass and the three of you leaned in the clink yours against it, taking a slow sip of the fizzy liquid before settling back. “So what were you all meeting about anyway?”

“Holiday concert.” Williams answer.

Bucky’s eyes lit up and he looked to you quickly. “If you ladies ever need a singer, I am at your service.”

Movement across the table caught your eye and you shifted your gaze to see Brady shaking his head firmly behind Bucky, making you raise an eyebrow.

“Do you sing well, Captain?”

“Not a note, Bo Peep, but I sing with passion.” He laughed brightly and your eyes widened at his self-depreciating honesty before you could not help but joining in his laughter.

“Noted, sir.”

“When is this concert again?” Bucky leaned back, setting his quickly emptied glass onto the table.

“Friday after next.” Brady replied, long fingers once again busily packing that pipe of his.

Bucky whistled dramatically. “Sure your band’s gonna be ready, Williams?”

“Absolutely, sir.” He replied with a firm nod, taking another miniscule sip of his drink. “They’re a fine group, coming together well.”

“And the ladies?”

“Most definitely, Keever wouldn’t let it be any other way.” You smirked and took a deep swallow of soda.

“Well I’ll be there with bells on…and warmed up.” He winked dramatically before standing with an exaggerated stretch. “I’m going to go find some more trouble before I hit the rack, I’ll see each of you bright and early tomorrow.”

Parting with a chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ you took one final sip of your drink before excusing yourself, trying not to trip over your own feet in your desperation to get out of there, eager to return to the peace of your barracks.

The next day found you sitting beneath the shade of your plane’s wing, seeking shelter from the insistent afternoon sunshine. You shook your head at Andie’s third sigh in as many minutes.

“Your dramatics are not going to make our passengers arrive any faster.” You teased, nudging her shoulder with yours.

Today’s practice mission involved live ordinance for both air-to-air firing of the machine guns and a bomb run – coordination with the target aircraft was extensive, but so, it seemed, was the temptation of ice cream in the Mess.

“Just eager to get wheels up is all, you heard the boys from the 418th, closest thing to real combat they’ve experienced they said.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, trying not to recall the way Brady’s eyes had been alight as he and his crew animatedly recalled their flight. Who would have known that man actually had warm blood flowing in his veins.

To assess your crew’s performance, several experienced aerial gunners and a bombardier would be joining you, if they ever chose to set down their dessert spoons, submitting a score to Dutch at the end of the flight. You were quite frankly as anxious as Andie to get this show on the road, but did your best to remain outwardly calm, taking in the mood of the rest of the girls.

Mouse was reenacting some amusing scene from the enlisted personnel’s club, playing both parts of a dancing couple, much to the amusement of Ivy, Millie, and Nita. Babs and Gina, ever diligent, were bent over the mission plan, the latter spreading a few maps on the blacktop for them to confer upon. Fletcher was set slightly apart, knees bent, working away in a small notebook with long smooth strokes of her pencil. Tilting your head, you were almost convinced she was sketching when the sound of an approaching jeep had Andie leaping to her feet with a triumphant cry.

“Finally!”

Pulling yourself to your feet you shuffled forward to meet the three men as Andie shouted back to the crew.

“On your feet…you too, Fletch!”

You barely resisted pull of a grin as the Right Waist Gunner finally earned her nickname, you waited for everyone to slide onto the aircraft before inverting your way aboard last.

As you started your engines, you watched the C-47 take off with its outdated target aircraft in tow, letting the routine of preflight checks take over the urge to focus on the fluttering in your stomach. The day was beautiful, the atmosphere incredibly smooth and friendly as you climbed to 30,000 feet, everyone affixing their oxygen masks before you began to follow Gina’s charted course.

The sight of the C-47 as it came into view at one o’clock high made your heart lurch with pride, your breath hitching in your throat. Taking a steady breath, you forced yourself to call it out calmly.

“Target aircraft ahead, one o’clock high, save your ammo until we come alongside. Remember not to shoot the Sky Train, ladies.”

The deafening sound of the Browning machine guns as they opened up was an entirely new experience for you, your eyes drifting to Andie’s to share an intense look. The pair of you were thus far only accustomed to the friendly thrum of the engines keeping you aloft. The shattered peace was a sharp reminder that this was no mere plane – it was a weapon of war.

“Ladies that is one destroyed plane….” Andie crowed with pride as she pressed her left temple against the window to eye the wounded craft. “Practically shredded.”

“All credit to Schroeder on that one, Ma’am, fairly certain she landed the bulk of those rounds.” Fletch’s winded voice came through your headset.

Despite the mask covering the lower half of her face, the glint in her eyes told you Andie was grinning wickedly as she turned back to you. “You mean Shredder.”

Allowing the crew to share a laugh, you then requested quiet to confirm the heading with Gina, turning on the autopilot for the bombing run, pleased with Mouse’s gleeful feedback that the target was ‘smashed to smithereens.’

Twilight had just settled across the base when your wheels bumped down onto the runway, taxiing to your hardstand with the assistance of a ground crewman bearing a flashlight. Tired but satisfied, particularly with the excellent score your crew had received, you dismissed the enlisted ladies to go find what was left for dinner in the Mess Hall, massaging your tender cheeks as you walked with the three other officers to your Mess.

“Suppose we’ll get used to those masks eventually.” Babs muttered, red triangular indent very evident on her lily-white skin.

“Can only hope so.” Andie nodded in agreement, gripping her chin to crack her jaw.

It was a satisfying soreness, you thought, born of productivity. Of purpose. And if contributing, doing your part, brought you pain? So be it.

The next ten days passed in a blur of primarily flying and then practicing – either with the band or alone at the edge of the base – in your free time. It felt as though you had just finalized the setlist with Williams, Keever, and Brady yet here you were, setting out folding chairs around the perimeter of the gymnasium with space for a dancefloor in the center, the audience scheduled to arrival in less than two hours.

“Keever really likes to leave everything to you doesn’t she.” Lionheart called as she approached down the aisle, reaching for the next chair to help.

“If I had known what being co-leader would mean” You shook your head ruefully. “But you, ma’am, aren’t even in the band. You should be enjoying your evening before this whole thing happens – for better or worse.”

Her responding giggle and persistence in assisting you eased a great deal of tension in your shoulders.

“If I help you, you can listen to my proposition while we work. It’s a win-win, honestly.” She grinned mischievously, making you raise an eyebrow. “Oh don’t, it’s nothing awful just – I got us that pair of passes to go into Salt Lake City for the weekend.”

The chair in your hands landed on the wooden floor a little harder than you had intended in your shock, staring at your friend openly. “That’s…Dutch has only given out a dozen weekend passes since we formed up in Walla Walla, that’s incredible!”

“Didn’t take much convincing, just a little reminding of how well we’ve been doing. Now, in return for this incredible feat, I need to ask you a favour.”

“This is the proposition part.” You smirked as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, nodding apprehensively.

“My parents would hunt me down and murder me if I go into town and don’t stop by, but I just cannot bear the thought of facing them alone. Not now, not after I finally…got to grow up and…well be me. Please say you’ll come with me. Be my buffer.”

You could count on one hand the number of times Lionheart had mentioned her parents, and the level of detail included in those conversations had been even less. Her father was a businessman of means, currently involved in several grocery stores across Salt Lake City called ‘Crystal Palace Markets’. Her mother was a glamourous woman who had been utterly perplexed by her choice of propellers and fuel tanks over beauty parlors and a husband. It was no wonder she felt the need for someone on her wing at dinner, and while you were not entirely certain your presence would help the situation, you were not about to abandon her.

“You’re safe with me, Lionheart.” You nodded warmly, earning a bright grin and a squeeze about the shoulders before the pair of you returned to the task at hand while plotting the rest of your destinations during your forty-eight hours of freedom.

 “Well if it isn’t the worst shepherdess Bo Peep, yet again without her sheep, and that toothless Lion.”

The snide tone told you immediately, without needing to turn around, that the speaker was your least favourite member of the 100th – Friedkin. You loathed him deeply, found nothing redeeming nor capable about him whatsoever, and thus chose to not even acknowledge his existence. After you continued working for several moments, no response or glance in his direction offered, a huff of annoyance escaped him before the sound of his footfalls retreated, the slam of the exterior door signalling his exit.

Looking over your shoulders, both you and Lionheart confirmed he was truly gone before she sighed.

“I’m sure you resent that horrible nickname…”

A heavy exhale gathered in your cheeks before falling from your lips. “What I resent, honestly, is the implication that my crew are lambs being led to the slaughter. They are tough, intelligent, competent women – some of the finest the USAAF has to offer. I don’t care what they call me. Frankly, I’ve been called worse, but I cannot stand how it frames them.”

A clatter amongst the music stands sent your eyes rocketing towards the stage to see Brady moving around up there, distributing sheet music. “Lurking around like some ghoul, Brady?! Listening in on private conversations…” You snapped, annoyed by the fact that he surely overheard something so personal.

Even several rows back you could see the tick in his jaw, the furrow of his brow in response to your outburst. “Just doing my job, Lieutenant. Perhaps you shouldn’t say things you don’t want others to hear in the middle of the gymnasium!” He retorted sharply before rigidly continuing on with his task.

Clenching your fists at your sides, you could taste the venom on the tip of your tongue, the feel of Lionheart’s hand landing on your elbow making you jump as she startled you.

“We’re all done here, let’s get you something to eat.”

Nostrils flaring with the force of your exhale, you nodded after a moment, following her out to eat a small dinner before returning to the barracks to change. Your Class A uniform was waiting for you on the hook at the head of your bed where you had hung it last night to draw out any wrinkles. It had been quite a while since you had found occasion to wear it, though you supposed you would be wearing it all weekend now that you were headed into the city.

Uniform changed and hair tidied, you grabbed your trumpet case from its safe storage beneath your cot and hurried to the gymnasium where the 280th’s band was warming up. Being the smaller of the two groups, you also had the dubious honor of being the opening act for the night. Despite the fact that you were not the last the arrive, at least five members were later than you, Keever still looked prepared to murder you as you stepped into the change room.

“So glad you could join us, get warmed up.”

Offering a bland smile and a nod, you set about unpacking and warming up, giving sympathetic looks to those who arrived after you as their greetings were even less friendly. Once the entire band was fully assembled, there was just enough time to run through a few scales together before a knock on the door signalled it was time to go on.

“Don’t embarrass Thornton or the squadron.” Keever snapped before marching toward the stage.

“Some pep talk.” Maisie the trombonist muttered, and you bit the inside of your cheek to smother a laugh, filing out.

A remarkable number of people had already gathered, the crowd mainly composed of folks from the 100th, including the ground crew, but you also recognized Wendover’s base personnel mixed in, too. Occupying the centre block of seats on the stage, you focused on Keever’s expectant face. Due to the lack of musicians, she was pulling double-duty, conducting and playing clarinet. Somehow you thought she did not mind playing at the front of the group, in the spotlight. You were more than happy to stand amongst your brass section, a couple of trumpets and trombones, and one lonely French horn to keep you company.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for joining us for the 100th’s first holiday concert! Without further ado, I give you the 280th’s Ladies of Song.” Keever spoke into the mic at her left.

Oh so the band had a name now. And not a very good one. Perhaps the sparse applause accompanied by the snarky howl of ‘Let’s do this Keener!’ would help convince her to change it to something better.

With a deep breath she raised her clarinet, the rest of you following suit with practiced precision before Keever gave a firm nod, launching the band into the opening number of Deck the Halls.

Music had been there for you even longer than flying, a place of escape where your mind could wander, where dreams would unfurl. It was easy to lose yourself in the setlist, building on the increasing momentum of applause from the audience, the 280th’s poorly named but very talented group winning them over with sheer skill. As you turned your music to the score for White Christmas, you were surprised at how quickly it had flown by. Surprised further still by the number of couples on the dancefloor.

“With that, folks, we’ve come to our finale. Thank you very much for your warm reception and we hope you stick around to watch the boys play, too. While we won’t be very likely to see one here in Utah, please enjoy our White Christmas.” Keever preened under the murmurs of delight and exuberant applause, basking a moment before turning back to the band to cue the song, drawing out the end of the song with a dramatic finish.

As you were taking your bows, you glanced to the wings to note the men were already waiting there, bunched along the edges of the stage out of sight of the audience, watching with their hands on their hips or crossed defiantly. And naturally, in the thick of it, was Brady. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you collected your music folder, leaving the one already set out on each stand before the show by the very man himself, and shuffled past him off the stage.

Doing your utmost to ignore how well his Class As fit his frame, how tidy his hair looked without the interference of his cap, and especially how perfectly his cologne suited him, you escaped down the steps backstage. Pausing a moment to empty your spit valve in a trashcan, you returned to the changeroom to pack up your trumpet as the strains of Jingle Bells began to fill the halls. Debating with yourself a moment, you sighed before stepping into the back of the gymnasium to lean against the wall and listen in. They sounded frustratingly good – and not just because of their numbers, but they had actual talent. Setting your case on the ground at your feet, you surrendered to your curiosity and stayed for another song, and then another.

The audience had grown larger now, every seat taken, the dancefloor packed, and standing room quickly evaporating. The ladies may have had the best song of the night, but no one was going to remember your set by the time this was over.

And then Brady stood up to play his solo.

For a man who did not say much, other than snipes and jabs, he seemed utterly confident with that saxophone in his hand. Each note was flawless, was landed upon impeccably. The instrument seemed to yield entirely to him and by the time he sat back down half the women in attendance were surely in love with him while the men were whistling and cheering appreciatively. Swiping your case from where it rested on the wooden floor, you spun on your heel to exit into the crisp night air, silence abruptly enveloping you as the exterior door swung shut in your wake.

Damn that man.

You were still thinking about that solo as the train jostled across the desert toward Salt Lake City the next morning, Lionheart napping on your shoulder as you stared out the window unseeing. How utterly inconvenient that he was that talented.

Buildings began to dot the landscape before growing into clusters and clumps before suddenly you were on the outskirts of the city itself, the Conductor announcing your stop was next. Nudging your friend awake with your shoulder, the pair of you collected your small flight bags and moved towards the end of the carriage, preparing to disembark.

The Rio Grande Depot was impressive with its high-arched windows and countless services, one of the largest stations you had found yourself in to date.

“C’mon, let’s get rid of these bags so I can show you around.” Lionheart grinned, tugging on your wrist, pulling you along the polished floors into the bustling downtown.

Despite the fact that her family lived in the city, she had insisted on booking a room with two twin beds at a hotel near the station, the front desk clerk accepting your luggage even though the room would not be ready until after three. Yanking you back into the street you were then treated to a personal tour of Lionheart’s hometown, eating lunch at her favorite restaurant, lingering in the record shop where you purchased a copy of Heart of Texas – Thornton’s birthday was next month, and you were formulating plans. Spotting a music store, it was your turn to drag her inside, buying a pad of blank sheet music as well as a few performance pieces for the 280th’s band.

By four o’clock you were both tired and footsore, eager to return to the hotel to rest and freshen-up before dinner at six. Sitting on the end of the narrow bed in your slip, you were flipping through one of your new acquisitions from the music store as Lionheart was soaking in the bath with the door open.

“Mother said she would send her driver, so we won’t have to worry about catching the streetcar to the house.” She called out to you.

Blinking several times as you struggled to process the level of wealth your friend seemed accustomed to, you nodded slowly. “How considerate?”

A peal of laughter echoed from the tiled room before splashes told you she was finishing up. She emerged damp and glowing, wrapped in a towel, to have you tame her hair into braids before the pair of you slid into fresh shirts under your uniforms. Straightening your tie, you could only hope your appearance would suffice in the intimidating atmosphere.

Looking up at the Tudor mansion as you climbed from the back of the chauffeured car, you were convinced it would not. Lionheart hesitated at the door, almost reaching for the handle before opting to ring the bell – suddenly a stranger in her own home. How would you behave if…no, when you returned home? It was a difficult scene to imagine now, especially when you were utterly unsure when the chance might even present itself.

A middle-aged woman in a black dress opened the door, smile splitting her tired face as she gasped. “Miss Constance! How good it is to see you!”

“Betsy!” Your friend replied warmly, quickly embracing the woman, whom you were quite certain was not her mother, before dragging you closer to introduce you. “This is our housekeeper, Betsy. Known her my whole life.”

“Please to meet you miss, now come inside the both of you.” She collected your caps to hang on hooks by the door. “Mrs. Hart is just finishing up upstairs, Mr. Hart will be back from the office any minute now. I’ll fetch you some drinks while you wait in the sitting room.”

Doing your best to take in the rich wood panelling and lavish decorations while also keeping up with the pair of women chattering away as they led you through a maze of hallways, your jaw dropped slightly as you arrived in the grand sitting room anchored by an enormous Christmas tree.

“We Harts don’t joke around when it comes to the Holidays.” Lionheart laughed and sank onto one of the velvet couches, coaxing you to do the same with a firm pat of the cushions.

“Did you grow up here?” You asked in a hushed tone as you sat with more care, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs neatly as you sat on the plush couch beside her.

“Mmm father had this house built when I was…ten, I think? Before that we lived in a much more normal house.” She laughed easily.

“Now, Connie, don’t go belittling your father’s accomplishments.” Mrs. Hart’s voice carried into the room before she entered, clad in emerald-green to match her striking eyes, though you could see where Lionheart got her golden mane from.

You stood quickly as she swept into the room, quite certain her earrings alone were worth more than your annual pay.

“Thank you very much for having me, Mrs. Hart.” Your well-trained manners dictated you greet and thank your hostess immediately.

“Nonsense, it’s my pleasure to meet one of Connie’s friends. She’s always writing about you in her letters. Let’s be friends too, you must call me Temperance.” Her red lips stretched into a smile that appeared friendly, but her teeth reminded you a of a predator.

How Lionheart had survived a childhood with this woman was beyond you.

The sound of the front door closing firmly had Mrs. Hart smoothing her hands down the front of her dress nervously before she moved to the sideboard, fetching a cut crystal glass to fill with amber liquid from a decanter at the ready.

“That’ll be father.” Lionheart whispered as you hesitantly sank back down. “In a mood sounds like.”

Betsy’s return with two glasses of lemonade was a welcome sight, the tart liquid giving you some courage before the patriarch of the Hart family strode into the room. He wore a severe but exquisitely cut black suit and crisp white shirt, his dark hair graying at the temples, brown eyes scanning over the pair of you quietly before coming to rest on the pilot’s wings on Lionheart’s chest.

“I’ll admit I found the entire proposition preposterous at the outset…” He sighed, barely acknowledging Mrs. Hart as she set the glass in his hand. He took a deep sip before continuing. “But there you are, Lieutenant Constance Hart, Pilot of your own B-17 crew.”

A barely audible exhale shuddered from your friend’s body as she nodded once in confirmation of the fact.

“Cook made roast beef for you, and apple pie…” He sharply raised a finger as her jaw dropped in shock, the beginnings of the word ‘how’ forming in her throat. “It’s best left unsaid how I’ve accomplished your favourite meal, Constance, let’s just enjoy your achievements.”

“Yes, father.” She replied quietly, gulping down nearly half of her lemonade as he announced he was going to change for dinner.

“Well!” Mrs. Hart gloated as she perched onto the settee perpendicular to the couch. “That went better than expected, wouldn’t you say.” She tittered, before suddenly clasping her hands together. “Oh! Before I forget, I got you girls some Christmas gifts.” Springing from her chair, she hurried over to the tree to fetch two parcels.

Setting the smaller one in your lap, you found yourself looking to her startled. “Mrs. Hart, I apologize I didn’t come prepared, I…”

“Now none of that, it’s just a small token of the season, go on.” She nodded and sat down on her perch once more, eagerly watching you unwrap it.

Lifting the lid on the box you unveiled, you found yourself gasping for the second time that evening to find the distinct blue teardrop bottle of Evening in Paris perfume. While you had owned a few dime store versions of the scent, the genuine article had always remained out of your price bracket.

“Mrs. Hart–”

“Temperance!” She laughed in playful admonishment. “Oh I’m so glad you like it! You and Connie may be out there taking on the world but it’s important to never forget that you are women first.”

“I am unspeakably grateful, thank you so much.” You nodded firmly, cradling it to your chest.

“Now you, Connie, go on!” Mrs. Hart nodded eagerly, watching her daughter unwrap a velvet hinged box that opened to reveal a diamond fringe necklace and matching pair of earrings. “Those will look divine with that blue satin dress of yours, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely, mother.” Lionheart put on a bright smile and nodded firmly, though you did not doubt for a moment that she was also questioning the practicality of such a gift during a war.

Mr. Hart returned in a more casual suit just as Betsy stepped in to announce dinner was served. The food was immaculate, most certainly the best you had tasted in your entire life, and went a long way to making Mrs. Hart’s litany of society gossip more tolerable.

“Oh and you remember Victoria? James and Edna’s girl? Married one of those Mormon boys before he shipped out, though that’s hardly avoidable in this town. I would not be surprised if there’s a baby on the way in that household too!”

Mr. Hart seemed perfectly practiced at tuning out that which did not interest him, occasionally engaging Lionheart or yourself with questions about training or life on base, but as soon as dessert was cleared away, both of her parents drifted off to their respective lives – Mr. Hart to his study, Mrs. Hart to get ready for bridge night.

“Let me show you my room and then we’ll get out of here.” Lionheart muttered, grabbing her newly gifted jewellery.

You followed her up the grand staircase to the second floor, cradling your precious perfume, into to her perfectly preserved bedroom. The bed was neatly made, photos of her with a variety of planes tucked into the edge of the mirror. She walked over to the polished oak dresser to pull open the top drawer, sliding the velvet case in alongside numerous others of a similar nature.

“I was someone else when I left this room. I’m going to be entirely different again when I come back next time.” She sighed as she slid the heavy wooden drawer shut.

“It’ll be waiting here for you, all the same. No matter who you are.” You offered quietly and she sat heavily on the frilly duvet.

“And if I don’t come back to it?”

Frowning, you stepped closer to grab her hand. “Won’t do you any good to think like that, Lionheart. Your room, your family, your whole life will be waiting here for you. You just have to focus on doing your job and coming back to it. Don’t let the doubts in.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet yours before she clasped your hand with both of hers and squeezed tightly. “Don’t let ‘em in.” With a firm nod and one more squeeze, she rose to her feet. “Now let’s get the heck outta here before my mother finds someone to marry us off to.”

The return of her mischievous grin brought relief as it broke the ominous gloom of the previous moment and the pair of you dashed down the stairs and out into the night to enjoy your last twenty-four hours of freedom.

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

Read Part Three

The Last To Know Masterlist

Tag list: @luminouslywriting, @dustofbrokenheart, @precious-little-scoundrel, @beingalive1, @phyllisthefirst, @bcon24, @louzello

[ghostboneswrites2]

Doe Eyes || Ch.1 - Woodbury

Overview: You (y/n) are taken captive by the Governor and recruited as one of his fiercest soldiers. As you slowly uncover the atrocities committed behind the walls of Woodbury and at the hands of the Governor himself, your already questionable loyalty begins to dwindle. When Woodbury falls, your only friend (a sassy, formerly rich farmer's daughter type named Brandy) decides to take the offer from the rival group to join them at their secure home in a prison. Despite your apprehensiveness -- and your preference to be out on your own -- you decide to tag along with your friend and seek refuge with Rick's group. You become a valuable, able-bodied asset to them, and that's when a certain crossbow slinging southerner becomes a part of your life.

Story begins in S3 and ends when Aaron finds the group to take them to Alexandria. It is mostly canon compliant. Lots of canonical dialogue. This story is finished. There is one OC: Brandy

18+ MDNI || Warnings: Story contains TWD typical violence, profanity, deaths of major and minor characters, gore, etc etc.

Chapter list

        "Well, so far, so good, except the dehydration. I'm going to give you these electrolyte powders. Drink them twice a day in a glass of water, and make sure to drink plenty more in between." The doctor lady told you, handing you six slender packets. "Someone will be in to show you around."

        With that, she walked out of the room and you just sat there, stunned. A doctor? In today's world? Where the hell were you? Maybe you were dead and this was some kind of strange DMT trip before your lights went out for good.

        The door opened and in walked a tall man with a fake smile. He was the type to work at a law firm or something. 

        "Good afternoon." He greeted cordially. "Name's Philip. Most people just call me Governor."

        "Governor?" You snorted. "Like 'ello gov-nah'?" You joked, mimicking a sad excuse for a British accent.

        "Funny." He chuckled, but something told you it wasn't actually that amusing. "Come on. I'll show you around, then I'll take you to where you'll be staying."

        "Staying? I don't know about that. I was doing alright on my own." 

        "Alright?" He considered your words for a moment, slowly pacing his way toward you. "Wouldn't you rather be doing well? Great, even? Just let me show you around, give you a place to stay for a day or two, and then if you still want to go, fine. We'll send you off, maybe give you some supplies to get you started."

        "What about my weapons?" You inquired. When they took you, you had a .38 and a crowbar. You'd become pretty efficient in the arts of melee since the world fell to shit.

        "Of course. You can have 'em, and we'll even give you a box of ammunition for that pretty piece of yours. It's nice, by the way. Where'd you get it?"

        "Oh, I got it when I got my first place on my own." You shrugged. "You know, wasn't in the best area and all."

        "Understandable." He nodded, showing off that eerily friendly grin of his. "Good thing you had it."

----

        "So, what do you think?" He asked. He'd just given you a quick tour of the town. Woodbury, he called it.

        "It's real cute. Never seen anything like it." You admitted.

        "No different than any other little town in the south." He chuckled.         

        "The walls, I mean." You clarified. "The armed guards. So many people. How'd you do it?"

        "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day." He shrugged, feigning humility.

        "It also wasn't built in a world infested with flesh-starved freaks." You retorted. His eyes narrowed. He was growing tired of your observations and the way you questioned everything. It threatened him, really. But he'd seen the way you fought out there. They'd been watching you for a few days, Philip and Merle and whatever goons they'd bring along for the day. They watched you fight two grown men off as they tried to raid your supplies and probably yourself. You took down the biters with ease, one swift blow to the side of the head, and another down on top. You were quick and sneaky. You made it look effortless. You had survival down to a science, which was either a threat or an asset. He hadn't decided. 

        He forced a smile that more closely resembled a sneer. 

        "I'm sure you've got loads of questions. You're a smart gal. However, I have some things that need attending, and you still haven't been shown to your place." 

        "What, like my own house?" You furrowed you eyebrows. He looked around.

        "You see any houses around here? C'mon, it's in here." He said as he led you inside the building you two had stopped in front of. It was a small apartment building it seemed, maybe twelve apartments total, if that. Yours was on the second floor. It was small, but it had everything anyone could need. "There's some food in the kitchen, and running water. Come find me if you need anything. Feel free to wander and make friends." 

----

        When you'd been at Woodbury for a few days, the Governor had cornered you, asking you to make a decision, because anyone who stayed had a job to do, and if you were going to leave, it needed to be soon so not to use up any more valuable supplies. You told him you'd stay, but he seemed skeptical all of a sudden, asking what value you had to offer. Of course, you told him about the only skill you had in this new world. You were a fighter. He seemed to like that response. He assigned you to the wall at first, then he started bringing you on runs.

        That was weeks ago. Just recently you guys brought in two women, Michonne and Andrea. They made it clear they weren't sticking around, so the Governor gave them the same offer he gave you; chill out for a few days then be on their way.

        Andrea eventually decided to stay but Michonne wanted no part of it. Thing was, Philip never intended on letting them leave alive. You and Merle were tasked with killing her. She got away from Merle, and you let her. The two of you had decided to just tell him she was dead and be done with it. Not like she had much of a chance up against their paramilitary militia anyways. That was when you truly lost any trust for Woodbury. The benevolent ruler façade was already less than believable, and the hit on Michonne did nothing but prove your suspicions. 

        Really, the only  upside to any of this was that for the first time since everyone you knew was eaten alive -- or doing the eating -- you made a friend. Brandy was a tan, dirty blonde, supermodel of a woman. She grew up on a very profitable farm. A plantation, really. She was your typical southern belle, or as she would call it, a 'Georgia Peach.' She was sassy and classy and everything in between. She was probably the only person in the world that still wore mascara and lip gloss and carried a purse. You were drinking with her at her place that night.

        "So, what did you do, anyways? Before all this?" She asked, pouring another glass of wine. 

        "Honestly?" You giggled. "I was a clerk at a pawnshop."

        "Wow, a real classy place, I bet." She joked. You rolled your eyes. 

        "Oh, yeah. The tweakers trying to pawn their decade old VHS players for a sack was real classy."

        "I didn't have a job." She admitted as she poured you a glass. "Daddy pretty much gave me whatever. Paid for my college classes." She lamented. "I had a real good life."

        "That's good." You smiled. "Mine wasn't so bad, but I definitely lacked in the rich dad department."

        "Yeah, well, I'm sure you got a lot more life experience than I could ever dream of. I used to wish I could just live like a normal girl sometimes. Life with a silver spoon ain't all it's cracked up to be, you know?"

        "Oh, yeah. I'm sure that was real tough." You snorted.

        "Only when I wanted a boyfriend who wasn't studying to be a doctor or a lawyer." She giggled. "Or that one time they caught me smokin' pot with my friends in high school."

        "Pot?" You raised your eyebrows. "My, my. A rebel, I see."

        "Something like that, yeah." She nodded.

        "Got any pot now?" You wondered. She laughed.

        "No but if you find any, let me know." 

        "So, what's up around here?" You asked, breaking away from the casual banter. She gave you a confused look. "I mean, like, how come nobody gets to leave this place?"

        "Why would anyone want to?" She scoffed. When she realized you were serious, her smiled dropped. "What do you mean? We're free to go whenever we want. Nobody ever wants to, though."

        "I don't know about that." You mumbled.

        "What are you on about?" She asked warily.

        "Look, you cant tell anyone." You said, growing more serious as you leaned forward on the table where she sat across from you. "That girl Michonne, she left. Governor sent me and Merle after her."

        "What, to bring her back? I thought you said nobody gets to leave?" Brandy tilted her head.

        "That's what I'm saying. He sent us to kill her." You whispered.

        "You killed her?" She gasped.

        "No no no no!" You shook your head and waved your hands. "She got away and I let her."

        "Well why the hell would he send y'all after her? What did she do?"

        "Nothing, man." You shook your head. "Not a damn thing. She just didn't want to stay. I don't get it."

[kiwisfics]

A/N: Don't read this if you don't like dark fics! Don't come at me if you don't like the content. Triggers are listed and the only non-"constructive" comments I'll take are about any triggers that need to be added. I said I was gonna post this like... three days ago but I kept going over it again so if I don't post it now I'm not gonna. JUST TAKE THIS! Let me know if I missed any uses of my SI's name when I was editing.

Context Needed: I normally keep the fics I write that are lore-heavy to myself, but since people said they wanted the dark fic… Reader is a rifter, which basically means that she’s capable of traveling dimensions, and is conditionally immortal. Reader goes by Black Robin and is implied to have a suit that shows a lot of skin and to have a flirty persona as a vigilante.

TWs under the cut because there's... a lot.

Light TWs: Self-loathing, reader diminishes her own worth, reader has past trauma with being left behind by people she cares about, Dick is giving reader the silent treatment at the beginning but it’s mostly pre-setting, canon-typical violence/blood mentions. “Good girl” gets used condescendingly.

Heavy TWs: Do NOT read this if you have any triggers related to rape/non-con. Nothing actually happens, but it heavily revolves around reader believing that it's going to. Seriously, don't read this if you don't like whumpy stuff, because you're not gonna like it. My love of whumper to caretaker shows through here. Lots of mentions of trafficking, reader is kidnapped by said traffickers, fear of rape/non-con, Dick is very mean. Like, seriously, he’s very OOC for the majority of this fic. Threats/implications of rape/non-con, inappropriate use of one of his escrima sticks (just in the mouth) reader has a spiral at the end where she’d convinced that Nightwing and Red Hood are going to rape her.

If it’s any consolation, this is technically hurt/comfort, so it isn’t all horrible. Just… most of it. Reader also forgives him far too fast in the end, but I can gladly share some more snippets of how this affects the reader character in the future. I’ve already got ideas for some short scenes that I’m gonna write.

-

Nightwing was going to kill her.

He’d been explicitly clear: he didn’t want to see Black Robin out ever again. She’d nearly gotten herself killed, but she knew that wasn’t why he was so angry. He couldn’t have cared less about that, after all, she was a rifter and that meant that she was built to take pain and that death was a moot point. He was angry because she’d risked the mission, nearly let a trafficker that they’d all been hunting for weeks get away because she got too confident for her own good.

She’d snapped back at him when he told her that she wasn’t to wear the suit again, told him that he was just like Batman. That was the wrong thing to say.

He hadn’t talked to her since.

So, maybe she was trying to bait him a little by coming into Blüdhaven in her suit, maybe she was trying to get his attention back because she couldn’t stand being punished with the silent treatment. Maybe this was her fault.

Well, it was definitely her fault, but in her defense, she was thinking with her heart and not her head. She didn’t want to lose him, and in some twisted way, having him level her with lecturing and anger was still better than the radio silence.

She would have been fine. Nightwing would never actually hurt her. That wasn’t what went wrong.

Her suit didn’t have a panic button. It didn’t need one because she was forbidden from going out on her own even before she’d wrecked a mission and been benched. So, when she’d stolen a bike and made her way to Blüdhaven in costume while Bruce was off-world, Tim was with the Titans, Jason was off on a no contact mission, and Alfred was distracted with keeping Damian from abandoning his studies in favor of full-time vigilantism, no one knew where she was going.

She’d even been stupid enough to leave a note saying that she was heading home to visit family, and she wouldn’t be back for a while.

Alfred would have already found the note. Bruce wouldn’t start worrying for at least forty-eight hours with no word.

By then, it might be too late. Too late for her pride and her self-respect at least.

For now, she contented herself with growling and spitting at the traffickers, fighting the urge to be sick over the taste of her own blood soaking the rag in her mouth. She had no chance of picking the locks on the handcuffs, because she’d never gotten the hang of it while Bruce was teaching her, so she didn’t bother fiddling with them, instead preserving her energy.

If no one found her, she’d need her energy if she got the chance to run. They’d have to uncuff her from the chair if they wanted to-

She gulped, pushing down the thought.

Nightwing was going to kill her, but he was also the only chance she had of getting out of this without something worse than torture occurring.

She could see the leering. She could read the expressions. She promised herself that if she got out of this, then she was going to change the layout of her suit. She needed to cover more skin. She needed to flirt less with enemies too, apparently, because the men that had grabbed her had parroted some of her own lines back at her while they gagged her and dragged her back to this warehouse.

It was always warehouses. For once, she wanted to get dragged to a penthouse suite and get threatened and tortured by a classy villain.

Nightwing was going to kill her, but she couldn’t help the way that her chest lurched with relief and happiness upon seeing his form drop to the floor from one of the open skylights.

At once, all of the guns were on him, but, as suspected, he didn’t so much as flinch.

“Here to save your little friend? Awful bold to jump right in the middle of the warehouse full of men with guns, even for you, Nightwing.”

He tilted his head, the clench in his jaw speaking of rage.

She was sure she was saved, because even if he was mad at her and was going to give her a lecture that might have her in tears by the end of it, Nightwing wouldn’t hurt her. Dick wouldn’t hurt her.

“Save her? No. She’s just getting exactly what she asked for.”

Her stomach lurched this time, but it was with fear and a sickly cold feeling that crawled up her throat like it was being swarmed by ants.

Was she wrong? There was no way he would just leave her to her fate. He’d saved genuinely terrible people from situations that weren’t even as bad as the one that she’d found herself in, so there was no way he was going to leave her here, just because they’d had a fight.

Right?

The men’s guns all seemed to lower in the slightest bit, but they didn’t leave his form, “You expect us to believe you’re going to just leave her here? That you just dropped in for a friendly chat?”

“Oh, no. I don’t plan to leave her here. You just saved me the trouble of getting her pinned down is all.” He twirled one of his escrima in his hand, like it was a fidget toy instead of a dangerous weapon. “I appreciate you making my night easier, but I’m going to be taking her off of your hands now.”

So, he was saving her, right? He was contradicting himself, but she didn’t care what he said if he got her out of this.

“Thought you weren’t saving her,” the guns raised back to their full height, the leader scoffed, “you go play hero somewhere else for the night and maybe will give her back when she’s nice and broken in. Might not even charge you the full rate.”

She didn’t like having her suspicions confirmed about what they planned to do with her, but that was fine. She had guessed that, and it didn’t matter anymore, because Nightwing was here and that meant that these idiots were just delaying the inevitable rescue he’d come to pull off.

“Well, I guess you could consider it saving. After all, I might not be quite as into pain as some of your clients are, but you shouldn’t worry, I plan to make good use of her.”

What?

No, no, that wasn’t right. He was not actually implying that he was going to use her exactly how these men planned to. There was no way. He was Nightwing. He was-

They’d been flirting since they’d met, the kind of flirting that made everyone that didn’t know better think they were already an item. Even she knew that he was attracted to her, but… had she really pushed her luck this far? Had she really made him hate her so much that the only way he wanted to make a move on that attraction was like this?

She was having more and more trouble holding back on throwing up the meal she’d had before leaving Gotham.

“Yeah, right. You expect us to believe you want her as a toy?” The leader scoffed.

She wished she was that certain that he was lying about it.

Dick- Nightwing walked forward, still twirling his escrima as he approached her. The men parted for him despite keeping their weapons squarely aimed.

“Who could blame me?”

She could feel his eyes burning into hers even behind his mask. Her own mask was long gone, leaving him an unabated view of her frightened eyes. She was sure there was betrayal there too.

His escrima rested beneath her chin, and she forced her head back, trying to put distance between her skin and the weapon that she knew could easily shock her, “Look how pretty she is when she’s scared.”

She tried to muffle the whine that escaped her throat, but there was no way that he didn’t hear it.

What was going on? This was wrong. Was this- was someone wearing his face?

No, she couldn’t pin it on that, because no one knew about the way he’d yelled at her about never wearing the suit again, and there was no denying that was what he meant when he’d said she was getting what she asked for.

He really did hate her, then. She’d really, really messed up, and now he hated her, and for some reason the sting that knowledge made bite at her heart was worse than the fear at what he planned to do to her.

“And what kind of payment are we getting out of this? We could make hundreds at least by selling a vigilante, especially if we only rent her out. And this one can break over and over again, just to heal back up. She’d a goldmine of opportunities. Why would we just hand her over to you?”

Dick’s—no, no, she couldn’t think of him as anything other than Nightwing, because if she thought of him as Dick, then she was going to breakdown for sure; Dick didn’t hate her, Dick cuddled her during movie nights and carried her to bed when she fell asleep—Nightwing’s jaw ticked with irritation. Apparently, he hadn’t expected them to be so unwilling to give her up just because he wanted her to himself.

Was he waiting for this? Did he know what he was going to do as soon as he’d told her to never put the suit on again? Was he hoping that she would, just so he could use it to justify punishing her like this?

His empty hand trailed up her chest, just barely brushing her shirt, but it was enough to make a jolt go down her spine. He grabbed her jaw, the escrima stick brushing lightly against her cheekbone, “You’re going to let me take her without causing me any more trouble, because otherwise, I’ll be telling the Bat about your outposts in Gotham.”

Angry muttering began among the traffickers, but the leader remained silent, “That’s not much of a payment.” He hummed, like he was considering the offer, but anyone could tell that he already planned to ask for more, “Tell you what, you can take her out of here, no problem. I’m not interested in getting caught by a stray bullet in a firefight, and, honestly, keeping one of the Bat’s things seems like asking for trouble. She didn’t put up much of a fight, so you can walk out with her, after you give us a show.”

She gagged audibly on the rag in her mouth, tears finally escaping her eyes while she put renewed effort into forcing the rag out of her mouth. She wanted to beg and plead and cry. If he was going to do anything to her, at the very least she didn’t want an audience.

For his part, she could see his eyes widen just a fraction behind his mask, but the surprise quickly seemed to settle, and he flashed a smirk to the men that made her feel like she was about to start hyperventilating.

“Fine.”

No, no, no, no, no.

He pulled the gag from her mouth with the hand that had been against her chin, and she instantly opened her mouth to beg, but snapped it shut a millisecond later, her teeth clacking together almost painfully.

His escrima stick was resting against her lips, and his free hand was holding her jaw again, fingers squeezing against her cheeks in an attempt to make her open her mouth, but she wasn’t budging. She wasn’t stupid, and maybe cooperation would make things better in the long run, but she wasn’t letting him put his weapon in her mouth.

“Unless you want this to hurt a lot more later, you should cooperate right now. I’d hate to use this somewhere-“

Her mouth shot open before he could finish, fast enough that her jaw popped.

Okay, so she was letting him put his weapon in her mouth. She’d take the loss.

“Good girl.”

She hated that the praise stroked something in her, making her heart flutter even while he shoved the escrima stick past her lips and far enough into her mouth to hit her throat and make her gag.

Blood. Steel. An iron tang that made her brain go blank for long enough that she missed what he said next.

He didn’t appreciate that.

“Am I boring you?” He growled the words as his free hand tangled in her hair and pulled her head forward, making the escrima stick hit the back of her throat again with what was almost a bruising force. “I asked if you were going to behave, or if I was going to need to make you deepthroat this while it was on, but I guess I have my answer.”

Cold terror battered against her ribcage in place of her heart. All that was left in her chest was a black hole of absolute horror and fear that could hardly classify as a heart.

She didn’t realize that the sobbing in her ears was her own at first, too far into her own head and too tense while waiting for him to flick the switch to make this humiliation painful to know what was going on around her.

She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe!

And suddenly everything around her stopped and went deathly silent before gunfire began and the yelling of the traffickers became frantic and chaotic. The only words she picked up were “it’s the Hood!” and what normally would have made her think she was saved only made her panic more, because if Nightwing—the one that had held her while she cried and always agreed to musicals just because he knew she loved them—was going to use her as a toy, than that meant that Red Hood would too. She was sure he hated her too. She’d thought the way they bantered was fun and games, but she’d also thought that Nightwing cared about her and clearly, she was wrong about that. Nightwing had probably called him here so he could take out the frustration he had with her on her.

And then they’d tell Batman that they’d found evidence that she’d been trafficked and then they’d keep her locked up somewhere and- and- and- and- she couldn’t-

“Breathe.” A familiar hand fanned across her cheek, fingers brushing away tears that were immediately replaced with more, “Breathe for me, bird. It’s alright. It’s okay.”

She couldn’t. She couldn’t catch her breath, but the escrima stick wasn’t between her teeth anymore, so she could beg now. She could plead and promise to behave and maybe if she asked nice enough and they believed her then they’d let her go after they were done with her instead of keeping her.

“Please, please, I’m- I’m sorry, I-I’ll never wear the suit again, I promise. I promise.  I’ll be good. I won’t fight, I’ll-“

“Hey, hey, stop.” He pressed his hand against her mouth, not hard enough to force her to be quiet or to muffle her voice if she did continue to beg, but she silenced herself instantly regardless. “You’re okay, bird. Just breathe. I’d never hurt you. Never. There wasn’t a way to warn you about what was going on without cluing them in. I’m so sorry, bird. I really am.”

He sounded like he was about to cry, and the way he was holding her face in his hands certainly didn’t give her the idea that he was going to hurt her or force her down to her knees so he could-

“I could think of a hundred better ways to have gone about that, ‘wing.” Hood’s voice made her flinch and sink farther down in the chair she was tied to. She didn’t even move her legs or arms when he’d gotten the cuffs undone.

“I needed to distract them so you could get the files and I’m still injured. I wouldn’t even be out tonight if you hadn’t told me that they’d gotten their hands on her. If I’d tried to fight them, then they would have taken me out before finding you, so I don’t want to hear it. Don’t act like I wanted to do or say any of that.”

That was… fair. It wasn’t fair to her, but she had gotten herself into this situation and- she would forgive everything if it meant that he wasn’t going to hurt her. Actually, she’d let him hurt her if it meant that he wasn’t going to use her.

“Dick?” She whined out his name like a kicked puppy, tilting her face against one of his hands in a placating gesture.

“Yeah, bird. I’m here. It’s me. That wasn’t real. None of it was real, and you’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you, especially not me.”

Another sob tore from her throat, and she threw herself forward, into his arms. She was trembling and sobbing harder than he’d ever heard, and she was almost positive it was harder than she ever had in her life. His form wrapped around her, tucking her against his chest as he pressed his face against the top of her head and placed comforting kisses.

Jason sat on the ground behind her, one of his hands running circles against her back in an effort to assist in calming her, and it worked.

After her sobbing began to slow, Dick spoke up hesitantly, “I thought you would know. I never meant- I thought you would know that it wasn’t real. I thought you knew I’d never hurt you.” His breaths shuddered, “I thought you knew that I love you.”

“But you- you were mad at me. You told me- told me I could never wear the suit again and- and then you didn’t talk to me all week and I thought- I thought you hated me. And- and I came here to get your attention because you were ignoring me, so- so I would have deserved-“

“Hey, no. Don’t even finish that sentence.” His hold on her tightened and his voice turned even more tense, edged with anger, “No one deserves to be taken advantage of and you know that.”

She sniffled, tucking her face tight against his neck, and breathing in the scent of his suit and sweat. “You said you love me.”

There was a long pause, and Jason took it as his cue to leave, ruffling [Name]’s hair as he stood and headed out of the warehouse. He landed a boot against the ribcage of the leader of the traffickers as he passed by.

“I’m going to alert Blüdhaven PD. Half of their guys are probably on this group’s payroll though, so I’d get out of here before they show up. They’re probably hoping whoever shut down this location sticks around so they can fill them with lead.”

“We’re headed out now.” Dick stood as he said it, taking [Name] with him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung onto him.

“You said you love me.”

“I did,” he finally confirmed, “but I don’t think now is the time to talk about-“

“I love you too. So much.”

He went quiet again, feet still carrying them away from the nightmare that she’d just gone through, “I don’t expect you to forgive me for that.”

She tightened her hold around him, burrowing against him as a sign that she wasn’t holding any grudges, but also in an attempt to hide from the could Blüdhaven night.

“I knew you were after them. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in it. I just… I wanted you to talk to me again. Even if you were angry. I… I don’t handle the silent treatment well and… it felt like you were leaving me behind, just like everyone else always does. It felt like you had decided I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore.”

“Never. I’ll never leave you behind, okay? I know that me saying that isn’t going to make you stop thinking that I might, but I’ll prove it, alright? I’ll never leave you behind.” He brushed his lips against her neck, and she couldn’t fight the light laugh that escaped as the gentle touch tickled her skin.

“Okay. I, uh, just… one thing though.”

“Anything.”

“Please keep the escrima sticks away from me for a while?”

 She could feel him cringe, but he nodded, “Yeah. That’s fair.”

[gomzdrawfr]

Everything but you

another fic for PriceRaven, BUT this is an art + fic combo fic :3 I'll do a separate post for just the art (or you can check out this clip i posted on twt), so for now, enjoy this mess

this fic is within PriceRaven's cannon timeline, somewhere after MW3 and during fishy arc

tags:

angst and fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, canon-typical violence and behavior, character study (done poorly), grief, major character death (MCD), mention of MW3 content, author trying to be poetic but most likely just messing up the narrative flow, miscommunication, happy ending

author's note:

word count: 6,048 (the back part is not proof read)

the italics are internal thoughts or third perspective thoughts

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━ [this divider represent a time skip]

Raven knew the possibility of Price having to leave for a period of time, and was fully aware of the escalation of things when the news of Makarov started popping up.

“To update you on the breaking news of a Russian passenger jet that crashed…”

“A hundred and thirty-three passengers and nine crew members were on board the flight…”

“Descending very rapidly…..unexplained descent…..” 

“Kastovia flight 761 bound for sochi…” 

“...just hours after a missile attack on Arklove Military Base…..looks to be a terrorist attack” 

They both knew then, that this would be the beginning of a long separation.

A quick goodbye, a hug and a kiss.

A swift departure, leaving Raven to tend to their home with their two lovely cats, their girls, after the shit show that went down between Cobra and Vik. 

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━

Months later, Price would return a changed man, sprawled on the front door and drenched by the rain, clutching onto Raven for dear life as he shakes.

She’d never seen this man in this state; never seen Price that would openly show his distress to this level. 

She could deduce that the operations most likely did not go well, and something terrible must’ve happened.

The guess confirms itself in the form of a watch.

Soap’s watch. Resting on his desk.

And later, a conversation.

“We’ll have to abandon everything”

“The house, the plants, the cars-”

“The girls…”

There was a sense of urgency in his tone,  its timbre deepened and solemn since his return. A frown etched between his brows, accompanied by an increased consumption of cigars and even cigarettes.

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━

“I tied one of many loose ends”

He murmured into her skin in the quiet of night where the world is asleep. Price returned hours ago, dressed in a dark overcoat and a beanie, with a handgun beneath his shirt. 

“Did you now?”

Shepherd huh.

She whispered back, feeling his chin resting on her shoulder, his beard tickling her skin slightly, properly nestled in his arms, but there weren't the usual giggles and laughter that surrounded the two.

No, this was their last night on this bed, on this home.

Their last night in the comforts of their safe haven. 

“Mm” He mumbled back, palms covering her arms as he hugged her closer, spooning her in his arms.

Nervous that somehow, she’ll slip away, taken away from his grasp. 

“....” “Tell me, Pricey” She brushed his knuckles, easing his tension.

“Will you follow me still, Raven….? Even if we have to leave…” he trails off, leaving things unsaid.

She understood fully the gravity of the question. Even if we have to leave away our hopes and dreams, dreams of settling down, growing old peacefully, dreams of comfort and promises of the future.

“Where would I go if not with you, John?”

“...I don’t know, Singapore?”

“...and what does Singapore have to offer again?”

“Really good seafood” 

“So you’re assuming I’ll pick seafood over you?”

“Well, I was hoping you don’t”

A small chuckle escapes her, which made him smile in return, some of the pressure and uneasiness dispersed from this exchange.

“I won’t leave you” She whispered back, holding his hand up to kiss his fingers. Bittersweet murmurs exchanged throughout the night that comforted the two.  “Alright then, Eira”

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━

It was exhilarating and intense for Raven to get back on the field with Price, joined as an ally to provide much-needed support in the mess and development following the escape of Makarov from the Trojan Horse mission.

But they have to admit it was exhausting having to move constantly without a proper place to settle down.

Physically and mentally.

Which explains why they’re here now, on this island that Raven can only assume that it's a personal island owned by Price.

“You telling me you own this place?!”

“Ah well, I wouldn’t say “own”, birdie…”

She still doesn’t fully comprehend what he meant by that.

It was a much needed break, being surrounded by the ocean and forest, exploring the places, catching fishes and crabs.

Price hasn’t seen Raven smiled this much in a long time.

Raven witnessed a side of Price she had longed to see: relaxed, carefree, and at peace. Yet, beneath his newfound calmness, she sensed something off about Price that hinted at a deeper turmoil within him.

There were moments when he'd gaze into the distance, lost in thought, thinking.

Pondering.

This was, unfortunately, one of the many truths Raven had come to understand about Price.

More often or not that contemplative look of his means he is plotting or thinking ahead of things, which inherently, is not a bad thing.

It only became problematic when he kept these plans from her, setting things in motion without her knowledge.

Because that’s what Price does.

Plan, execute, reflect, repeat. 

The other negative trait from this, is that it always means there is something he was harboring within that was threatening to break apart. Troubles he would rather deal with alone.

Things that slowly etched eats him out bit by bit on the inside. 

Now, Price was a man of many many thoughts, meticulously organized into mental compartments, sealed, and cast into the abyss of the unknown.

A man who had no room for lingering emotions: guilt, anger, sadness – anything that could hinder his motives, his plans, his every step. 

A man that is calm, quiet, composed and in control, with a constant battle inside he can never say or show.

Behind his eyes, Raven saw it all.

The ocean behind those eyes of his are no longer violent and roaring, similar to when they had to toss their belongings into a pool of fire after that last night in their home.

Freedom tastes like ash and anger after all.

His eyes are now shrouded in darkness, like the deep blue sea.

Suffering and screams muffled in silence.

Drowning.  

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━

“Up for a ride, birdie?”

“Sure”

It wasn’t uncommon for them to venture into the sea at night, they would drive out in their trusty lil boat (named Cash ‘n’ Fly) far enough until the horizon stretched endlessly, with a seamless line between the sea and the starry sky.

It creates an illusion of infinite space and solitude.

A small escape from everything.

What set this trip apart was the cigar hanging loosely between Price’s lips.

She counted the amount of cigar he used daily, and it was reduced to one or two per day during their break.

So to see him light it up, the fourth one of the day, right now, especially when it's dark and quiet, it could only mean one thing.

“You know…Eira”

And so it begins.

Everything but you.

She had anticipated this conversation, in some form or another.

She didn’t know it would be…this.

Leaving me with the island? I’ll have everything?

And I am supposed to be content with this?

Price was a hardened soldier, a veteran.

A seasoned Captain that has done enough chaos and has enough body piles up below him more than he could handle.

Battles stitched across his skin and back, hands coated in blood and regrets that clung onto his soul.

Far from a savior, close to a sinner.

Hands that were better suited for violence, instead of softness.

It should’ve been just another one of those moments, where he’d tell off some of his men, his soldiers, people who depended on him, boys and girls alike, to leave, to never come back.

To leave him.

So why is it so different when it comes to…the person before him now?

Why does this ache so differently?

What Price has in mind, doesn’t quite align with what John wants.

Needs.

John craves for the simplicity of being loved. Yearns for warmth and understanding, desperate for someone to look into his eyes and see the real him.

John thinks about Eira, thinks about her, her hands, her voice, and he wants more, more and more, a beast that is never satisfied, that can never get enough.

John wants to drown in love. In her.

Price fears that John loves more than he is ever allowed to. 

Price wants what is right.

It’s for the best.

The one sentence that helps justify everything, doesn’t it? 

“....”

Price watches as she stood up abruptly after a long uncomfortable silence, seeing her approaching the bow of the boat-

“Raven?--”

A loud splash was heard, and his body moved before he could process anything.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?! Have you lost your mind?? RAVEN??”

Raven, out of all the possible reactions he has anticipated, does none of what he expected and dives into the black sea.

“I'm going back to land!” She yells back with a strain, huffing as she proceeds to swim to the general direction of where the shore was. 

“That’s way too far!! You’ll freeze your arse before you could even reach it!!” “GOOD, I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO DIE IN THE OCEAN ANYWAYS”

“EIRA!!”

God dammit.

He quickly drove the boat, starting up the engine to propel the boat towards her, careful not to hit her as he quickly pulled her aboard.

“What–what are you trying to achieve by doing something stupid like this?”

“Nothing productive”

“Ei-”

He stops mid-sentence, seeing her freezing and trembling form, sea water coating her entire form as she shakes like a leaf on the wood.

For a split second, he wanted to ask if she cried, when he saw the red corners from her eyes.

Instead, he took off his jacket and outer shirt to wrap it around her.

The ride home was nothing but silence.

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━

A letter and a necklace, that should be all.

Price thought to himself as he placed the necessary items on the table outside their room, with a heavy bag on his left as his thumb lingered on the necklace.

An owl head marble piece hangs at the end of it, an item he found comfort in whenever they were separated.

Not like it would be…of any use now.

He brushed it one last time, before heading out, leaving Raven behind.

At least, that’s what he intended to do, to leave behind the one person he had willingly, and stubbornly let into his life.

And now, he’s walking away like a mad man.

He sees Nik’s heli in the far distance, the sight both a relieving but solemn reminder of what is about to happen.

Usually, he wouldn’t think.

Just walk, it’s right there.

Yet, he stays rooted in the sand, as if waiting for a miracle.

“Is that it?!” A shout made him flinch slightly, turning around only to be completely knocked down into the sandy beach.

“You think you can throw me aside like a doll, a birdie with songs you’ve grown bored of, is it?”

“Wha-”

A loud clean slap, with the sting now buzzing on his left cheek as his eyes widened.

“You– you don’t get to decide what’s right for me”

“Listen here you– prick! Old geezer whatever the fuck you are right now-” 

“You only get to choose me once, you either live with me forever, or we live our lives apart”

“Can you live your life without me?”

“Eira–”

“Don’t you dare say anything other than to answer my questions”

A long uncomfortable silence stretched between them, as Raven stayed straddling his chest as he lay against the sand that felt like it was burying him up.

It wasn’t when he felt the warm drops of tears on his cheek that his eyes truly met her. 

“....do I mean nothing to you? Am i…just another pawn for you in the grand scheme of things? That could be abandoned once you’re done?”

“What happened to staying together through thick and thin? What about the vows you exchanged when you put this ring on my finger?”

More tears streamed down her face, hands shakily but tightly gripping his collar

“Answer me, coward”

That finally broke Price out of the trance as he quickly reached up to cup her face, brushing away the droplets of pain and sorrow that dampened her delicate face.

“I have to go…” “Why…? Just…just why?” “I wrote everything in the letter-” “I don’t care about the damn letter…tell me straight in the face”

“I can’t-” “John, please”

“I CAN’T LOSE ANOTHER ONE–”

Now it was Raven’s time to pause, a frown that formed for a split second before it softened.

“....” She sighs, letting go of his collar as she cradled his cheeks.

“....you know you won’t” “That’s what I said to him too…you know”

“....it wasn’t your fault”

“sunshine…I called him sunshine…Eira….I-”

“You didn’t know”

“I should’ve…”

His eyes glistened as vision blurred, the months of unshed grief escaping, cascading down to the sand.

Price never got to grieve, it swirls inside, a little bit like a black hole, like infinity. 

A small part of him is lost with every soldier and civilian he loses.

And Soap took a big chunk of him, a good part perhaps, one of his– kinder shards. 

Another, is stuck frozen in the moment, in the tunnel. No goodbye, just an absence, sudden, abrupt end, a gunshot louder than any screams that ensues.

Price tends to get rid of grief, one way or another, because it reminds him of his mistake, because it feels like he is holding onto a lost cause.

But here’s the thing about loss, grief is hanging onto love.

It is why it is always felt at all times.

Even on days where he thought he’d healed, while other days it was like old wounds opening up deeper than before.

There was not a day where he wouldn’t miss his favorite Scottish gremlin. 

And if his absence was strong enough that it makes it hard to breathe, he could only imagine what it would be like if Eira’s gone as well.

“I can’t lose you”

There is no more desperate creature, than a human being on the verge of losing love.

She sighs, leaning down as she lays down next to him on the sand ungraciously, staring up the sky with him

“....leaving me alone here on this island doesn’t guarantee my safety either, you know that right?”

“I have my people watching you here…” “And a tsunami could come and drown us all”

“Well if that happens I would know-” “No, no you won’t”

She can tell he was about to argue as she shushes him gently, turning to face him, uncaring for the sharp sandy stones that scratched into her ear.

“You can’t always take the blame for things out of your control”

She murmured, holding his palm

“...and you can’t let your worry cloud your conscious and…do something stupid like this”

“Don’t push me away, when you’ve already made a place in my heart that will never be replaceable by anyone.”

“....you think this was dumber than you jumping into the ocean?”

“Absolutely” He chuckles lightly, raising a brow as he smiles.

“I don’t want to be…your regret, John” She whispered, voice breaking a little

“Even if we were not meant to be together…we’ve proved that idea wrong, time and time again…”

He shifted, sitting up slightly as he pulls her onto his lap, hands brushing away the sand on her hair slightly (failing, sands are stubborn lil shits) as he lets out a quiet sigh

“I dream of a time where…the universe was never wrong to begin with, and you’re mine to keep…forever”

“Well you ought to pick a better dream” She smiles, leaning up as she landed a small kiss on his nose

“This dream is already true, because Im yours forever, and ever”

“You are stuck with me, whether you like it or not”

“I suppose I am, aren't I…” “Absolutely…” He smiles, and hugged her tightly, everything about this felt neither wrong or right.

It felt like home.

“Now, are you going to continue mopping around in the sand or will Nik start throwing a tantrum when we get there? Last time he did he defied physics..."

“Im sure man’s busy with the coconuts and alcohol over there, plus we need to get your stuff–”

“It’s in your bag”

“my–what?”

He unzips the cover, and realize that somehow Eira’s sneaked her belongings inside

“No wonder it got heavier…” “Im telling you, you’re an idiot” He laughs slightly, ruffling her hair as they stood up, pulling her closer by the ends of her shirt as he kissed her forehead.

“Yes…but I’m your idiot…”

[bloodiedrogue]

IS THE MEMORY REALLY MINE? (6)

SUMMARY: After all the begging and pleading, Miguel finally shows you who he is. And more importantly, how you fit into all of this.

PAIRING: Miguel O'Hara & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 12,261

WARNINGS: Angst, dual POV, SMUT (I know, fucking finally), oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal sex, switch Miguel, inappropriate use of webbing, orgasm denial, major character death, canon typical violence, depictions of depression and dissociation.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Holy fuck, okay this chapter got so out of hand but I'm so proud of it so please for the love of god if you decide to reblog any of the chapters let it be this one.

CHAPTER LIST / LAST CHAPTER / MASTERLIST

-

“Who’s that?”

Miguel averts his gaze, moving from the woman in the corner to the edge of his glass. It’s the first one he’s had all night —the only one he’ll have because he thinks beer is gross and didn’t have the heart to tell Gabriel he’s more of a scotch guy. Disgustingly, it stares back at him as he lifts it up, sniffing the contents before shrugging his shoulders and taking a sip. 

“She’s cute.” 

He’s in his face now, grinning from ear to ear and sipping a drink Miguel’s lost count on. He’s had to have had at least six by now. Miguel remembers the third and the fourth —vaguely the fifth as well— so most likely it’s a number above that. Six or even seven, he guesses. 

“Go talk to her.” 

He lets out a sigh, giving his brother the look. The one that says fuck off, I’m not doing that. Not in a million years. Not even if I’m drunk. 

An hour later he’s drunk enough to walk over, scotch in hand, eyes half-lidded. There’s not an ounce of nervous energy inside of him. Everything’s been drowned out by the onslaught of shots his brother ordered him, telling him to drink up because it’s Saturday night and neither of them have work in the morning. 

You’re sitting in the booth by yourself. All of your friends have gone out for what he assumes is a smoke, and you’re on your phone, narrowing your eyes at the screen with a topped-up glass in your hand. 

“Hi.” He clears his throat —awkwardly smiles when you look his way and slide into the booth across.

“Hi?” 

Thankfully, you look a bit drunk yourself. Your eyes are tired like his but a bit more bloodshot; the whites of your eyes peeking through the pinks and reds that dart around like lightning. 

“I, uh, thought you could use some company. Y’know, while your friends are…” 

“Gone?”

“Yeah.” 

You’re skeptical now. You drop your phone on the table face down before leaning back in your booth. Slowly, you move your arms to cross over your chest, prompting him to look down just for a second, noticing the low neckline you’re sporting. It’s nice. Classy, even. 

“I don’t know if we have enough room for anyone else,” you tell him, taking a moment to look across the bar to the window where a group of people are smoking cigarettes and doubling over in laughter. “There’s quite a few of us.” 

“Oh, so they won’t mind if I steal you for a bit.” 

He has no idea where this confidence is coming from. Maybe it’s the never-ending feeling of loneliness finally giving him a good kick in the ass or simply just the alcohol. Either way, he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he just raises his brow and takes a long sip, watching the way your mouth falls open and your tongue tucks its way into the edge of your cheek. 

“Let me buy you a drink?” 

“Uh—“

He sees that you’re thinking about it. Mulling it over in the form of pressed lips and avoided glances. Even on the surface, he can tell that you’re intrigued —that he’s somehow impressed you, but that you’re afraid he’s the kind of guy that’ll take an inch when given a mile. 

“I promise that’s all I’m offering,” he assures, dropping the glass in his hands onto the table before raising his hands innocently.

“I don’t know.”

He smiles, half to try and convince you he’s harmless, half out of discomfort. “C’mon, I promise—“

He’s interrupted by the voices of your friends. All of them are huddled in a group, still giggling to themselves until they’re in front of you, staring at him with raised brows that slowly glance your way. Almost immediately, one of them asks who he is to which you say just a friend, causing them all to look at him who has no idea what to say. He didn’t plan on having to lie.

“Yeah, we uh, we work together.” He nods and looks at you, watching the way your mouth closes in a tight-lipped grin. 

Your friends nod back and redirect their attention to you, telling you that they’re going to head to some club in the underbelly of the city. The new one that’s owned by Fisk. 

“That sounds fun but uh, I have an early morning tomorrow. Got that new job interview and everything.” You stare at him as you say that last part, a smirk pulling across your lips that have your friends in stitches before they’re pouting and accepting defeat. 

After that, they all take turns hugging you before they go, patting your back through disappointed slurs that have Miguel looking towards Gabriel who’s throwing darts with one of his buddies.

“Don’t have too much fun!” 

When your friends are out of sight, Miguel lets out a heavy breath and throws his head back against the booth, looking at you with narrowed eyes. “I guess the coworker excuse was pretty weak.” 

“A bit, yeah.” 

“Next time I’ll try and come up with something more believable. Maybe something like, we met at the gym or something.” 

You scrunch your face.

“What? You don’t go?”

“If it were life or death, you still wouldn’t find me there.” 

He snorts —shakes his head and takes a sip, watching from the corner of his eye as you do the same. Subtly, your lips grin against the glass as you take a pull, making it hard for him to focus on anything else because, truth be told, you’ve got amazing lips. Beautiful eyes and pretty skin. 

He likes the way you look. It’s why he’s been staring at you all night. Why, even when you were drunkenly yelling with your friends, demanding the kind of attention he usually avoids, he found himself giving in. 

Now that he’s sitting across from you, he understands why he chose to come over. It’s because there’s something warm about you. Comforting. He can’t quite place it, but regardless there’s this magnetized feeling in his chest that refuses to go away as he sits across from you; forcing him to continue this conversation until he’s certain there’s an end. 

Because so far you haven’t given him a reason to leave. You haven’t outright denied him that drink or thrown the one in your hand at his face. All you’ve done is sit there and stare. 

Oh, and smiled, he points out, watching you practically choke on your drink with upturned lips. 

“Is this how you pick up all the girls?” you ask, amused. 

“What do you mean?”

Despite his often bitter-looking expression, at this point, he’s grinning like a madman —eating up the attention you give him like a starving man, desperate for joy. 

It’s been so long since he’s done this. Since he’s tried to pick up a pretty girl at the bar just because. With this new gig as Nueva’s Spider-Man piling on top of his already heavy workload at Alchemex, lately, it feels like the only time he has to himself is when he’s sleeping. So, it feels nice to do this. To sit across from a stranger and pretend like things are normal. 

“I don’t know how to explain it.” 

You cock your head to the side, watching the way he shrugs as he takes the final sip of his drink. 

“Maybe you could explain it over another one,” he says, motioning to your glass that’s managed to almost empty in the short time you’ve been sitting together. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?”

His brow twitches with excitement. You’re thinking about it again. More so, because now instead of an I don’t know it’s a maybe, which means progress. 

“Depends on the drink.”

“Take your pick, sweetheart.”

You shake your head and lean forward, pressing your chest against the edge of the table. “How about we play a game?”

He hates games, especially ones like this where the stakes are embarrassingly high. He likes you. Thinks you're charming, even though he doesn’t know you at all, and because of this, the last thing he wants is for some stupid, flirtatious game to ruin everything. 

“What kind of game?”

“Pick a drink,” you say with a shrug. Acting as if this is the most nonchalant thing even though it isn’t. It’s high stakes —too high if you ask him. “If you pick one I like I’ll let you buy it for me.” 

“Seems a bit one sided.”

“Says the guy who slid into my booth without asking.” 

You’re right. He’s annoyed, but you’re right, so instead of arguing he agrees to your terms. “So, am I guessing like, mixed drinks or—“

“I’ll throw you a bone and settle for the type of liquor.” 

“Appreciate it.” 

“I know.”

If he weren’t trying to impress you he’d comment about how smug you’re being. But since he is, he merely presses his hands together in the form of a prayer, thanking you. It makes you laugh, which instantly gives him the motivation to focus, prompting him to slide toward the edge of the booth and narrow his eyes at the bar, scanning all the bottles on the shelf. 

He isn’t sure why but his eyes immediately draw to the vodka. Maybe it’s a bias but every woman he’s ever met has drank it. That or gin, so his mind starts scanning all the clear liquids, reading and rereading the brand names like a script he’s been asked to memorize. 

“Can I phone a friend?” 

“No.”

“Ask the audience maybe?” He smirks, peaking over his shoulder to see you roll your eyes. 

“That’s cheating.”

“How?”

“I’m the only one here.” 

He clicks his tongue and looks back, looking at everything all over again. Vodka, gin, bourbon, whiskey, tequila —all of them morph together in his mind, their labels layering over each other until all he can see are blotches of colour and random letters. 

He has no idea what you like. The only thing he’s seen you drink is beer so there’s no statistics to back his answer. No matter what he’s going in blind and it makes his stomach feel sick, knowing that this is the end. That the potential night he imagined with you will walk away thanks to some stupid fucking guessing game. 

“I—“ 

He shifts his jaw in annoyance as he slides back into the booth, facing your proud face in defeat. You knew this would happen —that he’d be sitting here, sweating while trying to figure this out. It was your plan all along. A revenge plot for showing up unannounced. 

Despite the humiliation of it all, it somehow makes him more interested. Something about a woman being able to fight back always makes him a bit stupid.

“Would you like a scotch?” 

It’s the only alcohol he can think of on the spot. He can see the bottle clearly in his mind, the amber liquid sloshing about as it’s poured into a tulip-shaped glass. Clearer than anything, he can smell the smoke —the citrus-filled bites that sting his nose every time he takes a sip. 

He can taste it on his tongue, and immediately he knows after this is over he’s going to walk over to the bar and order a double to numb the pain. 

“Wow, didn’t think you’d get it.” 

Okay, so apparently he’s ordering two doubles.

“Really? You like scotch?”

You nod. 

At that moment, he thinks he might be in love. You’re pretty, mean, and have good taste —a trifecta of traits that has him practically jumping from his seat to order your drinks. 

At the bar, he constantly glances back to make sure you’re still there. To ensure he didn’t just imagine you in his inebriated state. Every time he looks back you’re awkwardly staring at him, your chin resting against your open hands. 

When the bartender asks him what he wants, he orders two doubles, offering him cash once they’re slid onto the counter in front of him. Then, he tells the man to keep the change, offering him a curt nod that’s so out of character he knows if Gabriel’s watching he’ll probably never hear the end of it.

“Well, uh, here you go.” He places the drink in front of you and slides back into the booth, watching as you take it in your hands and raise it into the air. 

“Cheers, uh…”

“Miguel.” 

When you say your name in response his heart skips a beat. 

-

He’s muttering that same name against your lips a few hours later, pushing you further into your apartment. Hastily, his hands move along the hem of your shirt, the fabric feeling soft against his fingers as he slides them underneath to grip your waist. In response, you nip his lower lip and grin, both of you chuckling through heavy breaths that have him kicking your door closed and pulling you close. 

So close that he’s worried he’s overstepped once he feels you start to pull away, his hands stiffening until he hears you say the word bedroom. 

Normally when women invite him over like this they offer up the location —say the word bedroom like it’s a question he has to answer. Usually, they’ll play with his shirt and bat their eyes. Make it seem like the idea was his all along so that they don’t have to feel like they’re acting too desperate. It’s cute, sometimes. If Miguel’s honest though, the way you say it —the way you tell him where he’s going by gripping the collar of his shirt, instead of asking him if it’s okay— makes him want to fuck you right then and there. To ditch the prospect of the bedroom in favour of the dusty, old hardwood.

Which makes maneuvering through your furniture a gruelling task. Because he’s so distracted by your lips and hands and hips, he manages to slam his shin against the edge of your coffee table before hitting his elbow against the wall. Both times he ignores the pain, groaning into your mouth as you open another door behind you, fumbling for the handle through your mutual fixation. 

As you do, he can practically feel your mind speeding through the inevitable —the panicked moments where you’re reaching for his shirt to pull it off. The one where you then playfully toy with the loops of his jeans while he kisses down the edge of your mouth to your chest. 

When you’re inside the room, everything plays out exactly like this. The fabric of your respective shirts are discarded in haste, both sets of pants lingering as Miguel stares at the curvature of your chest inside your bra. Reaching forward, you tease the zipper of his jeans with slow-moving fingers and in that moment he feels like he’s dying because all he wants to do is touch you. To taste you. He wants every inch of you wrapped around him like a heated blanket made of flesh and bone. He wants to trail his fingers across every curve and divot, lick long languid streaks across your most sensitive spots so that he can hear that pretty mouth of yours call out his name.

Before he can even resist temptation he’s pushing your hands away and gripping the base of your neck. Hungrily, he shoves you into his chest, enveloping you in thick muscle that twitches every time you move against him, especially when his mouth takes hold of yours. His lips feel heavy then, moving with more force as he pushes them down along your chin, stopping to expose your throat and hum in approval. 

“Was this what you expected when I said hi?”

Both of you laugh. He can feel the reverb of it in your throat, dancing across his fingers before it hits his mouth; feeling too impatient to await an answer before latching on. 

“Not really, no.”

  Your voice is all breath, pushing from your lungs to hit his ears in a way that motivates him to skim your throat with his teeth.

“Don’t tell me you’re a biter.” 

Almost instantly, his lips encase around a particularly supple-looking portion of your neck. In the process, he discards the idea of teeth, remembering the fact that he’s venomous now. He can’t bite like he used to, even if the thought’s intriguing. 

“Mm, no. Too old fashioned for that.”

“You, old fashioned? I never would hav— oh, my god.”

His lips move lower, decorating your skin in marks he’ll later admire. “Shh, you talk too much.” 

“You shh.” 

He’s certain you expect him to laugh. But considering how much he needs this he merely pulls away and stands, suddenly towering over you in a way that has you visibly swallowing and backing up, your hands quickly ghosting down the edges of his arms until they’re locking onto his wrists. At that point your calves are pressed against the edge of your bed, threatening to topple over. Miguel knows this because the second you’re there and he steps forward, he notices you fumble and grip his hands. 

“Careful there.”

It sounds so condescending that when the words slip from his mouth they end up sounding more like an insult rather than a moment of care. So much so that it makes you roll your eyes and swat his hands away before falling backwards onto the bed, spreading your arms out wide. 

“Okay, bye, I guess.” 

Jokingly he turns on his heel, hearing you shift before you’re wrapping yourself around his lower back, placing a chaste kiss against his hip. “Get back here.”

This time he does laugh, reaching around to run his fingers through the roots of your hair. “Why should I?”

You respond by turning him around and undoing his pants, this time making quick work of the zipper as you stare up at him. Not a moment goes by where you break eye contact. Even when your hands awkwardly fail to push the fabric past his thighs and he’s forced to help you, do you even think of looking away. It’s admirable, Miguel thinks, watching the dedication of your features. The way they pick him apart piece by piece as he kicks away the remaining fabric before peeling off his socks. 

When he’s finally free he slowly kneels in front of you, following silent orders by taking the rest of your clothes off. First, he starts with your pants, slowly but surely pulling them off your hips and thighs, following the newly exposed skin with open-mouth kisses that have you throwing your head back. Then, after he’s placed a few pecks to your knees, he swiftly darts up to your mouth, distracting you with an eager tongue as he reaches around to unhook your bra.

A mutual sigh rings out between you as he darts down, moving to survey the newly exposed flesh. Hovering for a moment, he cocks his head to look at your form and how it curves into these shapes that have him acting instead of thinking. Moving instead of asking as he continues his descent, placing damp kisses across your skin until his hands are on the band of your underwear and he’s looking up. 

It’s the only time he’s asked for permission all night. Resting his chest against the lower half of your stomach, he raises a brow at you, watching the way you breathe in and out and stare back. Your pupils are blown out of proportion, the colour of your irises hidden by a darkened lust that Miguel prays you’ll act on. 

“Please.” He mutters it through open-mouth kisses that move lower until they’re ghosting your clothed entrance, sending a series of shivers down your spine so intense, Miguel can’t help but grin against you. 

“Go ahead.” 

There’s a mix of excitement and confusion as he slips the fabric off your hips. A tinge of something foreign in his chest once everything’s gone and you’re lying there bare, squirming under his touch. As his arms curl underneath your thighs, dragging your form towards the edge of the bed for better access, he feels it rattle against his ribs. 

You’re already wet when his mouth latches onto your clit. Soaking against his tongue as he runs it along that sweet spot that has you sighing out his name. When he hears it, he somehow pulls himself closer, nudging his nose against the space above your cunt as his fingers fan across your stomach, applying a bit of pressure to keep you still. Beneath them, he can feel the spasms of every breath. Each time his mouth sucks a little harder or his tongue changes pace, he can feel the shift of every movement and he can’t help but lose focus. 

There’s something about you that demands his attention in ways he never thought possible. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself whenever his aggressive side slips through or the way you’re roughly reaching down to grip his hair, pushing him further in regardless of his need to breathe. Either way, it perplexes him —leaves him with inquiries that mould to the sections of your body he can feel against him. 

How come this feels different? 

As he unhooks one arm from your stomach, he can hear a quiet whimper leave your throat. Desperation sinking in from the lack of support as he hooks one leg and begins to trail through your folds. 

Is she lonely?

Quickly, the whimper transitions to a groan, followed by a breathy fuck that has him slipping two fingers inside of you, slowly pumping in and out. 

Am I lonely?

For a second he pulls away to breathe, feeling your slick tingle against his lips. Feeling you shake against his fingers that begin to curl in place of his absent tongue.

What if together we were less lonely?

There’s a weird sense of relief when he looks up and notices you staring back. All overwhelmed and half-lidded, your eyes look at him with a fondness he’s never felt before. A fondness that makes him wish that this moment could last forever as he slowly dips back down, refusing to break eye contact.

“Don’t stop.”

There’s no politeness in your words. Just aggression and desperation as you lift your hips, and in that moment, every question in Miguel’s mind is answered. Every reluctant thought of why you feel so different in his hands that pushes to the surface is lost through the distracted movements of him navigating through your pleasure. 

Picking up the pace, his unused knuckles ghost the outside of your entrance, providing an overwhelming amount of friction when paired with what’s already happening. As they brush against your folds, Miguel can feel you tipping over the edge. Your breathing is hard and trembling against the hand that creeps up to rub your sides. 

Your face is fully hidden behind the rising of your spine as it curls in tandem with the fingers inside your cunt and Miguel can’t help but imagine what you look like. How your eyes are screwed up tight and your mouth's all open, letting out sound after sound as he finally hits that spot that has you shaking uncontrollably and reaching to pull him off.

He doesn’t budge. Refusing to even consider it, even when you’re practically crying into the air, begging for him to stop, because all he can think about is giving you more. More stimulation, more movement, more push to counteract the desperate pull you have against his head that refuses to lift the anchor. 

Miguel feels within himself that you need this. This over-the-top decoration of worship that has him holding you down with a heavy hand as he readjusts his position. On the bed, you’re a sight meant only for him —a goddess, listening to the prayers of praise he mumbles under his breath and he pulls down the fabric covering his cock, lining himself up.

He doesn’t ask this time when he pushes into you. He doesn’t hesitate or wonder why the feeling of you wrapped around him instantly becomes too much. All he does is continue to please you. To cage you in against his chest with greedy hands that grip your hip and face, pulling you in. 

When he kisses you there’s nothing else. Every feeling and sound is muted behind the backdrop of his mind. As his body moves against yours —pushing further into a space that feels so familiar he feels almost breathless— all he can think about is fate. If those moments at the bar that somehow led to these moments in your bedroom were meant to happen.

It feels like you were made for him. Moulded from his rib like Eve from Adam. You’re a connection he’s never felt before. An unfamiliar body surrounding a soul he’s always known. 

It makes his movements all the more frantic as he kisses your mouth —your cheek, your chin, your neck. Anywhere he can latch onto to make this moment last as presses your hip and juts further in, feeling the fluttering of your walls begin to take hold of his orgasm. 

As he burrows his face against your neck, breathing harder than he ever has before he can feel everything building. The presence of your hands coaxing goosebumps across his back; the heavy breaths against his ear as you let out a blissed-out laugh before you gently nibble the shell of his ear.  

All of it becomes too much, and in an instant he’s coming inside you, twitching against your hips with a groan that has you humming as you kiss his cheek.

-

The morning after feels a bit too bittersweet. 

When Miguel wakes up, still wrapped around your frame, his chest pressed firmly against your back as both of you simultaneously stir, there’s an inkling of reality that sets in. A reminder that it’s an entirely new day as the sun outside beams through the window near your legs, coating the blanket overtop with morning light. 

While blinking, he nudges his nose against your head, feeling his chest swell at the arrival of his thoughts. The night has ended and it’s time to go home now and despite knowing that’s true, there's something that prevents him. 

“What time is it?” you ask.

Grumbling, you try to peel from his grasp but fail when he tightens further around you, groaning in response because, as weird as it might be that he’s still here, he doesn’t want whatever this is to end yet. Instead, he wants to be a bit selfish. To lay in a moment that feels unreal he finds himself smiling against the back of your head.

“Don’t care.”

“I do.” 

Reluctantly, he lets you roll over to face him; your eyes fluttering open for a second before they quickly close, realizing how bright it is. “Then check your phone.” 

“I can’t,” you groan and shove your forehead into his chest, letting out a yawn.

“How come?”

“I have a hot guy holding me.” 

Miguel lets out a single ha as he runs his fingers along the base of your spine, feeling you jump beneath his touch. “That’s disgusting.” 

“What is?” 

“Your compliment.” 

You don’t know this, but he’s never taken to compliments. Something about them always feels cheap —tacky even. Considering they’re almost exclusively about appearances, it always feels weird when someone offers him one, saying things like you have nice arms or beautiful cheekbones or the classic you have an incredible ass. 

Over the years, he’s concluded it's all manipulation. Words of affirmation to get you to like whoever’s saying them. If you compliment someone, it’s pretty much proven that after it’s said a deeper connection will develop in the form thanks to a biased opinion. And because of this, he finds them deeply uncomfortable hear; often opting to brush them off or outright change the subject. 

Somehow when you say it though, it’s different. Honest. As if you’re offering him a truth he’s always needed to hear. 

It sounds weird given the lack of time spent together. He’s known you for seven hours tops. Eleven maybe if count the time spent sleeping in the same bed, but something about you feels genuine. To him, you feel like a no-bullshit kind of gal and he likes it. Enjoys it in a way that —even though he knows that these moments spent lingering under the covers are nothing more than delays to the inevitable— he can’t help but long for something more. Something real and tangible and— 

“It’s nine, by the way.”

He regrets telling you the moment you’re swearing under your breath and pushing him away, your naked frame bounding out of the bed. Blinking in confusion, he watches as you rush across the room to open your closet and sift through its contents with a frown. 

It’s sudden, seeing you go from so relaxed to stressed, and guilty it makes him laugh even though it’s obvious that you’re late for something important. 

“You good over there?” 

Your body is tense as you throw on a fresh pair of underwear, practically tripping on the fabric as you attempt to pull it up over your ankles. “My job interview is in thirty minutes,” you tell him, and he nods. 

You mentioned that last night. Something about a journalism gig with the Bugle. If he’s honest, the details on what exactly you were applying for are still fuzzy —a half-remembered phrase lost to the events of last night. He remembers you talking about school, for sure. You took classes at one of the local colleges before getting a gig at some magazine you absolutely hated, so you quit.  

Or maybe you got fired?

As he attempts to recount these details, he watches you quickly pull together an outfit that looks professional enough. At first, you grab a pencil skirt and a nice top, holding it up to inspect before shaking your head and choosing a dark blue blouse tucked into a pair of black slacks. Then you move to stand in front of the mirror and roll up your sleeves, examining everything together before rushing to grab a pair of socks. 

“You okay?”

“Yup, never better.” 

The sarcasm that clings to your words is apparent. In this moment you’re anything but okay. You panicked and confused and even though Miguel knows he shouldn’t care he finds his sympathy level rising. 

“Do you need a ride?”

“What?”

He repeats the question before he can even suppress it, realizing he’s made a mistake. A moment of uncharacteristic weakness that has him biting his tongue, watching the way you stare at him like he’s just lost his mind.

“You want to give me a ride?”

“Sure. If you need one.” 

Miguel wonders if maybe he’s lost his mind because normally he doesn’t do things like this for people. Normally, instead of getting roped into the affairs of others he just coasts through life by his lonesome evading favours of any kind. 

For example, at work, he single-handedly avoids everyone who comes within a certain radius with any sort of question. With women he’s nice, but not too nice, knowing that if he steps over that threshold he’ll be roped into something he wants nothing to do with. Hell, even at home, Gabriel has a hard time convincing him to do anything without him questioning his motives. So, all of these details combined with the fact that he just met you make his offering all the more strange. Maybe even creepy based on the way you’re awkwardly grinning and avoiding his gaze as you pull on your socks. 

“Or I could just, uh —go?”

When you don’t respond right away he sits up in your bed, tearing away the sheets to stand and grab his clothes, trying to forget the fact that he’s naked and nervous and suddenly overthinking everything about your time together. Something that’s so unlike him that he has to really think about what you’re doing to him. How someone like you —someone so normal— has suddenly developed this ability to turn him into a blundering idiot who has no sense of mental direction.  

“No, no, I’ll take the ride,” you tell him then, ripping him from his thoughts in an instant. “I’m just surprised.”

He finds his underwear by the edge of your bed and pulls them on. “Why?” 

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy that offers to chauffeur girls around.” 

He’s not. Not even in the slightest. Sure, he’s nice. Charming, even, but unless there’s something in it for him (like there was last night) he could care less. He should care less.

“Wouldn’t want you losing out on a good opportunity.”

Did he seriously just say that? Jesus.

You smile and nod, but regardless, he can still tell that you take his answer at face value. He would too if the roles were reversed because no one in this day and age does anything without some underlying motive. Every favour comes at a price, so for him to just offer to help without anything in return is questionable. 

And even after you’re both dressed and sliding into the front seats of his car, he can’t help but focus on how out of character he feels. How instead of doing all this extra work on the off chance he impresses you, he should’ve just left. When he was still awake, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he should’ve just gotten up and left without saying goodbye. 

It would’ve been easier that way. Less jarring and awkward than waking up to him gripping your chest like it’s something he does every day. If he’d done that, he wouldn’t be in this position: driving you to an interview he knows you’ll inevitably be late to. 

“I don’t mean to sound like an asshole but could you, uh, maybe speed it up a bit?” 

The traffic is already too thick for him to race through. Up ahead, the light flashes red and he’s about fifteen cars behind. There’s no way you’re making it in time and it’s apparent that you know based on the desperation of your voice.

“You obviously know that I can’t.” 

“I know —I just— fuck, I really need this job.” Your leg is bouncing as you lean an elbow against the edge of the window, using it as a resting place for your chin. “God, I should’ve set an alarm.”

“Probably, yeah.”

He’s never seen a head turn so quickly. Your eyes, which were filled with worry just a second ago, instantly narrow to a point, causing him to swallow hard. 

“Don’t chastise me.” 

“I’m not chastising you!” His hands fly off the steering wheel in defense for a moment before they land back down, realizing that the light’s turned green. “I’m just agreeing with you.”

“Yeah, but you said it like you were better than me.”

“How?” 

He’s confused but weirdly entertained. Like most of the time he’s spent with you, everything feels brand new. As if he’s experiencing a different way to interact with a person. Everything you do has him second-guessing his responses —sitting with the words inside his head before releasing them into the air, and it’s weirdly refreshing.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s your voice.”

“My voice?” He laughs. “What’s wrong with my voice?”

“I don’t know, it's just aggressive sounding —judge-y.” 

“My voice isn’t judge-y. If anything your’s is for assuming that mine is.” 

This time you laugh. “You know what, I actually don’t have time for this.”

“Neither do I!”

“Then why did you offer?” 

When Miguel doesn’t make the light you let out a groan and reach for the door handle, fiddling with it angrily until he rolls his eyes and presses unlock. After he does, you shoot him an angered look and throw open the door.

“Hey, wait a minute, where are you—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. Instead, he’s just met with more confusion as you flip him off and weave through the cars, holding out your hands cautiously until you make it to the sidewalk and start to bolt.

-

He hasn’t stopped thinking about you. Not since you left him on the street about a week ago, never to be heard from again. No matter how hard he tries to distract himself with work or missions or even Gabriel, he can’t seem to get rid of the image of you tearing down the street without looking back.

As he swings onto a nearby building, landing on the edge with ease, he can still clearly see the anger in your eyes at that moment. The knitted brows formed over half-closed eyes honing in on your destination. He’s never seen anyone look so motivated. 

It makes him wonder if you made it. If by some divine intervention, the person interviewing you was also late. As ridiculous as it sounds, he hopes they were. That they turned up, out of breath and panicked long after you settled into a waiting room chair; your bearings already in check. Secretly, he hopes you impressed their socks off —that they offered you the job and now, eight days later on the dot, you’re happily employed. 

It’d make the guilt he feels for not even trying to get your number less intense. If he could just get some confirmation that that argument you had in the car wasn’t an introduction to an equally, if not worse, ending day, maybe then he could just stop thinking about you. 

Deep inside he knows that’s not how it works. Connections like that don’t just evaporate overnight —they linger. Fester and boil underneath flesh that rises in a wave of goosebumps every time he thinks of your voice and how it felt fighting against his own. 

As he surveys the city below, crouching down to sit on the building’s ledge, he wishes he could forget you. Wishes that those moments he felt in bed with you were nothing more than urges. 

Miguel’s been in love before. More times than he cares to admit, but he’s always been able to push past it. To pin it as another weak moment of infatuation that just got out of hand. Normally, with time he can shake himself out of it. A couple more days without seeing you will probably do the trick, he thinks, and if not, he can always find someone else to keep his mind off of you.

“Fuck.” 

He can tell you’ve really gotten under his skin when he finds himself palming the sockets of his eyes, trying to come up with a plan, knowing the longer he spends away from you the better he’ll feel. That maybe if calls up Gabriel after he stops a couple of robberies or something he can find someone else to fill the void. 

Yeah, that could work, he decides. If he can find someone else to fuck for a while maybe then he can erase the memory of you entirely. 

Specifically the memory of you that night. The one where your hands against his head while his mouth’s on your pussy. Thinking about it now, Miguel’s certain that’s the memory that solidified all this. The one that made him realize that maybe he’d be willing to force through the barrier of intimacy he so often fears. 

He’s not sure why that moment specifically sticks out in his mind. Maybe it’s the lead-up —the intimate conversations had between you at the bar before you left or the insatiable way you took your own pleasure rather than the other way around. 

Regardless, as Lyla appears in his peripherals, signalling him of an incident near 4th Ave, he can’t stop thinking about it. How every little sound and movement sends his mind into a mess of thoughts, realizing that he doesn’t want to remember it. Nor does he necessarily want to forget it either. No, he wants to experience it first hand, the moments that you shared. The soul that you willingly bared for him. 

When he arrives at the Daily Bugle, there’s an inkling of fear that rises throughout his chest. He’s not sure why when Lyla mentioned the address he didn’t think clue into where he was going. Most likely he was just too distracted, but now that he’s here, sailing through the window of an already crashed party, he’s panicking —looking through the crowd of people being antagonized by a handful of gunmen. 

It’s a mix of dread and relief when he doesn’t see you right away. The Bugle doesn’t often throw parties but based on the decorations that flash through his vision as one of them bounds across the floor to meet him, that it’s for someone’s retirement. Meaning that, if you didn’t get hired, you might be at home. 

Because for some reason he doesn’t see you attending a retirement party for someone you just met a week ago. You seem too reserved for that. 

“Spider-Man!”

There’s about half a dozen people that cheer for his presence, calling out in excitement before they’re silenced by the barrels of guns. 

Miguel sighs and gets to work then, shoving all the thoughts of you to the back of his mind to throw himself into the line of fire; quickly, shooting webs at hands and faces while maneuvering his body through the air to dodge what blows come his way. 

It all feels so seamless now that he’s had enough practice. Every motion easily flows into the next, pushing him around the room to focus on every gunman. Under his breath he calculates the timing of all his shots, making sure the webs wrap around his targets at the exact moment he needs them to, suppressing all their shots as he works to disengage.

On the ground beneath him, a handful of the men are trying to dislodge the webbing from their guns, grunting and groaning as they dig their fingers into the silk. Grinning under his mask, Miguel takes this opportunity to knock some of them out; kicking and punching until they’re weak enough for him to web as well.

He repeats the process a few more times until every gunman is tied together in the corner of the room, struggling to break free. At that point, everyone in the room begins to cheer again, rushing to each other to check that nobody got hurt. 

As this happens, Miguel awkwardly moves towards the already broken window, glancing around the room until he notices a middle-aged woman looking at him with wide, nervous eyes. 

It’s obvious she needs some kind of help. Hidden between the legs of the crowd, she’s looking at him like she’s just seen a ghost, her bottom lip quivering as she turns to her side, reaching out her hands to grab someone prone. As soon as he sees this Miguel’s over there in an instant, brushing past bodies that willingly move as the woman looks back up.

When their eyes meet he’s met with the realization that someone’s hurt. And unfortunately, that someone is you. 

Almost immediately his entire body goes into shock. His breath picks up and his knees give out, but somehow through the stressful haze, he manages to play it off. As if his dramatic movements are nothing more than feelings of urgency at the sight of an injured civilian.

“What happened?” His voice sounds distorted —lost through the crowding of his pounding heart and racing thoughts as you work to sit up.

“I got shot, genius,” you groan. Then you motion to the pooling of blood that stains the fabric of your sweater.

“Thank you for clarifying.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Every word spoken between you feels like it’s nipping at the edges of his heart. As he watches you struggle to sit up, it aches for you —because of you, knowing that you’re in pain and somehow he was too distracted by outside forces to prevent it. 

“Stop moving.” 

He sighs in annoyance and forces you back down to press his hand against your wound, causing you to cry out and attempt to push against him. “We have to stop the bleeding, okay? Stop.” 

You’re defensive for a moment, looking at him with those rage-filled eyes that make him swallow hard and divert his attention, commanding the room to give him something to wrap you with. Immediately, a man nearby rips off his jacket, handing it to Miguel who tells you to apply pressure to the wound while he fashions you a bandage. 

“I thought you’d be nicer,” you mutter breathlessly, watching closely as he wraps the fabric around your shoulder, tying it as tight as he can before taking you into his arms. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

He’s out of the building and in the air in less than a minute, holding onto you for dear life. Against him, he can feel you flinching at every movement, breathing so heavy he can feel the heat of your breath against his ear. 

“We have to get you to a hospital.” 

Your fingers tighten around the blade of his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as you shake your head. 

“You could die—“

“I don’t have insurance.”

It’s the most insane thing he’s ever heard. So insane that he actually scoffs in your face, earning himself quite arguably the angriest look you’ve ever given him. 

“Quit judging me. Not all of us are rich.” 

“I know, I just—“

“Just drop me off at home, okay? I’ll call my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” 

He can’t believe you’re willing to risk your life to avoid a hospital bill. Miguel’s well aware that the cost of medical care is high —always has been, but surely you could make an acception this once considering there’s a bullet wedged inside your flesh. 

“He was an army medic. He’ll know what to do.”

As much as he wants to continue this argument he can feel the changing of your breath. How it goes from continuous and heavy to an even set of gasps that have him rushing towards your apartment. Weaving through the city skyline, he makes quick work of the journey, whizzing past windows that flash across his vision. Against his chest, he can feel you squirming impatiently, your voice hoarse as you tell him to stop taking the corners so roughly right before he takes another one, spotting your building.

When he arrives at your fire escape there’s a sense of relief that floods over him, making you groan. “The window’s locked just, uh, bust it open.” 

He holds you tight, lifting his leg to kick out the window. “You’ll pay to get a window replaced but refuse to go to the hospital?”

“I was planning on billing you.” 

It’s almost comical how consistent your speech is. How, even though he’s literally saving your life right now you manage to be an impenetrable force of sarcastic wit. It makes him laugh as he breaks away the edges of the glass and crawls in, making sure the hold that he has on you is tight. Then when you’re fully inside, he rushes you to the bed, asking you about your phone so that he can personally call your uncle to explain the urgency. 

This time without argument you hand it over, motioning to the pocket of your jeans, making him realize it’s too hard for you to get it. 

“Don’t even think about getting handsy with me right now.” 

He nearly chokes as he reaches into the back pocket of your pants, his fingers brushing lightly against your ass before they quickly retreat. 

“Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”

“You mean I wasn’t your type last night?” 

He can almost feel the curling of your smirk. The way it pulls across your face in such a devious way he has to really focus on going through your contacts instead of overthinking what you just said. 

Because you said it, right? Without context, you mentioned last night. Without clues, you made a simple call back to him and you and all the things that happened over the course of a few hours. 

Feeling overwhelmed, he turns his back to you and calls your uncle, ignoring absolutely everything but the task at hand, knowing what’s at stake. If he doesn’t focus you could die. And if you die he’ll never be able to ask you how the fuck you know he’s Spider-Man. 

So instead of giving in to his racing thoughts he just explains the situation. Cool and calm as possible, he tells your uncle everything before hanging up the phone, promising to take you to the hospital if things start to go south. Upon hearing this, you clear your throat, prompting him to turn back around.

“What?”

“If you take me to the hospital I’ll kill you.”

Your threat is anything but convincing, but Miguel doesn’t argue, knowing the stress of it all is the last thing you need. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know.” 

“I know you know. I’m just… reiterating.” 

Your voice is beginning to strain so instead of responding he merely just sits on the edge of your bed, watching the way you clench your teeth around a sudden burst of pain he wishes he could get rid of. 

If only he’d gotten healing powers instead of retractable claws and venomous teeth. It’d make the situation you find yourself in a whole lot easier. If he could just take your pain away he’d do it in a second. He wouldn’t even think about it.  

“Stop looking at me like I’m dying, Miguel.”

The way you say his name is evil. The way it makes him feel is full of sin and as much as he hates you for it, he finds himself releasing a heavy breath and letting his mask disintegrate into dying pixels that show the annoyance on his face. 

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

Despite the pain you’re in you manage to grin again. “I know, but you like it, so shut up and kiss me. I need a distraction.”

It’s the most surprised he thinks he’s ever been. Hearing the bluntness of your words mixed through the struggle of your voice. It’s off-putting in a way that has him leaning without question, pressing a shaky hand to your cheek; knowing that if this is what you need to feel like yourself again he’ll give it to you.

No questions asked, he’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything you want, even if it feels unattainable because in this moment you could ask for the sun and he’d throw himself into space to get it. 

And that scares him.

-

It’s terrifying seeing this side of him. The side that's disgustingly sweet and stubborn. The one that forces you to rest —to let him cook and clean and replace the bandages of your healing shoulder. It’s nice, you tell yourself, even though the more you experience it, the more you fear it. The ever-growing pit in your stomach blooming against your insides; curling around your organs in tendrils of vine that will someday wither away and die. 

You don't know how long it will last. You expect the moment you’re better, he’ll leave. That once you're back to the swing of things he'll tell you some bullshit excuse like it’s been fun, but I have other things going on before he walks out into the hall never to be seen again.

In the grand scheme of things, you've known Miguel for a few seconds. A minuscule amount of time compared to the rest of your days spent on this earth. At this point, you’re nothing more than a pair of people waving to each other on the street before parting ways. Two individual bodies meeting in the middle only to separate.

As you lay in bed, stretching out your shoulder two weeks after the incident, you can feel him staring. His eyes burning holes into the side of your head as peeks one eye open. 

“You okay?”

You tell him you’re fine. That you’re just stretching and that he shouldn’t worry but immediately he defies you. Stares at you with worry in his eyes as he sits up, watching you strain to sit at the edge of the bed and gently roll your shoulder. 

“Do you need—“

“I said I’m fine.” 

You don’t mean for it to sound so harsh but ever since that night at the Bugle he’s been glued to your side. Lingering like a fly on the wall, watching your every move. 

It’s nice, but you know it won’t last. So, instead of dwelling on it, you force yourself to stand and move towards the bathroom, groaning under your breath at the pulsing pain as you open your medicine cabinet and pop two painkillers into your mouth.

“Here.” 

Miguel’s behind you before you can even tell him to stay put, offering you a glass of water that you begrudgingly take, feeling your chest ache, wondering if you’ll be able to cope if he vanishes. 

It sounds crazy but despite the annoyance you feel every time he forces you to rest or do your required stretching, you enjoy his presence. The way he takes charge regardless of the fight you put up. The way he’s always there when you need him. 

“You know you can chill out.” You take another sip of water, peering at him over the edge of the glass with a raised brow, watching the way he rolls his eyes and leans against the doorframe. 

“I know.” 

“I’m better now. I can do things. You don't have to hover.” 

“I’m not.”

You snort. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m not,” he repeats, and suddenly it feels like you’re crumbling. Falling beneath the rubble of your heavy thoughts, watching the way his eyebrows knit together, looking at you like you’ve just insulted him. 

Maybe if you did that it’d make the end come faster. Maybe if you were meaner he’d get tired of you and call it. Leave without saying goodbye in the middle of the night, or something. 

If he did, you’re certain you’d get over it. Just like the wound that spreads across the edge of your shoulder, it’d heal and, over time, you’d be fine.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

Your declaration confuses him. Makes him open his mouth and cock his head as he watches you hand over the glass and turn on your heel. He can tell you’re being weird but, because he doesn’t know you well enough, he probably isn’t sure how to handle it. How to navigate the upheaval of your emotions as you struggle to strip down in front of him and turn on the water. 

Uncharacteristically he leaves you alone without arguing, closing the door behind him so quietly that as you step under the warm water, you can tell it’s already happening. The calm before the storm is developing and you're stuck inside the centre of it, watching the rain and wind waft together in the form of miscommunication and passive aggression. 

God, this sucks. 

As you peel off the bandage, wincing and shaking at the way it sticks to the edges of your skin, you can feel the pinprick of tears. You’ve never been a crier. Reserving your tears for moments where they’re actually deserved, the feeling is foreign. Overwhelming in a way that has you pursing your lips and heavily breathing, trying to force it away. 

To distract yourself you toss your bandage into the trash beside the toilet then close the shower curtain, shielding yourself from Miguel and the rest of the world as you slowly lower yourself into the bowl of the bathtub. 

Everything hurts at that moment. Your shoulder, your head —your heart. All of it pounds with a ferocious bang, echoing throughout the rest of your body as you curl into the fetal position, hugging your legs with your good arm, wishing you could go back to that night. The one where things were easy and simple. The one where Miguel was nothing more than a guy trying to pick up a girl for some fun. Everything seemed so perfect then. So picturesque and dreamy; both of you filled with the kind of anticipation you wish you could use to replace the kind you feel now. 

Back then, it felt like you had something to look forward to. An unknown where the expectations were built but not yet solidified. Now though, it feels like there’s standards. Assumptions that the both of you secretly have now that your time together has grown. You’re not sure what his are but yours are needy. Desperate and embarrassing to the point where you’re certain once he realizes he’ll grow tired. 

And then he’ll leave. 

And then this toxic, fast-growing support system you’ve come to care about will be gone forever and you’ll be left to pick up the pieces like you always do. 

You know you sound crazy, thinking like this. Thinking that this guy is worth the effort of your tears. You barely know him. Sure, over the last few weeks, he’s told you about his life —about his brother and his mom and in detail, the incident at Alchemex that earned him his powers, but he’s still a stranger. A body of water that’s washing over your shores, attempting to pull back the sand. To roughly erode the walls of an already decaying structure too tired to continue. 

You want to reciprocate. To tell him all about your life and why you are the way you are, assuming that if you did, he’d understand why you’re so defensive. Why, instead of accepting him and all his help, you’re quick to push him away. 

Moving your palm to gently rub the dry skin of your wound, you give in to the tears, feeling a sob rip through your chest —feeling the shame of your own emotions take over. 

You hate crying more than most things. It’s a useless emotion meant only for the weak. Since you were a kid crying was always the last resort in the list of reactions when something bad happened, and to this day, that still rings true. It’s why your first response is to get angry —to lash out with hostile remarks or combative body language.

It's why you’re so broken, you think. Why, you can only count on your fingers the handful of times you've shattered under the pressure.

You’re gasping through the stream, then. Moving your hand from your shoulder to your face to suppress the cries because the last thing you want is for Miguel to hear you. For him to witness you in your lowest state. 

At this point, Ben’s the only one that’s seen you cry and that was on the day that Peter died. The day that everything became messy and confusing and your emotions turned into this burden you constantly have to carry. 

You don’t want Miguel to have to see this side of you. The side that’s so irreversibly weak and careless and unable to cope with time and how, at the end of it all, it’s just you. Just the thought is too much for you to bear. Especially now that you’ve had a taste of what it feels like for someone to care again. For someone to look at you like you’re a person deserving of the bare minimum, despite the effort you put in to avoid it. Despite the way you constantly berate him for coming so quickly into your life without the prospect of knowing if he'll leave again. 

Another sob escapes, shaking you to your core. Erupting from the confines of your shattered bone and blistering flesh, it takes the wind right out of you. Leaves you gasping for air under the heat that wraps a hand around your throat. 

The tears in combination with the steam have made your eyes virtually unusable. Everything around you is so blurry that when you turn your head at the sound of the creaking door, you don’t see Miguel come in. You just see the outline of his body and the colours of his clothes disappear before he’s rushing into the storm and holding on for dear life. 

He’s the gentlest he’s ever been, wrapping himself around your back. One of his arms wraps around your stomach for support while the other reaches to shut off the water, making sure not to bump your shoulder in the process, then it skims across your scalp. 

His fingertips ghost your tired head. His mouth presses kisses in their wake, whispering affirmations in between. His other hand thumbs the edge of your torso. 

Every movement is intimate. A combination of sensations you’ve never experienced. Somehow instead of freaking you out they calm you down. Pulling you back to a place of reality where your thoughts become memories and Miguel is present and willing to stay. 

Under your breath, you apologize. Under his, he says it's okay. 

“I like you, I think.”

His body shifts. A sigh of relief is released and it’s the first time in your life you’ve felt okay about being vulnerable. “Yeah?”

“But I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.”

“I don't know how to be there for other people.”

“That’s okay.” He kisses your face. 

You close your eyes at the impact of his lips, feeling your stomach flip. “You say that but what if I fuck it up?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t open his mouth to tell you that everything’s going to be fine. Nor does he agree. All he does is sit, tighten his grip and let out a sigh, letting you figure it out on your own.

-

You figure out his coffee order by week four. 

Now that you’re healed and able to do more things on your own he’s started working in the lab again, opting to give you more space after a conversation about smothering just days prior. 

You like having him around —love it, if you're honest, but sometimes you miss the solitude of your own space. The moments at night when the air is cool and you’ve just finished making dinner. 

Before there was you and him, you used to eat out on the fire escape. Grab a beer from your fridge and carefully crawl through the window to watch all the people down below. You’d play music from your phone and just exist, lingering in a space where your mind could go completely blank for a while. 

When you told him this he understood completely. Kissed your face and told you to let him know when you wanted him back. 

Now that the weekend has passed you miss his presence. His tall, looming yet loving figure napping soundly on your couch or following you around the kitchen, arguing about which spices should go in whatever dish you’re making. 

As you finish up some work for the Bugle, you shoot him a text, telling him you have a surprise for him. He responds with a question mark that makes you roll your eyes and stand from the table you’ve been using at the coffee shop nearest to his office. Then, you walk up to the till and order something you hope he’ll like, waiting patiently at the hand-off plane. 

While waiting, you text back and forth for a bit, arguing about the surprise reveal even after the cup is in your hand and you’re walking through the Alchemex entrance, telling the receptionist up front you here to see Miguel O’Hara. 

When you’re offered clearance and then given directions you practically race to his office, trying to suppress the ever-present grin that pulls across your face once you’re at his door and tapping your knuckles against it. 

It takes a few moments for him to open the door. On the other side, you hear shuffling, followed by silence and then eventually slow-moving footsteps that have your heart pounding in your chest. 

When he opens the door he narrows his eyes, confused at how you’ve suddenly appeared in front of him. “How’d you—“

You lean in to kiss him, lingering there for a moment before shoving the coffee into his hand. “Surprised?"

“Very.” 

“Good.” You grin triumphantly as he sidesteps to let you inside.

“How did you get here so fast? Your apartment’s across town.” 

“I did some work at that cafe across the street,” you tell him, watching him pause to look down at the cup in his hand before taking a sip. “Thought since we haven’t seen each other all weekend I'd pop by. Bring you some energy.”

He hums around the lip of the cup.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked so I kind of just guessed.”

He smiles then, moving to wrap his arm around and pull you in, placing a kiss to your head. It’s the kind of kiss that’s full of warmth. As if he’s grateful for the gesture. As if this kiss is his way of telling you you did a good job. 

-

By week twenty, you discover he likes being put in his place. 

After an argument about not calling you after one of his missions, you tell him to fuck off when he shows up at your window the next day, holding a bottle of apology wine. It’s the middle of the night and you tell him you have work tomorrow, but all he does is move behind you, reaching around to close the lid of your laptop with a satisfying smack.

“Miguel, I'm serious. Go home. I have shit to do.” 

Ignoring you, he pulls your desk chair out, using the wheels to spin you around before letting his mask disappear, revealing the tiniest inkling of a smirk. “But I brought you wine,” he says, acting like it means something. As if bringing you wine is the all-encompassing apology for bad behaviour. 

“Okay, and?”

“And I thought maybe we could pop it open. Hang out a bit.” 

You know that hanging out is code for sex. That his adrenaline is pumping from a good night out and now he wants to fuck you so that he can get his energy out and sleep. It’s what he always does.

Normally you’d be fine with it, but tonight you’re honestly exhausted. Barely hanging on as you fight the onslaught of fatigue trying to take over your mind the longer you sit at your desk, attempting to write. 

“Miguel, I can’t do this right now. I have an article to finish and another one to edit—“

 He leans down to kiss you but before he can you shove him off, rising from the chair in heated anger, listening to the way he laughs.

“Seriously Miguel, stop.”

In an instant it's like he’s switched his tactics, moving from one extreme to the other. Gently, he grabs your face in his hands, looking down with false innocence that has you rolling your eyes. “Please?”

“I’m busy.”

“Please.” 

“Miguel—“

He drops to his knees, bracing your hips in his hands as he lowers his face to your cunt, resting his cheek against it. “I’ll be good, I promise.” 

You don’t know what's gotten into him. Maybe during his mission, he bumped his head a little too hard or some goon injected him with some sort of aphrodisiac. Whatever it is, there’s something different about him. Something so desperately adorable that when he kisses the fabric of your shorts, lingering for a moment as he plays with your waistband, you partially give in.

Huffing, you glance around the room feeling your face begin to warm. “Okay but, we’re doing it my way.” 

“Course.” 

He quickly realizes your way involves him being strapped to the bed, unable to touch while you take your pleasure. 

After agreeing you made him web himself to the headboard of your bed, both of his hands tightly wound in layers of silk that you touch with curiosity, sitting naked across his chest. 

You can tell he hates whatever it is that you're planning. Whatever sick revenge plot is brewing inside your head as you run your hands along his wrists and lean forward to ghost your lips across his. 

“This is nice.” 

“Is it?”

You hum, watching his eyes narrow once your hands hit the ditches of his elbows and swirl around, decorating his skin in spiralled goosebumps. 

“I’d argue it’s rude but—“

“My rules?”  

“Your rules.”

You give him a kiss for good behaviour. A quick peck that has him chasing after you as you continue to move lower, making sure to never break eye contact.

“You know, I never get as needy as this when you work late.” 

His lips firmly press together when your fingers begin to move up his arm, sliding up the edges until they stop atop his shoulders and you squeeze. 

“I never interrupt your work asking you to fuck me.” 

He swallows hard when you raise your hips into the air, moving both hands towards his chest as you line yourself up over him. 

“I’m nice to you. I respect you.” 

“I respect—“

You slide his cock inside of you agonizingly slow, mockingly matching the way his mouth falls open and he throws his head back. As you do this, you can feel his chest rise and fall, quickly twitching as you take him in, suppressing a moan of your own. 

It never fails to feel this good. The way he fills you up always has this calming quality that empties your mind. When he’s with you, the entirety of the world is erased, the feeling of comfort immediately replacing it once you feel those first few inches slip inside and eventually settle against your base. 

Gently, you lift yourself off, moving at a pace you knows he hates with a drunken grin. 

“Nice and slow, right baby?” 

His hands pull against his webs, threatening to break free before you reach up a hand, lacing your fingers in his. 

“Be good.” 

You can feel him fighting off the urge to defy. The way he tightens his grip around your hand. The way his hips push up every time you rise away. All of it proves just how much he truly hates this and how he wishes that you’d hurry up and let him go so that he could fuck you properly. 

A small chuckle escapes your lips as you lower yourself down again, moving your hand from his grasp to follow the trail of his arm again. This time though, instead of resting it against his chest you let it skim across his skin, lowering past his torso until it’s sweeping through your folds for him to see. 

“If you’d just listened…” You shake your head and click your tongue, chastising him in such a humiliating way he’s forced to close your eyes and just breathe. 

You don’t give him the satisfaction though, pausing the movements of your hand to snap your fingers and scold him, telling him that if he wants to come he has to watch. 

-

When week forty-two hits, he tells you he loves you. 

After a mission goes wrong and he loses the police captain to a fatal gunshot wound at the hands of one of Kingpin’s goons, he crawls into bed and holds you so tight you end up coughing at the impact.

“Sorry,” he says. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Are you okay?”

When he doesn’t respond right away you know he’s not, so you grip him just as tight, pushing his face toward your chest so that you can kiss the top of his head. 

“I love you,” he says then. 

He doesn’t ask for you to say it back —just snuggles closer, letting the increased rate of your heart lull him to sleep. 

-

On week forty-four, you say it back, telling him you wanted to say it that night but didn’t know how to. You’ve never loved anyone before —not like this.

He tells you he understands and that he’s glad you feel the same before kissing you.

When he pulls away both of you smile and continue cooking dinner. 

-

In between week sixty and week sixty-one, there’s a moment where Miguel looks at you strangely. It’s subtle —a simple widening of the eyes paired with his usual grin— but there’s something different. Something mischievous that has you raising your brows and reaching to grab his hand as you walk along the sidewalk.

“What's that look for?” you ask.  

“What look?” 

You know he knows. The way he awkwardly laughs almost immediately after, turning to hide the blush that develops across his cheeks, tells you everything you need to know and more.

He’s up to something. 

“I know you think you’re good at lying but you’re not.” 

“Says who.” 

Before you can answer, there’s an explosion in the building beside you. Enveloping your skin in a hot burst of flame, your body soars through the air after impact, landing you near the centre of the street where oncoming cars screech to a halt as Miguel pushes through the pain to make sure you’re still alive. To make sure that he’s there when you open your eyes and smile at him and tell him everything’s okay, even though it’s not because, instead of in the street, he’s standing on a platform years later, knowing how this ends. Watching how it ends for the hundredth time alongside a version of you that sits there in shock, realizing why he’s been so reluctant to let you in.

-

TAGGING: @fandxmslxt69 @buckysblondie @leucoratia @avatricu @rexxesgirl @hoe4fiction @erissco @dil3mma @ashjbu @mfrnchsk @sanjisluvbot @deputy-videogamer @arloballs @fictional-character-whore @busy-buzzing @twincesskorisoka @iyyom @beantokki @harleycao (if you'd like to be added fill out this form, also if you've filled out this form and don't see your name check your settings because it won't let me tag you!)

[wangxianficfinder]

In the mood for...

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1. I'm in the mood for a fic where WWX leaving after the main events of the show goes badly. I've read Rotten Work (shanastoryteller) which was a fantastic example of this, but I crave more! There is no way WWX leaving with a donkey, an empty purse, a bolstered abandonment complex, and a barely-recovered reputation went well. Thank you for all that you do!! @kirk-spock-in-the-impala​

the roots by thelastdboy (E, 17k, wangxian, major character death, graphic depictions of violence, post-canon, post-untamed, MDZS/CQL combination, transmigrator LWJ, dimension travel, time travel, parallel universes, desperation, WWX pov, LWJ pov, heavy angst, mental health issues, giref/mourning, abandonment, depression, suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort, getting together, rogue cultivator WWX, WQ lives, found family, cottagegore, it gets worse before it gets better, WIP)

💙 feel better love by Anonymous (T, 8k, WIP, WangXian, implied WangXianXian, Post-Canon, Crack Treated Somewhat Seriously, in a haha jk…unless? way, Light Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crack, Crossover)

I Will Find You Again by Hidenka_chan101 (M, 19k, wangxian, LSZ & LWJ, LSZ & WWX, LSZ & LJY, canon divergence, mentions of death, angst, crying, LWJ is a petty bitch, typical LQR, unsuppportive LXC, gusu lan junior dynamics, wangxian get happy ending, fever, tender loving care, some smut, WN flexing his healer knowledge, hurt/comfort) slightly AU but still has WWX going off on his own

like mayflies wandering Series by RoseThorne (M, 12k, NHS & WWX, wangxian, post-canon, assassination attempts, introspection, regret, travel, WWX pov, ghosts, reconciliation, exhaustion, pining, feelings realisation, illness, found family, hurt/comfort, emotional manipulation, manipulative NHS, friendship, qi deviation, resentful energy, WIP)

Twelve Moons and a Fortnight by stiltonbasket (M, 290k, WangXian, Humor, Slow Burn, Post-Canon Fix-It, Long-Distance Relationship, Epistolary, Love Letters, Family Feels, a-qing lives, teenage romance, Adoption, Romantic Comedy, Happy Ending, Weddings, Case Fic, Parenthood, Politics) The series (and all their stuff) is great. It has a similar opening premise - in that jc kinda realizes wwx will never come back on his own and sorta tricks him back to lotus pier. Tho I don't think his traveling being unsafe was a primary motive, it'd work, and nhs is great, similar vibes to mayflies in a respect.

Story-Shaped by lingering_song (T, 13k, WangXian, NHS & WWX, Post-Canon, Chief Cultivator LWJ, Inventor WWX, Found Family, Mentioned Character Death, Alcohol, Protective NHS, WangXian Endgame, Not JC Friendly, Not particularly gentry sects friendly overall tbh)

Judge Softly  by Chrononautical (E, 32k, wangxian, LSZ & WWX, LQR & WWX,   accidental voyeurism, non-consensual mind reading, oblivious WWX, bamf   WWX, genius WWX, post-canon Fix-it, angst w happy ending, LQR tries)

~*~

2. Hi!!!! Itm for fanfics where Jyl kills Wwx after the ambush of Quingqi pass.

regret by wqngji (Not rated, 8k, wangxian, JYL & WWX, canon divergence, canonical character death, temporary character death, fluff & angst, hurt WWX, hurt/comfort, past character death, JYL lives, domestic wangxian, golden core reveal, good sibling JC)

~*~

3. Hi! Bit of a long shot but I just finished the bridgerton spin off on Netflix was wondering if there were any regal or royal wangxian fics❤️ @red-spacekitten

Half Agony, Half Hope by queenklu (T, 105k, WangXian, XiYao ChengQing, XuanLi, NieLan, Jane Austen Fusion, persuasion au, Pining, Broken Engagement, Secrets, Espionage, Child Injury, Terrible Parents (Madam Yu and JFM), Past Child Neglect)

My Sun One Early Morning Did Shine by tangerinechar (T, 4k, WangXian, Regency, Secret Relationship, Marriage Proposal, a very tiny bit of epistolary)

The Extremely Self-Indulgent and not at all Serious Pride and Prejudice AU Series by Suspicious_Popsicle (G, 16k, WangXian, Regency, Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Crossdressing, Pining)

Royalty AU Compilation

~*~

4. Hello! I hope you're doing well.

It's an IITMF req : WangXian being murder husbands. Something like the series " You & Me Baby, We’ll Eclipse The Sun". Thank you for your time:) @utxqia​

💖 The Way You Tremble by themunchking (E, 6k, wangxian, murder husbands, vampires, blood, violence, supernatural elements) perhaps not quite what you’re looking for but might enjoy still

~*~

5. ITMF: Sentient sword spirits, spiritual tools, and all that's similar! Sentient spirits everywhere!!! (Yes, including the good ol' tiger tally if you have it)

there's the sentient sword comp But if you want specifically /just/ sentient objects, @/zeldacw has an absolute brilliant comic staring both Wangxian's swords AND instruments And then @/rmoonberry has some artistic depictions of sentient twins Yin Hu Fu

@/zeldacw seems to be this fandom’s originator of the Anthromorphic Weapons trope; those comics can be found under the tag 忘情隨塵 (WangQingSuiChen) and post on her Tumblr and on her Twitter @/zeldacw; inspired Kindred Spirits by EstelweNadia (Not Rated, 2k, WIP, Bìchén/Suíbiàn, Chénqíng/Wangji, Humor, Angst, Eventual Romance, Drama, Slow Build, Slow Burn) (from our Daemons / Sentient Sword Comp - Mod C)

~*~

6. Hi! Hope everyone is well and thank you for your godly work as always! So for the next itmf I collected some requests:

A) WWX blurting out his feelings for Lan Zhan on accident/for example in a casual talk or something like that/bonus (great but not needed,everything is welcome): angsty because people don’t like him talking that much, exept for Lan Zhan of course

B) WWX showing of his swimming skills/maybe saving Lan Zhan from drowning/preferably not as an modern AU, but if that saving thing does happen there too I would be happy to try that out too

C) WWX being great with kids and Lan Zhan loving it, going to horny jail, whatever. But like, not just A-Yuan or the other Juniors but in general, maybe as a kindergartener or idk but u get what i mean hopefully.

D) WWX being genius in reading ppl, as in Sherlock Holmes Niveau

Thank you so much! @desperation-is-my-middle-name​

6A)

spoke like we meant it by BlackWiresOnHerHead (T, 10k, WangXian, Modern AU, 5+1, Fluff, oh my god they were roommates, Friends to Lovers, Getting TogetherP, ining, Cuddling, Accidental Confession, Humor, Abandonment Issues, Light Angst)

new phone, who's this? by uchiuchi (T, 5k, WangXian, Modern AU, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Accidental Confession, Friends to Lovers)

6B)

Last Feather by Solmae (M, 33k, wangxian, canon au, drama & romance, mythical beings & creatures, fairy tale retellings, LWJ stays at the burial mounds, married wangxian, bottom LWJ) features a nearly drowned Lan Wangji saved by Wei Wuxian, though it's not the focus of the fic

6C)

🧡 paint smears on sunny days by SnowshadowAO3 (E, 53k, WangXian, Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Everyone Is Alive, Modern AU, Dadji, Mutual Pining, Happy Ending, Brief Alcohol Mention, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Accidentally co-parenting with your son’s art teacher, Fatherhood)  

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7. ITMF Medical au which is not modern.

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8. I cannot find any wwx centric fic which is lwj bashing or not lwj friendly. I i see are jc centric or tian ah! Poor jc !! Kill wwx and lwj! No no please give me many many wwx fics which are lwj bashing/ lwj critical/ not lwj friendly.

Anon from #8 of recent ITMF post, yes I've searched already for lwj bashing tags and all the fics centre around jc. Honestly i don't mind reading wwx with others too. Suggest some?

我的皇后是農民 | sowing seeds in the cold palace by sweetlolixo (E, 57k, WIP, WangXian, Imperial Palace, Emperor LWJ, Imperial Consort WWX, Farmer WWX, Angst, Romance, Wingman LJY, Wife-chasing-LWJ, Arranged Marriage, Best Boy A-Yuan) Has the asker tried the lwj bashing tag on Ao3 yet?

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9. ITMF wwx being in an abusive relationship like his husband is a wife beater.

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10. Hello hello! I’m finding myself curious if something has ever been explored so if you have an available spot l - I’m in the mood for a fic where JFM gets therapy (or mind healing) (modern or canon is fine).

Like - what is his deal? Why can’t he communicate with his wife and why are his children invisible to him? What would happen if he breaks these cycles and truly TRIES?

Thank you for all you do! @rogue-90-em

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11. hello lovely mods. an itmf request for competence kink wangxian please and thank you

You and me/Won't be unhappy by x_los (E, 22k, WangXian, Female WWX, Case Fic Aftermath of a Case, Gender Changes, Accidental Marriage, mentioned canon-typical domestic abuse, mentioned canon-typical sexual violence (implication of minors),(not depicted just discussed as possibility), First Kiss, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Politics, Horror, Murder Mystery, Road Trips, Bitchy LWJ, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Always a Different Sex, Competence Kink, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Self-Sacrifice, Battle Couple, Episode 7)

My chain hits my chest/When I'm bangin' on the radio by x_los (T, 2k, WangXian, Case Fic, Modern with Magic, Competence Kink, Yiling Laozu)

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12. Hey, we've got two non specific fic quests for you! A) the first is focused on the juniors, specifically like sizhui embodying rules lawyering of wei ying and malicious compliance of lan zhan and just being the politest little bitch about things? B) the second; if there's any that are 3zun raising huaisang (preferably fluff/modern, but at this point we just need a starting point). Thanks!! @captainkaithr

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13. It's mermay, so I must ask for merfolk aus! (I'll also accept selkies)

oceans, drowned in starfire by stiltonbasket (T, 30k, WangXian, Modern AU, Novelist LWJ, Merman WWX, Accidental Baby Acquisition, (of the xiao-yu variety), Near Death Experiences, Family Secrets, Domestic Fluff, Happy Ending, The Little Mermaid Fusion, Inspired by Ponyo (2008) )

For #13 mermay request- I forget the title off the top of my head but it's on ao3. Jiaoren (mer) wwx gets trapped in a shallow stream, mistaken as a drowned fierce corpse, and stabbed by a Lan disciple on a group hunt. They feel bad and nurse him to health (carry him in bath tub) and he's immediately smitten with lz, and speaks broken human. There's another where lz is a cop? Modern au that busts a trafficking ring and rescues mer wwx and builds cool tank system in his house & adopt bby mer mxy (Haven't located these two yet ~Mod L) / I found the jiaoren mer-may fic I reccd. It's "Secrets of Yunmeng's Lotus Lakes" By Cy_anne on ao3. Its currently a restricted work? But its Spanish translation "Los Secretos de los Lagos de Loto de Yunmeng By Cy_anne" by VicoMejia733 can still be read on ao3 (I'm not fluent in Spanish but I'm like 90% sure this is it), "Something so precious" series by Elara_Moon on ao3 was the other one I reccd I'm pretty sure, the one where cop lz saves mer wwx from a trafficking ring

Secrets of Yunmeng's Lotus Lakes by Cy_an_Blue (M, 73k, WangXian, One-sided SS/WWX, A/B/O Dynamics, Omega WWX, Mermaid WWX, Cultivator LWJ, Younger WWX, Younger LWJ, teenage WWX, teenage LWJ, No War AU, Non-Traditional A/B/O Dynamics, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Awkwardness, Injury Recovery, accidental injury, Accidental Stabbing, Cultivation Accidents, Near Death Experiences, waterborne abyss, Kidnapping, Non-Explicit Torture, Mentions of major injury, Fluff, Attempted Sexual Assault, Courtship, Courting Rituals, Los Secretos de los Lagos de Loto de Yunmeng By Cy_anne by VicoMejia733)

Something So Precious Series by Elara_Moon (T, 25k, WangXian, Modern AU, Romance, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Some dark themes like um, Slavery, but it's not super dark i promise, Police Officer LWJ, Merperson WWX, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, Minor Violence, Child Neglect, Minor Character Death, Mind Control, it's not as bad as some of those tags make it sound)

in the deepest depths by lazy_lousy_lizy_jane (T, 3k, Female WangXian, Modern AU, Lighthouses, Selkies, Minor Violence, LWJ Has Feelings, Soft WangXian, bichen is a cat, heist (minor), Cisswap, Gender or Sex Swap)

One for Heaven and Earth by cerbykerby (T, 7k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Madam Lán Lives, inspired by wangxian selkie au, Getting Together)

Lanterns To Guide You Home by cuttlefeeeeeeeeesh (T, 7k, WangXian, Mutual Pining, Mythology, Selkie, Fisherman LWJ, Selkie WWX, Sorta Established Relationship, Fluff, Soft (tm), A touch of horny because this is wangxian)

never love an anchor by tardigradeschool (T, 31k, WangXian, Selkies, No Powers, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Pining, Angst, Happy Ending, The Inherent Eroticism of the Sea, PTSD, Presumed Dead, Drowning)

bring you home by Alasse_Irena (T, 27k, WangXian, Selkies, Modern with Magic, Pre-Slash)

brave new world by Quixiote (T, 33k, WIP, WangXian, Selkie AU, Modern with Magic)

Do not waste your pearls for me by moonwaif (G, 9k, WangXian, mermaid!LWJ, Fantasy AU, Trauma, Abuse, Healing, Unresolved Romantic Tension)

Frog, Beast, Fish, Idiot by Attila (T, 3k, WangXian, Fairy Tale, Dumbasses, Starring in:, The Frog Prince, Beauty and the Beast, The little mermaid)

you're a bird in the water / i'm a fish on the ground by plonk (Not Rated, 8k, WangXian, Merpeople, Canon Era)

A Drop of Water by Cat_Noir (T, 45k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Mermaid AU, H2O: Just Add Water AU, Platonic Intimacy, Cuddles, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort)

The Pirate of Lotus Pier by antebunny (G, 55k, WangXian, LSZ & JL, JC & WWX, XuanLi, Pirates, Folklore, Fantasy, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Action/Adventure, Found Family, Angst, Misunderstandings, Secret Identity, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, Miscommunication, Fairy Tale Elements, Soft Magic)

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14. I¨m in a mood for genius WWX fics from this year if possible ^^

there is no limited dimensions by Stratisphyre (M, 27k, WIP, WangXian, NieLan, MianQing, WN/Other(s), Star Trek Fusion, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Assumed Character Death, Minor Character Death, Tags on Each Chapter, references to non-con, references to canonical slavery, (The Orion Syndicate is just really bad okay?), bizarre space mpreg, Implied Future Pairings, Implied NHS/Others, POV Multiple, Accidental Child Acquisition, Found Family)

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15. Hiiiii! Itmf for a fic that's about other people's view on wangxian. Like outsiders pov on the relationship. Thanks

pay no attention to what’s behind the curtain by glitteringmoonlight (T, 7k, Emperor LWJ, Concubine WWX, Mutual Pining, only the bare bones of a plot, a little bit of outsider pov, Love Confessions, Happy Ending)

Everything’s growing in our garden by like_a_bird_that_flew (T, 3k, WangXian, LXC & LWJ, Modern AU, Coming Out, Supportive big brother Xichen, Family Feels, Established Relationship, Xichen finds out on his own, meaning he finds photos of them kissing, Oops, referenced fear of homophobia/rejection, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor)

looking through a window by glitteringmoonlight (T, 5k, WangXian, Modern AU, POV Outsider, College/University, Fluff and Humor)

new messages from Lit 1011 by yellowcarnations (G,36k, WangXian, LSZ & WWX & LWJ, Modern AU, POV Outsider) 

pitfalls of greed by glitteringmoonlight (T, 3k, WangXian, POV Outsider, BAMF WWX, Kidnapping, Violence, YLLZ WWX, not exactly but the vibes are there, Post-Canon) 

The Misunderstanding by kisahawklin (T, 9k, wangxian, modern, misunderstanding, outsider POV)

💙 Su She Eats his Heart Out by KizuKatana (T, 16k, WangXian, 3rd person pov, implied offscreen wangxian sex)

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16. Hello, I’m in a mood for your favorite fics of the month!

Jin Ling and Demonic Cultivation by ImNobody122 (Not rated, 8k, JC’s torture of demonic cultivators, aftermath of torture, serious injuries, angst, character study, not JC friendly, JL pov, child JL, JL is a brat, non-graphic violence, JC’s 13 years of serial killing, WWX’s terrible reputation)

A Sip of Chrysanthemum by Placeformysins (T, 127k, JGY/WWX) Itmf #16 - didn't actually read it this month but thought of it when read this ask. There is a jgy/wwx fic on ao3 (rarepair so should be easy to filter for) set immediately after sunshot campaign where right after MY becomes JGY jgs forces an arranged marriage between jgy/wwx, to get rid of jgy and thinking he might get a spy out of it. This makes jgy realize A LOT sooner the truth about jgs. Jiang sus and don't trust (Let me know if it isn’t the right one, I went with the fic summary again ~Mod L)

most barren peak and bleakest winter by WhatTheOwlHears (E, 23k, wangxian, aftermath of sex pollen dubcon, guilt, suicidal thoughts, misunderstanding, angst w/ happy ending, past top WWX/bottom LWJ, undernegotiated kink, healthy communication, angt, fluff, smut)

Meet Your Storm by kianspo (E, 15k, Jadecest, Sibling Incest, Modern AU, Pining, Jealousy, Rough Sex, Twin Jades of Lán Incest, lxc/denial, lwj/others, there's triggery stuff, more warnings in the notes, Anonymous Sex, Get Together) hope this one still counts, it’s a bit over a month old :)

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17. Do you have any non-WangXian fics but focus on the nonexistent WangXian aspects of it (a.k.a. the reason why they're not to begin with)? Like a break-up and then get a new lover type, falling out of love, infidelity, "A resents B because B did [insert reason]", or even for political reasons?

Would prefer WWX to have the good ending but anything works for meHopefully this is understandable, because my English is not fluent😅

Resent & Blossom by manaika (T, 26k, NMJ/WWX, LWJ & WWX, JC & WWX, NHS & NMJ, NHS & WWX, canon divergence, love triangles, pining, arranged marriage, angst & feels, strangers to lovers, implied/referenced murder attempt) #17 itmf - there is a nmj/wwx fic on ao3 (forget title but not many in that ship) where nhs brokers an sorta arranged marriage between nmj and wwx in an effort to save wwx and the wen from the burial mounds. Nmj agrees cause he trusts his brother and doesn't expect to live long anyway. Meanwhile nmj gets worse and a little more erratic/mean. Wwx and nhs look into it and problem solve. Wwx & nmj fall for each other, not wangxian because nmj acted, and wwx wants to honor this man he cares for&home (Let me know if I found the right one, I went mostly with the summary of the fic ~Mod L)

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If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what  you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack,  whatever - it’s all good!***

[prfctparis]

I’d Give You My Lungs So You Can Breathe (I’ve Got You, Brother) [CH1]

AO3 Link / Next / Masterlist

summary:

Danny Fenton was adopted at age ten, with little to no memories about his former family. At age fourteen, he died yet lived and those memories began to return. He didn’t do anything about those memories – didn’t plan to, at least not yet – but then he got captured by the GIW, saved by his friends and someone who might be his sister who he only somewhat remembered, and taken to Gotham to, apparently, his biological father for safety until further notice.

Team Phantom was there, too, and they did not sign up for this family drama.

a/n:

so i figured i’d post this here too, since there are so many dcxdp lovers on here, and in case someone has no access to ao3 somehow or just doesn’t use it…well, here you go! also i’m bored & this blog needs some action lmao. anyway, this first chapter is technically a prologue, but whatever. there are 2 more chapters i have already written (which are also on ao3), so i’ll upload them here in a day or so if anyone wants me to, and i’m gradually working on the next one. hope you guys enjoy! FYI, so no one is confused, in this athanasia is danny’s twin – not damian :)

warnings for the entire fic:

canon-typical violence of the DC variety; angst; memory loss/repressed memories; do i need to say major character death(s) or is that just a given for this fandom; questionable parenting tho every parent is trying to do good & care for the kids; implied/referenced past child abuse bc of the child assassin backgrounds; pls tell me if i missed something

CHAPTER ONE —

[italicized conversations are implied to be spoken in arabic]

At age ten, he didn’t remember much of anything.

He woke up at the edge of some woods, in dirty and dark clothes that, for some reason, made his mind go Assassin. His head was fuzzy, and the left side of both his chest and back hurt, and there were streaks of dark brown-ish red on his hands that flaked off when he scratched at them.

Eventually, he got up. The sun was rising, and he needed to figure out where he was. So, he walked. He walked, and walked, and when he made into a town, he kept on walking. The sign read ‘Amity Park’ in English.

…That unnerved him. Usually he didn’t read things in English. Right? They were in another language, letters and words read from right to left rather than left to right. Arabic, his mind supplied.

Why was everything in English? he thought, a little hysterical, and then tensed, eyes roaming around as if someone might have heard him – might have had a sixth sense to sniff out fear.

He wasn’t allowed to be afraid, or panic. He couldn’t afford to. He couldn’t. Because…

Because of what?

“Excuse me?” A young voice broke his thoughts.

He spun around and saw a girl with red hair and blue headband with a backpack on her shoulders. She was older than him by a few years…maybe.

(He was ten. How he knew that, he didn’t know, but he was ten.)

“Are you lost?”

Face careful not to show any emotion, he glanced around. The roads were beginning to get busy. People were walking out of buildings, and into other ones.

The girl just smiled – nothing that made him want to bolt, or fight to get away, or freeze in fear. It was…kind. “It’s okay if you are, I can help you. I’m Jasmine,” she said. “But most people just call me Jazz; it’s a nickname. Can you tell me yours?” She knelt down. Some of the nerves dissipated at the action; no longer was she standing over him.

For a moment, he continued to eye her suspiciously. Then, he looked away with furrowed brows as he tried to think. His name… It started with a ‘D’.

“…Danny,” he spoke, voice quiet but rough, after a few more seconds, and looked back at her. He didn’t know much of anything right now, but he did know someone used to call him that. It was short for something. “My nickname is Danny.”

Jasmine – or Jazz – smiled again. “That must be short for Daniel,” she said.

No… Yes? He didn’t know. It didn’t feel right, but not really wrong, either. So, he shrugged.

“Well, Danny,” Jazz began, “can you answer my first question? Are you lost? It’s okay if you can’t, but I still want to help you.”

“I…think so,” he spoke slowly. And, much to his embarrassment, his throat started to tighten with panic. “The sign said Amity Park. But I do not– I do not know where that is.”

“Yeah. You’re in Amity Park, Illinois.” Then, belatedly, “In America.” Her brows pulled together. “Do you- Do you know how you got here?”

He started to shake his head slowly, but the panic and fear had reached their peaks. The movement became rapid, and tears made his eyes sting. “I do– I do not know, I–.” His breath stuttering cut his words off, but the action moved his wounds on his chest and back and he winced, pressing a hand to the one near his heart. “I do not know how, or what happened to– to me, and it hurts.”

Jazz’s eyes widened. “Okay. Okay, it’s okay – I’ll help you. Will you let me?”

Something in him told him to say no. To run. This girl wasn’t trustworthy; she could be dangerous.

But he was scared. Terrified. (Why didn’t he know anything?) So he ignored that first instinct with a shaky nod as tears ran down his cheeks.

And Jazz helped him.

Jazz ended up becoming his sister. His older sister. That adjective to describe her was important to him, for some reason. Adoptive less so. She was his sister – adoptive or not – that was who she was; but she was older.

Maddie and Jack – who, eventually, became Mom and Dad to him, and who, as absent as they were, really did love both him and Jazz – asked once if Danny had a little sister, one day after he had explained that to them offhandedly.

Danny thought. He tried to remember.

“…No,” he answered. Because as far as he knew, he didn’t.

But also because saying, I don’t know, was getting exhausting. He’s only been with them a few months.

He grew to hate not knowing things.

(Jazz said it was anxiety, or potentially paranoia, but also maybe PTSD. Danny thought she was just being a know-it-all with her new found love of psychology.)

Some days it felt like he was missing something. Not just his memories, but something that was a part of him. Another person, or two.

Maddie and Jack would say something odd, or confusing, and he would turn to look at someone who wasn’t there to silently question and/or judge them.

At age fourteen, Danny, on a dare, did something very, very stupid.

He died, but also didn’t.

He accidentally got his parents’ ghost machine to work and now ghosts caused chaos in town.

He became Phantom – a halfa; someone who was dead, but also alive – and became the town’s vigilante, of sorts.

He…began to remember.

This wasn’t the first time he died but lived.

Sam and Tucker, his two best friends, were there at the accident, so they knew from the get-go. He told Jasmine, not too long after, mostly because she suspected something and he was shit at lying to her, but he told her. Mom and Dad, avid ghost hunters, were kept in the dark about it.

For a while, no one knew he was starting to get his memories back. After all, how was he supposed to explain that he was a former child assassin?

But then he had a nightmare-esque memory of being a child with a katana in his hands, a girl his age close by, and a toddler between them. Someone barked orders in Arabic.

He was forced to kill.

(Not the girl, nor the toddler. But someone. Someone who didn’t deserve it.)

Danny woke up having a panic attack, with Jazz hovering over him. After some tears, calming down, and spending the following two hours sitting in silence on his bed with his older sister, he finally told her.

There were more tears.

Jazz just held her little brother tightly.

Sam once brought up that he fought like someone who was used to somebody being beside him.

He feigned confusion and chuckled. “What?”

“When you fight, you leave blind spots open,” she explained further. “Like you’re relying on someone who isn’t there.”

Tucker nodded. “She’s right. I noticed, too.”

Danny shrugged. “That’s just how I fight,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

What he didn’t say, was that he now had a fuzzy memory of fighting with someone – that girl his age from his memories. But it wasn’t necessarily fighting as it was training, and it wasn’t always with one another but also against each other.

Sam hummed. “Okay, Danny.”

Dan happened.

Danny didn’t want to become Dan.

He began having nightmares of an old man dressed in green radiating pride because of him – because he was Dan.

It made him sick.

Vlad Masters – also known as Plasmius, also also known as a pain in Danny’s ass – cloned him.

He now had a little sister. Ellie. Vlad named her Danielle, and she at first went by Dani, but that got too confusing, so. Ellie, she became.

She roamed around the world after the whole situation with Vlad got handled, and Danny let her. But they kept in touch, and she often told him where she was headed, or where she was resting, or how long until she might come back.

Sometimes when she stopped by, when they were hanging out, something about her jogged fuzzy memories of a little brother. But then sometimes the way she fought with him against Vlad and ghosts brought up vague snippets of another sister.

At age fifteen, he defeated Pariah Dark. Enough said.

He also told Mom and Dad about the ghost thing. And the assassin kid thing. They took it well, considering.

He no longer had to worry about vivisection by his parents, or about being kicked about because he killed someone as a child and they were now scared of him, or something.

They still loved him. He loved them.

Memories about his childhood were still sparse, though they were gradually coming back.

(Some good. Most bad. Danny woke up from nightmares far too many times, nowadays.)

“Are you… Are going to want to find them? Your family, I mean,” Dad asked, late one night when Mom was asleep and Jazz was studying and Danny decided to bother him instead of his older sister when he came home with a large gash on his arm from Skulker.

It was random, but he still answered. “Um, maybe eventually. My younger siblings, at least. I don’t know their names, or even if…”

“Well, when you decide to, I’ll help out in any way,” he said.

He smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad smiled, gently ruffled his hair, and then pulled him into a near-crushing hug. “Of course, Dan-o.”

At age seventeen, the GIW barged into Amity.

It didn’t go well.

They caught him.

He didn’t get out until after he turned eighteen.

+++

At age ten, Athanasia watched her grandfather run a sword through her twin brother’s chest from the shadows.

She stood there, numb and in shock. A voice in her head screamed at her that, if someone were to attack right now, she would also die. She couldn’t help but not care when her twin brother was bleeding out before her eyes.

And unless she wanted to face Grandfather’s wrath as well, she couldn’t do anything about it.

Grandfather, with a casual swipe to clean his sword, turned away. “Clean this up,” he ordered the servants. He flicked his wrist to Dányál. “Rid of the body. It is time I speak with Talia.”

The servants obeyed. A couple began to clean. One picked up Dányál and began to leave, staunching the blood with cloths as to not leave a trail. On quiet feet, Athanasia followed.

Suspicion and confusion addled her brain when she realized the servant was going to one of the Pits. Her footsteps became more determined, but no less quiet.

She followed them to the Pit. Watched how the servant dunked him into it until the wound was no longer life threatening. Then followed them to one of the many hidden exits. Watched as the servant left with her twin brother for good.

Her other half was gone. Something in her shattered.

Athanasia now had a burning hatred for Ra’s al Ghul.

Life in the League was different now, without her twin. Too different.

She wanted out, but couldn’t leave Damian.

Not yet, anyway.

At age eleven, she met Jason Todd. Sort of.

He was catatonic, most of the first year, but still a good fighter. She was mostly indifferent to him, the adoptive son of her biological father.

(Mother didn’t know she knew about that, about Bruce Wayne – the Batman – being her, Dányál’s, and Damian’s father. But there were so many times she would overhear Ra’s complain about the man and Mother’s previous relationship with him before things clicked together.)

But then she learned Jason shouldn’t even be breathing, and her indifference turned into intrigue.

Alive, but should be dead? It reminded her of Dányál. Made her wonder if he was catatonic as well, wherever that servant took him.

Her feelings about him did a 180 when she noticed Mother looked at him how she used to look at Dányál, years ago. The looks stopped when Dányál first began to voice his dislike about killing, but now here that look was, directed towards a boy no older than sixteen.

That look stayed after she dunked him in a Lazarus Pit, and Jason, in Pit induced rage, killed everyone in the room he woke up in. It formed into pride – a look Athanasia never saw towards Dányál.

It angered her. What – was Mother trying to replace her twin brother with Batman’s lame sidekick? She was offended on her twin’s behalf, wherever he was now.

On one of the nights she snuck into Damian’s rooms to spend time with him, the young boy noticed her anger. He asked what was wrong. She told him nothing. He scowled in that way when he knew someone was lying and there was no one to reprimand him on unnecessary emotional expressions. She flicked his ear. He hissed. She rolled her eyes.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” she told him. “Now – tell me why I heard about another fight between you and our dear cousin, Mara.”

Damian’s scowl turned into a sneer. An impressive one, too, for a six year old. “She insulted Dányál. Called him weak.” He paused. “So I bit her.”

Athanasia had never been more proud.

At age twelve, she spoke to Jason for the first time.

“Tell me about Batman.”

Jason turned, confused surprise clear as day on his face as he looked at her. “They have kids here?”

She stared at him, unblinking. “Tell me,” she repeated, demanding, “about Batman.”

He crossed his arms, eyes calculating as he continued to stare back. His head tilted, his eyes squinted, and then his brows rose like he saw something that he wasn’t expecting.

Agitated, she said, “Do you need another dunk in a Pit? Are you still catatonic? Answer me, Todd.” She snapped the last sentence in Arabic.

Jason rolled his eyes. He muttered a few cuss words. “Why do you want to know about Batman?”

“I need to know.”

“That doesn’t answer my question–.”

“And you have yet to answer mine,” she sneered.

They had a stare down. Jason blinked first – Athanasia smirked. He cussed again and ran a hand through his hair, which now had a white streak in it ever since he got dunked.

“He’s a detective. A good one,” he said. “One of the best, if not the best.”

She nodded once. “Is he a good man?”

That caught him off guard. For a moment, he didn’t answer, and she began to worry that her plan was already failing and she hadn’t even started it yet.

“Yes. Yeah, he’s a good man. Flawed to hell and back, but he’s good.” His brows pulled together. “Why? Why ask me?”

“Because you are his son, and he is your father.”

The teen glowered. “He is not–!”

Athanasia left before she could hear his dramatics.

There weren’t many moments where Athanasia spent one on one time with Talia. At least, moments where the woman wasn’t training her into a perfect assassin. Sitting here, in front of her vanity, with Mother braiding her hair and humming quietly, was a rarity.

And Athanasia was about to ruin it.

“I want to fake my death.”

Mother’s hands froze where they were nearly done braiding her hair. “Excuse me?”

“I want to fake my death,” she repeated. Maybe Mother liked Jason so much because they both needed phrases spoken twice, she thought. “To find Dányál.”

“What,” Mother hissed.

“And then,” she went on, staring straight back at Mother through the mirror, as if daring her to interrupt or refuse, “I want you to send Damian to our father, Bruce Wayne – the Batman.”

“And why would either of us do those things?” Mother asked slowly, dangerously.

“Because I watched Grandfather run a sword through my twin’s chest, and then I watched him be put in a Lazarus Pit to keep him alive by one of your servants who was disguising himself as one of Grandfather’s. Because I do not want be the heir, and I want to find my brother, and I do not want this life for Damian, and Jason Todd said Bruce Wayne is a good man.”

Mother didn’t respond right away. They continued to stare at one another through the mirror.

“If you have an ounce of love for any of us, you will help me.”

Mother finished the braid, then sent her away to her room.

Athanasia instead went to Jason’s rooms, where she snuck in again and poked through his collection of books Mother brought him. He complained and tried to get her to leave. She jabbed him in the gut with her elbow and asked what made Batman, Bruce Wayne, good.

Jason cussed her out.

He still explained what made his father good.

(“There is a very likely chance he will not remember you. As well as restoring memories, it can take them away.”

“I know, Mother.”

“Do you?”)

At age fourteen, Athanasia did just what she planned to do.

She faked her death.

But not without speaking to Damian first.

“Listen to me,” Athanasia said, hands cupping Damian’s face. He tried to move away. She gripped tighter, but still made sure not to hurt him. “Listen to me,” she stressed, “I am leaving. I have to go somewhere, and I will not be back until I find Dányál.”

“Dányál is–.”

“I said what I said,” she interrupted. “Understand?”

He scowled. It was cute. “No.”

“Too bad. Do not stop pestering Mother about meeting our Father, understand? Hopefully the next time we see each other, you will be with him and I will have our brother. But when you do meet him, do not mention me or Danny. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good.”

Damian huffed. “Remove your hands before I remove them for you.”

“No,” she said, and pulled him into a rare hug. He squawked, and wiggled away not even a second later. “Fight Mara for me while I’m gone.”

She slipped him a communicator she remade that only went to the matching one she was keeping for herself. He hid it in his clothes immediately.

And then she left to die, but not really.

Her heart stopped for five minutes.

At age sixteen, she finally found her should-be-dead brother.

He was in a haunted town in Illinois. Ghosts were real, apparently, and made themselves at home in this town. It was…odd. And ironic. And Athanasia couldn’t be happier.

She found that he was adopted by a scientific couple, who went from hunting ghosts with no ethics at all to studying ghosts with ethics. They had an 19 year old daughter named Jasmine, and Dányál went solely by ‘Danny’ but everyone (adults, really) occasionally called him ‘Daniel’. He had two best friends: Sam Manson and Tucker Foley. They were good people.

Dányál also seemed to be unknowingly following in their father’s footsteps. He and Phantom were obviously the same person. Although, Phantom often called himself a ghost. Dányál wasn’t one.

And as much as Athanasia wanted to make her presence known, and hug her twin for the first time in six years… She couldn’t. He was happy here, even with constantly fighting ghosts.

So, with plans to keep an eye on him, she left Amity Park.

And then went to Gotham City.

A year ago, Damian sent through their one way communicators that he was now with Father. From time to time, she now checked on Damian from afar when passing through, not yet in person because Dányál still wasn’t with her.

She also regularly broke into Jason Todd’s safe houses and stole one or two guns, or pushed the furniture five inches in various directions, or messed up his meticulously organized books, or stole food that he made.

It wasn’t what she saw herself doing after faking her death, but, well… At least they were all out of the League.

At age seventeen, she got word the League infiltrated the Ghost Investigation Ward.

And they had Phantom.

She wasn’t able to get him out until after she turned eighteen.

+++

At age five, Damian lost a brother.

The day started out normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. He trained, sometimes with Mother, but more often than not with other instructors. Sometimes Grandfather watched, and he did this time. It surprised him, not that he would show it.

Later that night, Athanasia snuck in. Unshed tears were in her eyes. Immediately, he was on alert.

“…Uhkti?” he asked.

Athanasia moved to sit in front of him on his bed. She reached her hands out until she was cupping his face, which was odd. Dányál did that, usually, but almost always to be annoying. The action felt…weird coming from his sister in a more serious way. He wanted to move but was frozen.

“I have to tell you something,” she spoke slowly.

With a start, he realized she was sad. Why was she sad? Not many things could upset his big sister.

“What is it?”

“…Dányál is gone,” she said. Her voice choked. “Dán– Danny is gone, Dames. He… He will not be coming back to the League. I’m sorry.”

Damian’s confusion crumbled into sorrow.

Seeing Athanasia without Dányál was something he didn’t like. For the most part, they didn’t allow the kids to interact outside of training, their cousin Mara al Ghul and the children of the Demon’s Fist included. All, except the twins.

They were born together. They lived together. They trained together – but also sometimes against each other. Those always turned into draws.

Two halves of a whole.

He once heard someone call them the Twin Terrors. He understood why – they were ruthless when they fought by themselves, but decimated opponents when they were side by side. Damian expected them to lead the Demon’s Fist together – and they did, for a short time. But then something changed.

It was abruptly only Dányál. But then Dányál died. Then it was Athanasia.

Mara said it should be her. She taunted his sister. She then began to taunt him. Athanasia never gave in, but during training she didn’t hold back. Damian did give in and vowed to beat his cousin in every fight against her, training or not.

No one called his brother weak.

(Mother seemed to agree. Two members of the League got caught speaking about perhaps Dányál al Ghul just wasn’t strong enough. They were gone by nightfall, and Damian walked in on Mother cleaning blood off of her sword.)

At age seven, he first noticed Athanasia’s hatred at their Grandfather.

It was during a training session. Him against his sister. Grandfather was watching and judging. Athanasia beat him, but he came close to beating her.

It was when Grandfather had his back turned, when they were off to the side tending to bruises and wounds, when Damian glanced up at Athanasia and saw nothing but pure hatred on her face.

It was gone a second later.

Damian almost thought he imagined it. Almost.

“Who killed our brother?” he asked one night.

They were sitting on the window sill of an opened window, squished together as they watched the stars. It was uncomfortable. Damian didn’t mind.

“Why do you think I know?” she asked in return.

“Because you are you. You learn things – detect them out.”

“‘Detect’ is a big word for a seven year old.”

“I will gut you like a pig–.”

She never told him.

He had his suspicions, though.

At age nine, Athanasia left him. Left the League of Assassins.

She said she would see him again when she found Dányál and, seeing as though their brother was dead, Damian knew he would most likely never see her again.

He sort of hated her for leaving.

Though, he still took the communicator she gave him and kept it on his persons at all times, just in case.

Just a week after she left, word spread through the League that Athanasia al Ghul died during a mission gone wrong. Mother came back with bloodstained clothes and a look in her eyes that made Damian refrain from asking any questions.

A servant tried to offer their condolences. Mother slit their throat.

He continued to ask Mother about his Father, though. She continued to refuse, and said he would learn about the man once he beat her in a fight.

Damian took that challenge to heart and made sure he got better and better and better – until he was as good as his older siblings.

Mara continued to be an annoyance and a pain. With now two of Talia’s children dead and gone, she taunted Damian with how pathetic they were. How Dányál was killed because he began to defy orders and refuse to kill. How it was only a matter of time before Damian died, too, and she would be the true rightful heir to the Demon’s Fist and then the Demon’s Head.

It was far from the truth. He might not be the fighters and killers Dányál and Athanasia were, but he was better than Mara. After all, he was the only blood son of Talia al Ghul and a great, powerful man he desperately wanted to meet. He was a far better assassin than Mara ever was.

They fought against each other during training again.

He won, of course.

He also blinded her in one eye.

At age ten, he finally got to leave to meet his father. It was not as he was expecting.

There was a rule: no killing. Damian didn’t like that rule. That was how Dányál got killed himself.

What he also didn’t like, were the hundreds of other children Father had – apparently they were Damian’s siblings. He already had siblings, two of them, and they were both gone, and he didn’t need any more of them.

He sent Athanasia a message saying that he was now with Father. He got a simple, ‘Good,’ in response and nothing else.

He was both relieved she was alive and angry that she still hadn’t come back.

“Where the fuck is your sister?” Todd asked after they first met.

Damian stared him dead in the eyes and asked, “What sister?”

“Y’know… Your older sister,” he said.

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Um, yes, you do.”

“Then what is her name?”

“It’s… Well, what the fuck does that matter? She’s your sister, you should know!”

“I told you, I do not have a sister. Do you need to be dumped in the Pit to fix your brain again?”

Todd paused. He then let out a string of curses and angrily left.

Damian smirked to himself.

Shortly afterward, Father died. Except, Timothy Drake, like the idiot that he was, believed that he was still alive.

In that way, he reminded Damian of Athanasia and how she left to find she left to find Dányál, and he also reminded him of Dányál when he snarked while fighting, which he was admittedly great at. He also excelled at detective work.

Drake eventually left to find Batman.

Damian hated Drake.

Richard Grayson was…okay. Certainly better than Drake, the insolent whelp that he was. Grayson took up Batman, Damian was Robin. It was rough at first, but they eventually got the hang of it.

It just…took some time.

And then of course Drake came back with evidence that Father was, in fact, alive.

(Damian also had a metal spine, now, but that was neither here nor there.)

At age eleven, Father came back from being lost in the time stream.

Richard went back to Blüdhaven. Drake came and went from his own place and to the manor. Todd did his own things as per usual. Cain came and went, too, but often tried to spend time with Damian.

Drake tried once, too. It shockingly went well – right up until ‘Dames’ slipped out of his mouth.

“Do not call me that,” Damian snapped, the awkward but good atmosphere disappearing within milliseconds.

Drake startled. “Whoa, okay,” he said. His hands were held up as if he was surrendering. “All right, I won’t. I’m sor– wait, Damian, come back! I’m sorry!”

Damian ignored him and stalked to his room.

At age twelve, his communicator with Athanasia went off, the message telling him to look into the Ghost Investigation Ward immediately.

Only, he didn’t see or hear it.

He was dead, at the time, thanks to Heretic.

He didn’t see it until after he came back. He tried to get into contact with his sister once he did, but something blocked the connection.

It wasn’t until months later, now at age thirteen, when he heard from her again.

And she had Dányál with her.

[wannab-urs]

The Spreadsheet Digest - Vol 28

Hello my darlings,

Welcome to TSD week 28! I read some stuff this week that is definitely going in my all time faves list, seriously. Y'all are amazing. I've got 14 fics for you this week!! (Joel Miller, Frankie/Santi, Ezra, Din Djarin, Dieter Bravo, Max Phillips, Frankie Morales, Dieter/Javi P, Marcus Pike, Javier Peña). Summaries and tags are author provided unless they didn't have them (then I did it myself).

As always you can find all my fic recs here and my masterlist here

Recs under the Baby Cow Eyes

Cosmic Oddities - Din/Joel series by fromthewhales (Ao3)

Summary: Turning a clan of two into a clan of four and asking the very important, albeit unhinged question: What if space dad and apocalypse dad were Weird About Each Other? (ed. note: this summary does not do this beautiful fic justice. READ IT). Tags: parental bonding, parallels, angst, everyone has issues, everyone needs a hug, touch starved din djarin, injuries, strangers to ??? to lovers, smashing the space western and the zombie western together like 2 ken dolls, trauma, crack-fic adjacent at times, hurt/comfort, soft not super explicit smut, self harm, found family, din djarin eventually removes the helmet, blindfold, long distance relationship, survivors guilt, angst with a happy ending, non sexual intimacy, it gets worse before it gets better, alcohol mention, game II canon divergent — but boy does it come close, canon typical violence, minor character death, major character injury, bi!joel miller, bi!din djarin

To be explored later - Frankie/Santi one shot by @legendary-pink-dot

Summary: You and your boyfriend Santi fuck his best friend Frankie and it's a little more MMF than you were expecting -- much to your delight Tags: Swearing, dirty talk, rough-ish sex, hair pulling, oral sex (m receiving), a couple of spanks, edging if you squint, also yearning m/m if you squint, unprotected PIV, snowballing, threesome, dom!Santi.

sweets for my sweet; sweets from my sweet - Ezra one shot by @tinytinymenace

Summary: you are a cook at an exploration camp and one of the miners asks you about Earth and brings you a treat Tags: Brief mentions of planet death (RIP Earth) and strained family dynamics but on balance this is soft.

Release Your Inhibitions - Din one shot by @beskarandblasters

Summary: Shortly after revealing his face to you, Din’s worried about the faces he makes during sex, since he’s never had to worried about that before. You suggest something that might ease his worries; a blindfold. Tags: canon divergent, established relationship, Din is insecure and inexperienced, helmet comes off, blindfolding, oral sex (M receiving), vaginal sex, light biting, creampie, super romantic and loving sex, use of Mando’a words/phrases (Cyar’ika = sweetheart, Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum = I love you, Yooba solus mesh'la = You are beautiful), no use of y/n

Best in Show - Dieter one shot by @covetyou

Summary: The Academy Awards, the most well known, well planned, film award ceremony in the world. So why is the host missing? Tags: dual narrative, masturbation (m), voyuerism, drug reference (our boy is sober but struggling), subby Dieter, slight humiliation kink, very brief mentions of other sex acts (anal play, PIV, cum play), reader talks Dieter through a very nervy wank.

Still Bejeweled - Joel one shot by @janaispunk

Summary: after breaking up with your boyfriend, your self-esteem is crushed. your best friend takes you to your favorite bar to take your mind off of things. there's a band is playing there tonight and the singer immediately catches your eye. inspired by taylor swift's bejeweled – and when i meet the band, they ask, 'do you have a man?', i could still say, 'i don't remember' Tags: no/pre-outbreak au, no sarah, musician!joel, small age gap (reader is in her late 20s, joel's in his mid 30s), reader is described as smaller than joel and has hair long enough to pull, a bit of angst, fluff, making out, fingering, dirty talk (joel talks you through it, i just know it), praise kink, unprotected p in v (i just didn't feel like mentioning it, this is my fantasy world where pregnancies & sti's don't exist, but they very much exist in the real world, don't do this), joel has a big dick (it's canon), consent king joel, rough sex, ass-slapping, hair-pulling

Negotiations - Max Phillips one shot by @prolix-yuy

Summary: Max Phillips never found marketing to be all that helpful. Hell, running an ad on Facebook was easy enough. But then you walked in the door and he knew he had to have you, in all the ways he could. Tags: T, descriptions of male and female bodies, some fantasizing and suggestive themes.

Under the Stars - Joel one shot by @undercoverpena

Summary: joel finds that you become a thing of unnatural order, all ethereal as the moonlight kisses your curves. Tags: post outbreak. smut. oral sex (m receiving). tying joel up with rope. cutting joel free with a knife. p in v. jo's spelling. feelings, but joel-feelings. softer!joel

Apotheosis - Din series by @beskarandblasters

Summary: Din Djarin is a force-sensitive bounty hunter, working for the remnants of the Empire. He's on the hunt for you, an ex-rebel spy who has key information; the location where Luke Skywalker is building his Jedi training academy. But when you're captured, you're not going to give up the location easily. Din will have to utilize “alternative methods” to turn you over to the dark side. Tags: canon divergent, dark!Din, switches between Din and Reader’s point of view, eventual smut, Star Wars lore (not super heavy), manipulation/gaslighting, murder/minor character death, no use of y/n

Home - Frankie series by @dancingtotuyo

Summary: Frankie always comes home to you. Tags: fluff, angst, girl dad!frankie, recovering!Frankie, references to drug use, references to violence, trauma, healing.

Met the Devil Last Night - Joel one shot by @pedgito

Summary: I made a joke about wanting to screw dirt-covered Joel even if he was deep in the trenches of hell and...well, yeah. This is pure filth and nothing else. Tags: Porn with minuscule plot, if you willfem!reader, demon!joel, no specific age gap since dude is a literal demon, but reader is early 20s and I picture Joel to be his younger self (around 36), mentions of su*cidal ideations, this all a completely made up concept pls don't come for me about rituals, ect i will cry. virgin!reader, reader's father is a priest and horrible (just a total douche)/mother isn't alive, spitting, oral, unprotected piv, blood drinking, competency kink, innocence kink, mutual masturbation

Pearl Rosary - Din one shot by @sweetercalypso

Summary: Priest of Mandalore!Din Djarin listens to your sins during confession Tags: public(ish) sex, finger sucking, deepthroating, cock worship, facial, reader is a Mandalorian who takes her helmet off, so much religious imagery

Good Boy - Dieter/Javi P one shot @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

Summary: Dieter gets cucked. That's it. That's the fic. Tags: cucking, PIV, creampie, oral sex f receiving, cum eating, PWP/plot what plot?, dom!Javi, sub!dieter, idk what reader is... having a good time?

Whatta Man - Marcus Pike series by @atinylittlepain

Summary: He's looking for something other than vanilla, and she is more than happy to provide such a service to him. Tags: this is smut, pegging, rimming, sucking and fucking, sex work, lowkey sugardaddy!marcus, sweet shy marcus getting his world rocked, and then pancakes and a blackberry and a black american express card so ya know, the works.

----

Self Promo:

in the a.m. - javier peña loose fit series

Summary: Between sleeping with informants and getting in bed with Los Pepes in the fight to bring down Escobar, Javier Peña also finds time to be with you. Wrestling with crippling self hatred, Javi tries and fails to keep his blood stained hands off of you. Based on some of my favorite Arctic Monkeys songs <3 Tags: smoking, probably shit spanish, smut, angst, established situationship, emotionally unavailable!Javi, references to past arguments/past hookups because this has been an ongoing thing and I love to start in the middle of a story, loose fit series, trauma, probably, sad!Javi, self hating!Javi, Javi very briefly picks you up, Javi crying, Javi yelling, reader yelling, did I mention angst?

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // prev, chapter 3

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Original Female Character, Scott McCall, Original Male Character Pairing: eventual Stiles x OFC, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.1k Warnings: canon typical gore/violence, parental death, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), emetophobia  Tags: canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author majored in english lit and is a choatic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: Four years ago, Drea Dickinson's entire life fell apart. Her mom died, her best friend replaced her, and all she could do was watch listlessly while everything else burned down around her. All she wants is to forget and maybe get through her sophomore year without flunking chemistry and completely unraveling at the seams—a seemingly impossible task with the sudden appearance of ghosts from her mother's mysterious past and a hair-raising beast ripping people apart all over town. It would be easier to pretend if she hadn't accidentally entwined her life with the most interrogatory bastard in town. She could have gone her whole life without meeting Stiles Stilinski, and she would've been perfectly fine, but now she's stuck knowing that she's made her bed in the fragile, breakable bones of the boy with all the answers. Chapter Summary: More information about the animal attack comes to light. Drea can't decide if she's more scared of the monster or becoming friends with someone new.

A/N: You can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)!

Blessedly, whatever Scott had said to Stiles at the beginning of class was distracting enough to keep his, frankly obsessive, focus on him for the rest of first-period. Drea even managed to finish the final essay question without interruption—which was plenty difficult without being interrogated about her ex-best friend. She almost scoffed when she read the prompt: Whom do you sympathize with more, Gregor or his family? Who in their right mind would side with a pathetic parasite who couldn’t love anyone more than he hated himself? An uncomfortable, undeniable pang of melancholy sliced through her throat, and she was actually grateful for the distraction when the bell rang for second period and she had to pack up for chemistry. 

The impending chemistry midterm, however, was evidently a touch too distracting because Drea didn’t notice that she’d regained her lanky shadow until she was in Mr. Harris’s classroom and he stole the flashcard in her hand. Narrowing her eyes, Drea leaned across the lab table and rocked onto her tiptoes. Her outstretched arm shook as she struggled to even brush her fingers against the cardstock, “I haven’t talked to her in years. Lurk elsewhere.”

Stiles opened his mouth and then shut it again, head bobbing helplessly for a moment, “I was just going to ask you about…Gregor. That last question was a real piece of work, huh.”

She plucked the card out of his grasp while he was distracted by his social ineptitude, “Uh huh.” 

“Scout’s honor,” Stiles placed his hand over his chest and somehow made his big eyes rounder. His pink bottom lip jutted out ever-so slightly, but the quivering at the edges of his mouth gave him away. Sighing, he leaned his weight onto his palm: flat against the tabletop, fingers spread, and far too close to her own. He gestured erratically with his other hand, and Drea jerked back to avoid being smacked in the face. “Personally, I’m on Grete’s side. I mean, you can only take care of your werebug brother for so long without some kind of recognition before you snap.” Stiles shot a pointed look over his shoulder at his friend from first-period, and Drea thought the glare Scott returned was well-deserved. She could be biased, but probably not. 

“He was a little preoccupied by being, y’know, a bug .” Drea shuffled her notecards and frowned pensively at the question that ended up on top of the stack: What is the formula for Calcium acetate?  

“He could’ve said thank you in Morse code.” Stiles looked over her shoulder and added, “C4H6CaO4.”

Drea flipped the card over and pursed her lips. He was right. “I actually said the same thing,” she admitted begrudgingly as she grabbed the next flashcard from the pile. “Not the Morse code bit, that’s obviously insane. I did say that the best thing he did for her was die.”

“Damn.” Stiles’s forehead wrinkled as he let out a puff of air, “A little harsh, Dickinson.”

Drea picked at her raw cuticles and wished she could pull her bottom lip over her head. “It’s like you said,” she muttered as she folded her arms firmly over her chest, ducking her chin towards the divot in her breastbone, “she could only deal with his depressed bullshit for so long before she got on with her life and made new, sane, non-insect friends who actually go outside, and have fun at parties, and respond to texts.” Drea paused and remembered that she needed air to function when her lungs started to burn. Exhaling shallowly, she pressed her calves against the stool’s frigid legs until it hurt. Maybe, if she crushed her limbs together tightly enough, curled in on herself closely enough, she could disappear. “And don’t, y’know, crawl on the ceiling and projectile vomit Exorcist style,” she finished weakly.

Stiles studied her for a moment, and it was like he could see every painfully tender spot inside her. She felt ants crawling underneath her skin and him seeing her, and she wanted to bolt before she came completely unstitched at the seams. “Well,” he trailed off for a moment, rubbing the back of his head, “in all fairness, being there…that’s kind of the deal when you’re friends—even if they turn into a disgusting bug.” She didn’t know that someone so caustic could sound so gentle, like ink running across paper.

“Siblings.” Drea swallowed and looked away from his unyielding gaze, but she still saw amber and understanding every time she blinked. “You mean siblings.”

“Sure.” Stiles smiled a little and slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, “Siblings.”

She swallowed again, couldn’t even manage a ‘see'ya’ or an eyeroll when he saluted her goodbye, and watched him saunter towards his seat next to Scott through her lashes with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. She felt a little sick once realized that she wasn’t relieved by his absence. It was all she’d wanted at the beginning of his inquisition, and yet…she wanted him to sit next to her. The epiphany struck her right in the stomach, and she felt a bit like one of her dad’s rare butterflies—tissue paper wings pinned to paper, fervently yearning to fly away, even if it meant ripping herself apart. 

Normally, Drea thoroughly enjoyed not having a lab partner. The class had an odd number of students, and Mr. Harris either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that she never joined another pair during labs. It was a toss-up, considering he seemed to loathe his job as much as he loved devoting his undivided attention to mocking Stiles. Speak of the bifocal-ed Devil . 

“Mr. Stilinski,” the contempt in Mr. Harris’s voice was sickeningly viscous. She imagined mucus dripping from his thin lips; it helped quell some of the righteous anger in her gut. He continued, and now he was spitting up slugs and snot, “If that’s your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while. I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?”

“No–” Stiles’s jaw hung open as he shook his head violently. 

Mr. Harris silenced him with a glare, and Drea’s fingers curled into her palms as she watched the condescension gloss over his smirk when Stiles complied. Her jagged, bitten-down nails pinched her skin; she quickly flattened her hands on top of the table before she did something stupid like draw attention to herself. It was none of her business, after all, and she had a test to prepare for. Drea stared at her notes, reread the same sentence over and over again without comprehending a single word, until she felt the uneasy sensation of someone sneaking up behind her.

“Hey,” Stiles sat down on the empty stool next to her and kicked at her shoe lightly under the table. She hummed in recognition and slid her textbook over to make room for his things. 

Stiles’s face scrunched as he flipped through his own notes. She couldn’t read most of it—not that she was looking; his hand-writing was just glaringly atrocious. Everything was smooshed together and most of the letters were partially incomplete, like his pencil couldn’t keep up with his brain. She looked back at her own notebook, at the meticulously symmetrical loops and compulsively straight lines, and the corner of her mouth curled into a brief smile. 

The quiet was nice, but Drea couldn’t shake the irritation sticking to her fingers. She tapped her pencil against her notebook a few times, bit down on the inside of her cheek, and then said, “He’s a dick.” She spoke quietly, but Stiles still flinched. The highlighter in his hand left a long yellow streak across his textbook, and she winced. Truthfully, she was equally startled that she’d voluntarily broken a perfect moment of silence. 

Stiles didn’t seem bothered by the new mark permanently defacing his book, most likely because a good portion of the glossy pages were already more yellow than they were white. He angled his chin towards her and smirked, “Are you legally allowed to call someone a dick?” 

Drea grinned at her notes, “I have the utmost authority, actually.”

Stiles leaned forward onto his forearms and struggled to keep his mouth impassive, “Oh, yeah?”

A loud, grating squeal of metal on tile and an even louder yelp interrupted Drea’s reply. A girl near the front of the classroom shot up out of her seat, almost sending her stool toppling to the ground, and then bolted towards the window overlooking the parking lot, “I think they found something!” 

Mr. Harris quickly lost control of the classroom as the rest of the class surrounded her, practically pressing their stupefied faces against the glass to get a better look at what, or rather whom, the EMTs were wheeling out of the thicket of trees just beyond the school’s perimeter. Drea hesitated for a moment before joining the stragglers. Morbid fascination dwindled after you were confronted with the reality of it—she wasn’t in any rush to see another dead body. 

She wasn't ever supposed to actually see the photos; they were strictly evidence for the potential arson investigation. The coroner didn’t even want her dad to see the body. There hadn’t been any point, after all; it was completely unidentifiable. At the time, Drea thought it would help. She thought peeking at the case file while the Sheriff was on the phone might remind her of some crucial detail, hidden in the depths of her blackout—and, well, she thought it might finally make it real. Maybe, if she saw the proof, she’d finally believe that her mom wasn’t coming back. 

She’d been wrong, of course. Seeing what was left of her mom, seeing her like…that, it’d just made her puke. Her whole body had trembled from the retching, and then she was paralyzed, held hostage by a glacial streak of terror. Sheriff Stilinki had been so terribly understanding about the whole thing, like it was nothing: vomit on his office floor, trembling hands invading his private files. He’d just wiped the corners of her mouth with a tissue and rubbed her upper back in slow circles, just like her mom did when she was sick—which ultimately sent her into another round of dry-heaving. She never felt the temptation to look again. 

Drea let out a deep breath when she looked out the window and saw the man on the gurney twitch. His jacket and pants were black, and his shirt was charcoal gray, dark enough to hide any blood stains. The only thing she could make out was a large gash on his face; it was still bleeding sluggishly, leaving a sticky red trail from his jaw to his neck. Drea’s grip on her arms tightened as her stomach lurched. The paramedics began to load the gurney into the ambulance, and the man surged forward without a single warning. His screams were raw, like they’d been ripped from his throat along with the flesh on his cheek. 

Every single one of the students crowded against the windows recoiled from the wailing, and Drea swallowed the bile burning her throat. It was like they were watching their own, personal horror movie and couldn’t decide if they were more exhilarated or horrified—just itching for the jump scare. She stumbled back towards the door and bumped into Stiles and Scott. Stiles gripped her arm gently until she regained her footing.

“That’s not a rabbit,” Scott said under his breath. He looked as queasy as she felt.

“Or a cat,” Drea added quietly.

“But he’s alive,” Stiles nudged Scott a little, “that’s good, right? Dead guys can’t do that.”

Scott still looked like he was going to hurl all over Stiles’s white Vans, and Drea felt a flutter of sympathy. The only thing worse than puking was doing it in front of other people. “You might want to take him somewhere,” she spoke softly to Stiles. “He looks like he’s going to pass out.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded a little and wrapped an arm around Scott’s rigid shoulders, “good call.” 

His eyes darted around the classroom: big, and brown, and frantic—like a lost fawn. Drea nodded towards the dark corner Mr. Harris was dissociating in, “I’ll cover for you.”

“Yeah?” Stiles smiled a little, but he looked weary down to his bones as he started shuffling Scott towards the door. 

“Yeah,” her smile was a bit wobbly at the edges, “but only ‘cause I get a sick thrill out of fucking with dicks.” 

Her weak attempt to ease some of the tension in the air was semi-successful; Scott was still staring into another dimension, but Stiles looked positively giddy at the prospect of such a perfect setup. “I have, just, so many thoughts on that, but I’ll save them for after Scott—” he gave Scott a long look and scratched the back of his buzzed head, “gets his blood sugar up.”

It was sweet, Drea thought as she watched Stiles guide Scott into the hallway, lying to spare Scott’s pride. She thought Stiles would be a better liar, but maybe that was the downfall of being raised by a police officer. It was either that or the general social impotence. Not that she had much room to talk; silence was her preferred method of social interaction. 

The classroom was far from silent now. Students were spread out across the room in little clumps. Some spoke in furious whispers. Others weren’t as discreet, and Drea could hear every single preposterous word that left their mouths. The amount of sophomores who didn’t know that the California grizzly bear went extinct almost a century ago was a very depressing glimpse into the public education system, but at least there were only two boys howling obnoxiously at a few giggling volleyball girls. Rolling her eyes, Drea pulled out her phone and typed ‘Beacon Hills bus attack’ into the search bar. She refreshed the page obsessively, all throughout chemistry and art class, until an article finally popped up on her screen at lunch. 

Drea bit into her slightly bruised apple and squinted at her phone, immensely grateful for the empty courtyard as she came across the grittier details. She always ate lunch outside; it was quieter without the echoes of gossip and laughter, and the heady scent of cut grass was far preferable to whatever monstrosity the cafeteria was serving that day. Today, the afternoon heat made the earthy warmth especially thick in the air. Normally, she loved that smell, the smell of summer. It reminded her of frenzied August afternoons, running through Lydia’s sprawling backyard and swinging into brisk lake water, but the smell was quickly becoming suffocating the more she read. 

The man who was attacked was a bus driver. He was smiling in the photo they’d chosen to include in the bio section before the pictures of the crime scene, like a twisted ‘before and after’ ad. Drea dropped her half-eaten apple into her lunch sack and shoved it to the side when she got to the background bits. Garrison Myers had a family, a wife and two daughters; they were praying for his unlikely survival. Her throat hurt, and she wondered if there was an apple chunk lodged in her esophagus. Swallowing hard, Drea scrolled down to the police interview. The deputy they managed to get a quote from clearly knew next to nothing, though he did posit the possibility of a mountain lion attack. Drea rolled her eyes. Maybe on PCP. 

The only thing she was sure of was that whatever kind of beast ripped a woman in half and slashed a man to ribbons in the span of a week wasn’t going to stop. At least, not until it was killed. 

Drea was surprised to see her dad’s car in the garage. He wasn’t supposed to be off work for hours, and he certainly never came home early on weekdays. She would be more nervous if there was anyone left in her life to grieve. It was just the two of them now. Her mom hadn’t ever talked about her family; Drea wasn’t even sure if she ever had one, and Grandma and Papa Dickinson died before she even had the chance to remember them. She wished, sometimes, that there was someone else in the house. Someone who could fill the cold silence and closed doors. Someone who might chase away the ghosts lingering in the long halls and photographs on the walls. It was a futile dream. They were going to die in this house alone, and someday a new family would chase out their shadows with laughter.

Drea felt a bittersweet sense of deja vu when she walked into the house and saw her dad sitting at the kitchen table. The kitchen was his spot before everything went wrong. He puttered around the island in the mornings with his thermos of coffee and tablet, somehow knowing exactly when to flip the bubbling pancakes on the griddle without glancing up from whatever NPR article he was reading. He only looked up from the screen to kiss her mom on the cheek and give Drea a side-squeeze until she whined about her ability to breathe. 

That was a long time ago, she reminded herself as her dad looked up from his iPad. It’d been four years, but he still hadn’t quite figured out how to hug her and the kitchen never smelled like pancakes and cinnamon syrup anymore. “How was school?” her dad finally said after a long moment of uneasy eye-contact. 

Drea’s brow wrinkled and her head canted slightly, “You really want to talk about my day?”

“Of course,” her dad paused and rubbed his hands over his face, “but there is something important I wanted to talk to you about.” His stubble had grown out enough that she could see where the brown was starting to gray. He looked so old for a moment, and Drea wasn’t quite sure how to feel. She never did around him. 

Frowning, Drea sat down in the chair across from him, “Did someone die?”

“No,” her dad quickly replied, and then he sighed, “well, yes.” He set his iPad to the side and took his thick reading glasses off, “You know about the animal attacks.” It wasn’t a question. She figured that was how this would go; it was easier to pretend she didn’t exist if he monologued to the spot on the wall just over her shoulder. “Sheriff Stilinski and I agree that a curfew is the best course of action, considering the situation we’re in.”

Best course of action. Drea chewed on what was left of her nails and resisted the sigh budding in her chest. So, this was a council meeting too. She just didn’t get a vote. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” Her dad blinked a few times and rubbed at his jaw, like he’d been expecting her to fight him on it. Most of the fight fizzled out in her a long time ago; it was just easier to pretend. She got that from him, she thought. She inherited her dad’s small upturned nose and his ability to deny reality straight to its face, and that was where the similarity ended. The fullness of her lips, the sleek line of her eyes, the golden glow in her tawny skin—the exhausting curiosity—that was all her mom. It must be why her dad couldn’t keep his gaze on her for long. He ran his fingers through his short crop of dark hair and said, “Anyone under the age of 18 needs to be home by 9:00 every night.” 

“Fine.” It wasn’t like she had much of a social life anyway, and the curio shop she worked for closed long before dark. “So,” Drea fiddled with the edge of a decorative bamboo placemat that hadn’t seen a plate in years, “do the police have any idea what kind of animal’s going all Pac-Man on people?”

Her dad stared at her for a moment, a deep divot developing above the crooked bridge of his nose. Drea looked down at her hands and mumbled, “The vampire Pomeranian, not the wimpyass circle.”

His mouth tugged a little, and she would’ve sworn he was fighting a smile if everything else in the world didn’t directly contradict the theory. “Not exactly.”

“Which means…” Drea shook her head a little and tugged her fingers through her unruly ponytail, grimacing a bit as they snagged on a few knots where the slight curl in her hair had frizzed together, “they’ve ruled out tiny bloodsucking dogs, or they’ve narrowed it down to a few probable options?” 

He paused for a long moment, and Drea pulled her shins to her chest, focusing on the tips of her sneakers hanging off the edge of the wooden seat. She turned her cheek into her kneecaps and waited for her dad to make an excuse and leave. She’d pushed. She always had to push. 

“There were wolf fibers on the girl.”

Drea whipped her head up from her knees, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. She was a little embarrassed that she was more stunned by her dad sharing confidential information with her than a wolf migrating to central California for the first time in over a hundred years. “And the bus driver?”

“He’s still…unresponsive. Stilinski is looking into the possibility that he was attacked by the same animal.” 

“Huh,” Drea said quietly, eyes glazing over as she considered the possibility.

“Regardless, you need to be home before dark until they catch the damn thing,” he leaned back against his chair, tipping back his head with his bottle of Miller High life, golden liquid sloshing with the strength of his swallow. It was the first time she’d seen him drink since the funeral, but she knew about the empty bottles he threw away in the trash can outside. Over the years, the number varied; she noticed a significant increase around anniversaries, birthdays, and Christmas. She left extra take-out in the fridge during those weeks, his favorites, and they were gone in the morning. Drea twisted the pendant on her necklace and made a note to order Little India’s tandoori chicken after her shift.

“I have to work tonight.” She said quietly, nibbling the bed of her thumbnail, “I’m off at 8:00.” She both dreaded and longed for her boss’s absurd take on the situation—though boss wasn’t quite the right word for Maggie Sinclair. Despite the fact that she owned Curio Killed the Cat and approved Drea’s paychecks, Maggie was the least authoritative person Drea knew. She’d say Mags was like an older sister, but older sisters generally didn’t require so much supervision around open flames and sangria—and anything else sparkling enough to distract her sporadic focus. Her mom used to look out for her before she died; Drea supposed Maggie was just another thing she inherited from her. Her favorite thing probably, but that was something she’d most likely take to her grave.

Drea wasn’t entirely sure how Maggie met her mom, given the 15-year age gap and their vastly different…everything, but Maggie had been in Drea’s life for as long as she could remember. She spent so much time in Maggie’s store after her mom died that she figured she might as well get paid for shelving spell books and grimoires while she was there—even if she did think that most of Maggie’s customers were totally off their rocker.

Her dad’s face went blank for a moment, as it always did when he was reminded of anything remotely related to her mom. It was easier for him, Drea thought, to pretend that she never existed. She couldn’t even be bitter about it; she hadn’t even cried at the funeral. She cried much later, of course, but by then the pity well had run dry. Nobody cared how she coped, so long as she coped quickly. She’d wasted those precious first few weeks with numbness, with monotonous, 'Thank you,’s and, 'It’s sad, but I’m okay,'s and then, eventually, they stopped asking. Time passed. People moved on. Drea didn’t touch any of the casseroles in the fridge. Her grades slipped; her teachers said, ‘This isn’t like you.’ She lived in the wake and pushed people away with an acrid bite that would disappoint the resurrection right out of mother. Her dad was just coping. They both were. 

“Right,” he cleared his throat, “come straight home after.”

Drea shouldered her backpack and stood up, “Always do.”

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Endure I: Dolls

Series Synopsis: You and Eren Jaeger have been best friends since the age of two, but the two of you are destined for an inevitable tragedy. The world you have been born into is cruel; it is one where friends are traitors and enemies are allies, one where you find yourself doubting everything you've ever known. In this life, mistakes are fatal, and you must be careful, lest you make one too many.

Chapter Synopsis: You befriend the doctor’s son, Eren Jaeger.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader, Armin Arlert x

Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.1k

Content Warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence, sexual abuse (non-explicit), major character death, angst, original characters included

A/N: I caved. Despite the length, despite the way it makes me cringe because I wrote it two and a half years ago…endure is coming to tumblr. It may take me a bit to get the whole thing up so please be patient!!

Your first memory was that of the doctor’s son saying your name. He had tugged at your hair and yanked at your clothes, crawling around you as you sat, waiting for him to stop. He did not stop, but he laughed in childish delight at the fact that you didn’t complain, not once.

“Y/N!” he chortled, poking you in the arm repeatedly. You watched him curiously, and when he began to tickle you in the side, you squealed in protest.

“Eren!”

You don’t remember what happened after that. According to your parents, Dr. Jaeger had come and rescued you from Eren’s clutches, having finished his check up on your then-pregnant mother. Apparently, the small boy had cried the entire way home. Nobody ever told you if you cried. You probably hadn’t.

The doctor and his son had continued to visit you for many months to come. You and Eren became friends of a sort, though it was mostly because you were often kicked out of the room while the adults talked.

“I’m turning three soon,” Eren informed you proudly as you sat on the floor of your bedroom, playing with dolls. He was always happy to play dolls with you.

“Three?” you said, your eyes wide with wonder. “That’s really old!”

“I know. I’m going to have a big birthday party. You can come if you want. My mom is going to make cake, and it’s going to be chocolate, and there’s going to be so many people, but don’t worry! I’ll make sure to sit with you, too,” he assured you.

“Yay! Can I bring my dolls?” you said. He thought about this for a moment before frowning.

“Well, I guess so...but don’t expect everyone to want to play with you. Big kids don’t play with dolls. It’s not mat-ure. That means grown up,” he said, pronouncing the adult word meticulously.

“That’s a really cool word, Eren! Where’d you learn it?” you said.

“My dad taught me! He has this ginormous book that’s like this big with all of these words in it,” he said, holding his arms out to show you how big the book was. You gasped.

“That’s huge! And I guess I’ll bring my dolls, but we don’t have to play if they're not grown up. What do big kids do?” you said, furrowing your brow and staring forlornly at your dolls. Eren shrugged.

“Dunno. We can play with dolls for now, since you like them,” he said.

“Okay! Ready, Sir Eren? You have to come rescue me from the evil dragon!” you said, pointing at your princess doll, which was sitting next to your dog. Merry, the small black poodle, did not even flinch, taking the role of ‘evil dragon’ with grace.

“I’m coming! Out of the way, evil beast! I have to save Princess Y/N!” Eren declared, making his doll fly over to yours. Merry paused in licking his paw to give the boy a disdainful look. Eren made sword fighting noises as he chased Merry away before picking up your doll and giving it to you.

“Princess Y/N, I have defeated the evil dragon and saved you,” he said. You clutched the doll to your chest and gazed up at him with a bright grin.

“Thanks, Sir Eren! I think we should have a party now,” you said.

“With cake?” he said.

“I don’t think we have cake,” you said sadly.

“Let’s go outside and make some!” he said excitedly, dragging you after him before you could protest, not that you would have. Eren was dynamic and impulsive, lighting up the very air around him with electricity, sweeping you up in the current. What could you do but follow?

“With what?” you said. He narrowed his eyes, searching for something and then clapping when he found it.

“Mud pies! We can’t eat them, but they’ll be good for a doll party,” he said, marching over to a puddle and sitting next to it. You did the same, looking at him in confusion.

“How do you make mud pies?” you said, crossing your legs and leaning over slightly to watch his hands as he packed mud into round shapes before handing one to you.

“It’s really easy. You just pick up the mud and roll it around in your hands until it makes a solid shape, and ta-da! It’s a mud pie!” he said. You inspected the mud pie he had given to you before gingerly placing it next to you and replicating his motions.

“Is this good?” you said, showing him one. He held it up to his face and scrutinized it before nodding.

“Nice job! It’s almost as good as mine. But mine are better,” he bragged.

“Oh,” you said, crestfallen, “Sorry.”

“Yours are good too,” he offered when he saw that you were sad, “I just have a lot of practice.”

“Really? You think they’re good?” you said, smiling. He smiled back.

“Yeah! You’re in second place for goodness!” he said. You thought about this for a moment.

“But first is the worst and second is the best. So am I the best?” you said. Eren was perplexed for a minute, mulling this over.

“Let’s just have our party,” he said.

“I forgot about that! Good idea,” you said, bringing out your dolls and arranging them so they were sitting next to each other. Eren began to set up the mud pies, making sure each doll had its own.

“It’s because I’m older than you. It means I’m smarter and know better,” he informed you seriously.

“Will I ever be older than you?” you asked. He scowled.

“No! I’ll always be older forever and ever!” he said, crossing his arms.

“But I wanna be older!” you said. “My papa said we have to take turns doing things, so that means I have to get a turn being older!”

“You can’t. I’m almost three years old, remember? So I’m automatically older than you until you’re three, but then I’ll already be three, see? That means I’ll always be older, so we can’t take turns,” he explained. That was just about the wisest thing you had ever heard in your two years of living, from your nearly-three year old friend, so you begrudgingly accepted it.

“Okay,” you said, dragging out the last syllable of the word, “Can we have our celebration party now?”

“It’s all ready. Let’s have a toast!” Eren said.

“Toast? I like toast. My mamma makes it for breakfast sometimes,” you said.

“No, not that kind of toast,” he said.

“There’s another kind of toast?” you said cluelessly. No wonder Eren was older than you. He knew so much about everything.

“My parents do it with their friends during their fancy big people parties! They like raise their glasses and make a speech to ded-i-cate the party to someone,” he said. That sounded really official, and you knew you had to try it.

“Eren, we don’t have glasses,” you said.

“We can pretend! Okay, I want to make a toast to Princess Y/N!” he said, lifting his imaginary glass in the air and then tilting it back to drink it.

“Why?” you said. He held up a finger to indicate that he was still swallowing before nodding.

“Because! What kind of knight would I be without a princess to rescue?” he said.

“That’s true. Yeah, I guess you’re right! I want to make toast —”

“Make a toast,” Eren corrected you. You pouted.

“Sorry. I want to make a toast to Sir Eren for rescuing me from the evil dragon!” you said, miming the act of drinking the way your friend had.

“Cheers!” he said, and you knocked your invisible glasses together before taking another sip each. Then you burst into laughter, your dolls sitting quietly with their rapidly-crumbling mud pies. The air smelled like flowers and the scorching sun, and the grass would surely stain your clothes, but at the present moment, neither of you cared much, wrapped up in your own world.

“Ready to go, Eren?” Dr. Jaeger said as the adults rejoined you, watching your tea party fondly. You paused to look up at them, and Eren’s face fell when he realized he had to leave in the middle of your celebration.

“Dad, we were having a party because I saved Princess Y/N from the dragon! Can’t we leave in five minutes?” he whined. Dr. Jaeger seemed amused but shook his head.

“Sorry, kiddo, but I’ve got other patients to look at. Why don’t you invite Y/N to your birthday party this weekend? Then you can see each other and finish your party with actual cake instead of mud pies,” he said, patting Eren on the head.

“I already invited her and she said yes!” Eren said.

“Did her parents say yes?” Dr. Jaeger said. You and Eren exchanged looks of horror. The thought of your parents refusing had not even crossed either of your minds, and you immediately turned to your father and mother, who were watching you with soft smiles on their faces.

“Please please please can I go?” you begged them. They looked at each other before nodding.

“Sure, as long as you help with the chores this week,” your father said.

“Yay! Did you hear, Eren, I’m coming to your birthday party?” you said in excitement. He smiled at you, a genuine, wide, bright smile.

“I can’t wait! Bye-bye Y/N! I’ll see you soon!” he said as his father picked him up and carried him off to their carriage. You waved frantically as they faded from view, and from his spot hanging upside down off of his father’s shoulder, Eren did the same, his lopsided grin visible until the moment he disappeared from your sight.

“Seems like you and the Jaeger boy have become friends,” your mother said as you gathered your dolls and flounced inside the house.

“Eren?” you checked.

“That’s right. Do you like him?” your father said, ruffling your hair affectionately. Merry, who had returned from wherever Eren had chased him off to, wagged his tail at you, probably hoping that you had some scraps of food to share. You showed him your empty hands, and he sniffed them before sighing and leaving again.

“Yeah, Eren’s really nice! He’s so smart, he knows these really super big huge words like mature and toast, but not breakfast toast, fancy party toast. I can’t wait until I’m three so I can be like him!” you said.

“Well, you only have to wait a few more months, and then you’ll both be three! And you’ll have a little baby brother, too,” your mother said, rubbing her belly idly. You peered at her stomach.

“Is my baby brother in there?” you said. She nodded.

“He is,” she said gently. You furrowed your brow.

“Hi, baby brother! How are you doing? BABY BROTHER!” you shouted when he didn’t answer. You had the feeling you weren’t going to like this ‘baby brother’ of yours. He was rather rude.

“He’s too little, Y/N. He can’t hear you yet,” your father said, stopping you from banging on your mother’s stomach to get your baby brother’s attention. You froze and gazed up at him.

“Should I be louder?” you said. Your father laughed and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think that’ll help. You have to be gentle and talk quietly to him. You’re his older sister, so you have to take care of him. Does that make sense?” he said. Older. You were older than your baby brother, just like Eren was older than you. That meant you were smarter and knew better than him, forever and ever. Okay, maybe this whole baby brother concept wouldn’t be too bad.

“Do you think he’ll play dolls with me and Eren?” you said. Having a third person meant you could have even more complicated stories. If your baby brother played, you and Eren might even finally be able to act out your ‘three little pigs’ storyline. You had done your best, but it was really hard for Eren to be both the big bad wolf and all three pigs.

“Not for a little bit, but maybe eventually. You’ll have to ask him,” your mother said, sitting down laboriously. Your father placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as she let out a deep sigh.

“Does he have a name yet?” you said.

“We aren’t really sure yet. What are your thoughts?” your father said. You sat on the floor to think about this. Merry crawled into your lap and began licking your face. You pushed him away in disgust before giving in.

“Umm...dunno!” you said, realizing you really didn’t care what your baby brother was named. Merry continued to lick you.

“Oh, don’t let him do that. Merry, off,” your mother said, whistling sharply. Merry got off of you and obediently joined your mother on the couch, thankfully leaving you alone.

“Let’s get you in the bath. You’re covered in mud and dog spit,” your father said, a smile on his face showing that he was not at all angry. You did not whine much, trudging up the stairs to the bathroom to get washed up.

Once you were clean and tucked into bed, Merry rejoined you, curling up at the foot of your bed as was his custom.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” your father whispered, blowing out the candle and closing the door after him. You did not respond, already fast asleep.

The entire rest of the week, you did your best to help your parents with the chores around the house, doing whatever you could to ensure that you would be able to go to Eren’s birthday party. Finally, it was the day of the celebration, but instead of being excited, you were horrified. You had no idea what to get the boy as a present.

“I’m sure he won’t even notice that you didn’t get him anything,” your mother consoled you as you bawled into Merry’s fur about your lack of a gift for your friend.

“B-but it’s his birthday! I have to get him something!” you wailed. Your father wordlessly handed you a tissue, and you noisily blew your nose before handing the paper back to him.

“Don’t worry too much. You and Eren are friends, right? He’ll like whatever you give him, don’t worry,” he said.

Your father had a point, actually. Eren seemed pretty happy-go-lucky. Maybe you shouldn’t focus so much on getting him something that you weren’t sure he’d like and instead give him something of your own that you already liked. That way he would be certain to like it.

Yes, this was a course of action that you were perfectly pleased to follow. Abruptly stopping your tantrum, you shot upstairs, digging through your closet until you could find something of yours he might like.

You didn’t think he would like any of your dresses or skirts, and you doubted they would fit him anyways. Your shoes wouldn’t go on his feet, either, so all of your clothes were out. What, then? What did you own that Eren might want to keep as a present?

Your dolls! You frowned, for you didn’t want to part with them, but it would make your friend happy. They were the perfect gift! You gathered them into a bag and, with one final, sad look at them, closed it and rejoined your parents in the living room.

“What have you got there?” your mother said.

“My dolls! They’re going to be Eren’s birthday present,” you explained.

“All of them?” your father checked. You nodded slowly.

“Yup! He’s three years old, papa, that’s really big! He needs a big present. I think he will let me keep playing with them anyways, so it’s okay,” you said with a shrug. Your parents exchanged amused looks before smiling at each other, a secret smile that meant they were hiding something from you.

“If you’re sure, dear. You had best be off now, or you’ll be late,” your mother said, straightening your navy skirt for you so you looked nice for your visit to the Jaegers’. You beamed at her.

“Thanks! See you soon, mamma!” you said, waving at her as you and your father began to walk down the cobblestone road. You and Eren lived fairly close to each other, it seemed; his house was only a ten minute walk from your own. You skipped ahead the whole way. It was a beautiful day to have a birthday, with the sun shining and a soft breeze threading its fingers through your hair.

“Ay, lassie, now where are you off to?” a Garrison officer you recognized to be Mr. Hannes said jovially when you passed by him.

“It’s Eren’s birthday party! He’s three now, can you believe it?” you said.

“Is that so? Tell the little bugger I said happy birthday, then, won’t you?” Mr. Hannes said.

“Sure, Mr. Hannes! Did y’know I’m going to be three in a few months and then I’ll have a baby brother?” you said. Mr. Hannes put his cup down and squatted so that your faces were level and you could have a proper conversation.

“Little Y/N’s going to be a big sister? This I’ve gotta see!” he said.

“That’s right! I’m going to be older and smarter than your baby brother, just like Eren is older and smarter than me,” you said seriously. Mr. Hannes let out a booming laugh.

“Ah, lassie, I’d wager you’re quite a bit smarter than that crazy boy,” he said.

“But Eren knows so many big words,” you said, unsure of how it was even possible for you to be smarter than your slightly older friend.

“Yeah? He sure has big opinions, I’ll give him that. I swear, everything about that kid is too big for these walls. If one thing’s for certain, it’s that he’s going to change things around here, mark my words. Now, will it be for the better? Well, I just don’t know,” Mr. Hannes said, shaking his head.

“Huh?” you said.

“By the Walls, Hannes, what have you been putting in your drinks? They’re making you all philosophical! Let poor little Y/N go to her party,” a Garrison captain named Mr. Orion said.

“Right! Have fun, lassie!” Mr. Hannes said, patting you on the head affectionately. Your mind was already racing with thoughts of Eren’s birthday celebration and the promised chocolate cake, so you did not pay much attention to the two men, leaving them behind without pause.

“Are you going to knock?” your father said as you stood, petrified, in front of the Jaeger house’s door. What if Eren didn’t want to see you? What if it wasn’t actually his birthday? What if it was his birthday, but he had forgotten? There were so many ways this could go wrong that you were beginning to regret coming.

Thankfully, it seemed that somebody had heard your approach, as the door was opened by a woman with long dark hair in a loose ponytail and warm, light brown eyes. She seemed surprised to see you standing in your nicest clothes, your hair tied back with a white ribbon and a bag in your tiny hands.

“Hello, darling. Is something the matter?” she said, her soft and lovely voice soothing. You blushed lightly.

“Isn’t today Eren’s birthday party?” you said shyly. Her face cleared, and she nodded.

“Oh, yes, it is, but you’re the only one that’s come. I’m afraid Eren’s in his room, a little bit upset. You can go talk to him if you want,” she said, waving at your father, who had begun to make his way back home with a promise to come get you after dinner.

“Which room is his?” you said, looking around at all of the doors, not wanting to walk in on something you shouldn’t see.

“That one, all the way at the end of the hallway. Tell me if he’s being rude, okay? Being upset isn’t a free pass to be a jerk,” Mrs. Jaeger said.

“Okay, Mrs. Jaeger, but Eren is really nice! He won’t be rude!” you said confidently, trotting down the hall to knock on the door.

“Go away,” a muffled grumble came through the thick wood. Well, never mind. You used your free hand to knock again.

“I said go away, mom! I don’t want to talk about it!” he shouted.

“Your mom said you’re not allowed to be mean to me!” you shouted back. There was a thump, and then the door opened, revealing a sullen looking Eren.

“I thought you were my mom,” he muttered.

“But I’m not your mom. I’m Y/N,” you said.

“Yeah, obviously. What are you doing here?” he said. You presented him with the bag of dolls.

“It’s your birthday! Happy birthday!” you said. He looked in the bag before scoffing.

“Dolls? Really?” he said, tossing the bag haphazardly backwards. You felt tears well up in your eyes. How could he have treated your beloved dolls so carelessly?

“They were my favorites. I thought you would like them,” you sniffed. Eren seemed alarmed at your sudden crying fit, and he darted back into his room, neatly organizing the dolls at record speed.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, I really really like them!” he assured you. Your tears instantly dried as you gave him a wavering smile.

“Really?” you said.

“Uh-huh. They’re really cool, but now you won’t have any,” he said.

“Oh. I guess not,” you said. Eren crossed his arms and scowled as he attempted to puzzle out a solution to the now-evident problem. Finally, he smiled as he arrived upon the answer.

“I’ll let you borrow them! That way you can still use them!” he said. You gasped. Eren was, without a doubt, a genius.

“Thank you so much! But why were you angry earlier?” you said, remembering his angry mood when he had opened the door. Eren frowned, a storm cloud settling on his features again.

“Nobody came to my party,” he said.

“I came,” you said.

“Oh yeah,” he said. You both were silent for a second, digesting this latest development. You were here. He was here. It might not have been what he had had in mind, but it was enough.

Leaning over to grab a piece of your hair, Eren pulled on it to get your attention. “Let’s go ask my mom for cake. I’ll bet she’ll give us the entire thing if we ask really nicely.”

“Is it chocolate?” you said.

“Think so. It smelled like chocolate in the house earlier, anyways, so I hope it is,” Eren said as the two of you joined his mother in the kitchen, where she was fussing about some pots and pans. Noticing you, she smiled.

“Hey, you guys! I see you got Eren to leave his room, Y/N. Thank you for that. Now, I heard you were promised cake,” Mrs. Jaeger said. Eren began bouncing up and down in place, and you nodded.

“Yeah, Eren said it was chocolate,” you said.

“Is it? Is it is it is it? Mom! I gotta know!” Eren whined. You were only marginally more composed. In truth, you were as eager as he was to have cake, but you were well aware of the fact that you were a guest in the Jaeger house; what’s more, this was your first visit there. It would not do for you to act spoiled and ruin your chances of being invited back.

“Yes, Eren, it is. Here you go. Make a wish!” she said, lighting the candles on top of the cake. Eren screwed his eyes shut before blowing out all of the candles in one breath.

“What did you wish for?” you said curiously.

“For us to always be friends and never be apart!” Eren declared.

“You’re not supposed to tell me! That ruins it!” you said, scandalized at the fact that he had fallen for it so easily. The worst part was that you wanted his wish to come true, too, but it couldn’t when he had said it out loud.

“Then why’d you ask?” he said, equally outraged.

“It seemed like the right thing to do!” you said.

“I’m sure you can make your wish come true even though you said it aloud,” Mrs. Jaeger intervened before you could continue to fight.

“I guess so. Okay, Eren, pinky swear that we’ll be friends forever?” you said, reaching your arm over the cake to interlock your pinky fingers.

“Yeah, okay, pinky swear,” he said as you shook your hands up and down to seal the deal.

“You guys got covered in icing!” Mrs. Jaeger cried out in dismay. You and Eren looked down at the now-ruined cake sheepishly.

“Sorry, mom,” he said.

“I’m really sorry,” you said.

“I’m sorrier!” Eren said.

“I’m the sorriest!” you shot back.

“Well I’m — I'm — I don’t know! More sorry than you!” he said.

“I’m the most sorry in the entire world!” you said.

“I’m the most sorry in the entire universe, times infinity!” he said. This made you stop.

“Wait, Eren, what’s infinity?” you said. Mrs. Jaeger had given up on admonishing you, taking a rag and wiping down your arms and attempting to salvage the cake.

“The biggest number ever!” he said, accepting a slightly squashed piece of cake from his mother gratefully. You did the same, keeping your eyes on Eren, fascinated with this new concept of infinity.

“Like bigger than one hundred?” you said. He nodded.

“Yeah, bigger than a hundred.”

“Bigger than a thousand?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

“Bigger than a million?”

“Yes!”

“What? That’s impossible!” you said. Eren frowned at you.

“Ask my mom. Mom, isn’t infinity the biggest number ever, even more than a million?” he said. Mrs. Jaeger hummed noncommittally.

“Yes, dear, it is. Now eat your cake,” she said, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek, “I can’t believe you’re three! My little baby’s growing up so much.”

“Soon I’ll be a grown up and I’ll live in a house far away, all by myself. Well, Y/N, you can come too because you came to my party and gave me your dolls,” he said magnanimously.

“Okay!” you agreed, trying to lick the icing off of your nose but failing miserably. Giving Mrs. Jaeger a doleful stare, you reached for the napkin she held in her hand. She laughed and cleaned your face for you.

“There you go. Was the cake good?” she said.

“It was the best. Will you make it for my birthday?” you said.

“If you want. Are you guys done?” she said, collecting your dirty dishes and putting them in the sink. You and Eren exchanged glances before nodding determinedly.

“Let’s go to my room and play!” Eren said, grabbing your hand and pulling you after him. You stumbled but followed as he slammed the door behind you, sitting criss-cross on the floor and giving you an expectant look. You sat across from him, cocking your head.

“What do you wanna do?” you said.

“Dunno. What do you wanna do?” he said. You shrugged.

“It’s your birthday, so you get to pick,” you said.

“Let’s play kickball,” he said.

“In your room?” you said, looking around in alarm. What if you knocked something over and it broke? Then you’d be in trouble. Eren clicked his tongue in irritation.

“No, silly Y/N, outside. But the ball is in my room so that nobody steals it, so we have to bring it outside,” he said, reaching up and grabbing a ball from his shelf and handing it to you. You looked it over before deeming it worthy to play with.

When you got outside, you were faced with two problems. One, there was not a field large enough to play a proper game of kickball nearby. Two, even if there was, you did not have enough people to make teams.

“Now what?” Eren groaned.

“We can just pass the ball back and forth,” you offered, kicking it towards him. He trapped it with his foot and kicked it forwards a few steps. You ran to catch up with him and accept his pass.

“Don’t you find this boring?” Eren said a few minutes later. You shook your head.

“No, not really. Why, are you bored?” you said.

“Maybe a little bit. How aren’t you? We’re just doing the same thing over and over, like animals or something,” he scoffed.

“I don’t mind. I like spending time with you! Even if it’s not particularly exciting sometimes. You’re really exciting all on your own,” you said. Eren kicked the ball at you particularly hard, and it far overshot you, hitting a different kid about your age straight in the back of the head. When he turned, you recognized him to be the son of one of your neighbors, Oskar Zimmerman.

“Hey, Oskar! Can you give us our ball back?” you said. He looked surprised to see you standing with Eren.

“Y/N?” he called. You gave him a thumbs up.

“Yeah, it’s me! Our mothers sometimes have tea together, remember? Now can you pass us our ball or not?” you said.

“This ball? Like the one that hit me in the head?” he said.

“I guess so? Sorry about that,” you said. He looked conflicted before tossing it gently towards you.

“There you go. See you around, Y/N and, uh...what’s your name again?” he said to Eren.

“This is —” you began to introduce Eren, who scoffed and yanked you away by the arm, leaving poor Oskar confused.

“Forget about it,” he muttered.

“You aren’t going to make more friends by not meeting people, you know,” you said, holding the ball under your arm and marching behind Eren.

“I don’t want to be friends with Oskar. He’s a stupid meanie,” he said.

“Eren! Those are bad words!” you reproached. You had been told to never use words like ‘stupid’ or ‘mean’ when talking about people. It wasn’t nice.

“I don’t care. It’s true,” he said. You were torn. After all, Oskar had never been anything but nice to you, yet at the same time, Eren was your friend.

“Wait. Eren, are we friends?” you said, realizing it had never been made official. All thoughts of Oskar were forgotten as you were preoccupied with this bigger problem.

“Yeah, ’course we are,” he said as you placed the ball back on the ground and began to idly dribble it back and forth. Eren smiled cheekily and stole the ball from you.

“...best friends?” you said. You had never had a best friend before, but if anybody deserved the designation, it was Eren. He did not even have to think about it.

“Best friends, times infinity!” he said, offering you the ball again. You accepted it with a firm nod.

“Good. You won’t, like, forget about me, right? When you’re older than me?” you said.

“Duh, I’m already older than you, and I haven’t forgotten about you yet, have I?”

“Oh, yeah. Wanna go play with our dolls?”

“Sure. I’ll race you back home.”

“Hey! You have to wait and say start if you’re going to race, cheater!” you shouted as he ran away, snickering.

Being around Eren was like staring at the sun. Everything about him, his presence and personality and the way he smiled, was burned into your retinas, so that when you closed your eyes, all you could see was him. He was blinding and bright, and yet for all his radiance, he never made you seem any dimmer. His warmth only illuminated you further, his golden glow bringing out the pink in your cheeks and the subtle hues in your irises.

Your birthday came and went. You were three now, the same as Eren. He had not been able to come to your party, disappointing both of you immensely. Oskar had been there, as well as a little blond boy named Armin whose grandfather worked with your father. Armin didn’t like you, or at least you didn’t think he did. He kept to himself, flinching whenever someone came near, so you and the other children left him mostly alone, besides the five minutes you spoke to him to give him some cake.

It had only been a week since you had turned three when your mother went into labor. It was late at night, and you were supposed to be asleep, but your father was running around the house frantically, and the doctor was there, his even tone doing nothing to calm anybody. So you sat in your dark room on your bed, hugging your knees to your chest, wishing it would all be over soon.

The door opened a crack, a beam of brilliant light shining, revealing the doctor’s son standing there, his jade eyes shimmering with childish wisdom.

“What’s going on, Eren?” you said quietly, for if anybody knew what was happening, it was him. He crept into your room and sat beside you on your bed, staring out the window at the moon.

“Your baby brother is being born,” he said.

“Is it cool?” you said. He wrinkled his nose.

“Nah, it’s pretty gross,” he said.

“Yucky,” you said.

“Super yucky,” he affirmed, “The moon is really pretty though.”

“I like the sun more,” you said.

“But it’s so hot. The moon is better,” he said.

“I guess you’re right, but I still like the sun more. That’s okay though! We can still be best friends, right?” you said. Eren laughed.

“Yeah, we can. Oh, hey, I made you something. For your birthday. Since I missed it,” he said, fishing around in his pocket before pulling something out and handing it to you. It was a tiny origami puppy, with a face drawn clumsily on it in black marker. You accepted it gingerly and placed it on your nightstand, taking care not to damage it in any way. Then you turned back and hugged him tightly.

“It’s so cute! It looks like Merry!” you said. Eren delightedly hugged you back.

“That’s what I was basing it off of!” he said.

“It’s so good! I love it! Thank you! I’m glad we’re best friends,” you said. You were interrupted by a scream from downstairs, and you gave Eren a wide eyed look. He seemed unaffected.

“It’s okay. Giving birth is really painful. Your mom’s fine,” he assured you, allowing you to find refuge in his embrace.

“Are you sure?” you said.

“Yup. My dad’s a really good doctor. She’ll be okay, and then you’ll have a baby brother...and then I won’t have to come visit you anymore,” he said, his tone dropping when he realized that once your mother wasn’t pregnant, his father wouldn’t have an excuse to come to your house, thereby ending your friendship.

“Yes you will! You promised to let me borrow your dolls to play, so we have to still visit each other all of the time. You can meet my baby brother, too!” you said.

“That’s true,” he said with a yawn. You mirrored his actions, and he immediately stopped to glare at you.

“Stop copying me!” he whined.

“I’m not!” you said.

“You are! I yawned and then you yawned! You’re copying!” he said.

“’M just tired!” you said, yawning again.

“Then go to sleep,” he said.

“You can sleep with me! Like a sleepover!” you said, taken with your own brilliance and immediately burrowing under your covers.

“I guess dad will take a while...so sure! Okay, goodnight!” he said, diving in next to you and pulling the blankets up over your shoulders.

Your mother’s cries of pain continued through the night until your brother was finally, blessedly brought into this world, though her shouts were quickly replaced with the baby’s wailing. Your parents and Dr. Jaeger were all exhausted as they began to take care of the small child, but upstairs, you and Eren slept soundly. Eren was far too used to his father’s line of work to even care, and you were convinced that your best friend, in all of his seemingly omnipotent glory, would somehow ensure that your mother and baby brother would be okay.

They were both fine. Eren had been right. Well, of course he had been right. He was older and smarter than you. You could trust him. You did trust him.

You shouldn’t have trusted him, but that was something you would not find out for many years to come.