#gets out my hat that says REAL MEN BLEED

[asterval]

have tummy hurt reigen you want it. reblog

[applesap-fics]

FABril day 4 - Chores, part four

1, 2, 3, 4

T, 1859 words, Bruno/Agustín, Bruno & Mirabel.

Mirabel starts living with Bruno for a little while. She’s curious about why he left. Then she finds out a little more.

--

After Bruno sends his second letter that week, he feels like a tower crumbling.

The evening he tells Mirabel about the letters, he rummages through the messy archive in his drawer, exposing himself to lines he has never consciously written but which, reading them now, slice his heart like paper cuts. They’re really embarrassing. He can’t believe Mirabel read some of these. Little thoughts that go nowhere. Jokes that don’t make sense without context. And, in most cases, they are conversations Bruno would never have with the real Agustín. All of his fantasies, everything he couldn’t say in over ten years laid bare on white paper, and all Bruno can do is bleed over them.

The apartment fills up with unwanted thoughts of Agustín. He finds it becomes hard to listen to boleros because a lot of them are exactly Tino’s style. Doing chores with Mirabel reminds him of the time the guys and him used to keep Casita in tip-top shape together. When Mirabel practices playing the accordion — which she’s learned to play from her dad — she uses sheet music that he wrote down. Sitting chairs feel empty without having Agustín opposite him.

He keeps these feelings at bay by writing, hoping Tino will write back and it’ll be like before, and Bruno has an excuse to send more letters.

When he doesn’t write, he daydreams.

“So,” Mirabel says as she steps outside onto the balcony with him. “Papá was the prince.”

Bruno once planted ivy on the balcony, and it’d taken over the entire railing before Mirabel cut it into better shape. Now it hangs modestly and exposes the iron curvature of the art deco design. Bruno is leaning over the railing to smoke, arms lost in green. It’s not a habit he actively pursues, but sometimes his anxiety asks for it. And with Mirabel in the house throwing his life upside down, he requires little pockets of quiet.

“Oh, yeah. There’s no one like him.” He catches himself — that sounds too dreamy. He adds a sheepish, “Sorry, TMI.”

“No, that’s fine. I asked.”

Bruno puts his hand over his mouth to hold the cigarette in place, making him feel like the cool uncle. He turns to face Mirabel, his eyes perpetually tired. He lives on the fifth story, a little higher than the funny tower that was his bedroom in Casita. There he did the exact same thing: letting smoke drift out of his mouth as he contemplated heights and dramatics.

“You know,” he says, letting out a puff of smoke. “I fell alllll the way down once.” He gestures down where cars make noise and men with hats and ladies in coats dot the street. He’s always loved the view from above, distant and observing. “But your dad was there to catch me on his white mustang. I wouldn’t be alive without him.”

Mirabel shakes her head, smiling at his story. He chortles, and adds, “I wonder if he still has that thing…”

“Tío…” Mirabel says quietly. “Is it going to be difficult for you? With Papá there, I mean.”

He waves that off easily. “Nah. We all lived together, remember? I got used to it. It was kinda fun, actually. Hanging around all the time. Besides, it’s not all romance. It can’t be all romance. He’s my friend first. What you’re thinking about, those are just thoughts I have sometimes. Can’t help it! It’s nothing we need to break our brains over, because I’ve already accepted it.”

“If you say so…” She doesn’t look convinced.

“Hey.” He bumps her shoulder. “My life’s not so tragic. You know I like the telenovelas where not everyone ends up getting what they want. It makes us appreciate what we do have. Eeehhh, maybe I’ll pine a little…heh-heh. But it’ll be fine.” He shrugs.

Mirabel slides her hand under his arm and presses her shoulder against him. The touch grounds him, pulls him down from where he stands, high up and away.

--

Hey Nito,

It’s so nice to talk to you again. Just you and me like we used to, right?

I’ll say what’s been on my mind for a while: I was surprised to hear from Mirabel that you use a cane. Though, she made it sound like you use it as a prop to tell funny anecdotes with, which is very like you. I’m glad you’re still the same old Bruno out there. You never change, do you? I wish you had told us about your bad back. Or at least Julieta. Were you hosp I’m glad you’re doing okay. You’re never a burden. Like you always said to me: Tell me everything!

From what I hear from our Antonio, Camilo has been telling scary stories about you. I’m so sorry for that. I didn’t think he remembered you well enough to give an accurate description of you, but I guess that is still true since he’s let his little brother turn you into a magician. (speaking of, do you still have that robe?) Alma keeps your photograph in her room. I assumed Toñito must’ve drawn you from that, though Pepa’s pictures in her closet are just as likely. Whichever his little hands reach better, haha. I’ll pass your compliment on to both of them. I’m sure Camilo will appreciate hearing from you just as much. (He can’t stop asking questions about your job. I’ve compiled you a list.)

Don’t worry about my visit. I’ll be out of your hair very quickly if you want, although I’d really like to catch up with you. Since the city is Mirabel’s dance court now, it’d be nice to get a tour. I’m curious about what she’s been up to. And you too, for that matter.

So: tell me everything!

Love, your friend, Agustín

--

Responses, one after the other, flit through post offices.

--

It’s about two weeks later when Julieta rings Mirabel up for their bi-weekly calls, which is why Bruno doesn’t expect his niece to wave him over at the end of the conversation and hand him the phone.

He curls the handle against his ear. “Hi, Juli?”

“Bruno, hi. How are you doing?”

“Good,” he says warily, but happy to hear her voice. “I’m doing good.”

“That’s good,” Julieta echoes. Then she hesitates for a moment. “So… Agustín has been getting letters from you again.”

Bruno’s heart begins to drum steadily in his chest.

It’s not like their correspondence is a secret. Agustín’s secrets aren’t easily kept from his wife anyway, and they would not have planned for his visit had the family not known. But Julieta’s voice is tinged with suspicion, making Bruno feel light in his head and his chest constrict like he’s been caught doing something bad.

He stays dead silent on the line.

“They’re very sweet,” Julieta continues. “They remind me a little of the letters you used to send him.”

Before she noticed just how much Agustín meant to him too. Before he’d quietly let go of his feelings in favor of Julieta’s happiness, which is never much of a sacrifice.

“You know,” she says softly when he doesn’t answer. “I never disliked or resented you for liking him too.”

“But it’s not right,” he knows. He’s supposed to have let go.

“It’s not right to indulge. But you’re not…” You’re not acting on your feelings. At least, not in the way I notice. “You can’t help it.”

“No.” His finger plays with the coil of the phone cord. “I’ll stop, if you want.”

“Ay, I shouldn’t have brought it up. What I mean is, I think Agustín appreciates them.”

That makes it worse. Does she not see how that makes it worse?

He presses his forehead against his palm and unintentionally sighs too loud into the receiver. It’s an upsetting enough sound that she changes the subject. “Mirabel is doing great, I hear?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s fantastic.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad she’s having fun with you. I love you, Bruno. I think you’re doing a great job. I should’ve trusted you from the start.”

“Hey, thanks. But don’t get it twisted, okay? You were the one begging me, heh-heh.”

“I guess that’s true,” she says with an audible smile. “But I could’ve tried harder to convince you how great of an uncle you are. Thank god we have Tino–” She thinks better of it. “Ah. I should go.”

“Okay. Alright.”

“Take care, Bruno. Talk to you soon.”

“Juli–” he intercepts before she can hang up. “Could you… Could you not read the letters? They’re for Tino only.”

“Oh, I don’t read them. I only ask about them.”

“Yeah, could you– could you not ask him about them either?”

It’s quiet on the other line for a long time. Bruno thinks he’s confused or offended her. Then he hears a muffled sound. A scratch, like breathing in through a full nose, distorted by digital noise, and he realizes she’s crying.

There’s a high pitched, “Oh.”

Bruno’s heart constricts around the sound of her.

“Juli?” he tries. “Juli, why are you sad?”

There’s another sob.

Bruno has always found it difficult to be sad if he has nobody to share his hurt with. Their mother is like that, though often shows it through anger and discipline rather than sadness. Pepa is like a storm in every emotion, evidently hurt. But Julieta, who rarely cries out in the open, turns small.

“Because I miss you,” she manages to say.

“I miss you too,” he answers quickly. “I’m sorry. I’ll send you letters too, okay? Mirabel said: start small if you feel overwhelmed. So I didn’t think to– I’m sorry for only–”

She laughs wetly. “Nito, it’s okay.”

“I have enough letters,” he promises. “Mountains of them. I have enough to tell. Hell, I’ll even write Mamá.”

“Oh, she’ll do it first.”

Bruno’s ears perk up. “What?”

“Mirabel sent her a letter. You should’ve seen her — I think she broke something in Mamá. Expect something in the post at the end of the week. She’s still workshopping it.” Another sniffle, a wipe of her nose as she composes herself.

“What?” he says again, anxiously. He knows Mirabel followed in his footsteps and started writing home. (“This is so retro,” she’d said.) But he’s unable to believe anything can affect their mother in so much that she’ll write, call, or in any way be the first to initiate a conversation with Bruno. Not after the fight they’d had ten years ago. Although… No. Knowing Mirabel like he does now, of course she’s made that happen. Of course she’s going to make him talk to his mother.

He shakes his head in disbelief, although he can’t make ten years of shame and cowardice slide off of him that easily. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Then I’ll write one too. And send you guys even more.”

They make heartfelt promises and hang up with thick and pathetic goodbyes.

When he turns around, Mirabel watches him curiously, tears shooting in her eyes as she’s no doubt been eavesdropping on him. He glares at her and mumbles without ire, “Oh, you know what you did.”

[surpriserose]

In honor of the new season coming soon, please horse girl Geralt x doctor Jaskier where Geralt keeps getting thrown off his horse (unnamed until Jaskier steps in and gives her a name 🥺) because she's so untamed and Jaskier keeps bandaging him up. Geralt is a city boy so he's not used to the country but Jaskier IS (and with that sexy as hell buttery smooth southern accent) he helps him tame Roach (what they name his horse because Jaskier lives in a dump with plenty of roaches and he is friends with them so thinks it's a cute name. Geralt can't help but agree with him). They find a baby on the side of the road when they're out riding and they adopt her, realizing that there is more between them than just a bandage and a scraped knee. Moodboard please btw ❤️

omg thats sooooooooo cute 🥺 i hope you dont mind that i was really inspired by you switching up one of my favorite tropes (country boy geralt and city boy jaskier) so i also had to write a little something to go with the moodboard so theres a little drabble under the cut ^_^

Geralt stopped counting the number of times he fell off this damn horse. He swore into the dirt again. Damn his brother Eskel for buying such a shitty wild horse for him. Geralt had taken a trip down south to see his family again and they surprised him with his own horse. They knew how much he loved horses despite hating the rest of the family farm. His step dad Vesemir smiled at him and gave him a wink when Lambert and Eskel brought him to the barn.

"Now you'll have a reason to come down more often, huh, son?" Vesemir joked.

There was no way that was happening if Geralt couldn't get a handle on this damn mare. He sighed, pushing himself upwards and dusting off his riding clothes.

"Nice horse you got there," a man's voice with a heavy drawl said. "What's her name?"

Geralt's head snapped up, meeting the bright blue eyes of a man leaning against the old wooden fence. Oh shit, Geralt thought, he's hot. He hoped he wasn't blushing, it would be a dead giveaway on his porcelain skin.

"She doesn't have one yet," he replied, looking over the stranger. As if he didn't sound southern enough, he was wearing a large cowboy hat shading sun kissed skin.

"Is the same true for you?" the stranger smiled.

"No," Geralt started, suddenly nervous. The charms of other city men had never reached him, but this man with his cowboy swagger was seconds from sweeping him off his feet. "No, it's Geralt."

"Pretty name for a pretty boy," the cowboy chuckled. He held out a hand, "My name's Jaskier, and if you need some help with your horse, I'm the man to ask."

"Oh yeah?" Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, but I don't need any help."

"Not even with giving her a name? I'm a real creative guy, you know."

"I'm good," Geralt said. If I don't get away from here I'm gonna end up making a fool of myself, he thought.

"Are you sure? You look like yer bleeding," Jaskier shouted as Geralt turned away.

Geralt stopped and looked over his arms for wounds. Jaskier hopped the fence and jogged up to Geralt. Now they were face to face and to Geralt's surprise Jaskier was almost as tall as he was. Before Geralt could say anything Jaskier knelt in front of him, cowboy hat tipped back to Jaskier could throw him a wink. "It's on your leg, Geralt? Don't you feel it?"

Geralt gulped. "Let me sit down. This seems...compromising..."

"Hurts my heart that you wouldn't want me in a compromising situation."

"Well, that's..."

"Or is that not the problem?" Jaskier grinned. "Because if there's a problem, I'm a problem solving kind of guy."

"Well, there's maybe one problem," Geralt said nervously, his Boston accent breaking through.

"And what's that?"

"There's no Dunkin for a thousand miles."

[sofullofloveicould]

march writing challenge 2023 - day 18

a song that used to be your favorite

Ain’t you such a tough guy, 44890251, bruising your knuckles on the cell bars, rubbing your eyes red in the corridors each morning, slickling back your hair with water and mechanic grease like a knockoff italo-american neo-nazi. 

Baby, my mother used to warn me about men like you. The kind that wear there hair that way and have friends with records. You told me you got in here hanging around with that type. The guys who used to skip school or put out cigs on their ladies. I don’t quite know why you’re in, but god, I can guess. 

Things float around, here, like shit in a sewer. And your’s stinks, like blood on your hands and women you shouldn’t have touched. 

I wonder what my mother would think now. 

There’s a perky blonde in my cell block row, who takes gardening duty with you every thursday. When she comes back, her legs shake and her hair is unpinned. I can see you stagger by, hunter-orange pants rode low against your thighs, eyes faintly rimmed in freshly-applied eyeliner. You make it from cigarette ash, even though it’s gonna get your supply found and cut one day.

You think it makes you look cool, but your friends say you look like a twinkie. 

The girl, maybe Isabela or Michella,15776223, moves to the back of the joint cafeteria, slinks gingerly into her chair. You bump into me, One arm nestles itself in the small of my back, groping my ass, the other grabbing the packet I extend to you behind my back. I bite my lip until it bleeds. 

One day I’ll show you. I’ll show you that you’re no more bad than 12–year-old boys who wear their hats backwards. You’re not bad in the real world. 

One day, what’s in the packet won’t be what you expect. The scabs on my lips will heal over and flake off. 

And when that day comes, you’ll beg for someone. I sure damn hope that someone isn’t me.  

@deity-prompts credit for the prompts list

[intrepidradish]

Media: NBC Hannibal

Year/my age: 2020/30

What drew me to the media:

I had long been a fan of Hannibal Lector. Silence of the Lambs was one of the first suspense thriller movies I watched, and it's so good. I think it's a perfect movie for me. It never gets stale. Hannibal is good too. Red Dragon is pretty good (but I think I liked Manhunter better). I haven't seen Hannibal Rising... oops. I wonder where that is playing. Guess I know what I'm doing later.

So it made sense that I was intrigued by the show. I didn't just launch from Farscape into Hannibal btw. I actually took a detour through some animated shows. The one I remember the most was the new She-Ra. That show rocked, but I always felt a little weird about the concept of writing porn for a show aimed at children. I had the inclination too, and then backpedaled. People that can do that are way more dedicated to the craft then me. Hats off to you.

Also REMINDER the shutdown happened in March of 2020. I was trapped inside. I watched Hannibal. Probably not amazing for my brain, but....eeeeehhhhh.... we were in an impossibly difficult situation and trauma be where trauma does. (that sentence purposely makes no sense)

What made me a fan:

I'd like to say I was already a fan as stated above. I love Hannibal Lector. I was already truffle snuffling for monstrous men. Mads Mikkelson is a weird babe, etc etc. I also really dug the religious imagery and over-the-top murders (but if we're critiquing, the dialogue was very heavy handed, perhaps too much)

I'm not a serial killer fan. I'm not particularly interested in true crime. Procedural television bores me. But season one was so refreshing for Hannibal! I think there should be more really fucked up detectives (looks at Disco Elysium, yeah! YEAH!) and that's coming from someone whose favorite detective is actually Poirot, the most uptight fussy ponce imaginable.

What drew me in is also what draws a lot of people into Hannibal. The romantic tension and the fooooooooooood. I love food. I love making love with a good meal. I love the flouncy, fantastical elements of expensive dining mixed with DEATH DECAY DESTRUCTION EAT EAT EAT DESTROY DEVOUR. Would you like some more wine with that? It's a three hundred year old vintage that cost $2K from a province that was burned in ww2 and never recovered.

Like...It's great.

It's also a very pretty show. It's also a very different show.

Like I watched Killing Eve too, and that show is fun, but it's like....not nearly as deranged as this one. Like Hannibal is a crazy show. I can't imagine what kinds of hoops people jumped through to get this thing made.

Have I written fanfiction for it? Why or why not?

I have written ONE fanfiction for it. Doneness is a very weird story. I had two people edit it. One being iterations, who said it wasn't gross enough and the ending was disappointing (she's very honest) and the other being Pierrot_dreams, who I know in real life and is a fantastic writer/editor but also writes insanely violent porn. We were talking recently and reminiscing on Doneness. She was like "that story was fucking weird."

It is.

But I wanted to write a fanfiction with the same tone as the show, which is difficult, because the show is, as mentioned, fucking wonky. The dialogue is intense. The symbolism is heavy handed. Food is really important. The romantic tension is like a cut vein, you're bleeding out, and in love.

I wanted it to be a procedural murder mystery like from the first season but with all the drama of the second season. I wanted it to be gnarly. I wanted the villain to be understandable. I wanted a lot. I think I deliver on that, but the fandom for Hannibal is also a little weird.

I'm not disappointed with the reception of this very weird story. I only wrote one story, so I never built up a fanbase for my own writing there. Every time I reread it, I enjoy it a lot. It's well written, and well edited, and also crazy (and the sex is hot).

Opinion on the fandom:

I think people want to make this show much softer than it is. I think people see these two violent insane characters and want them tamed. They want them in their coffee shop au, where there is no killing only fine dining. That's fine. I never ever want to be a gatekeeper to what people want from a media. I'm just not going to read it.

I liked the show because it was violent and vengeful and it was never going to be fixed. The situation was untenable. I hope those two bastards did die. I hope they aren't on their honey moon in Italy or whatever. I hope they got smashed against the rocks and took hours to die looking at each other with blood and salt water in their mouths, unable to move. I hope Bedelia got eaten by another food fetishist.

It's grotesque obsession and sometimes that's love. That's the story. I wouldn't want to change that. That's what stories are for, for me to live as someone else for awhile because WOW that's absolutely never going to happen to me. Hahah. Thank GOD.

Would I read it again?

Sure! Terror loves Hannibal. I really want to get in the mood to read all her stories because I bet they are amazing. Some of the best fanfiction I read for Hannibal were these quickies written by ScarletteStarlett. I'd read those again because wow they are great.

[glimmeringtwilight]

Misfortunate

Short Scaramouche piece so I get this short angry lad out of my system (if any of you make a "that's what she said" joke I'm smiting you). Technically proofread but does it really count if I only worked on this at 1am. I'll tweak the formatting tomorrow. Put below a cut for the length, not for the content (SFW).

CW: mild violence, Scaramouche (he's his own warning. He's a prick), mild dehumanization, yandere themes, mild description of injury.

Word Count: ~1.8k

Trouble follows you. 

It’s like your shadow, tailing after you wherever you go. People call you unlucky. Clear skies turn to pouring rain, rockslides narrowly miss you in tight passes, avalanches on snowy mountain peaks, you name it. It was like the world was trying to bury you beneath it, but by some small miracle you’ve always barely managed to get out of whatever new misfortune that befell you.  

You’re beginning to think “cursed” might be a more accurate term. That’s the only thing that comes to mind as you clutch your bleeding arm to your chest, stumbling through dark corridors as voices ring out around you. 

“Find them!” To your left. You go right, moving as quietly as you can manage. 

The air here is thick. Suffocating. You don’t know what the purple fog dancing along the floors is, but you’re sure you’re bound to find out, cloth bandana completely useless at blocking it out. You taste metal. 

The hallways here seem to wind on forever. By design, probably, if you had to guess. You can’t be doing… whatever nefarious shit the fatui gets up to, in a regular building, no. And apparently nothing screams “nefarious” more than identical rooms and long, disorienting hallways. 

At least it seems to be affecting your pursuers as much as it is you, their voices still distant as they search for you. But you’re sure that the poor design of this place won’t save you for long. 

You step into a side room after a quick check to be sure it’s empty, stopping to catch your breath.

Think. You just need to… think. Catch your breath, stop the bleeding– you’re sure you’ve left a trail of blood in your wake, but it’s so damn dark in here you doubt they’ll even see it– and try to-

“So this is the rat my men have been chasing for the past half-hour.”

Haha, fuck. 

You freeze in place, holding your breath (as if that’ll do anything). Steeling your resolve, you turn your head stiffly and glance over your shoulder to see who it is that found you.

“Well? Are you deaf or just stupid? Or do you have nothing to say?” 

There’s a quiet jingling sound, metal against metal, and you strain to make out the figure in the darkness as he steps closer. You can definitely make out the big, gaudy hat he wears, the brim dipped too low to let you see much more than his mouth. 

You realize he’s still waiting for you to say something when he tsks, hand twitching by his side, and fear jumpstarts your mouth before it jumpstarts your brain, blurting the first thing that comes to mind. 

“You should invest in better structural engineers. And fire whoever designed this place.” Brilliant. Now instead of just killing you, maybe he’ll spit on your corpse too. 

He says nothing, the silence dragging on following your response, interrupted by the occasional distant shout and the steady drip, drip, drip of your blood hitting the floor. Why isn’t he calling the others over? Why didn’t he just kill you outright?

Come to think of it, you remember him mentioning “his men”... Fuck. Is he running this operation?

You don’t have the chance to dwell on it, snapping back to the present when a dry laugh cuts through the silence. It’s short, devoid of any real humor, and the back of your neck prickles with unease. 

“Stupid, then.” The hat tips up, just slightly. “How did you get in?”

“I fell in.”

“You fell in.” He sounds unconvinced, and more than just a little annoyed. 

“I was just… exploring-” The stranger’s mouth twists into a scowl at the vagueness of your reply, and you rush to elaborate before he decides to stop stalling murdering you- “fine! I- Onikabuto. I was looking for- for onikabuto, and the ground caved in under my feet. I didn’t even know this was down here, I swear, so-”

“Quiet.” Your mouth snaps shut. He stalks forward, snapping at you to “stay put” when you stagger back half a step in response, and you freeze. Maybe if you play nice, you can still talk your way out of this…

He stops a few feet away from you, crossing his arms, and you watch the hat dip with the movement of his head. Maybe you could catch him by surprise and-

A hand seizes your face in a bruising grip, thin fingers indenting the clammy skin of your cheeks so hard your teeth painfully dig into the sides of it. When you instinctively try to pull out of his grasp, the fingers of his other hand hook underneath your bandana, yanking it off your face so it hangs loosely around your neck and fisting the fabric to hold you in place.

His hand reclaims its place, gripping your jaw just as tightly as he holds you still by the bandana around your neck with the other. 

Indigo eyes meet your own, and the stranger jerks your head to the side, appraising you like one would a show dog.

“Wha- Hey-” Your head is jerked the other way, the movement less harsh than the first as you consciously turn your head with the movement the second time, anticipating the rough handling. 

“You’re making a mess.” He notes after a beat, eyes narrowing at the large gash on your arm that continues to drip blood. 

“I’m… sorry?” You mumble, words slurring with the way his grip on your face tightens. You’re not really sure how to respond to that. What, does he expect you to just stop bleeding because it’s pissing him off?

He tsks, letting go of you, and you rub the sore skin to soothe the ache left behind from his unnecessary roughness. You’re starting to think it’d be better if one of his lackeys found you first. They’d have killed you by now, sure, but it would have at least been quick. 

“Are you going to kill me?” No point in beating around the bush, you suppose. What’s he gonna do, say “yes” and then stab you? 

… Well. He could. But you hope not. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” Is his vague response, turning on a heel and walking away from you like he didn’t just finish manhandling you. 

You stare at his retreating figure, wondering whether or not that was the end of it. Is he just… letting you go? Is he trying to bait you into getting your hopes up, so he can crush them under his heel and laugh as he kills you?

“Well?” He stops, turning to look back at you when you continue to stare blankly at his retreating form. “Come. Or I’ll leave you here for my men.” 

While you don’t like the idea of following him anywhere, there’s not much other option, and he doesn’t seem keen on killing you yet, at least.

You follow him out of the room and into the corridor, listening to the tinkling of the metal ornaments on his hat and his deceptively heavy footsteps. Is he… making his footsteps heavier on purpose? 

You didn’t hear him earlier, when he snuck up on you (you know he wasn’t in the room when you entered, that big, gaudy hat of his would have given him away). So does he… stomp around most of the time? On purpose? Why? To sound like he’s bigger than he is? Or is he just always pissed?

The image of this man stomping around this shady hideout to make himself sound bigger and more intimidating almost rips a hysterical giggle out of you, but you focus instead on keeping the veil from smacking you in the face as you walk behind him. 

You could technically walk further back, but you don’t want to test his patience by giving him the impression you’re sneaking away, and you get the distinct sense that he’d take great offense to you walking side-by-side with him. 

“What’s your name?” He asks after a few minutes of walking. 

Well. Not like he’ll kill you for your name, right? And maybe knowing that, he’ll hesitate when it comes down to that… If. If it comes down to that.

You tell him your name, and he says nothing, not even acknowledging he heard you. …Whatever. You’re not repeating yourself. 

He doesn’t supply his own name, so you decide to ask. “And yours?”

“Scaramouche.” 

Then it’s silence once more. You realize that the men who were chasing you have stopped shouting, and you can’t hear their frantic search for you anymore. Did they give up? Do they know Scaramouche found you first?

He leads you into a room you recognize as the same one you fell into, sunlight illuminating the sparsely-decorated space. You also recognize the pyro agent who slashed your arm, already kneeling by the time your eyes adjust to the bright light. 

“Lord Scaramouche-”

“Save it. Get this hole fixed, and check the rest of the base for any other structural weaknesses. If we have any more surprise visitors,” Scaramouche gestures sharply towards you, “You’ll be joining them at the bottom of the ocean.” 

“...Yes sir.” The agent’s voice trembles, just slightly. 

You’re really starting to think it would have been better if anyone else had found you first, not missing the strained reediness in the agent’s voice that wasn’t there when he was trying to kill you. Another’s hands are shaking, barely visible from where you stand. Why are they so scared of him…?

“You.” Scaramouche turns to another one of his lackeys, not batting an eye at the way they visibly flinch, “Find me a first-aid kit. Bring it to my office.”

“Yessir.”

Your stomach sinks when Scaramouche starts walking again, not even sparing you a glance, just the silent expectation to “follow” as he sets off down the halls. 

The agent who attacked you mutters a quiet “poor thing” under his breath, and you pretend not to hear. Pretend not to feel the weight of their eyes watching the two of you leave. 

Once you’re out of earshot, Scaramouche stops, glancing over his shoulder at you, then at the bandana dangling loosely around your neck. “I think I’ll get you a collar, to replace that ugly thing.”

His eyes flit back up from your neck, and he laughs cruelly at your expression. “What? You should be thanking me. I’ve decided to let you live.”

Scaramouche doesn’t seem to be interested in any actual thanks from you, though, already turning back around and continuing to walk. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

Maybe trouble doesn’t follow you after all, you think, as you trail stiffly behind him. Maybe you’ve been following trouble all along.

[kirieshhhka003]

Pairing: La Squadra x GN! Reader

Warnings: language

La Squadra harem

Risotto Nero

Risotto, as a leader of the hitman squad, immediately notices the change of atmosphere among La Squadra once Y/n appears. Albino, to his huge dismay, understands that he’s not the only one who’s developed feelings for Y/n. Albino knows every member’s habits and usual behavior, capo is the first one of all hitmen who figures out that everyone is his rival now (but only when it comes to Y/n, he’s still their leader and he respects every member equally)

Risotto is more of a father figure to Y/n. He warms up to you shortly, pampering you with his attention and genuine care, always being there for you. You’re hungry? The two of you are going to the nearest cafe for you to have a proper meal and Capo won’t take “no” as an answer. You’re stressed and something messes with your pretty head? What a poor thing, come here, Risotto is always ready to listen. Others immediately catch on the change of Capo’s treatment, every day it becomes even more obvious that he has a huge soft spot for Y/n

Least favorite rival: Melone. Risotto hates how smooth purple-haired is around you, how he is open with his flirting, how sincere all of his words sound. Nero wishes he had at least half of sans gêne Melone has. He’s a Capo and he has a reputation to uphold, but behind closed doors Risotto has tried flirting with Y/n and it was so so clumsy and awkward, it’s just… not his style

Prosciutto

The second father figure for Y/n, but if Risotto is more of a sugar daddy, indulging you with expensive gifts and foods, Prosciutto mostly acts like a real father would, scolding you for going outside at winter without your hat on (tho he never wears a hat himself) or for petting stray animals on the streets

Even despite all of his parental sternness, Prosciutto is really caring and attentive towards Y/n, even more that Risotto is. You got scratched accidentally because of your clumsiness? We gotta clean the wound up and patch it, don’t even try to protest; it may be a simple graze but what if some dirt got in it? Your shoulders ache after a long tiring day? Come hither, your dear Prosci will rub all the pain away

Least favorite rival: Risotto. Prosciutto doesn’t hate or despise albino, no. Risotto is a capo, and he got this status for several reasons, so blonde man still respects his boss, but both man have pretty familiar tactics of charming Y/n, and that definitely annoys Prosciutto

Formaggio

Formaggio is one of the most oblivious of all La Squadra men, he doesn’t realize that he’s not the only one having interest in Y/n and even when other guys flirt openly with Y/n in front of him red-haired just thinks that his teammates just try to be friendly towards a newcomer

He’s definitely that type of macho from all the cheesy movies - attractive, excellent smooth talker with constant flirtings. Formaggio is not opposed of using all possible cringy lines what annoy everyone in La Squadra, even Risotto has hard times restraining the urge to roll his eyes at all those shitty teasings. But Maggi is an easygoing guy, it’s so easy being around him and even all his pick up lines don’t repel you from him

Least favorite rival: doesn’t have one. As I said, this man doesn’t notice that other guys try to get Y/n to themselves, the thought of having possible rivals doesn’t even cross his mind

Illuso

It’s not a secret to anyone that Illuso is a little nasty bitch with a huge god complex and all his wooing is no better. “You wanna spend time with me? Shit, you’re such a pain in my ass! Okay, I guess I will indulge you this time, but that’s only because of your cute face” - doesn’t sound so appealing, does it? And that’s exactly the way brunette flirts with Y/n (well, at least he tries to)

Illuso wants to make you crawl to him, to make you crave for his presence and his touch, you make you fall in love hard. Brunette wears his best outfits, uses the best of his perfumes make up stuff just to show you that he’s better than all of his teammates. Surprisingly, even his behavior changes slightly when Y/n is around - he’s not that unbearably churlish towards you, on the good days he may even compliment you - “Your hair… looks good today, I like it”

Least favorite rival: he hates all of La Squadra equally. Illuso is certain that he’s the only one who truly deserves Y/n’s attention, he’s the best partner for you and only he can treat you properly. Doesn’t even try to hide his hostility towards teammates - why would you want spending time with such a trash?

Ghiaccio

Ghiaccio is a tsundere, do I even need to explain why? Is obvious to everyone in La Squadra that he’s head over heels for Y/n, but he still aggressively denies everything if someone points that out. He’s also very protective of you, if Formaggio or Melone or Sorbet try to flirt with you in front of Ghiaccio - they’ll get their nose bleeding soon (blue-haired gets scolded for that by Risotto often)

Blue-haired tries his best to hold all his outbursts in front of you. Even when you ask the stupidest questions, Ghiaccio would clench his fists til his knuckles turn white, grit his teeth, try doing breathing exercises - everything just to remain calm and not to get tantrum in front of you. And you guess that means really a lot

Least favorite rival: Sorbet and Gelato. Those guys (gays, lmao im sorry) don’t even try to hide their interest in Y/n, pinning for you, prying your attention only to themselves. They flirt so openly with you, some of their lines and allusions make even Melone feel slightly uncomfortable, so Ghiaccio sees those almost as if two husbands were shamelessly molesting Y/n

Melone

Melone knows that at times he may be a little bit… too much, so he turns it down for as much as he can so his “strange” tendencies won’t scare Y/n off. For the first few months purple-haired is nothing but sweet and caring, looking pretty normal, just like an average man that doesn’t think of breeding and all possible kinks every two minutes of his time

Even though, he acts like a gentleman with Y/n. Carrying heavy bags for you, giving you a hand when you get up, and if you’re studying medicine he’s up to help you if you have problems with understanding something. Melone had been studying for almost four years at medical uni but got kicked out for having sex with his cogrouper right in the uni. So he may be pretty helpful if you don’t get something or if you’re just interested in medicine

Least favorite rival: I can’t say that he cares much about other guys from La Squadra, but if he had to pick out one it’d be Illuso. It’s not about the way brunette tries to charm Y/n, purple-haired from every beginning didn’t like this guy. All of his conceit and arrogant behavior - it all just pisses Melone off

Pesci

Pesci is so so timid with Y/n, every time you walk by him, saying hi or just smiling at him, poor boy’s heart twists into tight knots. How are you so sweet? How are you so perfect?

Despite all your friendliness green-haired is still incredibly bashful, he is simply afraid of approaching Y/n. It doesn’t matter how much he likes you, Pesci just can’t force himself to try and initiate a chat. Sometimes Prosciutto helps him out with that a little (even though he doesn’t realize that he helps), but blonde is still careful with his actions, not letting even his precious Pesci get too close to Y/n

Least favorite rival: Formaggio. This guy is so noisy and vigorous, every time Pesci finally pulls himself together and finds the courage to approach Y/n this guy seems to appear from fucking nowhere, hogging your attention all to himself and leaving green-haired an angry blushing mess

Sorbet and Gelato

At the very beginning it feels more like you are Sorbet’s and Gelato’s child and they’re your parents fretting over you. They often take you with them on some trips, Gelato helps you with your school (if it’s something he knows about), Sorbet picks you up from work/school and drives you home etc

Sorbet is more of a tease, playing around with you, shamelessly flirting with Y/n, littering with not so pure compliments and comments. His touches are a little bit too long, his gazes are slightly too intense, even stupidest one would notice brunette’s longing for Y/n. Gelato is way less intense than his husband, blonde is way easier with his words, charming you with his sweet talking and constant doting. He’s more of a pillow that eases the expression Sorbet gives you

Sorbet’s least favorite rival: Risotto. Brunette hates how calm and well-composed Capo is, what if Y/n thinks that albino is cooler than he is? But Sorbet immediately makes a new plan in his head: if Risotto is more of a dad to Y/n, always doting on you and being so kind, Sorbet’s going to become your daddy, making you fall for him and Gelato, make you hungry for their attention

Gelato’s least favorite rival: blonde is pretty acknowledged that everyone in La Squadra tryies to get Y/n to themselves, he sees everyone (except Sorbet ofc) as his rival. Man dislikes everyone, seeing them as his opponents, but he doesn’t have a least favorite one. Yes, other members are hella pain in the ass, but blonde is pretty sure that Y/n will end up in his and Gelato’s arms anyways, so there’s no need to jangle his nerves

Masterlist | Smut Masterlist

[bensolosbluesaber]

Returning a Favor (Zemo x Reader fic)

TFATWS Ep. 4 Spoilers!!

Summary: When your old friend, Sam Wilson, needs your help in Riga you drop everything and go. You knew they broke Baron Helmut Zemo out of jail, but you didn't expect to bond with the villain. (AKA: I thought getting hit in the face by the Shield would at least leave a bruise. Here's how that would go down with a fourth person.)

CW: Blood, wounds, some creepy behavior (not from Zemo), a few Y/N inserts

No smut yet, just cute cuddles and taking care of each other. Maybe smut in the future though! Let me know if you want a Part 2 or added to a tag list for potential future fics! I think the reader can be any gender; I tried to write it that way and be inclusive, but please tell me if I messed up!

If you know me in real life, no you don't:) I write most of my fics on @aurora521 and write on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the same name. Please don't come for me about finding Zemo attractive.

Hope you enjoy!

---

Returning a Favor

Meet me in Riga. -S

That was the text you received from Sam Wilson, your old military friend, yesterday. And now here you are, outside the Riga airport walking toward Sam in traditional undercover superhero attire- a baseball hat and sunglasses.

“Thanks for coming,” he greeted. “We have a little problem.”

“Is his name Baron Helmut Zemo by chance?” You asked, following him to a jet black sports car.

You were very aware of just what type of trouble Sam was getting himself into since you, a SWORD agent, still had access to all kinds of classified information.

“See for yourself,” Sam muttered, gesturing to the back door of the car and climbing in the driver's seat himself.

You hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the back. And yes, Zemo was there, lounging back with legs spread. He’s wearing a long coat with fur lining, a deep purple shirt, black pants, and shiny leather shoes. He nods to you and smirks ever so slightly. Bucky Barnes, who you had only heard about but recognized immediately, turns from his spot in the front seat and smiles at you.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Y/N,” he says.

“And I you,” you respond.

Sam pulls out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. The ride is mostly silent, Sam and Bucky bickering occasionally. That made you smile, knowing that as much as Bucky annoyed Sam, this was the type of relationship he craved. Zemo watched you the entire drive, sizing you up.

The home they’re staying at is obviously the Baron's. He’s comfortable there, leaning against the counters, rifling through cabinets, lounging on the couch.

“So what am I doing here?” You finally asked.

The three men interact easily, and either Sam or Bucky is always watching Zemo. There’s no real need for a fourth person to get involved, at least not in your mind.

“Someone needs to babysit the Baron,” Sam explained with an annoyed sigh.

Zemo shrugged with a smirk so innocent it’s sinister. He’s still wearing that ridiculous coat.

“The two Avengers can’t handle him?”

“I believe your friends find it challenging to be around me,” Zemo answered for Sam.

“You shot a man in the head yesterday!” Sam snapped. “You antagonize Bucky at every turn. Forgive us for needing a break from whatever is happening in your fucked up head.”

Zemo tilts his head as if agreeing with everything Sam had just said.

“Anyway,” Bucky interrupted. “We have a lead on Karli. You can sleep off some jet lag while we’re gone, but starting tonight it’s your turn to keep track of him.”

You settled into a small bedroom. The moment your head hit the pillow, you fell asleep. At home it’s nearly ten at night; here it’s midday.

The trio is back all too soon, heralded by a slam of a door, and you force yourself to wake up to adjust to the time change as rapidly and effectively as possible. As you open the door to the living room, Bucky is stalking toward Zemo. He grabs the teacup from Zemo’s hand and hurls it against the wall.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?” Bucky growled, staring at Zemo with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him,” Sam jumped up and grabbed Bucky’s arm. “He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.”

Bucky’s face softened slightly. Zemo stops tilting his head.

“Let me make a call,” Sam says and walks away.

“You want some cherry blossom tea?” Zemo offers Bucky with a mocking tone.

“No. You go ahead,” Bucky hissed, and after a moment of staring, he followed Sam out of the room.

You had watched Zemo for that entire exchange, noticed the slightest flinch and hint of fear when Bucky had grabbed that cup. The moment the other two men are gone and Zemo thinks he’s alone, he pours himself another cup. His hand is steady, but he draws a sharp, unsteady breath.

You move out of the room, and Zemo looks up at you from his spot on the couch. Without a word, you walk into the kitchen, taking a roll of paper towels and carefully picking up the shattered glass.

“I can do that,” Zemo says, speaking directly to you for the first time.

His voice is calm, accent thick.

“It’s alright,” you answer, then gasp sharply as a piece slices your pointer finger from tip to palm. “Fuck.”

You set the bloody piece with the pile of glass and hold a paper towel to your hand. You used the other hand to wipe tea off the wall and floor before picking up the glass piled on a paper towel and placing it in the trash, carefully tucked in other garbage.

“Let me.”

Zemo’s voice behind you makes you jump. You eye him for a moment wondering if there is some ulterior motive, some way he could hurt you or hold you hostage. Nothing comes to mind, not with Sam and Bucky so close, so you hold out your bleeding hand. He clicks his tongue at the wound.

When he takes your hand in his, his fingers are soft and warm. He moves your wound under a faucet and lets water run, rinsing the blood down the sink. He squeezes the wound a bit, and you wince as it begins to bleed more.

“We bleed to clean our wounds. It is the body’s way of protecting itself,” he says and presses a towel to your finger as he shuts off the water. “Ironic isn’t it. The very thing meant to protect us from future danger, often kills us first.”

“I’m not here to debate the ethics of superheroes with you.”

“Hold that,” he lets go of your hand and opens another cabinet. “I know how I feel about enhanced humans. There is nothing for me to debate.”

Zemo takes your hand back in his. You watch his face as he works. He uses his mouth to remove the wrapping from a butterfly bandage. The bleeding has slowed, and he uses the bandage to pull your torn skin back together. The cut isn’t terrible, certainly not the worst injury you’ve ever had, but it will scar. He adds two more strips, then places an absorbent pad over it and wraps it all in gauze.

“When we get back, I’ll change that for you.”

“I’ll hope you don’t get killed then,” you offer with a grateful smile.

He doesn’t respond but gestures to you to join on the couch. You do, keeping what you feel is a safe distance between the two of you. Zemo hands you a cup of warm tea, but as you grab it, he doesn’t let go. Your undamaged fingers brush his for a long moment and he chuckles.

“Promise not to take after your friend James? I quite like this tea set.”

Your eyebrows knit together as he smiles at his own joke and finally surrenders the cup to you. That’s the last words you two exchange, and when Bucky and Sam return ready for the next part of the mission, they find the two of you sitting in silence sharing a pot of tea.

___

When the three men returned, Sam and Bucky held an unconscious Zemo between them. You jumped off the couch, the book you had been reading discarded, and let them lay Zemo down.

“What happened?”

“John Walker,” the two men answered in the same disgusted tone.

You leaned over Zemo, finally seeing the blood and bruise on his right temple.

“This one disappeared for a few minutes, shot Karli-”

“Didn’t kill her,” Sam interrupted, sounding relieved.

Much like Sam, you sympathized with Karli’s motives if not her methods. And much like Sam, you were glad she hadn’t died.

“Then Walker knocked him out with the shield,” Bucky finished.

There was no jab at Sam this time for which you were grateful.

“Which is the only useful thing he did,” Sam added. “Zemo destroyed the rest of the serum, so right now he’s above Walker in my book.”

You looked down at Zemo, blood had dripped down his face and neck, though most of it was dried now. His eyelids twitched as he slept.

“Are you two okay?” You asked as you walked toward the bathroom.

“Fine. We ditched Walker, but we’ll need to get out of here as soon as we figure out what to do with Karli,” Sam answered, collapsing on the couch with a heavy sigh.

You dampened a washcloth in the bathroom and on your way back to the living room, grabbed the first aid kit Zemo had used on you earlier.

“What are you doing? He’ll be fine,” Bucky muttered.

He was sitting next to Sam now.

“Returning a favor,” you answered as you knelt at Zemo’s side.

You dabbed at the drying blood with the cloth, wiping it off his cheek, out of his hair. Somehow the coat came out unscathed. Sam and Bucky were talking about something behind you, but you were entirely focused on the unconscious man.

Zemo had a handsome, aristocratic face, and he walked like royalty, like he was untouchable. This was evidence he wasn’t.

You moved to the actual wound next. The cloth was soft, unreasonably so. A large hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing tightly. You inhale sharply and shift your gaze to Zemo’s hand then his eyes. When your eyes met his, he seemed to relax, releasing you and letting his hand fall at his side.

“Apologies,” he grunted, mouth twitching with pain.

“It’s alright,” you answer calmly, very aware that the other men had stopped talking and were fixated on a potential threat. “Turn your head please.”

You put a hand on his cheek and turned him to face you to get a better look at the wound that was still seeping slowly.

“The new Captain America might force me to reconsider my stance on superheroes. I would enjoy seeing Sam and James have a go at him,” Zemo said as you prod the wound.

You wiped the cut with antiseptic, and Zemo hissed a bit at that but said nothing. Then, just like he had done to you, you placed three butterfly bandages on the cut. It wasn’t deep, just long and jagged.

“You’re my new favorite,” he joked with a little grin.

You laughed and walked to the kitchen for some ice. There were no packs, so you grabbed a bag of frozen peas, wrapped them in a towel and set it gently on Zemo’s temple.

“I can’t have you dying when I need this changed tonight,” you said, holding up a finger.

When you turned around, Sam and Bucky had both stretched out on the couch. They both wore annoyed expressions that Zemo got a whole couch and they got one to share. Bucky bumped Sam’s foot with his own, much to your amusement and Sam’s annoyance. He kicked his partner back, and you decided not to interrupt their little couples spat. Instead, you move to sit on the ground.

Zemo grabbed your wrist again, this time gently. He tucked his legs up, folding them into a V, and motioned you to share his couch. And you did, sitting in the same spot you had earlier, this time near his feet still clad in shiny black leather shoes.

“Hey, you two,” Sam called. “What’s this cozy little couch situation going on here?”

“You two could have a cozy little couch situation too if you’d just talk to each other,” Zemo shot back.

He didn’t even look at Sam, just held the frozen vegetables to his face, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Zemo asked after a moment. “Can you get me an Advil? Or better yet, some sort of alcoholic beverage?”

“I’m not your servant, Zemo,” you sighed but stood and poured him a glass of some expensive alcohol from a bottle with Sokovian writing.

He sipped it, setting it on his chest between sips as he lounged on the couch with you. Bucky was watching you out the corner of his eye, and you were watching Zemo. Every few sips he would grimace, his lips pressing together and chest catching. Then he’d relax, exhale softly and shift the peas back into place. Eventually you picked up your book and began to read again.

Sam left the room to take a phone call a few hours later and came back shaking.

“Karli threatened Sarah, my nephews. I have to meet with her. Alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky jumped in, already on his feet. “Walker will be there, and you can’t handle the Super Soldiers and Captain Propaganda on your own.”

Zemo was either asleep or doing a good job pretending beside you. The pea bag had been returned to the freezer. He’d discarded his coat and was now wearing only his black pants and a deep purple shirt with shoulder holsters.

“You got him?” Sam pointed to the sleeping man.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you answered, setting the book aside and watching them prepare to leave.

Both men donned their costumes, Sam strapping his wings on, Bucky ripping the sleeve off of yet another jacket so his metal arm could move freely.

“Call me- us if you need backup,” you shouted after them, knowing full well they would do no such thing.

“If we aren’t back in two hours, take his ass back to jail,” Bucky called back.

Baron Zemo woke up the minute the door slammed shut, which made you doubt he’d been sleeping at all.

“And now it is only us,” he said in that thick Sokovian accent. “I will cook us something for dinner.”

He moved into the kitchen, boiling a pot of water while you watched. You perched yourself on the counter near him as he searched through cabinets. When he noticed you, he paused and chuckled before returning to the cooking. You watched in silence, keeping a close eye on him when he picked up a knife and began chopping tomatoes from a can.

He handed you a bowl of thin noodles with a thick red sauce. It smelled delicious.

“A traditional and simple Sokovian dish, a comfort food you might say,” he explained and joined you on the counter. “I made enough for Sam and James. Call me an optimist.”

Zemo didn’t talk much, you realized, as you enjoyed the food in silence. It was delicious, a bit like pasta. Suddenly, the back door clicked open. You glance around nervously, realizing just how wrong this felt.

“They shouldn’t be back yet,” you say quietly. “And they wouldn’t come in the back.”

“My old associates must have found me,” Zemo jumps off the table, and you notice the same nervousness as when Bucky threw the cup. He cannot know about James or Sam.”

You can hear a single person strolling toward the kitchen in heavy boots.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Zemo whispered, and before you could even process the words, he was standing between your legs and pressing his lips to yours.

His movements are slow and careful, trying not to be invasive as he moves his hands to your back, sliding one up to the back of your head. You wrap an arm around his waist and slide the other hand up the front of his purple shirt, splaying your fingers across his chest. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hand keeps you from pulling away, not that you’d want to.

“I heard you were back in Riga,” a new voice chuckled. “I had to see for myself.”

Zemo pulls back, feigning surprise, but kept an arm protectively around you.

“And as you have undoubtedly noticed, I am quite busy,” he replied. “Perhaps you could come back tomorrow? I’d prefer not to discuss our business in front of…”

Zemo nods to you. You were staring at the man who you recognized from work files. He was a former Shield agent. When Shield fell, he used the chaos for his own advantage, working for neither Shield nor Hydra and killing anyone who stood in his way. You suspected, but couldn’t be sure, that some of your best friends had been killed by him. Fortunately, you had enough self-control not to shoot him. His mere presence made you tense and uncomfortable.

“Of course, Baron,” he grinned and look at you in a way that made you shift closer to Zemo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, noon. The usual place.”

He gave the two of you one last look and left with a wink to Zemo. Even when the other man had gone, Zemo’s hands were still holding you against him.

“We will have to be gone before noon tomorrow,” he said looking down at you.

For some reason, you were both still wrapped around each other.

“You know who he is?” Zemo said, a statement masquerading as a question. “I am sorry.”

Your face was only inches from him, and you could smell his cologne. Zemo used the hand on your head to pull you against his shoulder. You set your head there, face turned into his neck, and inhaled deeply. And there he sat and you stood, hugging tightly for no real reason except that no one else was there.

Zemo pressed a soft kiss to your head, and rather than protest you let his lips linger. Finally, his head fell on your shoulder. After a moment, he slid you off the counter, took your hand, and led you back to the couch. Without asking, the two of you settled together on the couch, so close your sides pressed against each other. He pulled a gun out of his shoulder holster, and you froze until he set it down on the table, smirking a little.

“I don’t make a habit of shooting people I’ve just kissed,” he chuckled and raised an arm for you to lean against him.

You raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at the forwardness. You shouldn’t be, after all, he had just kissed you and held you on the counter of his kitchen. Helmut Zemo made no sense to you, but in the end, you curled against him. He shifted to lay on his back, head propped on the pillows he was laying on earlier while you tucked yourself beside him, head on his chest.

Zemo wrapped an arm around you. You put a hand on his chest, fingering the purple shirt. He was warm and soft, and you had to remind yourself that you could not fall asleep while you are supposed to be watching him.

“Why are we doing this?” You whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” Zemo turns his head toward you.

“I haven’t had someone to do this with in a long time,” you answer slowly, cautiously, knowing full well this was a man who could turn on you on an instant or hold onto information until the moment it was advantageous to him.

“Neither have I,” He replied. “German prisons don’t allow much physical contact. Besides, I hope that with enough time perhaps I may kiss you again.”

You tilted your head up to see a grin tugging at the side of his lips, lips that had been on yours a few minutes ago.

“Maybe with enough time,” you answer and brush a lose strand of hair out of his eyes, letting your hand trail over the bruise on his face.

He caged your hand in his, bringing your joined hands back to his chest and holding them there. You felt the rise and fall of his breaths and it soothed you. When they grew deep and steady and the tension seemed to fall from his body, you realized he was truly asleep, not faking like earlier. Soon and against your better judgment, you were dozing off in his arms tossing a leg over his so your limbs tangled together.

Your last thought before you fell asleep was how warm and comfortable you felt with Helmut Zemo, and how completely ludicrous such a thought was.

It wasn’t long before the door opening woke you, still secure in Zemo’s arms. You tried to move, sit up so Sam and Bucky wouldn’t see this little arrangement. You failed. Bucky came in first, stopping in his tracks as he saw the scene on the couch.

“What are you doing? Keep walk- what?” Sam ran right into Bucky’s back then froze.

Their eyes were wide as they stared. Zemo shifted awake beneath you, and you could imagine the smirk on his face. Bucky’s metal fist clenched, and Sam, ever the peacemaker grabbed his arm and opted for a more amicable approach.

“One of you better start talking.”

[channoticedmeuwu]

𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬? 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬? | 𝐥𝐞𝐨 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐳

p : leo × fem!reader | g : fluff, humor, e2l!au, kinda crime!au | w : guns (the title kinda gave it away ngl), mentions of tobacco, blood if you squint, yeah leo almost dies but that's pjo for u <//3

a/n : pls don't let this flop :(( this is my first hoo fic ever so pls pls don't be harsh AAAA if this does well, uknow the drill with me lomls, pjo fics for everyone!!

inspired by the music videos of inferno and crique 🗝️

leo groaned as his back hit the wall, legs trembling, struggling to keep him on his feet. his broken, bleeding fingers were trembling against the unevenly patched wall, as if they were searching for some sort of depression to mount themselves in place.

he glanced through the shag of his sweaty, curly hair, the dim and yellow streetlights dancing in his amused pupils. He eyed the three men in front of him, way stronger and bulkier than he was, dressed in suits he probably couldn't afford. The dogs barked in the wet street, as if they sensed something was off tonight. One of the men walked nearer, a little too close for comfort, if you'd ask him.

"hey, gentlemen," he regarded all the men, the scarred and beaten up faces, lumps of wrinkled skin folding over their cheeks, "—or not so gentle...men."

he croaked, fingers shaking in front of them. guess he'd have to rely on his pick up lines tonight, "let's settle this like real men, eh? for old times sake?"

"zip it, Valdez," the man in the white top hat spoke. He sounded like he'd been chewing on tobacco instead of actual chewing gum whenever got the chance, "do you really think I'm letting you weasel your way out of tonight?"

he chuckled, and leo scoffed to himself. if he were going to threaten him, at least he could have gained a bit more inches as a kid. It was difficult to take him this seriously with that threat if he was going to be five foot zero.

"are you smiling, you mistake?"

"sorry," he slapped his fingers over his lips, accidentally smearing damp blood over his chin, "it's just that... you're too short."

suddenly, the tight grip of bulky fingers wrapped around his neck, and he yelped from surprise. Mr. Five Foot walked in front as one of his minions, or whatever, tightened his fingers around Leo's throat.

"a little bold tonight, no?"

"I've always been this way, Amari," Leo's heels began hovering in the air, and he wondered if he was being lifted off the ground, "you just never stuck around to notice."

the man, Amari, took something out if his coat, the tube shining in the night, and Leo already felt the soul draining out of his feet. Amari spun it on his finger, and cocked it ahead, grinning like a madman. Leo could smell his yellow teeth, even though he was pinned against the wall, feet dangling. Ugh, that stench!

"I don't think it's important anymore, eh?" Leo tried glancing around, his fingers were too busy trying to loosen the grip around his throat to work on anything to bail him out. "just one last wish, hm?"

"what?" leo watched the the gun linger right below his nose, eyes glued.

"say hello to esperanza, if you do end up rising, that is."

the gun went bang when leo shut his eyes, and that was the end of it.

until...

"hey, didn't I tell you to fill this up!?"

Leo's eyes shot open, and he felt the air running into his lungs as the men diverted their attention towards the gun. "I did, boss, I did!"

the familiar screech of tires sounded in the streets, and in about the span of a millisecond, a car with yellow headlights pulled up, another familiar face behind the wheel.

"get in, loser!" y/n shouted at Leo, and he took the chance to swing his legs down south, where the sun doesn't shine. He sprinted toward the door as he was dropped to the ground with a painful screech from one of the men, panicked gunshots filled the night. funny they hadn’t died yet. he already felt at least three bullets hit him in the back, but it felt like they only disintegrated when they touched his back. "he's getting away, you fools!"

"took you long enough," leo coughed as the engine whirred and the car took off, slipping down the wet streets.

"save it, loser," y/n looked at him, swerving the car onto another side alley, "if I didn't swap bullets for blueberries, you wouldn't be here."

Leo stared at y/n's face before scoffing, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

"bullets for blueberries, hah!"

that’s my specialty, he tried keeping his lips shut as she took another turn. look at her, stealing his tricks. who did she think she was?!

“do you think I'm lying or something?”

he bit his tongue. “you’re just hard to believe, that’s all.”

“only learnt from the best, valdez.”

even though he wasn’t looking at her, he could her voice almost dripping with amusement. she was surely having fun. 

too bad he wasn’t.

“mm.”

“awe, upset i can do it better?”

he clicked his tongue. 

“eyes on the road.”

he heard her stifle a chuckle of triumph, lips curling into a smirk as she hummed.

“okay, you’re the boss!”

not tagging my main taglist bc they didn't sign up for non kpop stuff <//3

I’d appreciate if you’d give me a little feedback on the drabble if you read, whether it’s an ask, a reply or in the tags of the rb! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

[lady-z-writes]

Plaything

Heisenberg x fem!reader fic below the cut:

Summary: Reader works for BSAA and is scoping out the village until you get captured by none other than Heisenberg who doesn’t take well to trespassers. Once he learns of your hatred for your job, he wants the information you have and he doesn’t have to try hard to get it. You find yourself drinking, fireside, with him and can’t help but let him touch you. Angie said he’d needed a plaything and, well, you’re it.

TW: smut

Tears prickle in your eyes as you continue climbing the snow-covered hill. Your black boots crunching on the snow and the whistling of wind have been the only sounds in your ears for the last hour or so. Your teammates stumble behind you – silent – as you’re taught to be. You aren’t exactly sure what lies beyond these woods, but the feeling in your gut after talking to those villagers made you nauseous.

There’s a bridge just ahead and you glance over your shoulder at the two teammates before stepping foot on the brick. Your long black cloak whips around your knees as the wind picks up over the clearing. This armor was not made for winter weather.

It’s almost too late to pull out your gun when the three of you get knocked down by metal pieces whirling by. Your reaction time is good, taking cover just as one of your teammates gets sliced across the jugular. Bullets firing at something just beyond the bridge, you aim and fire as well at something you can only describe as a zombie. It takes the two of you to bring it down and once you do, you scurry to reload your assault rifle.

Now that things seem clear, your teammate stumbles to the body to inspect the damage. Fear still has its grips on you and you find it hard to speak, but you want to shout out to take cover. Did that thing bring those metal pieces? Were they alone?

You don’t have time for another thought before more metal objects shoot toward you both, making tears appear in your cloak. Something gets you across the cheek and you cry out as another object gets lodged in your thigh. Pulling it out, you toss it down and aim your rifle toward the bridge again.

Another one of those things has your teammate against the snow, ripping into him like a starved creature. As you turn back, your gun is torn from your hands by a sudden force. Metal comes flying passed you, hitting you upside the head and knocking you to the ground. You groan at the pain, but try to stand or shift away from your attacker.

A man in a hat and a long coat slowly approaches while wielding a large hammer. The metal seems to circle around him as he tosses away your gun.

“And what do we have here?”

“Please…stop…” you cough out, the cold air stinging your lungs from all your gasping.

This must be one of the Lords the villagers spoke of – Heisenberg, was it? Your team had been heading toward the factory. You didn’t have time to think of much more before he stands above you, inspecting you.

“Wrong place for a walk,” he hums. “Last of your kind?” he looks around at the two others lying dead in the snow. “Three of you? Hardly seems right.”

Tears stream down your face, anger at the BSAA for even making you come on this mission.

“I’ll tell you anything,” you gasp out. “Please. Please…” you’re blubbering and you know it, but the fear is real and burning in your chest. “I didn’t even want to do this.”

A clanging of metal beside you causes you to look back up at him. There’s a monster to his left that growls at you but he shoves it back.

“Is that so?” he squints at you from under his sunglasses. The moment lasts too long. You know he’s about to kill you too. “Alright then.”

A swipe of his hand and a gear kicks up to knock you upside the head and everything goes black.

•••

When you come-to, you’re being carried, slung over his shoulder like you’re weightless. You shift slightly, groaning.

“Quit moving, you’ll reopen your wounds. Don’t want you bleeding all over me.”

You can’t tell if you’re having a nightmare or if this is real but the snowy landscape is no longer hurting your eyes. Instead, you’re being carried through a dark threshold, brick and arches and high windows: a church.

Right when you’re getting used to the sway of things as he walks, you’re tossed down harshly onto cobblestone. Well, that’s a bruise. But you’re alive. For now.

There are a million questions on your lips but they all halt when you see the scene before you: a small doll-like creature prances in front of you, hopping over a few more of your dead teammates. The doll scurries over to a tall black figure with her face covered, passing by an oversized woman with a large hat and a sleek black cigarette holder in hand. The man from before flops down in a pew and leans back, ignoring the groaning from behind him as a hunchback monstrous creature lurks in the shadows. Standing before the windows is an almost angelic figure with a dark cloak and a headdress, looking poised and bored.

You cower away from the death around you, biting your tongue as your headache pounds. Ryan and Erin, two colleagues that went toward the flooded fishing village, are oozing blood and a pus-like green goo. You want to throw up, but you scoot backwards as far as possible, trying to keep your back to the wall.

More metal pieces come flying around you; scoot you back toward the group, shove you from behind until you’re standing on shaking, bleeding legs.

“This is all that’s left?” the voice comes from the angelic figure and you cautiously look beside you to note that there are, in fact, four survivors – mostly from the group who went to the castle.

“Yes, Mother. May I suggest you give them all to me? Our last batch of survivors went to Moreau and my daughters are quite…eager…for visitors.”

These must be the ones the villagers spoke of.

“Your appetite amazes me, oh supersized one,” the one with the hammer speaks up; Lord Heisenberg, you’re still assuming. “By all means, take the measly men. But this one comes with me.” He points at you. “I found her just outside of my factory. And I don’t take well to uninvited guests.”

“He wants a plaything,” the doll chants in a singsong voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Angie,” he snaps, losing his cool. “Look, enjoy your mandick; play chase around the castle – whatever. She was on my property.”

Your stomach flips at the look he shoots you. There’s a sinister smile but you find comfort in the fact that he didn’t kill you before. Maybe…-

“Done. Take your prizes and go,” the angelic one waves off.

When the tall one stands, your stomach drops as you look up at her. Long blades grow from her nails and she shoves them through the wrists of your colleagues, like skewers. As she passes, she bends toward you, cuts the top of your hand. You’re in shock when she presses her mouth to your wound, lapping up the blood.

“Move it along, you big-hatted, mouth-breathing bitch.”

“Heisenberg, you petulant child!” her claws come to swipe down at who is now confirmed as Heisenberg, but he raises his hammer above him to block.

“Be gone!” the angelic one shouts at them.

Heisenberg grabs your wrist and hauls you forward, onto a giant plate of metal. His powers link metal around your wrists like handcuffs before he knocks you unconscious again.

•••

Your body is throbbing by the time you wake. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, you glance around in the dim lighting. A bed is shoved in one corner, but the room is pretty bare. One wall is a large row of tool benches with metal scraps and tools strewn about. Heisenberg sits on a rolling stool, tinkering with something.

You exhale shakily, sitting up and noting the cuffs still in place – your fingers going numb.

“Ah, finally came-to, hm?” he spins to face you. “I was about to douse you with water.” He stands, towers over you, pulls you to your feet by the handcuffs. “Come, let’s talk.” He motions to the chair. You sit, shaky. “Heisenberg,” he tips his hat. “And you are…?”

“Y/n.”

“What are you, y/n?”

“I-I work for BSAA,” you glance over at the files on his desk, wondering how much he knows. He doesn’t stop you so you assume he’s at least privy to that. “My team was on a mission here to get information on this village…and, well, you.”

“Flattered,” he hums. “I’ll cut to the chase: there’s a reason you’re still alive. You have information. You could be useful…what did you mean when you said you didn’t want to do this?”

You gulp as he circles you. “I…was on a mission before and stumbled across some information that they want to keep quiet. I tried to quit, but they won’t let me leave.” You don’t know why you’re telling him all this. You wonder if maybe it’ll help you stay alive. Maybe he’s telling the truth.

“You said you’d tell me. Well, kitten, spill…” the powerful way he’s standing over you is intimidating but also slightly attractive and you’re kicking yourself for thinking that of your captor.

“BSAA is using bioweapons and plan to investigate the mold in this location to further advance the bioweapons program.”

He pauses. “That’s quite the mouthful.”

You laugh, despite the situation. “It’s quite the burden.” He tilts his head slightly.

“Do you know of Mother Miranda?”

You shake your head. “Just what the villagers told me. They seem…devout.” You search for the right word.

Heisenberg rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ mindless idiots is what they are…”

After a pause, you finally find the guts to say, “I gave you information…will you uncuff me?” you add a, “please” for good measure.

“You’re not thinking of attacking me, are you?”

“And risk a gear to the throat? No, thanks.”

This elicits a laugh from him. He snaps the cuffs right off.

“I like you.”

Rubbing your wrists, you glance up at him while he glares down at you.

“Back there, at the church…thank you for taking me back here. Sounds like I would have been a meal if I would have gone with my colleagues.”

He huffs. “She’d eat you up.” The comment is dripping with innuendo and the cheeky smirk he shoots you makes your stomach flip. There’s something alluring about this guy. Maybe you hit your head too many times today. “But you’re welcome.” The moment hangs in the air and he’s clearly uncomfortable with it so he saunters off out of the room. “You drink?” he calls.

“Poison, no. Alcohol? I could.” He clearly likes the quips because another laugh comes from him.

“All I got’s whiskey,” he returns with a chipped-up coffee mug and a liquor bottle. You hold the mug as he pours and you can’t help but shake – from fear or cold…

He notices. “Got you all cut up,” he finally acknowledges the tattered clothing, the dried blood on your wounds. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

Your mind goes tons of places, but never did you imagine him leading you through dark rooms to reach an outdoor balcony where an almost makeshift firepit sits. You’re guided to a bench and he hands you the liquor bottle so he can get the fire started.

The stars out here are stunning; it’s unlike anything you’ve seen. The cool breeze chills you through, making you hold your torn cloak tighter. When the fire lights and the whoosh of warmth meets your face, you almost moan.

Out here, in the silence, under the stars – you could sleep…

“She took me,” Heisenberg startles you from your mental break. You hand over the whiskey as he approaches. “Mother Miranda isn’t really my mother.” He takes off his sunglasses, rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

You sit quietly and listen to his tale of woe; moved by how troubling it is. By the time you’re halfway through your coffee mug of whiskey, he’s pouring you some more.

“Do you remember your family? Your real family?”

“I do…I do have memories,” he nods. “Everything else was destroyed – except this factory.”

“Did Miranda have something to do with that?”

He blinks at you, keeps drinking from the bottle. You know your answer.

You’re getting the tingling feeling in your fingers and the heat from the fire has made you remove your cloak; leaving you in just your fitted top and ripped pants. Heisenberg’s eyes trail over your skin, his tongue glides across his lower lip momentarily.

“Why did you really bring me here?” you find yourself asking, leaning closer to him.

“If you’re cold, I can take you inside…” he ignores you, but you keep up your intense stare.

“Were they right? Did you want a plaything?” maybe it’s the drink but you feel emboldened to overstep.

His mouth opens then shuts and then he’s grinding his teeth.

“You have no idea…” the growl that leaves his throat sends chills through you.

He practically spills the whiskey with how quickly he lunges at you, mouth connecting with yours in a heated kiss. When you’d first met, you’d assumed his advances would kill you. Now, you’re thinking something else completely.

Your hands grip at his jacket, pull him closer until he’s seated beside you and then you’re in his lap. He tastes like whiskey and smoke. He’s tense beneath you, almost holding his breath.

His hands rip at your clothes and before you know it, you’re topless in his lap. His eyes hungrily take you in before you feel his facial hair against your soft skin as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth. His fingers massage the other nipple and you feel teeth gently on you.

He’s hard already and you shamelessly grind against him, hoping to relieve some of the pressure you’re feeling as well. The air feels colder when his mouth pops off you.

“I needed a distraction,” you hum as his lips trail to your neck.

“Pants off. Now,” he mutters.

“You just like to bend ‘em right over, huh?” you laugh. “Okay, Jesus…” but his hands are already fumbling with your snap and zip until he gets frustrated and just rips them off. The need he has is alluring.

He picks you up, turns, slams you down, and gets on his knees before you. You’re stripped completely naked for him, clothes discarded and forgotten as he hums at the sight of you on this cold night. The fire and the feeling of his hands on you keeps you warm enough.

“Pretty,” he moans. “So fuckin’ pretty…”

In the flickering firelight, you catch the tent of his pants. His hands spread your legs then he shifts your knees over his shoulders as he leans between your thighs. Open-mouthed kisses leave you moaning, covering your mouth.

“No,” he mutters. “Let me hear you.”

It’s only when you’ve proven that you will make noise that he lets his mouth trail to your pussy. A flat tongue glides over your folds and you moan loudly, head thrown back as he flicks your clit with a pointed tongue. He’s lapping at you and eating you out like a man starved.

“Ungh…Heisenberg,” you begin to whisper.

“-Karl,” he corrects before he inserts a finger into your dripping pussy.

You’re practically screaming his name when he finds your g-spot that quickly. The pace he’s finger-fucking you at mixed with the potentially public location and the talented tongue, you’re on the edge of something spectacular.

“M’close,” you whisper out, feet digging into his back.

Karl moans. “Come for me, y/n. And then I want you to come on my cock.”

Those words send you barreling toward your orgasm. Your fingers grip his hair as you grind toward his face.

“Ah, fuck…” you cry out.

“Good girl,” he coos, suckling a mark on your inner thigh. You’re ushering him up, yanking at his coat, pulling him into you. Your lips meet as you fumble with his belt and his pants. He helps you, both of your breathing erratic. “So eager,” he chuckles between kisses.

“Want to feel you,” you hum. “Please, Karl?”

“Mmmm, I like you begging.” His pants fall and he lays you down on the bench. “Be a good girl and take my cock.”

He trails the tip along your wetness, teasing you, before he sheaths himself inside. Your back arches off the bench and you let out a whine from the way he’s stretching you.

“Fuck, so big…” you moan, reaching to pull him down.

He shifts your left leg over his shoulder and pounds into you the best he can on this bench. It’s harsh and the bench is digging into your back in an uncomfortable way, but you’re enjoying this.

You’re meeting him thrust-for-thrust, hands tracing over his torso.

“Get undressed.”

He grunts, “Too cold.” You smack him on the arm and the way he glares at you… “You little brat,” he growls. “Do you want to get off again or should I stop holding back?” You shake your head. “Then get off.”

You nod against his chest as he shifts a hand to play with your clit. The pressure and new angle he’s hitting you at, you can’t help but cuss and grip at him. The feel of him bottoming out, of how surprising this pleasure was…you hadn’t expected this when you met him on that bridge. You’re rutting against him, pulling him down harsher until he pounds into you with such intensity.

There’s an echo of a scream that reverberates around you – it’s yours. The fire crackling is your only response until Karl chuckles against your neck.

You can feel your muscles tensing around his thick cock; an orgasm nearing once more. You’re kissing his neck and praising him; caught up in this moment under the stars. The consistent pressure against your g-spot; one more thrust and you’re a goner – moaning against his chest and kissing and biting – gone mad with the pleasure.

“Oh, fuck…” he’s sloppy suddenly, bottoming out and hitting the same spot repeatedly until you feel him rutting harsher, spilling inside of you.

Your gasping sounds louder than the roaring fire and the two of you lay there uncomfortably; Karl not resting his whole weight on you, his forehead pressed against your chest as he huffs out.

The chill in the air stings against your completely naked body, worse now with the sweat.

“That was…unexpected,” you laugh.

“Maybe for you,” he shrugs.

You shiver as he gets off you. He removes his jacket to give it to you and you eagerly shove your arms in it, thankful for the warmth from his body heat.

“Can we go inside?” you shiver.

He meets your gaze. “Don’t think I’m finished with you.”

“Oh?” you tease. “I need some rest. This jackass attacked me earlier…”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me regret stopping that oversized bitch from taking you.”

“You said you needed a plaything…” you hum. “How long did you plan to keep me?”

Karl groans. “Get inside so you can ride my cock and then I’ll make my decision.”

You smirk at him, quite enjoying this newfound thing.

“Bring the whiskey.”

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S1:E3; Chapter Three, Holly, Jolly - [Pt. 3]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘠/𝘯, 𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘈 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳.

|| 𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

Hopper pulls up to the library, thankful to get a spot up front. He steps out of the vehicle and makes his way inside, Powell behind him.

Hopper takes off his hat as he enters the building, making sure to send a big smile to the librarian.

"Hey, Marissa. How you doin'?"

The disapproving look on Marissa's face never left as she spoke.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here."

"What?"

"You could have at least called, said, 'Marissa! Hey, it's not gonna work out. Sorry, I wasted your time. I'm a dick.'"

Powell was unsure of what to do; he looked from Marissa to Hopper, waiting.

Hopper only stares ahead for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, with a subtle smirk, he mutters,

"Yep."

She looks to him, shaking her head expectantly. He seemed at a loss for words again as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry. Uh... Maybe we could go out again next week?" He offers, hoping for the best. She slowly turns her head to Powell and gives him a 'is he for real?' look. In turn, Powell slowly looks over to Hopper awkwardly. Hopper, already knowing he chose his words poorly, visibly cringed, and was eager to change the subject.

"Newspapers? You guys got newspapers around here?"

Marissa had shown them over to the filing cabinet and started pulling out drawers, naming the selections.

"We have the New York Times, the Post, all the big ones. Organized by year and topic. You can find the corresponding microfiche in the reading room." She briefly gestures behind her.

"Okay, we're looking for anything on the Hawkins National Laboratory."

"Well, shouldn't you be looking for that missing kid?"

"Yeah." He states as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We are."

She nods her head, suspicious.

"Uh, so, why don't you start with the Times, and we'll check out the Post."

Marissa scoffs and looks behind her to Powell, unsure if he's serious. She turns back to Hopper and lets out a soft 'hmph!' before strutting away. Powell steps forward and lowers his voice in a questioning tone.

"The librarian?"

Hopper shrugs wildly before diving into the drawers of files.

The two men had gathered a handful of files and set to work in the other room. Each at their own microfiche, reading every column.

Hopper scanned another column that caught his attention.

'ALLEGED EXPERIMENTS, ABUSE' by T. Bridges.

"Terry Ives' legal case against embattled research scientist Dr. Martin Brenner suffered another setback today when the district attorney's office formally refused to press criminal charges against Brenner, his fellow researchers, assistants, or the project's sponsors, citing lack of evidence. Local law enforcement executed a search..."

Next column.

'MKULTRA EXPOSED' by T. Bridges

"The trust of the American people has been shaken to its core as a special inquiry into a covert CIA operation, code-named MK ULTRA, has exposed the extensive details about that which has been haunting the nation for the past decade. Six subjects have come forward..."

This particular column was accompanied by a negative of seven people. Five of which were slightly disheveled, in hospital gowns. A man in a turtleneck and blazer stood obediently in the back. A man in a fancy suit and tie, holding a clipboard stood front and center. A man with whom Hopper guessed to be Brenner.

Next slide.

'DR. MARTIN BRENNER NAMED IN LAWSUIT' by A. Ward - Staff Writer

"Senior researcher Doctor Martin Brenner and seven other staff researchers have been named in a new lawsuit filed today on behalf of former federal research study participant, Terry Ives. Dr. Brenner's attorney in conjunction with the Department of Energy has asked the circuit court to seal the details of the lawsuit until the attorney general's office can determine that no federal..."

Hopper found himself more engrossed and confused as he read.

"...her newborn daughter for scientific research. Following an investigation, the district attorney has already declined to press criminal kidnapping charges against the research facility and staff, citing lack of evidence. Dr. Brenner's attorney called Ms. Ives' allegations baseless and tragic, citing Dr. Brenner's excellent reputation, his twenty recent peer-reviewed scientific papers..."

The next slide was a short column with another accompanying photo. Although the picture was small and blurry, it wasn't hard to see the grief-stricken features on the young woman.

TERRY IVES SUING - 'They took my daughter' by Benjamin Buck

"After the district attorney's office declined to press criminal charges citing lack of evidence, local resident Terry Ives is not giving up her search for justice for herself and her daughter, and this morning filed a lawsuit against research scientist Dr. Martin Brenner and his staff.

Ms. Ives' suit seeks unspecified damages against Dr. Brenner and his facility, alleging physical abuse, sleep deprivation, malnourishment, and multiple allegations of kidnapping; both attempted and successful..."

Hopper sighed, trying his best to swallow all of this new information.

'What the hell has been happening in this damn town?'

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Three. One. Five. The numbers on the strange new bracelet read three one five.

Thankfully, El was able to find her way back outside by the large telephone pole where Mike told her to meet them. But El was still nervous. She just hoped no one had spotted her.

El couldn't find it in her ability to stay still. She couldn't stop pacing and she was subconsciously shaking out her hands, her nerves shot.

'What if someone saw her?'

She eagerly checked the bracelet, muttering aloud to herself.

"Three-one-five. Three-one-five. Three-one-five..." her voice turned soft as her confidence wavered. The only thing that was able to take her attention away from the bracelet was the familiar sound of meowing next to her.

Shocked, she looked over to see a scrawny orange cat staring at her from the other side of the fence. It began to meow again and panic and guilt crashed over her as once again another terrible memory resurfaced.

- 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 -

The white cat in the cage before Eleven let out a terrible hiss at her. Her head began to shake as she strained her ability. The combination of the cat growling and hissing and the frantic beeping of the machines was enough to push her even further.

She didn't want to. She never wanted to hurt this poor creature. But she knew that if she didn't, she would have to face the consequences. She would have to go back there. The cat gave out another deep growl and Eleven tried to the best of her ability not to cry. Not to break.

The cat began snarling, and it quickly turned to whimpers of pain. Eleven was freely crying now as she looked between the frightened cat and Papa. She gave one final look at the cat before yanking the wires off her head in defeat.

No. She couldn't.

She wouldn't.

She looked at Papa defeated. She shook her head in defiance, though her sobbing gave away her true feelings. He only stared at her in disapproval.

"No! No!" She struggled and kicked. She fought back with all her might while Papa stood at the end of the hallway. Doing nothing.

"Papa! Papa! Papa! Papa! Papa!" She screamed her throat raw as the men dragged her away, yet as always Papa only watched it happen.

"No!" Her shrieks grew more violent as she neared the room.

She couldn't go back in there.

She couldn't.

The men tossed her inside and began closing the door.

She wouldn't.

Eleven stood to her feet and before they could close the steel door, she threw it open in a fit of rage, her attention quickly shifting to one of the men doing this her. In the very next instant, his back was thrown into the ceramic just behind him. His limp body slipped to the floor, leaving a large hole in the tile.

The second man spared a second to look before turning to her to try and restrain her.

Before he could even step foot in the room, he was dead on the floor, his neck snapped. All with the flick of her head.

Overwhelmed with exhaustion, she collapsed against the wall, her nose and ears bleeding.

Papa appeared. He took one look at the cracked wall, to the collapsed man, and then at Eleven. Yet she couldn't move. She was completely drained, all she could do was stare at him. He slowly stepped towards her, staring at her.

She looked up at him in fear of what would happen next, and what did was not something she could have anticipated. He slowly reached his hands out, cupping her face. Sobs wracked her body, and he stared at her in awe.

"Incredible."

He reached down, hooking an arm under her legs, th arried her like an infant. He carried her out of the room and down the hallway, staring at her sobbing form as if he hadn't been the one to cause it.

- 𝗘𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗙 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 -

"El!"

El turned her head to see Mike, Y/n, Lucas and Dustin. They were walking their bikes across the muddy grass in her direction.

Mike looked to her concerned as he, as well as the others, turned their bikes around.

"You okay?"

Relieved to see her friends, she nodded her head.

Mike gave the seat of his bike a few pats.

"Hop on. We only have a few hours."

Hesitantly, she walked forward. But she complied nonetheless and got on Mike's bike, and the five of them peddled off.

|| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

The five us were walking our bikes through the woods. Dustin and Lucas were in the back, while Mike and El were just a few steps in front of me. El was looking around as she walked and suddenly I felt her eyes on me. I suddenly became very self-conscious of my cut.

I got it to stop bleeding eventually, but I don't know how I will ever explain this to Mom. She worries so easily. And, I don't think I have ever had a cut this big but I'll survive. My thoughts are cut short when I become very aware of the fact that El had fallen back next to me and was now looking at me with concern.

"Why did they hurt you?" Her voice came out very soft but was laced with concern.

"Huh?" I asked surprised.

El extended her arm out and pointed to my chin. I looked down, upset with how things went today.

"Oh, that. I uh, well... I was tripped. By this mouth breather, Troy."

Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"'Mouth breather?'"

"Yeah. You know, a dumb person,"

I suddenly grew quiet, and El noticed.

"Y/n, are you okay?"

I paused. "Yeah. Yeah, it'll be ok." I said.

I knew what she meant but I didn't think it was noteworthy to bring up how I was feeling.

"Y/n." I turn to look at her and she is giving me a knowing look. "Friends tell the truth."

I began to fight tears that were stinging my eyes, but I wouldn't let them fall.

"I just... I just miss him. Will, I mean. And the things Troy was saying..." I began feeling myself get worked up again at the mere thought of it. "They were awful. Truly awful, and I just... I'm tired. And worried. And I just want to find my friend."

There was suddenly a somber silence over the group that was quickly broken by El's soothing tone.

"Y/n," she said sternly, pulling my eyes to her. There was a soft demand behind her eyes, willing my gaurd down. "I understand."

I looked at her, a grateful smile on my features and my voice came out in a weak whisper.

"Thank you, El."

She gave me a warm smile in return. It very much resembled the one I gave her the first night we met. It was at this moment I knew. I had just found myself a very unique and powerful friendship; one that stood out from my friendship with the party.

El and I have a lot more in common than I thought.

[auty-ren]

Tainted Heart: Chapter 2

The Agreement (Western AU)

Pairings: The Mandalorian x Reader. Din Djarin x Reader. Outlaw!Din x Reader. (Reader is female/fab)

Rating: Mature

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of blood/injury. Cursing. The kid being adorable. The reader is his babysitter. Pet names. Teasing. Soft-core Smut (kissing, heavy making out, groping, dry humping, mentions of virginity/inexperience, a few touches, unintentional edging.)

A/n: Thank you guys for being so patient, I hope it was worth the wait! We’re finally seeing a little action. Enjoy babes. (gif by @javier-pena​)

Tainted Heart Masterlist | My Masterlist

The wool was rough under your fingertips, a heavy dull gray that almost burned under the harsh tint of the midday sun. They were heavy, soaking with water and suds as you lifted them from the wash pan, squeezing what excess you could out of the fibers. A coo broke through the static that had filled your mind, numb with the monotonous action of wet, wash, rinse, repeat. The child stayed strapped in the high chair, peeking at you through white sheets you hung to dry, his inquisitive hands stretching out when the breeze blew white cotton out close, but just barely grazing the reach of his fingers. He babbled again at the sight of you, squealing when you threw the curtains of laundry away and broke the makeshift barrier between you. 

He repeated the snarl you had given him, playful and disappearing between fits of smiles and giggles.

“Are you a monster, little one?”

He was meant to scare you, giving a growl that was far cuter than it was fearsome in his pretend game of monster.

“You’re too sweet to be a monster.”

He kicked his feet in excitement, gnawing at the bread you tore into pieces on the plate attached to his chair. He offered you a piece of it, forming unrecognizable syllables as he prompted you to take it from him.

You wanted to be selfish, to hide away with your newfound companion and keep him perched on your hip permanently. None of it should be temporary.

It had been years since your home felt so warm; since the fogged windows were lit with a bright, new life that fumbled over every surface. It was sticky, the feeling you had laying on your chest when you were woken to the sound of shrill cries; the ache in your tired bones all but faded at the tear-soaked smile that greeted you in the dim mornings.

Maybe you were just lonely, growing tired of the same life you lived each day when it was just you and Papa. 

Maybe you had mistaken content for boredom.

And now it was unpredictable, a welcomed unpredictability.

You learned the hard way not to leave the little one unattended, even for a moment; not for a few measly seconds. The broken porcelain of an old vase had been enough of a warning, luckily it wouldn’t be missed and after you had cleaned up the mess, you could hardly notice any wrong had happened. 

At least, your father didn’t notice. 

But the child was just curious and his cries as he sat horrified at the pieces of glass surrounding his feet had been enough of punishment for the both of you. 

This arrangement took too much convincing on your father's part.

He only wanted to protect you, but at this point, you doubt he was thinking straight. Your father had sacrificed too much to keep you safe; to carve out a simple life for you on the edges of the real world, to keep it from crushing your spirit the way it did his.

You assumed your father’s anxiousness about the situation stemmed from something you didn't think you could understand; loved ones lost long ago to the evil that had spread to your quiet town.

But there were some things that only time could heal and it seemed for him there was never enough.

He wanted to send ‘Mando’ packing as soon as the wounds stopped bleeding, and the sun lit up the morning sky.

But you convinced him otherwise.

There was no way he would've made it twenty minutes without hurting himself, more so since he had to care for a child. A child who you found very difficult to say no to, especially since he became such good company.

Mando could stay until he was healed. But there was work to be done.

Mando’s right arm had been wrapped in a makeshift sling, leaving his less dominant hand available to carry out whatever your father asked of him. Although you argued he shouldn't be working at all, both of the men disagreed with you. Papa decided it was only fair for him to work, to repay the debt he owed you.

You wouldn't call it a debt, but you kept that to yourself and let your father negotiate the terms of Mando’s stay.

There wasn't much argument, Mando would work odd jobs around your homestead, things that Papa was unable to do anymore, and things he hated to ask you to do; in return, he and his child would be allowed to stay until Mando healed. But there were conditions, terms that your father had laid out and would be considered law as he saw fit.

Mando would not be allowed to sleep in your home.

Your father made sure to bolt the doors once Mando had left after dinner, checking each of them before he could settle enough to try and sleep. A place was made for him in the barn, blankets and an extra pillow for him to sleep with, the least you could do for someone about to work your entire harvest for practically nothing. 

The child would be allowed to stay inside.

Papa had gone into the attic in the early morning after he agreed to let Mando stay, and pulled down the old crib that had been yours once upon a time. You aired and cleaned all of the blankets and toys you had sorted inside of it, hoping that maybe they could get one final use before they crumbled from age. He slept in your room, just down the hall from where you and your father stayed.

You didn't like the idea of separating someone from their child, but your father insisted and Mando made no objection otherwise.

Your attention for the past week was wrapped completely around the fingers of a grinning child, smiling and keeping his curiosity at bay when he grabbed at anything within reach. He used unsteady legs, you being his shadow for the entire day; picking up the small toys that were left in his wake of discovery. 

He was a healthy little boy, just barely big enough to explore some on his own, and he had the energy to prove it. There were only a few times he slowed enough to nap, sleep that weighed heavy on his eyelids as he crawled into your arms, puffing small breaths into the crook of your neck while he rested.

He refused to fall asleep alone, if his fingers weren't gripping yours with an unusual force he didn't allow himself to sleep; he just cried, wailed until you picked him up again, and finally settled when the sound of your heartbeat was within reach.

You couldn't imagine what this child has been through.

There were a few things only you and Papa had spoken about, conversations and theories about your guests, the stranger who slept in the loft of your barn, and his precious companion. Papa wasn't very sentimental towards them, he was gentle with the child and polite to Mando; but the sooner both of them had left, the easier he would sleep at night. 

He repeated the same thing before bed, his voice shaking and eyes worrisome in ways you had never thought would come from him. You didn't protest, just nodding your head and trying to soothe the lines seemingly etched into his brow. You drifted off as he squeezed your fingers in his, tighter than he ever had before, and pressed a worried kiss to your hand.

“Do not trust him.”

You hadn't told Papa about what happened between you and Mando once he had gone to bed, and you'd keep it from him so long as you stay sane. He would never know about how much you thought about it, how part of you wanted something like that to happen again, how you wanted to feel that blossom of heat in your chest ten times over.

Papa was under the impression the two of you had never spoken and it was best it stayed that way. 

He couldn't be a good man.

He had the scars to prove he was a fighter, most of the wounds old and standing out sharply against his skin.

You remember how they looked, how tender and soft the damaged flesh felt when you ran your fingers over it.

That doesn't just happen.

He carried a gun, and two more sat on the saddle of his horse. One fell from the pockets of his rucksack when you lifted it off the horse's back, the other a long rifle that was heavy and awkward in your arms.

You didn't tell Papa about that, you just hid them in the haystack of the barn and hoped he wouldn't find them.

But he was kind.

He hadn't spoken much, not to you. Maybe to your father but, he hardly looked you in the eye; his face was mostly hidden behind the brow of his hat and sometimes by the cloth he wore over his face when he worked.

Or he was cunning.

Maybe Papa was right, maybe the sooner they left the better.

You didn't want them to leave.

Mando wasn't like other men, he had an attachment; something you doubt most low-lives ever considered having.

And you wanted to know why.

The baby was squealing for your attention again, and he giggled loudly when you shifted him in your arms. Papa looked in your direction, watching the two of you sitting on the porch. You gave him a small smile, one he returned in genuine, with promise that reached the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. You busied yourself with taming wisps of the baby’s hair, for the hundredth time that day, soft curls that gently framed his face sticking out in every direction. He giggled again, his hands reaching out in curiosity as he curled his fingers into his palm and babbling away as you sat him on the porch floor. He took a few unsure steps, then taking the lead as if he knew exactly where he was going and you kneeled behind him ready to reach out when he lost his balance.

He made his way to the railing, stopping above the steps that led down to where Papa sat working.

He had bushels of food sitting at his feet; vegetables that had been growing in the fields you kept behind the house. It wasn't too impressive, just enough to suffice with a little leftover that was sold at the end of the season; but it took far too long to pick any of it when the time came.

After years of practicing medicine, your father had fumbled his way through becoming a farmer. Papa had already been working for a few days, and at dinner last night he gave Mando the task of starting the harvesting of the far-garden in the morning while he’d work what had already been picked.

Mando wasn’t much of a talker; he was polite, sometimes even kind when he spoke to you, but it was few and far between. He did everything asked of him, sometimes even more.

You had mentioned at dinner last night you were planning to wash laundry in the morning, gathering clothes and sheets and rags Papa unintentionally littered about the house. It was tiresome and took most of the day, the clothesline filled with garments that took hours to dry even on a summer day. The chill in the air wasn’t the problem at all this time, the heat was.

It was tedious to fill and heat the washpans, sometimes you’d think it better to ignore that step, but the constant cold on your raw fingertips told a different story.

You hurried to eat this morning, making sure the baby was fed and occupied, so you could begin filling the tubs for laundry. 

But someone beat you to it.

You found both of the tubs were sitting out by the clothesline, filled to the brim with steaming water and the laundry stacked beside them.

Papa had been with you all morning, he couldn’t have done it.

You wanted to thank him, but it felt silly to do so, your cheeks getting warm with the thought like some smitten schoolgirl.

You had seen him one other time today, when he came in for some lunch, his boots kicking up dust that tracked from the back door into the kitchen. His pants were just as filthy from digging in the gardens all day, but his sleeves had been pushed up his arms, and his hands were still damp from when he had washed them.

At least he's not a slob.

You don't think he notices you, standing on the far side of the kitchen, quietly watching as he removes his hat, pulls down the covering on his face, and sits next to the kid. He checks on him with a ruffle of his hair, the baby babbling away with a grin on his face as he watches Mando stuff his mouth with some of the bread and meat you sat out for him on the kitchen table.

He ate in silence, quick and rushed as if someone would take it from him before he could get enough to be satisfied. You stood at the other end of the kitchen, watching him eat and interacting with his kid. He said something to him, something so quiet you barely heard it but you saw the way his hand brushed over the curls on his boy's head; just like you had been doing almost every day you watched him. He finished as he drank glass fulls of water, over and over until the pitcher was nearly empty. 

His eyes are like saucers when he turns around to see you standing there, and his mouth opens and closes as if he was thinking of some defense.

Definitely didn't see you standing there.

You try your best to smile at him and move to ask him if he'd like more to eat, but he's gone. He grabs his hat from the table and mutters a thank you before slamming the door closed behind him.

It couldn't be easy with just one arm, nothing your father had given him was gentle and no matter how much he dismissed it, you could tell he was still in pain. Even with the medication given to him regularly, he winced at the slightest movement and was slow compared to your father.

You could barely see his silhouette, still moving out in the gardens and shadowed by the sun setting behind him. He takes a moment, sitting on his ass and looking up at the painted colors of the sky. Delicate pink and orange hues fill a blue sky, mixing until there is a symphony dancing above your heads, dusk settling over the land as everyone prepares for sleep. He stretches his neck from side to side, wiping his face with his sleeve with a huff and pulling himself back to his feet.

“He's a very sweet kid.” 

Papa’s voice interrupted your watching, your eyes snapping over to him taking a seat in his chair, patting his lap, and asking for the child to join him. He waddled over, reaching up with grubby hands and squealing as he was lifted in your father’s lap.

“Why don't you take some time and wash up for dinner.” Papa insisted, nodding towards the door as he settled the child on his lap. “I’ll call for you when it's ready.”

“Nonsense,” you sigh, standing up with a smile and turning towards the door. “Someone has to help you.”

“And that someone has to be you?” He’s grinning, nothing evil or malicious; mostly playful, with just a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Your earlier intentions of dinner are forgotten as you lean against a wooden doorframe, the aged wood scratching at your arm when the sleeve of your dress is pushed up. You watch Papa coo at the child, patting his head with careful hands as the toddler yawned and laid against his chest. Your feet ache as you look down at the worn boots you wear, the leather cracked and crumbling from age at the soles of your feet; they throb as you roll your ankles, switching your weight from one foot to the next until some of the pain subsided.

 It’s just your breathing for a moment, the simple, rhythm rise and fall of your chest; occasionally dueted with the squeak of Papa’s old rocking chair.

“Looks like I'll need help taking this into town,” you gestured to the bushels sitting at the edge of your porch steps, cutting through the silence with a huff of your breath. “Kuill will be excited to see everything we've got for him.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

He took you by surprise, the change in subject hitting you with a force that had your chest seizing up. How pitiful you felt, your heart racing at the mention of a man who probably didn’t remember your name.

“No,” you offer meekly, hoping your father didn’t notice the change in your pitch. “Why?”

“He’s hardly spoken a word since he's been here.”

He rocks his seat back and forth in a steady motion, gentle as the baby in his arms drifts into slumber.

“Maybe he likes to keep to himself.” You shrug, moving to lean against the porch railing and face him.

Your father considered your reasoning, his brows knit with heavy thought and a frown set on his lips.

“Or he's guilty of something.”

There’s something you barely catch in Papa’s words, something like malice but with less bite as the words hit your ears.

“It's only for a few more days,” you pick at the splintered wood under your hand, the edges rough and pointed as they press deeper into your palm. “We'll manage.”

Papa nods his head, patting the baby’s back as he sleeps on his chest; his limbs stretching for just a moment before he settles back to sleep. You run your hands along the child’s back, soothing the tired grumbles that fell from his lips. Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss to your father’s temple, squeezing the free hand he had perched on the arm of his chair.

“You know they would've died if we hadn't helped.” You whisper it into his hairline with another kiss, turning to head back inside before anything else is said.

You keep quiet, somehow afraid of speaking nightmares into existence. They were safe for now, healing and resting what little they could on your farm. A stranger and his baby that dug tiny holes in your chest that you doubt were closing anytime soon. Part of you feared when the time came, you wouldn’t want to let your precious companion or his father go.

“I know.” 

-

An intake of breath is all he allows.

He says nothing, and his face is blank, staring in front of him with discipline as your father digs into his shoulder again. His wounds are still tender, pink, and fresh against his tan skin but he doesn’t even wince; there's barely a twitch in his eye, and the shaking push and pull of his breath is the only indication he felt any of it.

He does groan when your father pours alcohol over it, remnants of blood washing away from the openings in his shoulder, thrown away stitches sitting on the cloth with your father’s tools.

You didn’t ask how his stitches had broken, you could only assume it happened today while he was working, and it was almost dinner before you noticed the tint that had stained his shirt red.

You hold the child a little closer in your arms, turning his head and busying him when he reaches out for Mando. 

The painting hung mounted on the wall, just low enough it was about eye level with you and the child. You pointed to flowers caked in oil paints, their colors faded from years of the sun that breached the windowsill. He cooed as he followed your lead, tracing the petals with his fingers until he gave a big yawn.

You placed a kiss on the top of his head, the soap you used to wash him earlier still lingering on your lips as he laid on your chest. His blanket wrapped around him, the wool warm and green as you kept him snug in your arms.

“It’s time to say goodnight.”

You stayed at the threshold of the kitchen, Mando’s back turned to you as your father put new stitches into his shoulder. Papa paused for a moment, nodding his head in your direction until Mando turned his profile murmuring a ‘goodnight’ to the baby in your arms. He looked at you as he said it, something pulling deep in your belly as his eyes bore into yours; almost black in the darkness and twinkling from the light of your father’s lamp.

Papa cleared his throat, pulling your eyes towards him as you felt heat rush to your face. 

You hoped he couldn’t tell, that you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. When didn’t bring it up later, once the two of you were alone and everyone had gone to bed, you felt the pressure that built up in your chest dissipate. He went right to sleep, snoring loudly beside you while you laid wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

You're not sure what time it is, or how long you have been ‘asleep’ but everything blurs; your mind racing too fast for your drooping eyes to catch any sort of rest.

You laid warm beneath woolen covers as you watched the windows tint with fog, the barest hints of a cold breeze slipping between the cracks and leaving a chill in the air.

It must be very cold out in the barn.

You wouldn’t entertain the idea. Mando was a grown man, he didn’t need you to care for him or coddle him like he was a child.

Staying in bed was the right decision, but decision making was never your strong suit.

The doors to the barn looked wicked under the dim moonlight, tall and intimidating as you reached a shaking hand out to them. They groaned as you pulled open, the track they rested on squeaking and shrill in the quiet night.

You just hoped he was a heavy sleeper.

You carried the two blankets you had been washing just this morning, something Papa kept around for emergencies; thick, wooly blankets that were itchy and coarse on your skin.

They were better than nothing.

There was only one lamp lit, everything mostly covered in shadow save for the few feet of orange glow coming from the middle of the room. Hardly any sound in the air, nighttime completely dead save the occasional grunt and snort of the horses sleeping in their stalls. His belongings sat stacked in one corner, next to the makeshift bedding you had left in here just over a week ago. They were in a neat pile, a shirt and coat, his hat, the cloth he used on his face, and his holster.

He was nowhere to be found.

You put the blankets on his bedroll, hoping he would connect the dots whenever he came back. The hay crunch underneath your feet, even with your attempt at tiptoeing through the barn. You pulled the knitted shawl you wore tighter around you, shivering from the chill that seeped from cracked insulation in the walls.

You hadn’t even stood up before you jumped under the sudden baritone of his voice.

“Where are my guns?” 

The chill that ran down your spine wasn’t from the cold, but rather from accusation; deep, rich words that dripped from his words and held no real malice.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You offered over your shoulder, slowly turning to face him head-on.

His arm was still in a sling, fresh bandaging that stood stark white against his worn clothes. He looked almost handsome in the orange hue of an oil lamp; his eyes bright even with the exhaustion pulling at his cheeks, his lips pouting and curls sticking out at his neck as if you had woken him in the embers of early morning.

“I know you didn't take them,”

He walked towards you, each step he took followed by your retreat until your back landed against the wall with a thud. Your eyes never leave him, never daring to break your stare even as your hand scrambled for purchase on the smooth wood at your back.

“So where are they?”

You counter him, thinking you're clever with a smile and a half-concocted comeback, batting your eyes when his lips quirk in response.

“How do you know I didn't keep them?”

He laughed, amusement hiding behind the rich color of his eyes and biting with the sparkle of his teeth.

“I doubt you've ever held a gun in your life, sweet girl.” His voice lowered at your pet name, sinful words that swirled at the base of your spine until you squirmed.

“I know you didn't take them.”

You take a deep breath, your cheeks burning when his hand comes to rest beside your head, his body coming just a hair closer until you feel pinned beneath him.

“I hid them.”

His eyebrow arches, questions stuck in the back of his throat that filter into one word.

“Why?”

You fiddled with the loose thread of your gown, wrapping the line excess around your finger until it pinched at the tip. Your ears thumped with the sound of your heartbeat, loud and racing as Mando drug his hand from your shoulder, across your neck. He cupped your jaw, squeezing your face in his hand for just a moment.

“You afraid of me, sweet girl?”

His voice rumbled, deep from his chest as he drags every word from smirking lips.

“Don't call me that.”

Any bite you had laced in your words was betrayed by the way you leaned into his touch, sighing when his fingers scratched at the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Yeah?” 

His lips were gentle, chapped, and sweet against yours with a tender kiss.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

You kissed him this time, testing the waters with a playful nip to his bottom lip; earning you a chuckle before he consumes you. Your lips slot lazily together in a clash of tongue as you taste one another, slow and sensual until your fingers thread his hair, tugging until he growls into your kiss.

“Thank you,” His breath puffed on your cheek, warm and wet on your skin as he trailed kisses over your face and neck. “For taking good care of my kid.”

“He's a sweetheart.” You huff out the words around a smile, your fingers tugging on Mando’s curls.

You almost moan when nips at your throat, his teeth leaving a mark on the juncture of your neck until he groans at the salty-sweet taste of soap on your skin.

“And you're beautiful.”

He steals the breath right from your lungs, gasping in between the short moments when his mouth wasn’t molded against yours. His hand on the back of your neck kept you pressed to his chest, your fingers ghosting over the stitches you could feel through the thin material of his shirt.

His leg was firmly pushed in between yours, his body supporting most of you as he hitched your leg to rest over his hip. The muscle of his thigh flexing when you barely rocked your hips against him. The cotton material of your nightgown did nothing to hide the feeling of rough denim on the softness of your thighs, scraping and molding red indents from the back and forth motion your hips made.

You nearly shout when he snakes his hand in between your bodies, cupping your mound while his fingers work against the bundle throbbing in between your legs; sparks of electricity shoot down to your toes and into the tips of your fingers with the slightest of touches. You ache against him, your body moving with him and seeking an unfamiliar end, a delicious coil in your belly that wound tighter and tighter with every swipe of his two fingers.

You’re panting, muffling pathetic whimpers against his ear while he mouths at the deliciously tender spot on your neck. You can hardly hold your head up, your mind swimming in a thick, intoxicating fog until the world blurred around the edges. You feel the build-up at the base of your spine boiling over, almost all-consuming to the point it tingles every nerve in your body with anticipation. 

You grip his forearm until your nails leave pale, pink marks in your wake, and push him away to finally breathe again.

He is about the only thing keeping you upright, slowly he dropped your leg until you stood alone; his touches stopped, leaving a dull, unsatisfied ache that seeped into your bones. The sweat gathered at your hairline was annoying, tickling you to the point of discomfort until you swiped it away with the back of your hand.

“I don’t want Papa...”

You can’t think, nothing on the forefront of your mind coherent enough; like you were hopelessly lagging while your thoughts raged and laid stuck on the tip of your tongue. You squeeze your eyes shut, rubbing your temple with your eyes opened, and find Mando looking right back at you.

If your father woke up to you gone, you’re not sure what he would do, other than assuming the worst.

And you certainly didn’t want him to catch you in the barn, not like this.

“I-I don’t…”

His eyes were almost gentle, sharp and consuming as always, but kind behind the harsh set of his brow.

He brushes pieces of your hair behind your ear, his touch still burning as it did before but with half the intensity felt a few moments ago.

“Go get some sleep.”

You collect yourself, pulling the shawl on your shoulders tight as you tuck your hands underneath your arms. He steps back once you regained composure and watches you even as you walk away.

You only make it a few steps before he calls after you.

“Tomorrow?”

There’s a hint of something in his voice.

Tease? Promise? Flirt?

Something that pulls harsh at your little heartstrings he had wrapped around his finger.

“How'd you like to go hunting?”

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Mando

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Tainted Heart

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[bibliocratic]

How about Jon Martin and the cursed trip to IKEA?

Thanks for the prompt! :D

I’m sure this absolutely could have been read as like ‘IKEA is not-so-secretly a Spiral domain’ but this non-Euclidean hell-hole is of mortal making I’m sure of it.

(I love and fear you IKEA, never change <3)

 --

“I simply don’t see the reason why we’d ever need them.”

“If we have guests over!”

“We’ve never had guests over.”

“One day we might!”

“And over for what?”

“I dunno! Dinner or something, make a night of it.”

“Martin, neither of us can cook.”

“Well, we could learn.”

“Alright, fine. Pushing that to one side for the moment, my question is why do our hypothetical guests require a different set of fancier cutlery? What’s wrong with the ones we’ve got at home?”

“I mean, nothing really, just… well, it’s a thing, isn’t it? Having some nice stuff to bring out if people come round.”

“Will we be moving on to the fine china aisle next?”

“Maybe! Ha, ha, don’t give me that look – Why not splash out a little? At worst, we just have more forks and some extra knives.”

“…Alright, fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Before I come to my senses. But I reserve the right to refuse guests the good cutlery if they’re undeserving.”

“What, are you planning some rigorous questionnaire they’ve got to pass first?”

“Absolutely. Come on then, the fine china awaits.”

--

Alfonse has never really been one for home improvement. He’s got a rolled-up stick of posters that he’s dragged around from his old room to student digs to slightly nicer student digs since he was a teenager, their corners creased and dotted with blue-tack stains. He’s had the same chipped plate, chipped bowl, chipped cup set since uni, and has been belligerent about swapping them out for anything less likely to shatter the next time he puts it in the dishwasher. But it’s their first flat together, and it feels real, and grown-up, and kind of scary, and he thinks that it’s important to get this part right, to set their life together off with a different start than the other places. Meaning that now, somehow, they’ve got a squeaky-wheeled trolley full of pillows and a cheese grater and storage containers that aren’t see-through plastic boxes and honest-to-god frames for his Quentin Tarantino posters. He’s finding himself entertaining the rather luxurious thought of buying a large and leafy potted plant to brighten up their cramped living room.

Tom is in his element here, and he’s put on his ridiculous reading glasses that Alfonse says make him look like Dame Edna, peering over their chunky glittery frames to inspect the ballroom’s worth of lighting they’ve found themselves amongst. He’s humming as he does so, making notations with the pint-sized pencil they collected at the door. Alfonse is entirely content to let him take the reigns on this one.

He idly people-watches for a while, making noises of interest at another floor lamp when it’s expected of him – the students clearing out the kitchenware section, lugging around the straining blue blags, the parents with children who have been swayed by the toys – before he catches sight of a man circling the desk lamps. Glancing down at his phone, gnawing on his lower lip with some discontent before he glances up and around the terrain before frowning. He swings his phone in an arc, giving the hope of it a hopeful tap, muttering a comeoncomeoncomeon under his breath.

His mobile gives a chirpy buzz, and the man almost hits himself in the ear with the force of answering.

“Where are you?” Alfonse overhears. “I can’t… Jon… Jon, you’re breaking up, yeah, the signal’s… Jon. I’m by the lamps… The lamps. Lamps. I’ve got the trolley, yes, yes – you… hello?”

Alfonse hears a very emphatic fuck’s sake before he decides to go back to Tom and leave the man suffer in private.

--

Sinead’s planted herself on one of the sofas in the well-lit display areas and has committed to not budging an inch for at least ten minutes. The fabric is a cheery yellow, and it suits the colour-coordinated pretend living room, but she’s not sure she’d choose it herself.

She’s getting a headache. Mel’s off with her nephews and nieces over in the kid’s bedroom section and she just needs five more minutes before she can look at another floral wallpaper or toy car bed.

She’s disrupted from massaging her temples by an irate-looking man with some rather intense eyebrow game throwing himself down on the half-egg-shaped armchair nearby, letting forth a truly impressively disgruntled sigh.

“You look like you’re suffering,” she offers, because she is and she wants to know someone else is too, and he nods peevishly and gives another irritated noise.

“I didn’t realise there’d be so much drama involved in buying a sofa,” he grumbles.

“Amen,” she agrees. They share a quiet moment of strung-out solidarity as they sit moulded into the seat cushions.

“… What’s that one called?” the man asks after a moment of stewing in his own mood.

She shrugs but picks up the tag and squints at it.

“Brathult? With one of those… those A’s that have the little bobble hat. Apparently, it comes in yellow, blue and green.”

“Comfortable?”

“Not bad.”

“Hm.” For a while he goes silent. Then he points out two sofas tucked into different displays and artfully layered with appropriate throw pillows; the first, a stocky black number set upon a sleek wooden frame that serve as its legs, the second, a dense cuboid of cushions currently being looked over by in fastidious detail by a tussle-haired man wearing a t-shirt covered in lots of small cartoon cacti.

“Between that one and that one,” her companion in furniture-based suffering says. “What do you think?”

Sinead studies them carefully.

“The second.”

He huffs. It was clearly not the answer he wanted.

“Why?”

“Not sure. I guess, yeah, it’s not as flashy, but the cushions look deeper. And there’s more width there, even just looking at them.”

“But the first one has all that space under it to store things.”

“Yeah, but you just know it’s going to build up with dust, and you’d be having to get the hoover under it all the time. It seems a bit finnicky.”

The man gives a considering nod.

“You’re right.”

He hefts himself up and calls over to the other display room: “Martin!”

The tussle-haired man whirls around.

Her companion holds up his hands. “You were right. The second one.”

The tussle-haired man looks smugly victorious. Sinead tries to hide her smirk at the sight.

--

Andy’s heaving the flat-pack box for a small bookcase into their trolley when they hear a conversation bleed through from the other side of the huge metal shelves in the warehouse part of the store.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”

“It’s coming down on my side – woahwoahwoah – ”

“It’s – Christ, swing it this way a bit – ”

“I’ve not – Jon, I’ve not got – it’s – Jon, it’s slipping.”

“Put it down – DOWN – yes, that’s… Right. Let’s… let’s just have a moment. Catch our breath.”

“God, why’s it so heavy? It’s not like it’s even that big!”

Andy pops their head around to the other side of the shelf. Two men are puffing and sweaty, the colour on their faces blooming with exertion. Between the two of them is the long and bulky cardboard box they are clearly trying to manhandle into their trolley.

“Do you… um, do you need a hand?” they ask.

The shorter one waves a polite but dismissive hand before they manage to wrangle some air into their lungs.

“We’re good, thanks.” He says. The taller one raises an eyebrow.

Andy knows well enough to leave them to it.

--

“Hmmm! You weren’t lying about the meatballs.”

“I know right, like, what’s the secret?”

“Probably E-numbers.”

“Don’t ruin these for me, Jon!”

“Haha, alright. Help me out with the chips?”

“You finished?”

“The hot dog was enough, I’m getting full.”

“Pass them over then…. You know, I think we did alright with our spoils today. And it wasn’t so bad, all told.”

“We have to get this all in the car yet.”

“God, don’t remind me.”

[space-city-traffic]

yet again im back on my bullshit so... (gazes with mixed feelings at the TV show Firefly) i could fix him.

my extremely long thoughts about my Own Personal Good Version of Firefly (with plenty of spoilers for the show and the movie) under the cut:

things that are getting axed first thing no question:

out with the whole “let’s add in a thin veneer of Chinese cultural aesthetics out of context for ~flavor~” deal. just no.

instead, let’s hire some actors from a bunch of different cultures and work with them to figure out how their characters would bring those cultures into space with them!! and also hopefully bring some experiences with immigration/alienation/travel into it, since the Whole Core of Firefly is about how humanity always brings our doomed and silly and stubborn and unique warmth with us even into the cold void where nothing is familiar or homey in the slightest.

let’s respect our sex worker character shall we?

i do appreciate that Inara’s work as a companion is described as legitimate and well respected in the show. however please stop having your captain and hero call her a wh*re every five seconds against her clearly expressed wishes and portraying this as just a totally acceptable thing

let’s be more respectful of our characters of color and also have some more diversity, shall we?

others have put it better than me but yeah, the way Zoe and Book are treated is very uncomfy, and the rest of the show is depressingly monochromatic. come on let’s do better.

stop the weird confederacy hat tips

again others have pointed these out with much more thoroughness than I could, but the names of some characters and locations, as well as some of the language used to describe the browncoats, has uncomfortably confederate vibes. instead i propose we very Clearly tip our hats to the Alliance equaling space capitalism instead! you can’t go wrong with space capitalism as a villain.

don’t! make! the! psychotic! character! violent!

listen i love River Tam with my whole heart. but you should absolutely not portray your only character with psychosis as violent because of that psychosis!!!!!!! and yeah, a huge part of her character is that her brain got fucked up by the alliance and so she hallucinates and is also a super ninja. but like. she doesn’t need to be a super ninja for her character to work, okay? the crew does not need to be scared of her for her character to work, okay??? more on this later bc it would take a lot of care and nuance to make her character work but i really think it can be done

things we are absolutely keeping:

found family tropes my fucking beloved

this should be self evident. this is why the show is as appealing as it is despite its flaws, at least in my eyes.

malcolm reynolds, the knight in dusty armor

there’s something so appealing to me about what Mal stands for. because at his core is this ridiculous, silly, stubborn, doomed devotion to what he thinks is important and right, a romantic idealism thinly covered by cynical cowboy platitudes that he thinks make his bleeding heart totally invisible. and he is so obvious and entirely incorrect. bless. this is a man who will do anything for his family, who charges into swordfights to defend his friend from a man who wants to turn her into an object despite having no clue how to hold a sword. at his worst, he starts brawls in bars just for the martyr’s thrill of being persecuted for supporting the right; at his best, he inspires downright religious belief from his crew because he represents a romantic and chivalrous and doomed dedication to the right thing over any practical concerns. and then he throws a “selfish” quip over it with 100% confidence that everyone fell for his clever distraction and believes him to be a dirtbag. he’s oblivious and ridiculous and god he makes me want to be a better person because he’s just so goddamned sincere. stupid, but sincere. 10/10 himbo. <3

Mal and Inara ultraslowburn friends to enemies to friends to lovers to enemies to friends to lovers to friends to...

there’s nothing i love more than a ship that’s just two people who know each other way too well, and they’re each the only one who knows the other well enough to call them out on their bullshit. the way Mal and Inara interact in the show sometimes makes me uncomfy but like. the core of their relationship has to stay.

space western aesthetic

i need the cows on a spaceship scene to stay like i need air okay

that sweet sweet religious shit

mal, who lost his faith in gd and a whole lot else during the war. who lost his faith in himself, and now feels he has to hide the part of him that still wants to be good, because he knows he can’t be anymore, and he feels like it’s embarrassing for a guy like him to want something so unattainable. who takes a preacher on board, and the preacher has lost something, too. the preacher has his own past, and his own questions. but not questions like the observant neurodivergent girl, the one who wants to interact with and understand this thing that’s so important to him, but it just doesn’t click with how her brain works and she feels like something needs to be fixed, either the Bible or herself. and Mal takes care of them all, and slowly, he begins to find gd again, not in a prayer but in humanity. humanity doesn’t need to be fixed, like the alliance thinks. the shining imperfect strawberry sweetness of it in his family’s smiles is something to be worshiped and served and devoted to. and he finds he has something to believe in again. (and his crew find that he’s given them someone to believe in, too. and maybe suddenly he’s a saint.)

and finally, my brilliant ideas as to what i would like to add:

TRANS WOMAN KAYLEE RIGHTS

listen her femininity is so important to me okay? it’s so thrilled about everything that’s pretty, from dresses to the spaceship’s electric innards, and it’s so non-traditional and grease stained until it’s not and it’s pink and ruffly and twirly, and she never sees any of it as a contradiction, because none of it contradicts, it’s all just her! her gender is warmth and love and prettiness, feeling pretty and appreciating the pretty and making her friends’ days pretty too.

i want us to find out she’s trans in that episode with the ball, and i want us to find out alongside Mal who just never asked or never realized. Kaylee gasps and squeals at the dress in the shop window and Mal makes an off handed, ill considered comment, and then... someone yanks him aside and hisses a few very significant words in his ear. and suddenly he remembers what the blue white and pink she painted all over the engine room means, and he knows he has something to make right. so he buys her that dress himself and lets her know just how pretty she looks, and when he walks into that ball with her displayed on his arm like something precious, he looks the proudest out of any man there. and she notices. for a few seconds, of course, until there’s chocolate, and ‘nara, and a chandelier—and some horrible girls, but she’s used to that, until—suddenly, she finds her people. a group of old men who light up when she jokes about compression coils and whack presumptuous boys who ask her to dance. they adopt her as a treasured granddaughter, and Mal is beaming at her like a proud dad, and she finds that one of her new elderly friends gazes a little too long at her bracelet, and so she gives it to xem and teaches xem a few new words, and... it’s a good day, huh? it’s a really good day. (of course, then the captain has to go and punch somebody in the face, but it was a real nice party up until then.)

also she and Simon are both transhet t4t im correct and you know it

time for a better River Tam

the first thing we’ve established is that this version of her is not unpredictably violent and the crew is not scared of her!!!! it makes no sense to take a kid who’s primarily brilliant, experiment on her brain, give her telepathic powers....... and tack on the fact that she also has super strength and speed and dexterity and what not, AND say that they programmed her to be super violent. no! no. not only is that extremely harmful rep, that’s also just stupid.

instead!! my version of River is in fact not terrifying to the crew, but is actually the one they feel safest around. River has always been totally blunt, she was one of those kids you could tell realllllly early was autistic, and she doesn’t like being disengenous at all. so you can always trust her to tell the truth and not play weird passive aggressive games or have any hidden agenda, which makes her just a really chill person to be around. also, one of her longtime special interests is music and dance, so whether or not she’s nonverbal on a given day, there will always be some sort of beautiful sound when she’s around. she does have the singing voice of a dying crow unfortunately but that’s ok bc Simon’s is even worse and they’re both incredibly competitive so you’ll at least get free entertainment out of the affair.

my version of River does have psychosis and hallucinations because of the trauma of the experiments, and they are really troubling to her. she and Simon work together to find ways to cope and meds that help, and it’s a process, but there are some things that help.

the only thing she gained from the academy was the ability to hear people’s thoughts and sense the future a little bit. and yeah, that led to her picking up a few spooky secrets at the beginning, which, yikes. and for a while, it was hard to figure out which voices were real and which were hallucinations. but around her friends, she always feels safe to ask “did you just think about triple cheese burritos or was that just a me thing?”, and they’ll always tell her the truth no matter how embarrassing their thoughts are, bc it’s important to all of them to respect her and help her sort accurately through what’s reality and what’s not. and bit by bit, she gets better and better at figuring out what kinds of things tend to be telepathy and what kinds of things tend to be psychosis, and that each one feels a little different. and because of the trust and respect and support of her found family she’s able to do that in a safe environment!!!

trans man Simon rights

listen i wanted to keep him as just a side note on Kaylee’s list but he is my son and he’s important to my heart so here goes

out on the outer rim where Kaylee’s from, gender ain’t much of a big deal, there’s an individualistic quality to life out there, and so if the trail you blaze is the trail of a woman or a man or neither or both, that’s respected even in the rare cases where it’s not outright encouraged. but in the inner planets, where competition and connections and public faces and family names are everything, you have to be what’s expected of you to survive. you can’t change your brand, you can’t be anything other than what your family planned for you since before you were born, it’s incredibly hard to survive in such a hyper competitive environment, and so your very identity becomes just a tool in how to market yourself for better success.

needless to say Simon (just as autistic as his little sister and also very trans) fuckin hated it there. but he was very good at it. correction: he was very good at his very specific field of STEM, good enough to where people stopped talking about how cute he looked in bows and started talking about how impressive his work was from a very young age. and his work had no gender. he could be whatever he wanted to in equations. so that was where he could express himself, and gd, he got so much praise for it, he never wanted to stop.

not until he discovered that his sister needed him, and ran away, and needed a disguise, and realized... suddenly, every stifling rule and prying eye was a million miles away. he was freefloating, freefalling, with none of the charted paths he’d been following all his life... so you know what? fuck it. he’s always enjoyed the name Simon. and since it’s not on any legal records, it’ll make him just that much more untraceable.

and on Serenity, starting over with new people who never knew him before his transition feels like an unbelievable blessing that just dropped right into his lap. he has to keep up the secrecy, he has to make sure they never find out who he used to be, because gd, it’s so nice when they look at him and say his name right, and he doesn’t know if he can handle losing that, not when it’s so new and so important to the person he’s finally becoming. but then one day, the unthinkable happens, the wanted posters for his arrest have an old name on them, they’re looking for the Tam sisters, and... nothing changes. the crew of Serenity could not give even a tenth of a percent of a fuck, and it doesn’t seem like they even know they’re supposed to. huh. that’s new. Simon could get used to that, he thinks.

i’m sure there’s more i could add, but it’s 4:30 in the morning now, so if more occurs to me, ill simply add it in a reblog tomorrow. if you’ve read down this far, i am in love with you. please let me know your Better Firefly ideas, too, bc im always down to yell about this show!!!

[undermattsun-archive]

ushijima x fem!reader x kita | w.c 1.2k

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

a/n: omg ok so here’s my fic for the super cool + epic collab for my server ;)) i’m rlly nervous cus i’ve never written a. fic like this so pls don’t be mean!!!! but like pls leave a comment below <333 also don’t forget to follow me (or i’ll BITE U jk xD) omg omg ok and don’t forget to check out the other fics for this super epic hot collab <33333 right here kidnapped by hq !!!!!!

warnings: inane rambling, i literally did not proofread this i would take breaks and start again without checking what i wrote last so it’s defs not coherent

I was just ur every day kind of girl. Nothing special to anyone...not ev en myself. All i knew was wake up, brush my hair (and teeth obvi!!)  and go out and go to university and to my part time job as a waitress ina  diner where not a lot of people would go to. Anway today was one of those boring days, i woke up with my alarm blaring at 6:00 am because i have a class at 8:00 am… it’s my least favorite one too. But yeah so i got up super early and made myself apple cinnamon brown sugar oatmeal and black coffee bc i’m also kinda broke bc i ran away from home bc my parents were those snobby rich people and i didn’t wanty end up like that ya know? i put on a really simple outfit bc i was feeling lazy since i woke up late!

(we need to bring back sillly bandz! they r so much fun!!) 

So i was walking to my early 8 oclock class all the way on the otherside of campus when suddenly ther e was a frisbee flying right at my face! I tried to dodge it but it still hit me right in the nose and i screamed so loud i didnt hear anything else but me screaming in really loud pain. 

“Are u ok??” i grab my nose in pain but it doesnt rlly feel broken or bleeding so i open my eyes that i didnt evern realized that i had close to see rlly gold eyes staring down at me. I scrunch up my eyebrows bc im confused bc he’s wearing overalls and a straw hat? Did i hit my head or something and am now seeing things?

“I’m ok do i know u?” i ask.. despite him looking weird in his farmer outfit he looked familiar so i had to ask.

“Sometimes i go to the diner u work at after im done at the farm bc there are good mochi waffles (a/n omg wait do they serve mochi waffles at dinners? I’ve only had it from  bakery xD)” he says with a really cool tone. I nod my head bc it makes sense. Before i can say thank you to him for asking how i am doing he grab my hand “please marry meand my cofarmer” 

“W-w-w-what??????” i yell my heart is pounding bc even though he is really super pretty i don’t eevn remember him ever being at the diner and like i remember a lot of my customers faces bc a lot of them come back a lot. 

“Marry us we will make u super happy pls it was love at first sight.” he says confidendtly (sp?) as he holds my hand tighter and tighter.

“I-i-i-i-i-i don’t even know ur name???” i whisper softly under my breath, “HOW can i marry u???”

“Shinsuke…..” a deep voice goes off behind me and i pull my hand out of his hand to look behind me, a big big BIG man stands there also wearing overalls and a straw hat and also a single wheat hanging from his kissable lips.

“Wakatoshi i have found the perfect housewife for us,, i have asked her to marry us.”

“But i’m just a normal girl from a normal world, how can i possible be apart of the world the two of you have made in the farm world?” the offer was amazing, the life of a housewife for these two perfect men that i’ve met by chance.

“She doesn’t havea choice the wedding is tonight ur marrying us.” the man who was called wakatoshi says with a very serious voice and facial expression. before i can ask hes suddenly pulling me to my feet and dragging me away.

“i have class!!” i say in protest as he continues to pull me towards a green tractor.

“you don’t need education…do you know how to sweep and cook eggs? and maybe make butter?” shinsuke asks following behind as wakatoshi pulls me onto the tractor.

“of course i can make eggs! but why butter?”

“we live on a farm darlin’ ya gotta know how to make butter.” shinsuke says and i nod my head. it makes sense.

“i can’t just leave my life behind tho i’ve gotten this far all by myself” i sigh even tho i’m comfortably sitting in wakatoshis lap i can’t let myself fall victim to their charms!!! i’m independent !!!

“give it up already your ours now…..” wakatoshi says seriously. i pout. he can’t just talk to me like that. i’m not a kid! i go to unverisity and have a job!!! 

“it’s too late ur already wearing the engagement ring” i look down at my hand and gasp to see a beautiful ring on my finger.

“this cant be real?” i shake my head my head.

“we already have your dress and the venue ready.”

“what?” the big grrrn tractor pulls up to a really pretty outdoor wedding venue. my jaw drops to see my entire family, even my parents waiting.

“go in there” wakatoshi points at a tent and i nod. i walk over and am immediately being changed by two guys who look the same?

“don’t worry we r gay.”

“and twins.”

“but not gay for each other bc that’d be illegal or something  and the author would get Cancelled™” it makes sense. i turn and look in the mirror and i gasp. i look beautiful. i may be an average girl but in this moment my velvet chestnut locks are curled to perfect perfection and the makeup isn’t too much or too little. these gay twins sure worked their magic!

i step out of the tent and look down the aisle to see my two farmer husbands looking handsome as ever (here’s what we look like teehee xD i know we look super cute!!) 

“y/n, im sorry me and ur moms bitchy richness made u run away but please let me walk u down the aisle on ur wedding day.”

“hello my name is agayshi and i am also gay, and here to officiate your wedding.”

“wait ur gay too?”

“yeah i’m married to that guy over there in the wacky inflatable cars salesman suit but we’re both respectively fucjing one of those gay twins. any way. do you y/n y/m/n y/l/n take shinsuke canonical rice farmer and ushijima farmer au to be your lawfully wedded husbands?”

“i-“ i look between the two men. my dream wedding. my dream men. i look around at all my friends and family. i nod.

“yeah i do.”

“congrats you may kiss the bride” at the same time wakatoshi and shinsuke grab my head and manage to mash all 3 of our mouths together.

i’m just so happy.

….or so i thought.

i woke up, it all turned out to be a dream </3

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

(a/n: hey everyone sorry for the sad ending but like...r there rlly happy endings in real life?? soz i just think we need to get more realistic w our fanfics </3)

like. comment. subscribe for more awesomesauce fics like this ;) !!! 

[in-my-feels-probably]

INEFFABLE - Kaz Brekker

Chapter Seven

If you would like to read this on Wattpad, it’s on there as well, my @ is in_my_feels_probably and there’s a few visuals and better descriptions and stuff on there. otherwise, enjoy, let me know what you think, and you can check out my masterlist for updates and more. don’t forget to read the prologue, it’s important to the story!

INEFFABLE – Kaz Brekker

ineffable (adj.) too great to be expressed in words, utterly indescribable; too sacred to speak of. 

Chapter Seven

Now in Kribirsk, East Ravka, the Crows and Arken sat around a table in a pub, mindlessly eating and drinking, thinking about the past days events. Kaz had left them there, leaving Elham in charge of making sure everyone stayed put while he scoped the city out, finding out what he could.

Arken was grumbling, slamming a flyer onto the table. “The Little Palace winter fete. There’s just no way he can find a way to the Sun Summoner without Nina. Especially during this ridiculous party, the place will be crawling with Second Army.”

Kaz suddenly approached the table, in an immensely better mood than the rest of them, despite his disheveled look. “We’re in luck. There’s a good chance we can crack on. Now that we’re three days’ travel from the capital, the next play is finding a way inside the Little Palace. It turns out the Kribirsk archives house the Little Palace blueprints. But, they’re kept under lock and key. Far from the prying eyes of the masses.”

Elham scoffed. “As if that’s ever stopped you.”

Jesper had perked up, high fiving Elham. “Yes.”

Arken looked confused, suddenly uneasy around the group. “What does that mean?”

“Time for a heist!”

“Jesper, I don’t think you could sound any more excited. Excited to get that kruge, finally pay me back all you owe me?”

“Oh, but Elham, isn’t my company a good enough payment?”

She threw her head back laughing. “Oh, honey, you’d have to be around me the rest of your life to pay off your debt. Honestly, I don’t get it, Kaz pays you as much as he pays me, how is it that you’re always asking me for more kruge? I must say, though, the satisfaction of watching you lose almost makes it worthwhile.”

Jesper gasped. “Elham! Rude!”

“It’s my money you’re losing anyways. Now come on, let’s go say goodbye to the goat, and get this show on the road.”

---

Elham stood next to Arken, watching Jesper hand off the goat that he had dubbed Milo, to a barmaid, giving his tearful goodbye. She rolled her eyes, and called out a goodbye to Milo, turning her attention back to Kaz, who was giving Arken instructions. He handed him a wad of money.

“I have a job for you. We need to hitch a ride east to the Little Palace. Make friends.”

Arken nervously chuckled. “But that’s the hardest job.”

Kaz tapped his cane to the back of Elham’s leg, signaling her to follow him. Over his shoulder, he called back to Arken. “You managed to win us over, didn’t you?”

Once out of earshot, making their way out the door, Elham muttered. “Hardly. He was our only option. I still don’t like him.”

“I’m not asking you to like him, I’m not overly fond of him myself. But he’s our only shot. We aren’t getting in the Little Palace without him.”

“Oh, come on Brekker, not with that attitude we aren’t. Now, what’s your big plan here, where are we going?”

He almost smirked. “You’re not going to like this.”

Kaz led them over to the alley Inej and Jesper were standing in. “Alright, Royal Archives heist, here’s the game plan. Watchmen are on guard around the clock. We want to get in and get out as quietly as possible. That means the hardware stays in the holster, Jesper.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Inej, the dome on the roof is directly above the repository where the blueprints to the Little Palace are kept.”

“Got it, that’s my way in.”

“I’ll set a trail of phosphorus that will lead you straight to the target. The repository is secured at all times behind a two-part lock mechanism. So Inej, you have to leave the way you came in. Two hours after sunset is when you’ll go in, Jesper. You’ll need to blend in.”

“Easy.”

“The lighting valves are on the second floor.”

Inej nodded. “I’ll take my cue once I see the lights go out, and then follow your trail straight to the blueprints.”

“The archivist has to pull them a number of times a day, so we can’t steal them or they’ll know something is up.”

“So? Make a copy.”

“But careful, if you're heavy handed, you'll bleed the ink.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Elham listened to the Crows talk back and forth, and then interrupted. “Well, I don’t. What am I supposed to be doing this whole time?”

The smirk crept back onto Kaz’s face.

“Well first, you’re coming with me to plant the phosphorus. I’m going to need you to keep the sarcastic comments to a minimum while we’re there, you are going to hate this part of the plan, though. I’m sure Jesper would love to hear them after we’re done. After we leave the archives office, I need you to distract the guards if Inej or Jesper get stuck...maybe take out one or two if necessary.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t distract anyone. Kill, yes, but that seems like a bad decision.”

“It’s a last resort. Now, do you speak Suli? Zemeni?”

“No, I grew up in Kerch, I only learned Ravkan before coming to Ketterdam.”

“Well, let’s hope you don’t come across any guards then, otherwise you’re going to have to fake it. Now let's go, everyone get into place. El, you’re with me.”

---

Kaz and Elham stepped out of the carriage in front of the archives building in town. Kaz was dressed in clothes he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in the Barrel. His usual hat was replaced by a beret, his black coat for colorful drapes. Elham, however, definitely got the shit end of the stick. She was wearing a knee length poofy dress, bright fabrics and Suli silk adorning it. She wore a matching drape around her neck, the same one Kaz was wearing.

Elham was grumbling, rolling her eyes. “What, I don’t get a hat too? Honestly, Kaz, I look ridiculous! Not as ridiculous as you, but still, you had to pick this?”

“You have to blend in, El.”

“Blend in? I look like a wedding cake! At least you get to wear something semi-normal.”

“You’re supposed to look like a foreign artist, El, one good enough to be working for the King. You couldn’t show up in your normal attire, could you?”

She huffed, smoothing down the folds and fabrics of her dress, and Kaz stifled a chuckle.

“Oh, this is funny to you? Is that why you brought me, just needed a good laugh? Bastard.”

“I brought you to play the part. You’re here for the guard. Men fall for plots like this much easier when there’s a woman in a dress around.”

“Well, if you’re wanting me to seduce someone, you seriously missed the mark. Should've let me pick the dress.”

Kaz rolled his eyes, sighing. “You’re here to be the distraction. He’s not going to pay much attention to me if he’s looking at you. I don’t need you to seduce him, hence this dress. Stop grumbling, let’s go.”

---

They stepped inside the office, and Kaz greeted the man at the desk. Elham looked around, uncomfortable after having to pass so many people on the way in looking like that.

“Good day to you, sir! My name is Ivanovski, the sculptor.”

Kaz turned and motioned to Elham, who stood awkwardly behind him. “This is my wife, she’s the artist, a very good one at that. She doesn’t speak any Ravkan, she’s Suli, but she wanted to come along and see the archive building, right, love?”

Elham stifled her shock, and gulped, turning to the man at the desk, who, as Kaz predicted, only had his eyes on her. Elham hesitated, before slightly bowing, and nodding her head towards the man.

The man seemed to lose his annoyed attitude, smiling at Elham. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Exotic, there seems to be a lot of pretty women at the capital this year, it must be the winter fete. You’re a lucky man, Ivanovski, aye?”

Elham fought the heat that rose to her cheeks, stepping from foot to foot, flustered. Kaz’s face had gone cold for a second, his jaw clenched. He quickly recovered when the man turned back to him.

“Yes! Yes, she’s very beautiful, I’m the luckiest. Actually, the winter fete is what we’re here for. I am in desperate need of your assistance.”

Elham tilted her head towards the floor, no longer able to look in Kaz’s direction. She pretended to fiddle with the ribbons of her dress, lost in thought, while listening to Kaz talk.

“I am working on a real showstopper for the winter fete. I need the dimensions to the Little Palace entrances. The grand piece may be too grand to fit through the door frame. The King will have my head if his statuary must be parked in the courtyard. Can’t leave my wife here alone, can I?”

The man sighed, looking at Elham, before heading into the archives room to retrieve the prints. “Damned fete. I have to pull the blueprints every day. Wait here.”

Elham watched Kaz reach into his pocket to pull out the phosphorus, and so she shuffled in front of the man, stepping closer to Kaz, a bright smile on her face. She nodded again in the man’s direction, and he smirked, turning to head through the door. Kaz dropped the phosphorus to the floor, using the end of his cane to sweep it under the man’s foot, and it stuck to his shoe as he walked through the door, leaving a trail for Inej to use later.

Once through the door and far enough away from earshot, Elham let the smile fall from her face, whipping around to face Kaz, who looked very pleased with himself.

“I hate you. I can’t believe you made me do this. That man stared at me the entire time, eyeing me. You’re lucky I took my knife off of my thigh for this dress, otherwise I would have been tempted to use it. You weren’t much help either.”

“That was the plan. Can’t say I didn’t want to stab him for having to listen to him speak like that, though, but it worked, didn’t it?”

The sound of footsteps slowly approached them, and Elham quickly moved back behind Kaz as the man walked back in, handing Kaz a piece of parchment.

“Ah, may the Sun Summoner bless you!”

“Oh, I’m not a believer.”

Kaz leaned closer to the man, like what he was saying was supposed to be a secret his wife couldn’t here couldn’t hear. He eyed Elham, before turning back to the man. “No, truth be told, neither am I.”

The man chuckled, leaning in as well. “Why would you, you’ve got enough to believe in standing right behind you.”

Elham saw Kaz go rigid, and she stepped closer to him, getting his and the man’s attention. Remembering she was supposed to not know the language, she spoke brokenly, sounding unsure. “Ready? We go?”

Kaz was relieved to be leaving, placing a fake smile on his face. “Yes, love, we go.”

Elham waved goodbye to the man, smiling. He waved back, eyeing her as she and Kaz walked back out of the building to the carriage.

---

An hour later, and Elham had changed back into her regular clothes, knife strapped back onto her thigh. Kaz had decided the dress was too risky if she were to get caught on the grounds, and opted for the pair to both wear guards uniforms. Still, Elham was to remain scoping for other guards or for Jesper and Inej in trouble. If she had to, she’d attempt talking her way out. The knife was still a last resort.

Kad had also decided to keep her within eye shot near him, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention. Elham was stealthy, but she was no Wraith. And truthfully, although Kaz would never admit it to himself, after today’s events, he wanted her close. He didn’t very much like her being the distraction.

They were heading to their positions, Inej already inside, Jesper soon to follow. Kaz and Elham were slowly patrolling, on opposite sides of the courtyard, making their way to the meeting point outside the exit Inej would come out of.

Thankfully, Elham didn’t run into any guards. She had seen one on the way around, and quickly ducked behind a wall, clutching her knife. Kaz had held his breath watching her, but he remained at the door Inej would come out of, releasing the breath when the guard walked away. Elham made her way up the courtyard to where Kaz was standing. She took her place by his side, and hoped that if any other guards came by and saw them from a distance, they would just assume the two had been placed on watch together as an extra security measure.

It was a waiting game at this point. Elham every once in a while glanced at the door, scanning the windows and balconies for any sign of trouble. She let her thoughts shift away from the heist, knowing Kaz would be alert.

She had felt something on this heist.

She always felt something around Kaz, but she so often pushed it away.

She thought about how long she had known Kaz, when he brought her in at 14. He had told her about the girl he met when he was a kid, who turned out to be just another part of Pekka Rollin’s scam on him and his brother. He at the time had thought she was the prettiest girl in the world. He refused to say much else about it, it taking years for Elham to piece together the story.

But when they were 14, and Elham had been part of the Dregs for a few months, he met another girl. Elham couldn’t even remember her name, but she remembered how she felt around her when she would see her on a rare occasion. Jealous. The girl could hold her own in a fight, she was confident around the other members of the gang, and she had gotten Kaz’s attention. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, she was a year older than them, and she showed interest in him too.

The one thing about her that was distinct in Elham’s memory was the girl's walk. She walked like she owned the very place she stood, exuding confidence. Like she knew something you didn’t. Elham by now had grown into herself, she could be confident as well if she wanted to, but it took some time. Imogen was long gone, a fleeting moment in their past, but she left enough impact for her to stick in Elham’s mind.

While lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed Kaz’s gaze set on her, trying to figure out what she was thinking. He grew frustrated, finally just asking in a hushed tone.

“What are you thinking about? You’ve got that little crease in your brow, like when you’re really concentrating on one of those books you leave in my office. You’re distracted, so spit it out.”

Elham hesitated, before speaking. She knew he wouldn’t let it go. “Do you remember that girl from when we were younger, who had a kind of sidle when she walked? She had smashed that bottle over that one guy’s head for getting too handsy?”

Kaz stiffened, unsure of where she was going with this. He cleared his throat. “Imogen.”

That was her name. It fit her, Elham decided.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I was just thinking about her. You...you--”

Elham stuttered, and Kaz grew uneasy.

“What, Elham? I what?”

He had turned to face her completely now, and she felt uncomfortable under his gaze, like she wanted to shrink away.

“Today, when the man was looking at me, saying all of that stuff...you looked at me like I would see you look at her.”

Kaz said nothing, but he was fighting to keep the heat from rising to his cheeks, his posture becoming rigid.

“And I was just thinking about where I had seen that look on your face before, and it was when you’d look at her.”

Kaz stayed quiet for another minute, just staring at Elham, who was beginning to regret speaking up in the first place.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”

Kaz interrupted. “You know, you don’t walk like her.”

Elham’s face scrunched up, confused. “What?”

Kaz continued, eyes glancing over her. “She walked with confidence and her hips forward, but it was too cocky. She’s going to get herself killed, if she hasn’t already. You don’t walk like that. You walk with your knees slightly bent, like at any moment you could get into a fighting stance. And your weight pivots to whatever side you have your sword on. You walk like a Valkyrie.”

Elham knew she was blushing now, unable to hide it. She couldn’t think of a response, just staring back at him. She was growing and more insecure under his gaze, and he had picked up on it, of course he had, he always did.

He couldn’t pretend like he hadn’t thought about the earlier events of that day, the rage he felt watching the man eye Elham and talk about her like that. He felt a pit in his stomach watching her smile at the man, and fiddle with her dress. He had noticed Elham’s glances at him in the archives office, studying his face.

He couldn’t pretend like, even though he had picked one of the most outrageous outfits he could find for her to wear, that she hadn’t looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful, even with the cuts and bruises on her face from just the events of last week alone. But he had never seen her in a dress, even if it was that dress, and she was a sight to behold.

She was supposed to be the distraction for the guards, but she ended up distracting him. He hadn’t decided whether or not that was a terrible thing yet.

He looked at Elham a moment longer, sucked in a breath, and broke the silence.

“I remember Imogen. She was pretty. Would’ve been good in any gang. But she’s not here. She didn’t stick with me all those years, did she? She’s not my Valkyrie. That’s you, El.”

She felt tears prick at her eyes, and she gave him a nod, her voice shaky. “Yeah. That’s me.”

She stared a bit longer, and then broke their gaze when she heard the door open behind them, immediately getting into a stance ready to attack if need be. Inej walked through the door, Jesper following after her.

Elham cleared her throat. “Are you both alright?”

Inej nodded, sending her a smile, Jesper coming up next to her, slinging his arm around her shoulder.

“One step closer to paying you back, love.”

She laughed again. “I don’t know, Jesper, might not be enough. I may just have to settle for your company.”

“Come on, we have a heist to plan.” Kaz nodded at the Crows, motioning them to follow him off the property and back into town.

Elham took a deep breath, and Kaz turned to her, watching her collect herself, getting more comfortable again. He nodded his head towards the path once more, and she stepped in stride next to him, Jesper and Inej on the other side of her.

---

A/N - hi everyone, this is a longer chapter. i'm starting to put in some elements from the books, mostly involving kaz's backstory, i hope that's ok and not too confusing for those of you who haven't read it and have only seen the show. i'm a little unsure about how to feel about this chapter, so let me know your thoughts. feel free to comment or message me with anything, and thanks for the support!