#but I have like half oaf an outline!!

[iminagony2]

oaky new chapter SOON liek actually LOL ! ! its almost done !!!

[write-ur-wrongs]

Thank you sweet anon for your request!! Again, I didn’t fully proof-read this bad boy so please forgive the errors! I hope you enjoy some angry Jealous!Geralt!

A/N Request: Geralt meeting your ex who thinks that you're still together/or tries to get you back in front of geralt?

The great hall was alive with royals and nobility alike. Laughter and chatter mingled easily with the sound of the band’s lively jig and the soft tinkering of fine cutlery.

The hosts had expected you and Geralt to make an appearance at dusk, but neither of you were particularly fond of all the fuss royalty liked to put up, so it wasn’t until long past sunset that you joined the party. Jaskier on the other hand, was overjoyed at the prospect of attending such an illustrious affair. He’d put up a fuss around noon and insisted he be allowed to take Roach so that he could arrive in time to make a strong impression with all in attendance. Of course, Geralt had refused, so he had gone off on foot, strutting and sighing dramatically.

Now, as you and Geralt did your best to navigate the already flushed crowd, you found yourself wishing you’d arrived sooner. It was easier to avoid people when they were being stifled by a sobering social awkwardness; after hours of ales and fine wine, however, people seemed to get a little too comfortable for your liking.

“I hate these ridiculous evenings,” Geralt grumbled, holding his arms close to his body uncomfortably.

“Maybe if we saved less lives,” you said, biting back a smile, “they’d be less inclined to insist we attend.”

Geralt only responded with a grunt and a roll of his eyes, which made you laugh lightly as you looped your arm through his and led him deeper into the crowd.

“C’mon love,” you said, a slight tease to your tone, “let’s find the free food and drink we were promised, yeah?”  

You laughed again as he fought back a smile. “Atta boy Geralt, don’t smile too much or you’ll ruin your reputation as the big bad wolf.”  

“Will you shut up,” he muttered, handing you a goblet of wine.

“I don’t think I will,” you said downing the wine in one go, “and could you hand me an ale?”

“I don’t think I will,” he teased, kissing your temple lightly before handing you his mug to share. You take a slow sip, your eyes twinkling as you held Geralt’s gaze, already feeling the liquor warming you from the inside. You hand him back his drink and kiss him lightly in thanks.

“Do you want to –”

You were both pulled away from your conversation by a loud clang from across the room. Geralt furrowed his brows and turned towards the sound quickly, untangling his arm from yours before reaching for his sword. He immediately relaxed as the familiar shouts and accusations resounded through the hall.

You collectively sighed your frustration as you saw Jaskier get chased into a corner by an angry nobleman; no doubt his latest conquest’s husband, who was not quite as pleased to hear the bard’s dulcet tones.

“It’s your turn,” Geralt said, downing his ale before reaching for a second helping.

“I don’t think so! I’m the one who saved him from that fisherman at the last village! It’s your turn,” you said, poking him in the chest before stealing his mug and holding it away from him.

“Actually,” he said, his low gravelly voice reverberating through you as he leaned across your body to grab his drink from your hand, “it was my turn at the last village, but you just couldn’t help yourself and jumped in to save the day. Rules are rules my dove; it’s your turn.”

You scoffed incredulously at his nerve, but shook your head in resignation; he was right after all, the rules you outlined were clear and the cycling of turns was strict.

“Well fuck. I’m taking this ale though,” you said, clapping him on the shoulder before stalking off towards the commotion.

Geralt chuckled lowly and leaned against a marble pillar, marveling at the way you made your way through the crowd. A wandering waiter came by and offered him another ale which he accepts with a polite smile, not taking his eyes off you.

He loved watching you de-escalate social situations. Sometimes it was comforting to know that he wasn’t the only one who just melted when you spoke to them directly – you were effortlessly charming and completely disarming. You once managed to convince a band of attacking thieves to stand down so efficiently that by the end of the night, they ended up joining you for dinner around the fire. Yes, Geralt was the professional when it came to handling monsters, but you were the people person of the group.

Watching you now was no exception. Your body language, the way your warm smiled reached your eyes with ease, how smoothly you managed put yourself between Jaskier and the furious man; it was impressive to say the least.

Unfortunately, his attention was pulled away from you suddenly.

“I can’t believe Y/N is here tonight, I thought I’d never see her again!”

At the sound of your name, Geralt whipped his head in the direction of the speaker, cat-like eyes scanning the crowd swiftly.

“Yeah, the very same Y/N I’ve told you about. An amazing lay, I swear it!”

The man in question was holding court half a dozen other knights; they kept snickering and looking off at you in turns. They were teasing him, egging him on for details.

“She’s not as sweet as she looks,” the man stated confidently, “don’t let that smile fool you gentlemen. The last time I took her was in an alley! The little whore was mad for it – couldn’t wait for it, needed it right there and then.”

Geralt was fuming.

He pushed his way through the crowd with great force and little care. He was worried about your honour. Your reputation in the courts – that was all. That was enough to explain the way rage seethed through him and the strange urge to be sick that was hitting him in waves. He was concerned for you as a partner and a friend.

He wasn’t jealous.

“Gods her skin… smelled so good, felt even better… I’m getting her back tonight gents,” he boasted, puffing out his chest.

“You don’t have a chance,” said the knight closest to the bastard bragging about shagging you, “it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other, and if she’s as good as you say, she definitely found someone new.”

Damn right, Geralt thought furiously, swallowing the bile bubbling at the back of his throat.

“No, no, believe me the way she mewled and screamed for me? She’ll do more than remember,” he said, disgusting confidence dripping off every word, “she’ll beg to have me back.”

You’ll beg for mercy when I crush your fucking skull you pathetic –

His murderous march was abruptly interrupted by Jaskier. The bard cut in front of him and planted himself squarely before him, chattering on incomprehensibly.

Geralt’s eyes were bugging out in panic as he watched the bastard strut confidently towards you. He tried to push past Jaskier but the bard was quick to match him in posture.

“Look I know you’re upset with me for ruining your evening but she came after me,” he insisted, “I mean I can’t blame her the song his perhaps my most romantic sonnet. Speaking of my writing – Geralt can you look at me when I am sharing my musings with you, please? Thank you – as I was saying, Y/N inspired me tonight to write this song –”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, “move!”

“Wha – why?” Jaskier pivoted on the spot – keeping Geralt’s path blocked – as he sought the source of his friends’ fury. When he saw that you were speaking politely to some knight he scoffed loudly before turning back.

“Oh-ho, no,” he laughed, “you’re jealous of that oaf? Geralt, seriously?”

“I am not jealous,” he spat, only able to look at Jaskier for a moment before his glare shot back up towards you.

“She’s just being polite! Seriously you always assume the worst in people, Geralt, it’s sad.”

“I see people as they are,” he muttered, watching closely as the knight took a half-step towards you, he let out a menacing growl when you didn’t step backwards. “For what they are.”

“Okay then why can’t you see that’s just some poor sap who, I don’t know, maybe wants to thank Y/N for her help in saving this kingdom.”

“Shut up, will you? I’m trying to hear what they’re saying.”

“You don’t need a Witchers’ hearing to know what’s happening over there,” he brambled on putting on voices as he acted out the conversation, “’Hi I’m Y/N’, ‘Hi I’m an unimportant but very grateful knight, pleased to meet you blah blah blah…”

“Fuck, Jaskier, shut UP –” he stopped himself when he heard your laugh, the deep full laugh you normally reserved for him.

Jaskier heard your laugh too, and turned his head to double check he’d heard right. When he saw the familiar twinkle in your eye, he looked Geralt with wide eyes.

“They know each other?” he asked.

“They,” he started, struggling to get the words out, “t-they knew each other.”

“Wait you don’t mean,” Jaskier started, connecting the dots, “that they knew each other intimately?” He wagged his fingers suggestively as he said the last word.

When Geralt’s only reply was a low, seething hum, Jaskier whistled lowly before shaking his head.

“Well that explains,” he waved his hands vaguely at Geralt, “this reaction.”

Geralt was about to shove the bard aside when he saw you waving him over. You were smiling widely as you waved, but it didn’t reach your eyes. He cleared his throat and pushed Jaskier lightly before charging towards you with the bard in tow.

“Ah, finally!” you exclaimed, swiftly wrapping your arms around his bicep, pulling him close, “Geralt, I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Hoeck. Hoeck this is Geralt, my partner,” as you spoke, you moved to loop his arm around your waist, “and this is Jaskier, he’s responsible for the wonderful music tonight.”

“The White Wolf,” said Hoek, sizing Geralt up, “wow - what an honour.”

He hummed in acknowledgement and took the knight’s hand in a tight grip, feeling immense satisfaction watching the man wince.

“And -erm, thank you sir Jaskier, for the wonderful music,” he said, trying and failing to subtly rub at his hand.

“Thank you, good sir. I speaking of, I should get back out there.” He shot you and Geralt a look and swung his lute around his back before strumming a few notes. “If you’ll excuse me.”

You all nodded to him as he strode off, beckoning the band to join him.

An awkward silence settled over the three of you. Geralt was clearly seething as he held your waist in a tighter grasp than necessary. After a beat, you shot Hoek a tight-lipped smile and made up some excuse about needing to say hello to the king and queen before the night came to a close.

“Ah certainly,” he said, disappointment obvious, “well if you ever find yourself in need of company –”

“I won’t,” you said quickly.

“She won’t,” Geralt growled, his deep voice overlapping with yours.

At that, the knight swallowed thickly and walked back towards his group with tail between his legs and his hand held close to his chest.

Once alone, you turned in Geralt’s arms and looked up at his sour face accusingly.

“Why did it take you so long to come rescue me!” you said, tugging playfully at his hair.

“Didn’t look like you wanted to be saved,” he said lowly, eyes still alight with jealousy, “and Jaskier got in my way.”

“That’s a shit excuse and a weak lie. He was all over me! It took all I had not to rip the bastard’s arms off!” you said, a nervous laugh bubbling out of you. “Gods he has some nerve.”

“Hm,” he hissed, “you’re right about that.”

“Geralt,” you looked up at him carefully and gently caressed the crease between his brows, “this is more than jealousy. What’s going on?”

Geralt hesitated before relaxing his face into your hand and took a small sigh. “It’s nothing. And I’m not jealous.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, “Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, he brought his eyes down to meet yours.

“Thank you,” you said, cupping his face before moving your hands to rest on his chest, “can you talk to me?”

“Don’t be patronizing,” he warned.

“Don’t be obstinate,” you countered.

Geralt rolled his eyes at you before pulling you closer to him. “Maybe I was a little jealous, and maybe,” he sighed deeply, “I was a little worried.”

“Geralt,” you started, your heart breaking at the sight of him, “you have nothing to worry about when it comes to us. I need you to know that.”

“I do,” he said quietly, “but the way he was talking about you – knowing he had been with you in that way...” Geralt stopped himself as he felt his anger come roaring back at the memory. “I wanted to kill him.”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t have been upset with you if you had,” you said, jokingly, trying to lighten the mood a little. Your time with Hoek was beyond brief; he was nice enough at first but quickly he became aggressive and possessive. You couldn’t help but cringe when you looked back on your time together and you hated that your beloved witcher was letting this get to him.

“Oh, Geralt,” you murmured when you realized he wasn’t letting up, “I’m yours. Completely and unwaveringly yours.” You kissed his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips.

He kissed you back slowly at first, but his kiss deepened as you leaned into him. Geralt pulled away just a little and rested his forehead against yours.

“Y/N… I’m – I love you so much…” he whispered, “it’s just… the things he said about you –” he started, hating himself for needing to hear your side of the story.

“Either untrue or exaggerated, that I can promise.”

“Something about an alley…?” Geralt asked, holding his breath.

“Oh ew! That was a terrible night,” you shuddered, “he was so insistent! Wouldn’t take no for an answer – Wait, what was he saying about it? Gods, maybe I’ll kill him.” Anger and humiliation burned at the back of your throat.

Seeing your visceral reaction, Geralt was immediately overcome by feelings of guilt, for making you relive the memory, relief, that your reaction was so negative, and rage, knowing that not only did this pompous ass make forceful advances on you but he always lied about it to a crowd.

Feeling the intensity of your anger radiating off you, Geralt was about to suggest that the two of you left before you did anything you’d regret when Jaskier came running through the crowd shouting that it was time to leave.

You took off running behind the bard, holding Geralt’s hand tightly as you raced down the castle’s corridors.

“Why are we running?” you shouted, a little breathless.

“I might have added a little something to our charming friend’s drink, and he might be having a very intense negative reaction to it!” he said over his shoulder.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed through fits of laughter, “Jaskier!”

“He’ll be fine! Eventually!” he added, he turned and ran backwards so he could shoot you a wink before adding, “No one messes with our girl, right Geralt?”

Geralt rolled his eyes at his friend before he ran up behind you and scooped you up bridal-style – all without breaking his stride.

“Damn right,” he said, smiling widely at Jaskier before planting a quick kiss to your temple.

[malibumiu]

[Shy stud Makoto AU]

for @makoto-naegi-ultimate-stud contains naejunko this one is just fluff

----

Makoto sighed as he leaned back against the grass, he adjusted a few times just to get settled on the ground normally he would use his blazer as a thin blanket of sorts but thanks to his new size. (which remind him that he needed to go to town this weekend to hopefully grab a new one he might have enough if not...maybe sex counts as payment right?) The blazer made use as a makeshift pillow if balled it up enough so if was fine. 

He was a secluded corner on the grounds of school, well it was a bit more in the reserve course territory but none of them really came over to this spot since it was so close on Ultimate’s terf. It was the same Ultimates too close to the reserve course. Which was fine by the stud, it was a place that he found rather sacred even now with his new form, he was away for now at least. From horny classmates and staff, semi-aggressive and overly-obvious jealous guys it was just him and nature. With the soft chirping of birds and gentle winds whispering to him, he closed his eyes and ignored the world around him.

Junko hummed as she trotted around the courtyard, but she wasn’t doing this for a leisurely stroll no no! Junko Enoshima was on a mission for a big guy with a equally big stupid heart, with as big as he was it was a surprise he managed to slip out of any of his peers eye sight. So now she knew at least half of the girls were on a scavenger hunt to find the stud even her own bitch of a sister was. But unlike her and many of those other hussies, she had an ultimate that could even surpass the ultimate detective, she was the ultimate analyst. She could predict anything, and find infinite ways to do said things, but when it came to Makoto even when she first met him she couldn’t predict him. Not him, not his cycle, not anything there was no telling what Makoto Naegi could do despite his average looks. But this time it seemed she was at an advantage.

Taking a turn the fashionista scanned the environment around her, the difference in the area could be told, as one side appear more greener, prestige and well kept compared to the other side of the invisible line where there was particles of discarded items and the grass was more brown and dying she predicted that it at least has week or 2 left before it died completely. ANYWAYS! There was a point where said invisible line ended at the end of it led to a small field that connected to the woods. The grass there was combined making it taller along with the seasonal flowers and fallen leaves and branches scattered about. She walked closer, having a sneaking suspicion that the herbivore man was over here (he was even in a herbivorous habitat how convenient) her suspicion was right as after treading through the grass for a bit she came across his slumbering body indented in the grass. She could make out the outline of his pecs and abs from his tad too tight n’ thin dress shirt, his chest heaving up and down, she wonders if the button straining on his uniform will hold. Muscular arms relaxed as they were situated behind his head, he looked rather peaceful even a bit boyish. His ahoge appeared to be slack for once bobbing along to beat of the wind, she scoffed in amusement. 

She was tempted to just to climb on top of him, maybe surprise him or his manhood both perhaps and maybe worked up enough to the point where he could pound her ass into the ground-.

“Mmm..Junko?” 

A yawn escaped Makoto’s lips as shifted around, his hazel eyes lazily focusing on her. She gave him a smirk as she lowered herself down onto him directly on top of his zipper, she shivered a bit she could already feel his bulge though he was flaccid it wouldn’t be for long beginning to move her hips rubbing herself on him. “The one and only babe~” 

“O-Oh mm” He mumbled letting out another yawn, “Do you wanna join me?”

She stopped, “Huh?” 

“Like for you know a nap you models do take those right?” 

She wacked his abs earning a small yelp from him repositioning herself, legs on either side spread open giving him a nice view of her blacked laced panties she wiggled her hips to try and entice him.  

“Of course I do but~” she wiggled again more aggressively this time, “ Wouldn’t you rather spend some time in me instead?” The image of her getting savagely pounded into the ground with the slight possibility of someone passing by and witnessing their shameless interourse...Ooh just the thought made her tingle with excitement.

“Mmm” Suddenly she felt big hands around her waist suddenly she felt her head squish against something rather soft. The hand moved up from her waist and gently patted her head which felt...rather nice.

“You trying to feel me up with your own chest you hunk?” she teased, rubbing against him her own bosom was rather large, easily overfilling one or even two hands any normal man would be 

practically drooling at the sight of them. But as normal as Makoto claimed to be he didn’t get all blushly or stuttering mess or anything..well not right now at least. 

“W-Wha? Nooo Junko come on just relax with me…” he muttered again, tightening his grip on her waist sealing her fate. 

She let out a dramatic sigh, but still snuggled closer to the man, she had to admit the tight grip he had on her wasn’t an uncomfortable one in fact it was rather comforting…(I-it's not like she liked it or anything!!) She was honestly a little disappointed when he stopped patting her head, she knew the big oaf was probably dozed off into stupid lala land with one of those other bitches. (but she ugh HOPED that it was her, after all it would be rude not to the dream about the fucking hot model laying on him!!) 

“Hey Junko..” His voice came out more timid than normal, more like when she first met him it was so weird to hear it now. “..Thank you for deciding to relax with me and...not alerting everyone.” Junko blinked and slowly went to stare up at him, her usually electric blue eyes were flat and blank with an expression he couldn’t really read...it scared him a bit did he say something wrong? Oh god should he have just done something else? Should he have gone back to his fantasy- A soft and more cheerful sounding laugh filled his ear, Makoto nearly thought to look around because a laugh like shouldn’t have come from the Junko Enoshima but it did! They didn’t even fuck and somehow he broke her!

“Geeeeez Big mac you’re soooooo sappy sometimes it's gross,” She said a sickly sweet voice “Are you that drained from us completely?” ‘’Us’ hah... Us and seemingly every other girl and milf that comes within a mile radius of me.’ It's not that he really minded the stares he got though it took sometime to get used to it. But as much as he enjoyed the girls and their endless endeavors of seduce him which leads more often not to them fucking even he valued his alone time (after all his balls did need to restock, his sperm wasn’t completely everlasting you know.)  

“No! No! It's not that and you know that!..” He sometimes wonders why Junko seems to like to play these kinds of mind games (and why he falls for them), being the Ult Analyst and all but then again a bored Junko often becomes scarily mischievous Junko so its better to entertain her ideas than ignore them. 

“Phuhuhu.. Don’t get a knot in your cock peasant! Of course the court knows why~.” The haughty tone in her voice already told him all he needed to know ‘Of course she knows she always does Makoto.’ 

He rolled his eyes before nuzzling his head back into a comfortable position, letting the sun’s rays beat down the heat making him drowsy. He could feel Junko squirming around before settling down. A comfortable silence formed between the two, the only noise being that of the air around them, for just even a moment it was peaceful in the fields of Hope’s Peak.

“Hey Makoto…” Junko called out softly almost like a whisper, “Don’t get the wrong fucking idea but maybe...could we do whatever the hell this is...sometime…again?” A beaming smile as bright as the near sun in the sky had formed one the stud’s face, how dare it made her sadistic little heart race?!

“O-Of course Junko! Just let me know-” A finger forcefully pressed itself up against his lips, her red pointed nail touched the tip of his nose.

“Shut the fuck up!” she hissed, “Someone might hear us! The last thing I need is those damn hussies trying to steal this away from me!” After whipping her head from side to ensure she saw no one she let out a sigh and repositioned herself yet again, this time laying directly on top of the stud. Their chest squished together she lazily fiddled with a stand of his hair, a neutral expression her face the latter took this as a moment to speak again. 

“I’d be happy to do this again with you Junko, and don’t worry..” he gave her a wink, a twinkle in his eye. “I can keep a secret.”

“Hmph! You better,” she muttered, “Look what you did all that yelling got me worked up! You're going to repay me by being my body pillow!”

“Wha-”

“Let's pop these titties free bitch!” hastily she ripped off the two straining buttons from the top of his shirt, his pecs now somewhat free. She had to move a bit to lay on them more comfortably without her own breast getting in the way but once she got comfortable she found herself dozing off, the soft beating of his heart music to her ears. 

‘Man… girls can be strange.’ (He thinks as a girl types out this line)

Without another thought the stud closed his eyes again, this time there were no interruptions just him, Junko and the sounds of nature around. And in that time n’ moment that's all he cared about.

[megabadbunny]

Aural Fixation

He can’t say he’s imagined such things (because he hasn’t, would never; big dumb sexless space oaf, that’s him) but if he were to start, he might imagine that’s a sound Rose makes during arousal.

Not that he’d know. Or imagine. Because he doesn’t and he hasn’t.

(Warning: here there be smuts.)

***

CLANK.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

Halfway down the hall, the Doctor chuckles. “Need any help in there?”

Another clank, and he can just make out the sound of Rose swearing under her breath. “No,” she calls back.

“Really? Cos it sounds like you picked a fight with the wardrobe,” the Doctor teases, “and you’re losing.”

A loud Ka-CHUNK sounds in response. “I’m fine!” Rose insists stubbornly.

Shaking his head, the Doctor laughs. “What could you possibly be doing to cause that racket?” he asks, doubling back toward the wardrobe room.

“It’s not me, it’s this stupid busted thing,” says Rose’s voice, and the Doctor steps inside the room to see the outline of her body, silhouetted against the back of a folding-screen; from the looks of it, this stupid busted thing refers to the automatic lace-puller, attached to Rose’s silhouette by two shadow-strings. Normally cheerfully upright, the outline of the lace-puller is now slumped, wheezing a little, and yep, that’s the faintest hint of smoke rising from its vents.

The Doctor tsks. Only got a couple of centuries out of the thing. Typical rubbish Grishtal workmanship.

“Sure you don’t need help?” the Doctor asks.

“Not unless you know how to lace up a corset.”

“I’m sure I can figure it out,” he replies confidently, striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

Rose laughs. “I dunno, you might be—”

Without warning, the Doctor pushes the folding-screen aside to find Rose standing between a mirror and the auto-lacer, hair coiffed, corset half-laced and strings pulled taut, wearing nothing else but a pair of extremely anachronistic (not to mention extremely tiny) knickers. She’s staring at him over her shoulder, wide eyes growing wider, pink cheeks blooming pinker.

“—surprised,” she finishes breathlessly, and neither of them are laughing now.

Fortunately, the Doctor’s mind is a far more impressive machine than the auto-lacer, and its many many gears and cogs only falter for the briefest of moments. It’s nothing to be shocked by, after all. Rose or not, there’s nothing unusual about the display in front of him. It’s just a body. A human body. They’re all more or less the same. Skin, hair, curves. Undergarments. Surprisingly small undergarments that hide very little. Nothing to be startled about. Certainly nothing to bluster over.

“What are you wearing those for?” he blurts out, staring at the pants, and internally kicks himself.

Rose’s eyebrow piques incredulously. “You want to know why I’m wearing knickers?”

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “No, I’m saying that if you’re gonna go through the effort to put on something historically accurate like that—” he says, gesturing to the corset, “—you might as well commit to the whole kit. You know. Bloomers and such.”

“What do you know about bloomers?” Rose laughs.

“I know modern-day pants are an anachronism.”

“And I know no one’s gonna be seeing them anyway. Well, except you now, I guess. Not totally sure you count, though,” she teases, looking the Doctor up and down.

“Gee, thanks,” the Doctor says wryly, watching as Rose struggles to pull her laces free of the auto-lacer’s vicelike grip. “I was gonna offer to help you with that, but now I’m thinking maybe I’ll just leave you to it.”

“No you won’t.”

“Oh no?” asks the Doctor, leaning lazily against a coral strut.

“Nope.” Rose shoots another look at him over her shoulder when he doesn’t move. “You’re too impatient for that.”

“Nah. See, patience is a skill, a discipline, acquired over trials and tribulations over the course of time. And me? I’ve been around for a bit. In fact,” the Doctor says smugly, crossing his arms, “I’d say I’ve had bouts of patience that lasted longer than you’ve been alive.”

Rose smiles at him, her gaze soft and warm, and really, it’s almost maddening, the instant effect that look has on him, the way it makes something go all honeyed in his chest. “Do you really want to stall your adventure just because your companion got trapped by the dressing-machine?” she asks sweetly. “Cos the whole stuck-in-the-car, waiting-cos-the-missus-ain’t-ready-yet bit sounds awfully domestic.”

The Doctor glares at her. Rose smiles at him beatifically, tongue trapped in her teeth. His eyes narrow. Her smile brightens.

Dammit.

“Next time,” he says, even as he grudgingly pushes off away from the strut, “we’re going somewhere and somewhen that does not require complicated underthings.”

“Fine by me,” replies Rose, watching in the mirror as the Doctor approaches the auto-lacer, scanning it with the sonic. Official diagnosis: it is, indeed, busted. “Wouldn’t have gone for the whole historical look anyway, ‘cept I remembered that run-in with the what-d’you-call-‘ems, Henry VIII’s fashion police,” Rose continues.

Chuckling, the Doctor adjusts the setting on the sonic, loosening the auto-lacer’s joints. “Those were just constables, I’m afraid. No fashion police, just coppers getting a little carried away enforcing local sumptuary laws, drunk on an ounce of power. Typical lower-level law enforcement.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t give you or Jack any trouble.”

“All right, sexist typical lower-level law enforcement.” Pulling the laces free from the machine, he turns to Rose. “Now, if you want to talk about literal fashion police—”

He tugs on the corset-laces and Rose stumbles back into him, gasping in surprise.

“Still earning those sea legs?” teases the Doctor.

“Git,” Rose laughs, pushing away. “Give a girl some warning, first!”

“Sort of thought this would give it away,” the Doctor says brightly, giving the laces another little tug.

Rose shoots a dirty look over his shoulder.

His responding grin is perfectly innocent. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Speaking of drunk on power,” Rose mutters, but she’s smiling when she says it, so the Doctor pays it no mind. This time, when the Doctor pulls on the laces, she doesn’t stumble, just rocks back a little. Inwardly, the Doctor grins at that. Her time aboard the TARDIS has earned her some decent sea-legs, after all.

Crossing the laces over each other, the Doctor threads them through the grommets, pulling them taut again, after. He repeats the pattern, pulling the laces snug each time, until he cinches a little tighter and Rose lets out a sharp breath in response.

“All right there?” he asks.

“S’fine,” she says, but in the mirror, she looks a little winded.

“I can loosen up.”

“It’s fine,” Rose repeats, straightening up a little. “Just—sometimes it sort of pushes the air out of your lungs, is all.”

The Doctor shrugs and sets back to work. Cross, weave, thread, pull.

Rose gasps.

Glancing up again, the Doctor frowns. “There’s no use in you getting all dolled-up if you can’t breathe.”

“I can breathe just fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t want you fainting in the middle of the opera.”

“Oh, god forbid I should miss the opera,” Rose teases.

“I mean it,” he says, and he starts lacing again. “You faint, I’m not lugging your dead weight around. Not with whatever massive frock you’re undoubtedly planning to wear over this.”

“Oh whatever, just take the dress off.”

Something goes funny in the Doctor’s stomach and he yanks the laces hard. Rose’s footing slips a little and she gasps, the sound just the littlest bit strangled this time. Before the Doctor has a chance to apologize, Rose shakes her head.

“Don’t stop,” she says, and is it him, or has her voice gone just a little bit breathy?

“Might as well get it over and done with,” she adds quickly.

Fair enough. He goes back to it, cross, weave, thread, pull, cross, weave, thread, pull, and the little sound that escapes Rose doesn’t sound like a gasp, so much as a—

Well. No. It sounds exactly like a gasp. Just not the sort of gasp one typically makes while one is getting dressed. He risks another look up at the mirror and oh no, no, that’s a mistake, because Rose isn’t looking him in the eye anymore, instead she’s staring into nothing, biting her lower lip so hard it’s gone white as her chest gently heaves, soft pink blooming over her décolletage. And if the Doctor didn’t know any better, he’d think he caught just the lightest whiff of pheromones dusting the air.

It suddenly occurs to the Doctor that his offer of help might have gotten him more than he bargained for.

He should stop, he thinks, before Rose cottons on that he’s cottoned on and things get awkward. Or, would that make it worse, if he stopped, and then Rose would know for certain that he knew? They’ve already established that he doesn’t really. Know, that is. About this sort of thing. Well, no, she knows he knows, but she doesn’t know how much he knows, and she still seems fairly convinced he doesn’t know anything at all. So.

So the surest way to maintain decorum is to play dumb, right? Play dumb, spare Rose’s blushes, preserve plausible deniability. Just be an idiot. Capital plan.

He crosses and weaves and threads and pulls again and Rose lets out another strangled noise and he can’t say he’s imagined such things (because he hasn’t, would never; big dumb sexless space oaf, that’s him) but if he were to start, he might imagine that’s a sound Rose makes during arousal.

Not that he’d know. Or imagine. Because he doesn’t and he hasn’t.

And he crosses and weaves, threads and pulls and crosses and weaves, threads and pulls again and she swallows back a pant and he accidentally looks up to see her in the mirror again, eyelashes fluttering, still biting that lower lip, biting so hard he’s surprised she hasn’t drawn blood, and her cheeks and ears have gone pink to match the blush of her chest, which, coincidentally, is getting more and more difficult for the Doctor to ignore, either due to its color or its motion or the fact that her breasts bloody damn well look like they’re about to escape this godsforsaken corset any second now—

Cross, weave, thread, yank and Rose stumbles backward again with the force of it, smacking into the Doctor with a bodily thud.

“Leverage!” he announces before either of them have a chance to react, because her face in the mirror and her body pulled against his are decidedly not helping things. “Need leverage to wrap up a task like this,” he adds, dropping the laces so he can grab Rose by the arms and walk her over to the nearest coral strut, blessedly out of the mirror’s view. “It’s all about the physics, see,” he continues, placing Rose’s hands on the strut. “Right amount of leverage, right amount of force; hang on and you’ll be sorted in a tic.”

He picks up the laces and pulls them again, pulls them tight and crosses and weaves and oh, oh no, oh this is even worse somehow than before, because now instead of Rose’s whole body rocking toward him, it’s just her hips and bum, inching back and forth with every tug of the strings, offering a graphic preview of what it would look like if—

Nope. Nope. Can’t think like that won’t think like that mustn’t think like that but it’s too late to change tactics now, just got to ignore the scent and the heat and the view and the sounds and her and move as quickly as possible, wrap this up before his stupid overactive senses pick up on anything else. Rose clings to the strut as he works, biting back her gasps from the sound of it, but the Doctor can still hear her breath trying to escape, can’t help but notice the trembling in her legs. He focuses intently on the work in front of him, fingers and hands working rapidly to finish, and if the laces miss a grommet or two—well, that’s not a flustered mistake. It’s a stylistic flourish. Yeah. He can work with that.

“Done,” he announces, and he’s very pleased with how even and calm his voice sounds despite everything rioting in his head, very pleased indeed. “The chore is complete; you have been properly cinched, tucked, and flattened in all the right places. The inability to properly breathe or move is now totally yours.”

“Thanks,” Rose laughs, and the Doctor pointedly ignores how shaky the sound is, the way she gulps for air.

“Need any help with anything else?” he asks, stepping back, hands firmly lodged in pockets. “Socks? Shoes? Hat?”

“Bloomers?” she jokes, turning to face him.

“What, and undo all my hard work? Should have thought about that before you put the corset on.”

“I’ll just pull ‘em on over top.”

“Rose,” replies the Doctor, all faux-scandalized mock-sternness. “Bloomers go on before the corset. Every time traveler knows that.”

Rolling her eyes, Rose crosses back to the mirror. “Well then, next time I’ll be sure to get your input before I get dressed,” she laughs shakily.

The Doctor watches her as she puts the finishing touches on her makeup. His eyes do not wander down the line of her shoulderblades or the exaggerated curve of her waist or the slope of her hips or the completely bare stretches of her legs, but stay firmly fixed on the reflection of her face in the mirror; the idea of a pre-clothing Rose is more intriguing than it has any right to be, but the Doctor pushes that to the side. It’s easy enough, now that the risk of imminent danger has passed.

She’s fine, now. He’s fine, always. Nothing happened, not really. Anyway they’re back in safe territory, where they belong. Even if it is secretly just a little bit satisfying to realize exactly what kind of effect he can have on her, if he so chooses.

He hides a grin. Luckily he, the Doctor thinks smugly, is not so easily affected.

“Unless you’ve got any other chores for me, I’ll leave you to it,” says the Doctor, stepping back. “But don’t take it easy just cos I’m not in here anymore. We’re still sticking to a strict schedule. Chop-chop.”

“You got it,” says Rose, lining her lips with lipstick. “Oh, and Doctor?” she calls, after he’s made it a few steps away.

He stops and turns. “What’s that?”

“Would you send Jack in here?”

His brow furrows in confusion, and once again, he resolutely ignores the view laid out in front of him. “Why?” he asks.

Finishing her lipstick, Rose meets his gaze in the mirror. “In case I need help with any other chores,” she says simply.

Shocked, the Doctor grasps for any kind of witty rejoinder, or any sense of anything really, any at all. But all he can do is turn and leave, before Rose sees him gaping like some kind of slack-jawed idiot.

Nope, he thinks furiously. Not affected at all.

 ***

 The incident is all but forgotten by the time Rose has finished getting ready (having taken her time about it, too, and demonstrating absolutely no remorse whatsoever), and by the time Jack is finished getting ready (how in all the hells did he manage to take even longer than Rose, the Doctor wonders?), the incident has left his brain entirely. Now he’s just tapping his foot impatiently, glancing down at his wristwatch every so often as Rose and Jack gush at each other about oh, how very splendid they both look.

Literally all of time and space at their disposal, and the two of them are making googly-eyes at each other instead. How did the Doctor ever allow himself to become party to this?

“You hens done clucking?” he asks when fifteen minutes have gone by, with no end in sight.

“Oh, hush,” Jack tuts. “You’re just jealous no one’s mooning over you right now.”

“I’m plenty happy outside the moonlight, thanks.”

“You’d be even happier in it,” drawls Jack, swaggering his way. “C’mon Doc, when’s the last time you got gussied-up for anything?”

The Doctor gestures to his shirt. “Changed my jumper. What more do you want?”

“A suit every once in a while couldn’t hurt,” Rose calls out.

“A long walk on the beach, dinner for three and drinks to match wouldn’t hurt my feelings, either,” says Jack with a wink.

The Doctor glares at the two of them. “Good grief. There’s just no pleasing you two, is there?”

“Nope,” replies Rose, and she and Jack both laugh. The Doctor has every intention of continuing to glower at both of them, reducing them both to duly chastened quietude, but then Rose sidles up to him, threading her arm through his.

“Ready to go?” she asks, with that stupid pretty tongue-touched grin of hers.

Suddenly it’s difficult to pretend to be irritated anymore.

Later, of course, he doesn’t have to pretend at all.

“Sure, let’s go to the opera, says Jack,” the Doctor grumbles under his breath, sonic screwdriver whirring in one hand as he cards through coat after cloak after coat after cloak with the other. “I love the nineteenth century, says Jack. No one’s gonna try to abduct me there, says Jack!”

“S’pose that’s what we get for traveling with a Time Agent,” muses Rose, who does not seem even remotely bothered that they’ve spent an hour in the cloakroom instead of watching the opera. In fact, the Doctor has a sneaking suspicion she prefers it.

“S’pose that’s what we get for traveling with Jack,” he mutters darkly.

Busy digging in the pocket of a grand overcoat (which does not have bottomless pockets as far as the Doctor is aware, but has large enough pockets anyway), Rose spares him a knowing smile. “I think that was code for Actually, I quite like the fellow, he livens up the place.”

“Wasn’t aware the place needed livening-up.”

“Oh, come off it,” Rose teases gently. “You like him. It’s okay to admit it.”

The Doctor sniffs before moving onto the next cloak. Maybe he’ll be lucky enough to find the reservation in there; maybe the thirty-eighth time’s the charm. “He’s a scoundrel,” he insists.

“And let me guess: you happen to like nice men.”

Distracted, it takes the Doctor half a second to recognize the exchange. “Quoting Star Wars will get you nowhere, you know,” he says drily.

“Wasn’t quoting Star Wars.” Rose flashes a grin his way as she pats down another coat. “That was The Empire Strikes Back.”

“Close enough.”

“Close enough? Not by a long shot!” she laughs. “It’s easily the best of the three. The best by miles.”

“And it just happens to be the one with a surplus of Harrison Ford.”

“Well yeah, that’s definitely not a drawback, but that’s not all.” Rose pulls a small card out from the coat, holds it up, and frowns. “What’s the name of the hotel again?”

“The Grosvenor.”

Rose sighs and puts the card back where she found it before moving on. “Anyway,” she says, “it’s not just Harrison Ford. The Empire Strikes Back has the best story of the lot, by far. Daring chase scenes, massive clashes between good and evil, swelling music, epic romance—”

“Ahhh,” says the Doctor knowingly, rifling through a lady’s-purse. “Of course.”

“Of course, what?”

“Of course, romance.”

Rose doesn’t look up, too busy feeling her way through a cloak’s silk lining. “What about it?”

“Just not surprising, is all. Lots of humans like romance. In fact, I’d venture to say most of you do.”

“That a bad thing?”

He shakes his head, abandoning the purse in favor of a cloak. “No, not at all. Just means you lot are entirely predictable.”

“What, and you’re not?”

“…definitely heard something,” another voice is saying, drifting into the Doctor’s field of hearing along with the sounds of bootsteps advancing ever-closer, and he recognizes both sounds as those belonging to a pair of Time Pirates—Jack’s captors. Before either he or Rose have a chance to finish their thoughts, the Doctor grabs her about the waist, yanking her deep into the cloaks and coats with him and pulling them both to the floor. Rose’s lips part for a small yelp of surprise but the Doctor clamps his hand over her mouth before it has a chance to escape, holding her firm against him. Probably she thinks he’s gone a little batty—her hearing’s not as good as his, after all, so his actions must seem completely out of the blue—but she stills once the bootsteps reach earshot, once she understands.

The Doctor has scarcely half a second to whisk Rose’s skirts safely out of view behind the heavy cloaks before the two sets of boots reach the cloakroom entrance, footfalls thudding heavy and ominous over the floor.

“You sure?” asks the other Pirate. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Rose starts to slip against the Doctor (curse her silky-satin dress, the thing’s got no bloody sense of friction) but the Doctor anchors her to him before she has a chance to slide, to make any noise. A torch-beam shines into the cloakroom, traveling over the coats and cloaks and furs; one of the intruders steps inside and the Doctor can feel Rose holding her breath, her exhales no longer hitting his hand, her ribcage no longer expanding and contracting beneath his palm. Neither of them dares to move.

The Pirate stops. Between two of the coats, the Doctor can just barely make out that the bloke is glancing around, but not really taking anything in.

With a grunt, the Pirate switches off the torch, stowing it on his belt. “Must’ve imagined it.”

“Or it was rats,” the other Pirate supplies. “This period’s full of ‘em.”

“Everything isn’t always rats, Vigge,” sighs his partner, as if this is a particular sticking-point between them. “C’mon, let’s go find the others.”

The Doctor lets out a silent sigh of relief at the sound of departing boots. It’s bloody awkward hiding like this, his arms cinched around Rose while she’s sat in his lap, neither of them able to shift to anything more comfortable. The sooner they can get up, the better. Fortunately, fading footfalls let him know the guards are leaving, and he moves to shift Rose off his lap.

A third pair of boots approaches. Rose and the Doctor both freeze.

“Seen anything?” asks the third voice.

“Nothing yet. You’re sure they’re not still in the theatre?”

“Positive,” the third voice confirms. “The box seat’s empty; that Doctor-bloke and his bird are both gone.”

One of the Pirates swears beneath his breath. “We’ll have to scour every inch of the place, then.”

Peering between the coats, the Doctor can make out the three Pirates talking, discussing how best to search the opera house. Hopefully it’ll be a brief bit of chatter, the Doctor thinks, but as the conversation wears on, it quickly becomes apparent that it’s not destined to end any time soon.

Of course, thinks the Doctor exasperatedly. Why wouldn’t they pick this exact place and moment for a nice long chat? He’s only trapped behind a couple dozen fur-and-woolen cloaks with Rose plastered up against him, Rose getting increasingly warm and undoubtedly uncomfortable in his arms, neither of them able to move to improve the situation for fear of alerting the three very-much-armed Time Pirates. Of course, why wouldn’t the universe conspire against him like this?

Granted, in terms of Rose’s rising body temperature, it probably doesn’t help that the Doctor’s wrapped so snugly around her. But at this point, he’s honestly not sure what he can do. He can’t move his hand from her waist; he’s got her skirts pinned there, pressed between her bodice and his palm, and if he moves, he risks the skirts spilling into view. At least he had the presence of mind to shift his other hand away from her mouth, give her a little more space to breathe. But he did not, it appears, have the presence of mind to pay any attention to where that hand might settle afterward, and only now does he realize that his forearm has fallen to rest very gently against her chest, fingertips ghosting against her throat.

Alarm bells start ringing faintly in his head. He can’t shift that arm too much more; they’re surrounded by cloaks and any such movement would surely draw attention either through motion or sound. The only thing he can really do is perhaps lift away from her a little bit, let his hand float awkwardly in the liminal no-man’s-land where her breath lives. No longer touching, but still ridiculously close. Of course, once again, that brings up the issue of acknowledging that something is happening, and something is awkward, and you’ve officially Drawn Attention To It, and now there it is, stewing in the mortification of being recognized. Whereas if he pretends everything is normal—which it is, he tells himself stubbornly, because skin is just skin, doesn’t matter whether parts of it are bare and soft and hers—then no awkwardness need be experienced by either party involved.  

Not that he’d know about any of that. Because he doesn’t, and even if he does, he certainly doesn’t think about it, or notice it, much like he’s definitely not noticing how Rose’s breathing has gone shallow, and her heartrate has sped up, and one of her hands is clenching in her skirt. Doubtful the Pirates can hear it—like Rose and any other human, their hearing can’t rival his—but the Doctor sure as hell can. He hears her swallow, too, and, close to her as he is, he smells it again, that unmistakable tinge of pheromones, soft and musky and faintly sweet. And he can’t help but notice (can’t help it, really) that despite her shallow breaths, her chest is still rising and falling, bringing her breasts into whispering contact with the inside of his arm and the corner of his palm. If she breathed any deeper, he’d surely get a handful.

The Doctor scolds himself for thinking such things, trying fiercely to rein himself back in, but the glance of her skin against his is near-electric, the feel of her pressed against him is overwhelming, the scent of her, intoxicating. Suddenly he’s forgetting why it’s a bad thing for the two of them to be trapped in here like this, pressed tightly together like the pages of a fresh book. His eyes fall to half-mast as they trace the elegant slope of her shoulder and neck, impossibly close to his mouth, begging to be kissed. And she’d love that, wouldn’t she? Love for him to press his lips to her skin, worshipping her, marking her, claiming her. He’s so close now his lips can feel the warmth of her flesh, burning the scant air between them, or maybe that’s just the oxygen molecules buzzing with excitement, like atmosphere before a lightning strike, and her pulse beneath his fingertips is thunderous—

The heavy thud of departing footsteps abruptly informs him that the conversation outside the cloakroom has ended, and the coast will soon be clear again. The Doctor draws a deep breath, catching himself.

He almost fell. He very much wanted to. It’s been such a long time. And with Rose—

The Doctor shuts down that line of thought before it can develop any further, giving himself the mental equivalent of a sharp slap to the face. He hasn’t got any idea what to do with Rose, not really. Yes, her body is giving off a multitude of signs that seem rather obvious, but that’s just what bodies do, sometimes. Mix the close proximity, a dash of friction, a whole heaping load of chemistry, and that’s what you get. Bodies reacting the way bodies do. Not his, of course, not without his express wishes, but that’s what human bodies do. Human reactions for human people. And Rose is nothing if not human.

That’s right. He put up that barrier for a reason, that wall between him and the world, that line drawn in the sand between him and Rose. They’ve skirted that line enough today, flirted with it more than enough. It’s time for him to take responsibility, get his head out of the clouds and stop playing games. Nothing good can come of them nudging the line any further, no matter how brightly Rose smiles at him, no matter how sweet her kisses may be. Not that he’ll ever find out about that last one.

He collects his wits and draws his barriers close. “Rose,” he says quietly. “We should really—”

“Yeah,” says Rose, voice clipped as she shifts off his lap to stand upright, and the Doctor resolutely does not think about how cold he is now, without her body clasped to his. After smoothing out her skirts, Rose reaches down to help him off the floor. Grinning, the Doctor accepts.

“All right?” he asks despite himself, but Rose doesn’t answer; instead she watches him as he stands, eyes searching his. The Doctor gets the instinct impression that he’s being evaluated, somehow. Appraised.

“Rose?” he prompts, and she shakes herself.

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine,” she says, and maybe he just imagined it all, because now she sounds perfectly normal.

“Yeah?” he asks anyway.

“Yeah. You know,” she says, turning to continue her search. “Just thinking about Jack.”

“Right,” says the Doctor, feeling, strangely, as if he was just kicked in the shins. “Of course.”

It only makes sense that Rose would be thinking of Jack right now. He was just kidnapped, after all. It’s only natural he’d be on her mind. For the kidnapping, and no other reason. Certainly nothing to do with flushed skin and pumping adrenaline and soft little noises and the buzzing potential energy of bodies pressed close in tight spaces. Those things wouldn’t make Rose think of Jack at all. Not even a little bit.

Not that such a thing would bother the Doctor. Because it wouldn’t.

 ***

 The good news is, there’s plenty of good news: they’re able to locate a reservation for the proper hotel, thereby raising no eyebrows when the Doctor and Rose show up at the front desk requesting their room key, and like so many other sentient beings in the universe (really, he’s in good company), the desk clerk is fully taken in by the psychic paper, firmly believing that the Doctor and Rose are, in fact, Mr. and Mrs. Henri Flugenstaff; additionally, locating and breaking into the Pirates’ room is easy as rewiring a quantum rotor, and the rest of the hotel floor is blessedly empty when they do so, meaning no awkward encounters with nosy guests or suspicious staff.

The bad news is, once they enter the room, Jack’s captors (and more significantly, Jack) are nowhere to be found.

“Any idea where they went?” Rose asks.

“Not yet,” murmurs the Doctor, kneeling down to better inspect the faint traces of silvery powder on the carpet, almost invisible even to his keen eye. A reading from the sonic confirms his suspicions: the powder contains traces of Retro-Oganesson and Nihonium-3. Unmistakable evidence that the Time Pirates were here; no clues regarding where they went next.

“Might as well search the room for clues, right?” asks Rose.

“Right.” The Doctor sets the sonic against the carpet, following the path of silvery powder illuminated by the screwdriver’s ghostly blue glow. It guides him across the rug, around the bed, to the fireplace poking out from the wall opposite Rose. For her part, Rose is rifling through the items left behind on the writing-desk; given the general state of disarray of the desk, and the room, it’s clear that the Pirates left in a hurry, so there’s every chance they left something important behind. The Doctor takes just a second to appreciate the view, allowing himself a soft grin at Rose poking around for clues like a blonde little Sherlock Holmes.

“I hope he’s okay,” says Rose, peering beneath the inkwell.

The Doctor blinks. “Who?”

“Jack,” Rose replies, as if the answer is obvious.

The Doctor huffs. “He’s fine. Probably sliding out of their clutches as we speak.”

Laughing at that, Rose pulls open a desk-drawer. “Yeah, you’re right. He’s probably seducing his captors right about now.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“You say that like it’s not,” Rose laughs.

The Doctor grunts noncommittally, inspecting the inside of the fireplace.

“What was that?” asks Rose.

“Oh, nothing,” the Doctor hmphs. “Just, there it is again. Humans and romance.”

At that, Rose turns to face him, her eyebrow piqued. “And just what have you got against romance, anyway? Did romance offend you somehow, today?”

“It didn’t,” the Doctor lies cheerfully.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking any of that stuff, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“Really? Cos it feels like you’re gonna launch into a lecture on silly apes and their silly feelings any minute now.”

“I never said feelings were silly.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The Doctor stops his search inside the fireplace so he can look at her. “Something on your mind, Rose?”

“No,” she replies stubbornly.

“Good,” says the Doctor, and he resumes his search.

“Just makes me glad Jack’ll be back soon.”

The Doctor’s nostrils flare and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end as something hot slithers into the pit of his belly, smoldering there. “Don’t worry, we’ll find your boyfriend soon enough,” he replies, his voice tight.

“It’s just nice to have another human on the TARDIS, is all I mean,” Rose says, and the Doctor absolutely does not notice how she didn’t correct him on the boyfriend bit. “Cos you seem to think so much human stuff is stupid, and Jack doesn’t.”

“Oh, is Jack the gold standard now?”

“When it comes to feelings? Compared to you, yeah, he is.”

“Look, do you want to find him or not?” he asks, glaring at her. “Cos if you do, I’d advise more searching, less yammering.”

If the force of his glare affects Rose, she doesn’t show it. “Someone’s moody today,” she mutters before turning back to the desk.

“Not moody, just demonstrating a wide range of all those feelings you’re so fond of.”

“All the grumpy ones, maybe. And I’m not so fond of those.”

“And I suppose Jack’s never grumpy, then,” the Doctor says conversationally. “That it? No, not perfect Jack, of course not, never. Just the perfect blend of gentleman, boyfriend, and scoundrel, him. The ideal human mate!”

Rose shakes her head. “I’m sorry, the what-now?”

“It’s fine, Rose,” the Doctor says, forcing on a grin that’s surely strained. “You don’t need to explain yourself. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. We’ll just find Jack, and then you two can run off and have your fun and your romance. All right?”

“Have my—what are you even talking about?” asks Rose, stalking up to him. “Where is all of this coming from?”

“Observation, mostly,” the Doctor says pleasantly.

“Right. I don’t know what you think you’ve observed, but—”

And suddenly both of them snap to attention at the sound of a key in the lock, the door-handle jiggling loudly in the quiet.

In the split-second that follows, the Doctor tries to think—run? Nowhere to run, they’re in a tiny hotel room; hide? But surely they’ve already been heard—but Rose’s brain must be working a little faster than his somehow, because before he’s even had a chance to react, she’s shoved him flat on the bed and she’s straddling him by the waist, ducking down to press a bruising kiss to his mouth.

The Doctor’s brain grinds to a halt.

She—they—she just—he—

He’s never had an experience where both of his hearts stopped for a good reason, before.

“Cleaning servi—oh, oh my!” gasps a voice by the door.

Rose sits back at the sound and through the fog currently short-circuiting his brain the Doctor manages to look over at the door, to see a middle-aged cleaning maid standing there, clutching her cleaning-cart and blushing furiously.

“Blimey!” she squeaks, shielding her eyes. “Begging your pardon, sir, ma’am, I thought you were out for the evening!”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Rose laughs, which is just as well, because the Doctor is too busy reeling to find his voice (or even his thoughts) at the moment. At least his hands had enough sense to plant themselves on Rose’s waist so they’re not flailing about like a pair of nerve-addled bats.

“Still on the honeymoon,” Rose continues, flashing the maid a shy but winning grin. Her voice is just the littlest breathy and shaky and very convincing, so much so that even the Doctor could almost believe the two of them had just been—well.

“You know how it is,” Rose adds, coyly biting her lip.

“Aye, once upon a time I did, ma’am,” the maid chuckles. “I’ll see to it you’re not disturbed the rest of the evening.”

“Thanks,” Rose laughs breathily before pushing the Doctor back down on the bed, kissing him passionately as the maid closes the door behind her. Her lips part against his, warm and sweet and betraying just the slightest hint of moisture as—

As a loud click lets them know the door is locked once again, and then Rose immediately stops, breaking the kiss. Pulling back, she locks eyes with the Doctor, her cheeks almost as bright as the housekeeper’s. Several long seconds tick agonizingly by, marked only by the fluttering of Rose’s lashes, the gentle heaving of her chest.

Rose’s lips part, like she might say something (or like she might bend down and kiss him again, the Doctor almost hopes) but he must be looking at her with the universe’s most daft expression, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers, because the next thing he knows, she’s lifting herself off of him, smoothing back her hair and resituating her dress.

The Doctor sits up after her, forcing himself to stop staring. What is he, some kind of idiot?

“Sorry,” Rose laughs, all traces of breathlessness gone.

“S’all right,” the Doctor’s mouth says for him; his brain is still catching up.

“Although you’ve got to admit,” Rose adds, resuming her investigation of the room as if absolutely nothing just happened, “as a diversion it was fairly effective.”

The Doctor scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve had worse.”

“And I’ve had better,” Rose teases, her tongue trapped between her teeth. “You’re a little rusty, Doctor.”

“Excuse me,” the Doctor huffs indignantly, “maybe I just need a little more advance notice than your average boy-toy.”

“Well, as an above-average boy-toy, I’m sure Jack would be happy to give you some pointers.”

And there it is again, that feeling of something hot sizzling in his chest. “And I’m sure he can go sod right off,” says the Doctor, surprising himself.

Rose shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? What’s with this mood today, why are you so cross with Jack?”

“I’m not.”

“You are, you’ve been saying nasty little things about him all day.”

“I haven’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” says Rose, righting the frame of a crooked painting on the wall. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were acting jealous again.”

The hot feeling grows hotter. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous about,” insists the Doctor.

“’Course not,” mocks Rose. “Cos you’ve never gotten jealous about sharing me with another man, before.”

“Shouldn’t have to,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“I said I shouldn’t have to,” the Doctor says loudly.

“What? Get jealous, or share me?”

The Doctor’s fists ball at his side. Either one, he doesn’t say.

“Whatever,” scoffs Rose, as if he’d gone ahead and spoken the words aloud. “Not like it makes any difference anyway.”

The hot feeling pulses in his chest and pounds in his ears and maybe it’s because of the kiss or maybe it’s because Rose already seems to have forgotten it or maybe it’s just because of this bloody damn day but that line in the sand is growing dangerously thin, all of a sudden, and before he gives himself the chance to think better of it, the Doctor is pushing off the bed and striding towards the door, grabbing a chair so he can wedge it beneath the door-handle before he stalks over to Rose.

“What?” she mocks. “Don’t want the maid to see us having a row? That too domestic for—”

The Doctor pins her to the wall, grasping her by the chin to pull her up for a punishing kiss. She gasps against his mouth and fuck, he wants to take advantage of that opening, he really does, wants to force her mouth open so his tongue can dart inside and really properly tease her, taste her, but he settles for prolonging the kiss, offering no quarter and no mercy until Rose has to pull back, panting for breath. She looks up at him with eyes wide from shock and—and gods, he hopes that’s not fear he sees, because that would kill him, it really would.

He doesn’t want to frighten her. He just wants her to see. Wants her to know.

But there’s still that goddamn line to preserve.

Drawing back a little, the Doctor braces himself with both hands against the wall, one on either side of Rose. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, even as he cages her in, even as every atom in his being is screaming for her.

Jaw set, defiant once again, Rose shakes her head No.

Oh. That’s not fear in her eyes. That’s not fear at all.

Relief washes the line away like the ocean at high tide and the Doctor lets himself fall.

He leans in and kisses her again, claiming her mouth with a fierceness that leaves no room for doubt. He might worry that he’s being too rough, too soon but Rose is giving as good as she gets, yanking him in by the lapels as she deepens the kiss. Her hands slip beneath his jacket to clutch him by the shoulders, her fingernails sharp even through the fabric of his jumper. His tongue brushes her plump lower lip and it’s a heady realization, that he can taste how much she wants this, how much she wants him. It’s enough to make him dizzy but he doesn’t stop, he wants more, his tongue plunging into her mouth, and the breathy little whimper that escapes her lets the Doctor know he was right—those delightful sounds Rose made earlier in the day were definitely due to arousal. And the sweet scent lingering in the air lets him know she’s wonderfully aroused right now, almost certainly wet with it.

Because of him. No one else. Just him.

Good.

Lips still on hers, the Doctor pulls up her skirts so both hands can sneak beneath, grabbing Rose by the hips and pulling her roughly into him. He has every intention of tearing off those ridiculous little knickers of hers but then she arches into him, her hands slipping beneath his jumper and nails dragging across his stomach and her chest pressed against his, and it’s all too much and it’s not nearly enough and his hips are grinding against hers as he hardens between them.

Dimly it occurs to the Doctor that Rose does not seem nearly as shocked by all of this as he might have imagined—indeed, he’s shocked himself with this pure impetuous driving animal need—and he wonders if, on some level, Rose maneuvered things to this conclusion.

Well. He smiles against her lips. Two can play that game.

He hitches one of her legs over his waist and thrusts into her, the friction and the heat almost unbearably delicious even despite all the layers in the way, and Rose must think so, too, because she’s panting against the Doctor’s mouth, her nails scratching lines of fire down his back. She lets out another strained whimper and fuck, he’s not going to last, not even with his trousers on, not if she keeps making those needy little noises while rutting against his cock like that.

So he repositions, wedging a thigh between hers to maintain the friction she needs while one hand travels up to palm one of the breasts that’s been positively fucking begging for his touch all day long. He can just feel the peak of her nipple through her corset and dress, stiffening sharply as he circles it with his thumb, and Rose bites down on his lower lip, sending a jolt of pleasure straight down to his cock. Rose reaches for his belt buckle but the Doctor stops her, grabbing her by the wrist and pinning it back to the wall.

“Not yet,” he growls softly. “Not until I say so.”

She’s glassy-eyed with surprise but he doesn’t give her an opportunity to respond, rips down the neckline of her dress instead so he can cup and tease her bare breasts with his free hand while his other holds her wrist tight against the wall. Rose breaks their kiss, eyes pinched tight in concentration as she rides his thigh, sweat beading and glistening on her breasts and her brow, and the Doctor realizes she’s about to climax, right here, right now, just like this.

Positively brimming with pride (and isn’t that a first, in this incarnation) the Doctor presses a kiss to her jaw, tracing a line up to her ear, lips ghosting the shell of it. “Come for me, Rose,” he murmurs, his voice as husky and deep as he’s ever heard it, and she shudders. He lifts his hand to cup her cheek, his thumb teasing her swollen lower lip. “Come for me, love.”

Her teeth graze his thumb as she bites down on the cry that tries to escape her, her arms shaking and hips stuttering, her legs clenching tight against his thigh. The Doctor can feel the aftershocks ripping through her and he holds her tight, relishing the movement and heat of her body against his, the knowledge that he’s the one doing this to her, that all of this is because of him. Not Jack, not Ricky, not Adam or Jimmy or any other stupid pretty boy who might be sharp enough to fall in love with Rose but could never be good enough to deserve her. Of course, neither is he, but he’s at least clever enough to recognize that, and to do everything he can to make up for it; he may not always have the right words but his mouth can still say what his voice can’t, offering praise along with his hands and his tongue and all of him, really.

Those little men will never see Rose the way he does. The Doctor almost pities them for it.

(Only almost.)

Panting, Rose pushes a strand of sweat-slicked hair out of her face. “You, erm,” she says between breaths, flashing the Doctor a lazy blissful smile. “You gonna let me touch you, now?”

He’s still got her wrist pinned to the wall. He lets go.

“Take off your clothes, please,” he tells her.

Biting her lip, Rose obeys, pushing her torn dress down over her hips, her eyes fixed on his. She wriggles the dress past her thighs to reveal those tiny knickers of hers, completely soaked through and now thoroughly ruined. The sight and smell of those ruined knickers ignites a small flame of male satisfaction the Doctor wasn’t even aware he possessed, something he might have wrinkled his nose at once upon a time, but now, watching Rose pop open the front of her corset, peeling off the knickers after—now he rather likes the feeling, knowing that he can make Rose feel like this, that she trusts him like this. That he’s earned her trust, and this privilege.

There’s only the faintest hint of shyness from Rose once she’s naked beneath the Doctor’s gaze, but it’s enough to make his hearts swell almost uncomfortably behind his ribs, so the Doctor dips down to press his mouth to hers, softly, to kiss any lingering doubt away.

“Good girl,” he murmurs afterward, and smiles as Rose’s cheeks and ears flush pink. “Now get on the bed.”

The moment she does, the Doctor grasps her by the hips and slides her bum to the edge, pinning her down against the mattress as he presses a hungry kiss to her mouth. Impatient, Rose pushes at his jacket and he shrugs out of it, but he doesn’t make any effort to remove the rest of his clothing, his hands gliding up the insides of her thighs instead. His fingers tease her until she’s wet again, gloriously wet and gasping and clinging to him as she fucks his hand. He dips down to kiss the expanse of neck and shoulder that were tormenting him earlier and stops beneath her ear, lips caressing the soft skin there.

For a brief moment, the Doctor just breathes her in, inebriating himself on the smell of her. Then he latches on, giving her skin a good hard suck. Rose cries out, thighs clenching around his hand. Drawing back, the Doctor can see the mark he left behind, petal-pink blossoming in the shape of his mouth, and it shocks him how much he likes to see that, the visual evidence that he’s claimed her, that she’s his. He wants to taste more of her, he thinks, let his mouth explore and lick and nip and tug until she’s begging for mercy—

“Doctor,” Rose pants, but with a start he realizes she isn’t begging, she’s demanding, hooking her legs around his waist and pulling him down, into her. She rolls her hips against his aching cock and all other thoughts and plans fly right out the window as he realizes he’s bound to spontaneously combust if he doesn’t give her exactly what she wants and fuck her right now. In a second his belt is unlatched and trousers and pants shoved out of the way and he’s pushing into her with one smooth slick thrust, groaning at the hot wet clench of her muscles around him. He draws back and pushes in again, and again, and again, brow knit tight and mouth falling open because it’s good, it’s too good, it’s too much, he’s losing himself, drowning in her, and dying never felt so sublime.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, surprising himself, but Rose doesn’t look surprised at all, she just nods, glassy-eyed and breathless as he fucks her. “You’re mine,” he says again, kissing her fiercely as his hands pull her hips into his, harder, faster, more.

She nods again.

“Say it.”

“I am, I’m yours,” she chokes out, clenching around him, and his grip on her tightens. He’s hurtling toward the edge, spurred on by her words and her heat and her everything else but now there’s guilt chiming in too, because what the fuck is wrong with him, why would he say that, why would he make her say that, why would he make her do any of this, why the fuck would he allow her to give herself to him when he’s nothing but a broken wretched old man, and she deserves so much more—

“Hey,” says Rose, and his thoughts must be written across his face because suddenly her hands are cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t do that,” she says between gasps. “Don’t wander off. Stay with me. Be here with me.”

His lips part but Rose doesn’t let any words out, stoppers his mouth with hers. “Just let us have this,” she pants against his lips. “Please. Please. My Doctor.”

Something in him snaps and he buries his face in her neck, muffling his cries as he empties into her. His head floods pleasantly with bliss but he’s just coherent enough to slide a hand between them, urging Rose along. Rose follows soon after, muscles convulsing around him, nipples sharp even through his jumper, and the Doctor feels a twinge of regret that he didn’t finish undressing, that he isn’t feeling her skin properly sliding against his. Rose must be feeling the same way; even as her hips stutter and slow, she’s sliding her hands back beneath his jumper, exploring every expanse of skin she can reach.

The Doctor sighs with something that feels suspiciously like contentment.

“I am, you know,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t reply; he half-wonders if she’s already fallen asleep, somehow.

“Yours,” he adds, voice soft.

Rose’s arms tighten around him in a hug, her heart fluttering against both of his.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

He knows.

 ***

 Apparently Jack knows it, too.

“That dress didn’t tear itself,” the Doctor overhears him whispering to Rose after they sneak out of the Pirates’ ship. “Not to mention you smell like all the sex.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Rose replies, laughing.

“I will not! Tell me everything!”

“If you don’t behave, I will hurt you.”

“Ooh, promise?”

“I will put you in time-out,” Rose amends, mouth twitching with the effort to hold back a smile, “and I will hide the sonic so that those,” she adds, pointing to the shackles clamped over both of his wrists, “never come off again.”

Jack shoots her a sly grin. “But then how would you two ever get to use them?”

The Doctor feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck as Rose’s eyes widen, her mouth dropping open. “Pervert!” she shrieks, and Jack crows in laughter as he takes off running down the road, Rose chasing after him. It’s a good thing they’re out in the country now—they’d wake up the neighborhood, shouting and laughing and carrying on like that in the city. But eventually they settle for huddling together, arm-in-arm, as they whisper and snicker all the way back to the TARDIS.

The Doctor maintains some space, trailing a little ways after, so the humans can have their fun and their—he smiles a little—their feelings. It’s actually nice, he thinks, seeing Rose so giddy and full of joy, seeing her laugh and smile like that, even with someone else. She’s far too bright and loving and big-hearted to be kept to one person, he realizes. She deserves to share herself with whomever she wishes, not to be hoarded like gold in the fist of a grumpy old miser. Rose deserves to love freely, and to be loved freely, in return.

(They’re definitely going to make use of those shackles, though.)

***

dedicated to @galiifreyrose​ @yellowsuedeshoes​ @saecookie​ @aintfraidanoghosts​ for being such wonderful terrible influences <3 <3 <3

[laughableillusions]

Moving Back Home

AN: Oh boy it’s the first mini-fic of Lindir & Farkas that you all haven’t been asking for but I’m giving to you anyway! I pasted this from my notes (in all its raw unedited glory) so if it’s wonky dw about it...

I hope to write more of these 2 in the future if you all enjoy it!

(I encourage you to read this while listening to Lady of the Moon by 2002)

———————————

The night had already settled in, and both Lindir and Farkas had snuggled themselves into their bedrolls. Lindir decided to go without the tent that night, as it was a clear night and neither he nor Farkas could smell rain coming. The opportunity to gaze at the stars calmed the elf, his mind could jump between the small twinkling lights and his eyes slide across the Aurora borealis. He loved Skyrim, he really did. He loved the cold shivering weather, the crunch of snow under his boots, the large trees and delicate flowers. There was something so comforting about it, something he didn’t really see until now.

Back in Summerset it was hard to get such a view of stars as this, the cities were large and full of light. And the heat kept anyone from even thinking about making a campfire, cold weather was rare and treasured. But even then, his friends preferred the heat. Or at least they did...it was still hard to grasp that they were no longer alive. Lindir hadn’t been there, it was hard to really accept a death when you were never there to witness it.

He sighed, it was no good to dwell on the dead. Besides, it was years ago...he had almost forgotten about Summerset Isles. Something in him bloomed in Skyrim, maybe it was his mixed blood. He perhaps was more Nordic than he believed, but he found himself thriving in cold weather. The shivering cold mornings kept his mind alert. The warm blankets and furs he slept in meant something more to him than a decoration, it was to keep him alive. He remembered being a child and begging Aradnae to buy him a bear pelt from a merchant. She refused of course, he was still small and had no use of it at the time. But the interest of an outsider, he didn’t quite understand why they wore the pelts or what they were used for. Now, ruled under a thick layer of one...he very well could.

And Farkas, his beloved Farkas...just the thought of him put the grief out of his mind. He was warm, he was soft and he loved him perhaps more than Lindir could understand. He remembered reading something in a book long ago about love like this, how one could simply hide their face in a lovers chest and shun the world entirely away. If he could...if he could, Lindir would without hesitation. Every time they parted it felt like they weren’t together long enough, sometimes almost unbearably so. But he must...he had to, or else all of Tamriel would fall into ruin, the world would be consumed and there wouldn’t be anymore stars for them to gaze at.

Lindir turned to his side, there he could see the outline of his beloved’s face. There was something so powerful about this bond...it felt bigger than him, bigger than both of them. He had never felt love this strong before, never had such unrelenting feelings of utter devotion and adoration for anyone. It scared him sometimes, it scared him that he would away from the world if it meant to stay beside him.

“I would stand at his back, so that world would never overtake us...”

Never overtake us...

Even after a year and a half of marriage, he was still blushing at that. even though his face was stained with tears and mud, and Farkas practically limped the way back. Those words never left him, they were etched on the stone of his soul. Like the carvings of old Dovah, it was alive...it was pulsing. The memory of that cold night in the courtyard of Jorrvaskyr, it softened him.

“Darling?” Lindir asked softly, scooting himself closer to the Nord.

“Hm?” Farkas half-groaned. He was obviously dozing off.

“I love you...a lot...” Lindir whispered sheepishly.

Farkas now reanimated, and he turned his face to him. His features were still shrouded in the darkness, and he strained to try and look at them.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

Lindir shook his head and sighed.

“Nothing, I’m just feeling sentimental again.”

Farkas scooted closer, now rolling over to face him. Lindir blushed a little by his interest, and he smiled.

“I just...I don’t know, I really love it here.” He said. “It’s all so much better than Summerset, I feel more at home here than anywhere else...”

He then wriggled himself closer to Farkas, trying to get as close to him as possible whilst keeping snug in his little bedroll.

“I know what you mean...” Farkas answered. His voice was raggedy with drowsiness.

“Well I mean, of course you do. You’re a full blood Nord and Skyrim has been your home for generations-“

Lindir cut himself off and shook his head again.

“I-I didnt mean it like that...”

Farkas hummed a little in response.

“It’s just...I was always looked down upon for my Nordic blood. Nords were seen as barbaric and primitive, but coming here to their homeland I felt...I don’t know, safe?”

“Skyrim is in your blood, and not just the people, but the Land as well.” Farkas said.

Lindir felt tears collect in his eyes. He had always felt out of place in Summerset, he always felt like he had to hide himself unless he was performing. He was regarded as a freak, a “halfbreed” as he was sometimes called. In Skyrim however, the Nords would praise his Nordic blood. Said it made him strong and resilient, they lived life they way he wanted to live it. They were impatient and passionate about things. They lived like they would die the next day, and some of them did. But there was kindness, there was love and happiness. Even as harsh as life was it was still beautiful, Skyrim was more than just Land, more than just the people that lived there. It was home...it was belonging.

No wonder people fought so hard for it.

Lindir sniffled.

“Yeah it is...I-I do belong here don’t I?”

Farkas perked up his distress, his arms now wrapping around the elf.

“Yes, yes you do.”

Lindir nestled his head against Farkas’s chest. His voice beginning to shake.

“Thank you...” He almost whispered.

Farkas huffed.

“Now you have to tell me what’s wrong, I don’t want you messing up my only clean shirt.”

Lindir chuckled a bit and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Ok ok I will, you big oaf.”

Farkas squeezed him a bit in retort. Lindir squirming as he was shoved against him. He let go a bit, letting Lindir have space to talk.

“I just, I never had a proper home before...no place to go back to, no real place. Home was always people, family, but I’ve been through group after group and person after person and well...I never felt like I really belonged.”

Lindir then paused, his cheeks going pink.

“I mean, except with you of course...”

He could feel the blush on the nord when he said it.

“A-and because of that The Companions...I-I mean your family sort of became my family in a sense...”

Lindir felt vulnerable, silly and flustered. It was stupid and he knew it, latching onto someone else’s family because they’re married to them...it felt predatory. But he couldn’t help how much he loved all of them, even when Vilkas was being a smart -ass or Aela being rude. After he married Farkas the responsibility of Harbinger sat heavily on his shoulders, he was responsible for all of them and he did not take that lightly.

Farkas was silent for a moment, he was thinking of a response. Poor man wasn’t very good when it came to words, Lindir didn’t mind it, many times Farkas’s presence was enough to put him at ease. But when Lindir needed counsel, Farkas always tried, and that too was enough.

“They’re not just my family Lindir, you became a part of it when you joined, and you’re still a part of it now, they all love you too. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done.”

“You really think so?” Lindir asked cautiously.

“Yeah...” Farkas was soft but confident in his answer.

Lindir smiled quietly, Farkas never lied. There was something so finalizing about his answer that quelled any suspicion in Lindir. He had done so many things, and was still doing them now. From the Thieves Guild to The Dark Brotherhood now. Not Farkas or the Companions ever wavered in their loyalty and support toward him. Even Kodlak, who he known only a short time accepted him as one of his own.

“Hey Farkas?” Lindir now asked.

“Hm?”

Lindir hesitated for a second.

“I-I want to move back to Jorrvaskyr...”

Farkas pet his hair.

“Mhm...”

The Nord was dozing off again, Lindir could tell. He was as well, all that thinking and talking finally exhausted him enough to sleep. That was alright though, they could talk more about it in the morning.

Lindir snuggled himself against his husband, his home and dozed off to his quiet breathing.

[caithyra]

I’m suuuure he’s shocked /s

GRRM: “Oh woes! I have created a perfect and supporting family for my main characters and I need conflict to make it interesting! What could possibly ruin a good family?”

GRRM: “Ah! A girly girl, of course!” *Creates Sansa.* “And a traitorous bitch at that who would chose to support and protect her child over her birth family who do not rely on her for protection! Surely all shall realize what a bad person she is! It’s not like her own mother would be condemned for abandoning a child that’s not even her own!” *Creates first outline.* “But wait! She shall be prepubescent at the start of the story...” *Starts creating the actual story.* “I shall introduce her through the resentful tomboy’s perspective! And I shall have grown men slobbering over this prepubescent girly girl because we all know that’s ~*historically accurate*~! Oh, people do not like her? I am shocked! Shocked!”

Like, it says a lot about a narrative that when the author wants to create conflict and shake up a healthy family dynamic in a supremely patriarchal world, that he introduces a prepubescent, feminine sister who is unfavored by her father compared to her tomboy sister (even Sansa’s betrothal is a sham even if it would have made her future queen-in-waiting. If everything went as Ned planned, her virtue would have been ruined on the Trident and after he breaks the betrothal with Joff by accusing him of being a bastard, Sansa’s play-acting at love and having been alone with Joff would have ruined her for good, future prospects and the best she would get is either a disinherited second son who no one else wants to marry or a jumped up house who wants some blue blood like the Freys, Baelishes or Westerlings-Spicers that no one important likes.

Arya, by being younger, and more like Lyanna, would have gotten the queenhood and crown prince by Robert’s second wife after Cersei is disposed of, since Robert really wants to marry his child to Ned’s children, so no one better tell me that Ned ever put Sansa ahead of Arya the same he puts Arya ahead of Sansa. He freaking hides behind his prepubescent daughter’s skirts while investigating what he believes are ruthless murderers who had no qualms killing the most powerful men in the realm in a hyper-patriarchy! And it is the other daughter he warns about dangers and gives lessons in fighting! Like what was Ned thinking would happen with Sansa? Did he even care? Did he think he could just sweep it under rugs and forget it? She will need to marry within recent memory of her scandalous conduct since she’ll be twenty in less than a decade! And marriageable age in Westeros is 16! And yet the fandom goes “Poor Ned to have that traitorous bitch for a daughter~” “She should have listened to Ned who never spoke to her and explained himself or the world wouldn’t be ending~” “I don’t hate Sansa but she was sooo stupid for not blindly obeying her loving father who punishes her for her sister’s sins and never explains himself~” is it any wonder my patience with Ned Stark’s parental fuck ups ran out? Congrats, fandom, you made me hate him by excusing his fuck ups and blaming them on his daughter all the time!).

GRRM tries to make it gray, but he knows full well what kind of audience he writes to when he writes the relationships between Cat and Jon, and Arya and Sansa and should have compensated.

Hell, he should have made Joff a good person, prince and promising future king that most girls would like to marry, only to show that’s not what Ned cares about (after all, unless Ned wants Sansa to be abused like half the fandom, he had no idea that Joff was bad when he betrothed them), he cares about birth and truth and “High As Honor” over practical things like “Winter is Coming and Staying for Ten Freezing Years and Does Not Care Who Sits On the Throne So Lets Not Start a Civil War with One of the Most Powerful Families in the Realm, hm?”.

I mean, no one likes Drizzt Do’Urden’s sisters/mother/the matriarchy as a whole, do they? The Dark Elf Trilogy predates ASoIaF by six years, and should have shown a competent writer exactly what the state of womanhood in the Fantasy genre was like. And if you’re going “well, the matriarchy is evil!” I would like to point out that people hate Cattie-brie who is not part of that matriarchy. Yeah. There’s a reason why Menzoberranzan could be written that way and published and become popular, and it was not that Fantasy readers love and support and makes the effort to identify with and understand female characters (nor does most authors, come to think of it... see female friendships in ASoIaF that are without any sexual, incest, or abusive~ Like Arianne and Tyene being as close as sisters in the Later Books Which Are Not Early Installment Weirdness... Oh wait...).

Heck, in the Belgariad, another series predating both of them, things were more subtle but hardly better for female characters; Polgara is a mother figure who gets to have a moment of being imperfect, but to anyone reading the story, it is clear that Garion is the true victim in the circumstances and conspiracies Polgara’s family has woven around him, and that his anger is the immediate reaction of finding out the truth (he just found out how/why he was orphaned and now has the world on his shoulders! And the characters bag on him for not being understanding of the 1000s of years old woman who lied to him and now is sulking. It is blatantly obvious to the readers that it is not the male character in the wrong). The less said about Ce´Nedra (half hyper-sexual dryad, spoiled princess who wants bigger breasts, et cetera) the better. Heck, the less said about the lovable oaf of the hero group committing marital rape on his estranged wife to cure her of being a bitch and turn her loving the better.

The Narnia books predates even that, and Sansa’s direct parallel is Susan, and, yeah... “A silly and vain young woman” with “Plenty of time to mend” sounds very familiar when you hear how people blame Sansa and wants to force her into abusive marriages with repulsive men to mend her.

Not to mention that in Lord of the Rings and related works women are either paragons of virtue, evil, unnamed or are chastised for being ambitious, with a few, notable exceptions allowed to make “wrong” choices, and, well, just see the Elwing discourse in fandom and how her murderers who kidnapped and kept her children (Elrond and Elros, yes, that Elrond for those not familiar with Tolkien’s Legendarium and only watched the movies) as hostages are their ~*real parents*~ after committing a third almost-genocide against her people.

Yeah, no. GRRM doesn’t get to pretend he’s shocked and/or confused by his readers’ reception to Sansa (and Cat). He does not live, read nor write in a vacuum. This shit has been part of Fantasy fandom since long before ASoIaF was an errant idea in his head.

[aion-rsa]

Ted Lasso’s Evolution From NBC Sports Ad Buffoon to Lovable Sitcom Hero

https://ift.tt/3wY48UA

When the world first met Ted Lasso, he was half the man he is today…maybe even a quarter (incidentally, what the fish-out-of-water American football coach thought UK ‘soccer’ matches were played in instead of halves). The character originated in a 2013 TV ad commissioned to mark NBC Sports’ acquisition of the US broadcast rights to English Premier League games. Titled ‘An American Coach in London’, it was a five-minute comedy sketch created as a showcase for the peculiarities of the English sport for US fans, and as a riff on the clumsy yank abroad stereotype. 

The premise saw Lasso imported to coach Premier League team Tottenham Hotspurs – or, as he calls them, ‘The Spurs’ – despite having no grasp of the game’s rules or context. He gets the lingo wrong, the rules wrong, the training wrong, and is totally unaware that everybody thinks he’s a complete tit. 

In a 2013 behind-the-scenes interview with Spurs TV, Jason Sudeikis explained:

“I’m playing an American football coach who’s come over to Tottenham to implement American football things, styles and ways into soccer, into European football… unsuccessfully, I would say. Comedically, hopefully, but definitely unsuccessfully.”

Created by Sudeikis with fellow Saturday Night Live writer Joe Kelly and actor Brendan Hunt, this version of Ted Lasso was a dolt with zero self-awareness. In the 2014 follow-up ad, he’s a buffoon whose naive idiocy and childlike excitement wrecks live TV broadcasts. The comedy comes from the combination of unshakeable self-belief, ineptitude, and certain failure. 

Not that Ted let failure get him down. Despite having lasted only six hours at “The Spurs”, he cherished his time in England and decorated his US apartment with an English theme (including an Easter Egg appearance of an LP by renowned English punk band Ian Rubbish and the Bizzaros, whose lead singer bears a striking resemblance to SNL’s Fred Armisen.)

While the NBC Sports ads laid out the basic premise of what would become Apple TV+ series Ted Lasso, major changes were made. The series dropped its Christopher Guest/The Office mockumentary format, and Ted’s character was remoulded from sure-to-fail cretin to might-just-work optimist. In the ads, Ted’s ignorance and Homer Simpson-ish larking about irritated the people around him. In the show, his ray-of-sunshine kindness lifts them up. The ads asked viewers to laugh at a yokel getting it wrong without knowing how hopeless he is. The show asks viewers to root for a kinder way of doing things.

Read more

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Best TV Comedy Shows on Amazon Prime Right Now

By Alec Bojalad

The idea to work Ted Lasso up from skit character to sitcom lead was suggested in 2015 by Jason Sudeikis’ then-partner, actor-director Olivia Wilde. Sudeikis, Kelly, and Hunt wrote a pilot and series outline, before bringing on producer Bill Lawrence (Scrubs, Cougar Town), who emphasised the need to give the character vulnerability.

Though played for laughs, there was a glimpse of vulnerability in the 2013 NBC Sports ad. Lasso’s upbeat definition of his new club nickname – ‘wanker’ – plays over a montage of him training with the team. “I think it just means ‘great’ like, nice guy, kind heart, someone that listens, someone that’ll push ya!” he says. A clip of him standing solo on the pitch, clearly not popular, plays as he continues. “A wanker is someone that doesn’t mind being alone, likes to sit with his thoughts.” It’s a briefly poignant hint of things to come.

In the TV series, Ted’s vulnerability comes from the breakdown of his marriage. At the start of the show, it’s revealed that he took the job thousands of miles from home to give his wife the space she asked for. Watching him cope with his pain while devoting every effort to supporting the players of fictional team AFC Richmond and their various woes, makes Ted a sympathetic, inspirational lead. It’s not only the players Ted nurtures, but also team owner Rebecca (Hannah Waddingham), who’s recently out of a controlling marriage to a man who takes pleasure in undermining and humiliating her. 

Ted’s transformation from unsophisticated oaf to an engine of hope and decency is a comedy character triumph. Swapping his idiocy for quiet wisdom and sage principles (he’s led by the Walt Whitman quote “Be curious, not judgmental”) inverted the original incarnation’s cliché about Americans abroad and created one of the US’ finest exports. 

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Ted Lasso season 2 arrives on Apple TV+ on Friday the 23rd of July.

The post Ted Lasso’s Evolution From NBC Sports Ad Buffoon to Lovable Sitcom Hero appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3kLVDcL

[intensitystoner]

Adjective challenge 7 – Noisy Sifki mush ~ 2,000 words

“Thor,” muttered the sorcerer under the book atop his face.

The one addressed couldn’t hear from the wall between them, and from the blood drumming in his head; from the ruckus he and his generously paid bedding company were making.

“Thor, be quieter,” Loki tried again dryly. He was a hair away from actually rising up and breaking the pair apart; the only thing that held him back was that he’d have his drunk brother’s attention on himself afterwards, and he had better things to do than babysit him all night. Thor was the tireless kind of drunk, he only passed out with the first rays of the sun, if ever.

Loki shuddered at the thought of having to listen to this hours long. He deemed it better to spend the time somewhere a little more tranquil, if there was no comfort in his bed anyway; and with that thought, he pulled his soft leather tunic over the shirt and headed out. There was a lake near the inn they were forced to draw back in for the night.

The silence buzzed along with the critters’ ruckus inside his head, and it already started calming his irate pulse as he lazily trod across the grass to the clearing among the reeds. He only stopped when the front of his boots almost touched the water. He breathed the calmness down, deep and long.

He swirled around abruptly as he sensed company: his eyes strained to take in the sitting figure no more than two feet away in the shade of the tall plants.

“Yes,” Sif mumbled. “It’s quite a concert in there.”

While her presence sent a familiar flutter of warmth into his stomach, he afforded a faint smirk in the dark at the entertainment offering itself.

“Nothing surprising, unfortunately,” he attempted mild humour to tap out the depth she had sunk in.

He’d suspected for a while that the maiden was not indifferent towards him, which lifted his spirits significantly when brooding over it; but her displayed attitude was no different from everyone else’s, and it should have repelled him. If he’d been like everyone else. But he was Loki, and it was exactly secrets like that he collected for later usage. What kind of usage, it depended on the situation.

“It saddens you,” he pointed out softly, earning an irate huff as an answer.

“Norns, not you. Please.”

“Am I ever wrong at guessing thoughts?"

"You are today," she told him in a tone forcibly light. "And that does sadden me a little. If you don't see through this farce, then how could anyone else?"

Loki’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

"A mystery, then, which I hope you'll reveal to me. Perhaps I can then help people see the truth."

In response, she pulled the hood of the cloak over her head and then down into her face. Her hands fell into her lap as an angry weight. Her voice came somewhat muffled from the makeshift textile fort.

“I just let them hint at our promising future at the feast, in front of everyone.”

“I know, I was there,” Loki acknowledged the feeling with a soft sigh and settled down next to her on the dried reed stalks. He saw her much more clearly from here, now that they were in the same shadow.

“You also know it’s always been just a dumb gossip with too much attention.”

“People love discussing things they have no business in.”

“But I allowed it for open discussion tonight. I’m failing to keep it out of my life. I let it happen today out of sheer laziness. I’ve been tired of labouring to destroy these tales about us.”

Yes. Tales, with no more than a snippet of truth in each. Many of them started off by the God of Mischief, for various purposes from a beneficial exchange to simple entertainment. Thor had never cared what people said about him. Even today when all those tales, and more, were hinted at, he laughed along. Alcohol was already shining in his eyes by then. His interest in it was as meagre as his general sense for consequences.

“No matter,” Loki said. “You’re strong and valorous. Such tales won’t hold up long amidst all the heroic deeds you have and will perform.”

“Right," she answered, but it didn’t sound convincing.

Sif, beautiful Sif was careful about her reputation, she nourished and polished it with great care, which was no wonder: as a woman, it cost her blood and sweat to prove worthy of her position. And her tooth-gritting hold onto these proofs showed how fragile she was in truth. Not in her body, and not in her eyes. She was not brought down in everyday senses. She was the Warmaiden. She was power itself.

This power was now weeping silently in the shade of the hood. Loki didn’t know if she mourned her dignity or something she wouldn’t admit to him, but his hand travelled to the back of her neck, then in slow circles across her back as she bent her head deeper.

“I’m well enough to do without your pampering,” she noted, her voice now thin and soaked.

“I’m Loki, I do what I want.” It came out weaker than intended.

"That's it. Everything serves your purpose, which I don’t see now."

"I do hate seeing you disrespected like this, Lady Sif."

Her breaths quieted down, although her arms were still a tight barrier around her, before she timidly spoke again.

“You haven’t stopped supporting my ambitions up to this day. Don’t think I don’t notice your helpful doings in the background. Yet you keep distant like with everyone else.”

He smirked lightly at the note; the hand disappeared from her back.

“People are aloof towards me, although rightfully. In most cases, it’s them that keep a circle around me.”

“You do get prickly when someone strays too close.”

There was a forced smile in her voice. He could tell that his closeness daunted her. It daunted most people by now, true enough; it was the reason why he kept distant. He didn’t feel like there was a chance anyone would trust in him after all his pranks.

“You’ll never need to be so cautious with me,” he admitted quietly.

He let the wanton promise roll of his tongue, as he did when he sensed his words attempting to lead somewhere. His hand reached across her back meanwhile to hold her arm and move her out of the hunched position. Trusting the natural flow of a conversation, letting control slip away at the right time was one of the tactics that often led him to a favourable point; partly because it was an unexpected move and caught the defender off-guard.

His breath quietly faltered for a moment when the maiden’s other hand slid onto his.

“I would send it back at you,” she said.

He obeyed and stayed like that, then, with her cloaked shoulder leaning to his chest softly, although a hint of worry stirred in him that she might feel the flutter of his heart.

“Just for tonight,” he whispered an idea, “you could be my lady. That way, our resident oaf can’t abandon you.”

Her bent head indicated her look to be in her lap, her voice matching his.

“It is tricky indeed, and revolting like yourself. It’s unwise to answer with a heart as turmoiled as mine.”

“I ask nothing improper of you. I don’t invite your presence into my life, or your bed into my room. It’s merely an offer to better your mood for the moment, right at this place.”

A lukewarm smile hummed in her soft acknowledgement.

“How do you imagine that to happen?”

He imagined it precisely like this. Away from everyone. Away from everything. Plotting together against the world, weaving secrets of the two of them.

Wordlessly, his free hand lifted her fingers to his lips. He lingered over each of her nails, which smelled of the grass under them. Her slow breaths grazed his wrist meanwhile.

Her fingertips strayed onto his chin, a thumb over the corner of his faint smile. A nail outlined his bottom lip.

“This is a night of torment either way,” she breathed faintly.

“It’s far from my intention to increase your sufferings,” he muttered.

“A doubtful statement from the God of Mischief.”

“Your well-being is on my heart,” Loki asserted her.

“Doubtful,” she repeated.

As she bent her head and rested it in the crook of his neck, he was not entirely sure it was real; could have been a mawkish dream cast on himself by a spell against Thor’s rowdy merriment. Nevertheless, he was gallant enough to inquire:

“Would you like me to leave, then?”

Two fingers’ hold tightened slightly over a fold of his tunic.

“If you see fit,” she answered in the most level tone she could muster.

Not like Loki would ever not get what he wanted.

“It goes for any later moment. You need but to ask.” Those few words pushed the blame on her with ease, and she wouldn’t even notice.

She knelt up then, to his elevating excitement, but instead of straddling him with her sweet, sweet curves, she held the neck of his shirt in two fists between them, preventing anything but their breaths to contact.

“Would you have me? For real? Right here?” she inquired.

Oh, oh, he knew the answer to that one. He even knew what she wanted to hear (what was right).

“Tomorrow,” he blurted out, quite the opposite of the truth welling up in him; “I’d rather have you tomorrow when your mind gleams as clearly as your heart does now.”

“Does your silver tongue never abandon you?” she breathed over his lips, her whisper thick.

“It is attached to me,” he gloated: a suggestive note despite his previous statement.

“What it says bears responsibility, however.”

“The responsibility is yours, I am in no way worthy of guarding you.”

It was a half-hearted warning that reached her mind faintly through the haze, and she almost let it pass. Almost. She spoke unthinking as she reached after the slippery thought.

“I shall collect myself, then.”

“A token,” Loki said as a reluctant distance grew between them. “Proof that you will think again tomorrow, and give me a chance to draw out your answer.”

She rolled her eyes in defeat, and she leaned in to reach those smirking lips.

“A lock, for instance,” they formed before the contact would have been established, their smirk rather victorious; “that of your hair, would do.”

A frozen moment later, she drew back into her own space, firmly refusing to let embarrassment get to her. In silence, she removed the hood and offered access to the requested item. The trickster took it with a knife, his smile rather chaste, his silence bearing a hint of surprise over her compliance.

“It would look better if it was golden,” Sif mumbled to break the quiet.

“What would I need my brother’s hair for?” Loki inquired, suddenly in a cool tone, while sinking the lock into a freshly produced pouch and then making it disappear the way it came: an unnoticed flick of a wrist, and it was gone.

Sif stared at its empty space with growing worry.

“What about mine? What would you need that for?”

“Blackmailing you into an answer,” he said simply.

Figures.

“It’ll be hard to say yes when your guard is up again,” Sif noted.

“Oh, beautiful Sif, there is no guard,” he laughed quietly up at her. “It is all the people, not me, don’t you see it? I rush into my demise rather unguarded all the time.”

“We’ll see,” she answered as farewell while getting to her feet.

However, Loki moved together with her, standing up and getting a hold of her wrist lightly to stop the movement.

“And now for the promise of tonight.”

“You said you’ll let me go when I say so,” she claimed, though she didn’t try backing out of the hold.

“And so I will,” he answered while his hand slid into hers, pulling her along.

A single step, and they were walking on the lake’s unbroken surface: a mirror to the star-spotted darkness around them. She’d been given no time to protest, and fright rippled through her body in a late wave.

“I’m guessing I’d be deep in trouble if I asked you to release me right now,” she noted.

Feeling his gaze on her jawline, she knew his impish smirk without looking, while she took in the surroundings. No doubt it was a breath-taking sight, and she was nothing near wanting to turn back for now. As an unwilling smile spread on her lips, the wind reached them in their even walk, rippled the water, tugged at their hair, cooled down their faces. Only her hand remained warm in his.

Faint lights loomed up inside the water, but she couldn’t tell through the waves if they were stationary or chasing each other around.

Loki’s voice interrupted her musing.

“Which one would interest you more? Meeting the creatures living under or over the water?” he inquired, drawing her surprised look to himself.

“I prefer staying where air can reach my lungs, at any rate,” she decided.

He acknowledged the rightful desire with a nod. The lights illuminated their features while flying in and out of the water like the barrier never existed. The pair strolled on in the vast sea of stars hand in hand, and only Loki knew that they wouldn’t make it back by morning.

[piraticalarchive]

@twistedwit : ❝  i like seeing you smile.  ❞

Tongue presses to the inside of one cheek - scoff passing through rum flavored lips on an exhaled sigh he can’t restrain. Guilt follows after.. the realization that the older man has no reason to understand why such a phrase irks him, why it works under his skin like daggers until he bleeds from wounds long left unhealed... it causes another exhale to escape his chest and Killian shifts where he sits, pressing himself against the bench at his back. The silence stretches between them as the once pirate cranes his head, pressing it back until rough wooden edges dig into his scalp - an unfortunate reminder that he, in fact, not dreaming. Each night he falls victim to exhaustion with a whispered prayer branded on rough lips - hope, perhaps. That he might might wake from the hell he has found himself within, that he will open his eyes to find he is not alone, not forgotten ... and yet every morning, he faces the same jarring detail. The sun that burns heavy through half closed blinds, walls made of wood and not of stone - and, above all else, the empty expanse that awaits at his side.

Bloody hell.

Teeth chew at an already cracked lip, knee moving to nudge Guy’s own where it rests so casually against his. “Bloody hell - “ He tries for a grin, blue eyes wide as he gives a shake of his head, making light of whatever tension his introspection might have placed between them. “I haven’t ... I haven’t heard someone say that in .. feels like years, now.” Eyes trace the water before them, outlines of gently lapping waves caught by the edge of moonlight. It’s late, very late - and for a moment Killian debates questioning why the other is still with him, why he has not yet found himself returning home... but he pushes such thoughts aside, brow quirking as gaze instead turns to study the older man’s profile. The sweep of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the scar above his right eyebrow that was a souvenir of a venture admittedly not quite as well thought out as it should have been... it’s all there, just as he remembers it, and the pirate suddenly finds himself swallowing, forcing words past the lump that has gathered in the back of his throat.

“I knew someone once - he was a lot like you, actually. Very brave, very charming -and he’d do anything if it protected the ones he loved, including losing himself to the voices whispering monster inside his own head.” Ringed fingers reach up to scratch absently behind one ear, catching at the earring that hangs there before dropping back to his lap. Guy’s thigh is nearly on top of his own, a mere breadth of space exists between them - but rather than cross the divide with palm as he so greatly wishes to, he instead takes a deep breath, continuing his story. “I felt what you just said with my entire being - his smile lit up my world, and I did my best to tell him whenever the opportunity presented itself, though I don’t think he always believed me. He was a bloody, daft oaf - infuriatingly stubborn at times, aye .. but he was mine.” 

Words fall silent and Killian shifts where he sits, turning so he can face the man sitting so close beside him. “You remind me of him, you know. More than you might think. Being here, like this - “ A huff of breath passes through in a sound akin to an almost whistle, breath blowing the bangs that threaten to ghost over blue eyes. “ - it almost eases the pain of losing him. You, Guy Gisborne,  are one of the most extraordinary men in this world.” Fingers do move then, brushing the barest touches against one denim clad thigh before retreating into the space that is rightfully their own and the once pirate shifts once more, turning to look back over the water. 

What he finds himself doing next is easy, something he’s practiced (foolish as that may seem) a million times ... something that is enough to bridge that gap between them. Nothing more than a man stretching his arm behind the form of his friend - an act which leaves him leaning in all the closer. “Don’t let anyone ever make you feel otherwise, aye? Not that wife of yours, and not her damned bloody father or the evil bitch that calls herself our illustrious ruler. And if they do - “ Shoulder nudges Guy’s own once again with a bit more force, brows quirking in playfulness even as words fall heavy and serious between them, edged in a gruffness he can’t quite erase. “ - tell me. I may not be quite the caliber of man as our dear town’s Leroy... but, dashing rogue than I am .. I find I’m fairly good in a fight.” 

Pirate.

[zenonaa]

Lazy Mornings

According to various studies, the average adult slept for less than seven hours per night. However, just because a person could function with that few hours of sleep didn’t mean a person functioned to their greatest potential. On the flipside, too much sleep could indicate a problem too. Not in a ‘it’ll give you heart problems’ sort of way, but in an ‘are you sleeping so much because of another issue such as depression?’ sort of way.

And that, dear reader, was why Mikan was awake so early in the morning, preparing lunch for Chiaki Nanami. In a society that moved as quickly as it did, many people didn’t have time for a proper meal before they needed to whizz off to school or work or whatever else. Then later at lunch, they either brought something from home or purchased something fast and convenient rather than something good for them.

Without going into a spiel about the importance of breakfast and diets, Mikan therefore had taken a lot into account when deciding to do this for Chiaki, who treated her so kindly. Presently, breakfast was on standby on the counter. It consisted of white rice, fried tofu in miso soup, curry-flavoured chicken and a bowl of vegetables mixed with soy and egg.

As for right now, she was working on lunch. Her tongue peeked out of her pursed lips as she concentrated on fixing up onigiri so it resembled the image in her head. Purple tissue lined the inside of the bento box, and seaweed bordered each onigiri so that the white rice nestled within a black outline. She had patted them into a square shape, rather than something round. They sat in the centre of the box, with four cheese balls and a cherry on one side, her right, while on the other side, two celery sticks were arranged into a cross shape with small cheese balls beneath them.

Once she had positioned the contents as she wanted, she carefully packed the bento box into her satchel and carried the tray of breakfast to the door leading out of the communal kitchen.

All she had to do was carry the food to Chiaki’s dorm without tripping over.

The door shut behind her. Mikan gulped and stretched out her neck.

Ask anyone who knew her and they would call her a klutz. People without a filter and strained patience would call her a clumsy oaf, who tripped and fell into awkward poses where everyone would see. She took a step forward, then another, and so on. Her heart raced. The hall was empty, with only her in it, but even if there were people around, she couldn’t trip. Absolutely not.

Mikan arrived at Chiaki’s dorm and rang the bell with the breakfast intact. No one answered. She contorted her lips and gently placed the tray by her feet so she could fish out the spare key from her pocket.

“Good morning, Tsumiki-san,” someone called out from down the hall, and she juggled the key, almost dropping it. The voice belonged to Ryouta, flanked by Nagito, Mahiru and Sonia.

A squeal popped out of Mikan. Her body jolted. Very easily, Mikan could have taken a step to the side, landing her foot in the breakfast, and consequently slipped. Then, as she lay on the floor, everyone would gather around, giving her their attention... and pity...

... but if that happened, Chiaki would have to go without the special breakfast. Mikan glanced at the door beside her. She took a breath and turned her gaze back to the others approaching her.

“G-Good morning, Mitarai-san!” she responded, bowing quickly with her hands clasped in front of herself.

The group paused beside her, all smiling.

“Are you bringing Chiaki-chan breakfast?” asked Mahiru, peering down at the tray.

“Yes!” Mikan said, and she straightened.

“That is very thoughtful of you,” complimented Sonia. “We’re going to breakfast ourselves now, and then we’re going to the arcade. You two are still coming, right?”

“Of course!” Mikan promised, nodding fervently. “And it’s thoughtful for you too! Breakfast helps kickstart your metabolism and sets a rhythm for your body, and you’re less likely to snack...”

She trailed off. Though Sonia continued grinning, Mikan thought she saw a minute change in how Sonia’s lips curved that most others would miss. It felt strained, forced.

“It is very important,” agreed Sonia, her tone not suggesting any impatience or annoyance, and she waved. “We’ll see you later then!”

The group continued down the hallway. Mikan unlocked Chiaki’s door and brought in the tray of breakfast. She wasn’t surprised when she found Chiaki still asleep in bed. Trying not to make too much noise, Mikan sat down slowly beside her before she gave Chiaki’s shoulder a shake. As sweet as Chiaki was while she slept, time never stopped passing.

Chiaki shifted and emitted a low hum.

“I brought you breakfast,” murmured Mikan with the tray on her lap.

“Too early,” grumbled Chiaki without looking over, and she tried to get comfortable again.

Mikan’s heart sank as she wondered if she had been too presumptuous. In her haste to please Chiaki, she hadn’t stopped to think whether Chiaki would even want trash like her to do this. Maybe Chiaki considered it a burden to have two meals thrust upon her, or deemed it weird, or she didn’t trust Mikan. Or maybe... maybe Chiaki didn’t feel the way that Mikan did for her.

The more Mikan thought about it, the more obvious it became to her. Chiaki’s tired, scrunched face said it all.

“Ah... I was too forward,” Mikan said, wilting. She winced and wrung her fingers, watching Chiaki continue to shuffle about. “I’m sorry... Please, feel free to throw it into the face of this weirdo...”

Chiaki stopped moving but didn’t rise right away. Some seconds rolled by before she sat up with a frown. Her eyes drifted over to the tray, with its colourful crockery and food with an inviting aroma, and she blinked.

“It looks tasty,” Chiaki mumbled, still sounding half-asleep. The compliment gave Mikan a spike of confidence, even if it was covered by a layer or three of jittery nerves.

“I d-did my best,” said Mikan. She pulled out the bento box from her satchel and passed it to Chiaki. “I made you lunch too... You usually forget to eat anything, so I thought I’d make one specially for you. I’m sorry if that’s too shameless.”

Despite not having even started breakfast, Chiaki opened the bento box. A beat passed, then her eyes widened.

“It’s like a Game Girl Advance,” said Chiaki in a whisper, referring to the layout.

Mikan nodded and felt her cheeks warm as she recalled the time when Chiaki came up to her ages ago, after Mikan had been scolded by some of the others for tripping over and landing in a humiliating position during a game of hangman. She remembered how Chiaki sat beside her and showed her how to play the game, never raising her voice even as Mikan sniffled and apologised for existing. It had been Chiaki who cheered Mikan up on that occasion. More than that, even - Mikan had been genuinely happy without having to compromise herself, grinning and laughing as they played together, and then it happened many times after that.

A smile spread across Chiaki’s face.

“I love it,” said Chiaki with strong eye contact. Her stomach rumbled. She placed her hand over it and looked at the tray. “Um... I don’t have good eye-hand coordination this early. Would you feed me breakfast? I don’t want to miss my mouth.”

Warmth became fire.

“I... Um... Of course!” Mikan tried to pick up a spoon, but for real fumbled. Still, she managed to eventually, and she fed Chiaki some miso soup along with the rest of the breakfast.

They ended up spending the whole morning on the bed, eating and playing video games.

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

Not Him (7)

So here’s your next Loki chapter. I didn’t intend on getting so deep with this one but it unfolded a lot more than I had expected but I hope you like a soft trickster. This is during the mission Bucky went on in part 6 so it’s backtracking in a sense but yada yada, the next part will go forward. Please, I’d appreciate any comments and if you could reblog this too :)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Loki POV

Loki waited with arms crossed. His leg shook with impatience as he sat on the metal bench inside the Midgardian aircraft. He sighed, quelling his nerves, and looked over at his brother who was half asleep already. Thor opened one sparkling eye and his mouth slanted in crooked grin.

“You really must learn to be patient, brother,” He chided, “Besides, you did insist on being about half an hour early.”

“The sooner we’re gone, the sooner this is over with,” Loki grumbled.

His lips curled as he tried not to yawn, Thor’s show of his own fatigue reminded Loki of his own. His night had been restless as he dreaded the days to come. When Stark had briefed them on their mission, a knot had formed in his stomach and had yet to untangle. A week, even two, stuck with that super soldier. Two of them actually. Not to mention his dope of a brother. He sighed and caught his toe tapping on the floor, forcing it to still.

Loki hadn’t truly planned on being so early. He would have rather kept the soldiers waiting than to be the one sitting in expectation. It wasn’t until he had seen her kissing him. Holding his hand as they walked merrily down the hall. He had hidden himself as they passed, the rage and jealousy boiling until he felt a stabbing in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he had stumbled on the pair and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. He had been hoping a mission would be time spent away from the reminder of what he had done to Y/N; of how he had sabotaged himself yet again.

Fate had never favoured Loki.

Finally, voices neared the open door and footsteps clanked up the metal ramp. Rogers entered first followed by his right hand, Barnes. They dropped their bags in the hold as they chattered and Loki kept his head down trying not to hear them. He was a trickster, but he couldn’t truly make himself disappear.

“So, was it Y/N who kept you so long?” Steve asked with a chuckle.

Bucky shushed him but confirmed his suspicion. “We’re still feeling things out, Steve.”

“I’m sure you are,” Steve nudged him as they neared the metal bench, “Thor,” The golden Asgardian rose to clap the super soldier’s shoulder, and then the other, as they shared quite the jovial greeting. “Loki,” Steve said stiffly to the odd fourth and the second-born prince merely nodded and prayed for his existence to end.

Steve sat beside Thor and Loki was further irritated when Bucky chose to sit beside him. The man was a plague on his person. “Hey,” He said quietly, his voice disappointingly friendly. How was Loki to despise this man when he gave him little reason to. “Ready to get into it?” Loki merely gave the super soldier the side-eye before leaning his head back against the wall of the jet. The ramp receded and the door closed automatically, signalling their imminent departure. “I’m not a big fan of heights either,” Bucky commented, “I’ve had a rough track record, you know?”

“I’m not afraid,” Loki adjusted his collar, “In Asgard, our aircraft were much more advanced.”

“Oh,” Bucky clapped his hands together, interweaving his fingers as he leaned forward on his knees, “Pre-mission jitters?”

“Annoyance. Mourning for my previous solace,” Loki answered and he felt his brother’s gaze upon him. He looked over at Thor who had ceased his own conversation and saw in him a startling resemblance to Odin. He had always been so skilled in provoking his father, too.

“Loki,” Thor said, “Try to be nice.”

“Yes, Mother,” Loki hissed.

“Cut it out,” Thor reproached, “Why are you being such an ass?”

The super soldiers looked at each other in confusion. Steve shrugged and mumbled, “Siblings,” as he leaned back. Loki huffed, his eyes flared at his brother but he quickly pressed his lips together. He didn’t need to further demean himself in front of these Asgardian mutants. He shook his head, tucking his chin against his collar as he closed his eyes.

“Do try to keep it down,” He slithered. He could at least pretend he wasn’t there.

As expected, Loki did not manage to doze on their way to the rendezvous. In fact he was tormented by the man who sat beside him. It wasn’t that Bucky said or did anything. Not to him, at least. He just reminded Loki of Y/N. Of the way he longed for her to look at him, to think of him, to touch him the way she did this damned super soldier. They were the same thoughts which had been running around in his head for the last few weeks.

He followed his brother down the ramp like a sulking adolescent. Sometimes that was how Thor made him feel. He couldn’t help but still get those twangs of resent deep down whenever he was with his brother, especially around these Midgardians known as the Avengers. They were just like him; perfect. They got anything they wanted and what did he get? Nothing, because he just couldn’t be like them. He couldn’t be...normal.

From the jet, the four of them squeezed into a small car, Loki relieved to be sat beside Thor. Well, mentally but not physically. That oaf of a god took up more than half the seat, leaving Loki to press himself against the door. It was fine, it gave him a reason to look out the window, watching the flash of random headlights and stark outlines of trees as they sped down the dark highway.

He didn’t know why he had been asked along. He rarely went along on any of these triflesome missions with anyone but his brother. They surely didn’t need all four of them. Loki supposed they needed a level-head to balance out the three brutes. Really, he was more subtle in his style, whereas the others tended towards destruction over deception. Maybe Stark just didn’t trust him without his sibling nearby to reel him in. He didn’t need to be leashed like a dog, he did just fine on his own. Why couldn’t everyone just understand that it hadn’t been him those years ago? Not truly...had it?

Thinking back on it, Loki was finding it hard to deny his autonomy in the invasion. Perhaps something deep inside of his was demented. Just look what he had done to Y/N. He could no longer blame it on his insecurity, what he had done had been entirely selfish, cowardly, and beyond all, cruel. Yet, he still couldn’t find another explanation.

The touch of her fingertips on his skin, her lips against his, her body pressed close...that was why. He wanted her. He wanted every bit of her and now he would never have it and all because of this stupid super soldier. No...all because of himself.

Loki was suddenly overwhelmed. The car felt suffocating as he felt the weight settle on his chest. That longing which never truly left him intensified and he missed his mother terribly. He wished she was here with him. He wished he was home. He needed her to tell him what to do. If she had been there, he never would have pulled such a repulsive trick. He would have known exactly how to endear himself to this Midgardian. Would have if the world had shown him any ounce of mercy in his life.

He no longer felt crowded but rather alone. Loki glanced over at Thor, his own blue eyes stared distant through his window. He should be happy he was there. They were the only family they had left. He supposed, for once in their lives, the two brothers were in much the same boat. Set adrift in the universe; refugees without a home. Perhaps Thor could help him, he had loved a Midgardian too.

Love? No, that’s not what this was. Infatuation. That was all. How foolish of him to even think of that word. Loki twiddled his fingers as he thought, a green aura rising from them in swirls. He was anxious. Thor’s eye was drawn my the magick. He knew what it meant.

“Brother,” He whispered and smiled at Loki. Loki snuffed out the lights around his hands and looked away guiltily. He clasped his hands together and leaned over just a little, so that Thor could hear him.

“Thank you, Thor,” He whispered back. He didn’t need to say what for, they both knew. Thor had always been there and always would despite all Loki’s pitfalls. He was the only one who understood that the trickster was not so smooth as he pretended to be.

“Tell me what has gotten you so down?” Thor sat beside Loki, the tight space uncomfortable for both of them. They were doing surveillance and were forced to hide in cramped bell tower of a local church. Who would ever think a cathedral would be spying on you?

“I’m not...down,” Loki protested.

“You cannot fool me, brother,” Thor tilted his head, his eyes betrayed his thoughts as they whirled, “What did the super soldier do to you?”

“Nothing,” Loki shrugged.

“Right.” He narrowed his eyes, “I’d never describe you as an overly personable individual, Loki, but I do know you do not expend the energy to hate someone unless they gave you reason.”

Loki sighed, scratching his chin as he stared out the window. One of them had to pay attention. He chewed on the inside of his lip, trying to conjure up a lie but nothing came. He just sat there in telling silence.

“Okay, if it wasn’t Bucky, what did you do, Loki?” Thor asked. Loki winced. Sometimes his brother was smarter than he let on.

“I…” Loki’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “If I tell you, do you promise not to say anything to anyone?”

“On my honour, brother.” Thor vowed.

“Thor,” Loki elbowed him, “I’m serious. And you can’t get mad at me, either. I’m already mad enough for the both of us.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” Thor struggled to keep his voice down, “Look, I swear I won’t say a word and I’ll listen with an open mind.”

Loki nodded, willing himself to confess. Perhaps he would feel better if he did. He inhaled and steadied his hands on his knees. “I lied to Y/N. More than that I…” The guilt made his skin burn, “I pretended to be that super soldier and I-I-I tricked her.” He dared to look over at Thor but did not receive the glare he expected. He saw the empathy in his brother’s face as he listened. “I don’t know why I did it. Well, I know now why I did but I didn’t really think about it at the time. I didn’t think about how stupid it was or how hurtful it was and...I’ve tossed away my only chance with her.”

“Oh, Loki,” Thor’s hand was on his shoulder. It was a surprisingly comforting gesture and Loki hung his head. “Have you apologized?”

“Well...no, not really. I tried but I was interrupted and…” He frowned as he raised his head, “I don’t think she wanted to hear it. She doesn’t want anything to do with me and I can’t blame her.” He shook his head, pushing back his hair, “What is wrong with me?”

“Hmm,” Thor breathed, the cool night air brushing across Loki’s face as he leaned his chin in his hands. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I just think you need to give yourself a chance and then you’ll see that others will do the same.”

Those were his mother’s words. Loki knew it. She wasn’t truly gone, she lived on through them. They each had a part of her within them and it was these rare time that Thor astounded him. He always knew what to say, just like Frigga. Loki just needed to find that piece of her hiding inside of him.

[drumsofatelaer]

EPISODE 1: WISKUSSET 17TH

For the first week and a half of his imprisonment all he knew was darkness.

Adrian slept fitfully on the cold ground, trying to tuck up his bound legs and arms close to his body to preserve what heat he could contain and to calm the racing of his anxious heart. Despite his best efforts to keep warm, the start of fall had brought an unbearably piercing chill to the air, and it was hard to stay comfortable. They kept the rough spun bag over his head during the days he was left out in the open and other days he was left in a guarded tent, tied to the center pole driven deep into the ground.

Adrian had realized early on that they were traveling. But where they were exactly going was lost to him. These were not lands he knew well and even the wind sounded foreign. It made him long for the warmer climate of Pracis, where the waters were sweet and the land was forgiving to the likes of him. Atelaer seemed full of nothing but biting gusts and even harsher people.

He trained his pointed ears for the noise outside and the hissing of angry voices. Adrian knew that during his first two days, while he tried to tuck his arms under his aching head to rest, there were two men outside the tent arguing and shoving each other violently. They were trying to figure out what to do with him and he knew that once or twice someone had come asking to kill him themselves.

To him it would have been a welcome mercy.

All sense of time and distance had escaped him, for all he knew when they moved him from place to place they were going around in circles. Or they could have been taking him farther and farther away from Empire barracks and any chance of escape. The camp was a terrifying and arduous ordeal, much different than the comfort of home. It was shambled together by tents made of linens and the thick tarp of old sails. Only the officer’s tents seemed to carry any semblance of refinery and sense to their design and layout. Adrian longed for escape, to return to the simple life he had led and his studies.

Yet he was here with his fellow countrymen, fighting rebel colonies to the north. Why? He was told that the enemy had designs of ruining the peace and splendor of their home. He could only assume that was true.

“The Colonel wants to take him to the General.”

Cold fear dropped into Adrian’s  stomach and he rolled as quietly as he could, gazing at the shadowy figures outlined on the tent walls.

The other voice huffed, “Better if we just skipped the niceties. Why waste valuable time and energy to move to the General?” They sounded high-pitched; more than likely a woman.

Adrian shifted uncomfortably, shivering from the cold against the rough spun mat they had placed under him. His throat ached with dehydration and it was scratchy when he tried to raise it. “H…hello?”

The voices outside paused, one of the figures giving a jerky movement away from the tent flap and physically turning from its opening. So they were going to ignore him then.

“Hello?” Adrian called, louder this time, as he tried to swallow past the dryness.

“What do you want?” the woman hissed, ducking her head inside with a ferocious look on her face.

Adrian shrunk away, shoulders tucking defensively in as he tried to look her in the eye. They were luminous blue eyes that glinted like a cat’s in the darkness, and her green skin turned a ghastly gray from the firelight outside. The feathers on the sides of her face fanned out in her anger. She was small and young. Something Adrian had learned while they’d traveled. Her name was Private Junia, but he had been too afraid to speak to her and her cohort, Private Curran. They were resentful that they were forced to guard him.

He dragged his tongue over his teeth, feeling the ache grow stronger. Between pride and survival, Adrian would choose to live.

“Water,” he rasped. Curran outside scoffed loudly, but Adrian’s face hardened and he pressed on. “May I have some water…please?”

Junia’s eyes narrowed, her thin lips pursed in disgust as he spoke. The first time he had spoken to her he had been too informal, had asked her if she painted her skin green or if she was born that way in a blunt attempt to get to know her. His fascination and confusion in the first days had earned him a few hard scuffs to the jaw.

Her feathers gave a soft shutter along her face. She glared from the sides of her eyes as she turned away without an answer. He could feel his hope of relief sink as she turned her slight back to him, but she then poked her head out of the tent and said, “Oy. Go get the loon a flagon of water aye?”

“What?” her companion snapped.

Adrian’s eyes widened when he saw the outline of a fluffy tail lash.

“Why the hells would we waste good water on him?”

“Cause he got interrogation in the mornin’, you oaf. Colonel finally gonna get somethin’ out of him. If he can barely talk how he gonna be any use?”

“Better he don’t talk. He should just stay silent and accept what he’s done, take it like a man.”

Junia hissed, stomping one foot at Curran’s flippant tone. “Go get it already or I’ll tell the Colonel! Then maybe we can have a trial for you being a big lazy bear!”

There was a stiff silence before Curran snarled and stormed away, shouldering his rifle as he disappeared from the lights shining on the tent.

With a huff, Junia slipped back in, snapping the tent flap closed and returning her opalescent gaze onto Adrian. He could think of nothing to do but stare at her boots, dirty and falling apart and stitched with rough threads of twine. She had a straight back, short and skinny and dressed more like a boy than a young woman, though Adrian would never be able to guess her actual age.

“No weird questions today?” she snapped, “No rude comments about being green?”

Adrian’s head lifted to glance at her with a wince of worry at her tone. He hadn’t the energy to try to make conversation; all he wished for was to stand properly and stretch and fill his belly with water and a proper meal. He wondered where the hens he had befriended had gone. They were an amusing, beautiful blue of sapphire and green jade, so unlike any color he had seen on a chicken before. He knew that the Adamas Ore had done things to morph the creatures and people that lived in Atelaer, but he did not know it would go to such extents. Not that he had seen many chickens at all before, unless they were cooked upon his plate. But they were docile, large and fluffy and friendly due to him feeding them scraps of his stale bread. They were always gone by nightfall, off to rest in whatever traveling coop they had been given.

As he thought of the hens in an attempt to ignore the woman glaring down at him, one question did come across his mind and made suspicion swell inside of him: “I’m to be interrogated?”

“For the death of Alfonse. Best to fess up and tell all your secrets before you get to Surryfield. They got people who are a lot meaner to get you to talk.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Junia scoffed, a feathered tail lashing. “No one believes you.”

Adrian’s shoulders tensed and he tried to sit up a bit straighter; he didn’t know what to say to that. “Who was Alfonse? Why was a boy wearing a Private’s coat?”

Junia stiffened, giving a slow and miserable tilt to her head as she scuffed a boot at the dusty ground. “He was the Colonel’s favorite. A drummer boy.”

Adrian’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “But…he was supposed to be in a white coat then. Untouchable. Why-”

“Be quiet!” Junia shouted, whirling and striking him hard across the jaw.

The punch dizzied him and brought Adrian tumbling to his elbows and knees. He saw stars behind his lids as he tried to get a grip on where the floor and sky were.

Junia’s voice was shaking with grief as she shouted, “Silence yourself…you killed him. We all know it! They all told us what they saw! He was just a boy and you killed him!”

Dizzy, head aching from the blow and blood coming from his split lip Adrian lifted his eyes to watch Junia storm out.

The shadowed figure of her companion returned and for a moment they spoke low and furiously. With a harsh breath Junia ripped the flaps of the tent back open, glaring at Adrian as he sank back and brought up his arms in a cross to block another blow. Her face twisted and with a grunt she threw the flagon at him, water splashing across his shirt and onto the dusty floor. “There’s your damned water your rat!”

Curran’s rough voice followed with a growl, “I hope the Colonel does a number on you.”

The flap of the tent closed, lacing up tightly so that no one could come in again for the remainder of the evening.

Adrian was shaking as he got up and sat back against the pole of the tent. His bound hands ached as he pulled them taught, trying to make the pain of it drown out the howling void of fear that was swallowing his chest whole at the thought of morning.

“Lieutenant Octava.”

The Colonel’s voice carried well through the officer’s tent, despite his attention lingering on the last few words of a document under hand at the spindly desk. The sunlight of dawn had just begun to paint the ivory canvas around them in warm tones.

Returning the quill to its inkwell, Francis turned to acknowledge the guest to his quarters. “Have you news from our intrepid courier for me?”

“Aye, sir,” replied the Atelan man with an expressionless face of sable and umber. He stepped forward with a piece of parchment shuffled from his coat sleeve.

The men exchanged quiet looks before Francis took to reading the correspondence.

“Well done, Atticus. So the Imperials are on the move east of us. Hoping to force a surrender of Fort Howley I presume. I can’t imagine they’re left with much of a choice after our interference last week.”

“It would appear that way, Colonel.”

Francis’s brows furrowed. “I’m almost certain Major Baxter at Fort Howley will require our additional forces. This will delay our march to the barracks in Surryfield, however.”

“With respect, Colonel, perhaps this gives us time to gather information from the prisoner.” Atticus paused, working his jaw. “Forgive me if I don’t understand why it’s necessary to take him to Surryfield when justice for his crimes can be handled among us.”

The wintery eyes of the Colonel narrowed dangerously at Atticus, as he folded the correspondence letter closed and tossed it on the desk briskly. “I am a passionate man, just as any of us serving in the Wiskusset 17th, Lieutenant. But I do not to submit my emotions to savagery. He will be trialed fairly by the General’s protocol at the barracks.”

Atticus’s verdant eyes flashed. “Savagery? Do you think the Emperor’s army honors us with the same courtesy? That man out there killed Alfonse!”

“You will be wise to hold your tongue, Lieutenant, and keep your pistol in its holster!”  boomed Francis, standing and making the irritated thrash of his tail known. “You are dismissed.”

Narrowing his eyes, Atticus gave a reluctant bow of his head and turned out of the officer’s tent.

Francis stood quietly for a few moments, plucking his thoughts and contemplating the hour of his interview with the prisoner in question. Tethering his saber and drawing a cloak over his shoulders, the vacant bedding beside his desk drew his attention. How curious; he hadn’t seen any of his hens all morning.

Taking a stein full of birdseed with him, the Colonel emerged from his tent with breath puffing from his nose in the crisp air and heavy fabrics billowing behind him. Soldiers stopped and bowed their heads in respect as Francis passed, despite their commanding officer’s eyes being more attentive to the ground between their feet and along the bottom trappings of canvas.

However, it wasn’t long before a sight least expected snared his icy gaze as he spotted the blue rump of a fat hen scuttling under the tent of the captive being held. A moment’s pang of apprehension stung Francis in the chest. He couldn’t afford to lose another hen, let alone by the hands of a petty Imperial.

The tent flap briskly opened with the Colonel’s arrival, the shape of his face torn between bewilderment and offense at the scene inside.

Adrian was resting uncomfortably against the center pole; half asleep and with his hands bound tight and low. Angry red marks and bruises glowed on his freckled skin. The hens were clucking amiably, wandering about him with one trying to take residence in his lap. Their plump behinds spilled over onto the dusty ground while they clucked softly and pecked bits of stale bread from the alleged murderer’s hands. The others milled about the tent with a calm and curious air. Of course, not a feather ruffled or harmed.

Francis’s frown deepened, quietly witnessing the captured man sing low and under his breath. It sounded of the L’Eyon language, a manner of rhyme crooned softly to himself and his feathered guests, and they returned it with pleased clucking and stretching of their necks to inspect Adrian’s hands for more food. They had been lured there by the promise of an easy, fattened meal.

“Bread will spoil them, you know.”

Francis’s voice made Adrian give a violent jerk, and the hens gave startled squawks. Adrian’s eyes flew open and he tried to sit up straighter, spilling the creatures from his lap. Their wings fluffed and flapped in irritation at being disturbed. He looked up, fire shining in golden eyes that made the cloaked Colonel nearly take a startled step back himself. Bruises bloomed along his face, and his long red hair had become further disheveled from abuse. His mouth was pale and cracked from dehydration, cheeks sunken as he tried to shift and sit up with what little dignity had been left to him.

“It’s all I have,” Adrian rasped after a beaten of quiet.

“The bread is for you, not my regiment’s livestock,” Francis barked with raised alarm at the haggard, beaten appearance. He gripped the tent flap open and stuffed his displeased face outside. The guilty shadows of Privates Maitiu Curran and Camilla Junia sunk in on themselves. “Did I not make my orders clear, privates?! Get this man some damned water, now!”

“Yes, Colonel! Right away, sir!” The two jumped in unison, hands on their hats as they bolted down the hill towards the river.

Francis turned back into the tent, face livid with anger.

Adrian was watching the imposing figure of the Colonel with distrust and a startled frown etched into his face at the booming voice. He looked down to the creatures, carefully petting the beak of one with an inflamed finger. He spoke with a rasp to his voice. “You...wish for them back?” It was a quiet statement, already missing the small comfort of the fuzzy and docile hens.

Francis pressed his thin mouth into a line. “No.” He bent, setting the birdseed the hens ate in front of Adrian’s feet. “As long as you feed them correctly.”

Thoughtful, Adrian reached for the stein and brought it closer. He took up a handful, suppressing a smile as the hens clucked happily and pecked at his hand. “They are....very soft. Big too.”

Francis heard how ill and suspicious the man was. His gaze lingered on the Imperial’s trappings, grimacing with how the men had tied him. His hands were bound so tight his fingertips were an aching red and swollen, his wrists were rubbed raw and brought low so he could never stand or sit straight.

Sighing, Francis unsheathed a small silver blade and stepped quickly over to the other man.

Adrian shrunk back, seed falling from his hands to his lap and the ground as he brought them up to block a blow. A ferocious look flamed brightly in his eyes, ready for a fight and the interrogations that were promised.

Closing his eyes to find patience, Francis cut the rope loose and frowned at the bits of blood along the captive’s wrists. “Stand, stretch, we will begin when they return with water for you to drink.”

“My interrogation,” Adrian murmured. He swallowed and brought his aching hands close to his chest with a wince. It felt odd to stand. Francis took a large step back to allow Adrian space as he stretched and straightened, his back giving uncomfortable cracks as he twisted this way and that.

Francis flushed and moved even further back. Adrian was a good head taller than he, with a long braid that fell down to the backs of his knees. His shoulders were broad and what remained of his muscle showed through his sleeves.  

Francis sniffed and raised his chin. “We shall speak like gentlemen. The Wiskusset 17th is honor bound to treat you fairly as a prisoner until we reach Surryfield. Despite our quarrel with the Imperials’ presumptuous oppression, we aren’t that different, you and I. The General shall determine the terms of your return to the Imperials, whether it be on foot or in casket.”

Silence stretched between them. Adrian looked straight forward, not quite meeting Francis’s eyes but actually looking more at his left ear.

Clearing his throat, Francis tapped his heel against the hard ground. “Name and rank?”

Again, only silence. Adrian’s shoulders stiffened and his mouth pressed into an angry line, pupils dilating as he glanced at Francis’s face and then looked swiftly away again.

A muscle ticked in Francis’s jaw, and he huffed as he looked down his long nose.

It was incredible to Adrian, that this other man was able to look down at him when he was so much shorter.

The Colonel flipped the tail of his blonde hair over his slim shoulder. “It will be easier to advocate a prisoner exchange fairly with your name and rank, sir.”

Worrying his lip, Adrian looked carefully at the Colonel’s face. For a moment there was silence again, but before Francis could bark another order at him, he answered in a raw voice, “Subaltern A...Adrian Soleil.” Rasping under his breath, he added, “E...Emperor’s Alchemist.”

Francis lofted a brow at the curious detail. “So you’re a doctor.”

“An Emperor’s Alchemist,” Adrian corrected with a bite to his voice.

Camilla poked her head in, not saying a word as she shoved a large leather skein of water towards the Colonel. Francis snatched it from her with a cold glare at her back as she fled again from the tent. Turning towards Adrian, he roughly handed the leather pouch that was icy with water out to him. “I am Colonel Francis Emberfell, and you will address me as such.”

Wary and watching the hens peck around his feet, Adrian stepped to the side and took it. He began to drink, resisting the urge to swallow long and deep for fear of vomiting it back up. He was slow and careful with his sips, wetting his mouth and dragging his tongue across his teeth. Sudden exhaustion overcame him, begging him to lay down and sleep now that he had a proper drink of water. Wary it would be taken away from him, Adrian kept the skein close to his chest, unable to make eye contact with the Colonel.

Francis narrowed his eyes, looking down at the hens that had taken up residence on Adrian’s boots. “His blood was on your hands. The boy. Do you still deny it?”

Adrian said nothing. His soft, pretty mouth turned down into a frown. He wasn’t pleased at the accusation, and furthermore, appalled it had even been suggested. To suggest the men and women of the Empire had such little honor as to harm a boy brought a sharp flare of anger to his chest. But he smothered it and took another careful drag of the water.

Francis gave a slow blink, watching the sharp insult spike through the captive. “I will be forced to engage your Colonel Ralston once more before our march to Surryfield. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled should he overwhelm my forces. Though, if you can’t be arsed to speak, I imagine your comrades will struggle to find you.”

At first it was stubbornness and pride that kept him silent. Now, Adrian was strangely used to it’s easy protection. The less he said, the less that could be used against him. Though he had half a mind to tell this prideful Colonel exactly what would thrill him.

In a brisk and abrupt  fashion, the Colonel stepped forward with a sigh and re-snared the Imperial’s wrists, tethering them at a fair height to the center post in the tent.

Adrian closed his eyes and leaned back carefully against the wood, listening to the soft clucks from the hens scuttling under their feet. It was careful work, allowing the skein still clutched in his hands to drink from, but a bleak reminder that he was still a prisoner with an uncertain fate.

“I expect to see you after the battle, Subaltern.”

A sudden drape of heavy cloth stunned Adrian from his stubbornness just long enough for his eyes to open and realize the rebel Colonel had shed his cloak onto him.

Francis stood and turned at the exit of the tent. In the tailored blue livery of the rebellion, epaulets glinting on his shoulders, he was imposing and though Adrian loathed to admit it, impressive. Exposed without billowing fabrics, a tail tufted with golden hair flicked impatiently at his ankles once before the man disappeared beyond the tent flap.

Adrian watched Francis go, eyes wide at the sight of the long tail behind the spindly man disappearing through the rough canvas of the tent. He resisted the urge to curl into himself, to give into the anxiety that was making his heart race in his chest. Battle? Was there a battle tomorrow? He couldn’t remember; had it ever been mentioned in his camp? Or was this a development due to the loss the Empire had faced weeks prior? He ruminated on this thought, chewing his lip until it bled and the hens started to cluck at him as though they could feel his unease. Still, his mind continued.

Would the rebels win the fight again and they be chased away?

Or could they win and could they save him from this fate?

He shuddered in horror and thought about the men outside, the ones that would surely put him out long before he got to see freedom. Adrian tensed. He had heard rumors and whispers from his own solders about Colonel Francis and his cruelty. Even the Atelaer's own soldiers spoke of how tight-laced and hard he could be. So why was he showing such kindness? It made Adrian suspicious, but still...the warmth of the coat held the comfort of a better nights rest, something he needed after the last few days of capture.

It would be a long night, with the distant screams of flying cannonballs and adamsteel canons exploding across the night air to rattle him senseless.

---------

Drums of Atelaer is an epic LGBTQA+ inclusive flintlock fantasy written by the collaboration of @ocarina-of-what​ and @quelfabulous​. Chapters are updated monthly and are available for early release on Patreon. Please consider supporting the project!

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Warrior Daughter*

Chapter One

Sledgehammer Master List   Rise Up Master List

Summary: The conclusion of the Captain and the Valkyrie Queen trilogy. 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader  |  Word Count: 8800 Warnings: Smut, fluff, NSFW, slight angst

Song: Warrior Daughter by Wildwood Kin

You rested against the pool’s infinity edge, arms crossed on the lip as you listened to the quiet lapping of the ocean beneath the house and the music playing quietly in the background. Only Tony would have a home in the Maldives on a small private island, close enough to be serviced by the nearby luxury resort.

When you’d arrived three days ago, the sun had been coming up over the ocean, the rays warming your face even as the breeze brought the scent of salt water, sand, and palm trees to your nose. A message from Tony had been waiting once you’d crossed the small stretch of sand.

The house was stocked, meals would be delivered unless you called over to the resort to cancel or book reservations in one of the restaurants. As Steve was the Captain America, you’d decided to take a few days alone first before checking out the resort. Even when the concierge came to deliver your meals, Steve had made himself scarce.

You, on the other hand, were a little known Avenger. Up until a few months back, you’d been the normie. Not enhanced, nothing special, just another body to the public who wanted superheroes and superpowers. Wouldn’t they be surprised the next time New York needed saving and a woman on a horse with wings showed up to back up Cap.

The thought made you snicker softly even as the water you floated in, warm from the sun, rippled and lapped around you when Steve stepped into the pool and swam closer. His arms went around your waist; his chest settled against your back. You laid your head on your arms and sighed when his mouth began to whisper across your skin.

“Mrs. Rogers,” he said, smile in his voice.

“Captain,” you snickered.

“You’re gonna turn into a fish you spend any more time in this pool.” He closed his teeth on the side of your neck and bit down gently.

“And yet you’re not enticing me to leave,” you sighed, loving the attention the last few days had allowed him to pay to you and you alone.

“In this tiny bikini? You enticed me right into the pool, dollface,” he said even as his mouth continued up to tug on your earlobe.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, darlin’?” he murmured, licking and sucking your pulse point.

“Describe it to me again?” you asked.

He smiled against your skin. “The ocean is the clearest, brightest blue, like looking through a turquoise crystal. Where it meets the horizon, it blends together, disappears to become one solid mass of blue. The sand is the whitest I’ve ever seen, powder soft looking, and the fish are like rainbows. Yellows and blues, purples and greens.”

“I bet it’s beautiful,” you whispered, letting his voice paint pictures for you.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

“Sap,” you chuckled, knowing Steve was just making you feel better in his own unique way.

He turned you around, pressing your back against the pool’s edge while lifting your legs around his waist. “Baby,” he murmured, lightly squeezing your thighs.

The hint of pity made you sigh. “Sometimes this blind thing really sucks,” you murmured, stretching your arms out on the edge of the pool and tilting your face to the sky.

His hand caught your chin and tugged it down. “We gotta take the good with the bad, right?” He kissed you before you could answer, knowing already what that answer would be, and worried his teeth into your lip.

You hummed quietly in pleasure and brought your hands in to touch his body. Stroking his chest, you loved the feel of the water on his velvet soft skin.

It wasn’t the first time he’d made love to you in the pool — the lack of neighbours brought out the deviant in your Steve. He’d been nearly insatiable for two days, happily and hornily taking you on every flat surface, and some not so flat ones, whenever you walked by.

If the item poking your belly was anything to go by, he was feeling his oats again.

You reached between you and gave him a firm stroke. “Why, Captain Rogers, are you naked? Did I marry an exhibitionist?”

“There ain’t no one out here to see or hear you scream, baby girl. If you think I’m not going to take advantage of that, you’d be wrong.”

You smirked a wicked grin. “What if I wanted to go for a swim? Or head over to the resort and walk the beach? You going to keep up your nudist tendencies?”

He gave a funny little snort. “Would you want me to?”

“Hell no!” you laughed and lightly touched his tattoo while continuing to stroke his cock.

Steve heaved you a little higher and began to walk through the water. “C’mon, sweetheart. While the pool’s fun, I wanna take my time and love on my wife. And, I don't need to sunburn my ass again.”

You gave a little snort of laughter. “Good thing you heal up fast, huh?”

“Let’s go to bed,” he chuckled.

“I could go for a mid-afternoon siesta before we go out tonight,” you agreed.

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping, wife,” Steve said pressing your back into the glass door and pulling on the strings to the bottom half of your suit.

It fell to the floor with a wet plop as he forced it from between you, his mouth staying busy tugging at the triangle cups to get your top off.

“You could just ask for help if you’re in that much of a hurry,” you teased, reaching up to pull the string free at the back of your neck. The one around your rib cage would be stuck until he pulled away from the glass, but that didn’t seem to matter to Steve when he lifted you higher to latch his lips around your nipple.

“I’d a ripped it,” he mumbled around the mouthful of flesh he was teasing, “but you got all hissy when I did that with the other one.”

Burying your hand in his hair, you gave it a tug which made him moan. “I’ve only got the two, Rogers.”

“Not like you need clothes anyway, dollface. Spend the days naked. No one around to see.”

He nipped a stinging bite into the flesh of your breast and made you hiss in both pleasure and pain. “I’m not a nudist like you, Cap,” you snickered only to sigh and squirm when he went back to sucking and flicking your nipple.

“I don’t have tan lines.”

You rolled your eyes even as pleasurable shocks began humming through your body. “If I spent all my time naked, I would still have tan lines. They would just be in the outline of one red, white, and blue superhero.”

He burst out laughing but drew you away from the wall to wander inside the house where the breeze still managed to blow, wicking away some of the water from your skin and drying your bodies. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

“No, you can’t.”

Cupping his face, you lightly traced his features. It had become a habit, something you’d taken too often doing since that first night what felt like a lifetime ago. He never stopped you. Never batted your hands away because he was busy or tired or unhappy with your touch. More often than not, he would smile and hold you closer, tighter, content to let you map what you could no longer see in the traditional sense. Even now as he made his way to the bed you’d shared these last few days; he only continued to look up at you with a small smile on his lips.

“I love your face,” you sighed, touching his lips and feeling them spread into a grin.

“I love yours, so I guess we’re even,” he chuckled.

“It’s so close to perfect,” you said, teasing present in your voice.

“Hey!” he scoffed and knelt on up on the platform bed where he stretched out over you and flopped, purposely squishing you into the plushness when you refused to release your legs from his waist.

Playful Steve was one of your favourite Steve’s, always able to make you giggle. “Get off of me you big oaf!” you laughed, struggling a little, both of you aware you could put him through the wall if you wanted to.

“Oaf?” he gasped. “First you slander the perfection of my face, and now you call me an oaf? Sacrilege!”

“It can’t be sacrilege if your not a sacred icon, Rogers,” you quipped only to shriek in surprise when his fingers dug into your ribs.

“And now you question the sanctity of my image?” he huffed in mock affront. “How dare you!?”

Laughing, screaming, giggling and shrieking, you fought off the hands attacking your ribs and bucked your hips up only to have everything stop on a stuttering moan when the action saw him buried to the hilt inside you.

“Oh, god… Steve.” There was nothing better than the overly full feeling of having him inside you, so deep he pressed against your cervix and had fireworks bursting to life in your blood.

“Damn,” he gasped, as unprepared for the joining as you had been.

You both sank into the bedding, the laughter ending to slip seamlessly into quiet sighs and moans when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

Steve’s hand closed on the back of your neck, the other went beneath you, working to tilt your hips into his as he ground down into your pelvis. His hard chest brushed against yours with each slow, long thrust and glide of his hips. His back arched elegantly, gracefully beneath your palms, setting you digging in and dragging your nails up his back. Cheek to cheek, he panted in your ear, the slight stubble on his jaw rubbing sensually against yours.

“Steve,” tumbled softly from your lips.

“You feel so good, baby,” he sighed, nuzzling down to kiss your neck and scrape his teeth over your pulse.

His words made you smile, so in tune with the gentle loving making. They were just so Steve. He’d been so incredibly attentive, so sweet. Even when he had you pressed against the wall of the shower fucking you like a beast, there had still been so much love, so much adoration you’d felt swamped by it.

You tugged at his hair, urging his lips to yours where they met and parted, soft kisses, opened mouth and searing your quiet whimpers blending with his groans. He was hot and hard and throbbing, spearing through your walls in slow torture, taking you to the edge but no further. His tongue in your mouth was no better, pressing and tracing yours, flicking the edge of your teeth as the sweat began to build on your skin.

“Rogers,” you finally growled, feeling as if fire walked the paths of your veins. “If you don’t give me more…”

It was a threat you didn’t have to finish for he laughed and sat up, bringing you to rest on his thighs, your arms around his neck keeping you tethered. “I dunno, baby. You seem pretty inclined to stay nice and close, wrapped around me like white on rice. How am I supposed to get enough leverage to take you harder?”

Arching an amused brow, you flipped him swiftly to his back, forcing a shocked gasp from his throat. “I could always just take it,” you purred, rising and falling over him, ripping moans and vicious curses from him.

“Yeah, yeah you could, baby,” he groaned and gripped your hips to grind you down harder.

A smug grin flitted across your face, and you were just getting into it when he gave a hard buck of his hips and sent you tumbling to the side. He pounced like a cat and pinned you face down on the mattress.

“Or I could just take you,” he growled, holding your wrists down as he forced your knees apart and teased your entrance with the head of his cock.

“Steve…” you whimpered, swaying your back to encourage him deeper.

“You want me back in there?” he asked, laying sucking kisses along your spine.

“Yes, dammit!”

He teased you with lazy thrusts, just the tip sliding through your quaking walls. “Then maybe you should ask nicely,” he purred, nipping into your shoulder and leaving a stinging mark.

You turned your head, wet hair falling across your cheek as you spread your legs further apart and arched into him. “Oh. Please, Captain. I need your thick cock,” you said and moaned like a pornstar when he began to sink deeper.

“Yeah, sweetheart? How bad? How bad does my queen want it?” he asked, rubbing his nose on your cheek.

“So bad, Stevie. So very bad. Need you filling me up,” you cried knowing precisely what it would do to him.

The grip on your wrists tightened, his body landed heavily on yours, and he was driving back inside you with one hard thrust, crushing you into the mattress and making you cry out.

“Like that, darlin’?” he growled. “Is that what you need?”

All you could do was moan and arch back, suck in air and dig your nails into the bedding.

Dominant, commanding Steve was another of your favourites. It was nice to be taken, worshiped, driven crazy by his rough treatment. His tongue swept up your spine, over your shoulder, and he nuzzled into your ear.

A massive rumble of sound like a pleased cat poured from his chest. Then his hand lifted from your wrist to grip a handful of hair. He pulled gently, forcing your head to raise and your neck to stretch until he could kiss you tenderly, lips brushing as he sucked your bottom one between his.

Small whimpers became heavy pants and groans as he continued to thrust forcefully, sending shockwaves of pleasure rushing through your veins. The building pressure couldn’t be stopped — the pounding a near punishing pace. You could only hold on, dig your nails into the sheets, and scream when he forced your climax from you, sending you crashing into bliss.

The guttural groan Steve let loose, dragged from him thanks to your contracting body, would have made you laugh if you’d been able to draw in air, but Steve collapsed down on top of you with the final pulse of his release; the warmth of it made you shiver. He freed your hair but only so he could bury his nose against your nape, rubbing gently as he recovered, heart hammering against your spine.

You sighed, the weight and warmth of him comforting even as it made it hard to breathe.

“You okay, baby?” he asked peeling himself from your back and pulling away.

The light brush of his fingers on your skin made you smile as he tugged the remaining tie of your swimsuit free and pulled it out from beneath you. You stretched like a cat, all long limbs and happy purring. “Mmm, very.”

“Good.” He kissed your shoulder and dropped down beside you. His arms went around your waist, and he cuddled you close, encouraging you to curl up on his chest.

Lightly tracing patterns on his flesh, you breathed him in and smiled. “I love it when you get all growly and forceful.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “Forceful, huh?”

“Go all Captain on my ass,” you teased.

His big hand landed on your bottom and squeezed. “I quite like your ass.”

“No shit,” you snickered, stroking your foot up and down his calf.

His other hand landed on your thigh, and when you stroked your toes up to his knee, he caught you behind yours and gave it a jerk, so you landed straddling his hips. Crossing your arms over his chest, you stretched out on top of him with an utterly unnecessary wiggle.

“Baby,” he growled.

You only smiled, well aware of the effect you were having. Super soldier stamina was a godsend. “You think anyone would notice if we just… never went home?” you asked, only half joking.

“Pretty sure Tony threatened to come looking so… yeah.”

Fingertips trailed up and down your spine, tracing circles and little figure eights. “I’d hear him coming long before he got here.”

“Can’t run away from our problems, (Y/N). No matter how nice it is to have you all to myself.”

“Ditto,” you sighed, resting your cheek on your hand.

“Hey.” He tapped the end of your nose. “We’ve got this. We fought off a soul stealin’ alien. We can do anything.”

“This is… different.” You brought your hand to his mark and stroked it lightly. “So much rides on me figuring this out.”

He rolled the two of you over, caging you beneath him with a leg thrown over yours. “And you will. We will figure this out.”

Your hand remained on his throat, lightly stroking, finding comfort in knowing he was wholly yours now, even more so than the rings on your finger proclaimed. “It’s been so long, Steve. What if I don’t have what it takes anymore? How do I go about being Queen when I can’t see?”

“You can see, it’s just in a different way,” he soothed.

“I can’t see to read, Steve. How am I to read the messages sent, the requests for assistance, the commands of Odin when I can’t see the damn writing?”

“You’re borrowing trouble, baby girl.”

You gave him a half-hearted shove. “You’re no help,” you pouted, annoyed he hadn’t budged an inch.

His hand caressed your cheek. “But I will be. So will Buck. We can read stuff for you.”

“You speak Asgardian now, do you?”

He paused then sighed. “Guess I’ll have to learn, won’t I? Or, you use that gift of yours, that big heart and bigger brain and pick one of those Valkyries to trust. Like the girl who brought you Loki. She seemed… decent.”

“Eira?” You hadn’t really thought about any of them since you’d commanded them all back to Asgard.

“Yeah. It’s not like you’re going to be able to hide this, (Y/N). They’re going to figure it out. Better to just get it out in the open and cultivate a few allies.”

“Smart and pretty,” you huffed, shoving him to his back where you returned to straddling his waist. “I don’t have to think about it for another day and a half. I’m on my honeymoon with the hottest man on Midgard. I think I can think of better things to do than worry about what might be.”

“Just Midgard?” he asked, grin wide.

You bent to press a kiss to his lips. “It’s been a millennium since I was on Asgard. Who’s to say if someone there is prettier than you?”

He snorted out a laugh and spanked you sharply on the bottom making you hum in appreciation. “Keep it up, woman. See what happens.”

“You gonna go all Captain on my ass again?” you teased, flicking your tongue over his lip.

He spanked the other cheek, and you gasped in excitement. “I’ll go something on your ass. Sitting down tonight might be a problem.”

“Ooh, Captain!” you giggled and bit his lip. “So commanding.”

He gave a deadly sounding growl and flipped you beneath him where neither of you formed a cohesive sentence for some time.

***

Your ass was only slightly tender when you pulled your dress on later that night. Made of lace, it came to mid thigh and was held up with spaghetti straps. Nat and Wanda had done an excellent job packing you a bag, and you’d be sure to thank them when you got home.

As you were bent to slip the strap of your sandal over your foot, Steve walked in and gave a sharp inhale, making you snicker.

“That good, huh?” you asked, straightening to give him the full view.

“Damn…” he squeaked and made you laugh even harder.

You adjusted the tight hem and smoothed out the bodice. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

He stalked closer and circled you like you were prey. “Are you sure that's a dress? Looks like something you'd wear under a dress.”

“Oh, Steve!” you laughed. “You're in for a surprise if you think this is my underwear.”

His brow arched and a wicked smile curled his lips when he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his body. “Yeah? Just whatcha got on under that dress?”

“Take me out and show me a good time, soldier and maybe I'll let you find out,” you teased and winked at him.

“How's dinner and dancing sound?” he asked, swaying with you toward the door.

“Pretty damn good, actually.”

“Cabin fever?” he asked.

“A little.”

“Me too,” he snickered.

You stroked your hands down his chest, humming at the feel of soft cotton beneath your palms, “Is this the blue shirt?” you asked.

“I have lots of blue shirts,” he smirked.

“Is it the blue shirt, Stevie. You know the one I mean.” Hunger pooled in your belly because that shirt, that abused, overstretched, almost too small shirt, was a tease of epic proportions.

“And? What if it is?” he asked, his grin getting fuller.

“I need the visuals, Rogers,” you growled, tracing his muscles through the cotton, up to his shoulders and down his arms. “Fuck me… it is too,” you sighed. “Damn I love that shirt.”

He gave a bark of laughter, caught your wandering hands, and dragged you toward the door. “Now who’s insatiable?”

“This is dirty pool, Stevie. Dirty pool!” you huffed but followed him. You could hear the boat coming and were really hungry.

He paused before heading outside to pull his glasses from his pocket and slide them on his face.

It made you smile every time. “Your nerd sexy like that. All beefy and then there are those mathematician glasses, and that little scruff thing you’ve got happening. Add in the hair that’s just a touch too long. You’ve become the sexy professor.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter and handed you your cane. “Does that mean you’re hot for teacher?”

He turned to get the door, and you gave his butt a firm squeeze. “Damn right.”

“Babe.” He shot you a look that radiated exasperation.

“What?” You shrugged, letting the cane drop to snap straight and reached out to take his arm. It was good practice to use the cane in a non-threatening environment, or so the note attached from Wanda told you. This was the first real opportunity to do so since Matt had taught you the ropes.

“Let’s go have some fun,” he sighed, but there was a smile on his face when he led you outside and down to the dock.

The quinjet sat off to the side and was currently invisible as this half of the house sat facing the resort, and the planes really were far too recognizable as SHIELD property.

Holding Steve’s arm, you reached the end of the dock where the concierge, Abdullah, waited patiently.

“Miss (Y/N)? I did not realize…” he gasped, pulling on the rope he had attached to the dock to drag the boat closer.

“It's fine, Abdullah. My husband is more than capable of assisting me into the boat,” you assured him with a smile.

“Ah, at last, I meet your husband. For a while, I thought perhaps you were playing a trick on old Abdullah.” His smile was, but the waving finger was rather scolding.

“No trick as you can see.” Steve held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Abdullah murmured, a frown forming to erase his smile. “You look… very familiar.”

“I've got one of those faces,” Steve said, gave a shrug, and stepped into the boat before turning to lift you in after him.

It was completely unnecessary, but you were keeping up appearances and being the blind, slightly helpless one was good cover.

Plus, Steve. Muscles. Yum.

He led you to a seat, and the boat got underway, too loud to make conversation with Abdullah as he sent you zipping across the water to the dock of the hotel.

There, more people milled about. Two younger men tied off the moorings while Steve helped you out of the boat, tucked your hand back in his elbow, and led you after the now chattering Abdullah who was gushing about the resort. He stopped at the end of the dock and became very flustered.

“I am so sorry. I am rambling on about our surroundings, and you are… that is to say… I am not prepared…”

Steve finally took pity on the man. “It's fine. (Y/N) likes it when you describe things. She's only recently blind and remembers colours and shapes. Descriptions help her visualize.”

“Oh, I see. My condolences on your accident, miss.”

You smiled graciously. “Thank you, Abdullah. I appreciate that. But something smells… divine and I'm starving.”

“Yes, yes, of course! Right this way to our Subsix restaurant. Anything you like is part of your stay.” He dug into his pocket and returned with two gold pins. “One for each of you. Order whatever you like at the restaurants or bars. No one will charge you as long as you wear those.”

Steve was quick to pin his to his shirt but tucked yours in his pocket for safekeeping as Abdulla was off again. You listened to him chatter with only half an ear while taking in the lush tropical surroundings. Birds sang, flowers tempted your nose, and the ocean lapped softly in the background.

There were other people, but the sun had ducked low to the horizon, casting long shadows and cooling off the evening. Most people were dining or getting ready for the night of revelry to come, giving the resort a hushed, deserted feeling.

Arriving at the restaurant, you followed Abdullah into the interior, the air changing to be more refreshing with the addition of the air conditioning.

“Stairs,” Steve murmured.

You let your cane slide forward and off the edge, not that you needed it, but the practice was kind of fun, and you shifted your hand to Steve’s forearm as you slowly made your way downward. A frown formed when you got to the bottom for odd shapes were hanging from the ceiling, and something about the windows surrounding the space seemed… odd.

“Oh… wow!” Steve murmured.

“Sjelevenn?” you asked quietly, careful not to use his name when Abdullah was already suspicious.

“We’re… under the ocean! It’s like being in a giant aquarium!”

He sounded all of six, incredibly excited, and aching to get closer. Chuckling softly, you let him return your hand to his elbow and followed both men toward the far side of the room where Abdullah held out a chair, but Steve helped you into it.

“I will leave you to your dinner. When you are ready to leave tonight, there will be someone waiting at the boat to return you home.” He bowed to the table, his smile big and full.

“Thank you,” Steve said as he sat beside you.

As you began to break down your cane, you smirked at Steve, mesmerized by your surroundings. “Describe it to me.”

He glanced your way then shifted closer to drape his arm over the back of your chair. “How much can you see?”

You tilted your head toward him. “The room, the weird ceiling, but beyond the windows is difficult. I get that there’s water and I think… a reef? But it’s hard to tell. Sound doesn’t travel as easily through water and the glass is exceptionally thick.”

Steve brushed your hair back, lightly stroking the bare skin of your shoulder. The room is dark. Dark chairs, dark bar, but there is a glow, a nearly neon blue that lights up the reef and ceiling. It’s muted by the circles of paper on the roof, but under it, you glow like an ethereal fairy.”

“Steve,” you smiled and blushed.

“You’re beautiful, baby,” he whispered, cupping your nape and rubbing his thumb beneath your ear, “but under these lights and with those eyes… damn,” he sighed and brushed his lips against yours.

You cupped his cheek and sank deeper, tilting your head when your noses bumped and hummed happily.

“Ah, young love.”

The new voice startled you into drawing apart; your attention solely focused on Steve in that instant.

“Honeymoon,” Steve chuckled. “Comes with the territory.”

“Indeed.” The man gave a short bow. “I am Siad and will serve you tonight. Might I recommend a bottle of wine?”

You sat back, finished closing up your cane, and let Steve order.

***

“I think I’m going to explode,” you sighed, leaning your head on Steve’s shoulder as you walked through the resort.

“I think Siad thought the same thing. I don’t think he’s ever seen a woman eat as much as you just did,” Steve snickered and wrapped his arm around your waist.

You nudged him firmly in the ribs with your elbow. “Like you were any better.”

“Hey, I’m a big guy! It’s expected I’ll eat more.”

Wrapping your arm around his waist in return, you tugged at his shirt. “I think you overdid it though, Steve. Getting a little broad around the middle there.”

He snorted at your teasing and led you toward the beach Siad had told you had the beautiful sounding alfresco lounge area he’d called Dune. “I’m not getting fat.”

“I don’t know,” you continued, running your fingers along his ridged side. “Feels a little porky to me.”

His hand dropped to grab a handful of your ass. “Stop making fun, or you’re gonna regret it.”

You wiggled away from his tight grip to poke him in the chest with the head of your cane. “Did it sound like I regretted it when I sassed you this afternoon?”

“You think I can’t pink your ass up more than I already have?” Steve growled, grabbing the end of your cane to tug you into his chest and hold you there with the arm of steel he banded behind your back.

“Such threats, Captain,” you murmured, grinning up at him. “You’ve got me all a quiver.” The shudder you gave wasn’t entirely fake when you lifted up on your toes and wrapped your arm around his neck.

“One of these days, (Y/N), you’re gonna push me to spank that ass until you can’t sit down. Then I’m just gonna start calling you, her majesty Pink Cheeks.”

Bursting out laughing, you kissed him right there in the middle of the resort, slightly more active now that the music was beginning to thump and ripple through the air. He hummed, wrapped his other arm around you and lifted you straight off your feet as he kissed you like a man starved.

Only once you needed air did you break the kiss, resting your forehead on his and breathing harsh and heavy with him. “Fuck, I love you.”

He chuckled, twisting a little to swing you back and forth like a pendulum. “You and that mouth.”

“Mmm, you know you love it. Filth and all,” you snickered.

“I especially love it on me,” he purred and nipped into your lower lip before returning you to the ground.

“Dirty!” you barked and laughed.

He hooked your fingers back into the crook of his elbow and tugged you down the path toward the music. “You make me that way.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that, Stevie.”

“Can’t keep my hands off you, baby girl. That body of yours fills my brain full of thoughts,” he said so casually he could have been talking about baseball.

“Just wait. No one knows us here, and I’m going to dance with my husband,” you said just as easily, though the jump and spike in his pulse betrayed the effect those words had on him.

“Baby,” he groaned, and you laughed. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Just drive you crazy, sjelevenn,” you taunted, stopping at the top of the short stairs leading down onto the sand to remove your shoes.

Steve crouched, and you found your foot in his hand, your hand going to his shoulder to steady as he slipped them off then worked off his own, tucking his socks inside and rolling up the cuffs of his dress pants. His shirt pulled across his back, strained the seams, and made you snort out a giggle.

“What?” he asked, rising with shoes in hand.

Yours dangled from your fingers as you folded up your cane and gripped his arm firmly, knowing the uneven ground should - would - play havoc with a normal visually impaired person. “I can hear the threads in that shirt scream.”

“No you can’t!” he huffed.

“Must… hold… together!” You made a sound like a high pitch scream of agony only to laugh when he poked you in the belly.

“Cut it out,” he muttered, heat filling his cheeks.

A body approaching had you going on full alert only to relax when you recognized the scent of Abdullah and the sound of his heart. Still, it was Steve who looked up and smiled at the man.

“Abdullah.”

“Sir! I trust Siad looked after you?” he asked, both expectancy and hope in his voice.

“Amazingly well,” Steve agreed. “He pointed us this direction for a little after dinner relaxation and the possibility of dancing with my lovely bride.”

It made you blush when he smiled at you like that. “There was also rumours of dessert?” you asked hopefully.

Steve snorted a quickly quelled laugh when you thumped him in the stomach with your cane.

“Of course, of course!’ Abdullah smiled and nodded. “He said you might be headed our direction. I took the liberty of reserving the two of you the best seat on the beach.” He held out his arm and motioned you to follow.

Steve guided you over the sand, around two-person chairs of wicker and cushions, past kneehigh lanterns set in the sand. There were loungers with umbrellas and a bar set back from the ocean, but he continued to the far side of the sand where a single tree was hung with a half dozen lanterns, and one of those loveseat sized chairs sat beneath the stars.

Abdullah swept a sign, likely one with reserved printed on it, off the cushion and motioned for you to sit. “A beverage perhaps? Something to enjoy as you take in the view-” His face would have been comical if he hadn’t appeared so horrified at his blunder.

“It’s fine, Abdullah. It’s still a view for my husband even if all I can enjoy is the sound and the scent and the feel of the breeze on my skin. Besides, my sjelevenn is an artist. His descriptions of our surroundings do a perfect job of painting pictures for me,” you assured him as you brushed the sand from your feet and curled up on the big round chair.

Steve sent Abdullah a smirk and a shrug when the man only gaped at you like a fish before he quickly shook off his shock. “That is… wonderful!” He waved at someone waiting off to one side.

The waiter rushed forward with a bucket of ice on a stand and set it next to Steve to whom he showed the bottle of what you assumed was champagne.

“Compliments of Mr. Stark,” Abdullah said, bowing his head. “This is Omar. He will take care of you and see to any requests you may have.”

The young man’s face spoke volumes as he bowed, eyes shifting rapidly from your face to Steve’s and back. “It is an honour,” he squeaked, and you knew he knew.

Even with Steve’s shaggy hair, scruffy face, and glasses, this man - no more than a boy really - knew exactly who the man was sitting at your side.

Abdullah threw a frown at him and barked a sharp reprimand in their local dialect which had the boy snapping straight and smoothing out his awe.

“Thank you, Abdullah,” you said by way of dismissal. “Omar, if you’d pour, please.”

Steve sent you a knowing look when he settled onto the seat at your side and brushed the sand from his feet. Abdullah lost his composure for a moment before quickly regaining it, nodding and hurrying way without another word, but it was Omar you focused on, the kid’s hands shaking now as he twisted the cage off of the champagne and made to remove the cork.

“You okay, son?” Steve asked, only to lunge forward and catch the bottle before it hit the sand and exploded everywhere. “Careful.”

“You’re… you’re… you’re…” was all the kid could get out as he stood shaking beside the chair.

“Yeah, I am. But I’m on vacation and would like to keep it that way,” Steve said softly, slowly handing back the bottle.

“There’s pictures. Online. The American news is full of rumours saying you got married,” the boy muttered, successfully opening the champagne the second time around even as he peered at you, his attention darting down to your hand.

You knew the minute he figured it out, his breath coming on short pants of excitement. “I’m a lucky girl,” you murmured.

“You… you’re really… married?” he asked, eyes wide and staring.

“Though we’d like to keep that to ourselves for a while,” Steve said.

Omar froze at the command in Steve’s voice. His Captain's voice was damn hard to ignore when he used it, and the boy was no better at denying it as anyone else.

“Of course, sir!” He nodded vigorously and poured the champagne. “It is an honour to serve an Avenger, especially the Captain America.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t say anything, only snuggled deeper into Steve when he wrapped his arm around you.

“Two Avengers, actually,” he said, glaring at Omar.

“Forgive me!” the boy said as he held out your glass. “I’m… not familiar.” His attention drifted down to the cane at your side.

You gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s fine. You’ll know me eventually.”

Omar handed Steve the second glass. “Of course we will! The wife of Captain America will be big news!”

It went from annoying to amusing in a flat second, and you snorted a giggle into your glass. “Yup. It sure will.”

“Excuse me, but how is it a blind woman can be an Avenger?” he asked causing Steve to stiffen.

You patted Steve’s thigh. “Seeing’s overrated.”

The boy looked confused before smiling jovially and nodding. “I see. I shall be near if you need anything. Simply wave to me, and I will return.”

“Omar,” Steve said before the boy could walk away.

“Sir?”

“Not one word,” Steve commanded.

“Not one.” Omar nodded and hurried away.

“How long do you think he’ll last before he bursts and tells someone?” you asked, sipping the excellent wine. As it was courtesy of Tony, you shouldn’t be surprised.

“An hour, maybe two,” Steve muttered, placing his glass on the little side table within the seat along with yours. “Does it matter? We leave tomorrow night for home.” He set his chin on the top of your head and sighed. “I’ll miss this.”

“It has been nice, hasn’t it?”

“Wonderful.”

You closed your eyes and listened to the steady beat of his heart, blending with the rolling sound of the ocean as music filled the night. Steve’s fingers lightly brushed up and down your arm before the opposite hand trailed gently up your throat to cup your jaw and tilt it back for his soft lips and warm embrace.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, knuckles caressing your cheek.

“Steve,” you sighed, carding your fingers through his hair.

“I mean it. I’ve watched you these last few days. You take my breath away. Even tonight, people were staring at my girl, admirin’ what’s mine, but they don’t know your secret.”

“What secret?” you asked.

“That you could kick their ass so damn easy. I love you soft and sweet, but watching you take down the Hulk, or knock that Valkyrie’s feet out from under her,” he hummed, and it was nearly a growl, “that was hot as fuck.”

A chuckle escaped your chest. “Hot as fuck, huh?”

“Yeah, baby.” He tugged your legs up into his lap and cuddled you close. “Seriously sexy.”

Using a fingertip to trace his lips, you giggled when he nipped your finger. “I feel the same watching you swing a sword, sjelevenn.”

“Guess we’re even then.”

You could feel the intensity of his gaze, his eyes locked on yours. “Partners are always even,” you whispered before ducking down to kiss him.

He moaned quietly when you swept your tongue over his lips and pressed between to flick yours against his. He sucked on it, gentle pulls, telling ones for they were the same teasing pulls he placed on your clit when he made love to you.

Already wetness gathered between your legs, and he inhaled deeply, knowing precisely what he was doing to you, likely able to smell it. You pulled away to breathe, pant really, well and truly turned on.

“Maybe we should just go home. I could show you what I’ve got on under this dress,” you offered.

He chuckled but shook his head. “In a bit. I want to dance with my wife under the stars.”

“Yeah?” you asked, smile teasing.

“And I think I saw creme brulee on the dessert menu.”

“You did not?” you gasped.

“I know there was cheesecake.”

“Steve stop!” You smacked his chest. “I will explode!”

“Nah, doll. We’ll just work those calories off… later.” He grinned wickedly and got to his feet with you still in his lap, letting you slide down his body as he collected your hands and brought you in to sway gently to the music.

The distant click had your attention snapping to Omar, phone out and pointed your direction. “Kid didn’t even make an hour,” you sighed.

“Does it matter?” Steve asked. “I’m perfectly happy letting the entire world know I’m yours. Taken. Off the market.”

You laughed at the last one. “Off the market, huh?”

“Totally rationed,” he rumbled, dipping his head to snag your lips in a searing kiss which caused more rapid clicks from the kid's phone.

“Let the hate mail begin,” you chuckled and threw your arms around his neck to kiss him breathless.

***

The night had gone gloriously. You'd danced and drank, and laughed. No one but Omar had recognized Steve and though you knew he'd taken the pictures, what did it matter? The news would break soon enough, and then you'd be gone to Asgard.

Your evening out had culminated with a walk down the beach, toes in the sand, warm water lapping around your ankles as you kissed beneath the moonlight. It had been so extraordinary. A night to remember.

You'd never be able to repay Tony for these last few days.

The boat had returned you to the island where you'd barely made it through the door before Steve was stripping your dress over your head and picking you up to take you through the house where he'd laid you on the bed and taken his sweet time seeing the both of you satisfied.

But, tired as you were, you’d grown restless. Steve had drifted off quickly enough, but for you, it felt as if a storm hovered on the horizon. The scent of ozone seemed to burn the air and danger had your nerve endings humming.

Unable to spend one more minute in bed, you slipped gently from it, not wanting to disturb Steve, and drew on his shirt, thrown haphazardly on the floor. It swamped you but smelled like him, and you brought the collar to your nose as you wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

The patio doors were open, allowing the night air to circulate and bring with it the sound of the ocean.

A jangle caught your attention — an out of place sound. Something scraped, something leather shifted, and you pulled the butcher knife from the block on the counter.

Inhaling deeply, you cautiously approached the doorway, the scent of warm hide and feathers, cloud and leather distinct as you walked outside to face the woman on the pegasus.

“Who are you and why are you here?” You demanded.

“Do you expect to defeat me in your bathrobe, (Y/N)?”

Command rang in the tone when she dismounted and dropped lightly to the ground. Armed and armoured, she pulled the large falcon like helm from her head, shook out her hair, and waited.

It took you less than a heartbeat to drop to a knee. “Lady Freyja.”

“Rise, Queen Sváfa. There is no need for that between us.” She waved you to your feet and placed her helmet on the lounge chair before stepping forward to embrace you. “It is good to meet you in person finally.”

“After all the meddling you’ve done?” you asked, a smirk twitching your lips.

“Exactly!” she laughed and cupped your face. “Such eyes,” she murmured, causing you to look down and away. “None of that. They are beautiful and unique, as you are. Be proud of your differences. They make you who you are.”

“Thank you, lady,” you said softly, cheeks heating.

“We have much to speak on and very little time. Your sjelevenn will soon miss your presence and come searching.”

“Are you here to tell me you are returning to Asgard?”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “You know I cannot.” Her steed nudged her shoulder, and she curled her hand around his nose. “I’m certain your sjelevenn has told you all I told him.”

You moved away to look out at the ocean and clenched the railing tightly. “He did. I just… didn’t want to believe it.”

“Why?”

“Because… it’s too much,” you sighed and rubbed your forehead, finding a headache brewing behind your eyes.

“It’s not.”

“How can you be so sure? My path with Steve’s been broken. My throne stands contested. Hell! The very existence of the Valkyrjur hangs in the balance, but you still won’t come home? You expect me to fix it somehow when I can’t… I can’t even pick up and read a menu anymore?”

“Sváfa,” she said, voice heavy with pity.

“Don’t! Don’t you pity me!” you snapped, turning to face her.

“I do not pity you. I envy you!” she barked. “You still have your sjelevenn. You still have love! I have lived hundreds of years without either! So forgive me if my mind is not on the Valkyrjur every single moment of the day!”

Shame filled you, knowing what it felt like to have a broken heart even if the breaking had been of another’s making. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean…”

She waved off your apology. “I know you didn’t. Fear makes us temperamental. A Valkyrie curse.” Freyja smiled as she moved up beside you to look out at the water. She sighed softly when you didn't smile back and lightly clasped your hand. “I would not trust you with something this important if I did not believe you able. You are the most gifted of my Valkyrie, far more capable of being the leader they need than you think. You were meant to be queen lifetime after lifetime. You were meant to be the point of the prism which helps hold Asgard together. Instead, you were locked out after your third life, cast from home like so much refuse. It angered me greatly, and when Frigga contacted me, when she began to fear something was wrong, I began to search as much for you as I did my sjelevenn.”

“Why?” you asked, still not understanding why it had to be you. “Why me?”

“Because,” she turned to face you and lightly touched your cheek. “You’re my daughter.”

You stiffened in shock. “What?”

“Figuratively,” she sighed. “I was never so blessed to have a child, but you, I have nurtured you and worked so terribly hard to bring you into existence. You are my daughter. My warrior daughter.”

A base seemed to pound to life in the air, new music you’d never heard before but you knew it. Soul deep, it resonated in a way that called to you, claimed you, seared through you. A memory of a time so far in the past it wasn’t yours, it wasn’t Tove’s, it wasn’t even her mother’s mother’s mother. It was an anthem from the first days of the Valkyrjur.

you are a warrior they call to me and strike at night clothe yourself with all the rough alikes and though I made you gentle for a time your spirit's strong enough to fight

you are a warrior strength and courage lies within your heart daughter, can't you see your power never fades for my armour keeps you safe

“There was a time once when a sjelevenn soul needed the break, the rest between lives, the softness of the quiet moments to shore up the hardness of a Valkyrie existence. You’ve had a thousand years of rest. It is time to go home.” Freyja led you away from the railing toward Kriger, her steed.

ride ahead; you fight for what is yours so take your sword; protector of them all the heart may be a battle in its own don't hesitate; you'll never be alone

you are a warrior strength and courage lies within your heart daughter, can't you see your power never fades

“Take up your sword. Take up your shield. Take up your armour.” Freyja bent and lifted the helmet she’d set on the lounger and turned toward you with it. “Do not let the fear in your heart rule you. That is your first battle and the most important one to win.”

you are a warrior strength and courage lies within your heart you will not grow weary you will never cease you have been made warrior for your heart belongs to me for your heart belongs to me for your heart belongs to me

“You are my warrior daughter. You are the best of them — the fastest, brightest, strongest. Brave and powerful girl, I gift you my helm, so the people will know you are my choice. For some, that will be enough. The rest…” She shrugged.

You took the helmet with gentle hands, awed at the weight and the power. “I will have to prove myself.”

“You will have to fight to prove yourself. But you, my daughter. The trials you have been through, the men who walk at your back, they all make you so much stronger than those who seek to do you harm.” Freyja gently lifted your chin. “You must never cease. You must never waver in your determination to return your people to what they were. Trust your heart. Once it belonged to me, now…” She looked up, and you turned your attention to your stirring sjelevenn. “It belongs to someone much more worthy of it.”

“Lady Freyja.” You reached out to her when she pulled away. “You are still worthy.”

She smiled sadly. “Perhaps one day I can claim such again. For now… I will leave it in the capable hands of your Captain. I envy you all those muscles,” she chuckled softly as she embraced you. “Go swiftly, cautiously, and with your eyes open. Good hunting, datter av min sjel.”

Your heart lurched, and you hugged her tightly, a quiet sob muffled in her hair for it was so like holding Tove. “Min mor.”

She set you away, cupped your face, wiped your tears and quickly mounted her pegasus. “Sváfa.”

“Freyja,” you nodded, the helm dangling from one hand.

The pegasus turned on his heels and launched himself from the deck with powerful legs, wings snapping open, hooves skimming the waves before a portal opened and they were gone.

“Baby?” Steve called sleepily. “What are you doing out here? What’s that?” he asked, suddenly much more awake.

“Freyja’s helmet. She gave it to me.”

His hands came down on your shoulders before wrapping around your chest when he noticed the tears on your face. “What’s that mean?”

You stared out at the water and listened to thunder roll in the distance. “It means… it’s time to go home.”

Next Chapter

* datter av min sjel - daughter of my soul * min mor - mother of mine

[thestuckylibrary]

Mod’s Reads: February 2018

Here’s the list of everything the Mods have read this past month!

Mod Iamnmbr3

The Wedding of Bucky Barnes by stephrc79 (complete | 67,805 | T )

This is the story of how an instagramming, trolling, pain in the ass got married to an equally annoying, artistic, bossy, stubborn blond oaf.

Or, you know, how one James Buchanan Barnes, Instagram Extraordinaire, married Captain America himself, one Steven Grant Rogers.

between everything, yourself, and home by napricot (complete | 24,396 | E )

This is your home?” asks Bucky at one point. “It’s where I’m living now, yeah.” Bucky comes home. Steve's a little slower on the uptake.

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) by praximeter (Zimario) (WIP | 53,118 | M )

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.

Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—

“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”

Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Broken White Boy by herecomesbucktofuckshitup (complete | 2,405 | T )

Shuri fixes Bucky Barnes.

ROGERS: An American Musical by HopeNight (complete | 11,317 | T )

In the MCU, instead of picking up a biography of Alexander Hamilton, Lin-Manuel Miranda picks up a biography of Steve Rogers. This changes things. While the world goes insane for the musical, Steve and the man who believes himself to be Bucky Barnes find their own ways to take control of their narratives.

So here's the real question: How does a half-dead orphan born in the middle of a forgotten spot in the tenements of New York without a father and raised by a single mother grow up to be the first and only super soldier?

Tender, Like a Bruise by Bohemienne (complete | 1,932 | T )

Bucky is awake and healed, but Steve’s afraid of what it will mean.

There Is No Shortage of Blood* by alby_mangroves, Dira Sudis (dsudis) (WIP | 109,855 | E ) *past noncon 

The long slow recovery of Bucky Barnes after his escape from HYDRA.

(And the longer, slower recovery of his sex life.)

just goddamn marry me already, for fuck’s sake by newsbypostcard (complete | 6,376 | E )

“Do you,” Steve says, fingers newly tugging Bucky’s underwear until it starts to slide off his hips, “want to marry me, or not?”

Bucky sighs. “You know, in some circles people would consider this interrogation under duress.”

Mod Blue

In honor of v-day from spitandvinegar

For @silentwalrus1 , ANG Steve and Bucky sexting, incorporating a couple of very sensual lines from @pornhubcommentsonvalentines . I regret nothing.

The Job Between Here and There by Pohadka (complete | 40,336 | M)

He might be free from HYDRA’s command and making his own life now, but James Buchanan Barnes is far more lost than he’d ever been before. Nothing matches the vague memories he’s recovered so far, and the world has progressed far beyond needing soldiers. To find out what he wants, and how to get it, he just needs a little… Leverage.

Part 1 of The Job Between Here and There

It's Just Temporary by perfect_plan (complete | 52,615 | M)

Bucky Barnes has no idea what he wants to do with his life and is stumbling from one temp job to the next. Hopefully he can keep his new job at Stark Industries for longer than a week...

the cold never bothered me anyway by icoulddothisallday (complete | 75,562 | E)

Bucky Barnes has spent his whole life in a state of mild hypothermia. Steve Rogers has spent the last 70 years in the ice. The two things aren’t related until, suddenly, they are. Shrunkyclunks soulmate AU (AKA the awkward bb au).

The Wishing Stone by greenbergsays (onehot | 2,850 | E)

“Rogers,” Natasha said as she pushed her way into Steve’s bedroom. “We have a situation. Have you seen -- oh.”

She stopped short.

Behind her, she knew, was the sleek, expansive space of Steve’s apartment in Stark Tower; filled to the brim with the latest gadgets and sturdiest furniture Stark could find for his favorite super soldier.

The door to Steve’s bedroom, however, was a gateway to a completely different time and place.

How To Woo A Winter Demon by cleo4u2, xantissa (oneshot | 6,938 | T)

Steve slept in the ice for a long, long time. Longer than anyone thought possible. For over two thousand years before S.H.I.E.L.D. found and unfroze him. Yeah, the world was different and so were his team members. Team-creatures? Steve’s not sure what the politically-correct term is. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know. What he does is that the demon living on the seventh sub-level is hot.

The Art Of Cooking For Two by littleblackfox (complete | 92,761 | M) (reread)

“Any questions?” “Uh. What the fuck am I doing here?” Bucky offers.

Writing His Own Happy Ending by LightningStriking (complete | 25,022 | E)

Bucky Barnes is a writer. A gay erotic fiction writer to be precise. With a successful career, a questionably functioning computer, and an addiction to watching cat videos while eating Chinese food. Steve Rogers is an editor. Of many things, not least of all, Bucky Barnes gay erotic fiction. A working relationship that was working just fine for both parties. Until, after years of communicating purely via e-mail, the two men meet in person. And Bucky quickly realizes that Steve not only has a fantastic eye for detail, he's got a smile that could melt any heart, and a body any one of Bucky's fictional heroes would die to touch. A sentiment Bucky shares. So how does Bucky begin his immediate campaign to win his way into Steve's bed, and his heart? By playing to his strengths. In other words, by writing a new series of sex filled stories staring a muscle bound blond and a seductively enticing brunet. Any resemblance to actual persons purely intentional. If editing Bucky's steamy stories hadn't given Steve all sorts of inappropriate fantasies before, it certainly does now...

seapup by wearing_tearing (oneshot | 1,765 | M)

There are a lot of monsters down in the deep dark sea, Steve included. But he is not prey and he is not about to let himself be eaten.

Into That Good Night by Nonymos (complete | 73,540 | E)

Steve Rogers has lived for entirely too long—long enough to see the world's end. The heroes are gone, and the Earth is pushing what's left of mankind towards the exit.

But when a makeshift team rises from the ashes, when a mysterious presence all but drags Steve there, he begins to think there may be hope yet. As they shoot for the stars one last time, Steve will get proof yet again that the future is nothing if not an echo of the past.

Other than that, this month Mod Blue fell into an Altered Carbon shaped hole. Please send help and/or Stucky Altered Carbon AUs with happy endings.

Mod Julia

Not the Jealous Type by justanothersong (oneshot | 3,377 | G)

“Oh, I get it,” Tony said, smug little grin playing across his features. “You’re all angsty because your partner took time off to hang out with his war buddy, and you’re cooped up here doing paperwork. Is that it?”

“Did I not just say to leave it alone?” Sam huffed in response.

Places left behind by Claudia_flies (oneshot | 7,175 | E)

As Steve approaches the door of the walk-in closet, there’s a sudden growl. It’s low and defensive, and Steve freezes. He’s only wearing a towel, he suddenly realizes stupidly.

“Jarvis?” he calls out.

“Yes, sir?” comes the clipped voice of the A.I over the comms system.

“Is there someone in the closet?”

a desert in my heart and nowhere to hide by endofadream (oneshot | 3,720 | E)

Steve struggles to push himself upright, already muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” and stops when Bucky’s metal hand clamps down onto the back of his neck. It’s hardly more than its usual gentle hold, but immediately Steve melts, tension leeching from his body even as his heart pounds in his chest.

Bucky draws in a ragged breath behind him. “Is that what you want?” he asks after a pause.

tutorial by belovedmuerto (oneshot | 2,362 | T)

“I’m pretty sure I’m a terrible kisser,” Steve mutters, mostly to his pencil and paper.

Still Learning Every Day by Nejinee (oneshot | 5,024 | M)

“Oh, don’t tell me you fell in love with a stripper. Come on, Steve. I’m too tired to go into Manhattan and fight some asshat for your virtue. Or would I have to dance for it?”

--

Steve loves Bucky, always has. He just never figured any other men would turn his head until he goes to a strip club and learns that it's not just women who can be strippers these days.

The Necrofloranomicon by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) (complete | 47,569 | T)

Bucky didn't want much. Just to keep his head down, to sell his flowers in peace, and to stay off Shield's radar. His life would have been a lot easier if his flowers weren't dead and if being a necromancer wasn't illegal, but easy or not, he was getting by. Steve didn't want much, either. He was happy working for Shield, he had good friends, and overall his life was going just about the way he wanted it. Problem was, being happy with your life was generally an invitation for fate to throw a spanner in the works—and in Steve's specific case, it was going to be a spanner named Bucky.

Fuck Valentine's Day by jinlinli (oneshot | 4,218 | T)

Steve and Bucky's friends finally get sick and tired of their obliviousness, so they set them up on a blind date on Valentine's Day. But of course, they think it's just a prank because they're idiots.

Ex Libris by CloudAtlas (oneshot | 8,066 | T)

When the last customer has been dealt with, Steve turns to his new companion with, “Hi. I’m Steve, I’m new,” and finds a guy about his own height, with a kind smile and his long hair in a messy bun.

“Hi,” the guy says. “I’m James and I’m old.”

Stupid Cupid (you're a real mean guy) by chicklette (oneshot | 6,846 | E)

It's February and the weather in Brooklyn in shitty. So when his best friend Bucky offers Steve a week-long, all expenses paid trip to Mexico, he figures, what could go wrong? So what if it's a couples-only resort. Over Valentine's Day.

The Roommate by layersofsilence, Niitza (complete | 28,632 | T)

In which Steven G. Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, gets a roommate. Who rapidly turns into his "roommate"—in the euphemistic sense of the word.

It takes SHIELD and the rest of the Avengers an absurd amount of time to notice.

No Faraway Shore by eyres (complete | 56,906 | T)

President James Barnes has spent his career saying that the defining moment of his life was when he discovered that Steve Rogers had sacrificed himself while Bucky had lain in a New York hospital bed with only one arm.

Now, Bucky would say it was when SHIELD told him Steve was alive.

The one where Bucky is President, Steve makes friends and enemies in the future, and a wedding in the Rose Garden has to wait until Hydra is defeated again.

[xregency-blog]

bereft ;

summary: neneru faces some hard truths.

She stands before the ruins of Sil’dih.

Two hundred years ago, this place might’ve been bustling with a lively people on the brink of prosperity. Two hundred years ago, this place would not have the cracks and moss seeping into its stones—maybe it’d been pure white at a time. Maybe there would’ve been gold inlays, beautiful stonework, an arch. Maybe this could’ve been the entrance to the aqueduct system. Maybe not. Maybe it could’ve been something else altogether.

Either way, it stands as a broken monument of a now long forgotten city-state. Neneru clenches her jaw and fists. 

She glances over her shoulder to catch the faint outline of Ul’dah’s towers jutting into the air, its golden glint almost mocking her and her dead kingdom. It leaves a taste so sour in her mouth that she has to spit it out. The lalafell wonders briefly if the Sultana had ever known the truth of Ul’dah’s sister city-state.

Even then, what good will that do? At worst, sharing the truth will shake the foundations of Ul’dah and cause unneeded strife in a city that’s already struggling with the threat of primals, beast tribes, and refugees. She turns back to stare at the crumbling remains of Sil’dihn architecture once more.

“My liege.”

That title leaves a vile taste in her mouth as well.

“Liege is defined as someone who is a feudal sovereign.” Neneru corrects without even deigning to turn her head towards the hooded man standing behind her. “And I doubt that I have much to my name.”

“But, my liege—”

“Call me liege one more time,” she says, her voice turning as sharp as her lance, “and you will see how I am when my patience runs thin.”

The hooded man very wisely decides to keep silent.

Neneru sil Neru finally turns to face the man and crosses her arms. “I take it that you’re here to tell me the same thing that I’ve heard from the rest of your brethren?”

There’s a moment of silence that passes between them. The air is thick with tension before the hooded man finally relents with a nod. Neneru sneers at him for a brief, triumphant moment. Then she frowns.

“Tell me, my good man,” she begins as she circles him like a bored coeurl, “you expect me, a Warrior of Light, to drop everything I’m doing to help you steal a bunch of secret documents and expose Ul’dah as a fraud? To reveal the truth of my kingdom?”

Neneru stops in front of him as her eyes sharpen. “You lot are more idiotic than I thought. What do you suppose will happen once the truth gets out? How the people will react, if they take it seriously in the first place?” She lists off consequences on her fingers as if checking off a grocery list. “Riots, civil unrest, political instability, yet another attempt on the Sultana’s life and then where the hells would we be without someone to rule Ul’dah? And that’s not even getting into those snakes they call Monetarists!”

The lalafell has to take a deep breath, cool off. She smooths back her hair and heaves a heavy sigh before fixing the hooded man, who now stands as stiff as a board, with a hard look.

“What, and your reason for all this is to restore Sil’dih to its rightful glory or some nonsense? Don’t make me laugh.” There’s a sarcastic smile on her face as she gestures to the ruins behind her. “It’s been dead for two hundred and seventy-seven years. Have fun excavating nearly three centuries worth of rocks and zombies.”

“Neneru sil Neru, don’t you care about claiming your rightful place?” the hooded man finally retorts sharply, his voice tinny with exasperation. “Do you not care about Sil’dih?”

She jumps and grabs a fistful of the man’s robe to yank him down to her level. He stumbles and ends up in a half-sprawl on the ground as Neneru shakes him by the front of his robes.

“I spent my whole life hearing about all the fantastical wonders of Sil’dih!” she bellows at him, her wide eyes wild with rage. “You lot raised me to love a dead and forgotten kingdom! I want nothing more than to see it in its former glory, but take a damn good look here.” Neneru drags the man, forces his chin up to stare at the aging, broken stones. “You’re telling me you want to rebuild that? Scholars and miners have been trying to dig this place out longer than I’ve been alive, you incredibly dense kuponut!”

Then she shoves him aside with a disgusted groan. The poor man flails and stares up fearfully at Neneru as she looms over him even in her short stature.

“Sil’dih is nothing but a pipe dream for stubborn oafs like you and I.” she spits venomously, bitterly. “I am the last of the Sil line. It might very well die with me.”

[reverseblackholeofwords]

So I see a lot of theories about Dark having two sides to him (blue and red) that are calm and anger. If you're willing could you write a short on what might happen if those parts of Dark got split into two people?

(I’ve actually never heard this theory before, but I’d like to play around with the idea a bit. So let’s see where this goes!)

Dark hasn’t slept in days, mostly because it’s been so long since Mark released a new Ego video that they’re all starting to feel the effects of losing the fans’ attention to the Jacksepticeye Egos. The ringing in his ears is growing to a tremendous cacophony, and soon, even Dark won’t be able to stand it much longer.

He tosses back his head as a painful wave of convulsions shake his shell to its core until he literally feels himself being torn in two by the force of it. When Dark looks up, he sees a mirror image of himself staring back, outlined in a faint, blue glow. Red feels his anger spark wildly, a fire burning through him with a desperate need to survive, to have Mark grovelling at his feet and begging for mercy. “What is this?”

Blue rolls his eyes. “You split us. I’ve been trying to hold us together, but you’ve gone and let our shell break.” Blue rubs the space between his eyebrows and sighs. “This isn’t going to be good.”

Red pulls himself to his feet and looks down at himself, outlined in faint red and glitching wildly to stay in this reality. “Well, how do we fix it?”

Blue shrugs. “It’s never gone this far before. We might be stuck this way for now.”

Red throws himself to either side, glitching so badly that he’s about to break his own neck. “This is all Mark’s fault! We should’ve killed that simpering oaf when we had the chance!” Blue sighs and shakes his head, but his other half starts lashing out, sweeping the contents off their desk and setting fire to the carpet and screaming at the tops of his lungs.

Google wanders in to see what all the noise is, sees two Darks–one on a rampage and the other mercilessly insulting him, trying to get him to stop–turns right back around locks the door behind him.