#even playing sniper and fumbling all my shots is better than this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

phobiadeficient · 3 years

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BLU M!Sniper and RED F!Sniper split roasting their lover M!Scout?

(warnings for roughness and mention of jealousy, possessiveness, etc)

He had to know it was a long shot, but there he was, giving her puppy eyes and trying his best to explain himself.

 It was a bold thing to ask. And he admitted as much, admitted that he knew she hated the guy, and besides that he didn’t know how fond she was of... well, sharing. She spent probably half the time she complained about things complaining about the guy being a bastard, and a shitty sniper overall, accusing him of being a prick and having a big head and being a coward first and foremost. But also, Scout just thought, y’know, maybe...

And she had a very confident ‘no’ locked and loaded, ready to go, but then she looked back over at him and saw those puppy eyes again, and the only word that she managed to say after a minute was a particularly grumpy “Bugger.”

And when she eventually said yes—with a few stipulations—he didn’t exactly need to know, that... some of the problem was the fact that after a few years, her frustration with the other team’s Sniper had gotten a bit... charged. In a few ways. And she made sure to stress that she wasn’t going to be the one putting in the leg work to try to convince the bastard of anything, but she would be calling the shots.

The speed at which Scout agreed to all of that made her a little concerned that she was somehow being played, still.

Then apparently he actually managed it, then they were meeting at a bar, and Scout tactfully placed himself between the two of them at that bar so they wouldn’t strangle each other before they could talk, and she knew him well enough to be able to tell that his smile was just slightly forced as he looked between them.

“Uh, so, Snipes,” he said, and she raised an eyebrow at him. “Uh, we figured the name thing might get confusing, so I’ll still be callin’ you Snipes, but, uh—“

“Mick,” the other Sniper cut in before he could keep rambling. “Just call me Mick.”

“Funny, rhymes with ‘prick’,” she quipped.

His jaw tightened. Scout fidgeted, hurried to cut in again.

“Uh, but, yeah, I couldn’t get into details much since I figured we could kinda figure that stuff out a little better once, uh... once we get there, y’know?” he trailed, glancing around their vicinity briefly, self-consciously.

“I get the gist of it,” Mick said. “Agreed enough to show up, at least.”

“Not worried we’re here to ambush and kill you?” she asked.

“Implying I’m scared of you,” he said, and her grip on her glass tightened, and she was about to say a few choice words when she felt Scout’s hand on her knee, squeezing lightly, and she just huffed, taking another drink.

“So, if you’ve got any, uh, questions—“ Scout tried.

“Here’s one,” Mick cut in. “What are we all telling our employers?”

And he was surprisingly civil after that while they talked briefly about the implications for their jobs, and came to the collective conclusion that if one of them was screwed over, they’d all be screwed over, so they didn’t particularly plan on being rats. Sniper then informed Mick about a few house rules, mainly that if Scout told him to stop or let up, he’d damn well stop and let up, and that he could get rough if Scout asked, and Scout flushed all the way up to his ears during the entirety of it but for the most part she considered this important enough to ignore him.

And then they were finishing off their drinks, and then they were heading to the motel, and then Scout was getting them a room key and left the two of them alone for a moment.

 She had Mick by the collar in a moment, yanked down to make up for the two or so inches of difference in their heights. “Alright, you listen here,” she growled, sunglasses pulled off for the moment. “I bloody well mean it when I say that I don’t want you trying to make this into a contest. He’s my boyfriend, end of story. No matter what happens, I had him first. Clear?”

“Too bad you apparently need to bring someone else in to help keep him pleased,” Mick smirked, grinning like a bastard, and the only thing she could think to do that would wipe that stupid fucking smile off his face better than a swift punch to the nose was to kiss him like she wanted to maim in the process, so that’s what she did.

When Scout came back not even five minutes later, he found them both flushed, hair a mess, looking borderline murderous. “So... we’re doin’ this?” he asked feebly, and was yanked bodily towards their room.

She found herself on top of Scout in bed, boxing him in and kissing him like the world was ending while Mick mucked around in the bathroom. She didn’t waste time before starting to pull him free of his shirt, of his belt, and wasn’t surprised to find him already half-hard by the time she got a hand into his pants to cup at him.

When she pulled away enough to try and get her own shirt off, she registered the surprise that seemed to be evident on Scout’s face, the vague confusion largely overshadowed by awe. And she took the opportunity to bend down, mouth finding the space just under his jaw, stopping there to nip and suck hard enough to make him jolt, groan, grip at her shoulders—not pushing or pulling, just holding on for dear life as she sucked a mark and finally pulled away to look down at him again.

“Mine,” was all she said, voice a growl, and he nodded vigorously, clearly already dizzied by the entirety of what was going on.

And then she heard the door to the bathroom opening, and she pulled back enough to glance back in the direction of it, and was only half-surprised to see Mick already shirtless. Still had the shades on, though.

“Be patient,” she murmured to Scout, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek to quiet the beginning of a complaint when she sat up and climbed off him, moving to her bag to get what she’d need.

And by the time she’d untangled the increasingly-familiar harness and gotten it most of the way on, she was distracted by the sound of a stifled groan. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that apparently Mick had taken over for her, and was two fingers deep and carefully spreading Scout open, quieting how loud Scout tended to get with a biting kiss.

She paused entirely to watch for a few seconds, surprised by how hot that visual was making her, sending a shiver clambering up her spine, and even slightly more surprised at how quickly he was working. Clearly he had some experience with this.

“Bring a lot of men around seedy motels?” she couldn’t help but quip, trying to distract herself from the heat thrumming through her.

Mick pulled away from the kiss to raise an eyebrow at her. That was when she noticed that apparently Scout had coaxed him out of his glasses. “Enough,” he admitted casually, tone entirely more level than it should have been given the way that, now without a kiss to distract him, Scout had needed to bite down on the meat of his own hand to keep quiet, a litany of pleased little noises pouring out of his mouth.

“I imagine this is just another Saturday for you, then,” she huffed, finally managing to get that one buckle that always stuck to cooperate with her.

“Nah,” Mick replied, glancing back down at Scout for a moment while he reached and took his by then straining dick in his hand, giving it a brief pump just to hear the way Scout’s voice cracked high for a second. “Have to admit, this one here’s been caught on my scope a few times besides just to shoot him. He’s good-looking.”

Scout looked like he very much wanted to reply to that somehow, but his first word was replaced by a choked noise as Mick twisted his wrist just so and squeezed around the head, thrusting his fingers once, hard. She caught Scout’s eye, saw the same awe on his face, like he wasn’t entirely sure this was really happening, then saw the hunger flit into his expression as she pushed the toy into place on the harness and finished tightening it. “You’re right on that,” she agreed, moving over and cupping at Scout’s cheek, feeling the heat of his face under her hand and grinning at the fact that he couldn’t seem to decide whether to look at the strap or at her face. “But if you think he looks good now, you should see him here in a few minutes.”

“Might not be that long,” Mick replied, glancing over at the attachment and pulling his fingers free, wiping off his hand.

“I’m, I’m good,” Scout agreed, nodding hard. “So, how are we gonna do this, are we—“

Mick shut him up with a pair of hands bodily flipping him over and promptly pulling him up onto his knees, and Scout’s shiver of pleasure at the manhandling was misread by Mick, who squeezed his hips comfortingly for a moment. “Me in front, yeah?” he asked Sniper, who nodded, Scout hurriedly stammering out in the affirmative as well.

And she was slowed down in her attempt to arrange everything how she pleased at the visual of Scout fumbling his way through trying to open Mick’s pants one-handed, just a little bit too pleased at the notion of sucking him off, taking him into his mouth with enthusiasm that was just a touch too much, made that jealous streak flare up for just a second, and she didn’t bother reining herself in as much as usual as she dug fingernails into his hips, pushing in.

That groan he always made at that initial push was muffled, then echoed by Mick as Scout sank further forward and apparently did something very right. She couldn’t tell as well from the angle she’d found herself in, and didn’t particularly care. She’d only care if those noises started sounding too strained.

“Pull his hair,” she suggested, pleased to find that at the very least, she got to be the most put-together. Mick glanced up, expression hazy. “He likes it.”

He did so without further commentary, threading a hand in through the longer hair up at the top of his head and tugging, using it for leverage to push him down further. Scout groaned his appreciation, a distinct flex in his back letting Sniper know he was honestly leaning in to it just as much as Mick was pulling.

Alright, she was coming around. He won. Scout was right. This was a good idea.

She didn’t bother warming him up into things, knowing that he’d sometimes complain about her going too slow when she did it on normal nights, and he’d be even more frustrated if she did now. She just started straight into rocking her hips in steady motions, knowing by then just the right rhythm to leave him breathless without making her get too out of breath. She could keep it up for a good, long time, and always ended up enraptured at the way Scout melted, arching into it and gasping and moaning and gorgeous.

This time, he was a little distracted by clearly putting a good amount of effort into sucking off the other man, but even then he was noisy, and that only made Mick buck into his mouth all the more often.

“Gorgeous thing,” Mick choked, petting through his hair for a moment before snaring it and using it to buck into his mouth with more intent than before, and Scout just moaned, tilting slightly to accommodate. “God. Like you’re bloody made for this.”

“You have no idea,” Sniper said, breath a bit hard but still even, rhythm speeding for a moment to make Scout squirm. “I go too long without doing this to him and he gets so needy. He’d probably beg, if I made him wait too long. The way he begged for this tells me that much.”

“He’s blushing,” Mick informed her with a breathless sort of chuckle, and she saw that his ears were indeed turning red. “Poor thing. Can’t even defend himself with his mouth full.”

Scout made a quiet noise in the back of his throat that might have had something to do with the little extra roll Sniper put on the end of her next thrust, but Mick raised an eyebrow, pulling him back from his hair.

“Somethin’ to say, there?” he asked, hand falling to tip Scout’s chin up, and Sniper heard the way he was panting and slowed down her thrusts, knowing how close he had to be if he was making that kind of noise on the exhale.

Scout panted for another few moments, and finally made a disgruntled noise, shifting his weight. Sniper had to move forward with him a little bit, and he choked on breath for a moment before he recovered enough to speak. “If you’re gonna fuck my mouth, do it already,” he said, voice harder than expected. “And, and you can pull my hair harder than that.”

Sniper chuckled at Mick’s expression, slightly taken aback but clearly thrilled by this turn of events. “Alright then, get back down here,” he rumbled, and Scout did with enthusiasm, and then the pace was shifting.

She waited until Mick found his rhythm before she matched it, stepping up a notch, moving in double-time with the thrusts into Scout’s mouth. The skin of their thighs slapped together and Scout made desperate little noises every few thrusts, clearly completely overwhelmed by the way he’d gone so lax she needed to hold up his hips some amount for him. She only stopped occasionally to try and catch her breath or to readjust, shifting to long, slow strokes aimed as best she could to drag mercilessly against his prostate, and Scout whined helplessly each time it happened, bucking for emphasis until she started back up into the speed she’d had before again.

Mick seemed to sense something she didn’t—probably aided by the fact that he could see Scout’s face, feel his moaning—and told Scout to stroke himself. He did, moaning kicking up in pitch with his desperation, and that pushed Mick over the edge, swearing and fucking more roughly into Scout’s mouth before he spilled with a hard shudder. Scout moaned his pleasure when he could get air, strokes slowing down as he focused on not choking, and then his mouth was freed and he was panting and groaning against Mick’s thigh, rocking more firmly back into Sniper’s thrusts.

“Gonna come for me?” Sniper crooned in the sweet, teasing voice that always made him shiver when he was like this. “C’mon, we wanna see.”

Mick hummed in the affirmative, petting through his hair. Scout’s head was tilted a bit now, and Sniper watched Mick’s thumb drawing across his bottom lip, watched Scout’s eyebrows screw together with it, eyes falling closed, and Sniper filed it away as something she should try on him later. She moved to those long, firm strokes again, and Scout choked on nothing, going tense, jerking under her.

“Gorgeous,” she praised, rocking once and twice more for good measure, and he unclenched his teeth enough to gasp at it, and then he was relaxing, breathing hard.

She pulled free slowly and carefully, and Scout’s grunt of vague discomfort was muffled, Mick having leaned down to kiss him, still dominating but considerably more gentle than before. She left them to it as she stood to unclasp the harness, a little out of breath herself.

She’d only gotten one leg free when a pair of arms snaked around her waist, a familiar nose pressed into her hair, a breathless little chuckle fanning against her overheated neck. “Hey, c’mon, what about you?” Scout mumbled, half teasing and half hopeful.

She scoffed, but it was hard to get much feeling behind it. Seeing him like that, and the way the strap pressed against her as she’d been fucking him, and how hot the whole situation was, it all added up to make her feel… well. A good bit more turned on than she’d thought she would be. “What about me?” she asked, kicking free the rest of the way and trying not to separate from him.

“I want you to like this, too,” he said, and she jumped a little at the feeling of fingers trailing at her inner thigh.

“You don’t need to do that, I’ll be—“ she started, and was cut off as her breath hitched, Scout having gotten bold enough to push his fingertips against her more firmly. Her exhale was shaky as he trailed his fingers against her, the slickness there under his callouses apparently taking both of them by surprise if Scout’s little gasp was any indication.

“Jesus,” Scout whispered, sounding a little awed, a little desperate. “C’mon, please? I can’t just leave you like this, I wanna—“

 His index and middle fingers found either side of her clit, rubbing with just the right amount of pressure, and her knees threatened to buckle for a moment. “Ngh,” was what she managed instead of a proper response, pulse hammering, and she gasped outright as Scout’s other hand rose to cup and squeeze at her breast, making her arch. “Christ, I, fine, just—“

He nosed her hair aside, pressing a kiss into her neck and kneading at her just so, his own breathing a little shaky.

“Wait,” she bit out, and he stopped, freezing in place.

That gave her time and brainpower to move, turning around and pushing him down onto the bed again, boxing him in with her legs before leaning down, kissing him absolutely silly. His noise of confusion morphed into a noise of contentment, hands finding her waist almost automatically. When she pulled away again a long moment, he was flushed and clearly a little dizzied, his lopsided smile on display. “That a yes?” he asked, hopeful.

She glanced him up and down. “Mostly I’m just surprised you’re still up for more,” she admitted. “Figured we’d put you through the paces already.”

“Nah,” he said, squeezing appreciatively for a moment. “You know I’m always up for more of whatever.”

“Even after getting fucked two ways in one go?” she asked, eyebrows raising.

“Especially,” he admitted, head turning for a moment to glance at the other man, who admittedly she’d almost forgotten about. Mick appeared to be about halfway through a cigarette, shamelessly ogling the two of them, making no attempt to cover himself up and grinning a little when she met his eyes.

Mick looked at her for a moment, then down at Scout, who she felt shift a little under her, clearly preening at the attention, at the heat there. Mick stretched his neck from one side to the other languidly and reached to tap out his cigarette before he looked back over at Sniper. “You’ve got rubbers, yeah?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. She nodded. “How about I take back and you take front this round?”

She blinked, glancing him over, then down at Scout. She was honestly a little surprised to hear they were ready to go again already, having not expected much more than that first round and maybe an attempt to crowd into one mattress if Scout was feeling particularly needy after. But then she looked at his face, and Scout seemed to be trying his hardest to give her his best puppy eyes.

“Bugger,” she sighed, and Scout grinned.

#//sniperscout #//fem!characters #//teasing #//powerplay #//begging

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anika-ann · 4 years

Text

The 5 Times Steve Felt Betrayed - bonus

and the 1 Time He Felt Like He Was Betraying You

Type: mini-series to a series (part 1 & part 2 & part 3), Avenger!reader AU.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 3400

Summary: Steve might have abandoned you and his friends in Germany, but Steve Rogers does not give up on people. Do you?

Set shortly after the rescue from the Raft.

Warnings: mentions of violence and fights, mentions of the Raft, language...fluff

A/N: This part of Melting Hearts’ verse follows the events of CA: Civil War, sometimes only referencing them and kinda expecting the readers to know what’s up ;)

Posted in double chapters (1st & 2nd time, 3th & 4th, 5th+1... and the bonus, because my brain clearly doesn’t understand the concept of 5+1)

Previous part

────── ·❆· ──────

Seeking Shelter, Finding Home

Clint had been kind enough to replace Steve in the pilot seat – with a significant look sent your direction. You were sitting away from the others, watching your hands as if you couldn’t quite believe they belonged to you. Steve’s lips automatically press a thin line at the sight – you still looked so small as you had when he had found you in the cell.

Just the memory of The Raft made his stomach turn over. The prison was just inhumane – the way a power-restricting collar had been pinned around your neck, your hands trapped in a straitjacket just in case you would somehow manage to remove the collar. And then there had been the tiny thing in the straightjacket, ready to deliver an electric discharge if you would have left your cell despite all the barriers.

Sure, Wanda had been in the same… outfit, and it was sickening, but seeing you crumbled in the corner of the cell, tied and broken like that – it had made him unable to breathe in or out, his chest just too constricted. And knowing you had gone through all this because of him made it even worse.

Now, you were at least free of your cuffs, in a comfortable hoodie that was two sizes big for you, and yet you seemed absolutely lost.

He approached you hesitantly, his heart jumping to his throat and making it almost impossible for him to speak.

“Uhm… hey,” he greeted you softly and you immediately raised your head to him, a faint unsure smile appearing on your lips. Your absent eyes found his, missing its usual spark. He beckoned to the seat next to you. “May I?”

“Of course,” you whispered, apparently a bit baffled. Steve sure as hell didn’t like the resignation in your voice. “This is your jet.”

He shrugged, seating himself by your side. Your shoulder almost brushed his and it was as pleasant for him as unnerving. So close and yet too far.

“You helped me steal it.”

You eyed him timidly, fumbling with your fingers nervously. Heavy silence fell and for several moments; he just stared into your eyes, drinking in the feeling of being able to do that again. To look into your soul and see all the emotions playing in your head; until you lowered your gaze again, hiding from him.

He sighed, not knowing how to even start, not knowing how to talk to you; you had barely exchanged few words about Bucky’s whereabouts since the rescue from the prison and it had been… awkward, to put it mildly.

God, where should he start? He wanted to apologize. He wanted to ask million questions and most of all he just wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold you close, not saying a single word, because words only made things messy.

That was if someone bothered with forming them – or receiving them.

He gulped and pulled out the folded envelope. He would swear he could hear your heart skip a beat as you drew in a sharp breath.

“Uhm… I didn’t read it. I’m sorry. I… I was angry with you, disappointed. I thought… I thought you left me in a lurch and then you were just… trying to make it better with few words. And after, I didn’t want to… to waste any time. I wanted to find you, all of you, because I left you behind and I knew you suffered for it. And…” he took a deep breath, setting the letter aside, taking your restless fingers in his hands. You looked up at his face, your eyes wide and glassy. It made his throat even tighter. “And I was hoping you could just tell me what you wrote. That you could tell me everything.”

You pressed your lips together, blinking your tears away as you avoided his gaze once more. It was driving him insane, but he couldn’t say he blamed you.

“There’s not much to tell, Steve. I… I agreed with the Accords. With someone watching over us, maybe to be held responsible for--- but all I wanted was someone watching over me. Because I can do so much damage-“

He grimaced, a cold hand squeezing his guts as you stumbled over your words. Forever and always guilty. He underestimated sometimes how deeply your guilt ran.

“That’s not-“

“-and… I hated we couldn’t agree on that. But I never got myself to sign it. Didn’t really have the time and after what they did to Wanda – I couldn’t, it was just wrong. So wrong to hold her prisoner, throwing her under the bus. She made a mistake, yes, but we all did-- and… it wasn’t right. It was when I decided I couldn’t do it.”

“Why didn’t you come with Clint then?” he asked, confused. He was recognizing you now, the motivations you had had suddenly feeling much more like you than he would expect.

You smiled wryly.

“I couldn’t. It was… I figured that maybe at least I could make myself useful. I knew where that was heading. I had to stay with Tony to know their plan.”

Steve closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, your hands in his weighting a ton all of sudden. You had really been playing double agent. That had been such a stupid and reckless move. And kinda brilliant, but that was implied.

“God, Snowflake…”

You freed one of your hands to wipe the tears from your cheeks; Steve gripped your other hand tighter, so you wouldn’t get the idea of stopping touching him for a goddamn second.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the arrest too, but I saw what kind of a task force they sent after you, Steve. You would stand no chance, there was no way you could escape. The heavy guns, Rhodey, snipers, helicopters. It was-“

Steve’s eyes snapped open at the realization.

“You were trying to protect us,” he whispered incredulously.

Oh god. Had you gone completely insane? Had you lost your mind? Had you lost the last pieces of self-preservation somewhere along the way?

“I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t my call and I swear I was waiting until the last moment, I waited until I was sure that they would get you anyway. And I am— I’m so, so sorry for--- for-”

You hand was shaking in his, your voice cracked and you were now wiping the tears uselessly, because new ones were coming constantly. You weren’t able to finish the sentence, but Steve knew exactly what you were trying to say.

And it made him snap.

He threw away stupid ideas like approaching you carefully and wrapped his arms around your trembling form, cradling your face to his chest to hush you. He was taken aback when your weak fingers grabbed the edges of his leather jacket and you melted into him. He tightened his embrace.

“Hey, I know. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sorry you had to use your powers against me. I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your hair and you stiffened, you breath hitching.

“What?”

He caressed your back, his previous certainty wavering. “You hated it, didn’t you? You hated it so much, but you did it anyway, because you thought it was the only way to keep us from getting shot.”

You didn’t speak up, unable to find your voice, but Steve could feel your furious nods. He inhaled deeply through his nose, wishing he could just take the feeling tearing you apart away.

“You did the right thing.”

“Right things suck.”

Steve huffed out a surprised laugh and pressed a shameless kiss into your hair. “Yeah. Sometimes they do. But you did it anyway, which makes you the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

You stopped shaking by then, and you fumbled with his jacket this time. Your face was hidden in the crook of his neck, but Steve would swear your face felt hotter even when he couldn’t see your cheeks. It was a little piece of happiness for him in this huge mess and he couldn’t be more grateful for you being here with him – finally in his arms.

“Can I ask you something?”

He wanted to slap himself the moment you tensed in his arms again. You nodded stiffly anyway.

“After… after Nigeria. Why— why did you start going to Matt? What happened? Were you… were you disappointed in me?”

You retreated, escaping his embrace, and Steve scolded himself for being so stupid. Why had he poked you again? Words always made things messy…

It was only a little comfort that you were still holding onto his jacket. Your baffled face confused the hell out of him – but at least you didn’t seem angry.

“Why would I be disappointed? What… what?”

“Uhm… well… because I froze. I didn’t handle the situation-“

“Jesus, Steve,” you choked out, shaking your head, your eyes finally finding his willingly. The look in them warmed Steve’s heart even when he wasn’t sure what exactly it was supposed to mean. “Is that what you think? That I was… disappointed that you didn’t perfectly keep your cool when Rumlow mentioned Bucky? Did you think I was… thinking any less of you? Judging you? Oh god, Steve. How could I?”

The sincerity of your voice struck him straight in his gut and he was honestly feeling like an idiot in an instant. Of course you hadn’t judged him. You weren’t one to judge people – you hadn’t said a word against Wanda after she had messed up. The only person you ever had been hard on was yourself. How could he have believed anything else even for a second?

Jealously, whispered the intrusive voice in the back of his mind and he shushed it angrily – mostly because it spoke the truth.

“But… why did you go to— uhm, to Matt then?”

You arched an eyebrow inconspicuously and Steve felt a blush creeping up his neck. Yeah, he had been jealous and wounded at the time and it was stupid, okay?

“Because I needed a lawyer,” you explained hesitantly and it was Steve’s turn to be perfectly shocked. Again. What? “A good one. A smart one. An outsider too, at least to certain extent. I wanted to ask him about the possible consequences of the Avengers messing up. I wanted to know his opinion and I didn’t want to ask him over a phone. He predicted the Accords with scary precision, by the way. And he said hi on several occasions, but I never got the nerve to actually deliver the greetings, because I was afraid you would pry why I was going out.”

Steve’s jaw went slack, his eyes widening in awe. That— that was pretty much the only thing he hadn’t seen coming. Shit. You-- you were incredible. You had been thinking ahead. So much. You had been afraid of the consequences so you had gone to a lawyer to be prepared.

Yes, you had sought out the one friend, who had happened to find too much liking in you, but… while he and Wanda had been figuring out their guilt – and Steve was still sure you had taken some of the blame too in your head – you had sprung into action. And his ego had been too wounded to see it.

He tilted his head back, pleading heavens to give him strength.

“Oh god, I am such an idiot…”

“No, you’re not,” you protested immediately, finding his hand to cover it with yours. Oh, how quickly your roles reversed, you soothing him now.

He looked at you, still not quite believing you had done all that. His eyes scanned your form, your face still damp from the tears you had shed, your eyes red-rimmed from crying, dark bruising under. But regaining at least a little of your confidence, you had grown right in front of his eyes. You were incredible. How had he ever doubted that? How had he ever deserved you?

“Really? Because I was being jealous instead of asking what was the visit about, my ego was hurting and I was hurting, and I was too blinded by my petty feeling of betrayal to see what you were doing. And then I honestly thought you just left me – that all we had meant nothing to you all of sudden. I thought the worst of you and I was too damn proud to comply with the single wish you had. I didn’t even read your letter. Which part of that does not make me a complete idiot?”

You bit your lip, lowering your gaze to your joined your hands, caressing it softly. It made Steve’s heart grow in size – but it still didn’t make him less of a jackass, it actually made him feel worse at the same time, because it wasn’t your place to offer comfort to him, it was supposed to be the other way around.

“The part in which feelings aren’t petty and make us human,” you whispered hoarsely, a tiny spark appearing in your eyes, disappearing all too fast. “I wanted to drop it all – the moment you looked at me when I-- when I froze you and the… the look in your eyes at the airport. It was the worst part of it all. You thinking… thinking that I’m a scum.”

Steve had never shaken his head so abruptly as the moment you called yourself a scum. His hand slipped from under yours, only to frame your face with his palms, making you look into his eyes. He was the one feeling like a scum at the moment, because… you hadn’t been that far from the truth and he didn’t think he had ever felt so ashamed for his previous thoughts like at this very moment.

“No. Hey, look at me. You— I was-- I wasn’t thinking straight. I was hurt and felt betrayed and I was disappointed, yes, but never ever-” he emphasized, staring into your eyes as if there was nothing more important in this world. And it wasn’t. “-have I thought you were--- that. And I’m sorry that I doubted you for even a moment.”

Your eyes turned glassy again under his intense stare, so many emotions written in it. You couldn’t bear it, you wanted to look away, but he wouldn’t let you, holding your gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated firmly and you finally managed to close your eyes to escape.

It was when he did one of the boldest moves ever. Without a single hint of permission, after your relationship had suffered an enormous hit and with him not having a clue how you felt about him now, he pressed his lips firmly to yours, stealing your breath away.

He didn’t know what he had expected, but the hesitant response turning into an eager one within few seconds was not it. Your hands flew to his hair, interlacing in them and pulling him closer, your mouth opening for him almost immediately. He sighed at the unexpected sensation, a shiver of excitement running through his body. Your mouth was hot and wanting against his, one of your hands trailing down his chest; when it stopped above his navel, he found himself silently groaning in disappointment.

It was also when he realized where the hell you were and how much audience you had. His fingers twisted in your hair – god, he missed that – and he withdrew just slightly, setting a slower pace and putting some distance between you two. You seemed to get the memo, because you gently caressed his abdomen over the fabric of his t-shirt, separated from his lips and rested your forehead against his. You were both out of breath, panting.

Steve opened his eyes first, only to see your lips kiss-swollen and parted as you fought for a little air, your eyes still closed as if you were trying to regain some composure. His lizard brain whispered more and he listened, kissing you one more time; but at least wary of keeping the kiss socially acceptable this time. It was next to impossible to part again.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed out and Steve looked at you, once again confused.

“For?”

You licked your lips, the movement utterly and unfairly distracting. He retreated and your eyes snapped opened as you cleared your throat.

“I honestly don’t know where we go from here – and now I mean… like… the two of us, but… I’m sorry. They took all of our personal belongings,” you whispered, embarrassed and pissed off a bit.

Steve tilted his head to side, not following. Yeah, he knew that. Why were you pointing it out?

“…okay?”

“All of it. Including… including jewellery.”

“Oh,” he let out intelligently, his heart expanding in his chest with hope.

Really? Was it possible that-… really? Sure, the kiss you just shared was nothing sort of loving, you had cleared things out and maybe it should hint him, but…

“I mean... I know you're probably angry with me-“

“Would you still want it?” he breathed out, astonished. He was trying to fight the euphoria creeping into his voice, no doubt showing on his face, but he couldn’t help it. “After what happened? After I... thought you turned your back to me, after I left you behind even when knowing you actually didn't? After I became a criminal?”

“I am a criminal too, Steve. And… I told you to go. You didn’t want to, because you're not leaving people behind. And you came back. I… I love you. Of course I’d still want it.”

He felt his lips curl up in a smile that mirrored only a fraction of the surge of joy in his veins. You didn’t seem to follow why. The declaration alone would be enough to make him feel like this, but… well. At least the little delay in the rescue had been worth it.

“Why are you smiling like that?” you asked him warily, hesitant raise of the corners of your lips lighting up your face as well.

Steve reached into his pocket, drawing a thin chain with a ring out, holding it out between the two of you. You gasped in awe, watching the chain you had bought to protect your ring while fighting wide-eyed.

“How-?”

“When I asked the guard about it, he looked at me as if I was crazy. Maybe I am,” he explained with a shrug and you chuckled incredulously, biting your lip.

“May I... may I wear it?”

Steve had honestly no clue how you could be asking such a stupid question. He observed your features that seemed to come alive, finally back to your usual self – the sunshine in even the darkest place.

And that thought gave him a stop; he was in a pretty dark place at the moment and he didn’t think it would get any better any time soon.

“I… I’m in a terrible mess, Snowflake. I’m probably the most wanted criminal in the world now. Are you sure?”

You cleared your throat significantly. “Steve, allow me to remind you that I am a fugitive too. That’s the first thing. The second thing… you’ve done nothing wrong – the whole criminal thing is just a word, a label someone gave you. And the third thing… I know what I’m signing up for. I knew you were trouble – for a good cause – when I said yes the first time. I knew you were trouble long before I fell in love with you. So yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“God, I love you so much,” Steve murmured before he could even think of anything else.

As he freed the ring so he could slip it back on your ring finger, you held out your trembling left hand for him. It wasn’t fear – it was excitement all over again. Too many emotions to contain. Steve felt the same. He was stunned, moved, and felt so incredibly loved and strong with you by his side that there weren’t any better words to say anyway.

He enclosed your hand in his when the ring was on place, bringing them to his lips only to plant a kiss over the thin metal. It made you smile like a madwoman.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw Sam Wilson fist-bump with Scott Lang. You hid your face in Steve’s chest with silent laugh.

You had no idea what the future held for you now – you could only guess that it wouldn’t be exactly pretty. But as long you were not about to face it alone, you were ready and determined to fight all the battles coming your way.

────── ·❆· ──────

S.R. masterlist

Hell Froze Over (next in the series)

────── ·❆· ──────

Thank you for reading!

Someone once told me that fluff is my default setting. They weren’t wrong. I know mini-series was a bit different and with shorter chapters, but hopeflly, you enjoyed nevertheless.

Sequel ahead, this one a longer one! Title’s Hell Froze Over... I can promise you a new enhanced on the scene, some fluff, some angst... the usual :-*

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #captain america x reader #captain america x you #steve rogers imagine #captain america x imagine #steve rogers #captain america #mcu #marvel #avenger reader #melting hearts #5 times steve felt betrayed #anika ann

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highsviolets · 4 years

Text

the sweet secrets of loving

summary: Obi-wan returns from deployment with a sweet surprise

word count: 1.8k+ (what)

cw: brief mention of war/deployment

A/N: after discussing Obi-Wan’s culinary abilities with @thespareoom and @obitwo, this little one-shot popped into my head last night and it wouldn’t leave me alone. this is so soft and i just -- if you need me i will be yearning // shout out to @afogocado for finding this gif (if it’s yours pls lmk so I can credit you!)

the sweet secrets of loving, a fic by corellians-only

Silver keys seemed to dance in your hand as you fumbled with the lock, the metal glaring in your face as they reflected the merciless fluorescent lights bearing down on you with foreboding.

After several agonizing moments spent twisting the key, trying to locate the elusive sweet spot that would permit access to your apartment, the stubborn thing acquiesced and the door swung open.

He was already there. A feeling like a soft summer breeze swept over you at the sight his buzzed auburn hair, his pride and authority etched into his shoulders like the precise stitching of his combat uniform still clinging to his back. He was staring out the window, and you could tell from the way his thumb curled around the unit insignia on his left ring finger that he was anxious.

“Darling?” you called out, mustering the last dredges of your willpower to not sprint to his side.You simply waited by the door, setting down the cumbersome black box of files your boss had insisted you take home this evening, no, really, it would be most helpful if you could compare the spring and fall mockups tonight. The box of responsibility rebounded off the hardwood floor and skidded slightly, blending in with the muffled closing of the door behind you.

It was no matter, anyway. The box had barely escaped the protective gaze of your fingers when he was pulling you into him. His head bowed down to nestle in the crook of your neck and you laughed as his fine hair tickled your cheek. You pressed a kiss to his sheared locks. “Hello, Obi-Wan,” you whispered, as though speaking any louder would bring a curse upon you both, would take him away from you again.

At the sound of his name, Obi-Wan straightened and took your face in his hands. His thumb drew angels across your cheekbones. “Darling,” he breathed. Aquamarine eyes met yours. It felt like getting caught in the hail — confusion, wonder, a homecoming of understanding, a bite of pain.

When the two of you video chat during his deployments, his eyes are always darker. They’re steel and iron and the reflection of your keys in the hallway and the torment of a sea during the storm as it fights against the waves.

Every time he comes home, they change. They become lighter, the way his body does without the Kevlar bulletproof vest.

When he looks at you like that — like the world would burn and he would still go to war to fight for you alone — your resolve shatters, the way a window must when his bullet crashes through its pane, searching for the sniper.

Your fingers grasp his wrists and tug at the end of his sleeve. The pink of your painted nails contrasts horribly with his camouflage, and the absurd thought makes you laugh even as he dips his head in acquaintance to your nonverbal command.

The first kiss is simple, like the routine act of walking from the metro to you apartment. Routine, familiar, but not unexciting. A expression of the vibrancy of life. Your lips meet his, like an embrace, and stay there for several long moments.

A second kiss, the third, the fourth: these are more demanding. The way his hands slip under diaphanous emerald silk tells you that this is more like a carefully timed assault. His mouth is precise and exacting, his tongue pushes back against your claims to dominance, his fingers press into skin and yours clutch at the unforgiving fabric of his uniform.

You disconnect and he smiles, a steady, even thing that shows his teeth. Even so, it threatens to split his face in two, and the dust that seems to be shedding from his laugh lines makes you wonder the last time he was truly happy.

But you ascend to your tiptoes and kiss his cheek and banish all thoughts of his deployment, at least for tonight. “C’mon, Obi-Wan.” You take his hand and start dragging him to the kitchen. “Let’s eat.”

____

It is not until later that evening that you discover his secret. Padding into the kitchen, you open the fridge to retrieve a new bottle of sparkling water when something strange caught your eye.

“Obi?” you say. The hike in your tone matches the spike in your anxiety and unease. “You didn’t happen to pick up some tofu in miso when you went to store earlier, did you? There’s uh —“ you pause, staring at the blob in apprehension — “something…weird in the fridge.”

“Ah.” He follows your path into the kitchen and steps behind you to better see the object in question. “I see you’ve found dessert. I wondered how long it would take.” Amusement colors his tone, and you turn your head to see a smirk decorating his lips.

“Oh.” The unassuming expression is the only thing that enters your vacuous mind, consumed by the strangeness of the oval-shaped yellow-and-caramel colored mass. You run your fingers through your hair — now freed from its stuffy updo — in an attempt to wrest some meaning back into your existence. “What, um, what is it?”

Obi-Wan extends his arms and catches you in an embrace from behind. “It’s a flan, darling!” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Obi-Wan squeezes your waist in excitement and you lean back into his chest, comforted that its soft cotton of an old t-shirt that greets you, rather than his fatigues.

“Oh.” Emptiness returns, and now the exoticism of the strange food is coupled with curious revulsion that Obi-Wan is so interested in something that seems so…unappealing.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and gently scoots you out of his path and puts the platter on the counter. You watch him as he gathers plates, washes fresh utensils, and meticulously cuts the thing, taking care to add extra sauce to each slice. He thrusts a plate at you. “Try it,” he urges.

You don’t like dessert. Never have. You’d rather eat something savory than something sweet, and after years of failed attempts, Obi-Wan has largely given up. But here he is, staring at you with those aquamarine eyes, practically begging you to try this foreign sweet treat.

So you do. The custard is smooth, like the silk of your top, and flecked with spots of intense vanilla flavoring. Caramel oozes into every bite, rich in tone and balancing the tenderness of the egg and sugar.

“Oh my god.” You meet his eyes, and you can tell he’s valiantly staving off another grin. He never presses his lips together like that otherwise. “This is — Obi, this is amazing. Like, vintage Chanel kind of amazing.”

He laughs aloud at your comparison, taking the two plates and reassuming his previous position on the couch.

“I’m glad to hear you enjoy it, sweetheart.” He erupts into another round of chuckles when you moan around the next bite.

“What did you say this is?” you point to the concoction with you spoon.

“Flan, dearest,” he says mildly, taking a bite himself. “Ah, you’re right, it did turn out rather well today. My mother would be proud.”

The statement gives you pause, and you set down your spoon. “Your mother? Wait — did you make this?”

Obi-wan looks at you, surprise evident in his half-smile and narrowed eyes. “Of course I did! Where did you think I got it?”

“I didn’t know you could bake!” The statement is bald, and childish, but you don’t care.

“How did you think all the cookies and tray bakes appeared, then?” He raises an eyebrow mischievously. There’s nothing he loves more than poking holes in your logic, especially when you cling to it so resolutely.

“Oh, I don’t know!” you splutter. “I suppose I thought you bought them, or something!” You throw him a mock glare. “Not my fault you never told me that you bake.”

He launches himself forward and drops a conciliatory kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’m very sorry, darling,” he says seriously, but there’s a twinkle in his eye so you shove him away from you. The gesture is playful and wondrous in its innocence, and for a moment you feel as though you are in university again, staying up late in the student lounge talking, long before uniforms and obligations and separations. You want to say something but the words get caught in your throat as you remember your promise to leave the boots behind. At least this one night.

“What is flan, anyway? When did you learn to make it?” you say instead, forcing the words out and taking another bite. The sweetness caresses the bitterness lingering in your mind.

“It’s a long story,” he says, shifting his gaze to the window.

You place an hand on his bare arm. “I want to hear it,” you say, and you do.

So he tells you. He tells you of his French mother spending her childhood summers across the Pyrenees in Spain, learning dishes like arroz con pollo and tortilla española and flan. The family cook become a grandmother to her, he says, and again he plays with the unit insignia on his ring and you know he misses his mother more than ever.

Flan became his mother’s speciality, he explains. He points to the sheen on the custard and talks about how his mother learned how to perfectly beat the eggs and how she favored the caramel sauce against the hard caramel on her native country’s creme brûlée and how the family cook in Spain gifted her with her very own flan pan when she was eighteen years old.

You ask him how he came to bake such things. He smiles again and despite its joy, your heart aches because you never knew. While his father was deployed, he would bake with his mother to keep her company, and she taught him tarte tatin alongside flan and the Bakewell tarts his father so enjoyed.

“It was how she told people she loved them,” he says with a shrug, finishing his portion. “She would bake for the other women whose husbands were deployed, or for the family next door, or for my best friend’s cousin’s birthday, or if I had a bad day at school there would be something sweet waiting for before I went to bed.” Obi-wan rests his head on his hand, considering. “I guess I’m the same way. I came home and I wanted to do something nice for you, to tell you I love you.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Obi.” The pun is bad and you both know it, but he laughs and kisses you anyway. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“I love you too,” you murmur against his mouth. “Will you bake me something tomorrow?”

“Darling,” he presses a kiss to the edge of your lips. “I will bake you something every single day if that is what makes you happy.”

And you say you want him to, because you want him to love you forever.

#obi wan x reader #obi-wan x reader #obi wan x you #obi-wan x you #obi-wan imagine #obi wan imagine #star wars fic #character: obi-wan kenobi #YES I LOVE FLAN #DONT COME FOR ME #my abuelita's flan is >>>#honor kink #cris writes

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Note

Hey I was wondering if you’d take a prompt where the reader is an ex-padawan who’s master died pretty early on in order 66, and was instead saved by a clone that removed his inhibitor chip. Then maybe they get separated, and years later when the reader is a crew member on the Mantis, they come across the clone again? How would the crew, especially Cal and Cere, react to meeting a friendly ex-soldier clone who’s close with the reader? Could you make it full of angst then fluff? Love your writing!

Hello there, Anon~! Sorry if you had to wait a bit because I took a break after writing the sequel fic (and then new JFO update came in the middle of it lol), hope you understand! Anyways, I hope you’ll enjoy this fic 🤗💖 Also, thank you! 🥰💕✨

“Old Friend, New Family”

Tags: Defected! Clone Trooper, Jedi Survivor! Reader, Order 66 Survivor

Also found in AO3

Next: Part 2 | Masterlist

1 of ?

HOURS BEFORE THE EXECUTION OF ORDER 66

A pair of Jedi Starfighters zoom back and forth in gracefully in the sky of Plardel—a peaceful planet in the Gorio system plagued by the vermin that are the Separatist and their droid army—cutting through clouds and leaving smoky trails in their wake. From a bird’s eye view, you and your Master, Zal Karos, watched the battle on the surface. It was only a matter of time when the two of you have arrived into the planet after departing from the Republic command ship, Ultimatum, flanked with a company of pilots to aid the aerial assault.

A hologram of the admiral in the Ultimatum crackled into both your comms.

“General Karos, the blockade has been cut!”

“Just in time for the relief convoy!” the Kel Dor responded enthusiastically.

“We better start cleaning house then, Master!” you chirped through your radio.

“I was about to say the same thing, my Padawan!”

Zal Karos began instructing you to already engage in the standard operating procedure for the ejection sequence, programming your own astromech droids to override the ship and activate auto-pilot, flying lower and closer to the surface.

“Get ready to eject, [y/n]!” Master Karos radioed you through your ship’s comms.

“Ready when you are, Master!”

You pulled the lever at the bottom side of your seat and sent yourself flying out of your own starfighter. Using your Jedi reflexes, your landing was smooth—the same goes for your Master—now you’ve caught yourself in the crossfire between the 89th Legion and the droid army keeping the capital city from you.

The troops drew the droids’ fire while you and Master Karos charged onward, keeping up with your own vanguard, aiding them at the same time. Battle droids of all types—B1 battle droids, droidekas, and super battle droids—poured out of the city.

Just how many are they keeping in there!?

You continued deflecting the projectiles of the lanky battle droids back and forth, advancing as you thinned the numbers of their frontlines together with your Master, the Kel Dor looked over his shoulder and beckoned the troops to break through.

“Onward, child!”

You wanted to show Zal Karos how much you have learned from him, you applied every technique from close contact to long range combat, you were side-to-side with your Master. He saw that you’ve become more skilled with the lightsaber than before.

“Keep it up, [y/n]!”

“The Jedi have breached the city gates!” one battle droid reported through its built-in commlink but wasn’t able to request reinforcements in time. Your lightsaber had severed it into half before it could do so.

Once broken through, Master Karos barked orders at a handful of troopers to secure the locals held hostage in the residential areas and the central business district.

“The rest of you, keep pressing on!” the Kel Dor barked through his mask. He then turns to you, softening his commander-like bark into his normal voice while retaining that firm tone. “We’re heading straight to the Prime Minister’s Palace, child. That’s where the Separatist leader will be. Be ready!”

“Yes, Master!”

More battle droids marched to your general direction and there was no other alternative but to fight. Their numbers are significantly smaller, although they have deployed more super battle droids than the generic ones, the opposition was also accompanied by walkers.

Normally, your side would be overwhelmed as you’re only accompanied by ARC troopers and regular troopers.

“We’re outgunned!” a trooper, faceless in the crowd, cried in despair.

“Not if I have anything to say about that!”

Using the Force, you carried a metal beam large enough to sweep-kick the walkers off their feet—consequently crushing the droids in its path and thinning the herd altogether.

“Exemplary thinking, young Padawan!” Karos commended.

You smiled back at him as thanks and with the big problem out of the picture, the tables have turned for the droid army. The sniper troopers have finally reached their vantage points in the ruins of the city and took down the droids as the army cut through. Eventually, you’ve reached the Minister’s Palace and arrested the Neimoidian Separatist leader after taking down his small dispatch of guards outside the office.

Although you’ve secured the Palace and rescued the hostages, resulting to this campaign’s victory, something doesn’t feel right. The master and apprentice stayed in the office room watching LAAT gunships filled with reinforcements and medical support arrive.

“I sense there is something troubling you, Padawan [y/n].”

“I’m sorry, Master. I’ve been sensing something since this morning, though I can’t exactly say what it is—it feels ominous,” you shake off the thought. “I’m sorry again, that is quite pessimistic of me to say.”

“Not at all, child. Likewise, I thought I was the only one having that sort of feeling. The Force is unpredictable, but never mischievous,”

“Something tells me there’s a gloom lingering about this victory, Master,”

“You have become more insightful of your feelings and visions of late, Padawan. It seems to be serving you well. Not many have reached that point, especially in your age. I don’t think you should be apologetic about it.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I strongly believe it is. To see beyond plain sight and looking ahead are vital aspects of a Jedi’s wisdom.”

A smile played along in your face, even through your master’s mask, you can feel the warmth of his compassion for you. The master and his apprentice continue to watch the gunships dot the sky as they approach the city. From behind, the office door could be heard opening, a clone and his commander let themselves in.

“General Karos, the reinforcements have arrived for the troopers and the refugees. We’re just conducting a clean sweep of the palace in case of any stragglers—whether droid or Separatist.” Reported the commander.

“I leave it in your capable hands, Commander Pollux.”

“Thank you sir, this is another victory of the Republic!”

“Hey kid,” the Clone Trooper called. “Nice fighting out there!”

“Thanks Wade!” you beamed.

Wade dismissed himself out of the room whilst Commander Pollux remained in the room, he was Karos’s guard after all. Meanwhile, you and the master began conversing on the subject of the supply convoy.

“Do you think there are enough for the refugees?”

“About ten transports are deployed, I think it will be more than enough for the—agh!”

Suddenly, the demeanor of your master fumbled, he back hunched as he pinched the space between his brows, fighting back a burdening sensation in his head.

“Master!” you cried out, startled with his abrupt disoriented state. “Are you hurt?”

Within Commander Pollux’s earshot, his holodisk beeped. Upon answering, a cloaked figure crackled into existence.

“The time has come. Execute Order 66!”

“It will be done, my lord.”

“Padawan… there’s something… wrong…” the Kel Dor struggled to speak.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Command Pollux raising his rifle right at Karos’s heart.

“Pollux, what are you doing!? NO… WAIT!!!”

Albeit weakened by the violent pain in his head, the Kel Dor’s Jedi reflexes never betrayed him. He banked the shot from Commander Pollux’s blaster, killing the clone in the process. Everything happened so fast you didn’t even know what to make of it. From the other side of the door, the clones’ distant voices echoed across the corridors of the palace. Karos glanced once more at the office window and found your Starfighters sitting by the recently-arrived LAAT.

“Master! Pollux… he…!”

“There’s no time, child. Get ready to fight!”

Drowned in your own confusion, you don’t know where to put your finger on it. Relying your master and him alone, you did as you were told—you ignited your lightsabers in unison, Karos counted to three before opening the door.

One…

“The Jedi are in there!”

Two…

“They’re both trapped in the office!”

Three!

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felicityfiction · 4 years

Text

[bulletproof glass part 4] part 3

a/n: its 5am. i needed a study break. this is terrible. im very disappointed in myself but also not sure if i can put anything out thats better. i have failed, please dont hate me :(

god, do they even teach them how to shoot?

san smirks, easily dodging a badly aimed bullet from a poorly hidden sniper. not really a sniper at all, if you ask him. just someone too cowardly to come down and face the action on the ground.

weakness.

in the chaos of a building carpark, there are guns blazing and shouts echoing, the occasional yell of pain or shattering of glass as these terribly trained excuses of henchmen hit a car instead of their intended human target.

it’s music to san’s ears.

to his left, he registers seonghwa, barrelling towards him with a wholehearted intention to get him into a car and to safety, but san is just starting to have fun.

he takes down two guys who have at least a foot on him, but he barely breaks a sweat. adrenaline is pumping through his veins, and he thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to smoke tonight to be able to get high.

this is his drug. san is addicted to the danger of it all. it’s messy and wonderful, a dance that is ingrained into san’s brain and burned into his muscle from years of first hand experience. choi san is talented, and he’s about to show it.

he sees seonghwa veer sharply to his right, and he spares a glance in his direction. just in time to see seonghwa gun down two guys who were surrounding hongjoong, trying to take him down. the leader was to be captured alive, no doubt, to be used as leverage. if his father was here, these guys would be all over him like hyenas to a carcass. but he isn’t, content to let san and seonghwa handle tonight’s minor matters.

he’s mine.

the words thrum in his ears, fuelling his slightly fatigued muscles to keep going until all their enemies were down. he was the next in line to inherit the choi name, and he sure as hell was going to make his name known to everyone in the underground.

and perhaps the child in him still preens under his father’s praise, and he’s greedy for more.

but san is amused by the sight of seonghwa fumbling in his attempt to get to hongjoong, his usual grace lost in his worry. he almost reaches out to hongjoong, then freezes and recoils like hongjoong at shot him. san feels a stab of pity, but also a brief inkling of scorn

this is what affection does to you.

hongjoong had come with few guards, despite knowing that there was a high chance that this deal would go south. perhaps he trusted san more than he let on, or he thought that san had a bigger target on his back, and he would be able to escape unscathed if it came down to it

or, san thinks, maybe he knows someone here will die to protect him.

a hand comes flying out of nowhere, barely missing san’s face, and san whips around faster than lightning. he grabs the wrist, and is about to twist and snap it when he registers the face in front of him. a smile curls onto his face.

“we’re allies here, did you forget? how can it be acceptable to try and take me out?”

“wasn’t trying to take you out. distracted. person shooting. wanted to get your attention.” yunho is speaking in breathless pants, sweat beading on his forehead. he grabs san and tugs, and san finds himself going willingly. he lets himself get pushed behind a pillar, as yunho scans for more aggressive men in black.

there’s a feeling san can’t pinpoint blooming in his chest, and he shoves it away, letting his god awful flirtatious nature come up as a defence.

“so sweet of you, darling. but you look more tired than me. i’d have been perfectly fine, but i appreciate the sentiment.”

yunho doesn’t realise he’s stilll holding san’s wrist, too busy being on the lookout.

“shut up.” he scowls

san sees a brief release of tension in yunho’s shoulders when he spots hongjoong safe, a few meters away surrounded by the remainder of his guards.

“you should go join them, sweetheart. it’s time for you to flee.”

yunho’s eyes snap towards him, and he angrily spits, “we’re not fleeing, you bastard.”

san wants to laugh again, because infruriating yunho is so, so enjoyable. “i didn’t mean anything. they’re all gone, anyway. we won. no point staying around for the cleanup.” he lifts his wrist to yunho’s eyes, and they widen exponentially. yunho drops his wrist and steps back, putting some distance between him and san. san decides he preferred it when yunho was pressed against him.

yunho makes to walk away towards a gesturing hongjoong, but san’s the one to reach out this time.

“thank you, yunho. i appreciate it.” yunho seems surprised by the sincereity that laces san’s words, but he quickly reminds himself that san is more than a proficient liar. he pushes san’s hand off his wrist, suddenly wishing he hadn’t tried to help.

stupid, stupid yunho.

“and don’t worry, baby. you always have my attention.”

and there it is, classic san. can’t have a conversation without dropping some kind of comment that made yunho’s skin crawl. yunho flinches, and walks away. san is staring after him, his lips upturned.

yunho picks his way through the bodies littered on the ground, trying to ignore both the vast amounts of blood, and the way that his ears are burning.

if hongjoong notices how red he is, he presumes that it’s from the physical exertion. he’s scanning yunho for injuries, relieved to find none. regardless, he pushes yunho towards the car, ready to take him away from everything and shelter him as best he can.

he shouldn’t have brought him here in the first place.

hongjoong can’t help the deep tug in his gut that compels him to look around once more before stepping into the car.

seonghwa is rushing towards san, and san is smiling so broadly it disturbs hongjoong. he’s certain that san is a psychopath, or at least someone who enjoys witnessing pain. or maybe he’s so desensitized that this has all become a game for him.

either way, hongjoong darts his eyes down and gets into the car. he pretends that the relief flooding his chest is for himself, for yunho and for his other men. not for the bodyguard of his rival gang leader, who just so happened to perhaps have saved his life.

fuck this.

hongjoong is absolutely fucking screwed.

yunho spends the same car ride trying to forget the deep voice echoing in his ears and the hand around his wrist. he’s all too aware that he was frantically searching for san the entire time the fight was happening, barely registering his members. he should feel guilty, he knows, and he berates himself fiercely.

why yunho, why? he’s a sadistic monster, he could have killed you and called it an accident!

but somehow, yunho can’t bring himself to regret that he threw himself in front of a guy that could very well be holding a gun to his temple in the near future.

yunho is also, absolutely fucking screwed

“he tried to help me, hwa. isn’t that so cute? i could’ve taken all of them blindfolded, but it’s still adorable.”

seonghwa purses his lips, a sharp pang striking a chord in his heart.

san is sitting on his desk, swinging his legs back and forth as he recounts the night to him, nevermind that seonghwa was supposed to be the one delivering the report.

“that’s the first time someone besides me has done that for you, san.” seonghwa says quietly, more to himself than to san. but his charge, his friend, hears it anyway.

“i’m attractive, hwa. what can i say? you tried to play hero too. good job on that, by the way.”

seonghwa flinches at the reminder. it was too close for comfort, the way hongjoong had been a split second from being overpowered, and seonghwa had moved before he had time to think.

“i’m sorry for getting distracted.” he had failed. seonghwa was supposed to protect san, yet he had some kind of messed up tunnel vision and sixth sense that led him to jump to the defence of someone he isn’t even supposed to associate with-

“don’t apologise. i’m a better fighter than you, or him. i didn’t need it.”

i forgive you. i understand. don’t worry, you did the right thing.

that’s how they communicate. with hidden meanings and the hope that the other party understands.

in spite of everything that went down, seonghwa’s frantic about one thing, and one thing above all.

it absolutely terrifies him how choi san is whistling a happy tune from his lips recounting the way jung yunho had tried to press him into a wall for his own safety. san chalks it all up to nothing, but seonghwa sees more. san isn’t just amused, he’s happy.

he’s happy that jung yunho had tried to save him.

it’s mortifying, seeing this unknown emotion on san. seonghwa knows how to deal with an angry san, a drunk san and an indifferent san. seonghwa knows san.

but seonghwa has never seen san care. and it sure as hell feels like san is starting to care.

“would you have done it?” he whispers, and san trails off, narrowing his eyes at him.

“what are you talking about?”

“would you have jumped in front of a gun to save him?” seonghwa bites his lip. please, please say something snarky and cocky and arrogant.

“i’d just shoot the source of danger, hwa. have you lost your touch? can’t protect someone if i’m dead, now can i? remember that next time, i doubt hongjoong would want to see you die in front of him.”

seonghwa’s ears are ringing.

protect someone? san, since when have you ever wanted to protect someone? everyone is disposable to you, no? why him? why now?

but seonghwa swallows all his words, and san continues on his painfully oblivious humming. he can’t even tell that this emotion is new and different. he can’t tell that his mind is drifting to a hand gripping his wrist, and the pressure of another body pressed against his.

word of the day: endearment. maybe san would do good to learn some new vocabulary, so he can put a label to that weird sensation in his chest, and his burning desire to see jung yunho again.

maybe, san would come to his senses. seonghwa can only hope.

#ateez #fanfic #kpop #ao3 #yunsan #choi san #jung yunho #seongjoong #ateez seonghwa #park seonghwa #kim hongjoong

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nyaarr · 7 years

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Anahardt week - A love story in seven days. Day 1: “Sugar”

Day 2: “Date Night”

Day 3: “Games”

Day 4: “Ink”

Day 5: “A Moment of Peace and Quiet”

(The next day)

“This place is amazing,” Brigitte looked up and around, mouth hanging open, and Ana smiled a bit. She hated shopping malls. She hated them with passion -- full with entitled noisy people buying things they did not need. “There’s virtually everything. How--”

She spin around while people sneered at them. It was not a posh place, far from it, but their clothes were not exactly new--or clean. Instead of wearing the patch, Ana was hiding her eye with a sticky bandage and walked arm-in-arm with Reinhardt. They had found him a pair of old rectangle-shaped glasses to help conceal the scar on his face and a baggy sweater. Torb was also covering his arms and had equipped a mechanical hand. They looked like a strange, dysfunctional family--exactly what they were.

“Still not sure this is a good idea, Ana,” the engineer snorted, hands on his pockets. “It’s likely we’re persons of interest around the globe.”

“We need to buy provisions,” she put one of her silver locks in place in front of her face. “No delivery for people like us, and Jesse is not going to come after us every time we are starving in the mountains.”

“Also, better us than Winston,” Brigitte said without really paying them much attention. “I can’t believe there shops this big. Look at all those aisles with mountain gear--I could live there, dear me.”

“What I don’t understand is where are we going to get the money to buy anything.”

“Leave that to me,” Ana bit her lower lip. “And, Reinhardt?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked at her with a mixture of worry and fear, which was exactly what she was expecting. She crossed her right foot in front of his left, making him stumble and land with all his weight on his bad leg--which gave way on him straight away. No push needed, no additional kick.

Shit. That was not what she was planne--

He hit the ground on his knees and she winced at the heartfelt, pained, real curse. Was his knee this bad, nowadays? Sure, it ached after them trekking up and down the snowed mountain with the elk, but later on he had seemed fine.

Ah, well, she better made it count, then.

“Oh my god! “I’ll get help!” She cried out loudly, and rushed away, mixing among the passer-byes until she found a hiding place.

From a column flanked by palm trees, Ana saw a handful of people getting close to them, trying to help the poor old man --Ah, it felt bad to steal from good-hearted people, she pursed her mouth, yet she approached them from the back. It was easy to snatch several wallets, her fingers as nimble as they were when she was traveling alone. But pick-pocketing was an art she had learned long ago, much before she joined Overwatch--and it had put food on her mouth more times she could count already.

Once the bounty was secure in her pockets, Ana made her way towards her friends and knelt by Reinhardt’s side.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered on his ear, running her free hand over his silver hair. He frowned at her, more hurt than in anger, and yelped when Brigitte stretched his leg the way Ana had taught her (and half the base) to do it. “I’ll make it better. Just a little longer.”

“Ah, my wallet’s gone!” Someone cried out, and several others suddenly echoed their outrage around them.

Torbjörn was livid, throwing Ana daggers through his eyes, and Brigitte looked at the agitated people without understanding what was going on.

Security was soon over them asking questions and showing off their rifles and shiny badges, and they were not convinced it was not a con until they saw the scar running all the length of Reinhardt’s knee--just as Ana predicted.

“Shaming a soldier of the crisis!” Torb growled, finger-pointing at the guards. “There’s no respect nowadays, not an inch! How do you dare, I should give you all a beating right now, bloody--”

A couple of the guards helped Reinhardt up, not without a good measure of huffing and panting. There were still a lot of people looking at them, but the affected by the thieving were already marching with security to put a denounce. They just need to hold the charade a bit longer, and it would all be good and done.

“We can bring a wheelch--”

“NEVER,” the german roared as they made their way towards a bench, limping badly. Whether he was in more pain than she expected or he was playing along, Ana did not know, but she grabbed him by the waist, hooking her fingers on his trousers.

He let himself fall on to the bench and Ana fumbled on her pockets for a moment, then stabbed the side of his thigh with one of her rifle’s darts.

“Easy,” she murmured as he yelped and writhed away. She always had a couple of darts on her, just in case. After all she had lived through, there was no such thing as being over-prepared. “Stop squirming. Are you ten, now?”

“You can be such an arsehole sometimes,” he groaned, hands squeezing the borders of the bench as she rubbed the biotic liquid towards the knee. It was somewhat swollen, she noticed, but it was too soon to be due to the fall. Knowing him, it was likely that he been eking out the prosthetic joint for too many years-- which would explain why Torb was after him at the Pyrenees’ cabin. “What was that, anyway?”

“A biotic dart for my rifle. I had to stab you to release the contents.”

Reinhardt did not seem to grasp his mind around the science of a rifle shooting biotic rounds, but he did not ask. That gave Torb the opportunity to complain he was waiting for.

“I totally hate you, Ana,” he rubbed his frown and sat on the ground without any ceremony, glaring at them, at her, and at the world in general.

“I know. Glad to sacrifice my honor to keep you all feed and clothed,” she almost smiled, eyebrow raised. “Brigitte, come here, darling.”

Her almond eyes grew wide when she saw the pile of notes on her hand.

“Oh, boy,” she took it and stashed it on her pockets. “That was sick,” she cackled, sitting down by her side. “I wish I had thought of something like this when we were on the road…”

Reinhardt glared at her with an animosity unheard of in him, and Ana patted him on the arm.

“Please go now and buy us some clothes,” from her pocket, she produced a piece of paper. “Ideas and sizing, here. We’ll buy some food for today, then wait at the van. Hurry up, before they look into the security footage.”

Torb paled even further, if that was possible, and she winked at him. Ana loved the grumpy man to pieces, but she loved even more messing with him. Brigitte took the paper and read it, nodding every now and then.

“Come papa, let’s go to the mountain clothes’ store first!”

Once they were gone, Ana took one of Reinhardt’s hand in hers and squeezed it. He was looking at the ground, crossed, and she caressed him with her thumbs. Unfortunately, they did not have much time to be fooling around.

“You recovered enough for a little stroll to the van?” She asked softly, eyebrows raised. “I can always give you another shot.”

“I’m fine,” he grumped under his breath, looked at her from the corner of his eye, then pursed his mouth. “But you know I don’t like when the end justify the means. What would be next? Killing a city’s worth of population to end Talon?”

“I think that’s exaggerating a bit.”

“Is it? Where do you put the line?” He took his hand away and crossed his arms. “Do you think Brigitte and myself had any money while we were traveling? You think we didn’t go hungry--that the van didn’t break down?”

Ana made a face. Of course he was more bothered about manipulating people and stealing from them than about anything she could have done to him personally.

“Overwatch existed to make the world a better place,” he continued. “Not to abuse others with our power.”

She looked down for a moment, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

“Let me remind you that you’re talking to a sniper. I live to take advantage of situations and turn them for the greater good,” she said. “But I’ve always admired your integrity.”

“So, you think I’m an idiot,” he snorted. “Nothing new.”

“My idiot, though.”

He pursed his mouth, unconvinced. It was not the first time they discussed similar events--Reinhardt had always been very vocal every time he had disagreed with Jack’s or Gabriel’s orders. Even the UN’s orders. Maybe that was part of the reason why they decided to retire him despite everyone's protests. In the end, he let go a long and disapproving breath.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m sorry for involving you in my scheming.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am somewhat sorry,” she rubbed his knee softly. “The plan was to make you fall on your side. I didn’t imagine your leg would give up that quickly, but I should have known you would not take proper care of yourself.”

“You maim me and it is my fault?” He gasped, baffled. “And what’s worse, you main me and I don’t even get a kiss to make it better,” he rose his chin with a pout. Oh. OH. Sixty something years and his grandiloquent speech thrown to the bin in an instant.

Ana had not decided if to laugh or to smack him on the head when she spotted security coming around, looking for someone. She wound her braid around her neck and covered her head with the hoodie. Then, she got up and between Reinhardt’s legs and hugged him for dear life, kissing his head as her eye scanned around from the safety of the hood.

“This is also good,” his voice came muffled from her chest. His large hands grabbed her back, and he sighed. “I can die here. Happily.”

“Hush!”

She stroke his back and his neck and if he was comforting him. Security spared a glance at them and Ana put on a sad stance as she patted the german softly -- the same german that was grinning like the big idiot he was pressed against her breasts.

It was a moment. A perfect moment, even if she did not appreciate anyone invading her private parts. His hands always held her in such an enthusiastic way that it felt like they were going to melt together. She treasured that feeling of need, of warmth belonging after years of starving herself of his touch.

The security officers and their rifles walked past them and forward, and Ana ran her hands through his neck down to his jaw to end cupping his face. He was adorable with his glasses crooked and little tufts of hair falling over his forehead. Not to say about the nice shade of pink on his cheeks.

Which was ridiculous, because his boisterous self had slept with half the globe and never had shown any sort of shyness about his conquests or any mention of sex --unless she was involved. She had loved it since the first day she learned she could make him blush.

“So, mmm… your leg is all better know, isn’t it? Maybe I should have done this instead of using one of my rounds,” she chuckled, scratching his beard softly.

He let go a hearty laugh, the first one she heard since she came back to him, and squeezed his face back in.

Next time we will met with someone from the past...

Day 6: Travel

#reinhardt wilhem #ana amari #anahardt #anahardt week #anahardtweek #my art

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othercat2 · 7 years

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fic: two for mirth 49/?

Coming back up is slow. Everything is a blur, soft focus. The walls of a hospital room appearify, white-beige, and no window. He can hear footsteps, voices outside the room but it feels like he’s under water. There’s an entertainment screen that’s showing some wiggler progam that he has just enough wit to feel vaguely indignant about. There’s a chair by his bed, and curled up in it in a way that can’t be comfortable, there’s…

“Dave,” Karkat says. His voice rasps and he can’t seem to do more than a creaky little whisper.

Dave stirs, seems a little confused himself, then almost falls out of the chair as he scrambles upright. “Karkat,” he says, voice too loud, and also painfully relieved. “Hey, you’re awake,” Dave says in a more even tone, obviously trying to cover for almost falling over. He moves in closer, caresses Karkat’s cheek. “You’ll do anything to avoid meeting the family, huh?” Dave smiles a slight, shaky little smile that makes Karkat’s bloodpusher stutter with entirely flushed pity.

“That’s exactly what happened,” Karkat says, smiling in return. “Water?”

“Why settle for water, when you can have AJ?” Dave says, and comes up with a sealed bottle of apple juice. He raises the bed a bit, opens the bottle. With some fumbling and some assistance from Dave, he’s able to take a sip.

“Is Jade all right?” Karkat asks after taking another sip.

“You took most of the bullets,” Dave says. “One went right through you, and got her in the gut, but she’s otherwise okay. Apparently has a subjugglator girlfriend now, but fine.”

Karkat makes a confused noise, not quite able to wrap his mind around it, or form words to question it.

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” Dave says. “I literally don’t know anything at all, except for what’s on the news, since I’m not actually next of kin or a quadrant and the only reason they let me stay in here was because they thought I was going to fly off the handle otherwise. Want me to call the doctorturer?”

Karkat hums at that, then gathers together enough of his scattered brain cells to reach up, and pap Dave on the cheek. “No flying off handles,” he says, and frowns.

Dave’s laugh has a decidedly watery sound to it. He presses Karkat’s hand to his cheek, then kisses Karkat’s palm. “Okay, sure. I can do that.”

“News, then doctortur,” Karkat says.

“You sure you’re going to be able to be awake for it?” Dave asks.

Karkat hums and frowns at Dave. He glances meaningfully at the screen, and Dave laughs and comes up with the remote. It takes some searching before they find a news segment handling the assassination attempt. The news reports that the snipers had been caught, and that his moirail was on his way. He tries to tell Dave to get a hold of Eridan, but he’s asleep before he can put the words together.

He’s a little more clearheaded when he wakes up. He learns from the nurse and the doctor that he’d been shot several times in the in the back and the gut. His aeration sponge had been hit; two had gone through his digestion tubes, and one lodged itself in his hip. He’d lost a lot of blood, and there had apparently been some problem finding him a donor. (Absolutely no surprise there.) A subjugglator named Leonis Myrmic apprehended one of the shooters; police caught the second five days later. Karkat had been out of it for more than a week. It seems that Jade had been targeted by a racist group with an intense hatred for the repatriated. Aside from informing the police, Jade hadn’t done anything about it.

Awake, things become extremely busy. He has to talk to the police investigators, and then Ampora. Eridan is shaky, angry and swearing to cull the (human) security detail, who had missed the shooters. “I’m pretty sure culling is illegal here,” Karkat says.

“I’ll have ‘em extradited,” Eridan says immediately. “That is, if Makara doesn’t go after ‘em first.”

“Gamzee isn’t going to cause a diplomatic incident,” Karkat says.

“He flippin’ is a diplomatic incident!” Eridan shouts.

Eridan’s moirail, expression serene, reaches up and quite brazenly paps him. Eridan’s fins flutter win embarrassment, but he settles. “I’m sure the Emissary knows his moirail’s mind better than you, love,” Gernuk says affectionately.

“What mind,” Eridan and Karkat accidentally chorus.

“Seriously, Eridan,” Karkat says, half a beat after that. “He’s grown up a lot.”

“To be the whimsical head of a cult of murderpranking loonies,” Eridan mutters. “All right, it’d be a bad idea to keep him away, anyway.” He glares. “But if he culls me because of this outrageous fuckery, I’m haunting your ass, is that understood?”

“He won’t cull you,” Karkat says, a little exasperated.

Later he hears from Jade, and strangely enough, Leonis Myrmic. They come to visit from across the hall, Jade in a four wheeled device being navigated by Leonis It’s a little strange seeing a Subjugglator pushing a four wheeled device, let alone seeing one with diamonds in their eyes for a human academic-activist. “So, make up dinner, to make up for being my meat shield?” Jade asks after talking around the situation.

“Well, for not telling me you’ve been getting threats,” Karkat says. “Or might be in danger of getting shot by crazy human ‘racists’.”

Jade waves her hands in an exasperated gesture. “Crazy racists are a thing that happens!” she says. “I can’t cave and let them take over my life!”

“You woulda lost yours, sugargrub, if the Emissary hadn’t played ‘meatshield,’” Leonis says.

“You were there too, Lee!” Jade says. She tries to twist around to look at Leonis, and then freezes with a distressed sound, arms cradling her abdomen. “Owww.”

Leonis immediately squats down at the side of the chair. “So I was. You need me to get a doctorturer?” She asks.

“No, just sore,” Jade says. “Stop fussing at me, you’re worse than Dad!”

“Knew there was a reason I liked that damn dog,” Leonis says. She rises to her feet, and smiles, at Jade, and then oddly at Karkat. “With all the arguing we do, I never expected to come up pale as bone for Jade. I guess he was let to see a punchline when the Mirthful said, ‘Bitch, someday you’re gonna fall in some quadrant with a heretic and Imma gonna have the biggest damn laugh about it.’”

“I’m just glad you didn’t get shot yourself, though honestly, who wears bioarmor to an academic conference!” Jade says, patting Leonis on the arm with a fond little grin. The affection definitely appeared to go both ways.

“Ninjettes who are ready to throw down for the faith,” Leonis says immediately. “And a good thing too.”

Leonis gives a thankfully unrhymed account of directing someone to call 911, then hunting one of the shooters down. (“One motherfucker was already out of range, but I set loose a most holy terror and got the other.”)

The conversation wanders for a bit, and then Jade says. “Okay Lee, you actually have to tell him. ‘Cause he definitely doesn’t remember you!”

“Well damn,” the Subjugglator says.

“Tell me what?” Karkat asks with a frown.

Leonis sighs. “So, a long time ago, I was all being schoolfed on the old Highblood’s flagship. And I was pissed off that the Highblood surrendered to some heretic who was in a moirallegiance with a jokeblood mutant. And I caused shit with the little motherfucker and he near put me through a wall and I gotta strip tore off me afterward, not for losing, but for fucking around like that at all on account quadrants are motherfucking sacred serendipity, even if it’s a fucking joke, especially if it’s a fucking joke. Then I got sent on a most mirthful and holy quest to learn shit and talk about what I learned and made friends with another jokeblood heretic who followed the Signless Cult. And I meet you again and I think, aight, Imma make up for being a nasty little bitch, and I’m sure you’ll know me on sight and fucking hate me but my sister goes, ‘I bet you it’s all in the past for him and he doesn’t remember,’ and now I owe her dinner and a movie, my treat.”

“Oh, you can afford it!” Jade says.

Karkat laughs a little. “Well, I remember a lot of fights, but not necessarily with who.” He tries to remember the face, and the makeup but can’t quite. The clue is the little gap between her front teeth and the arched nose. And yeah, he remembers her now. He isn’t angry, and he doesn’t hate her. He remembers putting up with her bullshit and the fight and someone coming in to mediate. “You changed your face a bit,” Karkat says, meaning her ‘holy face’ or the paint she was wearing. “You thickened the eyebrows and added opposing crescents under your eyes.”

“The face I was using when I was a kid was pretty basic,” Leonis says. “I changed it up while I was wandering around like the do-gooder mendicant from an adventure serial except all scholarly.”

“Well, I’m not sorry you got in trouble, but I don’t hate you,” Karkat says. “And even though I was pretty pissed at you then, it was a pretty long time ago. I’m glad you were on hand to provide back up and help, so we’re even, I guess.”

“Good, now shake and let bygones be bygones!” Jade says.

She is very insistent that they shake on it, so they do.

==>

<==

#homestuck #two for mirth #davekat #gladiatorstuck

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darknesstodawnuniverse · 7 years

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Whumptober Day 16 - Sensory Deprivation

It’s always fun to see how a sniper type character handles losing his sight. And I also wanted to play with how aramis learned to shoot blindfolded as we saw in the show. ;)

You can find this on ff.net and Ao3 for your reading convenience as well.

Read the rest of my Whumptober 2017 prompt fills here.

Aramis woke to darkness.

At first, he thought perhaps night had fallen and nobody had lit a candle. But then other things started to filter unto his muddled thoughts.

Sounds. There were so many sounds. Birds chirping. Swords clashing. Shouts and laughter.

Smells. Morning dew. The fresh bread from the bakery down the street from the Garrison.

Then memory. Running after someone. A dark corridor, a spark and then…an explosion of light, searing pain…then nothing.

Aramis surged up, hands clawing at his face, pulling at the linen bandage he found wrapped around his eyes.

“Easy!” a familiar voice rumbled as hands caught his wrists, pulling his hands away from his eyes.

“Porthos?” Aramis gasped, twisting in Porthos’ grip until he could reach out and fumble for a fistful of his brother’s shirt. The contact did little to ground him, though when darkness still pressed in on him from all sides.

He turned his head frantically, seeking a shadow or some sign that there was light left in his world. His heart started pounding when none could be found.

“You need to calm down or Henri is gonna put you back to sleep again,” Porthos warned.

“Again?” Aramis questioned, chest heaving with increasingly panicked breaths.

“You’ve woken before,” Athos voice startled him and his head jerked in that direction. “It didn’t go well.”

“Calm down,” Porthos instructed gently. “Slow breaths, ‘Mis.”

Aramis tightened his hand in Porthos’ shirt, turning his focus inward. He did as his father had taught him and commanded his body to yield to his will. His heart beat slowed, his breaths became less frantic.

“That s it,” Porthos praised.

“I’ll get Henri,” Athos announced. Aramis barely held back a flinch when the door opened and closed suddenly.

“What happened?” Aramis demanded, fingers twitching against the urge to pull at the bandages again.

“There was an explosion. You were closer than the rest of us. Your eyes were…I don’t know exactly. Henri said something about burns inside.”

Aramis frowned, a stirring of panic starting to wrap him in its grasp again.

“Am I… Am I blind?”

Porthos remained silent for a bit longer than was comforting.

“Henri will explain it better,” the other man finally replied.

Aramis felt his heart start to pound again. His hands twitched, the urge to rip away the bandage and try to see nearly overwhelming. As if sensing his intent, Porthos’ hands tightened on his wrists.

“Just wait for Henri, ‘Mis,” his brother pleaded.

As if cued, the door suddenly opened. Aramis tensed, a fight or flight instinct surging to life in a way it hadn’t since just after Savoy.

“Easy,” Porthos urged softly.

“Look who’s awake,” Henri’s familiar voice greeted him warmly. “How do you feel?”

“Am I blind?” Aramis demanded bluntly.

Henri sighed.

“You never were one for pleasantries in moments like this,” the old physician lamented. “Very well, the answer is I don’t know.”

Aramis frowned deeply.

“What?”

“Your injury is beyond that which I truly know how to treat. I’ve done what I can, but the best thing to do is simply let your eyes heal.”

“Heal? It’s not permanent then?” Aramis asked.

“Perhaps not,” Henri replied. “But perhaps it is. We will only know when you’ve healed.”

Aramis pulled his wrists out of Porthos’ steady grasp and retreated in his bed, backing away until he hit the wall.

“Aramis?” Porthos called in concern.

“Leave me,” Aramis requested quietly.

“I don’t think that’s…” Athos started, but Aramis cut him off.

“Leave!” Aramis snapped.

“Perhaps we should give him a moment to himself,” Henri suggested softly. “Come, boys, leave him be.”

There was a deep sigh and then the sound of several footsteps on the floor. The door opened, but before it shut Porthos’ voice rang out.

“I’ll bring you some food in a bit. Shout if you need anything. I won’t be far.”

With that promise the door then closed.

Aramis pulled his legs up to his chest and slowly reached to trace his fingers along the bandage wrapped around his head. He wanted to rip it off, but he knew enough of medicine now to keep himself in check. He must let his eyes heal, Henri had said. If there was ever an opinion he trusted about his health, it was Henri’s.

So instead he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees.

What if his sight was gone forever. What if he was no blind. His sight had made him the greatest marksman in the entirety of the Musketeers. What would he be without it? Certainly no longer a Musketeer.

And what would he be without the Musketeers? This was his life. His identity was built on being a soldier. He would be nothing without it – worthless.

He turned his face down into his knees, and tried to imagine such a life.

And he listened to the world outside his room go on without him.

“It’s been days. He’s not eating. He just sleeps and lays there,” Porthos grumbled as he stared up at the door to his and Aramis’ shared quarters. “And he’s not talking…not at all. That’s the worst part. I hate it when he’s bloody quiet like this. It’s unnatural.”

“He needs time,” Athos reasoned, but the frown on his face suggested he wasn’t convinced of this.

They both straightened their postures when Treville suddenly loomed over them.

He joined them in staring at the door and then cleared his throat.

“You’re both on patrol at the palace in an hour,” he announced.

Porthos balked.

“But..”

“That’s an order, soldier,” Treville snapped.

“We had thought to stay close at hand,” Athos interjected.

“I know what you thought. And as you two so astutely noticed, its’ been days with no improvement. So why don’t you go about the duties you’ve been assigned and give him some space.”

“Space?” Porthos scoffed. “We’ve been giving him all the space in the world!”

Treville arched a brow at him.

“If you think he doesn’t know you’re both sitting down here staring at that door, then you’re grossly underestimating him.”

Porthos and Athos exchanged a sheepish glance.

“No go,” Treville commanded.

They both reluctantly rose from the table and obeyed.

Aramis didn’t bother rolling over when the door to his room opened. Whichever of his brothers it was would likely leave the food they brought and then retreat.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when an unexpected voice spoke.

“On your feet, soldier.”

Aramis twisted in bed, turning his head towards Treville even though he couldn’t see him.

“I believe I gave you an order,” Treville’s voice rang out again.

“We both know how I am with orders,” Aramis shot back, though he did reluctantly roll off his bed and straightened to his feet.

He heard Treville slowly approach, taking deliberate, measured steps. Aramis cocked his head, trying to track his progress.

“Good,” Treville suddenly praised. “You’re paying attention.”

Aramis’ brow drew together in confusion.

“Get dressed,” Treville snapped. “And meet me down in the yard.”

Now Aramis frowned fully.

“But…”

“But what? You’ve forgotten how to dress yourself? You’ve forgotten how to go down stairs?”

Aramis drew his head back, scoffing in offense.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then Treville left, closing the door sharply behind him.

Aramis stood there for a moment, before his curiosity got the better of him. He fumbled around the room, finding first his trousers, then a shirt. A quick sniff suggested it was mostly clean and would do. He found his boots by tripping over them and blindly dug in his trunk until he found stockings.

Finally clothed, he moved towards where he thought the door was, hands outstretched to prevent him running into the wall. He tripped over something anyway, but didn’t fall.

He found the wall, feeling along it until his fingers bumped against the door handle. Then he finally made his way out onto the porch. A few steps straight ahead and he found the rail then it was a relatively simple thing to follow it to the stairs.

Here he paused, knowing a fall could prove deadly.

“I’ve not got all day!” Treville barked from below. “When was the last time you looked when you were walking down the stairs?”

Aramis cocked an eyebrow. That was true, he supposed.

He stuck one foot out and stepped down, and then did so again. It was easy after that, as his body remembered the distance and height of each step. He’d been going up and down them for years after all.

He finally found the ground and then licked his lips, starting towards the middle of the yard.

“Over here,” Treville beckoned.

Aramis adjusted his trajectory to follow the call. A hand caught his arm, halting him and then something smooth and sweetly familiar pressed into the palm of his right hand.

One of his twin pistols.

“I want you to shoot the target,” Treville explained.

Aramis’ hand tightened on the weapon, but he frowned.

“That’s not funny,” he snapped.

“Do I appear to be laughing?” Treville shot back. When he spoke again his voice was closer and Aramis instinctively turned his head in the appropriate direction. “Feel that pistol in your hand. You know the weight of it. You know the feel of it. You know how it fires, what the recoil feels like. You know that weapon as intimately as if it were an extension of yourself.”

Aramis ran the fingers of his left hand over the barrel, savoring the familiar feeling of smooth, cool metal.

“You’ve been handling firearms since you were a child. I’ve seen you clean this very pistol without ever offering it a glance. Do you need to look at it to draw it? Or does your hand find it by memory, by instinct?”

Aramis thought it over.

“Instinct I suppose,” he finally replied.

“I’ve been a soldier for most of my life, Aramis. And in all my years, I have never known a man with an instinct for firearms like you have. That instinct will serve you now.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Aramis wondered.

“Shoot the target,” Treville repeated.

“But I can’t see it,” Aramis pointed out with a scowl. “How do I aim if I can’t see?”

“Is your sight your only sense?” Treville challenged. “Is your sight the only thing linked to your instincts?”

Aramis’ brow pinched in confusion again.

“Tell me what you hear,” Treville urged.

Aramis took in a breath and let it out slowly, trusting Treville’s guidance and focusing on what he could hear. He heard Esmé complaining about something in the stables. He heard Serge cursing in the kitchens. There was…a faint rustling of a curtain in an open window and…there…a soft ding of a bell.

“The bell, what is that? It’s not familiar,” Aramis stated.

“It’s attached to the target,” Treville answered. “Now you know where it is.”

Aramis turned his head in that direction, but then shook his head.

“What does this matter?” he complained. “Will my enemy wear a bell into battle?”

“Of course not. But have you ever known a man to move in absolute silence?” Treville challenged. “A man must breathe, he must step and shift. These are all things you can hear if you take the time to listen.”

Aramis blew out an annoyed breath.

“You know the height of that target,” Treville pointed out sternly. “You’ve fired at it almost daily for years. You know where the center is just as you know the average height of a man. Now shoot it.”

“I can’t!”

“Are you not the finest marksman in all of the king’s service?” Treville snapped. “Have you not served as such for nearly a decade?”

“I’m blind!” Aramis spat back.

“Perhaps you cannot see, but you are not blind to the world around you. You can hear. You can smell. You can feel. Now stop making excuses and shoot the damn target!”

Aramis turned and fired.

He stood, arm extended, breathing harsh.

He didn’t ask if he’d hit it. He’d hear the bullet make impact. He couldn’t bring himself to ask where he’d hit it.

A hand touched his wrist, urging him to lower the weapon.

“Still the finest shot I’ve ever seen,” Treville told him softly.

Aramis let out a harsh breath.

“Did I…?”

“Dead center,” Treville answered quietly, pulling the gun from his grasp. A moment later it’s twin was pressed against his palm. “Now do it again.”

#ficlet #whumptober #aramis #treville #athos #porthos #whumptober 2017

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a-virtuous-pyromaniac · 8 years

Text

This Is Why You Don’t Play Monopoly With Eight People: Chapter 1

A bad dust storm comes to Great-Depression-Era Teufort. The Classic Mercenaries wait it out while playing a newfangled board game: Monopoly.

Opening Notes

Scout- Gregorio – Italian

Soldier – Ross—British

Pyro—Bea—American (Chicago)

Demoman – Gregor – German

Engineer – Fred – American (Texas)

Heavy – Marcus – Swedish

Medic – Katsu – Japanese

Sniper – Virgil—American (Montana)

Spy – “the Serb” – Serbian

Chapter 1: In Which Katsu Emphasizes the Importance of Two-Minute Showers

Teufort, New Mexico

17 August, 1936

Virgil perched in the highest point on the map, at the top of the grain elevator’s chute. Behind him, the sun reflected off metal and dark blue paint. Even without the reflections, it was probably close to a hundred degrees up here. His sweat had gone from individual droplets to one mass of sticky, seeping dampness. The ghillie suit only made things worse. Burlap was not exactly a wicking material. He’d considered just ditching the suit, but if he removed, it wouldn’t Respawn with him. Then he’d have to climb up after battle to retrieve it, and that just sounded like too much effort. This point was all but unreachable.

Even if it was hot, unreachable did make for a nice, peaceful nest. No voices grating on his ears. None of those dying screams (did his teammates even realize how irritating they were?) Even the Announcer was soft and distant. Perfect, if only he’d been able to get his shot in.

Scoping his rifle, he looked towards the opposite battlement. A sentry’s nest had made mincemeat of every BLU who crossed the bridge. The RED engineer was never far from the nest, but he was good, too good, at keeping his head down. Idiot hillbilly trash had no business being a better fighter than his dumb face suggested. Sure, Virgil had managed to shoot the engineer in the leg. It halved the RED’s speed, but it didn’t really help anything. Engineers didn’t need to run. Virgil set the rifle in his lap.

Then, faintly, something detonated. An incendiary cannon; Virgil knew from the sound. It wasn’t as loud as a rocket launcher. It wasn’t as sharp as a grenade or a pipe bomb.

He scoped and shot the rocket-jumping Pyro1 mid-flight. Annoying little slut. The body landed on the ground like a tossed rag doll. He couldn’t hear her bones break, but he imagined it anyway. A napalm grenade fell from the pyro’s bandolier and skittered across the ground. Bump, bump, roll. It was useless with no one to pull the pin.

Virgil chuckled, a low vibration in his stomach. The pyro was vanishing now; he returned to the engineer. Still no chance of a decent shot. Virgil stuck a salty thumbnail into his mouth and bit down. The nail split; he spat it out. Looked at his thumb. The quick was bleeding slightly.

Then the air changed. It was something subtle; he couldn’t tamp down the exact nature out it. Still, something prompted his to look over his shoulder. A hazy cloud had appeared on the horizon. It was mostly reddish-brown, but black at the core. Virgil swore and kicked his legs over the edge of the grain chute. Screw the battle. There was no point in fighting now.

XXX

Katsu was trying to run before he had fully managed to Respawn. He was halfway to his feet before the vertigo won and he fell over sideways. With a pop, he finished materializing.

“Blimey, Doc. Best take it easier than that. Not like we’ve got a fire to get to.”

Katsu pushed himself to his knees. Ross offered a hand and pulled the doctor to his feet. It took the strength of one arm, and none of his back. Katsu was only five-foot-two and only weighed about a hundred and ten pounds. After a big meal. While soaking wet.

“That nest!” said Katsu. “I was so close – I nearly--” He fumbled for his super nailgun, thoughts in English and Japanese crisscrossing in his brain. “Come with me.” He grabbed a handful of the soldier’s uniform and stood on his tiptoes. “We’ll get rid of it once and for all.”

“Doc,” said Ross. “I know I’m not meant to be short with you, but perhaps you ought to catch your breath first.”

Kastu paused. Ross was right, really. He pulled his mask down around his neck and inhaled. The unfiltered air seemed thick and gritty, but it was so much easier to fill his lungs. “No, you’re right. Thank you.”

Then there was a crack and a puff of ozone. The incandescent lights flickered and another body began to appear. Another person to aid in the destruction of the nest. Katsu hoped it would be the Serb, or, failing that, Gregorio. But no, it was Gregor. The boy was powerful enough, but terrified of engineers. Not without reason – an engineer’s EMP grenades could turn a demoman into an unwilling suicide bomber.

Ross looked at Katsu, waiting for the doctor to make the call. Katsu sighed. He went over to the boy and crouched beside him. “Feeling well?”

“Vhat? Yes. I am fine.” Gregor sat up.

“Excellent. I hope you’re feeling well enough to help us attack that sentry nest.”

Expressions crossed Gregor’s face in quick succession. A flicker of fear before settling into something that looked more liked disgust. Refusing Katsu would have been nothing short of insubordination, but still, the doctor would have preferred him happy.

“Sure, vhatever, boss. But you know vhat? I am goink to leave my detpack here.”

That was a bit smart-alecky, but Katsu couldn’t argue with the logic. An EMP near the detpack could cause a blast powerful enough to kill all three of them at once. Should he remind Gregor to be respectful? Was it even worth it? No, they were just wasting time. He flipped open his medkit and grabbed a pair of syringes. Gregor and Ross were overhealed with a quick injection to the neck. “Let’s go.”

It took all of Katsu’s self restraint not to break into a sprint. No point in leaving the other two in the dust, not now. When they emerged from the fort, the air seemed hazy. Dust reflected sunlight; it made the whole word seem brighter, somehow. Katsu looked across the water; sure enough, the sentry next was gone. Not demolished, but packed up and hauled away. In fact, everything had been hauled away. Not a single gunshot echoed through the hazy air.

Even before he looked over his shoulder, Katsu knew he would see the cloud of dust in the distance.

XXX

“We’re taking two-minute showers, everyone! I want everybody in the lab in five! With your respirators. You!” Katsu pointed at Gregorio, “are not going to spend twenty minutes fine-trimming that mustache! And you!” he pointed at Bea, “are not going to mess around with makeup. Understood?”

The eight mercenaries scattered before him were all nodding. Katsu was the first one into the showers and the first one out. Hopping into his pants and he fiddled with his belt buckle, the scrambling down the stairs. He kept backups of all his medical supplies in the lab, but he couldn’t resist running to the infirmary to pick up a few extras. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, the light more hazy than ever. Katsu rifled through his cabinets. Painkiller and muscle relaxants. Sleeping pills. Lithium, to keep their spirits up. He had almost finished putting these into his medkit when the light vanished. Day had become night in a matter of seconds. Outside the windows, there was nothing but dark-red dust.

That dust was seeping into the infirmary even now. He ought to get down to the lab, protect his lungs from the insidious particulate. But some part of him couldn’t resist those-blacked out windows. With one hand, he pulled up his mask, and he went over to the window. Touched the hot glass. He could see nothing but dust. Even the fencepost, not three meters from the window, had vanished into the clouds. It was as if the base had been submerged in an aquarium full of mud. The storm made no sound – shouldn’t a dramatic storm be accompanied by a roaring wind? Katsu didn’t know, really. He was no expert on the strange weather of the United States. Though this barely seemed like weather. Dusters would have belonged alongside fairy tales; they were nearly as incredible as lakes of milk and rivers of blood.

Enough. Much longer, and his lungs would punish him.

XXX

There was nothing on the radio. Well, there was nothing of importance on the radio. It was still cranking out music and shows, but nothing about the weather. Most of the stations were based out of Albuquerque, two hundred miles away. Teufort was small and distant enough to be forgotten.

Fred sat back, letting the dial come to rest on a random station. “It’s Little Orphan Aaaaaannnnnnnniie,” crooned the radio. He turned it off, but the room did not become quiet. Gregor and Marcus were quibbling over something. The slap slap slap of Gregorio’s footsteps echoed off the walls.

Why a duster? Why, oh, why a duster? Scientifically, he understood it. After decades of no-till farming, there was nothing holding the topsoil down. A drought and some wind were enough to pick everything up and dump it in the Pacific Ocean. What Fred didn’t understand was why some higher power would see fit to trap nine people in a single lab for god-knows-how long. Having to wear a respirator on a trip to the toiler. No privacy. No windows. No space to really spread out, even. Most everything was full of his machines and Gregor’s chemicals. Something was going to get knocked over and destroyed, he just knew it.

What was worse? Watching one of his machines become damaged or having to pull a furious Gregor off of the unlucky offender?

No. He shouldn’t be so ungrateful. They were better off than most everyone else. People in the countryside were surviving dusters in clapboard shanties, with nothing but damp towels over their faces. They had the filtration of the fume hoods, air so fresh and clean they didn’t even have to bother with respirators. Other people were sitting in the dark; they had generators and enough gasoline for weeks. And being two stories underground, it was even relatively cool.

Someone was pounding on the door now. The Serb opened it and Kastu came flying in. He clutched his medkit to his chest and his hair was already reddish with dust.

“Everyone here?” said Katsu.

Fred took a headcount for the umpteenth time. Gregor at the bench. Bea and Marcus in the engineering half of the lab. Virgil on the ground, preparing for a nap. Ross digging through their supply packs. The Serb become so small and still it was easy to forget he was there. Gregorio was pacing up and down a narrow walkway, face contorted with frustration. How could he already be this restless, directly after a full day of running? Back and forth, back and forth. Eleven steps, a turn on his heels, and back again. It was like watching too much pressure escaping through a too-small relief valve. Gregorio wouldn’t complain, but he’d pace until someone told him to stop. Then he’d do pushups and sit-ups until the whole lab stank, someone else complained, and he went back to pacing. Not pleasant, but Fred could hardly blame him. Stuffing a teenage boy into such a small space was nothing short of keeping an animal in a cage.

“Safe and sound,” said Fred. The situation might not have been good, or even fine, but they were safe.

“Any predictions?”

“Radio hasn’t even acknowledged the storm.”

“Right.” Katsu nodded. He set the medkit on Gregor’s half of the bench, looked over his team, and sighed. Nothing left to do but wait.

“Can we listen to zhe radio?” said Gregor. “Thinks are getting borink already.”

“No radio,” said Virgil.

“If you can sleep on the battlefield you can sleep through the radio,” said Bea.

“The radio’s obnoxious,” said Gregorio.

“Who wants to play a game?” piped Ross.

Everyone froze. That was Ross’s too-perky voice, the exact same one he used when trying to get the team out of bed at five in morning. (“Rise and shine everybody! An exciting new day awaits!”) Ross’s grin nearly split his face in half, and he shook an enormous, flattened box. Pieces rattled inside it.

“A game? Like hide-and-seek?” said Marcus.

“Board game,” Bea told him. “Like chess.”

“Probably more like mancala,” said Gregor. “For children.”

“Where’d you get that?” said Fred. The box didn’t look familiar. There was a picture of a bespectacled, mustachioed man on the lid.

“Sears Catalog,” said Ross. “Bought it just for occasions like this. Monopoly. It’s new.”

“What’s it about?” said Fred.

“Real estate,” said Ross. “Buying and selling property.”

“Buying and selling property?” said Fred. He couldn’t imagine anything more boring than sales. The manic perkiness of them, the false charm. Engineering was supposed to help him avoid this sort of thing. Katsu glanced at him, clearly thinking the same thing. In his peripheral vision, Fred saw the Serb rolling his eyes.

Ross turned to Virgil. “Play?” Virgil scowled and closed his eyes. He rolled his back towards Ross without so much as an acknowledgement.

“You know what,” said Gregorio. “I have no other good thing to do. I play.” His footsteps finally stopped.

Ross’s face lit up. “Excellent. This’ll be delightful, Greg. I promise.” He pried open the box’s lid and unfolded a square of printed cardboard. “Now, where can I set this down?”

Every available surface was covered with chemicals, metal, or notes.

“Surely we can shove some of this to the side…”

“No,” said Fred and Gregor almost simultaneously.

“Y’all’s gotta stay away from those.”

“If you touch anyzhing…”

“Fine!” Ross’s grin had definitely faded by now. “We’ll be perfectly happing sitting on the floor.” He sat cross-legged and set the board before him. With it came two stacks of cards and a handful of little metal pieces.

Gregorio picked up something shaped like a tiny shoe. Perfect for a scout. “These mark where we are?”

“Yep,” said Ross. He picked up a thick stack of pastel-colored bills and started counting them out. “I’ll try to explain the rules. Stop me if you don’t understand something. We each start out with fifteen hundred dollars. When you land on a property,” his fingers went over the board’s squares. “You can buy it from the bank and charge rent whenever someone else lands on it.”

Something about this had caught Bea’s eye. “I know this game,” she said, standing up. “This is The Landlord’s Game2. It’s not new. They’re had those in Chicago for a decade.”

“You’re familiar!” said Ross. “Do you enjoy it?”

The intact half of Bea’s face smiled. “It’s amazing,” she said. “It’s vicious. I’ve lost friends over The Landlord’s Game.”

“Wait, wait. You said were going to read to me,” said Marcus.

“I’ll have time to read to you later,” said Bea. She tossed Memoirs of an Infantry Officer into Marcus’s lap and went over the board. “Come on.” She patted the ground beside her and turned to Ross. “We’re playing with insider deals on, right?”

“What?” Ross fumbled with the little pamphlet that contained the rules.

“Insider deals,” said Bea. “We can buy and sell properties between each other. Form partnerships. Charge interest. Oh, come on!” she whined, seeing the look on Ross’s face. “It’s boring otherwise.”

Ross rubbed at his temples. “Well, nobody wants boring.”

Gregorio narrowed his eyes. “Boring, my ass.” He leaned towards Bea. “You. Already you think of some horrible thing to do to us, no?”

Bea tried to make an innocent face. The burn scars and empty eye socket somehow managed to ruin the effect. “I wouldn’t.”

Gregor let out a laugh that somehow turned into a cough. Virgil’s laugh was long and utterly undisguised. For a moment everyone was still, staring at each other.

“Come on, Marcus.” Bea patted the ground again. “Join us. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” There was no way Marcus was going to be able to make it through Memoirs of an Infantry Officer without Bea’s help.

“This is going to end terribly, isn’t it?” Fred muttered into Katsu’s ear.

“Guarantee it.”

“Should we…”

“Yes.”

“We’re playing, too!” cried Katsu, brandishing an index finger.

“Can you even play with six people?” said Gregorio.

Ross counted out the little metal tokens. There were eight of them. “Room for two more,” he called to Gregor and the Serb.

“Vhatever.” Gregor came. The Serb slinked after them. Ross might have appealed to Virgil, offering to let him be the banker, but it was unlikely they’d be able to persuade the Sniper.

Eight people around the board made it a bit of a crunch, but they managed. They selected tokens, shuffled to get a good view. Ross felt a smile building up inside him. Nearly the whole team of was here! Perfect bonding!

“Let’s start with a practice round,” he said. “I’ll explain as we go. Bea, I need you to correct me if I make an error.” He handed the a pair of dice to Gregorio. “Youngest first.”

Chapter 1 Feetnote (just because I like feetnote)

1. Yes, we just saw a rocket-jumping Pyro. TFC gameplay is weird.

2. Various versions of Monopoly-like games have existed since the early 1900s. One of them was called The Landlord’s Game and some of its properties were based on real places in Chicago. Parker Brother published the current version of Monopoly in 1936.

#Team Fortress 2 #team fortress classic #actually only team fortress classic #classic scout #classic solider #classic pyro #classic demoman #classic heavy #classic engineer #classic medic #classic sniper #classic spy #actually trying to make this a period peice #it is the 1930s #these guys don't get enough love #i wrote dis

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incorrectly-quoted-queers · 5 years

Text

Drunk Punch Love 2: Chapter 3

Pairing: FemShep and Garrus Vakarian (Shakarian)

Rating: PG-13 (with some tossed F-bombs)

Summary: Their awkward, badass journey through saving the galaxy and accidentally falling in love

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089466/chapters/54170929

Part 2- Chapter 3: Enter Archangel

"So now that the clinic doesn't need me, tell me what you know about the Collectors."

Anya was only passively listening to Mordin and Miranda chatter on. She took a quick liking to the Salarian scientist, but he did talk a lot, and her brain was still sort of a slosh. Her brain cells were starting to get antsy about her getting her head on straight again. With all the back to back missions, she still didn't feel quite human.

Behind her, Miranda answered, "I can't tell you too much without the data we have on the Normandy, but I can say-"

Just then, somebody grabbed her forearm. Someone with a grip like a goddamn claw machine; inaccurate and fumbling, but still rough when it caught on. "You look like a strong type." Shepard's head turned to look at them, a krogan in Blood Pack gear. Taking a turn for the bizarre, a Blue Suns merc behind him nodded approvingly. The real offense of it all, though, was that he was close enough for Anya could smell his breath. Had the faintest hint of pyjack and ryncol.

Jerking her arm out of his grasp, she went on instinct: a krogan headbutt. Though it made her forehead feel a bit like jello, the guy staggered back. She stood her ground. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't touch me."

The batarian behind him started to cackle. "Even better. If you want some cash, ma'am, we need more guns to take down Archangel. Been seiging him for three days now, so he should cave any minute. You in?"

Before Miranda could try to butt in, Shepard winked at her, trying to make a point that she had this. If this was any other case, she'd probably beat their asses into the pavillion metal. But since this Archangel was one of their dossiers, this was an easy in, right? Anya laxed her face muscles and glared at him. "What's the pay like?"

"Trust me, damn good."

Cocking her head at the krogan still nursing his headplate, Shepard said, "Hope you all are made of tougher shit than him."

"Why else do you think he's been stuck out here for days recruiting?"

Anya laughed, but almost choked at the end. The second she heard it, she knew her old team would've called it out as her "fake, shitty bad guy laugh". Ruined a different mission where they were trying to infiltrate a shady mining operation. Couldn't let the batarian catch that. Instead, she crossed her arms and talked quick. "Where do I sign up and can I bring my guys?"

Almost out of nowhere, the batarian procured a tablet. Apparently, the gangs really were desperate enough to recruit her, no questions asked. "Sure. And if you sign up with me, I can get you on the next transport to kill Archangel." Anya had to stifle a real laugh. Dude was 100% a "get yourself killed" salesman, but it didn't matter to her. Not when the gangs were about to get some nice, Alliance-bred bullets to their skulls.

"Sounds like my kind of job." Signing the fake names Oksana Marakov, Dinmor Lasso, and Barbie Tits, Shepard waved off the guy and went back to her team. Miranda had a raised eyebrow.

With her best friendly smile, Anya said, "Change of plans. Mordin, Miranda, you come with me. Sounds like Archangel needs some rescuing if we want him to make it to The Normandy alive. Jacob, go back and make sure Chakwas has the medbay prepped. I'm sure the guy won't be in the best condition after what they've been putting him through." Jacob saluted and then headed towards the docking bay.

Miranda grimaced at the merc tag Shepard sent to her omni-tool. Wincing, Anya knew that her impulse name-giving probably wasn't going to be well-received. But she panicked under pressure.

The Cerberus officer groaned and asked, "Barbie Tits? C'mon."

"I'm not good at fake names okay? Just ask Joker about the Dranek mission, he'll explain it in excruciatingly embarrassing detail. Next time I'll try better. Or we'll plan beforehand. Or just revenge kill me at a later date. Right now, we need to get moving."

Mordin just blinked with that slightly unsettling grin on his face. "Never seen all three gangs work together. Will be fascinating."

With a wave of her arm, Miranda let Shepard take point. "Lead the way, Oksana Marakov." Other than Miranda's clear dissatisfaction with her code name, Anya almost started smirking off her skull. This was just the way she liked it. And while normal life still felt surreal, shooting? She was good at that.

One transport ride later, they were knee-deep in the Blood Pack, Blue Suns, and Eclipse strongholds, preparing for the next wave of attack. Unluckily for the bastards, Anya was a trained infiltrator. Minor hacking and sabotage was her jam. By the time they wanted to start a fight, she couldn't even count how many things she'd left her mark on.

After she pulled off her final masterpiece, damaging a famed Blue Suns hovercopter, Miranda kept tossing Shepard concerned, and possibly frightened, glances. As they suited up for the fight, she said, "Remind me never to get on your bad side. Guess you can do worse damage than Barbie Tits."

"I said I was sorry." Shaking her head, Anya focused instead on the good stuff. "But thank you. Mordin's suggestion of killing the mechanic probably would be more efficient, but I like to cross my wires and blow up the controls in style."

Next to her, Mordin looked dissatisfied with her choice, but also didn't seem like the guy who'd mind results. "One less Blue Sun is still one less."

"We can chat more once we've done our cute little betrayal here." Pressed up against the barrier, they linked their comms. After a few other mercs hopped the fence, she looked to her team. They were strangers still, for the most part. Other than Kirrahe, she'd never worked with a Salarian, really. And Miranda was sort of so perfect she was intimidating and worse, she knew that. It was weird to get used to. But so far, she liked them. Anya grinned, prepared for a good fight. "Ready?"

Both of them nodded.

Jumping the barrier herself, Shepard was surprised to feel a bullet already skim her shields. Anya dropped behind some new cover and felt her heart racing. They made it clear this guy was good, but not that good.

She got out her own sniper rifle to get a better view on the situation.

When she peered out from her cover, using the sights to see him, that fast heartbeat of hers went dead. Directly down her sights was another sniper, a turian, wearing distinct blue and black gear. She couldn't see his face, but every organ in her body stopped working, because the way he pulled that trigger felt so familiar.

Half out of confused panic, knowing it definitely couldn't be him, she said into her mic, "You didn't say he was a sniper."

Miranda sounded confused. "Does it matter?"

With her organs struggling to function the longer her brain did mental gymnastics to try to figure out if it even could be him, Shepard gave her honest answer, "Yes." It didn't make sense; Garrus planned on joining Spectres. Instead he went MIA, but she assumed it just meant he did the Spectre thing on his own. But this?

Across the comms, Miranda replied, "Well if you needed to know his weapon specialties, you really should've read the dossier-"

"I didn't get to his dossier. This wasn't exactly on my itinerary today."

"If you prefer to be more prepared, then-"

"It's not about being prepared!"

"Then can you stop interrupting me?"

"Yes! Now let's take out these fuckers, get upstairs, and for the love of god if either of you shoot him, I shoot you."

Behind the barrier next to her, Mordin and Miranda just blinked at her. Christ, she sounded crazy. But at least the Salarian shrugged and shot a merc walking past his position. Then he said, like that was casual, "Interesting ultimatum, but at least the mercenaries we can agree on."

Taking a deep breath, Shepard couldn't explain all the thoughts racing through her head right now. But she only knew one turian who was that good of a shot, and if there was even a 1% chance it was him... Well, she would burn this whole station down before she let anyone touch him.

Missions made the soldier in her feel real and alive, but Garrus? He made her human.

Engaging her tactical cloak, Anya started taking out all the mercs advancing on his position. A lot of them only took a quick punch and a shot to the back of the skull, but she did get to play around with some long-range when the last couple that reached the bottom floor of the apartment finally realized there was someone else shooting at them.

But scared, disorganized mercs were still easy to take out.

When Anya got to the top of the stairs, her heart was already on the fritz and had completely lost its mind. But the second they were closing in on him? It was like time stopped and then started spiraling backward. The tall, broad shoulders, the casual posture, the way he held his gun. It even still had that scrape from Feros. He said he'd get it buffed out on the Citadel. He didn't.

The turian took one last shot. A final hiding merc on the bridge dropped dead. Then, he moved away from the balcony, sat himself on some crates, and leaned his sniper against his hip. One flick of his fingers against his helmet, the thing was off, and those damned bright blue eyes were staring at her again. And when he started speaking she couldn't breathe. He practically growled, "Shepard. Thought you were dead." While he looked cool and serious, even a little angry, she knew his eyes. There was a lot more going on behind them and she didn't know what to say about that. But being able to see him again?

Well, that was worth coming back for.

There in front of her, with his stupid smirk and classic sniper rifle, was Garrus Vakarian.

A whisper to herself, she said, "Garrus." All it took was one look at him and all those feelings that felt lost, the squishy human who knew how to cry and dance and make him laugh? She was right there, screaming under the surface of her skin, infecting every pore with all the complicated things she felt. But Anya shook her head. There wasn't time for all that. She instead tried to keep everything straight and attempted to give him a more proper hello. Though, granted, she wasn't sure what the proper hello was for a friend who until thirty seconds ago thought she was dead. "Garrus Vakarian. I tried to find out where you were, but it seems you were just hiding out in this shithole under a code name. Clever. Trying to make sure I'd never find you again?"

He did that low, tired laugh of his, when he was wearing thin on a mission that went too long. If they had the time, she'd ask why he looked like this, what made him so tired and angry. Anya knew years had passed for him, of course he'd be different but... She didn't expect the way his fists kept clenching.

Garrus played it off with a friendly smile. "If I knew you'd be coming to find me, I would've left better clues."

Everything between them stayed on the surface layer while they talked. She didn't know how to do anything else under the shock and pressure of seeing him again with mercs on the fucking doorstep. But there was so much more under the surface that words couldn't cover just yet.

Instead, she said, "I'd joke that you were trying to run from all the danger I put you in, but looks like you made more than enough on your own. How'd you manage to piss off all of Omega?"

"Vigilante-ism, per usual."

Anya couldn't help but stare at him. Last she saw him, she'd just told him how much he mattered and then sent him away to save his life. And she couldn't fathom all the things he felt after all this time, after what she said.

She didn't even know what he would've said back. Maybe it was why his fist kept clenching, looking at her. That made a pit in her stomach that she didn't have the bandwidth to deal with right now.

So surface level would have to do.

But Garrus beat her to the punch. "I'd love to catch up more, tell you about my wonderful fuck-up here and all, but maybe we can save the reunion chat for after we get rid of the bloodthirsty mercs?"

"Fair." Nodding at Miranda, she said, "Stay up here with Garrus. Mordin and I will take point downstairs. We're lighter; we'll be able to take some good shots that they don't expect."

When she pulled out her pistol, Garrus's smirk felt real for the first time. "Still ruining lives with that thing?"

"It's not the exact same gun, but you gotta stick to what you're good at."

Before she walked downstairs, he grabbed her arm and said, "The second I saw that tactical cloak shooting pistol-fire, my gut said it was you. I knew you were dead, but I know you on a battlefield, Shepard." Taking a deep breath, he added, "I don't know how, but I'm happy you're back. Now, keep yourself alive this time?"

"Will do."

As she walked downstairs, it felt like she was tearing herself away from him, and it kept getting harder. With each wave they regrouped, made a plan, and then she inevitably split from him. The Blood Pack got some extra face bullets for that, as did the krogan that tried to run him down. She would fight any of them, all of them, with her bare hands if she had to.

Getting Garrus back and losing him on the same day was not an option.

Just as things seemed to calm down, he was back to his deflective smirking. "We're doing great. I was already pissing them off, but with you around they're really losing their shit."

"We've always been a good team, Vakarian."

"Trust me, I know." Hearing his voice was like waking up, for real. The past few days were this slow crawl back to reality, but he was the exact cool drink of water that made her realize this all wasn't a mirage.

Just as she got up from behind her cover and started to walk his way, he turned towards her and gave her this look, like he was seeing sun for the first time. While he looked so much rougher, angrier, a few times he looked at her and that all faded away. And it hit her so hard that she knew they'd have a lot to talk about once they got out of here. Hell, they'd always have a lot to talk about, but since the Collector attack?

Things were different. And not just because she died. She wanted to hear every word he needed to say.

Just as she stopped staring at him, though, that bastard Blue Suns ship swept down, shooting rockets. And he didn't have time to get to cover.

The next few minutes were a blur. She got rid of the threat with a few rockets of her own, blowing that asshole out of the sky. Anya's head was racing and couldn't shut up, rolling around guilt and blame on repeat. Maybe if she'd killed the mechanic he'd be okay. Maybe if she wasn't an idiot, mooning over his face and looks and all her damned memories, this wouldn't have happened.

When she knew the threat was gone, she dropped her guns and went to him.

Falling to her knees next to him, Garrus was drenched in a pool of blue blood, his mandible was ripped open, and he was blinking in and out of consciousness. Anya felt empty. She couldn't have come this far, come back from the fucking dead, just to lose him again. For years she kept losing people, but not this one. Not this time. He had to make it. If anyone deserved to drop from a rocket hit, it was her. She literally was out here shooting past her expiration date. He didn't deserve this, not when he was-

Her fingers twined into his and held tight.

As a Normandy shuttle came down with medical supplies, and some crew helped load him on, she didn't leave his side. Miranda tried to pull her away and heal her own bruises and tears, but Shepard wouldn't budge. This wasn't a time to be practical, not when her own practicality sent him away in an escape pod and abandoned him like this for two fucking years.

She wasn't going to let him go. Not again.

Very happy to have Garrus back! He's my dude. My main squeeze. My favorite part of Mass Effect.

I may be sick today, but I am going to enjoy his return with all my heart.

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