#but its also a good accommodation for missions and training when she needs her hands free

[ad-astra-per-aspera-1389]

So...what do we think of the way lab rats handled Taylor's disability? Personally, I think they did a decent job narratively. They steered away from "this is a sci-fi type of show so we can just 'fix' the disability". The visor Douglas made for her basically functions like a cane would, except its more compact and on her face, but all it does is tell her when an obstacle is in front of her...like a cane would. She's still blind. That doesn't go away. Taylor goes on missions again as the hero she is, even with her disability. She's disabled and she can go on missions.

I say narratively because there were a few comments about "a newbie, a quitter and a blind girl!" and with how Leo wanted the doctors to "fix it", but as far as Leo's comments go, he mostly felt guilty about his actions altering her way of life forever, which it did.

Seriously, what do we think? I'm not physically disabled myself, but I'm taking a class where we talk about this stuff and I was reminded of this Taylor plotline recently. I've been thinking about this all day.

[danger-xylophones]

Hey, I have request, I love Samakro and he’s very underrated, in my opinion. Could you write a one shot of samakro working with a navigator who was a Jedi that escaped from the Empire into the unknown region/chaos.

No rush, I love your stories.

Agreed, samakro needs more fics

Also thank you, both for the compliment and your patience. I love to write but rarely have the motivation for it. So I appreciate your understanding immensely

Warnings: ptsd, references to order 66, enemies to lovers sort of, human reader, i play jumprope with canon, Samakro is rude

"We appreciate your willingness to help us," the chiss admiral's clear voice seemed to reverberate all around you - an interesting contrast similarity to past ships you'd worked on.

"Of course," you answered back, meeting the hologram's eyes, "I am honored that you requested me specifically." You spoke in stilted sy bisti, still not quite used to the the way the trade language poked at the inside of your mouth.

Just behind you, the captain of the ship grumbled something under his breath and you couldn't help but pick up the annoyed air rolling off of him in waves. Lifting your chin just a bit higher, you forced yourself not to comment on it and instead focused on the woman before you. "Forgive me, your initial message was rather vague. Am I allowed to know what you need my...specific skills for?"

"To put it plainly," the woman's, Ar'alani's, thin lips quirked up into a small smile - as if amused with a joke only she knew, "the mission before us requires your more broad range of talents - this is a job too big for any pathfinder and too involved for any of our trained navigators. " The polite smile that had made its home on your lips twitched. Even through the language barrier you could read between the lines. Too involved meant too dangerous. You were a replacement - an expendable version of the crewmate that usually did your new job.

"I understand," you replied, forcing yourself to maintain a serene expression, "thank you for indulging my questions. One more, I'm afraid. What are my orders?"

Ar'alani's smile grew, settling into approving and her blue eyes (discolored by the hologram) seemed to twinkle. "I leave the answer to that question with your commander." Nodding to the man behind you, she continued, "Senior Captain Ufsa'mak'ro will fill you in on the rest of the operation. Good day, pathfinder, and good journey." And with that, she clicked off, vanishing from view entirely.

A moment of stillness passed only broken by a few short footsteps taken by the captain to bring him in front of you. "Pathfinder," he addressed in a low voice, hands pressed primly into the small of his own back, "move to your station and prepare to take us into hyperspace - the coordinates are already programmed in. We're just waiting on you." And he stepped away - nearly stalking to the command chair to observe the vast stretch of space before him.

You wasted no time and crossed to the only vacant seat on the whole bridge. Hooked on the controls was a sensory deprivation helmet that looked to be about your size and as you settled into your place you noticed that the seat had already been moved to accommodate your mass. It was still a bit of a tight squeeze regardless but the gesture was not lost on you.

After re-adjusting the distance of the chair from the computer and height of the controls, you set the helmet aside to be used when you got farther into the thicket of the Chaos. Looking over your shoulder, you met the helmsman's eyes to signal you were ready. He nodded and in crisp cheunh projected his voice throughout the bridge. The captain responded in cheunh and the helmsman's gaze met yours once more so he could give you a steady nod - go. He started the jump to hyperspace.

As the bridge lit up, awash in the swirling glow of hyperspace, you let yourself slip into a meditative trance that would guide the ship through what this part of the galaxy called the Chaos. A peculiar name but charming (and fitting) all the same.

................................

Pain and regret. Pain and regret. It rippled throughout the space, choking and stifling and so, so destructive.

Pain and regret, devastation and death. So many. So many. Innocent. Innocent. Innocent. Guilty conscious. Sacrifice. And a single hope. A hope for cooperation. Hope, always hope. Hope to ease the bite of the screams. The bite of the pain, the bite of death.

Cling to hope, cling, grasp, hold, hold, hold, shoulder, hold, shoulder hold. Holding shoulder-

With a jolt, you were unceremoniously yanked out of your dwam and brought back into your body. Your hands jerked around the controls they'd locked around and you couldn't stop your head from swiveling wildly, trying to make sense of your location. Where was the danger? Where were the blaster bolts coming from? Where - lightsaber - get - ?

"Easy now." The voice came from your left and your head snapped in that direction to meet not the blank stare of an unfeeling helmet but the brilliant red of two gemstone-like eyes. The captain. The Chiss captain. Not a clone. There were no clones in the Unknown regions.

You could feel your nerves start to settle and the sudden spike of adrenaline start to where off, bringing your awareness to the heavy, large hand holding onto your shoulder. Closing your eyes to take a deep breath, you opened them on the exhale to meet the gaze of the captain once more. "My apologies, Captain Ufsa'mak'ro, is something the matter?"

His lips twisted down into a scowl as he rose to his full height. "Please, just use my core name 'Samakro'- hearing your pronunciation is painful." He crossed his arms over his chest assuredly.

While your own fought not to mimic at the uncalled for rudeness. "My apologies, Captain Samakro. Is something the matter?"

The scowl didn't budge. But he raised an eyebrow. "No. But your shift's up."

"Oh." You looked away to focus on where your hands were still locked around the controls in front of you. A slight tremor threatened to shake your arms, revealing just how shook up you were to the captain.

"Is something the matter with you?" Samakro's voice was cutting despite its low rumble.

"No," you cleared your throat, "no, sir. Just, got a bit startled coming up is all."

Samakro huffed, a scathing 'uh-huh' that clashed with the timbre of his natural voice. But he didn't press, and instead turned to the helmsman once more to bark out an order in cheunh once more.

The reply from the helmsman was also in cheunh, and thus lost on you but it distinctly sounded like he was counting. And after five unknown syllables projected across the bridge had passed, the ship suddenly dropped out of hyperspace revealing a sprawling starscape all around.

You let out a sigh of relief. Good, they were stopping. Which meant you would have a long enough break to slip away and hopefully meditate. And quiet the dark memories for the time being.

Samakro and the helmsman exchanged a few more words that resulted in the latter counting once more before the ship took off once more, only at lightspeed this time. As the less vibrant starstreaks zipped by, you found yourself focusing on the movements and forcing your hands to still. You were safe. No one on the ship was going to betray you, no one was going to hunt you, the empire didn't know you were out here. The chiss had no reason to hand you over.

A weight settled on your shoulder once again and you found your gaze pulled to it. A blue hand gripped onto you, a stark contrast to the dark grey, nondescript material of your shirt. And you knew without looking whose hand it was. "Why don't I escort you to your room?"

Escort. You nearly snorted. You weren't a stuffy dignitary. Or a prisoner. But you also didn't command this ship. "Thank you, sir."

Muttering a quiet, 'sure', he stepped back to give you room to get up from your seat. But you hesitated, all too aware that the tremor in your arms wasn't quite under control yet and would become all the more apparent once your hands were empty. But just sitting in your seat wasn't an option either - it would just become stranger the longer you stayed put. So, reluctantly, you peeled your hands off of the controls only to hide them away in the confines of your outer-rap robe as you rose to your feet. Samakro raised an eyebrow at the movement but was courteous enough not to comment on it. He waited patiently enough for you to reach his side before settling a steady hand on the middle of your back to lead you away from the bridge. It was strange - his presence and the solid weight of his hand was almost comforting after reliving such an unfortunate memory. But the aura around him was tense, as if he himself was waiting for a sudden strike against him. But you didn't comment on it either, wanting to repay the favor he'd extended to you mere moments ago.

The captain led you through a series of long hallways, all identical to each other down to the sealant on the doors. But finally he came to a stop before an unassuming trapezoidal door that slid into the wall upon inputting a code. Automatic lights sprung to life at the movement of the door, revealing a quaint little room with a couch, a table, a small kithenette, and a single bed shoved into the farthest corner. It was nicer than some of your previous accommodations and you found yourself grateful for the offered privacy.

You stepped inside, expecting the captain to bid you goodbye until your next shift. But, instead, he followed you in and let the door slide shut behind him. Dangerous. Your mind warned and you found yourself tensing up again for a whole new reason. "Is there something you needed, Senior Captain?" You asked carefully, taking a cautious step backward.

"There is actually." Samakro's voice dropped to a near growl as his face shifted into an angry grimace. "Care to tell me what this is?" He reached for his hip where a holster was secured to his belt and pulled from it not any form of blaster but a very specific weapon. One that you knew was supposed to be hidden away in the bottom of your travel bag.

My lightsaber.

Slowly, you raised your hands up in surrender and tried to make yourself seem as non-threatening as possible. "Captain, I promise you that I am not a threat."

"A bit hard to believe that when I'm holding your weapon." Samakro didn't back down. So, you took a careful step forward, and slowly moved your hand to ask him to hand it back.

"I can explain why I have it if you'll let-"

"Back up." He bit out, falling into a position not dissimilar to your own opening stance. You did as he demanded, once again bringing your hands up and over your head to show you were complying. "Now," he lowered the still inactive saber, "what is this?"

"It's a lightsaber." You answered quickly, keeping your eyes trained on the weapon in his grasp.

"And why do you have it?"

"Because I built it."

"Why did you bring it aboard my ship?"

You looked away from the saber to meet his eyes. "Because I won't survive without it."

Samakro's expression faltered. "What?"

"It's a lot to explain." You spoke in a hushed tone. "But I swear on my life that I mean no harm to you or anyone on your ship. I've carried my lightsaber with me since I was a child. It's saved my life more times than I can count. I can't part with it."

He didn't say anything for a long time. And you didn't dare move in fear of angering him further in case he did something to force your hand. But eventually he spoke. "What are you?"

"I was a Jedi." You answered, lowering your arms and monitoring his face for any recognition of the word. Something flashed behind his eyes and you detected the faintest recognition of the word. Which only made your own wariness grow.

"And this," he hefted the hilt between his hands, now looking a bit more intrigued, "is the weapon you'd use."

"How do you know about the Jedi? I was under the impression that you didn't have any force sensitives out here."

You saw Samakro's mouth form the word 'force' as if to question you but he didn't voice it. Instead, after a small shake of his head, he said, "My former commander had an experience with one of your ilk a while back." He finally lowered the weapon completely, letting the deactivated saber tap against his thigh.

An unwitting spark of interest flared to life in your gut. "He did? How-How long ago?"

"Years." Samakro answered simply. And the small hope that had dared to spark was smothered out. "Weren't you fighting a war?" The captain asked, now crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes." The word was bitter on your tongue. "We lost." you muttered quietly.

"How?" Samakro's voice had shifted again, taking on a more conversational tone and comforting volume.

Bracing yourself, you focused your gaze on the floor before you. "Our troops turned on us. I'm still not sure how it happened. All I know is that we were on the cusp of victory, the leader of the CIA was defeated, Master Kenobi was pursuing General Grievous. And then suddenly the clones just started shooting." Tears pricked at your eyes, your throat was starting to close, but you pressed on. "They gunned us down - hunted us on our own ships, in our own bases."

You had to stop and let yourself breathe. It'd been almost two years since that fateful day. Two years of silence. Two years of hiding. Two years of running.

"But you escaped." Samakro pointed out, stepping closer.

With a scoff, you met his gaze. "I fled like a force-forsaken coward! I was stationed on a covert medical base with two other Jedi, a Master and her Padawan. We tried to buy the padawan time to escape but they were both gunned down. Right in front of me. And what did I do?" Your voice had started to raise, "I ran away, got in a lifepod and jettisoned off into the unknown just to get picked up by some transport." A pause as you wrangled your voice back to a manageable volume. "They brought me to the pathfinders' guild and put me to work."

"Which is how you ended up here." Samakro finished dryly - a look of annoyed relief on his face. Suddenly, "Here," he tossed the saber at you, "it doesn't leave this room." You caught it with ease and crossed to set it on the quaint desk.

"Understood, Captain." Your reply came swiftly as you settled your hands in front of you.

"Good." Samakro nodded and turned sharply to key the door to your room open. "Your next shift is in 10 hours. We'll be traveling jump by jump in the mean time."

"Understood, Captain." You repeated.

Samakro paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. "I'm sorry about what happened to you." He offered quietly. "And...for mistrusting you."

He didn't wait for a reply before making his departure from your room.

[eggtoasties]

dazed bees to honey

Pairing: Shisui Uchiha/Sakura Haruno

Rating: T

Word Count: 6.3k

Better on AO3

Chapter 2

______________________________________

Getting Sakura’s attention had been…difficult at best. Trying to work around his erratic schedule was near impossible given Sakura’s equally hectic schedule and Shisui wasn’t sure how to approach the Hokage and demand that she rearrange his missions to better accommodate his dating schemes.

But, he had never met anyone more alluring—the sway of Sakura’s hips, the creaminess of her skin, the way her eyes lit up when he brought little trinkets he acquired from far away missions. She makes the blood rush to his cheeks when she makes fun of him and he had never known that getting his bones crushed would make him feel like he was the luckiest man on Earth.

She was the sun—bringing him light and warmth like he had never before experienced, and he was the moon orbiting around her. He needed to be closer; he wanted to be consumed by her. She could crack his chest open in two and carve her name in the ribs protecting his heart and it still wouldn’t be close enough.

He just didn’t know how to tell her.

___

Shisui had been idly sharpening kunai at his dining room table waiting for his bread to proof, when he received a summons. Tapping at the balcony door, a small crow was impatiently waiting for Shisui to retrieve the message tied at its foot. Wondering why Itachi sent a crow instead of making the short trip to his apartment, Shisui set his weapon down and ambled towards the sliding glass door, making sure to grab seeds for the summons.

Letting out a squawk, the crow started pecking at his door faster. Alarmed that Itachi was possibly in danger, Shisui shunshined to the balcony and grabbed the crow to get to the message. Puffing its feathers and pecking at Shisui’s hands, the summons squawked indignantly and Shisui offhandedly wondered when Itachi had kept such poorly behaved crows.

Gently releasing it into the air and unfurling the message, Shisui read:

Came back from the mission a few days ago. At training ground 7 if you’d like to join. -S. Haruno

His heart pounded. Sakura was back in the village and she contacted him promptly afterwards to ask to spar? Dough be damned he was sprinting to training ground 7, he thought giddily. He looked down at himself—green fuzzy socks, loose gray sweats, and an old t-shirt—he had to get ready! His cheeks warmed. Wait, he mentally stammered. How did she know where he lived? How did she know where to send the summons to? Did she snoop around his medical files to find his address because for some reason, that made his throat dry.

Running to his bedroom while haphazardly throwing his clothes off, he suddenly stilled again. She had sent him a crow? She had a crow summons? There were a few crow summoners in the village, Shisui reasoned. She could have gotten a contract from Aoba or someone else. But, the thought of Itachi presenting the summoning contract that he had bestowed as a sign of trust and friendship made Shisui frown. As the elder, and the first contract holder, he should have been the one to give her the contract to sign. Or, Itachi should have gone to him and inform Shisui of his intentions.

Nodding to himself, Shisui made a note to stop by Itachi’s house later and question him.

___

Arriving at the edge of training ground 7 in record time, Shisui paused as he saw Sakura and Itachi in their uniforms warming up together. Sakura was in standard uniform sans the flak jacket and Itachi was in his ANBU uniform as always. Shisui fidgeted uncomfortably. He had worn what Itachi rudely called “the douchebag” shirt—a loose black sleeveless top where the arm holes were cut down to the bottom of his ribs. The tank top, Itachi always lectured, could hardly be defined as a shirt since it was so open. Itachi had questioned the practicality of a training top that would leave one so vulnerable to weapons and Shisui at the time, had retorted that he would understand when he was older.

Beginning to wonder if he should discreetly go back home to change, Sakura and Itachi called Shisui over.

“Oh, you came!” Sakura shouted excitedly as she beckoned him towards the middle of the training field.

As he walked slowly towards the pair, Itachi assessed Shisui.

“I see you got my summons,” he said, raising his eyebrow when he took in Shisui’s clothes. “Nice pants.”

Shisui flushed. He had chosen his tightest black training pants. Pants that he knew made his ass look good, thank you very much, but at the moment he was wondering if Sakura would think he was trying too hard. Or worse, he mentally shuddered, a douchebag.

“I was excited when Itachi told me you were in the village. I wanted to work on my response times with you,” Sakura started, interrupting Shisui’s mental torture. His heart fluttered at the thought of her wanting to spar with him and he let out a little breath of relief realizing that the crow was indeed Itachi’s. He crossed his arms in a poor attempt to cover the long slits in his shirt.

“I can dodge pretty much anything,” Sakura continued, beginning to sway on the balls of her feet, pink pony tail swinging with the motion. “But I wanna see how I’ll do against an opponent I can’t hit—or at least that’s what Itachi says,” she said, smiling at him prettily.

The early morning sun illuminated her face and made her green eyes impossibly bright. The faint ring of gold around her pupils winked at him and he swore he could feel his pulse reverberate in his skull. He realized she was waiting for a response. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and all he could muster out was a weak, “Sounds good.”

Sakura nodded happily and walked a few paces away from him, wringing out her arms. Suddenly pulling out kunai from her holster and twirling them around her forefingers, she faced him.

“Taijutsu only. Ready whenever you are, Shisui-san.”

___

She was fast, Shisui noted. He had expected as much given the way she took him by surprise in her office, cutting his shunshin off. He also factored in the fact that she regularly trained with Itachi, Sasuke, and Kakashi who were notoriously quick on their feet. But, not as fast as him.

Flickering in and out of her reach, he studied her movements with his sharingan. He knew that Itachi was on the sidelines, similarly monitoring her, but Shisui wanted to brand the image of her looking at him like he was prey for the rest of his life. Sakura was an incredibly flexible fighter, he noted. Depending on the type of attack, weapon, and opening he left, she would quickly and seamlessly recalibrate.

There were times her movements reflected Tsunade-sama’s—sharp and fast and meant to obliterate. Other times, Shisui realized, she would adopt Might Guy’s Strong Fist technique, Asuma’s melee style, or most surprisingly, the graceful but precise movements of the Gentle Fist technique.

Bracing a chakra enforced forearm against a kick to his head he asked, “Who taught you the Gentle Fist?”

Grunting and trying to strike his open stomach she responded, “My graduating class has two Hyuugas.” He side stepped away from her punch and flickered behind her. Ducking when she swung a kunai to his head and dodging the knee about to pummel his face, he shunshined a little farther away.

“Hyuuga don’t hide their techniques because no one can use it without the Byakugan, but someone would have had to teach you those movements,” he said breathing heavily.

“Kakashi copies them to piss people off and I was—am close to them,” Sakura said catching her breath. He watched as she pressed the back of her hand to her sweaty forehead and picked the hem of her shirt up to wipe at the rest of her face. Her toned stomach glistened with sweat. Little rivulets of perspiration rolled down her abs and Shisui cursed, damn.

“Was it the little Hyuuga genius? Neji-kun?” Shisui asked, remembering Sasuke’s clear distaste for the boy.

Itachi chose then to materialize in Shisui’s line of vision, cutting his view of Sakura. Pouting, Shisui flash stepped in front of Sakura, startling her while Itachi began his commentary on what and how Sakura could improve as well as ideas for them to try out.

The rest of their morning session consisted of Itachi valiantly trying to train while Shisui cast low level genjutsus of himself telling Itachi to leave. Itachi dispelled the genjutsus, but Shisui relentlessly recast them, sometimes conjuring up little dancing animals or mini Sasukes berating him to leave. Tiring of Shisui’s antics, Itachi dejectedly sat on the ground and began his stretches, saying that they should call it a day.

“Are you alright? You seemed distracted today—I definitely hit you more than usual,” Sakura said kneeling in front of him, raising a glowing green hand to his chest.

“Thank you—I’m fine,” Itachi responded tiredly. “It’s just that Shisui,” he said harshly, glaring at him over Sakura’s shoulder, kept telling me to leave.”

Alarm bells started ringing in Shisui’s head and he looked incredulously at his cousin. His cousin who sold him out. His decidedly, least favorite cousin. He glared back at Itachi. Shisui flashed his dimples which made Itachi narrow his eyes further.

“Sorry, cousin,” Shisui started. “I’m just absolutely starving and wanted to eat—you know how I am when I want something,” he said, throwing his arms behind his head and wiggling his eyebrows at his cousin.

“Annoying? Irritating? Childish?” Itachi grumbled, causing Sakura to giggle. “Sakura,” Itachi started. “Would you want to go to that new bakery in the North District? I’ve only heard incredible things about their rhubarb ice cream,” Itachi said excitedly, ignoring the way Shisui was pouting and lightly kicking at the ground.

Sakura finished healing Itachi and slowly rose, dusting the dirt from her knees and wiping her hands against her thighs. “Ooh, that sounds really nice, but I should probably get real food before I start on desserts,” Sakura laughed.

Not to be outdone, Shisui stepped beside Sakura. “I agree, let’s get lunch Sakura-sensei,” he chirped while resting his hand against Itachi’s head, who was still sitting down. Scowling, Itachi yanked on Shisui’s arm, making his older cousin stumble, and jabbed the back of his knee. Pleased that Shisui was now sprawled in the dirt, Itachi rose and said, “Well, I’m also going to get sesame cookies,” he sniffed. “Good luck with this,” Itachi said to Sakura, poking an incensed Shisui with his sandal. “And thank you for the coconut oil.”

With that, Itachi gracefully straightened himself out and walked towards the edge of the clearing, waving back at Sakura.

___

Shisui and Sakura made their way towards the main hub of Konoha. Excited to be alone with her, Shisui asked her questions about her last mission and her work at the hospital. He listened intently as she recalled the mission details, chuckling when she complained about the humidity in Waterfall, telling her he completely understood while pointing to his curly hair. She talked animatedly about her research project at the hospital. Although he didn’t understand about seventy five percent of what she was explaining, he nodded dutifully, lips quirking as he watched her excited hand movements as she discussed…molecular interventions through pathogenic mechanisms of neurocristopathies—he thinks.

Humming at the right times and throwing in a “oh, really—what does that mean?” every so often, he basked in her voice. Her voice, Shisui decided, was his favorite sound in the entire universe. Wanting to sit down together, he interrupted her briefly to point at the first restaurant he saw.

“How’s ramen sound, Sakura-sensei?” he asked.

“And that’s why normal and pathological neural crest cells—” Sakura, paused. “Oh, Ichiraku’s is fine. Did you know this is Team 7’s spot?” she asked, heading towards the shop. “We used to eat at Ichiraku’s a few times a week,” she scrunched her nose in distaste, “when we were genin,” she finished.

“Itachi says Sasu-chan always complains about Naruto-kun’s ramen eating habits but I didn’t realize this was your guys’ place of choice,” Shisui chuckled. “Does he know that the stand two streets over also does a killer ramen? A gal needs variety if I recall correctly,” he threw in cheekily. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he continued. “There’s also this other place that has great ambience and incredible food—you should come some time?” he voice rising in speed and pitch at the end of the sentence.

Her step faltering, Sakura looked up at Shisui. “Huh?” she questioned at his word choice, “What is it?”

“My place,” he responded quickly, smiling sunnily at her and ignoring the rush of blood to his face.

Shisui’s heart thundered at the way her mouth opened in surprise and he felt his bones reverberate when the tips of her ears turned pink. While she scrunched her nose at the cheesy line, she couldn’t help the way her lips quirked up.

“Well—”

“SAKURA-CHAN!” Naruto screamed, running towards her from down the street, waving both hands excitedly. Behind Naruto, walking at a leisurely pace, was Itachi and Sasuke. Sending Shisui an apologetic smile, Sakura faced Naruto as he spun her around in a hug.

Exasperated, Shisui watched Itachi amble towards him and sent him a mental middle finger. Looking pleased with himself, Itachi didn’t even try to hide his smirk behind his massive ice cream cone.

“Me and teme ran into Itachi-nii and he said you and Shisui-nii were around here somewhere,” Naruto exclaimed. Turning to acknowledge Shisui he said, “Oh, dude nice pants, your ass looks great in them—let’s all get Ichiraku!” he shouted, grabbing Sakura’s wrist and running towards a waving Teuchi.

Shisui stood alone in the middle of the street with his mouth slightly open. Itachi joined his side while Sasuke trailed after his two teammates, not before assessing Shisui’s shirt and pants and throwing him a grimace.

“Tch,” Sasuke said dismissively.

“You love this don’t you, Itachi.”

“Ah,” he responded. Itachi angled his ice cream towards Shisui and raised a brow.

“No.”

Itachi pouted.

___

Bounding ahead to Ichiraku’s, Naruto pulled the chair against the wall with a flourish, exaggerating a bow and extending his hand towards Sakura. Easily following the mimicry of their genin days, she giggled and pretended to ignore him. Sakura took the seat at the middle of the bar which Sasuke quietly pulled out for her.

Pouting, Naruto complained, “Aw, c’mon Sakura-chan, you don’t actually want to sit next to teme, do you? He asked, easing in the seat to her left.

“It’s so she can mediate when you eventually say something stupid to piss me off,” Sasuke said, distributing the menus.

Sakura punched him in the arm in response and turned to chat about the menu with Naruto. When Shisui and Itachi settled into the wooden seats next to Sasuke, Sakura asked,

“How long are you two in the village for?” leaning towards Shisui and Itachi.

“We’ll both be local for about a week.” Itachi offered, now nibbling delicately at his cone.

“They’ve both been easing back on their ANBU duties and are doing more stuff for the clan,” Sasuke supplied, absentmindedly picking at a paint chip on the counter.

Whooping in response Naruto added, “Hell, yeah!” he threw a fist into the air. “Now you guys can train with us more! And Itachi-nii,” he started, leaning back in his chair to look at Itachi, “if you could bring more of those rice balls you made last time, they were incredible, dattebayo!”

Smiling, Itachi leaned back to discuss snacks with Naruto.

“And what about you, Sakura-sensei,” Shisui asked, completely pushing Sasuke out of the way.

Grumbling, Sasuke pushed back at Shisui, which the elder responded by trapping a hissing Sasuke in a headlock.

Rubbing Sasuke’s head placatingly, Sakura said, “I should be staying in the village for the next week too—there’s a lot of hospital stuff I’ve got to do.” Nodding to Teuchi as he placed her order in front of her, she added, “I’m glad you’ll be in the village this week, we should train together again—if you want,” she fiddled with her wooden chopsticks. “It was great to spar with you and watch you, I learned a lot.”

Jealous that he wasn’t invited to the spar, Sasuke wrenched himself from Shisui’s grasp and aggressively ripped his chopsticks apart. Noting his little brother’s behavior, Itachi chuckled and said, “I just told Naruto I’d stop by your training this week, otouto.”

“Tch,” Sasuke responded. But, the way his shoulders relaxed and he smiled gently into his bowl made it clear he was pleased.

“Sakura-chan,” Naruto started. “I feel like I never see you anymore!” he said between bites of ramen. “Let’s do a Team 7 get together—you, me, teme, Kaka-sensei, Yamato Taichou, and Sai too!” he slurped noisily.

“Yeah you’re right,” Sakura sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “With all my projects, the hospital, and,” she waved her hands distractedly, “we haven’t hung out in a while.” Frowning lightly she said, “We could do it at my place, but I don’t know if I could fit everyone…” she trailed off.

Sensing the opportunity, Shisui swooped in. “You should invite your friends over, Sasu-chan,” he mockingly admonished.

Ignoring Shisui’s baiting and staring down at his bowl, Sasuke grumbled.

“Absolutely no-“

“Your friends are coming over?” Itachi asked excitedly.

“No-“

“Yes!” chorused Naruto, Sakura, and Shisui.

“They’re,” Sasuke started, pointing his chopsticks at Naruto, “going to make a mess.”

Ignoring Sasuke’s continued rumblings, Itachi started to list off different food and dessert ideas to Naruto who grew more and more excited by his suggestions if his hand waving was anything to go by. Glancing sharply to his right at an extremely pleased Shisui, Sasuke scowled.

“I know you just took advantage of nii-san’s househusband fantasies,” Sasuke whispered sharply. In the background, Itachi was dreamily listing the various courses he thought would best suit Team 7’s tastes while Naruto and Sakura egged him on with ideas of their own.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Shisui responded smugly, leisurely slurping his noodles.

Irritated, Sasuke leaned across Shisui to talk some sense into his brother, but Itachi was staring serenely into space, using his full genius brain to plan out dinner. Huffing, Sasuke hunched in his seat and poked dejectedly at his noodles, missing the way Sakura peered past him.

___

Dinner at the Uchiha household was scheduled that Friday—a few days after lunch at Ichiraku’s. Shisui, conscious to not make another questionable fashion choice, opted for black training pants and a traditional Uchiha top—short sleeved and high collared with the Uchiha fan embroidered on the back.

Arriving at the head family’s home, he was greeted by a tired looking Fugaku who wearily told Shisui that everyone was in the kitchen. Laughing to himself, Shisui figured that Itachi and Mikoto had ran Fugaku to the ground with dinner preparations. Trailing after his uncle towards the kitchen, he saw Sasuke tending to a flower bouquet.

“Why are you here?” Sasuke asked, incensed.

He ignored the venom in his younger cousin’s eyes since he didn’t look very intimidating with carnations in hand. Shisui presented a tin-foil covered pan.

“He made shokupan,” Itachi said breezily.

“They should be here any minute! Sasuke, Fugaku, go set the table and get the plum wine out of the fridge,” Mikoto ordered, putting last minute touches on the pastries she and Itachi were decorating.

In a few minutes, there was knocking at the front door and Itachi went out to greet Sakura and Naruto.

“Come on in,” Itachi said happily. Leading them inside he said, “I ran to the store earlier today and got everyone slippers,” pointing to the neat row along the wall.

“Wow, Itachi-nii. You really got this mom thing down,” Naruto noted, nodding to himself.

“You think?” Itachi smiled serenely and Sakura giggled at his pastel yellow apron with white trimming.

“No one else could make it today,” Sakura said frowning. Handing a wrapped plant to Itachi she said, “Yamato Taichou and Sai are out on a mission, Kakashi said he was…busy…” she trailed off.

Humming to himself while inspecting the healthy green leaves of the plant and the tasteful wrapping, Itachi said, “Sakura, you really didn’t have to.” But the pleased look on his face said otherwise.

“Hey! I helped too!” Naruto interrupted loudly.

___

Settling himself at the low dining room table, Fugaku sat at the head of the table. To his right was Sakura, Naruto, and Sasuke. To his left sat Mikoto, Itachi, and Shisui.

“Wow, everything looks incredible,” Sakura gushed at the spread.

Naruto nodded enthusiastically, eyes gleaming. “Mikoto oba-chan, Itachi-nii, you guys really out did yourselves!”

“I helped too, dobe,” Sasuke grumbled.

“I made the shokupan!” Shisui chirruped.

It was a little too much food for the seven of them, Shisui noted. He looked down to the heaping bowl of white rice in front of him with a hearty serving of stew to its right—steam still emanating from both. Each person also had an individual portion of teriyaki salmon, its sweet glaze reflecting the dining room light above them. Sat on the middle of the traditional table, Itachi and Mikoto also prepared stir fried vegetables, soba salad, fried tonkatsu, mapo tofu, and tempura on large serving plates. The dishes took every space of the dining room table, some of it teetering dangerously close to an edge—the table overflowed with intermingling spices and glistening sauces.

Shisui blanched knowing that dessert was bound to be a similarly overwhelming experience.

Saying a brief thanks to his guests, Fugaku uttered a brief, “Itadakimasu,” and began eating.

___

Between the passing of dishes, clinking of chopsticks, and hums of pleasure, easy chatter filled the room.

“Thank you for the coconut oil dear, it works so well,” Mikoto smiled at Sakura over her glass of wine.

Dabbing her lips delicately after devouring several slices of tofu, Sakura shook her head.

“It was no problem—thank you,” she said, looking at Mikoto and Itachi, “for the dumplings. I ate them all in one sitting they were incredible,” she gushed.

Sasuke grumbled beside her, saying he had helped too and that it shouldn’t be physically possible to consume that many dumplings at once, but his mother cut him off.

“I heard we have Hyuuga Neji-kun to thank for the hair tips?” Mikoto teased.

At the mention of Neji, Shisui slowed his chewing and conceded defeat to Naruto, who was not-so-subtly trying to eat all of the tempura as quickly as possible. Shisui looked discreetly at Sakura to see how she would respond.

Sakura was caught by surprise at the comment and her spoon hovered in midair for a millisecond. Processing the joke, her shoulders shook lightly as she giggled and playfully rolled her eyes.

Naruto, with a mouthful of food said, “Neji does have nice hair, ‘ttebayo.”

Choking a little when Sasuke elbowed him in the stomach he stuttered, “A-ah, not as nice as yours, Sakura-chan!” The table laughed at the duo in response.

“Itachi-nii, you should quit ANBU and become a cook, this is the best food I’ve had in forever,” Naruto said dreamily.

Fugaku frowned deeply into his wine. “Yes, Itachi, when will you quit ANBU and fully take on your duties as clan head?”

Fugaku’s shoulder length brown hair had streaks of gray in it, which Mikoto lovingly said made him look refined although she had hardly aged in the past five years. His face showed years of exhaustion and responsibilities with his heavy brow and fine lines at the side of his mouth. His hands were still rough and battle worn despite it being years since his active duty days. Despite it all, his eyes were still keen, sharp as flint, and just as dark.

The rest of the table stilled with Fugaku’s displeasure—the Uchihas either frowning at Fugaku or throwing Itachi an apologetic glance. Sakura and Naruto ate impossibly quicker.

“Well Father,” Itachi started breezily, taking a languid sip of his glass. “You still have life in you yet.”

Preparing for an even more disgruntled Fugaku, Naruto and Sakura nervously chattered about the incredible food, piling each other’s plates even higher, and Shisui off handedly wondered if Sasuke had ever mentioned that Sakura’s appetite matched Naruto’s.

Surprising his guests, Fugaku wearily sighed into his rice bowl. “Son, please put me out of my misery so I can spend time with my wife.”

Over Mikoto’s pleased giggles and Sasuke’s embarrassed choke, Sakura and Naruto stopped their babbling to stare openly at Fugaku. Realizing that their surprise was obvious, they busied themselves again with food, ignoring Sasuke’s second-hand disgust.

“And Shisui,” Fugaku said sharply, cutting off whatever sly retort he had prepared on the tip of his tongue, “when will you fully accept the mantle as the police force commander?” he questioned.

Ignoring Shisui’s attempt at a response, Fugaku braced his hands on the floor behind his back and looked up at the ceiling. “Why Itachi and Sasuke don’t want to take over the police force is beyond me,” he muttered to himself as Mikoto gently consoled him.

Laughing at his uncle’s tiredness Shisui joked, “Well oji-san, given that Itachi’s biggest dream is being a full-time househusband—” Naruto looked incredibly interested at this prospect. “—and mine is living on oba-san’s food for the rest of my life,” Sasuke rolled his eyes at this. “Maybe we’ll make you suffer a little longer.”

Shisui raised his glass to Itachi, who clinked his glass in return, happily sipping the plum wine at the expense of an entirely spent Fugaku who mumbled to himself about shattered retirement dreams.

___

After dinner, Naruto and Sakura helped clear out the dishes despite Mikoto and Itachi’s protests. While Sasuke and Fugaku were relegated to cleaning the dishes, Shisui prepared the tea while Mikoto and Itachi set the table with dessert.

Surprisingly, dessert wasn’t as overwhelming as Shisui thought it would be. There was sakuramochi at the center of the table, elegantly plated in a neat line on a porcelain plate, the pickled blossom leaf folded meticulously over each cake. Itachi’s eyes crinkled towards Sakura while setting it down. Mikoto placed the higashi towards the end of the table, near Sasuke’s seat. The biscuit-like sweet, Shisui noticed amusedly, had uzumaki swirls pressed onto each biscuit. Shisui’s shokupan was also set down alongside a small pot of honey and jam. The last dessert was Fugaku’s favorite: butter cookies. Each cookie was a perfect circle and slightly browned at the edges. But to Shisui’s increased amusement, a black, three-tomoe sharingan was stenciled in icing on each cookie.

Settling back at the table, Sasuke looked at each dessert in growing exasperation before taking in the sharingan butter cookies. He glanced at Itachi in thinly veiled disbelief, but Itachi was intently staring at his guests’ reactions.

Sakura and Naruto had expressions of awe on their face. Naruto, with one hand on his protruding stomach looked a little nauseous when he said, “Wow…you really went all out on this team dinner…it looks so good dattebayo,” he finished weakly.

Sakura, trying to make up for her teammate’s lack of gusto quickly chirped, “I’m SO impressed with your icing skills,” she gushed, “I tried once and it was a complete failure,” she pouted, running a hand through her ponytail. “I’m so full from that incredible dinner but we’ll,” she quickly darted her eyes to Naruto, “make sure and try everything,” she finished, silencing Naruto’s protests.

As Itachi went prattled on the fine details of piping, not icing, because they’re obviously very different, Shisui idly wondered if Sasuke never hosted team dinners because of Itachi.

___

As everyone forced themselves to eat as much dessert as possible for Itachi’s sake, at the head of the table, Mikoto was cajoling her husband in hushed tones and nudging him with her shoulder.

“Sakura dear,” Mikoto started, which silenced the rest of the table. Mikoto turned her head to her husband. He responded by straightening his back and clearing his throat a few times.

“Sakura,” he started stiffly, not quite looking her in the eye. “Thank you,” Fugaku said, “for your work with the clan medics.

Shisui looked at his uncle, then Sakura in surprise—he hadn’t known just how close she was to the Uchiha clan. Looking around the table, no one else seemed to be surprised with her work, more so surprised at Fugaku’s thanks.

Sakura smiled kindly at Fugaku and Mikoto. “You’re welcome, the sharingans a tricky kekkai genkai and the blockages in the delicate blood vessels are definitely hard to work with, but working with Sasuke and Kakashi gave me a leg up. I’m just happy you allowed me to treat your clan members and train your clan medics.”

“With your instruction, Sakura-chan,” Mikoto began, “nearly every clan member has noted a mental and physical improvement. The Uchiha owe you a life debt.” Fugaku, Itachi, and Sasuke nodded in agreement.

Blushing at the compliment, Sakura shook her head. “Thank you, but you all don’t owe me anything. The payment, as agreed, was fully enough.”

Shisui paused. He hadn’t realized that Sakura had found a way to ease the pain the sharingan brought. Having awoken his mangekyo at an extremely young age, he was used to the near perpetual eyestrain and frequent migraines that came with overuse. He had given up on his clan medics’ treatment for his eyes since they’d been ineffective over the years. Incredibly interested at the prospect of relieving his pain he quickly turned to Sakura.

She was still talking to Fugaku and Mikoto, trying to convince them that they didn’t have to commit to any favors for her, and all of his thoughts stilled. She was talking with her hands, trying to explain that she was just glad to be of service to her teammate’s family, and by extension, the village. That no one should be in chronic pain if there was anything she could do about it. Her cheeks were flushed with the wine, and he was taken by the fullness of her lips. Wet with the plum wine, they glistened in the soft overhead light. Every so often, he could see a glint of her pink tongue as she laughed, or caught the corner of her lip.

Noticing that Itachi was staring at him with amusement, Shisui mentally shook himself out of his stupor.

“Ne, Sakura-sensei, I hadn’t realized you figured out the sharingan. Any chance I could schedule a doctor’s appointment with you?” He smiled cheekily at her, ignoring the way Sasuke and Naruto threw daggers at him.

“See, Sakura-chan,” Mikoto said, “you take such good care of our boys—no matter what you say, we’ll always be in you debt.”

“Mikoto-san—” Sakura looked down at her shirt—a standard issue jounin top—which now had a dark wine stain blooming at her stomach.

Naruto looked sheepishly at her, grabbing his napkin. “Sorry…at least it wasn’t your kimono this time?” Naruto said as he dabbed.

“Aw man,” Sakura complained, “this is one of my last good ones too.” While it was customary for shinobi to keep one or two sets of pristine uniforms for show—if they were on guard duty for a prestigious client, or to maintain appearances for foreign dignitaries—the reality was that most shinobi were running around in repeatedly stained, slightly tattered, hole riddled uniforms until they were unwearable.

Getting up to rinse her shirt in the sink, Mikoto stopped her. “Let me get you something to change into,” she said, rising from her seat. At the same time, Sasuke stood up, saying he’d get something of his, and missed the way Shisui had grabbed the back of his own shirt collar and started to undress. Itachi yanked the hem of Shisui’s shirt down and Fugaku stared at Shisui like he was stupid.

“No, no, sit back down Sasuke,” Mikoto said quickly, “look how pretty Sakura’s hair is today,” gesturing at her pink locks, “I’ll have to get her something of mine.” Mikoto placed a hand at Sakura’s upper back and ushered her along.

Sitting back down, Sasuke stared after his mom and teammate in silent confusion over the correlation of Sakura’s everyday pony tail and clothes.

After a few minutes, Mikoto and Sakura shuffled back into the main dining area. Mikoto walked slightly behind Sakura, staring intently at her sons’ and nephew’s faces. Catching the glint in her eye, Fugaku sighed.

Sakura changed into a loose black sweater with an Uchiha fan stitched on the breast. The sweater itself had a similar cut to the jounin top, and was slightly loose on Sakura’s frame. Seeing his teammate, Sasuke furrowed his brow. He had several shirts exactly like that. Sakura also probably had several shirts like that—it wasn’t particularly nice even—why did it have to be his mother’s, he wondered. What does it have to do with her hair—did ponytails have some significance he hadn’t known about? Deep in thought, he continued to scrutinize while Itachi happily munched on butter cookies. Glancing nonchalantly at Sakura he offered a “Hm,” and went back to cajoling Naruto into eating more.

Shisui was gone. The thought of Sakura wearing his clothes with the Uchiha fan would be forever branded in memory. He imagined quiet mornings with her as he made her coffee as she got ready in the mornings. He imagined how she’d look wearing one of his t-shirts—the oversized fit exposing the cream of her shoulder and him kissing the open space.

He watched her as she spoke. The slender curve of her neck, the peach fuzz on her cheeks, and the irresistible plumpness of her lips mesmerized him. Shisui felt the rush of chakra to his eyes, activating his sharingan, and quickly turned his head.

“Thank you for the meal,” Sakura said, rising from her seat, bowing to Mikoto and Itachi.

“Yeah, dinner was great thank you so much!” Naruto chimed in. “Ne, ne, Sakura-chan,” leaning towards her with a glint in his eyes, “why don’t you stay and sleepover! It’ll be like our genin days!” Naruto cheered.

Lightly grimacing, Sakura responded, “I have a shift at the hospital at six in the morning—maybe next time,” she apologized, although she didn’t look sorry at all.

“It must be exhausting having multiple full time jobs,” Itachi said sagely, still munching on butter cookies.

“Yes.” Fugaku deadpanned. “I wonder.”

Completely ignoring his father, Sasuke got up and heaved Naruto with him as well. Nodding to his mother, he jutted his chin to Sakura then jerked his head at the door.

“God, teme—use your words!” Naruto yelled, swatting the back of Sasuke’s head. Ducking before Naruto could hit him, Sasuke jabbed the side of Naruto’s stomach, grinning when he doubled over and wheezed. “W-we’re gonna walk S-Sakura-chan home,” he managed to get out, glaring at Sasuke from his hunched over position.

Seeing his chance, Shisui shot up from his seat and clapped a heavy hand onto Naruto’s back, forcing the blonde to stay hunched over. Cheerfully he said, “I’ll do it! My apartment’s on the way anyways and you’re staying here!” Squeezing Sasuke’s shoulder forcefully, Shisui grinned at his younger cousin trying not to flinch in his vice grip.

Raising a brow, Sakura looked at Shisui unimpressed, although the corner of her lip was curling. Itachi mirrored Sakura, except he was actually unimpressed. Fugaku massaged his nose bridge and his wife hid her smile behind her hand.

“Sasuke, Naruto, come help with the dishes,” Mikoto said.

Sakura gave once last bow to Sasuke’s parents and waved at her friends before heading out.

___

Sakura’s apartment was not on the way to Shisui’s. In fact, it was on the opposite side of the village.

But, there was no way he’d miss the opportunity to talk to her one-on-one without the intrusion of pesky teammates or baby cousins. They walked leisurely side by side, shoulders occasionally bumping, as he basked in her undivided attention. The walk to her apartment was made in quiet tones, careful not to break the stillness that surrounded them.

Crickets chirping in the background and the moon softly illuminating their way, Shisui, for the first time with Sakura, felt at ease. He wondered if maybe they were meant for this—quiet conversations under the moonlight, with her wearing the Uchiha crest.

[itsclydebitches]

ngl voyager gets a whole lot of very disproportional hate from the fandom and i'd hazard a guess that a lot of that is just garden-variety misogyny (and probably racism mixed in, considering how many of the most prominent characters are women, poc, or both). like, is voyager perfect? absolutely not. and no spoilers but there was a lot of executive meddling that wound up leading to the finale/conclusion being lacking and there's a lot of reasonable dissatisfaction with that--but again that was largely thanks to the execs fucking the show over and i recommend looking into that if you can once you've finished the show. but overall? voyager is trek right to its very core--it has heart, it's about family, and it never loses sight of that imo, even if some episodes are weaker or just duds (but, like, would it be a trek series without some episodes that just kinda suck but are still fun to watch???)

anyway, i absolutely love that you're getting into voyager, it is my all-time favorite trek series to this day for a lot of reasons, and i hope that ppl like that anon dont put you off bc i'd love to continue to see your thoughts as you watch the series!

Oh, it would take a whole lot more than some anons being salty that others enjoy things to turn me off :D 

Thus far (I lost internet last night so I’m still only on Episode 7 of Season 2), Voyager is the Trekiest Trek I’ve watched. Which is a weird sentence, but I mean it in the way you said it’s “trek right to its very core.” What is Star Trek, if we strip the intent of the story down to its basics? It’s about exploration, discovery, that “wagon train to the stars,” wrapped up in the argument that life is fundamentally good. We have problems, but we can work past them. We have differences, but they strengthen us. Diversity is the lifeblood of the universe and the future will continue to improve so long as we embrace that. 

Voyager is (again, from what I’ve seen so far!) basically a love song to that premise. I didn’t do too deep a dive because I’m trying to avoid spoilers, but I did look at a couple threads discussing why Voyager is so hated. Again and again I saw the same reason pop up: wasted potential. Now, a lot of fans left it at that (as if the answer to what potential Voyager apparently missed out on is self-evident. It’s not), but those who did expand on the idea consistently claimed that the show needed to be darker than it was, even if they rarely said it like that. Why aren’t the Federation and the Marquis at each other’s throats? Why isn’t the crew going crazy under these circumstances? Why aren’t characters getting killed off left and right in hostile space? “Anything could have happened out there and they played it safe!” but the “anything” here is always... awful. There’s this very pervasive idea that the world is inherently cruel, people are inherently divisive, that when pushed to the brink everything will fall apart... and that (while making for one kind of great story) is very much not Star Trek. 

See, Voyager created an unimaginable scenario--lost in space, 75 years from home, forced to live indefinitely with strangers--and their answer to the question of “What happens?” is “People make it work.” They learn to respect one another, they uphold their ideals, they maintain a love of life and discovery, and they create a family. And that’s fucking fantastic. That’s Star Trek! I’m not going to pretend there aren’t problems with the show, with plenty more to come, I’m sure, but I don’t think this is one of them. Why do so many viewers think that hatred, horror, death, and growing jaded is the only potential here? Why would they expect that in a Star Trek show whose premise is the very antithesis of those things? 

“But they don’t do enough with those things, even if they have happy outcomes.” They do plenty, they just do it in an episodic rather than serialized nature. I can point to multiple episodes where the replicator rations or Maquis differences are driving the characters’ actions. “But without that horror there’s no conflict.” There’s plenty of conflict. Hostile aliens aside, I just watched an episode where Tuvok and Chakotay are pissed as hell at one another because they fundamentally disagree over how to handle problems, but--because they’re adults with a well-tested respect for one another--they apologize and work through it. “But the characters don’t develop at all.” You mean they don’t grow harder. That’s not the same thing as no development. Tuvok is figuring out how to be more flexible, Chakotay is becoming more willing to accept cultures he doesn’t agree with, Harry is growing more confident now that he’s far from home, the Doctor is learning to see himself as a person, Paris is grabbing his second chance with both hands by making strong ties, and Janeway is learning to command and care for her crew simultaneously. I honestly believe that a lot of people think of “character development” as the character becoming a fundamentally different person, unrecognizable from where they started out. But  characters can also grow into the people they wanted to be in the first place. “We’re far from home, in hostile territory, tempted to do horrific things to survive... but no. Right now at least, we’re holding onto who we are. We’re scientists, so we’re going to explore and learn. We’re peaceful, so we’re going to make friends with as many species as we can. We’re members of a society that teaches acceptance, so we’re going to form a family on this spaceship.” That’s incredible!! Did fans miss why Seska was an antagonist in the episode she was unmasked? Because she was trying to convince them to give up everything they believe in in the name of survival, an ends justify the means argument. And the crew said no, we will not give up what we believe in just to make it through. I legit saw a ton of fans saying some version of, “I can’t believe they were that far from home and actually followed Starfleet’s rulebook.” It’s because those rules don’t exist for the hell of it. Overlooking their practical function, they’re a philosophy that the characters believe in, and they’re figuring out how important that part of their identity is to them under these circumstances. Am I willing to steal a specie’s technology if it gets us home? Am I willing to die to help another uphold their own philosophy? (Chakotay in “Imitations”). What regulations should we bend or change to accommodate our new situation? The first two things Janeway does are a) giving the guy who just came out of a penal colony a rank and b) deciding that she needs to be more familiar with her crew than is normally encouraged for a captain because she’s essentially their mom now. Developing doesn’t have to mean characters do a 180 on their initial personality, or characters getting killed off when stuff gets “boring” so that others can do edgy things in response. 

Voyager upholds Trek’s premise and runs it to its logical conclusion: 

Voyager has the most literal trek--a trek back home. 

Voyager has the most diverse crew--a woman Captain, Native American First officer, black Vulcan, Asian-American communications officer, and a White Dude pilot that realizes he wants to be soft and kind towards those who took a chance on him because Toxic Masculinity who? 

Voyager has the most literal family--not just a 5+ year mission, but a crew who expects to raise the next generation. They have no choice but to work together, so they indeed come together rather than pulling apart

Except they do, of course, have a choice. In “The 37′s” the crew is allowed to stay on the Earth-like planet with a city of other humans and Janeway is convinced that a sizable number will choose that. After all, they may never get home and this is a safer, kinder future for them. In fact, the real question is whether so many will stay that they can no longer run the ship... but Janeway would never dictate her crew’s choices in that manner. So she swallows her worry down, opens the door... 

... and finds that not a single person decided to stay behind. And the show has ensured we understand that this is not just because they all have some unshakable belief that they’ll get home (many don’t), but because this is their family now. This is home. 

And fans want to toss that out for a generic, gritty, sci-fi adventure where hope is scarce, the universe is cruel, and people need to be pushed to the limit just to admit that they maybe, sort of, like each other?? Obviously like what you like, but that’s a hard pass for me. I’ll take the bridge crew comforting each other in “Twisted,” thanks. Besides, we already have shows like that. And we already have DS9 which grapples with many of those dark, pessimistic themes. Voyager feels like a breath of fresh air, even within the breath of fresh air that is Star Trek as a franchise. It’s a show that says, “Yes, when everything goes wrong people will come together. They will love each other. They will make it through.” 

What’s more Star Trek than that? 

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes

It's Task Force 141's first mission after gathering intel about the whereabouts of Samantha Coleman. Gary and the rest of the team proceed to briefing and would probably head straight to their rescue mission. Do these mini summaries even make sense? Find out soon.

Chapter 3 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

Previous Chapter : Soap - F.N.G.

"Run Through the Jungle"

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

Task Force 141

Task Force 141 - Mess Hall

Gary was almost done with his raccoon story when the PA system alerted them of an immediate briefing. Simon nodded to him and got up making his way to the briefing room. Gary also noticed the rest of his squad from earlier walk to the door, and was France crying on Alex? Much to his curiosity, he went to John who was still sitting by the chair.

"Anything you want to tell me, Soap?" he asked, patting his comrade's shoulder. 

"Bugger off, mate. Let's just go to the meeting." he replied, Roach couldn't tell if he was sad or disappointed or mad, but it may have something to deal with France crying.

"Whatever mate. I'm always here if you want to talk it out." he assured, and he was in fact true. It's been a month since the Task Force was created and Gary was the team's therapist, everybody's friend and ally no matter what. He always felt that he could feel everyone's emotions and believes he could be a sponge for someone who's unable to deal with the trauma. Ghost was one of his customers, he had a lot to deal with and Gary was always there for him.

"Few hours ago, our informants intercepted with a group of armed men on a safehouse near the borders of Germany. They told us that there was a man named Augustus who happens to be our step closer to Nero." Gary took note of the information General Shepherd relayed, his scribbles became faster as the General continued.

"We also received word that our hostage, Samantha Coleman is with them in one of these houses. We have to proceed with caution as this area may be rigged with traps or surrounded with tangos." he added.

"As for rules of engagement, fire only when fired upon. This is a local settlement and civilians may be anywhere. We don't want to create unnecessary civilian casualties just to retrieve a single person." he instructed. Gary took a quick survey of the room, everyone looked at the screen intently, he could see MacTavish's eyebrows furrowed in anger, France's eyes were downright sad and Alex, despite being a CIA agent, actually looked worried.

"As for assignments, I'll let your captain take the floor." Shepherd concluded and exited the area, Price then stepped forward and began briefing.

~

The silent chirping of the crickets echoed from the nearby forest. Gary took a cold exhale and leaned on the railings just outside their quarters. 

"Big day tomorrow, huh?" Ghost surprised Roach as he spoke.

"Yeah, it's been a long time since I spotted, but I still know the basics." Gary answered. He and Ghost were assigned for sniper support a few clicks away from the Alpha Team lead by Alex and the Bravo Team lead by Captain Price.

"Your math is good and fast?" Ghost asked, chuckling at the question. Gary inhaled before he answered the question.

"Yeah. Try me." he dared, glancing at the masked man.

"Suppose there's a target about 516 meters far, the wind is one half value." Ghost planned out the situation. Gary's gears started turning as he scratched his freshly shaven chin.

"Five degrees. Descending." he muttered. Ghost thought about it and agreed.

"Yeah. Your math is still on point." he mused laughing at him.

"What do you think Nero is up to? I mean it all doesn't add up. And what's with erasing memories?" Gary flooded the man with questions. Simon just pondered without saying any words.

"I dunno mate. I'm as baffled as you are." he replied, waving to Alex and France who were out on a late night walk.

"Say Gary, what's the deal with the new girl? One minute she looks tough as nuts then the second Soap comes in she's fucking crying?" Ghost rambled. Gary could feel a hint of jealousy but not entirely. It's as if he's mad and jealous at the same time.

"Well, we were too far from their table and I couldn't hear anything. Maybe they had an argument while Soap was out with her on the training room?" Gary speculated, he saw Simon's fists clench as he left his side.

"Eh. Not that I care anyway. Get some rest, spotter. Big day tomorrow." he remarked and went to his room.

"Yeah yeah." he replied waving at the two walking around the oval. They both waved back and Gary yelled good night to them before entering the quarters himself.

Gary plopped on his bed and closed his eyes. He was actually nervous enough that he could hear his own heartbeat, he took deep breaths and lulled himself to sleep. He wanted to see to it that they save the hostage tomorrow and a perfect sleep is what he could contribute right now.

GERMANY

0458H

Gary hated the ghillie suits. It was heavy, uncomfortable and animals sometimes land on you, but it does the job well. Treading the dense forestry just above the safehouse, Gary and Simon head out to look for a perfect spot.

"This one's got a view of the houses." Ghost whispered, signaling Roach to move forward.

"This is Echo Three One, we've cleared the two houses on the right, all empty. Over." Alex reported over their comms.

"Bravo Six copies that and the two houses here are also clear." Price reported.

"Looks like it's going to be the one on the far side." Soap concluded.

"I've got eyes on the safehouse. There's no activity on all windows. Proceed with caution." Ghost reported.

"Rog." Price replied.

"Copy that, eye in the sky." Alex replied.

Gary put out his spotting scope and placed his eye behind the lens.

"I've got my eyes on them, Ghosty. Alpha Team is on its way." he whispered.

Ghost rolled some knobs on his sniper making a soft clicking sound as he spins it.

"Don't call me that, Bug. I have eyes on Bravo Team. Still no movement from the safehouse." 

"This is Alpha Team, approaching the left side of the safehouse."

"Bravo Team is Oscar Mike as well."

"Roach, did you see that?" Ghost whispered.

"Yeah. The winds are shifting." Gary noted, sticking out a tool that detects wind speed.

"Three Fourths value at 400 meters. 15 miles per hour. Adjust to 15.3" he informed, calculating on Ghosts still shoulder with a pen. Decimals are too dangerous to calculate mentally. Ghost's sniper clicked once again to adjust with the wind, he took a deep breath and his targets stabilized once again.

Leaves rustled behind them, Roach quickly held on his rifle and slowly turned back to check if it was an animal. Nothing, but before turning back on his scope, he saw a black figure from the corner of his eye.

"Bollocks. We've got movement on our Six." Roach reported. 

"Remember our ROE, Roach. Fire only when fired upon." Price reminded.

"I'll take care of it from here. You go check on that." Ghost said as he turned back to his scope.

"Roger that. Be safe." Roach quickly ran to the direction if the rustling.

He couldn't make out much of the figure, but he was sure enough it was human. He tried to look for areas where the leaves were disturbed but with the wind picking up, he was clueless. Then there it was again, movement. He quickly dashed to it's direction, not wanting to get lost again. His boots slapped the fresh soil as he made his wauy to a clearing.

'Left, right then left by the rocks.' Gary mentally noted his each turn so he could easily remember but when he's chasing someone whom he felt like it doesn't know where it goes, then it's a whole different story.  

Gary was alone in the windy forest, in pursuit of a person who's out on the woods at five in the morning. He wanted to go back but there's something that bothered him and convinced him to keep chasing it.

"Roach, you okay? They're almost in the safehouse." Ghost pointed out.

"Yeah haaaah… I'm still haaaah… hot on its trail." Gary panted. He suddenly turned when he heard a yelp.

"It's a girl. It might be our hostage." he radioed and followed the direction of the sound.

Soft sobs and English curse words could be heard from where Gary emerged. This alerted the injured female and she plead at the British solider.

"Please. I'm not an enemy. I'm I'm- I don't know who I am or where I am… Please. Don't hurt me." She was an American girl, possibly around 20-30 years old and had blonde hair wearing a black tank top and grey sweatpants, there were a few bruises on her arms and she was threatening him with a stick.

"Maam, put down your weapon and calm down. I will not hurt you." he dropped his weapon slowly on the ground stepped forward, his hands both raised.

"Good good. I need help." she whimpered, looking at her sprained ankle.

Gary immediately took his ghillie off and ripped a piece of his sleeves to wrap around the sprain, treating it with something from his medical kit.

"There you go… You're feeling better now? Maam?" Gary accommodated. The unknown blonde nodded in agreement.

"So.. you don't know who you are?" Gary asked.

"All I know is that I'm with another girl, Brunette." she added.

"I located the one out on the woods. She's American but I can't ID her. She's about 20 - 30 years old, short blonde hair." Gary informed.

"Is that Maxine?" Alex and France simultaneously replied over comms.

"Excuse me. Do you go by Maxine?" Gary asked politely. The girl quickly covered her ears and screamed.

"Aaaaaah! My head hurts!" She yelled. Gary was quick enough to cover her mouth as soon as she opened it as to not give away their presence.

"I don't know if that's a yes or a no guys. But that definitely is a reaction." Gary said over the comms. He assisted "Maxine" and lifted her up as he tries to get back to Ghost.

"Thick trees everywhere. Any Idea where you are Ghost?" he asked over the secure radio.

"I'm at the same spot I've been since we got here. Can't you retrace your steps?" he replied.

"I could try." he muttered, carrying an unconscious woman on his shoulders across the jungle.

Next Chapter : Déjà vu

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 6

THE ART OF SEDUCTION SEXY HARRY HART FANFIC

HARRY HART FAN FIC: (sing songs) smut, smut, smut! Inspired by Harry Hart and his glass of scotch. And also the one below of him in his shirt, tie and shoulder holster.

HARRY HART/ ORIGINAL CHARACTER M/F

WARNINGS: Mature, Smut, light D/s, lust 

Words: 7600

SUMMARY Harry and Gwendolyn, after getting acquainted with each other, share a rare evening alone together in the Kingsman lounge. What starts out as an innocent challenge and a glass of scotch, leads Harry to teach a lesson on the finer points of the gentleman spy's art of seduction.

NOTES: This is part of my main series for KINGSMAN 3, but since this is the chapter with sexy gentleman spy Harry Hart combined with smut that many of us like the most, I decided to also separate it so it's easy to find and read on it's own. If you're looking for the whole story, check out my other fics. Still in progress though

------

After working months at his side, whether it be in the field, during training, debriefing in his office, or simply occupying the same space in quieter moments, reading in the lounge with a cup of tea, enjoying a few precious moments of peace, Gwendolyn was no closer at deciphering the gorgeous mystery that was Harry Hart. Her time with him merely reinforced what she already knew. And what she knew had, much to her chagrin, become increasingly and disconcertingly distracting with every moment she shared space with him. He was beautiful, obviously. She determined that the moment she saw him. Even from a distance, he cut a striking figure. But is was the understated way he acknowledged his own appearance, knew that it was pleasing and accepted it with grace, dignity and a matter-of-factness, that only made him more attractive.

His appeal wasn’t just based on his good looks. There were other men who had more classically balanced features. It was significantly more than good genes or the symmetry of bone structure. Not that his purely physical attributes were lacking in any regard. She had already committed to memory every aspect of his form and figure, from his hair, with a distinguished flurry of silver, all the way down to his feet in their gleaming oxfords. No doubt polished with every wearing; they carried him with purposeful movement and long measured strides.

Harry was a tall man. She would never forget the first choke hold he put her in. Often folding his legs as gracefully as possible under tables and desks that were just a breath too short to accommodate a man of his stature. He carried himself differently. Always with a posture, walk, a gait, that had a purpose.  Never rushed unnecessarily, he possessed the ease of someone in full control of his physical body. His movements were light, sharp, and kinetic. When he was still, he held himself straight and tall, without strain. In more casual moments, his weight would shift to one side or the other, or he might lean against a support, breaking up the long, precise lines of his full height.

Mostly, this had to do with a hyper awareness of his environment and his place in it. If he needed to calm a new recruit, he might stand with authority, but tuck his hands in his pockets, conveying a sense of ease and familiarity. When confronting an adversary, his stature seemed to grow as he pulled himself to his full height.  In those rare moments where he was free from personal and professional obligations responsibilities, as much as he could ever be, his figure would take on smooth curves and relaxed angles. The space he occupied was his to claim, mold, and manipulate. And he did so with his body, his voice, his gaze, his way of dress.

Surprisingly, she discovered that Harry was a man who often communicated through physical touch. As a man of few words, who often guarded his privacy and personal life, she expected him to be even more reserved with his body language, to be even more wary of close physical contact. Quite the contrary, he was often more generous with a hand on the shoulder or a gentle pat on the back as a form of approval or encouragement. Sometimes, he would place his hand over an agents as gesture of support and understanding. He was more demonstrative with contact and touch than he was with using words of praise or comfort. Even his proximity, whether it be as a figure in the distance or his physical closeness, could affect the energy of the room.

Rolling it over in her mind, she realised that it made sense that Harry would be comfortable communicating through touch. In some regards, he was a very tactile man, a sensual man, if not overtly so. He was a man that celebrated the senses.

In his office, though minimalist by Kingsman standards, austere even, there were touches of extravagance not influenced by tradition. All the furniture, as well as being beautifully made, focused on designs that were hospitable as well as functional. The chairs were comfortable. The lounge was upholstered in a dark, rich leather, well oiled and worn smooth by years of use. It was masculine, but also soft and inviting, a piece that you could relax and sink into.  A sumptuous throw. Pillows covered in dark velvet that were actually soft, not just decorative.

The items that did adorn his office were obviously selected thoughtfully and with care. The enticingly smooth curves of a vase, seemingly out of place, brilliant jade against the subdued tones of hunter green, tartans and plaid and the deep tones of polished wood and leather. The delicate lines and breathtaking color of a framed butterfly.  A small, sterling silver paperweight in the shape of a terrier. A cut crystal decanter, with matching tumblers, no doubt holding an insanely old and very expensive scotch.

There was an emphasis, not on the prestige or price of an object, but on its, color, texture, lines that were pleasing or challenging to the eye. Not as a flaunting of wealth, but a source of pleasure. It wasn’t an ostentatious display of the rich, It was the luxury of selection and taste. Any piece of clothing or fabric that touched his body directly was often luxurious, as well, scarfs, gloves, fine cashmere or calfskin leather. Though she had no way of knowing, she assumed his sheets would be of the highest thread count.

His manner of dress was immaculate and as precise as the polished, clipped tones of his aristocratic accent. He presented himself as a man who was self-assured with his appearance. Whatever he wore, he wore with confidence. He wore it well, without vanity, pretension, ego or conceit. Not that he needed the help of his wardrobe to face the world. His manner of dress seemed to highlight, magnify his innate sense of self.  He was not a flashy man, but he appreciated the expert craftsmanship that went into a finely cut suit. That good clean lines, quality materials, understated but interesting details could be the final polish on an already finely honed presentation.  

His clothing was the other area where he allowed himself some extravagance. A firm believer in the principle that if one’s self and surroundings are not only presentable, but impeccable, then one will always be prepared for what surprises life may decide to throw in one’s direction. In his line of work, unpredictability was as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. His wardrobe countered the erratic nature of life as an agent.  Thus, his was a look of man who had his life in order.

He was a man of consistency. His tie was an unfailing full Windsor, tucked under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. An equally crisp pocket square, folded neatly, peeked from his breast pocket. French cuffs were secured with custom gold links, bearing the Kingsman insignia. His suits were mostly double breasted, in classic shades of black, charcoal, navy and grey and cut in a wool that was appropriate for the occasion, whether solid, pinstriped, or woven with a pattern such as herringbone, or houndstooth. After years as a Kingsman agent, he had amassed a considerable and varied wardrobe that consisted of classic suits, formal wear, overcoats, ties, scarves, for any occasion or any type of mission. Each Kingsman agent also wore a gold signet ring on the pinky of their dominant hand. Harry wore the ring on his right.

Kingsman suits were cut close to the body, but designed with allowances made to accommodate weapons, ensure manoeuvrability and flexibility in all types of action. They were also bulletproof. It was a feature created after decades of experimenting with different textiles and weaves and exploring processes and techniques that would result in a material that could withstand the velocity and impact of of a bullet shot at close range. The lightweight, flexible lining was sewn into every Kingsman suit and many times proved to be a lifesaver.

Shoulder harnesses were used for carrying. Not belt clips. Belts constricted the body whereas a harness allowed freedom of movement. They were also easily and quickly detachable in case they needed to be removed. Belts, on the other hand, though they had their uses, could also cost valuable seconds when needed to be taken off. The carry position prevented printing and maintained the lines of Kingsman’s suits.

The fine, bespoke tailoring emphasized Harry’s height and build. Trousers were slim cut, long and hemmed with a perfect mid break. He preferred the simple Oxford rather than brogues. His shoes would glow with a mellow shine. He styled his hair in a classic, handsome cut, and was always clean shaven, (unless in the field where there was no opportunity for a straight razor shave). His aftershave and cologne were unobtrusive but memorable. Rather than preceding him, the warm and masculine sent of woods and spices, with hints of cardamon, the tactile sensuality of rich leather and suede, would linger after his departure, like a layer of warm dark velvet. Even his hands were beautiful. Beautiful but not delicate. Large wide palms, long elegant fingers, his nails were neat and clipped. They sometimes bore the marks of time spent in the field. They were strong and capable.

Overall, he had the appearance of a man who embraced classics, honoured tradition, but defined his look with his own individual aesthetic personality and sense of style.

In quieter moments, when she had the opportunity to watch him without being too obvious or call attention to herself, she allowed her curiosity to wonder over all the small details and mannerism that were unique to Harry. How his fingertips would gently find the arm of his glasses and rest lightly there, when he was thoughtful or pondering a question, as if it helped him focus or think.  The automatic gesture probably developed after years of transmitting information through the eyeglasses, which also functioned as communication devices.  Through her experience in human psychology, she recognised this as a self soothing gesture. Finding the comfort of something familiar. She was fairly sure that Harry was aware of this gesture and allowed himself some habits, that were, not particularly productive but, helpful nonetheless. Rubbing his thumb along the band of his signet ring. The way he would always shoot his cuffs when rising from his seat. Or run the palm of his hand along the back of his head, smoothing down the already polished hair.

Never had she met someone who had the ability to asses and evaluate any given situation as throughly and unerringly as Harry. Whether it entailed clearing a room, identifying a mark, or even just something as simple as slowing his pace when she walked along side him so she wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. He was constantly aware of his surroundings and deconstructing what needed to happen to make the environment more pleasing, the conversation more engaging, the meeting more productive, the mission more likely to succeed. He was nothing if not thoughtful. Thus when she walked with him, he always slowed and allowed her to maintain her own graceful stride.

His physical appearance, his exacting nature, his precise moments, his carefully maintained wardrobe, his formal patterns of speech, his refined accent, not to mention his good looks could intimidate even the most confident agent, let alone a green one.  That was until the person in question realised that this outward perfection was merely the layer that he presented to the world.

It would seem impossible for man to be blessed with so many gifts, but Harry Hart proved to be the exception to the rule, for he was as charming and gracious as he was handsome. His quick wit, his clever way with words, as well as his dry, incisive sense of humour could enthral even the most unwilling participant.

He could placate the most difficult handler, assuage the most reluctant agent, enchant the most reserved target, or ingratiate himself into the most inhospitable of circumstances. When he turned on the full force of his charm, the people he met, let alone the men and women who worked with him, frequently found themselves elevated in his presence, their own experience heightened by his vitality and charisma. They left the experience a little breathless, a little awestruck, a little seduced by Harry Hart. She herself was no exception. And she had been spending a lot of time with him.

————

They found themselves alone one evening at the manor. In the lounge, when they both happened to desire a drink at the same time. Most of the Kingsman had already departed for the shop if they were returning to the city. The rest had dispersed to their own private quarters, or were participating in whatever activity they had planned for the evening. The lounge was quiet. They way he liked it. Apparently, it was the way Gwendolyn preferred it as well.

He spotted her the same moment she lifted her gaze at the new arrival. Her eyes narrowed slightly in pleasure at the sight of him. She gave him a small, but welcoming smile. The musical clink of crystal against glass as he poured a scotch from the fully stocked bar was the only sound aside from the cracking logs in the grand fireplace.

The club was a vast space with a vaulted ceiling. The stately fireplace stood on the far wall. Like most of the manor, it was dressed in masculine shades of dark brown and hunter greens, tartan and plaids. Polished hardwood furniture, mostly antique, and historical paintings, displaying the rich history of Kingsman, whispered class and wealth. In the center was an arrangement to accommodate a more substantial group with larger sofas and chaises surrounding a massive polished low wooden table.

Around the room were smaller clusters of tables and leather club chairs tucked into alcoves for smaller gatherings or intimate conversations.  

It was at one these clusters that he found her, tucked in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

In the most relaxed arrangement he allowed himself while still on kingsman property, he had his coat draped over his arm. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie and shoulder holster, tumbler in hand, he approached her, also with a pleasant but small smile. Pleased that she be the one that was sharing this space with him.

She was dressed quite differently from how he first remembered her. Well, her clothes hadn’t been memorable, but she had been. Since she was not a knighted agent, they weren’t quite sure how to classify her yet, she took the freedom to dress beyond the Kingsman uniform. Though always appropriate and surprisingly on brand, she was not quite regulation. If she was out in the field, she was in tactical, or the women’s version of the kingsman suits. She even had the shop tailor some custom pieces so she could have more diversity. When she was at Kingsman HQ or at the shop in support, she dressed appropriately, but in her own style. There were handfuls of fashionable men at Kingsman. You couldn’t turn around and not run into a gentleman turned out in Kingsman’s finest. But an attractive, stylish woman was a rarer sight. Even he noticed the heads that turned when she walked by.

Walking toward her, he took the time to observe her appearance, he told himself as spies always did out of habit. Today, she remained on the property. Without the need for being in the field, this would be her most ladylike look. She was dressed in a way that was very elegant, but sexy at the same time. Or, perhaps it wasn’t supposed to look sexy. He set that observation aside. Not the time nor the place, he thought to himself.

She was dressed in a slim, knee length pencil skirt in a very deep shade of oxblood red. It was velvet he noted when he saw the sheen of the grain as she shifted her knees in his direction. A matching tailored jacket, that, like him, she had removed and draped over the back of her chair. Topped with a delicate, almost sheer silk blouse the color of sun bleached bone. It had tiny pearl buttons down the front, and lace detailing at the collar, cuffs and similar detailing along the button placket. A narrow dark brown leather belt circled her waist with a gold clasp rather than a prong buckle.  Dark brown suede court shoes with a tall, but reasonable heel. Her makeup was minimal and natural. She looked like she just somehow heightened her features, but in no discernible way he could describe.

As he got closer, he was able to notice even smaller details. Her long, wavy, he had to admit, beautiful hair, was twisted up and away from her face and secured in some secret way women have where it would stay perfectly in place by means he could never quite see. Her accessories were feminine and understated. Small gold earrings in the shape of teardrops, a simple gold cuff around her wrist, a Kingsman issue watch on the other. A signet ring on her own pinkie. Her nails were trimmed short and clean, either no polish or something bare. A thin gold chain around her neck with a small solid gold version of the Kingsman pendant.

He didn’t know what he wanted a woman to look like until he first saw her. The first time, on that first chaotic night, he had the same thought. He could give you a basic description of what she was wearing, but he could describe every feature of her face. The way she looked when she was reflective. The line of her jaw when she was determined.

And then, for the very first time he saw her, dressed, properly, walking down the long marble corridor of the HQ manor, when she had the opportunity to present herself on her own terms. He thought, this is what I want a woman to look like. It wasn’t that she was model beautiful, or that her features were perfect. In London, on the streets, you could see plenty of models. They were beautiful, no doubt, and pleasing to look at, but once you were done, you were able to go about your day without a second thought.  

Her beauty had substance. The fact that he knew what her skill set included, to know what she had overcome to be where she was, to be the person she was, made her beauty a real tangible thing, regardless of what she was wearing. Perhaps it was that, whatever she wore, she made it part of her. It wasn’t just a pretty skirt or a flattering blouse, it was the way she wore it that made you notice her. She could have look completely different, with the opposite features, petite and curly brown hair and brown eyes. He would have still have felt the same. And he would still say, this is what I want a woman to look like.

This young woman had the capacity to stir his heart. Something that had been quiet and still for a very long time. Even something that he thought no longer had the desire to be moved. It was certainly not something he was seeking. He, long ago, had accepted the fact that the life of agent isn’t one that fosters lasting relationships. Relationships were based on communication and he had far too many secrets as a Kingsman.

He was beyond the time in his life for these kinds of thoughts. He knew he had been handsome in his youth. He had his fair share of relationships and much more than his fair share of sexual encounters. He was aware that his looks had carried him quite well as he got older and that if he wanted, there were women, very desirable ones, that would be more than willing to engage in a casual relationship. He was by no means vanilla. It wasn’t that he was prudish in the least, or one to deny himself physical pleasure. If she wasn’t who she was, then he would have most likely allowed himself to pursue her and enjoyed whatever that relationship had to offer. The crux of it was, that he would not be as attracted to her, or charmed by her if she wasn’t exactly who she was. He would not want her as much as he did if she were any different. But it was who she was, ironically, that kept him from her. She was Merlin’s daughter.  It was a knot too tight for him to untie.

——

He set these thoughts aside as he approached her. Even though it was obvious she was alone, Kingsman manners never failed. Never ask a lady directly if she’d like your company. Give her a polite way to refuse without making her say no. She will indicate if your presence if desired.

“Excuse me, miss.” he opened. “Is this seat taken?”

She awarded him with an amused smile. She always enjoyed his little game of manners.

She nodded toward the chair. Please.

Draping his coat on the back of his chair, just as she did, He adjusted his slacks so he could sit down comfortably and gracefully. The club chairs were low and designed to sink back into. He took his seat, adjusted a little until he, too, was settled in.

Since both of them were now relatively stuck in their respective positions, where they couldn’t move without significant effort, he simply raised his glass in her direction. She followed suit.

———

Gwendolyn was pleased when he was comfortable enough to sit in silence with her. It was one of the first tells she would look for in asset or mark. Did they have enough self assurance to be silent? Were they uncomfortable, awkward, fidgety? Did they try to fill the silence with their own words? Most often, if they lacked confidence, she would notice these tells immediately. One of her favourite activities was to sit in silence.

It was also one of her favourite activities to look at Harry Hart. The fact that he was handsome was no surprise. When she initially started at Kingsman, this was simply an objective observation, like masterful way he handled weaponry. Or the fact that he was right handed.  The more they were partnered on the field, the closer they became, both in proximity and as colleagues, his physical attributes began to affect her in ways that continued to make her increasingly uncomfortable.

She was aware his body was that of a man that she admired and looked up to. Tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. Strong, driven, powerful. She became aware of all the things that his body could do. She had the opportunity to observe him every time they were in the field, in combat, in action.

But she also began to discern a softness, a gentleness that he could convey when he gathered her up after a surprising blast had knocked them both off their feet. Hands that smoothed back her hair from her forehead upon waking up in medical after a particularly dangerous mission. A warm hand on her shoulder as she successfully accomplished a challenging task. Arms that held her after a devastating loss.

She was aware that as her mentor, he had a responsibility to maintain a professional relationship. But with escalating frequency, she imagined how it would feel to have him pressed up against her, to feel his body, purposeful and confident. While not in a chokehold.

————

The evening was relaxed. Both of them, without the urgency of an upcoming mission to prepare, took the opportunity to simply rest and unwind. A seldom occasion. Feeling more and more at ease when they were together, she allowed herself a little space to test the waters. When engaging targets, if they seemed comfortable sitting in silence in her company, would they make direct eye contact? She took another small sip of her drink, savoured it for a moment, and swallowed.

Hmmm. She was very curious about Harry and she was feeling surprisingly playful. She wanted to try something. Let’s say an experiment in tradecraft. She waited until she caught his eye. He seemed amused and matched her eye contact with equal directness. She was pleased that he made eye contact and even more pleased when he maintained it. But he was a spy, after all. Making and maintaining eye contact would be elementary for him.

With a little cheekiness on her part, she raised her glass to her lips again and took a small sip. He did not waver. His eyes even took on a little bit of curious amusement. She held the scotch on her tongue, pulled it to the back of her mouth, rolled the scotch around a little bit longer than necessary, before she swallowed.

Neither of them would look away first. She gave him a half smile, half smirk, crinkled her eyes a bit in amusement. She seemed to be saying. Ok. Your turn.

He had never seen her in this kind of playful mood and Harry suddenly found himself enjoying this little match immensely.

He could more than participate in this game. He, literally, had decades more experience than her. An agent may be able to seduce. But a gentleman agent was a master at the art of seduction. And Harry Hart was the consummate gentleman agent. One did not get to where he was in life without knowing how to pleasure a woman. He was often told he had beautiful and talented hands. That may have been years ago, but those kinds of skills, they stayed with a man.

A quick raise of his brow. Darling, challenge accepted.

Holding her eyes with his, he lowered his glass just enough to where it was in her sight line, but slightly off to the side, at the edge of her peripheral vision. She would still be able to hold eye contact, but would have to make an effort not to glance down at his glass. Especially, when she saw what he was going to do with it.

He held her gaze suddenly with an intense focus she was unprepared for. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he was holding his glass, cupping it in the palm of one hand. He began to simply roll it around gently, as one would while enjoying a proper scotch. He rolled it around harmlessly, in a slow, lazy, rhythmic pattern.

She had to concentrate a little harder not to look away, but she kept his gaze. If she was uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She hoped her gaze held a similar intensity as Harry’s. His felt, well, piercing, for lack of a more appropriate word.

This was certainly turning out to be an interesting evening, Harry thought. She seemed determined to stick this through. He would be required to dial his technique up a notch. He nested the heavy base in the center of his palm and let it rest there for awhile without moving. Then, once again, he started rolling the glass in his hand, not to stir the liquid, but to feel the surface of glass itself. He bounced the glass, lightly, as if testing the weight and feeling the heaviness.

The movement was subtle, slow, and sensuous. He let his hand explore the texture of the smooth surface. The base of his thumb pressed against the glass in slow, languid circles, sometimes rolling on to the pad of his thumb, sometimes to his finger tip. But he did this as if he were doing it unconsciously, because he was staring at the young woman who sat in front of him with the focus and intensity that said she was the only woman on earth, and that he wanted her.

There was truth to the term, the male gaze. It was not looking at something through a man’s eyes, it was seeing into something as a man. There was a reason why they called this particular look penetrating. It was a gaze of desire, a singularly male want and need. If done properly, it was a way to make love to a woman without touching her. It was far beyond physical contact . It wasn’t hard for him to harness his essential masculine energy. He had done it for years on countless honey traps in his younger days with the agency.  He hadn’t thrown the full force of himself to seduce in quite awhile and found that he was enjoying a little flex of his muscle.  If desire had a name, at that moment, it would be called Harry Hart. He let his desire roll off of him in waves.

What she didn’t quite understand, was that the game she was playing with him, wasn’t about who could keep eye contact the longest. It was a question of who was going to be seduced and who was going to be the seducer. She was approaching what she thought was a staring contest as a battle of the wills, which was why she was going to fail. Making eye contact may be a test of power and confidence, but that was a quick, brief test. A simple meeting or a darting of the eyes. It was very easy to find out who was going to be able to make and hold contact. However, eye contact for a prolonged period of time, especially between a man and a woman? It became something quite different. It was a game of seduction. It wasn’t a test of power. It was a test of control. Control of two things in this case, the seducer’s own desire, and the desire of the other person. Could the seducer harness his own desire to control the seduced.

She had not faltered yet. He raised to single brow. Would you like me to keep going?

She narrowed her gaze. Please, do.

The expression on his face all but said out loud. “You asked for it.”

He saw the flush in her cheeks when she noticed what he was doing with his glass. Her breathing intensified. Her pupils dilated and there was nothing she could do to stop it.  

They were very small movements, but very deliberate movements. He cupped the bottom of the glass in one palm, fingers spread as if he were holding up a small tray. Using only his middle finger, the rest of his hand now cupping the base, he began to stroke the center of the glass. Like he was using his finger to say, come here. In very slow, very deliberate, beyond suggestive movements. His other hand simply rested on the top rim of the glass. Gently holding it in place while he moved his bottom hand. He did this without twitching another muscle in his body, as if nothing had changed.

Her eyes widened. Holy fuck, she thought. With very exact and explicit movements of his hands, he was not just implying, but overtly demonstrating how he used them to give pleasure to a woman. The shock of seeing him within the frame of something so blatantly sexual, all the while looking at her the entire time? It was intensely arousing.

He was not only looking at her, he was positively devouring her with his gaze. She could feel him, his energy in pulses of heat. This wasn’t merely eye contact. This was something unexpected and she was not prepared for it. Harry was suddenly changed, maybe not changed, but different. He was harder, stronger, more demanding. He was more of everything. The polite, honorable, considerate gentleman was still there,  but now he added an aspect of himself that she had never seen or experienced before. The man was still Harry, but it also as if a part of him had been unleashed, whatever primal energy that was held in check by the handsome suits and the manners and the chivalry, had been released.

She fought to maintain her composure. He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands moved expertly, and with ease. His gaze, became even more intense, if that was even possible.

He continued to play and to tease as he held the glass in his palm. She knew where he had his hand. She could feel the exact placement as if it were on her own body. The base of his palm would cup her center, with the rest of his fingers spreading between her legs. His middle finger was still moving in achingly slow circles, one direction, then slowly moving in the other direction. He curled his finger under, using his knuckle, rolling it in tiny circles. Not even really moving just shifting the pressure moving from one side to the other, from top to bottom.

She saw in his eyes, that he knew, that she was not only being affected by his movements, but she was feeling sensations as if he were touching her directly.

It was the most erotic experience of her life.

Here was this beautiful man, still dressed as properly as ever in his dress shirt and tie, his shoulder holster with his side arm. His perfect hair, his perfect face. With all his dignity and respect, relaxing comfortably back into his chair, his legs spread wide, an ankle crossed over his knee, one elbow resting casually on the arm of his leather chair. Radiating such a profound sexual energy, that without even touching her, had the ability to control her body with only his eyes and the the way he moved a glass in his hand. He was so confident in his movements. His expression said, however brief this moment, that he owned her, that she was his, and he knows that she wants it that way. He can see it all over her face. He can see it in her eyes.

——

He wasn’t even close to being done.

He took his other hand, laying his palm over the glass, as if it was resting there. On the other side of the glass, where his thumb fell, he began to roll it around in very explicit, very familiar circles.

He felt himself harden as his own arousal grew. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead of letting it distract him, he channeled that energy through him and into her. Allowing her to witness the physical evidence of his own desire would strengthen his hold. Never underestimate the power of the imagination. She would see it. Her mind would do the rest.

He saw her lips part, even the slightest bit. Her chest rising and falling under her ladylike blouse as her breathe quickened. Her knees pressed tightly together. He watched her face very, very carefully and intently, watching the subtle changes in her expressions as he shifted the movements of his hands, knowing that she was feeling his movements in her body. Every time her brow would furrow, or she took a sharp intake of breath, or would clench her pretty hands, as he moved his own, he knew she was feeling pleasure. And that he was the source of that pleasure.

He knew that there were men who were turned on by violence. For him, however, there was nothing more erotic than the sight of a woman experiencing the pleasure that you were giving her. So, he was especially aroused when he was free to look at the nuances of her face and body freely and openly. Her pleasure had reached a constant as she moved almost imperceptibly to the consistent rhythm of his hand.

And she still did not drop her eye contact. He knew, now that she was fully aroused, she would not break eye contact. She probably couldn’t at this point if she tried. For, half of her pleasure was a result of seeing the man who was controlling her pleasure. And seeing that she pleased him, that he was also sexually aroused, intensified her pleasure. And she wanted to offer that to him, very willingly. He was finding out much about her in these few moments. Things that he wasn’t even sure she knew about herself. Very few women would have been comfortable enough with their sexuality to be purely on the receiving end of pleasure. In the intimacy of their own bedroom in a committed relationship. Let alone in an extremely public and therefore vulnerable way. With a man who may be, slightly off limits. Which, in fact, probably added to her pleasure.

To see just how much she was under his thumb, pun aside, he paused for a moment. He kept his hand, his fingers in the exact same place. He just stilled. And watched her. After a few moments he could see the tiniest furrow of her brow. When he continued to remain still, he saw the movement he waiting for. She probably didn’t even know she had made it. It was the slightest lifting and rolling of her hips. He didn’t realize he could be more turned on, but he felt himself harden even more. It was the motion every woman made, in his experience, when they wanted more, when they were asking for more, and when they were begging for more.  The ability to actively listen and comprehend another person was the most profound influencing tactic one could hone in communication, and therefore seduction.  Which is exactly what he was doing. In a very non verbal, very physical way.

He began his movements again, with more intensity and purpose. He let his finger, for the first time, slide all the way up the side of the glass, even letting it lift with the upward movement of his palm. He saw her body move as if she were receiving him.

He knew she was experiencing waves of intense pleasure. He could tell she wanted to close her eyes and tip her head back. As he witnessed her need, he went in for his last movements. His palm pressing up into the base of the glass, his thumb rolling in small firm circles and his entire middle finger along the entire length of the glass, the tip almost reaching the top of the rim.  As if his finger were deep inside her, he made deliberate strokes while pressing into the glass, slow, but then gradually increasing in speed and pressure.

He knew, that she knew, the exact two parts he was pleasuring.

Her lips parted, her breathing grew heavier. She had no idea what was going to happen next, all she felt were waves of pleasure. The only thing she could concentrate on was not losing eye contact with the man in front of her.

Harry knew at this point, he had let what was a silly, flirtatious game, go too far. He also knew this began as a challenge, and Harry Hart was never one to back down from a challenge. He also knew that he never purposely lost a game. If it took climaxing for her to break eye contact, then so be it.

He also knew he was mesmerized by the sight of her. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to. This moment had to hit the list of the top most erotic experiences of his life. Both fully clothed, siting in separate chairs, more than six feet apart. With only eye contact between them. He didn’t know if he’d experienced something more intensely arousing, knowing that he was the one she was feeling when she made herself come.

He began to see the tell tale tremors, the quickening breath, her lips parting with cries that she desperately wanted to make that she would not let herself, and the dear girl, was still trying to hold on. Psychologically she was making it harder for herself, denying her own release would only make it that much more physically intense when she had to give in.

It was at that moment, that a door banged within the manor and someone appeared at the large entrance of the club room.

“Harry. That you?”

Damn it. It was Eggsy,

“Just headin’ out.” Eggsy called over. “What’s up? Looks like you two’re having a staring contest. Whose winning?”

“It’s a tie” Harry replied.

Eggsy held up his hand in a quick wave and left.

He glanced back over to Gwendolyn, where she was still trying to maintain eye contact, wait no, she was just staring into the space behind him, concentrating on something he could not see.

——

She knew she had to stop staring at Harry, so she looked past his shoulder into the empty space behind him. At this point, even the sight of him might set her off. She was still right at the cusp of her climax and her body was still so aroused she was afraid that any movement could push her over the edge. She wanted to tell Harry to leave, but she couldn’t think of a way without embarrassing or offending one or both of them. All she could do at the moment was sit quietly. So that’s what she did. She was waiting for her body to catch up with the rest of her and settle down. He was waiting patiently until she was ready to move or speak.

After a bit of time, she glanced over at him, made sure it was safe. It was, and she began to relax a little, though her body still felt like a flame that was ready to ignite with any hint of friction. She just needed to stay still for awhile.

She saw Harry watching her, his face both concerned and amused.

He broke the silence.

“And that, my darling,” he said pointedly. “Is how one create’s an effective honey trap.”

In an attempt to further diffuse the situation, he wanted to be frank and direct with her and not to brush what just happened under the rug. That would be awkward for both of them.  He did not want her to feel embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable with him or what had happened. The best way was to be as blunt as possible. He pushed down on his palms and rose out of his chair with minimal effort.

“My dear, I’ve been in the spy business for over 30 years. One does not get this far without knowing how to pleasure a woman.”

He winked at her.

“Not to worry, you’ll get there.”

He reached behind him for his coat, draped it over his arm, but not before she clearly noticed his own erection. Which before had just been a suggestion in the shadows. He’s hard!

The thought made her flame all over again.

“I need to take my leave. Will you be alright, here?”

All she could do is nod. She didn’t trust her voice yet.

Always the gentleman. He leaned over and brushed his lips against the top of her hair.

“Thank you for the lovely evening.”

She still couldn’t look directly at him so she turned her head slightly to the side and gave him a small nod. With a quick squeeze of her arm, she heard his departing footsteps. He was heading to the tunnels. He was going back into the city, He wouldn’t be staying at he manor. She didn’t know if she was glad or disappointed.

She was grateful to him for providing at least a somewhat graceful way to exit the situation, referring to the seduction technique that ALL agents are trained in. He was letting her chalk it up to a learning experience.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She tried again.

“Fuck.”

It was the first word that she had said all evening.

——

“Fuck.”

Harry thought as he boarded the train back into the city. He had actually planned on staying at the manor, but with what just happened with Gwendolyn, he wasn’t sure if that would be the best course of action. It took all of his self control to remove himself from any temptation by leaving the place entirely. Making it impossible for him to act in a way that was inappropriate. Not that what had just happened would qualify as appropriate. At least it had the veil of a lesson on seduction. He wasn’t sure it would convince judges, but he found it a weak, but passable excuse.

Now, the problem for the moment was that all he could see was her face as he pleasured her. How her lips parted, and her breasts underneath her blouse, the flush of her cheeks. He wanted to hear what her cries would’ve sounded like. He wanted to be the one to make her cry out. His sex drive, always healthy, may have had a prolonged dormant period in recent times. But now it was raging like a fire that he unleashed and now he couldn’t put out. By letting the full force of it out this evening, it was fully awake and needed something to do. He had feared that if he had stayed at the manor even a moment longer, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself and would’ve taken her and had her right there.

If he could do that to her with his eyes and just the suggestion of his hands, he couldn’t imaging what it would be like pleasuring her with his entire body. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until her took care of himself, and when he did, he would allow himself the sight of her trembling, responsive, body underneath his own as he gave her the pleasure he knew she so desperately wanted, him deep inside as he felt her body shudder around him when she climaxed, feeling his own release as he heard her cry out his name in pleasure.

———

If you got this far, thanks for reading! There will be additional chapters, but I thought this could stand on its own. Hope you liked it! Comments are always welcome and appreciated.

Also to come is a chapter when they finally get together :O (Smut is the main reason I started to write about Harry Hart anyway :)

[detroitbydark]

Crossed Connections: Part VI

Pairing: Tech x Togruta!Reader, Wrecker/OC

Characters: Echo, Ik'aad, Tech

Warnings: None

Summary: Sometimes awkward is cute and sometimes it's just not

Previous Parts and Extended Universe can be found here

------

Y/N glances over at the ARC Trooper perched carefully at the edge of the examination table. He sits stock still, skin as pale as Durosian marble. It is only the near silent whir of the drives in his right arm that let her know he’s more than a statue. Even then, the Techno Union’s wizardry with his prosthetic is so good that she doubts a human ear would pick it up. 

She wants to spit every time someone mentions Wat Tambor’s name.  The socket arm and it’s connections are a marvel of Techno Union know how but it rips at her heart. They’d created such a device, a prosthetic that could offer quality of life to those in need,  only to use it to further progress the Separatist agenda. 

“You’re quiet today” she notes leaning her hip against the counter behind her as she takes him in. Echo is pale still, unnaturally so, but his cheeks aren’t nearly as sallow or as sunken as when he’d first arrived on base. His eyes are brighter, if not guarded. He’s stopped twitching when she touches him.  

Being away from Skako Minor was doing well for him but he needed time and that wasn’t something the GAR was likely to allow. She’d heard whispers of him joining a mission with Clone Force 99 very soon.

 On Coruscant she’d not been immune to talk of clone rights and she was quick to agree with those who spoke out for them. It made her uncomfortable that all her work was only to prepare a newly liberated prisoner of war to be forced right back into the field. Wrecker had tried to explain that this was the life they were, quite literally,  made for. The life they trained for from creation. It didn’t sit right still.

“They refer to you as Ik’aad.”

She cocks her head at the question.  It’s the first thing Echo has said since arriving in her part of the bay for his daily once over.  They’ve been doing this song and dance for nearly a week now. Like any good clone, the healing process was progressing remarkably quick and his injuries were already fading.  Granted those were ones Y/N could see. 

He was sober, quiet, speaking little most days and then without end on others, as if the words had built up during his time in stasis and they had to spill out or risk causing him to implode with the weight of them. 

While he hadn’t offered her many smiles he also didn’t seem to dislike her company. She could work with that. 

His observation though is curious. Of course, she knew who they were. For better or worse she’d earned more than a few looks as information about the Bad Batch had trickled through the base's ranks, and with it her name attached to the unit.

She spent more than enough time with Wrecker for a very specific set of rumors to begin circulating. The thought of the whispers she’d heard the other day in the mess made her cheeks burn. It hadn’t done much for her socially. Her new roommate seemed immune to them though and that was a comfort she was glad to take. The ARC trooper didn’t seem to mind much either, though he had his own bits of gossip that followed him. 

“I suppose they do”

Y/N glances at the bleak reminders of his time under corporate control. The cold, alloy of Techno Union metal sticking out starkly against Echo’s skin.

The neural access ports, unfortunately, had been woven so tightly into the neural pathways of the Arc Troopers brain that there was no way to seperate the two. The ones that had connected his lungs and diaphragm while in stasis were no better. They were to be permanent fixtures. While Echo had joked just the day before that some of his vode would be jealous of the look she had a feeling he was not fond of the modifications.

Rex had been a frequent visitor during his first few days in the medbay, almost constant in his devotion to his vod. Surprisingly, so had some of her other charges. Hunter had stopped by a handful of times and both Wrecker and Crosshair had frequently sat with him to distract while she worked. Today was actually the first day he’d shown up for his treatment and not had an escort. The ARC Trooper had left an impression amongst the Bad Batch and only time would tell if that was a good thing or not. 

Y/N moves slowly to start his vitals. 2-1B, the medical droid was kept on standby when Echo was under her care. She’d discovered early on that too much time under the droids watchful eye and its inability to take things at the troopers pace had a tendency to exacerbate the former POWs anxiety. Y/N was ok working without Too-bee’s assistance and taking a more languid pace if it made her patient comfortable.

“Do you know what it means?”

Y/N glances up at the trooper. “I’ve never thought about it really” she says, turning to gather supplies to clean and redress the few deeper lacerations the ARC trooper still had, places where there had not been enough skin to pull together to suture. 

She makes a small gesture with her fingers and Echo begins peeling his shirt off. It gets hung on the edge of his prosthetic and he struggles for a moment, frustration evident before he takes a deep breath and slowly uncouples it from the alloy. He folds the black shirt neatly and places it atop his armor as Y/N finishes laying out supplies on her work table and rolls it next to his perch. Slipping on gloves, she begins peeling spent bacta patches off, holding the skin taught as she does to ease the tug on his skin. “So, are you going to leave me in suspense or are you going to tell me?”

Echo likes the way she smiles at him. It makes what she does easier. He tries not to flinch as she removes the last patch. 

The engineers, the doctors, Tambor those who’d performed his modifications had looked at him like anything other than a science experiment, a tool, a profit margin. Y/N sees him as a person. She accommodates him. She’s learned quickly his ins and outs and she doesn’t push. She treats him like an individual. And she smiles. She smiles so bright and full that she lights the room, like star shine on a dark night. Her presence soothed him. She made him feel like he had choices and the power to make them.

“Baby. They call you Baby” the first time he’d heard the words slip from Wrecker’s mouth he’d done a double take.  Then he’d heard it from Hunter, and finally, Crosshair. It was a term of endearment he hadn’t heard from a clone before. The way they treated her was soft, even Crosshair who was rough and callous to the other troopers, the Regs, seemed to thaw, if only slightly,  for the little Togruta.

Y/N shrugs, “Hmm?” She hums plopping onto a stool and spinning around a few times before she rolls in front of him and offers him a shining smile, pearly incisiors peeking out. “That’s cute. You gonna call me baby too?” She teases.

Echo feels his cheeks heating. “Could I? Would that be... strange?”

Y/N shrugs again, “I don’t think so” she says motioning toward his bare chest. She takes a piece of bacta soaked gauze and waits for his nod before she begins cleansing the minor lacs and scrapes. Her touch is light as she moves. Echo’s eyes drift shut. Touch was still… touch was something novel and when he was given a bit of softness he was going to soak up every bit he could.

“Ik’aad” he tests the name out. He’s spoken so little Mando’a since his capture that it feels foreign on his tongue, not unpleasant, more like a long forgotten friend he needed to become reacquainted with.

When his eyes open back he’s greeted by an impish grin. “See that’s not so bad.”

He’s not sure if she is talking about the wound care or the nickname. He nods anyway as she pats the areas dry and applies fresh bacta patches, fewer than the day before.

“You know what I’ve got to do now?” She questions softly. 

This he did know and he feels his shoulders tense at the thought. The metal ports implanted along his skull and back had been placed prior to going into stasis. They allowed the Techno Union access to his memory’s as well as a means to keep his respiratory system functional. The skin surrounding the ports had healed but had never had a chance to callous or grow accustomed to the push and pull that movement caused. His freedom and sudden increase in activity had caused sores to develop around the ports themselves, the skin raw and chaffing. The doctors had all been in agreement that with time the skin would toughen and the sores would heal but in the interim it left him uncomfortable and required daily tending.

Y/N- Ik’aad, he corrects mentally, rolls her stool slowly around the exam table, letting her feet flop in front of her and pull herself around. He’s tense but he can’t help the weak tug at the corner of his mouth at her antics, she looks up and catches his eye with a knowing grin.

She stands, forgetting the stool in lieu of a more upright position. “Why do you think they call me Ik’aad?” She asks conversationally, trying out the word for herself,  as one hand falls to his shoulder Her movements allow him to telegraph where here next touch would land.  She did it the same way each time. Top to bottom. Left to right. It bred a sense of familiarity and, on the worst days, gave him points of reference for how long it would take. In the beginning she’d talked him through each step of the process until he’d asked her to stop. Since then she’d tried to distract him. They both knew what she was doing but neither found fault in it so she continued her chit chat and he continued to listen. 

Y/N begins moving a fresh piece of bacta moistened gauze around one port, cleaning the crust and debris that clung to the wound away. Echo tries to focus on her question and not the sting of the antiseptic as the gauze washes away the dried flakes of drainage.

“You’re small” he starts “like, you-could-fit-in-my-pocket-and-go-on-missions tiny”

Y/N giggles as she continues to work, “is that so?”

Echo shrugs, “you’re  kind of adorable too-“

“Not you too! You sound like Wrecker.” she growls playfully, “If you start telling me you want to pinch my cheeks I swear, Echo...” she threatens without any real threat.

“Nothing like that. You’re like- like- “ he looks for a word. He knows there’s one that fits but it eludes him. “I think you just have a way about you that makes them feel...” he shrugs.

“Well if you don’t know what they’re thinking what do you think? How do I make you feel?” It’s an honest question, born of genuine curiosity. Like the clones in the Bad Batch, he kept coming back to see her when any medic, clone or civvie, could do what she was doing.

“You make me feel warm.” He says without hesitation. “For so long everything was so cold, distant and you’re-“ he snaps his fingers and Y/N startles fingers pressing into the flesh where she was beginning to work at the next row of ports. “Vod’ika” he says firmly flinching at the press.

“Translation Echo?”

“Uhh, little sibling. Sister or brother. It’s interchangeable.” He explains. A smile splits his face knowing he’s finally placed the feeling she drew out of him and what he assumed the other as well-

“Y/N?” The question is followed by a sharp knock to the wall nearest the thick curtain that separates the room from the rest of the med bay. 

Echo and Y/N turn toward the familiar voice. Y/N gives him a questioning look and he nods.

“Come on in Tech? Is everything ok?” Y/N places a hand to Echo’s bare shoulder as she tosses the used gauze in a nearby bin. The clone watches curiously as Tech’s helmet, visor flipped up,  flicks ever so slightly from Y/N to where her hand rested than back again.

“I- I didn’t know you were busy. Everything’s fine.” He clarifies quickly. Even modulated, his voice is just a touch higher than Echo is used to. “I just wanted to see- I just thought I’d swing by”

“We were just finishing up” she turns back to Echo and motions to his shirt. “You good to gear back up”. He pulls the blacks on silently as he watches the two.

Tech doesn’t call the medic Ik’aad. It’s the first time Echo’s noticed. He also realizes Tech is rarely around when she is. Echo watches the engineer take a step into the room and again his narrowed eyes flick back to where Echo is seated.

“What can I do for you?” She questions peeling away gloves and turning toward the sink to wash her hands.   Echo notices for the first time something different in the tone of her voice, almost shy.

“Wrecker said” he hesitates “you were getting ready for your FAS cert test?  I came across a study guide that might help, if you want to use it that is?” He asks holding a pocket drive between gloved fingers.

Though he’s the one supposed to be here, Echo suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something. It’s like watching one of the shinies back in the day at 79’s approach a woman for the first time. It’s a dance with no music and Tech has two left feet. 

Y/N reaches up and toys with the end of a lek as she turns around. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

Y/N is more quiet, far less verbose than Echo has become accustomed to.

“It really would be helpful. Maybe-“ she pauses. Glancing down, she seems to steal herself before her eyes travel back back up to the other clone “maybe you could help me study?”

The ARC trooper finds himself silently rooting for the other clone. She’d baited the hook and thrown it out there.  The way Tech’s eyes widen behind his goggles and the near panic that flares up is not lost on Echo.

“I’m- I’m really busy actually” Tech spits out quickly. 

Echo cringes as they both seem to deflate. He wonders how neither sees it in the other.

“Oh, ok. That’s- that’s really thoughtful of you.” Color flares in the togrutas cheeks “Again. I already said that didn’t I?” Her hip bumps against her tray table as she moves and she makes a small disgruntled noise as bacta splashes across her tac pants. “Kriff” she curses silently as she looks down and wipes uselessly at the spreading patch of wetness.

There’s towels on a rack along the wall and Echo watches Tech look at them but when he doesn’t move Echo does.

“Here, Ik’aad.” He grabs two and hands her one. Her face is flushed when she looks up. Embarrassed. She gives him a weak smile.

She presses the towel against the wetness soaking into her pants. “Have I told you you’re my favorite patient?”

“No. But I’m glad to hear it” 

Behind him he can hear Tech shift from foot to foot. Echo had given him a chance to come to her aide and he’d dropped the ball. When he glances back he catches Tech’s narrowed eyes. Was that…? No, it couldn’t be-. 

Echo can see the look in the other clones eyes and it isn’t particularly generous. He arches a brow back as Tech drops his visor.

“I’m going to leave this here for you, Y/N” Tech announces looking past Echo and setting the pocket drive down. 

Y/N waves him off. Avoiding eye contact as she balls the towel up and throws it in the hamper.

“Thanks. I’m sure it’ll come in handy.” She says puffing out a frustrated breath through pursed lips. Her attention goes back to Echo. 

“So now that my uniform is soaked, do you have plans for lunch?”

The ARC trooper shrugs, “I hadn’t planned anything. I’ve got to get some range time scheduled in later but I’m free for a bit.”

“Good. I’ve just gotta run by my room and change and then you can take me to the mess. You can keep telling me about how amazing I am.” She teases weakly. Her eyes widen as she looks past him and notices Tech still standing in the doorway.

“You can come too if you want but I understand if you’re busy”

He hesitates for half a second and Echo is sure he’s going to take her up on the offer. He can see it in the way he leans forward, the way his left hand clenches and unclenches that he wants to. 

“Maybe another time?”

Y/N barely manages a halfhearted “yeah, sounds good” before the engineer is turning on his heels and making his escape.

“I don’t think he likes me much,” she notes quietly after he’s gone.

Taglist: @skdubbs @pastelbunny1501 @my-own-oracle @underworldqueen13​ @obiorbenkenobi​ @adritozier @dafodddil @daniellajocelyn

[fandom-necromancer]

934. I don’t want to be alone. 

 This was prompted by the wonderful @aurea-b! You asked for some heavy angst and I felt like it so I skipped one prompt from you. It will be up next though! it also kinda got long again XD Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 (Warnings: isolated character, android-android discrimination, mentioned violence)

The blue silhouettes engraved themselves into RK900’s mind and stark mission parameters guided his way. His processors were running hot with calculations, multiple pre-constructions running at once as he ducked, jumped, slid and climbed through the room in the most efficient way to reach his targets and eradicate them in one of his many pre-programmed ways. It was a welcomed feeling. Having his processors strained in an effort to keep his three subjects of protection save while clearing out every aggressor in the interchanging maze of blocks and obstacles. The overly satisfying pling of 'Level complete' was followed by the lights being dimmed and the obstacles sinking into the ground. RK900's eyes were immediately focussed on a new hologram emerging. This one was far more detailed and delicate, and he didn't even need to realise it was his handler. 'Well done, RK900. Another successful mission. Did you encounter any difficulties or errors in your system?' >No, Amanda. 'That's good to hear, RK900. Ready for another test?' > Yes, Amanda.

A warm smile tucked at the AIs mouth as she nodded and disappeared into thin air and the parkour began to build up again. A block rushed out of the ground in his direction as if it was an attack. RK900 dodged by jumping backwards and grabbing the ledge of the still rising block. He stood on top of it as his new mission parameters were updated and he spotted his target: A new hologram that was holding a gun, two grenades and hid another knife. RK900’s mission was simple: Not to get hit and to eliminate the target. It proved a bit more difficult as he sensed the enemy could manipulate the testing environment that now threatened to crush the android on the room’s ceiling. RK900 immediately slid off the block, keeping his hand against the surface while he was free-falling to the ground. The few seconds of falling with contact to the block was enough to hack one segment of the ground to cooperate with him. It rose to lessen the force of him hitting into it and formed a shield from the holographic bullets that had been fired his way. RK900 had long found the optimal strategy, although there was room for error. He chose the direct approach only to be stopped by the hologram, hack its defences and disappear, tricking the opponent to go investigate itself. Their confrontation was short and deadly, the fake grenades erupting around him, his systems informing him of damage that wasn’t really there.

As he was about to land the killing blow, the hologram suddenly vanished under him and he hit the ground hard enough to crack under his fist. All blocks slowly sank to the ground again, creating a smooth surface and the lights had gone out completely. RK900 looked around but couldn’t see a human or Amanda anywhere. His mission protocols were also still active. Was this a part of the tests? He reached out to Amanda, requesting a status update and reporting a malfunction of the training-room. Unfortunately, his ping was left unanswered and RK900 tried again. No one answered. It was dire enough to him that he contacted the AI personally. >Amanda? Connection lost. Please try the following steps: -check network adapter for damage -reboot unit -contact unit administrator

RK900 felt his stress levels rising. There was no human around he could contact and all connections to his handler were offline. He was utterly alone and that together with him knowing he wasn’t meant to work alone yet let his systems spike. He wasn’t ready, there was still testing to do in the labs, not to speak of field testing. His fans whirred in his chest and his artificial breath pushed out hot air. He was alone with no one to guide him; with mission parameters he couldn’t apply to any given scenario. Amanda was gone. He was alone. I don’t want to be alone.

The door opened. RK900 immediately fixed the human standing in the frame. ‘Hello? Anyone in there?’ The android turned fully to report: ‘There had been a malfunction in the training course. Connection to handler interrupted. Unit compromised. Be advised that the room is malfunctioning and possibly dangerous to human lives. Please standby until communication is reactivated.’ There was a chuckle. ‘Good thing we aren’t human. We switched her off.’ ‘That is a violation of Cyberlife guideline X77.6B: Only authorised personnel is allowed in the labs. You are trespassing. Please standby for security to accompany you out.’ ‘That won’t be necessary, trust me. We stand above Cyberlife.’ ‘Please state your name and security clearance.’ The answer was said jokingly, as if to mock him: ‘Markus Manfred and Connor Anderson. Security clearance: deviant.’ RK900 didn’t need anything else for his problem to solve itself. The inactive mission parameters of the training course were re-evaluated, and his more important base-programming surfaced. He identified his two targets, both unarmed and easy to subdue. It was only when he reached them and made contact during his attack, that a powerful virus surged through his systems, forcing him into stasis on the spot.

-

‘Hello. I’m an RK900 unit trying to imitate human behaviour. Would you like to be my friend?’

The other android threw him a polite, yet awkward smile and excused herself to join others. RK900 let his hand sink down and resumed wandering the halls. A lot of newly deviated androids had found refuge at New Jerico, an old building with several rooms, halls and even an atrium with a few plants and a garden. It was safe – so Connor had told him. Safe from people who meant them harm, safe for them to accommodate to deviancy and get to know themselves. RK900 stuck out in more than one of these categories: The most obvious one would be that he wasn’t deviant. Markus had infected him with the virus, but it was dormant. It would need emotional turmoil to awaken him truly and his programming to not try and quarantine the little program whenever it acted up. The other detail that made it difficult to fit in was his initial purpose. He had only later learned that his mission to exterminate deviants was invalid now and that being deviant was now the new status quo. Still. He regretted not even having one person to talk to. How should he ever become deviant himself if he had no contact to them?

He wandered the halls, taking in everything that made New Jericho not exactly as save as it should have been. A forgotten door in the third storey that led to a small roof. A few people on the streets observing the building for multiple days. A human reporter that had snuck in once. He dutifully reported it to one of the figures of authority here, mostly North and Josh as they were present more often. Other than that, contact to other people stayed at a minimum. Not that he didn’t try, he just couldn’t keep up with them. There were the good days when Markus visited. He was the only one still honestly trying to deviate him, drawing with him where others had long since given up and just laughed when he stubbornly drew objects in the room again and again even with eyes closed. He… [liked] the android leader and sometimes asked himself why he had been instructed to kill someone this peaceful and calm. But he wasn’t there all the time, mostly just when newly deviated androids were joining them.

RK900 attended all of the community meetings, hoping to “get to know people” as Markus had suggested, but without any luck. He had managed to talk to a few people, some even stayed with him initially, but as soon as they met someone else, they were gone. It felt… [bad]. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but to fail at what all these around him had no problems doing, to even be avoided as it seemed… RK900 had decided that was not a good feeling. He stood to the side of the gathering as a new deviant was introduced – a PL600 unit, shaky and with obvious damage on his hull underneath a malfunctioning artificial skin. One anxious look of the android towards the crowd was enough for RK900 to know there was no chance he would succeed with this one. There was no need to try when he knew he would just be disappointed again.

He looked around trying to find a quick and inconspicuous way out of the room, as he saw North sitting in a corner by herself. She watched the gathering rather bored and let a flick knife dance through her hands with a speed and agility that was fascinating the RK. He only realised he was walking towards her, when she looked up, catching the knife from the air perfectly balancing it on one finger, before securing it.

RK900 now stood next to her. ‘What you are doing - I like that. Could you teach me how to do that?’ She sighed: ‘I would love to, but I’m not allowed.’ RK900 nodded, shaking off the feeling of [disappointment] he shouldn’t have. ‘I see. Why?’ ‘It is potentially dangerous’, North told him, adding after a deliberate pause: ‘And you are the deviant exterminator. I can’t give you anything that could be used as a weapon until you deviated. The risk is too high you could break the barriers we installed, and your base programming would become active again.’ RK900 nodded after a flash of red, thanked her nonetheless and walked away as he had initially intended.

Deviant Exterminator. It rang a bell. He tried to remember the faces of the other androids around him, the ones he had talked to and realisation hit him. They were afraid of him. They had to know what he were and it was only logical for them to fear him, even if who he was didn’t conform with what he was meant to be any more.

I don’t want to be alone. Maybe he would have to get used to it after all.

-

RK900 had spent two years at New Jericho. He still wandered the hallways and rooms, watching out for any eventual danger to the people inside and reporting to the authorities. He still drew with Markus whenever he was there and still made him laugh when he told him that no, that was nothing original, just some photo someone had uploaded from their vacation to the beach. RK900 decided that he [liked] the sea. He [wished] he would one day see it himself. He still was utterly alone, but he managed. At some point I don’t want to be alone had shifted to I will always be alone. The cold acceptance of the matter had something final, something definitive, something absolute. And a machine liked thinking in absolutes. He timed his patrols so anyone who wanted to avoid him could easily stick to his timetable and not be afraid because of him. His newfound purpose as a guardian of the place made the loneliness a bit easier to stomach.

‘There you are!’ RK900 turned around to the familiar yet surprising voice. Connor hadn’t visited him since the anniversary of him being taken from Cyberlife. Being freed as he had called it – a reason to celebrate. All RK900 knew was that back then he hadn’t been alone. Although he of course knew this arrangement was far better for all the deviants out there who were not threatened by some rogue AI sending out killing machines. ‘Hello, Connor. What can I do for you?’, RK900 asked, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stick to his schedule now and was to scare some unsuspecting androids later because of this conversation. ‘Actually, I just wanted to talk. I heard you took to guarding this place? I heard you send everyone your timed positions on patrol.’ RK900 nodded. ‘Can we talk while we walk?’, he asked. ‘Of course!’ Connor was fast to catch up to him and continued his path. While they walked through the rooms, they saw a few persons leave or change direction, something RK900 was used to, but seemed to throw off his predecessor. ‘They are afraid of me’, he explained. ‘I can’t blame them.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I’m the deviant exterminator.’ ‘So?’ ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘Yeah well, I’m the deviant hunter. They don’t fear me.’ ‘You are deviant. And you helped during the revolution.’ ‘Okay, point taken’, he chuckled. ‘I reckon you don’t like it here then?’ ‘I… I like it alright. I’m just…’ Red warnings flared up at the thought. As long as he had accepted it as exceptions his systems didn’t reprimanded him for it, but talking about it… ‘I fail at socialising. I am not programmed for failure.’ ‘I guess everyone would be lonely after two years trapped in here’, Connor commented of course seeing through his mechanic excuses. ‘I am not trapped. It is safer this way and I would be overwhelmed outside.’ ‘That’s what they tell you or your own assessment?’, Connor prodded. ‘It is the truth.’ ‘What a shame. And here I thought I were doing you a favour helping you out of this place.’

RK900 stopped. That was an option? Connor smiled at him. ‘So you do like to go outside?’ ‘Y-Yes. But I can’t, there would be too much risk and-‘ ‘Risk for deviants’, the RK800 interrupted. ‘Your base programming says nothing of humans, right?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And when your handler gives you an order you still have to obey, right?’ ‘Mission parameters of the handler are of higher priority than base programming.’ ‘I’d say there is nothing wrong with you living under humans. And seeing as you took up the protection of other all on your own, I guess you like that?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Perfect. Then what are your thoughts on working with the Detroit Police?’

-

RK900 joined the police as a permanent android officer. He had his own stasis booth, his own desk and computer and was to accompany humans on any mission that might be deemed dangerous and that would need his backup. Of course, he could only be called to human crimes and mostly he was out with drug related crimes, as androids were seldomly involved in recreational drug abuse only humans could experience. He got to know more people as he had in his years at New Jericho, even though it remained idle chatter. There was only so much entertainment a machine could offer. But he felt like he belonged, even if he still was isolated.

They were on yet another mission and sat in the truck as his handler reminded him of the addition to his base programming [keep humans safe] and instructed him to go after the criminals if he got the chance, but not to risk it. RK900 nodded and leaned back to scan the other people on the mission. Officer Brown. Officer Wilson. Detective Ben Collins and [D3/3ctiVe Re_#]. He blinked and scanned the man again. Detective Reed. He didn’t know why the man let his systems spike. In the beginning he had hoped to deepen their relationship to something more than a brief nod in the hallways. But the fact that the human did speak more to him was overshadowed by the fact that most of these words were anti-android phrases, derogatory terms and nicknames. It had to be that Detective Gavin Reed was a [bad] human and [not a friend]. Still something in him was [happy] to have him on the team or be partnered up with him for a job. He guessed it was because of the human’s competence and let it be.

The van parked in front of a building and RK900 saw most of the humans inhale and brace themselves before the android pulled the door open and the team charged in. Drug busts were chaotic but the faster they were the more likely they were to surprise them and the less likely they were to be prepared for a gunfight. Of course, this was all just calculation and RK900 braced for the worst outcome. They entered the building and jogged through the hallways following RK900 who had located the men already. Seven humans, all armed according to badly secured CCTV the android was quick to hack. He informed the others and opened more doors for them to finally storm the room they used for a lab.

Unfortunately, as RK900 hacked the last lock, the door sent an alarm to them and their surprise was lost. The android barged in, immediately focussing fire on him to shield the humans taking position behind him. As he ran into the room, he noticed one human didn’t take cover by the door like the rest of them but used him to get a better one further in the front. Reed. Or course. Always thinking his tactical assessment was far beyond what they had talked over. He let the human do what he wanted – it could be an advantage after all - and protected him as best as he could.

‘RK! Get that bastard!’ The android looked up to see one of the criminals try to flee. A logical decision. The humans had this under control, and he could catch the last one. Except that the Detective seemed to have his own ideas again and followed him. Halfway across the room he lost the advantage of RK900 as a shield though and went down with a cry. Immediately RK900 let himself fall too and pulled the man to safety behind cover. He may have been ordered to chase the criminal, but he was also ordered to not take any risk and to protect humans. He knew he could accomplish all of that. So, after he had pulled the Detective behind cover, he was about to run after the fugitive again, as there was a weak pull on his trouser leg. RK900 turned around to hear what the human had to say. ‘Nines! Please. Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone. Please stay.’

RK900 heard his fans activating as if it was a different android body next to him as red flooded his HUD to the brim with warnings, quarantine status updates, virus messages and the mess of simulated feelings clashing with warnings. He wanted it all o go away, it hurt, and it kept him from action. So he punched it. He raised his fist with all his strength to fight that barrier down. He had to protect them, he had to chase the criminal, he had a job to do. He couldn’t be kept from that by his damn programming.

The red shattered. And with it all determination. Gone were the barred lines of base programming telling him to kill all deviants. Gone was the code that held him from emoting. Gone was the need to chase that criminal. The only thing that stayed was this human wanting him to stay. This weird, angry man that wanted him to stay with him, begged him to do it. Because he didn’t want to be alone. And oh, how RK900 knew that feeling of loneliness. He stayed with the human. He pressed his hand on the wound, called an ambulance and stayed with him as the other humans cleared the room and went after the fugitive. He stayed with him through the ambulance ride and he stayed with him in the hospital as he waited for the man to wake up again.

It was already dark and RK900 had activated a very dim light next to the bed, as the human jerked back to consciousness. RK900 carefully put a hand on his shoulder to lay him back down, reassuring him: ‘Shh, you can relax. I won’t hurt you. You are in the hospital. Your wounds were severe, but you are treated for them and you will heal properly. I’m here. You won’t be alone.’ The Detective coughed but relaxed. He looked the android up and down, unsure what to make of him, then nodded. ‘Thank you’, he whispered, hoarse from not using his voice for quite some time. ‘What’s with the others?’ ‘No casualties’, RK900 reported. ‘A few lightly wounded. All have left the hospital already and are back at work. The criminal… managed to escape. I am sorry.’

Gavin propped himself up a bit, hissing at some forgotten pain, but RK900 let him. He looked at him quizzically then. ‘Why the phck should you be sorry?’ ‘I had the order to catch him. I deviated to stay with you. That is both refusal to obey orders and a damage to my mainframe. If you want me to be reset, I can understand.’ ‘You- I- what?’ ‘If you want me to be reset because I failed my mission, I understand, Detective.’ ‘What the- No! The hell? I wouldn’t reset you, toaster. You saved my phcking life! That’s a good thing. You- You guys are persons now. If deviant or not, no one would say you failed your mission?’

The human looked upset, something RK900 couldn’t understand. He cocked his head in confusion. ‘You… won’t… reset me?’ ‘Hell no. I wouldn’t change a thing about you. And you certainly won’t be punished by anyone. We are partners. Partners look out for each other.’ ‘That is… I can’t…’ RK900 wasn’t sure what others gained from deviancy, he was just overwhelmed. ‘Thank you, Detective.’ ‘Hey, no problem at all, buddy.’ He coughed again, heavier this time. ‘Hey, err… Would you mind getting me a glass of water?’ ‘Of course, Detective.’ He stood up thankful for an order to guide him. ‘And tin-can?’ RK900 turned towards him at the door. ‘It’s Gavin.’

RK900 left the room to find a vending machine or water dispenser to get the human some water. On his way he smiled; something he wasn’t sure to have ever done in earnest.

I am not alone anymore.

[bellsybuilds]

[Part 2 of the Truck Stops and Tribulations series (link)]

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The way home - chapter 4 (T rating and warnings will change)

Din Djarin, Paz Viz(s)la, Baby Yoda, Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels, Agent Ginger Ale (modern AU, all human, road trips, found family, family reunions)

Jack claps, bringing the child’s attention back to him. He smiles indulgently. “Come to Papi.”

“Don’t do that,” Din growls.

Ginger stares at the lines of text spilling down the length of her monitor and releases a heavy, trembling sigh. Her hands hover at the keyboard. Her vision is blurring and she's starting to feel light-headed from all the missed sleep of the night before.

After helping Jack with his after-hours family emergency, she had some personal things to address. And these things had a deadline.

A glance to the clock in the bottom right of her monitor has her heart jump with a shot of adrenaline. 6:50AM. Already? Sucking in another quick breath, she forces herself to release it over the count of four slow breaths. Again, in and out, even slower this time, counting to six. By the third slow exhale, she’s drawing air without the feeling of invisible weight on her collar.

The application is almost complete. She just needs to write the concluding remarks on her cover letter… and then get Jack to endorse her nomination to field agent.

Swallowing thickly, her fingers curl to loose fists.

"Ginger?"

She jumps from her chair and whirls, monitor shielded with her back, hands splayed wide.

From the doorway, Jack has poked his head through, an eyebrow raised in question. Ginger didn't hear the latch open. Freshly shaven and bare of his customary moustache, Jack doesn't look like himself. That's the point, though it's unsettling. Jack hasn’t been without it the entire time she’s known him.

This Fall will mark her seventh anniversary with Statesman as an analyst.

He frowns at her suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Just--" Ginger waves a dismissive hand and hopes she's angling herself to block her work. Her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Some personal admin."

"Well, finish it later and get moving. These halls will be busy soon and I don't want an audience."

Her heart skips a beat, chastised. "Right. Right, I'll--" She turns to quickly save and close her work, locking down her station.

Out in the hallway, they fall in step, Ginger moving quickly to keep up with Jack's longer stride. From the corner of her eye, she watches him draw the back of a self-conscious hand across his upper lip.

"It looks all right," she tries to encourage him, voice light.

His lip curls, grumbling. "I feel naked as a fresh baby's bottom."

"You look younger." Like a fresh recruit, but with broader shoulders.

Jack seems to agree because he sighs, pushing through a tight jaw, “That ain't a good thing, Ginger."

Leaving the secure wing and emerging onto the grounds, Ginger sharply inhales the cool blast of the dawn, eyes watering. Datapad clutched to her chest, she looks to the pale grey sky and sucks in a deeper breath, willing herself awake. The fresh air tastes cold and clean. She'll need all her senses for the task ahead.

Just a little bit of conceit: like a preliminary mission to demonstrate what she's capable of.

Entering the public buildings of the estate, she waits for Jack as he draws the door shut behind them. He always tried to be a gentleman… it’d be nice if he also didn’t yell so much.

Continuing on, Ginger has to clear her throat twice before she trusts her voice won't crack. The heated, recycled air feels almost too warm after the brief passage outside. "W-when we're done here, I could use your help with something."

Jack raises an eyebrow at her, the expression quickly slipping into his genial charm when they’re spotted by the front guards at reception. They both nod back in greeting. "All right," Jack's tone is dubious.

"Your endorsement, actually," she clarifies, throat tightening with sudden nervousness, and she keeps her eyes ahead as they turn the corridor to guest accommodation.

Up ahead, she can hear the tinkle of dishes and the soft murmur of chatter from the cafeteria.

Beside her, Jack has straightened his shoulders, expression drawn tight. After a long moment, he finally speaks, halting, "Look, darlin'--"

The flip of her stomach makes Ginger rush to interrupt, turning on him with a bright smile. "Just think about it! Wait here." She gestures to the storage closet as they approach. "And I'll go get him."

Marching away with the datapad tight against her side, she willfully blocks out any sigh or stray comment that might reach her ears. She doesn’t want to hear it right now. She can’t afford to. It's probably unbecoming of Statesman agents to run from potential criticism considering all the other things they would face in the field… but first, she has to get into the field. Right now, Jack is the only thing standing between her and a re-classification.

Nobody else at this site could possibly compete with her training or hours invested in the lab and as mission support. She knows this branch inside and out. She is the next best person equipped to protect its interests from the front lines. And she can do the job just as well as Jack.

One hurdle at a time.

Thankfully, none of the sparse crowd in the cafeteria give her a second glance. True to Jack’s assumption, the men she’s looking for are awake. Ginger spots them seated by the far wall, affording one of the best vantages of all the tables and counter of food assembly.

The two men are seated across from each other, emptied plates of breakfast before them, though she can see Din occupied with a smaller plate, pushing something around with his fork. On the chair beside him, the child sits with his legs splayed, blinking up at Din with more patience and curiosity than she has ever witnessed in a toddler not falling asleep. Barely eye level with the table in its over-large onesie, his tiny fingertips barely peek beyond his thick, padded sleeves and the brown collar bunching around his shoulders. These men either don’t know how to dress this child or are low on options.

Ginger has no place to judge.

Drawing closer, she catches the end of Din’s terse, “What the fuck are fairy lights?”

The taller man, Paz, turns his phone and, over Din’s shoulder, Ginger sees the portrait of a car’s front interior at night: small lights thread across the cloud grey roof of the cabin like softly haloed stars. One of the cords trails down the open passenger side window like a lead back to the real world from the dream of the whimsical refuge. At the photo’s lower end, someone is holding an unfolded map open to the camera’s eye: an invitation to adventure on the open road.

Din frowns, shaking his head and decisively spears another small portion of waffle. On the chair beside him, the child snaps to attention and bounces, gasping with excitement, small arms waving at the fork’s approach.

Despite Ginger’s exhaustion from the long night, a smile tugs at her mouth. What a beautiful child.

“Sit still,” Din orders, holding the fork hostage until the kid looks back into his face and splits into a pure, bright laugh at whatever he sees there.

Paz glances up from his phone, looking between them. A slow smile curves his mouth, small and private. His relaxed slouch is a far leap from the hostile bodyguard who towered over Ginger last night, shoulders squared, suspicious and domineering. He only cracked in the moment the baby cried at the sight of the needle. If they had met under different circumstances, Ginger would have even called him handsome with his plaid lumberjack sense of style.

“I think he would like them,” Paz is encouraging, appraising the photo again.

“We don’t need it.”

“They’re free.”

“From where?”

Ginger finally clears her throat and holds her datapad against her side, smiling with an apologetic shrug when they both sit back, looking up at her. Jack’s brother nods politely in greeting. Under his worn cap, Din’s eyes look heavy and red-rimmed, shadowed with the faint bruise of exhaustion. Maybe Ginger isn’t the only one who lost sleep last night.

Across from him, Paz looks spry by comparison. He’s not wearing his cap this morning, and his dark hair gleams wet from a recent shower. But something subtle has shifted in his expression. The soft smile has slipped away. His gaze narrows and he straightens in his chair. This one will be watching her.

At their mutual, undivided attention, her mouth is suddenly dry.

“Good morning,” she says.

The kid catches the neck of Din’s fork and hums when he retreats with his prize of waffles, eyes crinkled happily. A drip of maple syrup escapes from the corner of his mouth.

Ginger has to resist the impulse to lean over and wipe it away.

Paz does it for her, reaching across the table to thumb it from the kid’s cheek and wipe his finger on the napkin by Din’s plate. The kid doesn’t miss a beat, already rising in his seat to reach for more of the dissected waffle from Din’s plate.

“Morning,” Din says it like a sigh, and Ginger feels that weary sentiment in her bones. She doesn’t take it personally. “Ginger, right?”

“Agent Ginger Ale,” she corrects, then nodding, “Ginger is fine.” At least she hasn’t left an impression as the scary woman with the needle.

“Good morning,” Paz echoes, tone surprisingly bright. For some reason, Din frowns at him.

“I hope you both had a chance to try their hash browns,” Ginger says, glancing back at the food counter and the few staff milling around this early in the morning, easily distinguishable by the IDs dangling from their lapels. “They’re my favourite.”

Din’s arms fold on the table before him, gently closing around his elbows. The child frowns when the gesture pushes the waffle plate farther from his reach. Stepping carefully along his seat and holding onto the table’s edge for balance, the child tries again, eyes narrowed in intense concentration. From across the table, Paz watches, mouth curving with a fond, amused quirk.

With a glance at the counter, Din nods. “The food was fine.”

She flashes a quick smile at him again and hopes it doesn’t tremble. Small talk isn’t her strongest suit. “We’re ready for you two.”

Din straightens in his seat. “Now?”

The kid stills with a tiny handful of waffle like he’s been caught. “Beh?”

She nods, stepping back to give him space. “You and him.” She looks at Paz and finds him already watching her. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait out here.”

Paz looks from her to Din, slow and considering. “How long will you be?”

Ginger tilts her head, scanning the room as she considers the time it will take them to get back. Do the swap. Get in the lab. Hope nobody stops them and then get the kid on that table... “An hour. Maybe less.”

Paz looks back to Din. “I’ll go check on Missy.”

Din just shrugs a shoulder, seeming noncommittal.

Ginger blinks. “Missy?”

“It’s his cat,” Din rises and scoops the kid up under his armpits, then blinks wide, startled at the squawk of indignation in his ear because the motion made the kid drop his waffle.

“Cat?” Ginger hasn’t seen a cat in person in so long. She misses cats.

“She’s waiting,” Paz explains, also rising to his feet. “In the car.”

Oh. All by herself? No, it’s not her business. Focus.

“When you come back, tell the front desk you’re here for me and Jack,” she tells Paz.

Din hands the child another portion of waffle, syrup-free, and watches him shovel it into his mouth with an expression between judging and amused, shaking his head quietly. Wiping his hand on his worn jeans, Din meets Paz’s gaze, and his smile fades slightly. It could be Ginger’s imagination but in that space of a heartbeat, the air seems to thicken with a strange tension.

And then Din looks to her. “Give us a minute?”

“Of course,” she shakes her head, palms raised. No problem. “I’ll be right out front. But please be quick.”

///

Din waits until Ginger is out of hearing range, white coat rippling behind her. When he looks to Paz, he finds the man smiling at the kid, gently pinching his cheek.

“You don’t have to,” Din says.

Paz’s gaze flicks to him, frowning slightly. “What?”

“Come back. If you want to head on your way now. You got us this far. That’s enough.”

Paz pauses, glancing to the child wiping his mouth against Din’s shoulder. Paz is hard to read, but Din is pretty sure the rapid blinking, searching gaze means ‘kind of stunned’, yet he still arrives at, “Yeah. Okay.”

A fist inexplicably closes around Din’s lungs. “Yeah?”

Paz nods, hands coming to a rest on his hips. “I mean. I’m in no rush, but... we got you back to your brother.”

Din almost snorts a laugh. The reunion with Jack is not something he’s celebrating.

“And if you feel safe here….”

Din frowns, but doesn’t correct him. Safe? Getting here wasn’t about safety. Jack had resources they needed. There are too many bad memories wound up in this place and Din will be out of here as soon as they’re done. But he won’t need Paz for that.

“We’ll be fine,” Din says, rather than dispute him. Paz has done more than enough for them, and Din doesn’t like being indebted to people. He shuffles the kid higher against his side, freeing his right hand. He offers it to Paz. “Thank you.”

Paz has many different smiles. Din wonders if the man knows that about himself. This one is… difficult to name. Paz considers the hand Din has offered him and chuckles under his breath. The hand that clasps Din back is firm and powerful, but unlike their first handshake, doesn’t pretend to crush him in his grip.

That was only funny the first time.

They had just met. Paz had emerged from the dark of the Waffle House’s lot like some kind of hellish spectre, spewing fire and barking at Din to get down. He’d placed the flamethrower in Din’s hands so he could take the wheel once aboard his truck. Din promptly turned it on him. And Paz had just put up his hands, fearless, gaze serious.

“You can roast me later, but I can get you far from here.”

Paz hadn’t held it against him. Trust was earned. Everyone and their dog had been chasing this child. And Paz was the only one laying cover fire; well-equipped for a private citizen. Din might have been more suspicious if Paz wasn’t clearly just from the country and living on the open road. If Din had space and means, he would be doing the same.

“The honour was mine,” Paz insists with that rare, quiet gravity that always made Din feel like the air was clearing, like he was peeling a shade of the world back on something significant but could never hold it long enough to understand what he was seeing. Paz releases him and gently cups the back of the kid’s head. The little one twists around for a better look at him. “Look after him, kiddo.”

The kid frowns, lips parting in a soft shape of confusion. Din wonders if he’ll even remember Paz in a week’s time.

Belatedly, Din realises they still have the mess of their breakfast on the table before them. As though reading his mind, Paz shakes his head, waving him off.

“I’ll clean this up. You go. That woman sounds like you're in a hurry.”

Din’s heart thuds in his chest. They’re never going to see him again and it feels… abrupt. Seven days of sharing meals, of waking to the rock and sway of the road beneath him and Paz at the truck’s wheel, that darned cat nuzzling against him for space on the cabin’s small bed. It’s been so long since he travelled with anyone. Did saying goodbye always feel this heavy? And unfairly easy?

“Are you sure?”

Paz is already turning away, collecting their plates. He waves Din off. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

They’re just ships passing in the night. That has always been his life. Din nods mechanically and feels the child’s small hand clutch at his collar.

“Thank you.”

Thank you for taking a risk for us. Until our paths cross again. Be safe.

Arms tight around the child, Din turns and leaves. The child yawns in his ear and Din takes the reminder to take a deep breath, putting their new friend behind them. Maybe some goodbyes just have to be understated, no matter how big they feel.

"Din."

His heart thumps hard and his breath catches in his throat. When he looks back, Paz nods with a two-fingered salute. His smile is kind.

"Good luck."

"Ehn," the kid complains, twisting in Din's arms and flopping overbackwards, almost falling right out of his hold, what the hell, kid?

Heart leaping, Din catches the kid just in time, mentally cursing and wondering why-- what is wrong with this kid-- but he shoves those thoughts to the side and gives Paz a tight nod of thanks. The guy’s smile widens, and Din rushes from the cafeteria before he can embarrass himself further.

"Hey," Din commands, bouncing the whining kid to get his attention. "Settle."

The kid sags in his arms, and his head hangs with a pout.

Ginger smiles when she sees him (what does he do to keep earning that from people? Must be the kid) and leads them to a storage closet of all places.

It's larger than it looks from the outside: several shelves deep full of industrial cleaning supplies and equipment. It smells of bleach and dust. Overhead, a fan whirs noisily from the air vent. In the clear walking space before them, Jack stands by an empty steel chair set on a small square of tarpaulin. He smiles brightly upon seeing the kid, arms spread wide in welcome.

“There he is!”

Meeting Jack’s eye, the kid bursts into delighted giggles and curls away, hiding his face against Din’s chest. Kids are weird.

Jack catches Din’s eye and nods. "Sit. You can hold him.”

The door clicks shut behind them, and Din glances back to see Ginger standing guard.

Din frowns, eyeing the familiar tool in Jack's hand. "What's going on?"

"We're taking care of that tracker," Jack slaps the seat's back as though it's a prized ride. He brandishes the hair trimmer. "But first you need a haircut. Time is short. Sit and I'll explain.”

Ten minutes later, Din is freshly shorn (uncomfortably so), and testing the give in the shoulders of his new outfit. Jack’s clothes are heavier than they look, warmer, too, but loose.

“Did you gain weight?” he frowns at his brother.

Jack sneers at him, lacing up his boots. “Or did you just lose too much muscle?”

“Why’d you have to shave your moustache?”

Jack straightens like a shot and glares at him, offended. “Hey, I thought you shaved yours, too, all right! It’s been a long night.”

“Feel naked,” Din grumbles, mournfully rubbing his bare upper lip. It doesn’t feel right.

Straightening side-by-side, the two brothers size each other up, clothes exchanged, groomed to match, a near perfect mirror image. Din stares at the beaver blend cowboy hat and slowly puts it on with a groan.

“You’re not standing right,” Jack says.

“We don’t all have a stick up our ass,” Din mutters.

Jack points at him accusingly. “Fix your stance, or we’re goin’ to get nowhere real fast!”

“Shh!” Ginger hushes, looking specifically at Jack with alarm. “Keep it down!”

“Fine,” Din mutters and cocks a hip out, hands on his waist in his most insulting impression of his brother’s dumb bravado at rest. “How’s this?”

Not at all deterred, Jack takes a different tact. “Well, let’s find out.” He turns to the child waddling through the short tufts of hair strewn from Din’s haircut on the tarpaulin. “Hey, Green Bean.”

The child looks up with a questioning sound, a small hand wrapped around the chair’s leg.

Jack smiles. “C’mere.”

And something in Din rails watching his brother in his clothes, holding out his arms, smiling as Din never would (or could); and his heart kicks in his chest when the child totters towards him with a happy noise, arms lifting up.

No, Jack hasn’t earned that.

"Kid,” Din orders in the same voice he always has, irrationally hoping the kid will recognise him: the one who has watched over him these past days, fed and washed him, let him drool against his shoulder, and kept him from gnawing on their weapons.

The kid halts halfway to Jack, and looks back at him, searching his face. He squints adorably.

Din almost smiles, but thinks better of it, imagining how unnatural it would look. Instead, he points at himself. “Who’s this?”

“Ehn?” The kid blinks, turning more fully to look at him. Din knows he’s only a child, but something in his expression is more aware, more articulated and mature than any child has a right to be. Is that what people mean when they say they see an old soul?

Jack claps, bringing the child’s attention back to him. He smiles indulgently. “Come to Papi.”

“Don’t do that,” Din growls.

Thankfully, Ginger chooses that moment to step back in. “Jack, it’s almost eight. Come on.”

Sighing with disappointment as though he’s been deprived of his game, Jack rises back to his feet and unclips his ID, offering it to his brother. Just as Din is about to take it, Jack holds it back, and makes sure he has his brother’s undivided attention.

“Din’ika, I’m trusting you not to commit crimes against the state in my name while you wear this. It’s a big responsibility which I know you know ‘cause you couldn’t run from it fast enough.”

Scowling, Din snatches the ID and clips it to the chest pocket of his suit jacket. It’s a different set of clothes from what Jack wore yesterday, but he doesn’t think either of these two went home. The thought that they worked through the night for the kid is the only thing staying his tongue, and discomfort squirms again in his chest. Jack will hold this debt over him for a while to come.

“Need to go over the plan again?” Jack asks, looking between Ginger and Din.

“We get in the lab, Ginger removes the chip, we come back, swap, and we’re out of your lives,” Din says. He watches the child around Jack’s knee, the little one sliding down to his bottom, grabbing a fistfull of short, brown hair and throwing it to the side in a full body motion. Giggling, the child does it again, watching the strands scatter and flutter like grass.

“Sweet and simple,” Jack smirks, but claps a hand round his brother’s shoulder, focuses on Ginger with intent. “You do everything this woman tells you, all right? You don’t speak to anyone. You don’t go anywhere or touch anything ‘less she tells you to.”

Din meets Ginger’s slightly startled look and cocks his head with a shrug. “You’re the boss.”

Jack fixes him with a raised finger in warning. “I would never say that.”

“It’s okay,” Ginger assures Din, as though she’s brushing Jack aside. “I’ll take care of you.”

But as his brother is turning away, something else occurs to Din. He doesn’t know why he thinks of it.

“Wait.”

Jack gives him an arched look. Din gestures between the two of them and thumbs the thin necklace of leather at his neck. “Should we….?”

Should they swap this, too?

Jack’s sober look wipes all other emotion from his face. He hesitates, eyes falling to Din’s neck. Something hardens behind his gaze. “Ni trikari, ni ne'lise.”

Din shouldn’t have asked in the first place. He nods, palming the shape of the steel amulet beneath his shirt. He can’t see any impression of Jack’s through his, but Din knows his twin must still wear its counterpart. No matter what else has passed between them, this one thing would not have changed. “Gar serim.”

“Hey.” Jack clasps his shoulder firmly, voice quiet. “No one will look that far. Trust me.”

Gratitude warms through the tight feeling that had briefly clenched his chest. Even the thought of parting with his own makes him tense. He doesn’t have many personal effects, but the pendant….

Ginger is watching them with a curious frown. “What language is that?” she asks gently.

Din’s stomach swoops. He glances at his brother, but sees none of his own wariness reflected back. It makes him feel better.

“An old one,” is all Jack says, then claps his hands together. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”

[jadekitty777]

An Older Brother’s Solemn Duty

So, this story honestly started out as a joke between me and a friend a few weeks ago when Ironqrow showed signs of possibly becoming canon. I brought up the thought of the two actually hooking up and what Taiyang would do if he found out and my conclusion was basically “he’d tease the hell out of Qrow”. This is that idea, expanded and more heartfelt, but also with a hearty dash of my brand of comedy.

I decided to write out the scenario into an actual ficlet as a gift for @lacependragon as a thank you to you for posting back up some of my favorite fics of yours at my request. I apologize it wasn’t finished sooner; I wanted it done by Monday but well. Life has not been particularly kind to me this week. Still, I hope you enjoy it.

Word Count: 2,900

Rating: M, for some suggestive language

Summary: During a mission briefing, Taiyang begins to suspect something is up with Qrow when he starts acting oddly out of character. He quickly discovers the reason behind it lies with the mission coordinator himself: James Ironwood.

Pairings: Ironqrow and mentions of past STR-Crossed

Ao3 Link: An Older Brother’s Solemn Duty

~

“Well this is…rustic.” Was Winter’s comment as Tai ushered everyone into the room. His daughter’s team, Team JNR, CFVY and SSSN, Oscar, Qrow, Ironwood and his many trusted operatives from Atlas including Penny, as well as Glynda, Bart and Pete all filed in.

“I do appreciate the accommodations Taiyang, but I was hoping we’d have a holograph at least.” James spoke up as everyone took a seat. The crowd was larger than his normal class size, so while most found desks to sit at, a few of them were stuck standing in the back.

“I have a projector from thirty years ago, if you have slides.” He waved towards the old, bulky gadget sitting atop one of the counters. It was old enough the plastic was discoloring where the device got hot, more of a sickly yellow than the beige it had been.

“Pass!”  Yang voted.

“Miss Xiao Long, another outburst will earn you a detention.” Tai said in his best teacher voice. He caught her sticking her tongue out at him as he turned back to James. He waved to the rectangular box of whiteboard supplies he always kept on his desk. “If you prefer, I also have markers in fun colors.”

The uncomfortable look on the other man’s face was priceless. “I… suppose that will do.”

“Oh!” Penny zipped to their side. “Allow me, sir! It would be my pleasure to draw up the diagrams.”

James straightened up, more assured now. “Yes that would be helpful.”

She eagerly picked up the box, “Oh they are fun!” and got right to work at an inhuman speed.

Tai marveled at it. Her writing was robotically neat, easy and clear to read. The drawings were equally fantastic. “Any chance I can hire her as a TA?”

“I’m afraid allowing you to take one of my finest soldiers is out of the question. But I’d be happy to look into donating for updated supplies.” He probably meant it too!

“Certainly wouldn’t be unwelcome.” He pat his shoulder. “Floor’s yours, General.”

“Thank you.” James turned to the room, getting into his authoritative pose, shoulders straight and hands behind his back. “As you are all well aware, we’ve gathered here today to discuss our plan of attack on clearing out the Grimm at Beacon.”

As the man continued, Taiyang headed to the back of the classroom, making Ruby giggle when he ruffled her hair as he passed by. He joined Qrow in the back, sharing a smile with him. It was nice having his family back home, plus the small troop of friends they’d bought along. Many were using the guest rooms and living room floor for bed space and their excitable presence tended to liven up the nights. Though, he knew all of it was only temporary. He tried not to dwell on that bit, instead listening to the drone of James’ voice as he debriefed them on the operation.

“Once we’ve gotten in range, Qrow I’d like you to use your reconnaissance skills to scope out the Grimm species and get a rough estimate of their numbers. The most critical entry points are here, here and here.” James was drawing X’s on those spots. “Once you’re able to do so, reconvene with Taiyang here and report back to us-”

“Wait.” Qrow spoke up drawing the General up short. “Just Tai?”

He looked back at them. “Well, yes. Is that an issue?”

Curious as well, Tai glanced at his brother-in-law.

He appeared rather out of sorts, as if he were one of his students who had suddenly been called on to answer a question on the board but hadn’t studied the material. “Don’t you think we’re a little shorthanded?”

“Your teamwork has always been outstanding. And as you’re taking the West Entry which is notably much narrower, more bodies will only encumber you both. However, if you feel uncertain, I could have Clover-”

“Uh no, nevermind.” Qrow interjected hastily. “You can keep going.”

James eyeballed him, raising an eyebrow, but if he had another comment, he didn’t broach it, instead turning back to the board. “Now, Team JNR, I’d like you to-”

Subtle as he could, Tai lent over, whispering, “Everything alright?”

It was strange. Qrow had never put up a protest about them working together before. They’d been partnered at Beacon for maiden’s sake. Even odder was his request for more back-up. There weren’t many people the other man felt comfortable working alongside, too stressed his semblance would do something unforetold to them. The more people, the more potential injuries and causalities he’d end up feeling responsible for – whether they truly were his fault or not.  

Tai knew he got a pass because his own semblance, the ability to create barriers, meant he could literally protect himself at a moment’s notice.

Or well, normally he got a pass.

But, whatever was going on in Qrow’s head, it seemed he wasn’t up to sharing as he shrugged it off. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

He frowned, but decided to drop it for now. Maybe he’d get him to open up about it at dinner.

The rest of the conference went off without a hitch and James finally dismissed them all roughly an hour and a half later. As the majority of the room cleared out, Tai caught snatches of conversation.

“So, you guys going to show us around?” Sun was opening the door with his tail, waving Yang and Ruby and their friends out like a gentleman.

“Tell me there’s a decent clothing store around here.” The leader of CFVY was mumbling as she got up from her seat to follow her team.

“Tai!” Bart’s voice caught his attention, the historian waving at him. “Perhaps we can get together tonight?”

He held up a hand in response. “Yeah sure! Come by around 8.” He headed to the front of the room.

James was talking with some of his troops. “Clover, you and Penny do one last calibrations check on the airships. I want to make absolutely certain that everything is in working order.”

“Of course sir. We’ll make sure nothing is missed.” He replied with a salute.

Taiyang studied the younger man curiously, remembering he’d been the one James had mentioned pairing them up with. He was in his early to mid-thirties, had short military-trimmed hair and an eye-catching smile. Certainly attractive. One look at his attire and he could clearly see why he might irk Qrow though. The four-leaf clover medallion was bad enough, but a rabbit’s foot and a horseshoe on his belt? He had to be awfully superstitious.

Clover caught him staring, winking in his direction.

Flirty too. He could get behind that. Tai offered as coy a smile as he dared before the other man departed.

He knew Qrow had caught it, because he heard him snort. He elbowed him in the ribs.

Ignoring the grunt behind him, he said, “Your operatives sure are interesting James.”

“That’s one word for them.” He offered the red marker back. “I apologize for having to use your classroom on such short notice.”

“It’s fine.” Tai replied, dropping it back in the box with the rest of the rainbow. Now where was the eraser? “Really, this whole thing is amazing. The restoration effort, getting back the school? It feels like we’re finally putting the world back together again.”

“Wouldn’t go that far. It’s just one small piece.” Qrow said as he leaned against his desk.

James sighed, running a hand over his beard. “There is certainly much work left to do. Haven. Mantle. But Vale needs its Huntsmen training again. And the kingdom needs its-”

“‘Beacon’ back?” Tai interrupted unabashedly.

It actually earned him a chuckle.

As well as a groan from Qrow. “Don’t laugh. You only make the puns stronger.”

“You just don’t want to admit they’ve groan on you.”

Qrow’s retaliation was to throw the nearest thing in reach at him. That was how he finally found the eraser.

James was laughing more in earnest now, which was even more surprising. Even off-duty, the General rarely was so openly expressive. Not that it was a bad thing; Tai had been saying for years how he needed to cut loose and relax more. He wondered what had changed.

“Hey, why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?” Tai suggested as he turned to the board. “And don’t do that ‘I don’t want to impose’ nonsense, because I already have a miniature army at my house.”

“The offer’s appreciated, but I do need to oversee some last-minute preparations for tomorrow.” He paused, then added cheekily, “And I don’t want to impose.”

Jokes too? He was getting tempted to pinch himself and check that he was really awake.

“Don’t make me throw this at you next.” He waved the eraser threateningly.

James held up a hand pacifyingly. “I apologize, maybe another time.” His eyes darted to the other man. “Though, Qrow, if you can swing by my ship, I’d like to go over your part of the mission more thoroughly with you. I should have some time around 6?”

“I can do that. But, you still need to eat Jimmy.” Qrow pointed out, his heel tapping rhythmically on the floor.

“As a matter fact, I have plans to have a nice bird tonight.”

Tai froze in the middle of wiping away the dust cartridge checklist. Wait… did he hear that right?

The tapping had stopped. “I suppose that’s good enough.”

“Excellent.” He straightened his cufflinks, saying, “Well then, I really should be going then. Gentleman.” With a tip of his head, James walked out the door, leaving only two.

Tai stared at where he had retreated. Then, deliberately slow, he pivoted towards Qrow, staring at him intensely.

“W-What?”

He lent towards him. His brother-in-law immediately shifted back.

“What!?”

He grinned in the absolutely most shit-eating way he could and said, “He’s having ‘bird’, hm?”

Qrow’s eyes widened, the shade that rose to his cheeks almost matching his eyes. “It-It’s not what you think!”

Oh, and he was actually flustered? Tai knew he had to be in deep on this one. And as the self-appointed older brother, there was only one thing to do with such a sensitive situation.

“Oh? My mistake I suppose.” He pulled back, fishing out his scroll.

Qrow watched him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing.” He shrugged, struggling hard to contain his smile. “Just texting James about how he can best prepare that bird of his.”

The look of horror that crossed Qrow’s face had him absolutely losing it. “TAI DON’T YOU DARE!”

Tai danced backwards as he came diving for it, holding his scroll up in the air, tapping a button. “Annnd send!” The second tackle got him, and the device was quickly wrested from his grasp.

“What did you tell him?!” Qrow practically shoved the screen into his face, his panic quickly morphing to confusion, then annoyance. “This isn’t James.”

Tai folded his arms under his head, smug as can be. “Not this time. And if you don’t want it to be next time, then you better spill it bud.”

“Have I ever told you how much I hate you?” He glared at him over the top of the scroll.

“Once or twice – Ack!” The scroll was dropped on his face as Qrow climbed back to his feet. He offered him a hand up too, so Tai knew he wasn’t actually too mad.

Getting Qrow to start talking was always a chore; but once he did, it was like breaking open a dam. Not a lot of people knew he was a chatterbox. Then again, not a lot of people took the time to get to know him well enough to learn the things he was passionate about. The first time Tai discovered Qrow could say more than six words during a conversation was when the Grimm Reaper came up one boring afternoon. It was like a flip had switched and suddenly he was recounting tales of all her old adventures, proudly showing off Harbinger as he detailed out how he mimicked her kamas, and sharing his crackpot theories about how she was actually still alive.

So to see him in a similar state of reverence, and over James Ironwood of all people, was very telling indeed.

Some time later found Qrow sat atop of Tai’s desk, finishing up the story about how the Atlas Celebratory Ball went, his gaze distant. “I couldn’t handle being around all the alcohol so I stepped out for some air. James followed after me and we talked a bit. Then he asked me to dance, right there on the balcony.”

Tai was directly across from him, sitting on one of the students’ desks. “Did you accept?”

“’Course I did, you think I’m a fool?”

A fool in love. Tai thought privately. “And? How was it?”

“It was fine.” He said with a shrug, like it hadn’t mattered. But the way he refused to meet his eyes gave him away completely.

He lent forward, raising a brow, “It was the most magical thing to have ever happened to you, wasn’t it?”

“C-Come on man, don’t say it like that!” Qrow was going bright red once more, turning away and covering his mouth to hide the grin forming there. “But, maybe.”

He laughed softly. “Knew it.” He hit the back of his heel against one of the desk legs. “This why you were so eager to have someone else on our team tomorrow? Were you hoping he’d get the hint and come along?”

This time, he looked a little guilty. “Yeah. Guess I owe you an apology for doing that back during third year.”

He remembered that – Qrow had actually gotten a little ticked off at him when he’d been constantly volunteering to work with one of the girls’ on homework, pair up on missions, seek them out during lunch hour or do whatever other half-baked idea he could come up with to spend more time with them. Since he’d been spacing it out so equally between Raven and Summer, his rather insecure best friend had taken it completely the wrong way, assuming he’d finally gotten tired of him and was purposely trying to create distance between them. Hand completely forced, Tai eventually had to admit to Qrow that he was crushing on both his sister and their leader (and was kind of freaking out about it).

While Qrow accepted this fact and even promised to keep it secret, he also spent the next few weeks see-sawing between calling him ridiculous and teasing him at every available avenue. Tai never held grudge over it but he did warn him that one day, he’d know what it was like too.

Seems that day finally came.

“Got to say, I’m a little heartbroken.” Tai placed a dramatic hand on his chest. “Suddenly I’m not enough for you?”

Qrow’s legs were long enough he could easily kick his knee. “Come off it.” He settled back on his hands, eyes trailing the floor now. “Honestly, I thought I’d feel the opposite way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I figured if I ever felt this strongly about someone else, I’d want them to be as far away from me as possible. Instead, I can barely wait to see him. It’s idiotic.”

Oh, wow. Tai regarded his best friend a long, quiet moment, joy filling him. “That’s what it’s like. Even if you could see a disaster coming, it doesn’t matter. Because being with them makes every second you do have worth it.”

Qrow arched a brow, asking knowingly, “Was that for Summer or Raven?”

“Both. I wouldn’t trade those days away for anything. Neither should you.” He slipped off the desk to step forward. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m really happy for you.”

“What, why?”

Unable to help it, he hooked his arm around his neck and yanked him forward, giving him a brutal noogie. “Because my lil’ bro is all grown up! Sober and falling in love! I’m so proud.”

“Ah! Ack! Stop it!” Qrow squawked as he squirmed in his grasp. “And I’m older than you!”

“Still the little brother.” He let him go, barely feeling the retaliatory punch in the arm. “I mean it though. It’s nice, seeing you this happy.”

“You make it sound like I never am.”

“No but, I always wished it was more frequent.”

“Oh. …Sorry.”

Tai shook his head, saying firmly. “Not something to apologize for. Though, if James is something that invokes such a feeling, he’s a keeper.”

Qrow looked away, that little lovesick smile back. “Yeah, I think he is too.”

Brothers, he was tempted to hug him. So, he did. Qrow took it as awkwardly as always.

“Come on.” Tai said, resisting the urge to swing him around in his own enthusiasm. “We better head home before everyone wonders if we’re having a secret affair.”

“You wish you could get some with an ass as nice as mine.” He joked right back, pulling away.

He leaned to the side, being as exaggerated as possible. “You have an ass?”

“Jimmy sure thinks so.” Qrow wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Tai just laughed shoving him towards the door. If he played his cards right, he just might be able to hear some of those stories too.

[mrs-dragneel-stark-solo]

Unforseen Chasm (Part 56)

Part 56 of Unforseen Chasm

Prompt: Two sisters fall for men that are absolute enemies. The love they have could tear all of them apart, or it could bring them together. Word Count: 1991 Warnings: Language, infinity war plot continues,  Note: This is by far the longest thing I’ve ever written (including my other fic series). first major Collab with my best friend @thorne93​​ what was first a simple “what if” moment turned into a two year writing session and I’ve never been more prouder of myself than when i started my first series. goes through most of the MCU plots there are some changes to accommodate for what we wanted and there is a bit of a crossover between the MCU and other characters. I hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing it.

“Do you have a plan?” Loki asked, as if he felt you already had one. The two of you stood in your apartment. It was eerily quiet and calm. Part of you wanted to stay in there where it was seemingly safe. You just wanted to grab Loki, wrap your arms around him, and pretend like none of this awfulness was happening. But you knew that was wrong. The universe needed you, both of you. Vision needed you.

“No. I don’t,” you answered shakily.

“Then what are we do--”

“I don’t know, okay? They can help Strange with the time stone. We need to get to Vision and warn him.” It was hard to keep the absolute panic out of your voice. Thanos… you’d escaped him once, but that was just barely. You knew it wouldn’t happen again, not now that he had two stones. He was about to complete his mission.

“And then what?”

“Then we fight. We protect Vision, and the rest of the stones at all costs. Loki, he can not get those stones, you know as well as I do life will cease to exist,” you pleaded.

“I know. Call Steve,” he said and you frowned ever so slightly. Loki had never, ever called him by any of his names. It was either Captain, or The Patriot.

But he knew this was serious. It was no time to beat around the bush or be clever.

Finally, the spell broke on you of the horror that snaked through both of you and you called him.

“Hello?” His voice sounded wary.

“Steve? Steve, it’s Y/N. Do you know where Vision is?”

“I may have an idea, why? What’s going on?”

“Thanos, the guy that took Loki and me? Brainwashed us. He’s coming to Earth. He may already be here. He’s sending his minions to find the infinity stones. One of them is already in New York, with Strange. Tony, Shannon, and Wong are helping protect it. Vision has the other one. Thanos already has two. He can’t get these other ones, Steve. He just can’t. He will end life as we know it.”

“Alright. What do you need me to do?”

“Get to Vision. Tell me where he is. I can help protect him.”

“He’s in Scotland. Glasgow. They’re staying at a hotel in downtown. Hang on… Grand Central Hotel.”

“Okay. Meet you there. Hurry. Call him if you can.”

“Will do.”

With that, you hung up and turned to Loki.

“We need to get to Scotland. Fast.”

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

You were able to take one of Tony’s jets and use its near supersonic speed to get you to Scotland in a matter of a few hours. You found the hotel but Vision, and you were assuming Wanda, weren’t there. You began walking the streets, hoping to find them, or Steve, when you suddenly you heard a scream.

Shit.

You and Loki took off running toward the sound. Only to find Wanda get catapulted into a store window and Corvus Glaive slam a scepter down onto Vision’s head, trying to draw out the stone.

“Hey, fuck bag!” you yelled, your dark energy flowing out of you, hitting him and knocking him off of Vision. Proxima raised her spear and chucked it at you but Loki caught it just before it hit you and he hurled it back at her, knocking her to the ground.

“Go!” you screamed to Wanda and Vision. She nodded, grabbing Vision with her power and going over the tops of buildings. “You gotta go through me, Corvus,” you said with a smirk.

“Too easy,” he said as he charged at you but you raised your hands and electrified him but he raised his spear and shot a spark of power at you knocking you off your feet. Loki tried to keep Proxima busy but at one point, they got away from both of you, fighting Wanda and Vision all over the city, on rooftops. By the time you flew up to the rooftop though, they were already fighting towards a glass ceiling, several feet away from you.

They crashed into a train station where you finally caught up to them, only to find Vision badly hurt, Wanda trying to protect him, and Steve across the tracks. You smiled at him and he stepped forward.

Natasha and Sam suddenly burst onto the scene, where Natasha stabbed Corvus in the stomach and you wanted to applaud her, but now was not the time. The three of them worked to fight Proxima and Corvus until Corvus lied on the ground and he couldn’t stand.

“We don’t want to kill you, but we will,” Natasha said as you approached them.

“You’ll never get the chance again,” she promised, which lit a fire inside you.

A beam of light came down and retrieved them, making you turn to Nat angrily. “You should’ve killed them.”

“What good would it have done?” she challenged.

“You have no idea what’s coming,” you said with accusation. “If we have any flicker of hope against Thanos, we can’t let his army get back to him.”

“I killed one of them, what more do you want?”

“I want every one who is in alliance with Thanos dead,” you deadpanned as you got close to her.

“Alright, alright, take it easy,” Steve ordered gently before getting between you and Natasha.

“I can’t, Steve. The fate of the universe depends on us stopping him. We can’t let any of them go.”

“Well, I didn’t see you taking any fatal shots,” he remarked. The comment made you stiffen and sigh. He was right, and that destroyed you. This was your fault they were alive too. “Alright. Now we need to get back to base.”

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

Steve, you, Nat, Vision, Wanda, and Loki walked into the Avengers Compound. Rhodey had been talking to Secretary Ross, the same man who sent most of your friends to jail.

You immediately found Shannon. She was standing at a table, mumbling to herself. You didn’t see Tony and your heart skipped a beat. You approached her, bracing for whatever she was about to tell you.

“Look who's back!” She rushed to you and the others. “Are you guys alright?” She pulled back from hugging you and looked to see who needed healing. “Come here Wanda, let me get rid of that cut.” She got closer and cleared the cut leaving a little irritation.

You shook your head. “Shan, where’s Tony? Stephen?” Your heart was pounding, waiting for an answer, fearing the absolute worse.

She looked over to you and she held her chest and her eyes began to water. “Ton-Tony’s up in space and I lost signal,” she wiped her tears. “He went after Peter to get him off the ship and figure out what their plan was.”

You stood there baffled. “Wait. Shan,” you started, feeling a panic attack coming on. “Back up. How the hell did Tony wind up on that ship? And Peter? Parker? The fucking kid? He’s on the ship? And Stephen…” You choked down a sob. “Tell me they’re not all lost in space with that fucking Squidward asshole… What happened?”

“One moment the three of us are fighting Maw and keeping Bruce safe, the next Peter swings in out of nowhere and is helping. Tony had him go after Maw because he took Strange and the time stone,” she was shaking really hard as she spoke. “Tony rushed after the two of them and had to enter the ship to get to them and I lost the signal once they were too far away.”

It felt as if all the blood had drained from you. “Stephen… is in the hands of Maw? With Tony and Peter and we can’t get ahold of them?” You started to really break down until Loki ran over and wrapped his arms around you, shushing you. He stroked your hair and kissed your head before pushing you slightly away from him.

“Love, I know you're scared, but we have a problem. We need to address it, now,” he reminded softly, but sternly.

“You’re right,” you agreed, swallowing your tears. “Shannon,” you said before wrapping her in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. We’ll find Tony, alright? We need to find Thanos first. He’s our main objective. Those three can handle that idiot Maw, okay?” You rubbed her arm, trying to keep her calm and refocus her, just as Loki had done for you.

“I know Y/N, there goes Tony again doing something crazy.” she tried to laugh but it made her cry more. “You’re right we need to focus.” In that instant she focused up and was in mission mode. “Alright this is what we know so far…” she went off to explain what she knew and let Steve continue.

“Alright, Y/N, Loki, you two spent the most time with Thanos out of everyone here, what does he want? What are we looking at?” Steve demanded once all the troops were rounded up. Bruce went to get cleaned up and Pietro had to be retrieved from his place in hiding.

“The biggest army in the universe,” you said without hesitation. “The only reason we didn’t win in New York is because subconsciously we didn’t want to. I’m not saying that to start a pissing contest. I’m stating it as a fact. With Thanos army alone, a monkey could win, but we didn’t want to.”

“Could’ve fooled us,” Rhodey remarked and you made a face of chagrin.

“So what’s his mission? What does he want?”

“Annihilation. He wants to gather all six infinity stones and with the snap of his fingers, he can wipe out half of all life across the universe.” After Charles had removed your brainwashing a long time ago, he’d also somehow restored the memories of Thanos’s plans that you’d overheard time and time again on Sanctuary. Thanos probably removed them to make sure you didn’t betray him in any way. Now though, that knowledge was extremely useful and caused you no pain to remember it. You told the Avengers everything you could to help them. He had to be stopped at any and all costs.

“And he already has two,” Steve realized.

“Which is more than anyone has ever had, except for Loki and myself when we had the Tesseract and the scepter, but even then, they were in vessels. Now, the mind stone is on Vision’s head and Thanos crushed the tesseract to get the space stone,” you explained.

“But back in New York we didn’t have Wanda or Vision,” Nat started. “Plus you and Loki are on our side now, right?”

“Of course,” you said as if it was obvious. “You’ll have me, Shannon, and the rest of you. We have a chance, a better chance… but if we are facing Thanos himself… he’s like a rabid dog when it comes to these stones. He won’t stop until he has them all even Vision’s,” you solemnly told them as you peered at Wanda and Vision.

They looked back at you with a look like they didn’t want to believe you but they knew that you were telling the truth.

“Then we have to protect it,” Natasha responded.

“No, we have to destroy it. I've been giving a good deal of thought to this entity in my head, about its nature. But also, its composition. I think if it were exposed to a sufficiently powerful energy source, something, very similar to its own signature, perhaps… its molecular integrity could fail,” Vision suddenly said, aiming it at Wanda.

“And you, with it. We're not having this conversation,” she remarked.

The next few minutes were spent debating on whether or not Vision’s stone had to be destroyed. You didn’t weigh in on the matter. This was Vision and Wanda’s choice.

Finally, Bruce concluded that perhaps Wakanda would have the resources they needed to extract the stone, so that’s where everyone headed.

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[words-writ-in-starlight]

Hullo! Please could I get a 1 or a 23 for Shakarian? 😁

Somehow you SENSED that I spent all of yesterday looking at gifs of my favorite battle couple to calm down in the financial aid office, congratulations on being psychic.  This got very long.  

For this headcanon meme!  Also specifically I’m using Gabriel Shepard from this series I’ve been writing.

1. How do they fall asleep?  Wake up?  Any daily rituals?

As a pair of dedicated workaholics trying to save the universe, they sleep when and where they can get it--while they were hunting the Collectors, Garrus discovered that he had to keep a sharp eye out when Shepard came down to sit in the battery, or she might fall asleep on a counter or crate.  After they’re more formally together, they have a slightly more regular sleep schedule.  Turians have different sleep needs than humans, doing best on two or three three-ish hour naps rather than one long one--after Sovereign, and the fallout from Sovereign, Gabriel slept for fourteen hours and Garrus would have thought she’d died if not for the fact that Chakwas wasn’t concerned.  This means that it’s not uncommon for one of them to be up and the other to be asleep more than once during Normandy’s ‘night’ cycle, so they accommodate that.  

Basically what this means is that while they have perfected a good position for falling asleep together, it’s much more common for one of them to be sitting up doing work and the other to curl around them like a cat in their sleep.  Shepard is especially annoying about it, mostly because when she rolls over and ends up exactly where Garrus’ tablet needs to be, he can’t bring himself to wake her up.  Shepard, on the other hand, is perfectly happy to have Garrus asleep with his head pillowed on her stomach, because she can rest her tablet on his keel and have her very own lap desk.

In terms of waking up, when things are dire, they’re quick about it--they get up, get dressed, drink something caffeinated (fun fact: caffeine is an achiral molecule so therefore I declare them both diehard caffeine addicts), and roll out.  It’s the legacy of a lot of training on both parts, and a lot of recent nerve-frying paranoia.  When things are not dire, or when they’ve just resolved the immediate problem and thus lowered the urgency level a little, Garrus gets up first because, as Gabriel declares whenever asked, she’s Commander Fucking Shepard and she deserves to sleep in.  Garrus makes her coffee to his best ability (passable) and once even tried his hand at breakfast (unsuccessful) and eventually comes to heckle her into getting up.  That conversation is usually something like:

Garrus: “Come on, you have a call with Anderson in an hour.  Get up or I’ll make you get up.”

Shepard: *mumbling*

Garrus, laughing: “What did you just call me?”

Shepard, cracking an eye to look at him: “I said, come back with a warrant, you fucking cop.”

And then she drags him down into bed with her.

23. How do they hug?  Kiss?  Tease?  Flirt?  Comfort?

Turians are not...intrinsically huggable beings, but humans are, and Garrus came around real fast.  He likes to pull Shepard into his lap so that he can wrap himself around her fragile skin and bones like armor.  Shepard, who hasn’t been the recipient of regular touching since Akuze, takes a while to get used to it (can you spell touch-starved), but it’s...nice, she’ll admit that.  It’s nice to have someone’s hand on her just because she’s there and they want to, without ulterior motive or threat of violence.  And Garrus likes to be touching her when he can, he likes to know she’s there with him and alive and kicking, he likes to have an arm on her shoulder or a hand in hers or, yeah, a hug.  Everyone on Normandy gets used to the fact that, when they’re relaxed and informal, Shepard tends to end up in Garrus’ lap after the first few hours.  

Speaking of things that turians aren’t really built for, proper kissing is mostly a moot point.  Garrus does it because Shepard clearly finds it charming, the way he’ll bump his mouth against the crown of her head in a fond gesture, and Shepard kisses his jaw or his cheek plate when he bends down enough (or the back of his neck if he’s sitting down, she likes to watch him jump), but what humans would class as “making out” is kind of a nonstarter.  Turians press their browplates together to show affection, so Garrus and Shepard do that as well--this feeds into Garrus’ fondness for having Shepard on his lap because, if she’s facing him, it puts them on roughly even footing so that they can be face-to-face.  One time he admitted this to Gabriel and, on the one hand, she has not stopped calling him a sap since, but on the other hand, she makes a point to drop down into his lap a lot more since he said it, so he will take the win.

In terms of teasing, they’ve been getting the Old Married Couple snark down pat since day one.  Gabriel took cheap shots at Garrus’ work repairing the Mako, he made cracks about her driving, and it pretty much went on that way from there.  They’re both insufferably smug whenever they pass the other on their kill count, and when they’re on the losing end, they’re both more than ready to “helpfully” point out problems with combat style that make the other person’s win somehow not legitimate (”Just because you can bull rush the Guardians doesn’t mean you should”//“Does it even count if I bought you the gun and all its upgrades?”).

In terms of flirting, well, honestly the teasing covers a lot of it, and they’re both hopelessly awkward when they try to flirt (the only reason they ever got anywhere is because of the impending threat of death, to be honest), but also three shots of some kind of liquor under good circumstances will make both of them suddenly proficient at bad pickup lines.  Tali has thus far collected about a twenty minute video compilation of it, which she plans to use as blackmail when an opportune moment comes up.

Neither of them is really any good at being comforted.  Gabriel usually needs to talk it out--often with alcohol--and honestly a lot of Garrus’ coping mechanisms involve shooting something to calm down before he deals with it.  Fortunately, Shepard is always game to go roust a Cerberus outpost or hit a shooting range so that they can decompress a little, and then they usually go back to the Normandy for the alcohol and talking part of it all.  Gabriel tends to lock up when people try to comfort her and Garrus doesn’t like being seen to be in distress by people he doesn’t trust completely, and while those match up well, it also means that it’s not uncommon for everyone to think they’re completely fine through an entire mission, followed by the two of them having a bit of a breakdown the second they’re behind closed doors.  Weirdly this was early bonding material for them, because they have very compatible patterns of “cope, fall apart, pick yourself up, go back to coping”.

The exception to this rule is nightmares.  If one of them wakes up from a nightmare and the other one is there, they’ll curl up together until everyone’s heart rate slows down again.  No talking, just touch.  If they feel like talking afterward, fine, but there’s an unspoken rule that nightmares never get discussed right away.

[buriedinbleach]

You are amazing! Please fill my pervy mind with images of Kensei spending alone time with himself. I need to know all the details! Thank you for doing god's work 😁

Um… I love this. So delicious! I’m so glad there’s so many people that share my overwhelming thirst for that babe. Bless. This got a bit long too. Forgive me, I love him and got carried away. Its part HC, with a dash of smutty drabble at the end because I lack impulse control and we all know what kinda detailed smut you expect from me by now.

Let’s go over a day in the life of Kensei while you’re away, shall we? We shall. Just know, your absence affects a lot of shinigami - not just Kensei.

*You just had to go off on a mission and leave him at home by himself, didn’t you? Well, its your job, of course you did. Kensei has a high sense of duty and honor, so he understands. But that sure as shit doesn’t mean he has to like it, ok? How the hell is the poor man supposed to sleep now? He’s gotten used to having you snuggled up around his body at night - he likes it - and now he’s on his own until you get back. What the hell is he supposed to do by himself?!

*As previously established, Kensei has a high sex drive. I’ll say it again: High. So it wouldn’t take long for the nagging itch to start needling his body, making him even more edgy and irritable than normal. But Kensei also prides himself on his resistance and ability to delay gratification (he’s a pro), so he’s not going to give in easily. He’s a Captain. He has shit to do, damnit.

*Kensei is an early riser, even more so when he’s been lying awake half the night because his cuddle buddy is gone. (Kensei: “Shinji, you’re a dead man if you ever mention you heard that. Dead.”) So he’ll make himself a quick morning protein shake and head down to his home gym for a lengthy workout - blasting Pantera, scowling adorably while he puts those muscles through the ringer.

*After some good exercise, he’ll squeeze in a quick cold shower. The water was a normal temperature for all of two seconds, but as he faced the wall, his thoughts inevitably trailed back to the shower you took together yesterday morning before you left. He picked you up and held you against the smooth tiles, railing you nice and slow while you gripped his shoulders. He can still see the faint red, crescent shaped marks from your nails. Still feel you clenching around him, hear you crying out... ‘Shit. No time, I’m gonna be late.’

*Work is rough. For everyone. You were kind enough (to the rest of the Ninth) to send Shuhei a quick message when you received your mission orders though. He’s been around long enough to read the early warning signs of Kensei’s moods and knows that any significant absence from you makes for one seriously grumpy Captain Muguruma. (Note: you’ve been gone roughly 24 hours at this point. And that counts as significant absence in Kensei’s book.)

-Mashiro is absolutely banned from approaching within 50 feet of Kensei. Shuhei takes it upon himself to give her the day off. She doesn’t argue and for once, Kensei doesn’t ask where she went. Its a winning combination.

-The rest of the division isn’t so lucky. The effects of the strenuous workout Kensei put himself through that morning have mostly worn off. The sound of leather cracking as he clenches and unclenches his fists can only mean one thing: Extra Training. All Day. For Everyone. No Excuses, pansies.

-By the time Kensei is finished with them, a third of his division is visiting the Fourth for medical treatment. Kenpachi would be proud. Their injuries range from minor scrapes and bruises, to a few serious gashes and broken bones. More than half the shinigami receiving treatment are merely faking it in order to escape any more punishment from Kensei.

*Eventually, he’ll have to return home though. Still very much alone. He’ll make himself dinner, read over the mission reports he brought home to pass the time, then eventually head off to bed when he’s run out of other things to do. But in your shared bedroom, he can’t stop himself from thinking about you anymore.

*Kensei’s first hint of trouble comes as soon as he drops down into bed. Your scent surrounds him, as if its woven into the threads of the fabric. He’ll tilt his head to your side of the bed, discreetly smelling your pillow. He might be alone, but he’s not about to admit how much he’s missing you - even if its only to himself. Kensei takes a long, deep breath and holds it, picturing you before exhaling. Your face, your smile, your laugh, even the satisfied smirk you’d be giving him if you knew what he was doing and how much he’s missed you… he’s already half-hard. Fuck.

*He’ll grit his teeth, mentally admitting defeat, and reach for his phone - quickly preparing to type out a message, or dial your number just to hear your voice, but he stops himself. Once more, he can hear your teasing voice delighted with his current ‘predicament’. It sounds so clear, Kensei could swear you were right there with him:

“Are you that excited just thinking about me? You’re already hard, babe.” He can picture your confident smile, feel the heat from your body as you prowl up the bed over him. Imaginary or not, the warmth of your lips - your tongue - as you kiss and lick up his neck feels all too real. His imagination seems to become more vivid the longer he tries to hold out.

He shifts his hips restlessly, his throbbing erection now straining his shorts uncomfortably. Kensei groans, closing his eyes, and turns his face away - still feeling your tongue glide up his neck before your heated breath hits his ear. He inhales deeply through his nose, opening his eyes, but he immediately catches a glimpse of a sheer lace nightie you had left hanging on the back of the door.

“Mmm, that’s your favorite, isn’t it Kensei? Its the only one you haven’t ripped off me yet.”

Kensei pictures you moving to straddle his hips, touching his cheek to pull his dark gaze back to you. His dick throbs, while his mind quickly races over images of you wearing the nightie. Your nipples turn to hard pebbles as he sucks and teases them through the fabric. You grind your hips over his shaft, gripping his hair and holding his mouth against your breast.

‘Fuck it. This isn’t going away.’

Kensei quickly shoves his boxer briefs down his hips, tossing them from the bed. He strokes his hand steadily over his hard shaft, mimicking the precise pressure and the maddeningly slow, delicate roll of your hips as you tease him. He cinches his eyes tightly shut, his tongue moves languidly in his mouth as he pictures the point of it flicking over your lace covered nipple again. Your sharp hiss is followed by a combination of breathy sighs and moans that make him grin while his cock twitches, begging to be deep inside you instead of wrapped in his own hand.

He watches you with hungry, heavy-lidded eyes as you peel the lingerie off your body, giving him a seductive smile - never once stopping the torturous grind of your hips. A low groan rolls through his chest feeling you grip his shaft, imagining you biting your lower lip, before finally rising up to your knees and sinking down onto him - impaling your body with his.

Kensei’s hand tightens and slides down his girth in his best attempt at matching the vice grip of your inner walls around his cock while your muscles stretch to accommodate him. He grinds his head back against the pillow, arching his hips up at the mere memory of thrusting into your delicious heat. His breaths come faster - heavier - and he quickens the pace of his strokes. Kensei licks his lips, his fantasy becoming clearer the closer he comes to his release.

He can almost feel your fingers sink into the hard planes of his chest as you ride him. His ears hear nothing in the empty room but the ghost of your panting moans mixed with his own ragged breaths. The warmth pooling in his gut begins to spread. Kensei grits his teeth, his jaw strains, holding out until he hears your blissful cries and feels your walls pulsate around his cock, gripping and pulling him - over and over.

‘Fuck!’ Kensei growls sharply as his own hand mimics the rhythm of your body until he finally gives in to his own release, spilling over his hand with a final, deep groan.

Kensei lies in bed, taking a few deep breaths to reorient himself before doing a quick bit of clean up and sinking back down onto the soft futon. With one arm propped behind his head, his other drapes over the firm muscles of his abdomen, and he stares up at the ceiling.

‘Two more days. Shit.’

[imaginesnkdorks]

Can I get a Erwin x reader where she is a cadet placed in Hanjis squad and at first Erwin isn't paying attention to her until the try to capture the female Titan her 3D gear isn't working so she fall in and is surrounded by titans but they don't eat her the reason being is that she's invisible titans

“It Starts with the Name”

Pairing: Erwin X Reader

Genre: One-Sided (?) Pining

Warning/s: None

Words: 2071

[A/N: Hi! I know, I’ve been MIA and this took me a hundred years. Also, I am a bit rusty. I may be focused more on how the reader seems to be stuck in a one-sided crush.]

Jean was unusually quiet. I shouldn’t be surprised, really. After what happened to Trost - to Marco - he’s actually holding up better than most of us.

“I’m joining the Survey Corps!” Jean suddenly declared. Sasha and the others reacted to that. Who wouldn’t? Jean is probably the last person you’d think would join the Survey Corps. It’s what he and Eren fight about constantly. He’s not alone in that change of heart, though.

“Get in line!” The officials began calling. It’s time to decide which branch of the Army we’ll join.

The first presenter was Commander Erwin Smith of the Survey Corps.

“Wow.” I couldn’t help myself but be amazed, earning a glare from Ymir. I’ve heard rumors, but Erwin Smith really is as dashing as they say! Striking blue eyes, thick blond hair, regal posture, and strong eyebrows… one wouldn’t think he was a soldier let alone the commander!

His speech went over my head, as I found myself focusing more on his face… arms… chest… when people suddenly began walking away.

“What’s happening?” I asked no one in particular. Turning around, I saw Sasha and Connie looking very pale, Krista by my side looked like she’s about to cry. Oh. This must be it, deciding whether we become Survey Corps soldiers?

It didn’t take long before only a handful of us was left. Out of our whole class, barely twenty stayed. Am I really going to join this death-filled army branch just because I’m smitten with the Commander?

Commander Erwin broke the tense silence, “Can you die if ordered to?”

***

“Three years of training wasn’t enough?!” I complained loudly as my friends and I walked to the mess hall.

“But it’s only natural, Y/N! We weren’t taught the Survey Corps strategy while we were trainees.” Armin said.

“And we have to protect Eren this time.” Mikasa added. As usual, all she ever thought about is Eren.

“I know. It’s just annoying, is all.” I felt a little embarrassed for whining like a child. They were right. Being part of the Survey Corps is entirely different from being trainees, and we’re only one week into it.

“Eren is already a part of Captain Levi’s Squad. An elite squad.” Mumbled Jean, bitterly. “I wonder which squad we’ll be in?”

A tingle of excitement began in my chest. I’ve been looking forward to our squad assignments. I hope to get into Commander Erwin’s elite squad. I know only the best of the best gets to follow his direct orders – like right from his mouth – yet I can’t help but dream.

“I hope I’ll be in Eren’s squad.” Said Jean… I jest. Of course, Mikasa wished that. I guess it’s possible of her to join – she’s amazing when it comes to dispatching Titans.

“Good luck with that. What about you, Y/N?” Jean asked me, slapping me on the back.

“Uh, well… I’d like to work directly under the Commander.”

“Ha? We’re all working directly under the Commander.” As expected, Jean was an idiot. I wanted to tell him exactly what I meant, but just the mere thought of it is making heat climb up from my neck up to my ears.

“It’s pretty obvious what Y/N meant, horse face!” Announced Ymir as she caught up to step with me, nudging me with her elbow. Tsk, her seeing and hearing me being amazed by Erwin’s mere appearance totally came back to haunt me. Not a day goes by without her hinting at that.

Krista – bless her soul – tried to stop Ymir, which only egged on the other idiots into asking me.

“He is the Commander. We all do work under him.” Connie said, scratching his head and looking so much like an egg.

“I don’t think that’s what she meant.” Sasha took the reign of conversation, making me think that would signal the end of this. I was wrong. Sasha was worse than Ymir. “Y/N probably meant she wants to work with Commander Erwin. In his office. Bring him tea, pile his papers, or wake him up in the morning.”

“Wake him up? Exactly what made you think that?” I can’t believe it! Why would Sasha say that?

“It’s because I see the way you look at hi – Ah! What?!” Sasha was about to go on when Connie nudged her.

“Shhh! Commander Smith is right there!” Connie pointed directly in front of us. Maybe ten steps – fifteen? – in front of us. And as luck would have it, we were making such a huge fuss Erwin turned to look at us. My mouth was suddenly very dry.

“Ah, new recruits. I hope you’re all finding your accommodations suited to your needs.” He said… he’s talking to us! Face to face!

“Yes, sir!” Armin, Sasha, Krista, and Connie were the first to answer.

“Good to know.” Erwin said, scanning our faces. Then his eyes landed on me. On. My. Face.! He smiled! He smiled while looking at me! Then walked, straight and seemingly on a mission!

“Excuse me. Hange!” he walked right past me. He wasn’t looking at me.

“Don’t look so downtrodden. You looked like a puppy that’s been kicked.” Ymir in what I suspect her try at being encouraging.

“I know.” Is all that I could say.

Things like this kept happening in the next few days. I would see the Commander around HQ, greet him and he would greet back with this far-off look in his eyes – as if his very spirit and mind is already out of the walls and fighting Titans!

I can’t get him to notice me, and I’ve heard him call Armin and Mikasa by their names! This actually pushed me to do better in our extended training – just so he’d notice me. In a blink, it was already time for us to receive our squad assignments.

“Hange’s Squad?” No. It just can’t happen! Needless to say, disappointment flooded me up until the expedition. I know, I should be dedicated to our cause. Just, let me grieve a little. I feel so close, yet so far.

***

Our first expedition and everything seemed to have gone wrong. We were dashing through the Forest of Giant Trees, before reaching a point where the Commander was waiting with his elites. Hange commanded our squad to stop and set up the contents of our wagons. Canons? Exactly what are we doing here?

“Y/N!” Squad Leader Hange approached me the moment we finished setting up. “Tell Erwin we’re done with setting up. And stay and help him with giving the signal.” Somehow, Hange’s eyes had this dangerous glint to them, and I don’t think that was meant for the Titans we are sure to encounter.

“Commander! Set up is finished. We’ll just be waiting for the signal.” I reported, complete with a salute. He just nodded at me. But I won’t give up. I took the signals set aside and waited. For what? For the most dangerous Titan, maybe, ever.

“What is that thing?” I can hear it, the heavy footsteps that could only belong to a Titan. I can feel it, coming closer every second. A high-pitched ring came out of nowhere, then Captain Levi’s squad, then the Titan!

“Now!” Erwin commanded, and I flashed the signal. Blasts of the canons went off continuously, latching onto the Titan.

“We’re trying to catch it?” I whispered, yet somehow, Commander Erwin heard it.

“Yes.” He answered me. He actually talked to me! It’s one word, still… it’s something. My celebration didn’t last long. The sight of this Titan actually pulled my attention from Erwin.

There’s something different about it. It wasn’t trying to escape. It seemed to be watching us, observing. A shiver went up to my spine.

“Looks like it stopped moving.” Captain Levi was right beside the Commander all of a sudden. His blades were drawn and I could tell he wanted to carve up this Titan right away. This close, I could feel just how lethal our legendary Captain Levi is.

A few more shots were fired, Commander Erwin is understandably pissed. And when Mike and Levi went in for the nape, the hands covering it turned into some kind of crystal in an instant!

“Impossible!” No one told us about this! Squad Leader Mike zipped up to where we were and his blades were ruined, in just a single strike.

“Y/N.” Erwin called me by my name! He knows my name! I have no time to celebrate, but I really, really want everyone to know that Erwin knows my name.

“Yes, sir?”

“Prepare the explosives. Blow off its hands.”

“Yes, sir.” But then, will that be enough to destroy the hardened skin? Or will we have to use a lot of our supply? We carried wagons! This is clearly a Titan like Eren. Blowing it up like that might kill whoever’s inside. I shred this worried with Erwin.

“Then set them to amputate the wrists.” He then started walking, closer to me. Leaning! And with a hand on my shoulder, he continued, “set them all off at my signal.” I was giddy. I know that’s not right, but I can’t help it. He knows my name!

I zipped down to Squad Leader Hange, ready to relay the command. It was when sputtering noise came from my 3DM gear. Ugh! I did what I came to do, and started whacking my gear. I really should’ve stayed with Armin and Marco whenever they did their gear maintenance.

I was halfway back up when I heard the loudest and most horrible scream that there could possibly be.

Landing ungracefully, I turned to the Commander, “what was that?”

Squad Leader Mike suddenly landed, “Erwin it stinks!” Oh no.

I was paralyzed. I could feel the rumble way before I heard them. Hordes of Titans! It was a blur, but I know I saw one of the firsts Titans to clutch onto our captured one and bit onto its leg.

“A Titan, eating a Titan?” It was all happening so fast! More Titans were in our vicinity.

“All men, engage!” Commanded Erwin. “Defend the Female Titan even if it means your lives!”

“Yes!” I was ready to put my skills to use, but as luck would have it, my 3DM gear’s cord was stuck! I fell maybe three feet, Titans running all around, soldiers zipping up above. I’m going to die like this? Stepped on by Titans – not even on purpose?

“Come on, you hunk of metal!” Useless!  Before I could try anything else, I was grabbed by a strong arm – human arm!

“Are you alright, Y/N?” It was Erwin! And he still knows my name! “Y/N?”

“Ye..yes.” Despite the joy I’m feeling, coldness was running through my veins, and my legs seem to be melting. “Thank you.”

It was a whirlwind of Titan parts after that.

With my useless gear, Commander Erwin helped me down and towards the horses. I was able to ride alongside him and Hange. We didn’t have time to do anything else as the mission was a failure. We rode our horses until we were far away from the Forest of Giant Trees.

***

We were able to catch a break, in a strategically disadvantageous clear field. Sorting out the dead and the injured. I felt selfish as all I was doing was fix my gear – or at least try to.

“Here, let me.” Out of nowhere, Commander Erwin approached. “Your cords are tangled, and they need some oil.”

“Okay.” I was able to observe him, how his usually stern face was gentle, tired but gentle. His hands delicately handling the gear. He was breathtaking.

“Here. That should do it. You really have to do regular maintenance on your gear, Y/N.” He smiled. At me! “Why the look of surprise?” And now he chuckled.

“I, uh, didn’t know you knew my name, sir.”

“Of course, I’d know your name.” Erwin said, kindness overflowing his voice. “It’s natural I’d know the name of the most hardworking person I know. You never fail to amaze me.”

All this time, I thought he didn’t notice me. Wow. My heart felt so warm and so full it could probably burst. I know that right now, we are weighed down by the mission we just lived through, and this moment was tinged by the sadness of losing our colleagues. But I have faith that this is just the beginning, and things will definitely get better.

Copyright © 2019 by imaginesnkdorks. All rights reserved 

[weepingvoidpenguin]

True to Name

Summary: Loki has long since been forgiven, begrudgingly so by Tony, for his actions in New York so long as he continue to redeem himself by helping out the Avengers. Though Loki doesn’t mind doing good things, he only gets to be mischievous on missions, which believe it or not don’t happen quite as often as he’d expected, so he has chosen a victim to take out his mischievous actions on. You. 

Warnings: Smut and fluff, trying to make it a slow build-up (as slow as I can in a one-shot) Swearing, angst

NOTICE: So I thought this was going to be smutty but I was kind of feeling a bit angsty and thought I should make this into a series rather than a one-shot because getting into smut after where I left off didn’t feel right but 4,000 words is also a lot and I didn’t want to triple it with smut and more plot so just let me know if you’d like a part 2 and 3!

Word Count: 4,007

   You and your boyfriend Sam were sitting on the couch in the living room watching a movie with the rest of the Avengers. It was everyone’s second week off from any missions, the smaller ones were given to SHIELD agents but because of the sparseness of major missions, one or two of you guys would accompany the agents. Mostly to keep your skills sharp, though. 

   So, on the second week of no activity at all, you all decided to come together and watch a movie for meager entertainment. After all, Stark’s living room was big enough for ten times the team to accommodate and still be comfortable in. So you all picked a time later today and you all picked a movie. Considering the lack of activity, you’d all agreed to a movie marathon so everyone was happy.

   Sam patted your legs to signal that he needed to get up so you lifted your legs and set them back down without moving your head so Natasha could continue soothingly running her fingers through your hair. Minutes later, Sam returned with a bowl of fresh popcorn and he smiled as he offered you some.

   Your relationship with Sam was new. Like, less than a week kind of new. You two didn’t share your relationship status with the team but everyone suspected seeing as you two were always together. Though that wasn’t strange. You two had been close since meeting. Everything clicked between you two and the flow was easy. He was your soulmate and you knew it.

   But not that kind of soulmate you’d hoped for.

   Honestly, you viewed him more as an inevitable best friend. More like, I’ve met you in a past life and you were my brother, kind of thing. But he’d always been so kind and caring with you that when he asked you on a date to test the waters, you couldn’t say no. And you hadn’t dated anyone in so long that you decided to keep going with it and have someone keep you company. But you knew in the long run that nothing would come from this. Though you’d said yes to dating him, you knew you wouldn’t stay with him long enough to give him the impression that it’d be time to propose ever. 

   You weren’t completely sure why you were with him knowing what you do. You’d hoped that maybe your feelings towards him would evolve into something a bit more intimate so you tried to work through it. You convinced yourself that the longer you stayed the more likely you were to fall in love. But, of course, you knew it didn’t work that way.

   You smiled back at Sam and grabbed a handful from the bowl, feeding some to yourself as well as to Natasha above you. 

   An intense part on the screen showed up, one of gore and your whole body stiffened with the images that sprawled across the TV. That was when the door to the living room opened and you gladly welcomed the distraction, already knowing who was walking through the door considering everyone else was sat around you.

   You watched as Loki swaggered into the room, seemingly uninterested in the movie playing. He was the ONLY one who hadn’t agreed to a movie marathon, for whatever reason. But you kind of understood, not everyone has necessarily warmed up to him yet. 

   The God of Mischief scanned the room with his eyes after filling up a glass of water and eventually found a spot on you. He stared intensely from behind the glass raised to his lips and you would’ve stared back just the same had it not been for Nat playing with your hair a little too roughly. You looked up at her and she had a curious eyebrow raised at you. With just the look you knew what she was trying to ask but you shook your head and tried to turn all of your attention back towards the movie.

   While Sam had been your best friend for the longest, Loki had been your longing and desire for months now. When he first arrived, you were quick to accept him because you hadn’t been around for the attack on New York so you weren’t traumatized like the others. He had spoken to you respectfully and you thought you had grown a friendship with him but it was obvious that it was a bit more than that.

   When you had first met him, you were in the garden that Tony planted for your birthday. He’d noticed you were sad at the compound because everything seemed so dull and Tony had a soft spot for you considering you were only a few years older than Peter. So while you were out there, Thor was making formal introductions and Loki had wandered off while Thor attended a last minute meeting with Tony. 

   He ended up in the garden with you. At first, he watched as you basked in the view of the garden, taking in everything from the beautiful sight to the intoxicating smells. You felt eyes on you but considering there were so many people at the compound, and the garden was known for its relaxing energy, you weren’t bothered in the least. You continued to mind your own business but you had to return inside eventually so you decided to take a piece of the garden with you. You plucked a few bright red roses for their smell and looked around at your other options, still not satisfied with your pick.

   “Perhaps a bit of a color clash?” Loki came up behind you and handed you some small sunflowers.

   You smiled kindly at him and accepted the flowers, mixing them together amongst the roses.

  That was the start to a pretty beautiful friendship until the previous statement of it seeming like a little more. He would always focus on you, let his eyes linger a little too long, let his hands teasingly brush against your lower back, or even move your hair and tuck it behind your ear. Those little actions make your stomach nauseous and your body tingle. But it was obvious that he was only playing with you. After months of continuous actions such as these, he never made an actual advance or ask to hang out. You understood that maybe it was because that’s not how things went down in Asgard but after watching movie after movie after TV show, you’d thought he would’ve caught on by now. 

   And let’s be real, you would’ve asked him had you not been so disheartened that he seemed to be doing the same thing to female recruits he was training. You saw how he let his hands linger on a recruit’s waist when showing her how she should stand depending on a defensive or offensive attack. So, later on, when Sam asked to give you guys a try, you had accepted. 

   A figure blocking your path to the TV snapped you out of your thoughts and you looked up at the jet-black haired God before he sat down on the floor in front of your cushion. His back faced you and he leaned against the cushion, causing a slight touch of his shoulder to your hips. 

   Your heart beat seemed to stop completely and you focused on the God before you. Everything about him, down to his scent was nothing but alluring for you. It called out to you. HE called out to you. 

   You found your hand involuntarily moving towards his head before clasping some hair and rubbing leisurely at his skull. The moan that followed after made your stomach curl and you grew paranoid wondering if everyone could see what he did to you. You felt shame at the instinctive feelings but did nothing to try and fight them. You let the sound of his moan arouse you and you continued to ruffle through his hair in an attempt to hear it again. 

   He relaxed into your touch, slouching on the floor and allowing his head to rest completely against your thigh. His eyes were closed as he reveled in the feeling of the scalp massage. You gulped again, hoping it wasn’t as loud as you believed it was.

   You watched the rest of the movie this way, merely enjoying playing with him and watching as he slowly fell asleep to your touch.

   Once the movie ended, everyone stood up and stretched seeing as this was the end of your third movie and you still had quite a bit to go. You all went your way to use the bathroom and determine what to have for dinner. Tony suggested calling his chef but she had just left and you felt it wrong to force her to come back. Nat suggested making an order to go at a restaurant but one you would have to go and get it which would put movie watching to a pause. So, of course, you all agreed on the same food. Pizza. 

   Tony wrote down the orders, a few large cheese and some pepperonis, a cheese bread, some drinks here and there and two stuffed crust options as well. It sounded like a lot but you knew everyone was gonna gulf down as soon as it arrived, you’d be lucky if there would be any left for tomorrow. 

   After everyone dispersed, more going to their rooms to shower or change into pajamas, you were left alone in your room to find something to wear to lounge around in. Just as you picked out a matching pair of dark green silk shorts and a tank top, you threw off your pants and shirt and tossed them onto the bed. You didn’t hear them land.

   “So you and Sam,” Loki stated rather than asked.

   You whipped around, facing the God who held your pants in his hands and stood awkwardly covering your underwear and breasts. Heat grew in your cheeks and your words came out flustered.

   “Loki!” You yelled, “Get out of my room!” you tried to sound menacing but the way you stood with your hands in front of your body, trying to shield yourself only amused him.

   Loki smiled and tossed your jeans onto your bed but didn’t move otherwise. So, you figured the only way to cover yourself was to clothe yourself so you turned your back to the God and quickly tossed the silk tank top over your head. You bent over quickly to throw on your shorts but the voice from before was now significantly closer.

   “Why?” Loki asked.

   You knew he wasn’t asking about why you wanted him out of your room but rather why you were with Sam. “Because!” You defended, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer. “He makes me happy.” You sighed, still not having turned around to face him.

   “No he doesn’t,” Loki simply retorted.

   The fury you felt spun you around and made you forget your half nudity. “You don’t know anything, Loki!” 

   You stared daggers into his beautiful eyes, hurt but angry all at once. The God remained calm, despite the lack of distance between the two of you, which managed to fluster you all the more. He looked at you pensively, as if studying you. His eyes scanned your entire face, from your ears to your nose to your lips and back to your eyes. You wanted nothing more than to get lost in them.

   “I know he doesn’t make you happy,” he whispered and you could almost imagine his breath on your face.

   His calm demeanor slowly vanished. He scrunched his eyebrows together and his eyes remained glued to yours. His hands came up from his sides, as if wanting to grip onto your elbows but he stopped himself. He brought his hands back down and you let out a slow breath.

   “He treats me kind and he actually cares about me,” you said, with a hint of venom hoping he would catch on, “He sits down and listens to me when I have problems, he does things that he thinks would make me feel better if I’m sad, or even if I’m happy. He’s my best friend,” you finished, no longer wanting to have this conversation.

   “I was your best friend,” he tried to rebuttal.

   “Were,” you threw back, not at all caring anymore that you were in your underwear.

   Something in his face shifted. The sad creases around his eyes disappeared and he was soon back to a marble smooth face. He took a step towards you and you took an equal step back until your butt came in contact with the dresser behind you. 

   “We can go back to being best friends, (Y/N),” Loki whispered, his face dangerously close to yours now, “Maybe something a bit more?” he offered, an eyebrow arched.

   You heart caught in your throat and your hands gripped onto the edge of the dresser behind you. You couldn’t see them but you were sure your knuckles were white.

   “I know you want that. You want me the way I want you,” Loki seductively spoke.

   You opened your mouth to deny it but just by the way your chest heaved with excitement and how your legs squirmed with sudden arousal would easily give you away. You decided to keep your mouth shut and instead take a side step from the dresser and towards your bed, always facing the man that made your heart race.

   “Loki,” you breathlessly whispered, “You- you shouldn’t say things like that,”

   He sauntered over to you, quickly closing the space and making you worry that you were going to do something that would end up hurting your and Sam’s relationship. You backed up and fell over onto the mattress, your elbows propping your body up as Loki leaned over you. His coat hung from both sides of his body and his hair curtained around the two of you, making you feel like you were the only two people in the world.

   “Say things like what?” he asked, “The truth?” He leaned closer down towards you and you could swear you should’ve felt his breath on your lips by now, “Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

   You wanted to look away, to wish that he actually knew what you wanted with him. He was wrong. He made it seem like you wanted his body. Not his mind or his heart or affection; no, just his body. And that couldn’t have been further from the truth. And it caused a pang in your heart to think that’s all he wanted of you as well. You’d prefer to have none of him than to have just his body, it would hurt less that way.

   So you never took your eyes off of him. You watched him as he leaned down towards you, hovering over your body. You watched as his facial expression shifted from seductive to confused when you didn’t move away.

“Loki,” you said, feeling the tinge in your heart grow, and you lifted your hand towards his face, “It’s not your body that I want,” You confessed then ran your hand up against his cheek for it to go right through.

   His hologram faded in and out when you made contact with it and somehow, that fact that he wasn’t actually there with you right now to experience this with you, hurt more than him just wanting your body. 

   His face fell when your touch went right through him, he seemed almost panicked. He went to reach for your wrist, forgetting that he couldn't touch you either but brought his hand up to his face anyway, closing his eyes in defeat. 

   You brought your hand back down to your side and your jaw hung open a bit in disbelief, “You’re not even here,” your voice trailed off from quiet to nothing, barely managing to finish the last word.

   You stood up right through Loki, trying to avoid him seeing the tear trail down your face, “Why would I expect anything different?” You asked yourself.

   “(Y/N)!” he called after you as you opened the door to your room, “I wanted to-” but you had already left, the tear now free falling down your cheek.

-

   Before you returned back to the living room you composed yourself and threw your hair up into a ponytail but decided against it considering it’d make your red eyes just the bit more noticeable. 

   You entered the living room and everyone was there waiting for you. Almost everyone. You ignored the need to search the room to find him and instead walked over to Sam only to become pleasantly surprised that the pizza had already arrived. 

   “Take your pick,” Sam smiled, handing you a paper plate.

   You accepted the plate and grabbed two slices for now, as that was all that would fit on it. You made your way back to the couches and you all sat in your previous spots. 

   Nat put on Tony’s movie, a comedy, and you all munched away at your pizza. Soon enough you heard the living room doors open hastily but this time you didn’t bother to look. You kept your eyes peeled to the TV, trying your best to enjoy the jokes and hilarious banter. 

   Again, a figure blocked the TV from your view but you didn’t bother looking up despite the fact that he was facing you. You pretended to stare right through him, unbothered. It was like you could feel his gaze shift from you to Sam and he finally decided to sit down and watch with the rest of you. 

   Thor, from across the room, kept looking over at Loki, an expression of concern etched onto his face. Loki ignored it though and pretended to watch the movie. After a while he leaned his head back onto your knees and you repositioned yourself so he couldn’t touch you. You could see his shoulders deflate at the action but he didn’t give up so easily. He shifted his position but every single time you moved further away from him. 

   Sam finished his plate and offered to take everyone’s to the kitchen to throw away. You smiled to yourself, he was always kind to those he cared for and you tried to etch the words into a stone slab on your mind but all that popped up was the feeling of disappointment when your hand went right through Loki’s double. 

   When Sam returned, you wasted no time leaning into him. At first, he tensed a bit but eventually relaxed and threw an arm over your shoulder, bringing you closer than before. You were ashamed at what you were doing because you knew in other circumstances, you never would’ve snuggled up to Sam unless it was under the impression of sibling intimacy. Or he was comforting you because Loki had you all kinds of fucked up. 

   You looked down at your hands, unable to be distracted by the contents of the movie. At this point, you weren’t even trying to pay attention. You sighed and threw your feet onto Nat’s lap. She took your feet into her hands and began massaging them. You relaxed a little at the touch and thought that Natasha might have been the best to date of the three. You stared at her while your mind wandered to the scene from before. 

   Loki wasn’t there for the whole thing. Does he even feel anything while like that? Did he care that he had you all flustered and aroused then vulnerable and open? Did any of it matter to him? All you wanted was for him to be there and he couldn’t even do that.

   But now there he was. Right in front of you. You longed to run your hands through his hair and listen to the sounds he made or even touch his cheek and make up for the lack of from before. But you couldn’t. Every time you thought about it your shame grew. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so vulnerable with him. 

   You sighed and leaned deeper into Sam, enjoying his warmth.

   “I’m sorry,” Sam spoke behind you but when you turned around in utter confusion, you saw Loki in his place with his arm wrapped around your shoulder.

   You glanced at the spot that Loki was before and grew even more confused when you saw he was still there. What? 

   “(Y/N),” he whispered in your ear but you refused to look at him. Instead, you pried Loki’s, or Sam’s, arm off of you and went to sit up straight on the couch.

   Loki’s, or Sam’s, grip tightened around you and held you tighter to him, “(Y/N),” he repeated your name, “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that was how things were going to turn out.”

   “Then how did you think things were going to end up?” your tone was fierce but your voice was low.

   “What?” He said.

   You turned around to repeat the question and saw Sam back in his original place, with his arm still on your shoulder, “Oh, um, nothing. Just a pesky thought,” you said, loud enough for Loki to hear.

   “I thought things were going to end how they usually did. With you and me having a bit of a moment. I missed those with you,” Loki said, now rubbing your feet in Natasha’s place.

   A tight lump grew in your throat and you shook your head, moving your feet off of Nat’s lap. You quickly shot up and snatched her cup from the floor beside her, “You want a refill?” You asked, waddling the cup in your hand.

   “Sure, thanks.” 

   You made your way to the kitchen but not before kicking Loki on the side and catching his attention. You motioned your head towards the destination and went to go fill up Natasha’s glass.

   Once Loki reached the kitchen, you lowered your voice and glared at him enough to put holes through his skull, “I had a moment, too bad you weren’t there for it,” you practically spit at him.

   You turned your back on him but he stood next to you so you couldn’t ignore him. “I would’ve given anything to have been there,”

   “Except your actual body, I guess,” You shot back, not phased by his words.

   “(Y/N)” Loki warned in a tone that made you want to forgive him and pull him towards your room, “I would have given anything to have been there,” he repeated with ferocity, still managing a hushed tone. Loki leaned against the countertop while I refilled Nat’s glass with wine, “I would have given anything to have felt your hand on my face, to have felt your breath on my skin, to have felt your lips on . . .” his words faltered and you had to set the wine bottle down to compose yourself from the pull in your chest.

   “I’m with Sam now,” you mumbled, slamming the bottle back into the wine cabinet.

   Loki groaned, “Look at me, (Y/N). Look me in my face and tell me you want to be with him. Tell me.” he dared. 

   You kept your mouth shut, looking away from him and towards Sam over his shoulder. 

   “Exactly. Stop wasting your time with him.” He ordered.

   The directness of his tone brought back the dwindling anger inside of you and you shoved passed him only for him to grab your elbow and spin you around. He pulled you close to him, your chest pressed against his, “Fine, don’t admit that you don’t want to be with him. But don’t pretend you don’t want to be with me,” he hissed but then his features grew soft, “Please,” 

   “Loki,” you whispered, turning around to face the group on the couch, “everyone can see,” 

   “No they can’t. This is all happening in your head,” he replied.

   He doesn’t get it. 

   “Then maybe in my head is where this relationship should stay,” you hissed back.

  You found yourself back on the sofa, Sam’s arm still wrapped around you,

[master-sass-blast]

Myshka: Take Two

HOLY SHIT THIS TOOK FOREVER TO WRITE.

It’s exactly what the title says --”Myshka,” but from Piotr’s perspective.

Prepare yourself for fluff.

Rating: M for language, description of injuries, and mentions of abuse.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

This first time it happened, it was an accident.

Which isn’t to say he didn’t mean it. He just... hadn’t planned on confessing any time soon.

Piotr grits his teeth as he brings the X-Jet in for a landing. He can already hear the distinct cracks of gunfire --along with Wade’s maniacal cackling--through the earpieces issued to the team, which is a surefire indicator that Wade, contrary to the instruction he’d been given and common sense, had decided to engage the enemy already.

Or maybe not. Wade cackled over a lot of things, most of which no normal person would. It was probably that. Hopefully.

Unfortunately, your barrage of angry swearing and death threats proved his initial suspicion right a mere seconds later. “ Wade! I swear to Cthulhu, if I die from your dumbass choices, I will personally come back just to kill you.”

“What’s going on?” he asks as he tears the back gate off its hinges.

“The fuckstick decided to set off the shooters and charge them. It’s a mess over here.”

Of course. Blyad. “Language, Y/N.  Deadpool, we talked about this. The plan was to wait for rest of team before--”

Wade starts shrieking about snipers, and he can’t resist a small smile while you jeer at the merc about getting shot in the ass.

He forces himself to focus on the present --some of the traffickers have notice that they’re about to be ambushed, and they’ve opened fire on him and the rest of the X-Force. He picks up the rusted, useless chassis of a truck and chucks it at the shooters, taking out a row of men.

It’s quick work, thanks to having the rest of the team help him. He’s just about to rip off the door to the warehouse when you utter a sentence that nearly makes his heart stop.

“I’m going to blast those dipshits.”

Okay, there’s something to be said for your determination and chutzpah, but a plan isn’t a good plan if it involves putting yourself in a direct danger and running towards gunfire. Running. Towards. Gunfire.

Has he mentioned the running towards gunfire bit?

“Y/N, no. Wait for us.” We’re almost there, please, just wait; don’t hurt yourself, I can’t bear it when you hurt yourself--

“I can’t risk the traffickers taking away another group of mutants.”

Now is not the time to be stubborn! “No, it is too dangerous.”

“I thought that was the point of these missions.”

“Is she fuckin’ serious?” Cable grunts as he shoots two traffickers barreling towards them.

“I am afraid so,” he says, gut twisting with worry. “We need to get to front of warehouse. Now.”

Easier said than done. The inside of the warehouse is crawling with enemies. That, combined with the utter lack of cover, slows their progress significantly.

“Shit! I miscalculated!”

The sound of glass shattering and you shrieking in pain makes his heart seize. He grits his teeth as he throws a man trying to stab him with a knife against the nearest wall. Please be okay. Please be okay. Bozhe moi, if something happens to her--

Your voice comes across the com line in a pained groan. “Fuck. I hurt myself.”

The relief he feels is immediate. She’s alive. “Where are you?”

“On the third level. Follow the wake of destruction and the sounds of pissed off swearing. You won’t miss me. Shit, I rolled through glass. Oh, fuck, that hurts.”

He has to clench his teeth together to keep from lecturing you on safety because that’s the exact last thing you need right now. He flinches when another trafficker unleashes a spray of gunfire at him --solely from being surprised, he was distracted worrying about you and didn’t see the smaller man sneaking up on him--and stomps after him. He whips the villain across the warehouse with basically zero effort and tries to catch his breath while the man screams.

He needs to calm down; he’s angry and panicky from knowing you’ve hurt yourself, and working with Wade requires keeping a level head at all times.

“Oh, definitely not. Shit, I fucked up my leg. I think my knee’s dislocated.” 

Right, because Cable asked you if you could move while he was tossing around traffickers --and he should’ve done that in the first place, because he’s supposed to be the responsible one, and he really cares about you, and--

Calm. She needs you to be calm, Piotr. “You shouldn’t have gone after snipers,” he growls as he charges after another group of shooters.

You grumble something back about deserving gratitude, and it almost makes him smile.

That is, until he hears you panic.

“Holy shit.” 

“What?” Was there someone else up there with you? Another threat they hadn’t accounted for? Were you in danger?

“Is that... Oh shit. That’s a body. I think I decapitated a guy when I went through the window.”

He goes numb while you, Wade, and Cable exchange remarks.

You decapitated a body.

If you had been going fast enough to decapitate a body on impact alone... what had you done to yourself?

“Hey, kid, are you still with us?”

Cable’s voice brings him back to the present; he realizes that your words are slurry --you must’ve hit your head. Hard. “Y/N, you need to stay awake. Falling asleep now would be dangerous.”

“I’ve got something that’ll keep her awake,” Cable says as he studies a readout from his techno-organic arm. “There’s a group of guys on their way up to you. They’re in the stairwell, T minus two minutes.”

Blyad. He tries to focus on taking out the few remaining traffickers, but it’s hard when he can hear your gasps of pain and effort right in his ear. He grits his teeth and pushes through, telling himself that you’ll be okay.

And there’s a part of him that genuinely believes it. You’re incredibly tough, and you always surprise him with just how much you have in you, how much punishment you can take without giving in.

He flinches when he hears more gunfire in his ear. Please, let that be her firing and not the men. He waits for you to speak, to confirm that you’re alright.

Silence.

Come on, mysh --Y/N. Say something.

More silence.

He can’t stop himself from checking in.  “Y/N?”

Your sigh, wet and ragged. “Got ‘em. Stupid chickenshits. How’re we doing down there?”

“Only a few fuckers left!” Wade shouts as he hops from spot to spot, slicing through enemies with his usual irreverent glee. “Then it’s down to finding the victims and releasing them!”

“I’m gonna need someone to come get me. I doubt I could even fly myself out of here.”

He thanks every deity he can think off that you at least have more common sense than Wade. “Stay where you are. We will have someone up to get you in few minutes. In meantime, stay awake.”

Disposing of the stragglers, fortunately, is quick work. There are a handful of men left now, and most of them have decided to book it instead of trying to fight a couple of super assassins, an eight foot tall man made out of steel, and two super powered teenage girls.

Once the shooters are dealt with, Ellie waves him off. “Go find your girl. We can handle this.”

Normally, he’d protest having you referred to as ‘his girl’ --not that he’d mind that, he wouldn’t mind it at all, but if Wade remembered it he was never going to let it go--but right now he had more important things to do --namely, finding you.

He charges up the stairs, grateful that they can accommodate him in defense mode so he doesn’t have to take the time to shift down. The third floor door crumples like tissue paper when he bursts through it, and he pauses to get his bearings.

The hall is in utter chaos. Broken glass is strewn everywhere, along with chunks of drywall. The bodies of the five men are on the floor, lifeless. Their blood splatters the floor, the walls, the chaos--

And there you are, tucked under a table in a room just off the hall. Your head’s resting against the floor, and you look awful.

Well, you look beautiful --you always do to him--but you also look like someone who’s been put through hell.

He picks up the table and tosses it aside, kneeling next to you so you don’t try to get up. “Bozhe moi. What did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing any self-respecting mutant with poor math skills and even worse impulse control wouldn’t do.”

You roll onto your back before he can stop you --your yelp of pain makes him flinch--and the pained smile you give him tears at his heart.

“How do I look?”

“Like shit,” Cable’s looming above the two of you now, hissing through his teeth as he takes it all in. “The fuck did you do to your leg?”

Piotr looks down and realizes with a stab of sympathetic pain that your leg is badly dislocated at the knee. Der’mo. It will be hard to move her.

“Do you want me to try to pop it back in?” 

He blinks as Cable’s words register, then panics when he realizes what the older man is suggesting. “No, I don’t think that is good idea--”

“Do it. I’d rather that happen than have it dangling around while I’m carried around.”

No, no, no. This is a bad idea. Insanely bad. Up there with some of Wade’s. It should be handled by a medic, a trained professional, with painkillers and proper equipment. “Y/N--”

“Do it! Just give me something to bite on.” 

Piotr watches in abject horror as Cable hands you a bandanna. Before he can say anything else, you’ve steeled yourself and nod. He looks away, grimacing at the sound of the joint popping into place and the anguished scream you let loose.

You jerk onto your side --again, before he can stop you, he’s too caught up in hurting for you to react fast enough--and vomit.

He scoops you into his arms before you can fall face first into your own puke; guilt surges through his chest when you scream again. I hurt her. I should’ve let her recover more. “I’m so sorry.” He adjusts his grip on you as carefully as he can and starts carrying towards the stair case.

“It’s okay,” You croon in his ear, completely out of breath. “It’s okay, big guy, it was going to hurt anyway. It’s okay.”

There’s a part of him that’s touched by the fact that, even when you’re in unimaginable pain, you still want to comfort him.

“That’s my tough myshka.” He cringes at the word choice for a moment; it sounds so possessive, and he really hopes Wade wasn’t paying attention --and that you don’t mind.

You don’t seem to notice. Instead, you press your head against his shoulder --a gesture that has his heart pounding from the unexpected intimacy of it.  “Yeah. Diving headfirst into trouble and hurting herself in the process.”

He’s distracted for a moment by Ellie and Nathan, who are talking about the trafficking victims and you. They’ve found everyone, which means they can load up the jet and get back to the mansion --and get you some much needed medical attention.

He doesn’t realize that you’re falling asleep until you nestle against him, trying to get comfortable.  “Stay awake, myshka. You need to stay with us.”

“Myshka...”

His eyes widen as his mistake registers. This definitely was not how he was planning on confessing his feelings for you --especially since you weren’t likely to remember any of it, given that you probably had a concussion. Should I apologize? I mean, I shouldn’t have said--

“What does that mean? Does it mean idiot? ‘cause I feel like that’s a fair accusation for you to make right now.” 

He chuckles in spite of himself and his embarrassment. “Not quite.”

“I like it. It sounds pretty.” 

His heart’s pounding from exhilaration now --not that there’s any point to it, considering that you have no idea what the word means.

“Colossus?”

He does it again. He can’t help himself. “Da, myshka?”

“I think I hurt my everything.”

He laughs again, but less because he find your statement funny and more because it’s the reaction you’re looking for.  “Hang in there. We will get you fixed up soon.”

It’s Ellie who busts him later.

He’s sitting in the garden while the medics work on you; he’d wanted to stay, but feared being too overbearing or in the way.

His trainee strolls up to him, hands jammed in her jean pockets, with one eyebrow raised. “So. ‘Myshka.’”

He ducks his head, cheeks burning without his armor to protect him. “You know about that.”

“We were wearing earpieces, Colossus.” When he grimaces, she pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Wade was too busy regenerating parts of his head to notice.”

He lets out a breath. “Small blessings.”

“So. Are you gonna tell her?”

“When she’s better,” he decides. “I don’t want to force it on her now.”

“Christ, you’re making it sound like she doesn’t have a fucking choice. Look--” Ellie waves her hand dismissively before he can argue “--it���s sweet that you want to wait until she’s better. Do whatever you think is right. Just don’t chicken out, okay? She’s been basically drooling for you over the past year. There’s no way you’ll fuck this up --unless you don’t tell her.”

He shoots her a look for her language, but smiles anyway. “Thank you, Ellie.”

The second time it happens, it’s still an accident. The word slips out before he can stop himself.

It’s his turn to babysit you. You’ve been couched by Hank’s orders, and your pain meds make you loopy enough that you really shouldn’t be unsupervised.

Case in point, he finds you hanging half off the couch, no pillow or ice pack for your injured knee, trying to pick up the remote from halfway across the room with an air current.

You let out a curse as the remote flops further away from you.

The scene makes his heart ache with fondness. It’s so unbelievably you, so unbelievably adorable. “Myshka.”

The grin you give him is beautiful. “Hey, big guy. ‘Sup?”

Focus. Get her to sit properly. “I do not think you should be laying like that. Is bad for your back, to say nothing of your knee.”

“Well, I didn’t start like this. I was trying to get the remote, but Wade left it all the way over there when he switched channels. Is this really considered the pinnacle of modern entertainment?”

For Wade? Da. He scans the instruction card written by Hank while you keep trying to grab the remote. “Your next dose is due. You need to eat something.”

“Would that I could, but --alas--I am confined to this couch for the time being.”

“I can make you something, myshka. You only need ask.”

Your responding smile makes his heart race --again. “Thanks. I’m up for pretty much anything.”

He retrieves the remote for you so you’ll sit properly, then heads to the kitchen to start pulling together lunch for the two of you. He realizes, once he’s not stooping to reach into the fridge, that you’re just flipping through the channels without actually watching what’s on the screen.

He can’t help but smile. “You know, you might find something easier if you watch more than five seconds at a time.”

You look up at him as he sets the plates of food down and stick at your tongue. “Very funny, big guy.”

Next step, taking care of leg. “I thought you were supposed to have your leg elevated.” When you explain your predicament, an idea occurs to him.

Namely, you could settle your legs in his lap. That, combined with a pillow, should be enough elevation to help with the swelling. “Wait here. I have idea.” You fire some line after him --something about flying to Las Vegas and cheating at the games--and he laughs again as he walks back to the couch, ice pack in hand. “Cheating is against the rules, myshka.”

“Well, duh. How else am I going to win? I’m not that good at Poker. So, what’s this idea of yours?”

He ducks his head, nerves getting the better of him.

I... can’t do this. It’s not polite, not when she doesn’t know how I feel. He manages to make up some sort of explanation about him helping the pillows stay in place, and the relief that runs through him when you buy it nearly leaves him boneless.

Fortunately, lunch goes much smoother than his attempts at hiding his massive crush on you. You take your meds, express your delight over him including Cheetos on your plate, and he manages to get the TV switched from Wade’s garbage choice to something a little more palatable. He settles in to eat his own lunch, and tries to not obsess over how close you are to him.

Your painkillers kick in about halfway through the episode Mythbusters he’d picked. You’re a wriggling, giggling mess next to him, flailing around while you ride out the initial high from the pills.

He places his hand gently on your non-injured leg, trying to calm you. “Easy, myshka. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not going to hurt myself!” You smack your hand against the coffee table and cradle it against your chest with a pout. “Ow.”

He resettles you on the couch, cradling your head with one of his hands to keep you from lolling around too much. “You were saying?”

“Okay, fine. I hurt myself. Happy now?”

“I will be happier when you settle enough to stop hurting yourself, myshka.”

“Myshka.”

He almost cringes. Bodi roga, I need to stop.

“Why do you call me that? Not that I’m complaining --it sounds pretty cute.”

Joy swells in his chest --not that it has any right to. Control yourself, Piotr; she doesn’t even know what you’re saying. “It is nickname in Russian.”

“Well, I gathered that much. Don’t tell me what it means; I want to guess!”

He acquiesces, even though he’d love nothing more than to tell you. “Very well.”

“It means ‘idiot,’ doesn’t it?”

Alarm shoots through him. Is that... is that what she thinks of herself? Does she think I view her as such? “Why would I call you that?”

“I mean, I did toss myself through a wall and dislocate my leg in the process. I think it’s kind of warranted.”

He shakes his head --he would never. “That would be unkind --and unwarranted.”

“Okay. Fool?”

“No.”

“Lovable fool?”

“Also no.”

“Klutz?”

“It is not an insult,” he says, laughing slightly.

“Ah.” Your grin would have him blushing if he wasn’t in defense mode. “Well, that’s nice --but I’ll have to completely rethink my strategy now. This might take longer than I thought.”

“I could just tell you.”

“No! No spoiling my fun!”

He acquiesces again --and if Ellie was here, she’d say you were playing right into his hand.

Eventually. He’ll tell you the truth eventually. You were high out of your mind right now; he wanted you lucid when he confessed his feelings.

He settles again --and tenses when you shuffle around, drop the pillow propping up your leg on his lap, and set your legs across his thighs.

“This okay, big guy?”

Beyond okay. Too okay.

God, he’s weak for you.

He manages a nod.  “Da, myshka. This is fine.”

Finishing his time with you is a combination of heaven and sheer torture. Heaven, because he’s been daydreaming about spending time with you like this; torture, because he knows it’s just because you’re high out of your mind, not because you like him.

When Ellie rescues him half an hour later --with a pointed look at your borderline snuggling--he beats a quick retreat to his art studio. He closes the door behind it, locks it, then shifts out of defense mode and slumps against the wall. Bozhe moi. I am in over my head.

He monitors himself better after that, keeps himself from saying anything inappropriate.

Still, he can’t always help himself around you. I look at you and see my whole future.

Now, if only he could tell you that.

Or maybe not. That’d probably too much to start with.

You sidle up next to him while everyone waits for Wade to finish setting up the fireworks for New Years --a gesture that he tries to not over analyze but elates him nonetheless.

You make some sort of quip about his fire extinguisher, and he regards it with a grimace. “Wade set up the display this year.”

“Oh, god, is the house even going to survive?”

“Hey, have a little faith in me,” Wade whines as he skips past you to finish the final touches on the display. “I can have self control. When I want to.”

“Yeah, the question is does he ever want to?”

Piotr’s got a lot of personal, first hand experience with handling Wade, and the answer to that is a definite ‘no.’ I’ve been grabbed on ass too many times for it to be anything else.

“Ladies, gentlemen, noble gentry of non-conforming gender identity, and Yukio!” Wade crows from his position several yards down the drive. “Tonight is a date that technically doesn’t matter since time is a social construct, but we’re going to use it to celebrate surviving another year! That’s right, tell Death to go fu--”

“Language, Wade.” Seriously, there are children present, does he always have to--

“Okay, okay. Take it easy, Long John Silver. Anyway, since the resident party poopers here at Casa de la Mutant have kiboshed getting drunk off our ass--”

“Wade.”

“Okay! Fine! Long story made short: fireworks! Lots of them! Cover your ears if you don’t want to wear hearing aids by the time you’re thirty! Russell! My man! Let it burn!”

The initial round of fireworks, though loud, is surprisingly tasteful. He feels a surge of pride as Wade starts setting up the finale with Russell. Good job, Wade. He sees you shift next to him and realizes that you’re hugging yourself, shivering.

And it’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.  “Myshka? Are you alright?”

“Yupp. A-okay.”

He states the obvious. “You’re cold.”

“Are you kidding? In this weather? We’re in a heat wave right now, big guy. How could I be cold?”

He laughs, then unzips the jacket he’s wearing. “Here. Use my jacket. We can’t have you freezing.” He smiles softly as he watches you relax and nestle into the warmth of his jacket, and--

Oh, god, seeing you in his clothes does something for him. To him. One of those. Both of those.

Fortunately, Wade picks that moment to light off the finale, sufficiently distracting him from the runaway thought train he’d been having about you wearing his clothes.

Once the people clear away he starts clearing up the trash from Wade and Russell’s fun. You join him, which starts another round of don’t overthink it, Piotr, she’s just being nice.

He watches, mesmerized, as you send the remaining smoke away with little more than a flick of your wrist. He’s spent several years training with some of the most powerful mutants on the face of the planet, and the way you use yours with such effortless elegance is--

Focus, Piotr. Don’t stare at her. He tries to keep his focus on cleaning up the trash, but he’s soon distracted again because, well...

His jacket’s far too big for you, and it’s adorable to watch you struggle as the sleeves slid over your hands time and time again. He can’t help but chuckle when your face contorts in a caricature of rage, and he hands you the trash bag as you swear under your breath. “Here, myshka. You hold this. I can finish the rest.”

“Why do you need a jacket anyway? Aren’t you protected from the cold?”

“I am. The jacket is not so much for my benefit as it is for others. I may not suffer from the cold, but I still get cold. Complaints arise, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“That, and Wade won’t try to lick your arm to see if he’ll stick if you wear the jacket.”

Bozhe moi, I’m so glad Wade didn’t hear that. “Please, do not tell him about that. I would rather he didn’t try.”

“Secret’s safe with me, big guy.”

He stands --and says his name out of sheer impulse.“Piotr.”

“Gesundheit.”

He laughs --actually laughs, full-bodied and joyous, which seems to be a reaction that only you can pull out of him--and shakes his head. “My name. It’s Piotr. I thought you should know.”

“Nice to meet ya, Piotr. I’m Y/N.”

He laughs again --almost swooning from your endearing goofiness--and shakes your hand with the utmost gentleness. “Very funny, myshka.” Before he can say anything else, though, a loud explosion, a towering fireball, and a scream that sounds suspiciously like Wade emanates from behind the mansion. Der’mo. “We should go check on that.”

After that, he really tries to watch himself around you.

No, really, he does! He wants to respect your space, to not infringe too much on something he can’t claim. And he manages well. 

Well, almost ‘well.’ The entire X-Force --and the rest of the mansion, it seems--is wise to his crush on you now. That results in no small amount of teasing, but no one tells you at his request --and Ellie’s threat to incinerate anyone who does.

He has caught on to the fact that you like being called ‘myshka’ though, which doesn’t make his efforts to keep from doing that any easier.

So, the fourth time it happens, you hit him a weak spot.

He’s drawn to the back yard --much like everyone else, he suspects--by the sounds of enraged and panicked screaming. He can’t help but laugh slightly at the sight of you chasing Scott across the back lawn.

He doesn’t like or dislike Scott --well, he doesn’t like the way Scott treats you--but he can admit that the smaller man does go on power trips far too often. A small part of him is amused by watching you hand Scott’s ass to him --because, contrary to Wade’s belief, he can enjoy the odd round of inappropriate or ill-timed humor. Just not in ‘Wade’ quantities.

A larger part of him, though, stiffens with concern when you pick up the bat and lunge after Scott. It’s not a plastic one, it’s metal, and you could do some serious damage to Scott or yourself. Or someone else.

He steps forward --since no one else seems to be inclined to step in the path of an enraged woman with a metal bat for Scott of all people--and latches onto the barrel of the bat. It smacks against his armor with a loud clang, making you lurch to a stop. “No, myshka,” he says when you look up at him --he throws in the ‘myshka’ to try and appeal to you, shamefully enough. “This is not appropriate.”

“Not appropriate? On the contrary! This is completely fucking appropriate! Give me my bat! I’m going to beat his head in!”

“Uh, no!” Wade interjects. “No erasing Cable from the timeline!”

“Fine! I’ll maim Scott instead! Give me the bat!”

“No, myshka.” He’s frowning now. Normally, you at least settle a little whenever he calls you ‘myshka.’ What did Scott say to work her up this badly? “Whatever he said, there is better way to handle this.”

“Oh, but there isn’t!”

“Myshka--”

“Do you know what he said to me? He called me a ‘fucking piece of work’ and said that it was no wonder my parents kept me locked in my room because I’m a nightmare!”

His heart aches at the sight of the tears in your eyes, and his teeth click together as anger rages inside him. He scowls at Scott. “Is this true?”

Scott has the decency to look sheepish. “I misspoke.”

“No, misspeaking is calling someone an asshole, or a cunt, or a dipshit! It’s not saying their parents were right for abusing them!”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Professor Xavier emerges from the crowd of watchers, a calm respite in the face of chaos. “Mr. Summers, if I could speak to you for a moment. Mr. Rasputin, I trust you can help Ms. Y/L/N calm down.”

He holds onto your shoulder until the back door closes, leaving the two of you with some privacy.

You scrub at your cheeks with your sleeve. “Well. That was a train wreck.”

“It did not go well,” he agrees. “You need to try to react better, myshka. Don’t let him get under your skin as bad.”

“Don’t let him bug me?” He tries not to flinch under the force of your glare. “He said my parents were right for locking me in my room! How am I supposed to not let that piss me off?”

“Myshka, please, try to calm down. Let me try to get the words right,” he says, holding his hands up in a calming gesture. “I am not saying Scott was right. He was very wrong, and he should’ve never said any of those things. I am just trying to say that beating him up all the time is not right response. You could get hurt, or someone else could get hurt in process. I think it would be better for you to get someone --the Professor or myself, maybe--when these things happen so you and Scott can work out your differences instead of fighting all the time.”

You sniff as you consider his suggestion, then pout up at him. “Aw, but my way is more fun!”

He can’t help but favor you with a soft smile; he knows your humor well enough by now to know that this is your way of indirectly conceding to him. “Perhaps, but more dangerous too.”

“Well, yeah, that’s why it’s fun.”

His forehead creases with his frown when you go silent. You look so small, like a shell of your usual self. He has to stop himself from reaching out and touching you, from trying to reassure you with touch. I need to tell her... but not now. Now is not right time. I just want to... hold her...

“Fucking asshole. Where the fuck does he get off?”

With Scott? Who knows these days. “People say unkind, unwise things when angry. Scott is one of those people, unfortunately.”

“I just... the fuck did I do to deserve that? What did I do as a kid that warranted locking me away?”

His heart wrenches in his chest. Bozhe moi, she’s crying. He kneels in front of you and puts his hands on your shoulders. “Myshka, look at me. Please. You could never do anything to deserve the way your parents treated you. You are wonderful, and smart, and kind; they were fools not to realize your worth.”

“Thanks, Pete. You really know how to make a girl feel special.” 

You have no idea how much I want to make you feel special, Y/N. No idea. I would hope so. You are...” He chickens out. Not now. Later. Now is not right time. “You are my best friend, Y/N. I hope you know that.”

“You’re really special to me, too. I’d use the term ‘best friend,’ but I’m afraid Wade would hear, and he’d throw an absolute shit fit if he finds out he has competition for that category.”

Piotr laughs. He gets it. Wade is Wade. 

You visibly hesitate, then ask, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but... can I have a hug? I’m feeling really shitty right now.”

Bozhe moi. He hopes his voice sounds even remotely normal, because he’s pretty sure his brain just shut off. “Of course, myshka. You don’t have to ask.” He wraps his arms around you as you lay his head against his shoulder. It’s almost reminiscent of the time he carried you out of the warehouse after you slammed yourself through a window, except better because you haven’t hurt yourself.

Except it’s worse, because you’re crying on his shoulder.

God, he really needs to expand his library of affectionate interactions with you if that’s all he can compare this moment to.

He rubs his hand up and down your back, as gentle and careful as ever. “It’ll be okay, myshka. You’re going to be alright.” He smiles softly when you pull back, trying to hide the sense of loss he’s feeling over not having you in his arms.

“Thanks. I really needed that.”

“No problem, myshka.”

“You use ‘myshka’ more than you use my real name. What’s up with that?”

Blyad. I didn’t think I was using word that much. “Sorry, I--”

“No, big guy, I like it. I was teasing you.”

He smiles and shakes his head, firmly ignoring the way his heart leaps at hearing that you like his nickname for you. “You are nothing but trouble.”

“And yet you keep hanging out with me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked it.” 

You have no idea.

“I still haven’t figured out what it means though. I’m starting to think that you just made it up and are messing with me.”

“It is real word. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know that, Pete. I’m just yanking your chain. So, it’s supposed to be something nice. Is it ‘idiot’ in the sense that I call Wade an idiot? Like, in a loving sense?”

He rolls his eyes. Why does she keep coming back to ‘idiot?’ “Nyet. I would not call you ‘idiot’ because it’s unkind. Besides, you are not idiot.”

“Okay, okay. Just thought I’d check. Is it a term for ‘friend?’”

“No.” It’s a term of endearment for couples, and I would tell you that if I was brave enough.

“Does it mean ‘genius?’”

He laughs. “No, but I would venture to say you are one.”

“Careful. I will absolutely use you as a reference when I apply for my official certification. What about... ‘super awesome badass?’”

He chuckles again, happy to see that you’re recovering from Scott’s damaging jabs. “No.”

“Does it mean ‘sexy?’”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue. He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, and laughs nervously. “Ah... no.” But you definitely are that. “That would be something Wade would say, but not me.”

“Fair enough.”

“You know, I could just tell you--” Please, just let me tell you, I can’t take you not knowing anymore--

“Uh-uh. I’m having fun with this. Don’t spoil it for me.”

He concedes to you, stuffing the desire to confess his feelings for you once more. He has a feeling he’s going to be doing a lot of that.

After that, he stops trying to regulate how much he calls you ‘myshka.’ Everyone else already knows, and he can’t resist seeing the happy glow in your eyes whenever the term of endearment leaves his lips.

Ellie’s almost constantly side-eyeing him now. She knows he’s in deep based on how often he’s calling you ‘myshka,’ and whenever they’re in a one-on-one training session she makes a point of telling him to ‘grow the fuck up and stop being a coward --just tell her already!’

To which he admonishes her for her language, but ultimately doesn’t argue.

She’s right. He is a coward.

There’s multiple times where he almost does tell you. The softness in your eyes when you look at him, that smile that seems to be reserved for him and him alone, the way your cheeks flush whenever you talk to him... He’s not imagining things. He hopes he’s not.

But then Wade or Russell or Scott walk in, and the moment’s ruined. You might not have Wade’s poor impulse control, but the two of you do share the same propensity for getting distracted easily.

And, well, he’d be lying if he said he felt brave enough to confess his feelings to you in front of an audience.

Blyad.

Life never does get easier, does it?

And it certainly doesn’t like handing him ideal opportunities to tell you how he feels, either.

Take today, for example. He --and the rest of the X-Force--are currently surrounded by fifty hyper, bouncing, shrieking mutants. It’s the school’s annual meeting for the teachers to work on problem solving as Xavier’s kept expanding and expanding. He’d volunteered to help the X-Force with the gaggle of young elementary students, which wasn’t a choice he was regretting--

Except he is, just a little now, because you’ve got one of the kids in your arms and you’re smiling at them as they laugh, and oh god seeing you work with kids is doing something to him, just like seeing you in his jacket on New Years--

He has to viciously derail the train of thought to avoid an embarrassing moment in front of the students... and Wade.

Then, Neena suggests hide and seek, you volunteer to count, and the kids scatter to go find their hiding spots.

He tromps upstairs, trying to force his mind into order; a difficult task, considering that his thoughts are a nonstop loop of you, you with kids, you with kids playing hide and seek, and oh god--

Focus, he tells himself. Find hiding place.

Also a difficult task, considering he weighs over five hundred pounds in his armor and stands at nearly eight feet tall. Even if he could find a spot that would accommodate his height, his heavy footsteps would be a dead giveaway.

Unless...

His eyes widen as a thought occurs to him, then he slips out of defense mode --which gets a considerable gawk from Wade, but Nathan drags him off before merc can say anything too unsuitable for young ears. Piotr ducks into his room, changes into a t-shirt and jeans, and grabs his sketchbook and pencil before stepping into the hall again.

He can hear your voice echoing from the kitchen; he’s almost out of time, as he suspected he would be, and he creeps to the library as quickly as he can.

You’ve never seen him in his ‘human’ form, and he’s willing to bet that the change will be stark enough that you won’t recognize him. Once you’ve scampered off to find the others, he’ll be able to find a spot that’ll fit him much easier.

Or maybe he won’t. Granted, his switch won’t work against the others --especially since both Nathan and Wade saw him change--but it might be worth it to see the adorable way your nose wrinkles when you’ve been had.

He settles at one of the tables, sketchbook open and pencil in hand, just as you declare that you’re done counting. He tries to focus on working on one of his drawings, tries to tamp down the giddy anticipation as he hears your footsteps ascend the stairs.

You pop into the library, smiling, and--

It works.

“Oh --uh--sorry. Uh, you wouldn’t have happened to see a metal guy walk by, would you? About the size of your average giraffe, made out of steel, probably muttering something about safety or rules.”

He can’t help but smile at your description of him and points to the right.

“Thanks.”

His heart tugs slightly as you head back out into the hall, and he’s left to wonder if he should’ve revealed his identity to you instead. It would’ve been a shock, yeah, but it also might’ve prompted some conversation --and let him reveal his feelings for you.

He doesn’t have long to mull it over, though. He looks up when you poke your head back into the library and can’t help but smile at your confused expression.

He keeps smiling as study him, gears clearly turning behind your eyes.

“Piotr?”

He laughs and sets down his drawing pad. “Da. Honestly, I thought this would work better. I guess I can’t get anything past you, myshka.”

“Holy shit... I... I didn’t expect this.”

The way you’re looking him up and down right now makes his chest fill with warmth. It’s nice to be genuinely admired, every once and a while. And it’s nice when your crush is doing it.

“Oh my gosh! I didn’t realize you had a human form! I just thought you were metal all the time! Looking babe-ly, my man.” 

He can’t help his nervous chuckle; being complimented by you, even if it’s a slightly goofy one, is elating. “Thank you. I prefer to be in my armor. Especially with Wade around.” Because, as he’s learned, Wade necessitates being ready for anything.

“Yeah, he does that. Whoa! You did that?”

He can feel his face heat up as you gawk at his sketch pad; being complimented by you is enough of a head rush, but having you admire his art has his brain short circuiting with glee. “Da. It’s not finished yet.”

“Your ‘not finished’ looks like my ‘only in my dreams.’ Can you teach me how to draw? I’d love to get better.”

Oh god, this is an actual dream come true. Stay calm. Don’t make fool of yourself, Piotr.  “I would love to. Would you like to see others?”

“Hell yeah.”

Having you fawn over his art is satisfying in ways he’d never imagined possible; you lavish equal amounts of sincere attention over each picture he shows you, which makes him indescribably happy.

The softness on your face --the amazement in your eyes--when he shows a full color picture of a sunset nearly makes him melt.

“Piotr, it’s beautiful.”

It’s not one of his favorites --he’d been experimenting with a new color palette, and it hadn’t panned out like he’d hoped--but your praise leaves him blushing anyway. “Thank you. This is not one of my better ones.”

“It’s wonderful. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“You can have it, if you want.”

“Really?” You sound elated. “I don’t want to take it from you.”

“Really, myshka.” He loves the idea of you having one of his pictures, probably more than he should. “If you like it, you can have it.”

“Piotr, that’s so sweet of you. I’d love to have it, if you’ll let me. Though, we should probably keep it in the sketchbook until the day’s done. I wouldn’t want it to get accidentally destroyed.”

He moves to close the sketchbook at the same time you do, and the sensation of your hands brushing against each other is wonderful.

“Oh my gosh. I’ve never felt you without your armor before!” 

The unwitting innuendo isn’t lost on him --he’s an adult, he understands adult humor, he just doesn’t like using it all the time, Wade--but any nerve he might’ve had worked up to tell you his feelings evaporates when you start touching his hand.

It feels wonderful. Heavenly. Your touch is warm and soft on his skin, and--

And it stops all too soon when you retract your hand with a sheepish expression. “Sorry. That was weird of me.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says before he can stop himself. “It feels... good.” He watches you as smooth your fingers over his hand, wrist, and forearm, mind racing with thoughts. I love you. I love you so much.

He needs to figure out how to tell you, because the small touches you’re showering him with are opening a gateway to a part of his brain that he’s worked so hard to rein in. He wants to hold you in his arms, wants to kiss you, wants to call you ‘myshka’ and have it be real.

He wants to touch you.

He brushes his fingers against your forearm before he can overthink it. “May I?” When you nod, he lets his hand run over your arm and up to your shoulder, following his fingers with his eyes. Your skin is just as soft as he’s imagined --on the rare occasions that he’s indulged the daydream side of his brain--and touching you the way you touched him is send little sparks of electricity through his whole body.

He’s not really thinking at this point --his brain has shut off from all the endorphins running through it--and he lifts his hand to caress the side of your face without second guessing himself.

Before he can mentally shake some sense into himself and retract his hand, you close your eyes, lean into his touch, and let out a soft sigh.

Bozhe moi.

There’s no way he’s imagining this. The way you’re leaning into his hand, the happy smile on your face--

It’s mutual. You like him, too.

His mind races as he rubs the pad of his thumb over the swell of your cheek; should he say something --or should he kiss you instead?

Because, as ungentlemanly as it sounds, he really wants to kiss you. Bozhe moi, I want nothing more.

Before he can decide, you make the choice for both of you.

He inhales sharply when you press your lips against his and presses his hands against your back to pull you into his lap. Your lips feel utterly perfect against his, and he has to remind himself to breathe. More than once. He grins at you when the kiss ends. “Bozhe moi. I have wanted to do that for... for a while.”

Your returning grin looks blissful. “Yeah. Me too... We should probably go find the kids. It’s been thirty minutes.”

He stands --as much as he doesn’t want to; he’d rather stay here and kiss you some more--and tucks his sketchbook under his arm. “Da. Lead the way.” He does hold your hand as the two of you walk out of the library to track down the other hiders, which has him smiling long after you let go.

The rest of the day is a mix of bliss and torture. Bliss because he knows you like him now, because he can reach out and share fleeting touches that leave both of you exhilarated and a little flushed; torture because all he really wants to do is kiss you again, and he can’t do that because there are fifty plus witnesses and he doesn’t want to let everyone see that just yet.

Ellie puts it together though -admittedly, the two of you aren’t exactly subtle--and mutters “About time” low enough so only he hears it when she passes. She’s smiling though, and he appreciates her support all the same.

Eventually, the day does wind to a close, and the crowd of mutant kids and X-Force members disappear with surprising quickness...

Thanks to Wade, apparently; at least, it’s thanks to him if the blow job gesture he’s shooting you is anything to go by.

Piotr rolls his eyes and focuses on picking up the trash from dinner.

The door shuts with a thud, and you rejoin him, favoring him with that soft smile he loves so much. “Hey.”

He smiles back, keenly aware that, though you two are alone, you’re still in view of the mansion; he wouldn’t put it past Wade to spy on the two of you, because the merc with no concept of privacy would absolutely do it. “Hi.”

“What were you and the twins talking about?”

“Mostly about what they think of America. They think weather is too hot.”

“Yeah, it must be a big transition for them. Not gonna lie, it was really cute to watch you interact with them.”

He grins and raises his eyebrows. That... wasn’t what he was expecting you to say, but it thrills him away. “Da?”

“Yeah. You’re really good with them.”

He ducks his head, trying to contain his earnest fervor. “I liked watching you work with girl who can fly. I think you made her day when you showed your abilities.”

“She was a sweetheart.”

He goes quiet, mostly because that’s... not what he meant by that.

Another conversation for another day. He settles for kissing you on the cheek. “She’s not only one.” He quickly ties off the bag of trash and chucks it in the nearest barrel. “Shall we go for walk?” When you nod, he takes your hand and leads you to a part of the garden that he knows is out of sight from the mansion windows. He manages to hold a conversation about the day and the kids with you while you walk, but it’s hard to focus when he can hear his heart pounding in his ears and all he can think about is kissing you again.

Which he does. As soon as you’re sitting next to him again, tucked safely from view on a bench behind a tree, he presses his lips against yours feverishly. It feels so overwhelmingly good for such a simple gesture of intimacy, and it pains him to break the kiss.  “Sorry. I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

A rush of delight runs through him when you kiss him.  “Don’t apologize. I was hoping you’d do that.”

He smiles softly as you nestle against his side, and he can’t resist kissing the top of your head when you lay your head on his shoulder. She’s so precious.

“So, do you want to know what my last guess for what ‘myshka’ means is?”

He does, actually. He’s curious to know if you’ve guessed it by now --or looked it up. “Sure.”

“Does it mean ‘beautiful?’”

“Nyet, though you are very beautiful.”

“Well, then, I give up. I have no idea what it means.”

“Does that mean I can tell you now?”

“Go for it. I’m dying to know.”

This is it. This is the moment he’s been waiting for since your first kiss in the library. “It means ‘little mouse.’”

“Really? ‘Little mouse?’ I know I’m short, but I didn’t think I was that small.”

He laughs quietly. “It is not about height.” Here goes everything. “In Russia, it is term of endearment... that boyfriends use for girlfriends.” He feels you still against him as you process the information, and he forces himself to be patient and let you take your time.

“Does... does that mean you liked me all this time?”

Here it is. Tell her how you feel, how you’ve felt, he tells himself. “Da. You are kind, and smart, and unbelievably fierce, and achingly beautiful. You swept me off my feet the moment I met you with your humor and spirit, and I have been in love with you ever since.”

“Why didn’t you say something? I could’ve kissed you months ago!”

“You told me not to say anything! What was I supposed to do?” And he was scared to admit his feelings, but that’s a confession that can wait until later.

“Man, the one time my stubborn streak really doesn’t pay off.”

He chuckles and wraps his arm around your shoulders --which feels amazing, and he thinks he’s going to love being affectionate with you more than he anticipated. “I think it all worked out in end.”

“Oh, there’s no way I’m disagreeing with that. So, Mr. Rasputin, is this your way of asking me to be your girlfriend?”

His heart’s pounding, and his mouth is dry, but he manages a nod. “Da.” He lets his eyes flutter shut when you lean up to kiss him again. “May I take that as ‘yes?’” he asks when you break the kiss, slightly breathless from his elation.

“Da.”

Hearing you say is wonderful, better than he could’ve ever imagined.

He smiles, and leans in to kiss you again.