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marveicinematics · 4 years ago

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sabbatical (steve x reader, smut)

Summary : In a universe where Steve Rogers kept his youth but gave his shield away to Sam Wilson, he takes a well deserved break with you, in a farm far away from New York.

Pairing : Steve Rogers x female reader.

Words : 1,650.

TW : Smut. Unprotected sex, rough sex, touching, dirty talk, oral (male receiving), massage.

Note : First time writing smut with Steve, who is one of my favorite character. Please, feel free to send in more MCU characters you would like to read smutty one-shot with, because I would love to try new things. Enjoy!

I’m open for request, just check the submit new stories button on my page. ♡

Two weeks had passed and both of you were still here, a smile on your face, and lighthearted. Maybe that was what life was meant to be. Since your boyfriend stopped being everyone’s Captain America and started being yours and only yours, you had never felt so good. Long nights without nightmares, moments of isolation — when he was under the shower or at the groceries — where you didn’t have to worry about people from other planets and other timelines attacking him, and hours of pure love, unbothered. Yes, you loved this sabbatical both of you decided to share.

As Steve was fixing the broken deck chair in the garden, you stayed in the kitchen cooking his favorite meal, staring at him through the windows. You must have been one lucky woman, you believed. How many people would have wanted this? Wanted Steve Rogers as their best friend, partner and lover? Possibly the whole country, yet here he was, with you. As he caught you looking through the window, a smirk appeared on his face, visibly amused by your actions.

“How long have you been checking me out?“ He asked when he entered the kitchen, five minutes later.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Steve.“

He chuckled, stepping closer to you to wrap his strong arms around your waist, resting against your back as he watched you cook.

“It smells good, as always.“

Steve loved complimented you, and you loved when he did so. Staying silent a couple of minutes, you took time to enjoy this simple moment of life, in the arm of the man you loved, as you finished preparing the meal. Turning off the heater, you turned around to face the strong blond man.

“You know, seeing you all sweaty fixing that chair was really hot. And feeling your body against mine isn’t helping me getting all those dirty thoughts away from my mind.“ Eyes filled with lust, you tilted your head only to stare at him for a second. You loved how puzzled he always seemed at first, when you were being inappropriate with him. It had been months now, but he still wasn’t use to how dirty your mouth could be.

"I’m glad I can turn you on without even trying, doll.“

Steve knew how much you loved this nickname, and how old-school it seemed, coming from your World War soldier. Pushing him away from your body, you forced him to rest his back against the counter, as your hands move to unbuckle his belt.

“I’m going to show you how much you turn me on, Steve.“

That smirk appeared on his face again, and you knew he was ready for it. Taking his pants and boxers down, you kneeled in front of him, giving him those good-girl eyes he liked so much. Your hand massaged his cock slowly, feeling it harden under your fingers slowly as you started pressing harder and moving up and down his shaft. Steve had always been reactive to your touch, and you loved it. Locking your eyes with his, you moved closer to give a lick at the tip, owning a groan from your man.

“Do you want me to suck you off, Captain? Do you want me to make you cum in my mouth?“ “Y-Yes !“ He was already diving into the pleasure your hand was giving him, as you pumped faster. Finally taking him into your mouth, you bobbed your head up and down, making sure your lips were giving him enough suction to making him moan your name in pleasure. He loved it. Taking his cock off your mouth to catch your breath, your hand moved faster to wank him.

“Steve, you better cum in my mouth, okay? Tell me I’m going to make you feel so good that you won’t be able to take it anymore.“

“It feels awesome, doll. Please, don’t stop..!“

And it was enough for you to dive back, cock buried deep inside your mouth as he started bucking his hips to meet your thrusts.

“Fuck, I’m.. close..“ He moaned in pleasure, legs shaking from the pleasure your lips and mouth were giving him.

Making sure you would help him reach his orgasm, you deepthroated him, and he climaxed crying your name out. The feeling of his hot seed in your mouth made you moan, well aware of how wet you had grown while going down on him. You swallowed every drop of his cum, cleaning your mouth with the back of your hand as you stood back up.

“That is not how I expected the day to start, baby.“ Steve said, pulling his pants back up.

You chuckled, kissing his lips before going back to preparing lunch for you and your lover. As the sun was shinning today, you decided to settle everything down under the porch, on the wooden table. You loved how close you could feel to the nature, here. While you were eating, you took time to listen to the birds and the bees, and the sound of the wind in the trees, as Steve was taking time to admire the woman he wished to call his wife, someday.

“The food is great, baby. Thank you so much.“

You smiled again, loving the feeling of having a man that loved you for who you were, and that wasn’t underestimating who you were. You finished your plate and looked at your boyfriend for long minutes with a feeling of luck, again.

“Do you want to try this old deck chair, doll? I’ll take care of the cleaning.“

You chuckled and nodded. While Steve cleaned the table and the kitchen, you went to lay down in the chair, the sun caressing your skin softly. It was a pure moment of bliss. To enjoy the sunbeam, you took your shirt and jeans off, using your matching bra and panties as a sunbathing suit — it wasn’t like anyone else could see you, outside from Steve.

“Are you enjoying the sun, baby?“

Steve walked back towards you after fifteen minutes, with a soft smile on his face. You nodded again, moving to the side to make room for him by your side. Despite his rather big and strong figure, he fitted, your body cuddling up against him. In a moment of tenderness, the blond soldier grazed your skin, rubbing on the few spots on your back — he even earned a few moans from you. He massaged your shoulders and kissed the back of your neck, and just like in the kitchen, you started to feel a wet spot on your underwear, squeezing your legs together in hope that he wouldn’t notice.

“You’re okay, doll?“ He asked as he rubbed another spot on your back that made you moan.

“Don’t stop..“ You simply asked, eyes closed while you clenched your legs together harder.

Your boyfriend didn’t hesitate, massaging your back harder only to get you to moan for him again and again — it was becoming obscene to moan so loud when he wasn’t even touching you down there, you thought. Slowly, he moved his hands down to your hips, grabbing the hem of your underwear to take it off. “What are you doing?“

“Making sure my woman is satisfied.“ His husky voice made you shiver, and you felt him undoing his belt and pants again, pushing them down behind your back. When you tried to turn around, his strong hand maintained you in position, and you suddenly felt his cock slide between your ass checks a few times, making it harden.

“Oh, fuck—“ You moaned again as his cock finally found his way between your thighs, and then inside your core.

You clenched around him, his cock pulsating inside you, as you took a minute to adjust to his size. He already penetrated you so many times, but you always needed a minute to adjust to how big he was. Super soldier thing, you believed. He grabbed your breast with one hand, and started to thrust inside you, pulling your body closer at each of his push.

“Steve, god, you feel so good!“

Your back arched against him as he picked up the pace, feeling your wetness dripping on his cock and between your legs. You were soaked for him, and Steve loved it.

“Keep talking, doll.“ And so you did, interrupted by your moans of Steve’s groans, the pleasure building up for both of you.

“Fuck me harder, Steve! I love the way y—you’re taking me. You’re so big. Oh my… Steve, don’t stop!“

It seemed to arouse him more, and he turned both of you around before entering you again. Now on all fours, Steve behind you, you were glad this house was the only one in the forest, or else the neighbors would have been hearing the sound of his body meeting yours harder and harder, his hips slapping your ass each time he moved back in.

“I’m getting closer!“ You cried out, spreading your legs wider to feel him hitting that spot you loved.

When he did, you back arched again in pleasure, and you were nothing but a panting and moaning mess, close to reaching your orgasm on Captain America’s cock.

“Fuck! Steve, right there!“

He could feel you clench around his hard cock, knowing how close he was too. But he needed to make you come first, so he reached between your legs, massaging your clit with his strong fingers. There was nothing soft in his strokes, and that was exactly what you needed. You screamed in ecstasy, hips bucking against him as you came hard.

“Yes, —coming! Fuck, Steve, oh yes!“

Pulling out, your man grabbed his cock in his hand and gave it a few strokes before releasing his cum all over your round ass.

“Ah, fuck!“ He moaned loudly.

Once again, you thought about how lucky you were to be living away from any other human-being — you both were way too loud to have neighbors.

#steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers smut #captain america #captain america x reader #captain america smutt #chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans imagine #avengers imagine #avengers smut #marvel smut #marvel imagine #marvel fanfic

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hopeintheashes · 3 years ago

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📝I looove the sweet, domestic/home-y sickfics, but I've also always kind of wanted to see your take on a sickBuck-in-the-field fic. Maybe he was feeling a little off, but some disaster happens -it's all hands on deck so, he jumps in (bc "a little cold isn't worth being a man down"). But then, something happens when they're out responding & Buck&Eddie get separated/lost from the group. Buck takes a turn for the worse & Eddie has to use his field medicine training to try to treat him best he can

Thanks for the ask! Things like field medicine are challenging for me because I don't know anything about field medicine... but basic first aid I can do. (I think. Please do not take this or any fic as me actually knowing what I'm talking about, lol.) So, here, have some illness + injury, with Eddie taking care of Buck in the field. :-) This was for the Follower Milestone Celebration. Prompts for that are now closed. Read it here or on AO3. Content note: discussion/description of wounds/wound care.

He could've called out today.

He shivers in spite of his long-sleeved uniform and the November sun and the steepness of the hill he's currently forcing himself to climb.

If he'd called out today, and someone else would've been called in. And it's Thanksgiving.

Well, not technically anymore, but when you work the kind of job they do, Thanksgiving falls on whichever day you've got off work. And for half the people on the other two shifts, that's today.

So no. He wasn't going to call out.

And hell, this isn't so bad. They'd been taking bets on which mall they'd be called to to deal with some Black Friday shopping-related disaster. Instead, they've been sent to look for two roommates who had, in a post-Thanksgiving fit of ambition, decided to hike a trail far above their experience level.

Or. To hike right off the trail, as the case may be.

God, he's tired.

They're out of sight of everyone else at this point; just him and Eddie following an old branch of the trail that's no longer maintained but that the hikers could have followed in their confusion. Dispatch has them on the phone, but their description of where they are sounds like every other square foot of the nature preserve.

His breath is tight in his chest. He's sweating, and shivering, and nauseous from exertion.

Eddie's focused, and steady, and looks like he's just strolling down the block.

Buck's next breath comes as a gasp, and his feet stutter to a stop of their own accord. Elbows on his knees. Trying not to heave. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.

"Buck?" Eddie, doubling back, coming in close. Buck tries to wave him away. "You okay? What's going on?"

He gestures at himself, up and down, like that explains it all.

And maybe it does, because Eddie's sigh doesn't even contain a hint of surprise.

Buck looks up at that. "What?" Breathless. Hoarse.

"I knew it. Yesterday at dinner? You were too quiet." He's got a hand on Buck's back, and then on the backpack handle. Taking some of the weight. Buck almost drops in relief.

"I can be quiet." The words scraping his throat.

"No." The backs of Eddie's fingers brush over his forehead. Gentle and concerned and fond. "You can't."

It's Eddie's touch that does it, he thinks vaguely when he shivers hard, and then again, and again, and then things are a blur of Eddie taking off his backpack for him and setting it on the ground and helping him sit down beside it, and Buck protesting weakly and then not at all as he coughs and coughs.

"Shit," Eddie mutters, and Buck feels his eyes fill with involuntary tears.

"Sorry." Broken, barely heard. "I can—" He trails off. "Sorry."

"Shut up," Eddie says, but it sounds like you're okay, I've got you, and the first of the tears fall.

The radio crackles with the other teams checking in. No luck yet. They'd have to get special permission for a drone or helicopter because of the protected birds. Between the lack of immediate life-threatening injury and the fact that anyone who would usually approve these things is at home with their family, it's just them. On foot.

And the hikers, lost and scared, asking dispatch over and over, Are they coming? Are they almost here?

He stands up abruptly and Eddie makes a noise of protest and surprise. Buck hauls his backpack onto his shoulders. It weighs a million pounds. He's dizzy, off balance. He shouldn't've stood up so fast.

He has a stubborn streak a thousand miles long.

He starts down a dip in the path, Eddie scrambling behind, because he will not be the reason those girls don't get found.

He will not.

His lungs are spasming in a way that makes him feel sick and his head is spinning and all his muscles burn, but in the end, it's the gravel of the trail, loose like scree on the steepest downhill yet, that takes him out.

"Buck!"

He's flat on his ass, blinking in surprise, trying to take it all in.

"Buck." Footsteps closing in, slowing down. Eddie, hands hovering, looking him up and down. "Are you hurt?"

He opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it again. Is he hurt? Everything hurts. But that maybe isn't the answer Eddie wants.

"Buck." Gentle and close. Buck looks up at him, tears in his eyes again. Still. "Take a second, it's okay."

This bitten-off sob, which is fucking ridiculous, he is fine. He slipped on loose pebbles and landed on his butt. Like a five-year-old. He is fine.

His palms are stinging. He holds them up to get a look, and the blood doesn't quite compute. Blood, and gravel dug in deep, and the delicate curl of pale skin where it should be lying flat. Ow? He furrows his brow, and then something clicks. Ow.

"Oh," Eddie breathes, and his fingers are careful under Buck's hands, taking their weight. Then one hand supporting both of Buck's, and the other tracing over the damage, careful not to touch.

Something else clicks, and he starts to shake.

"Okay," Eddie says, steady and calm. "Hands. Got it. Anything else?"

Everything else. He pulls in a breath, which just makes him cough, turned into his shoulder as best he can while Eddie still holds his hands.

The movement is enough to bring one hot point of pain to the forefront, glowing through the fog.

"My…." He stops to swallow. Tries not to start coughing again. "My ankle." He gestures with his chin toward his right foot. "Rolled it on the way down." Or maybe rolling it had sent him down. Doesn't matter now.

"Hands and ankle." Still so calm. Then, when Buck's breath catches again and he has to bury his face in his shoulder again: "And that cough." His fingers are still gentle on Buck's hands. "And your fever." Passing both of Buck's hands back into one of his so that he can trace the backs of his fingers against Buck's temple. "Anything I'm missing?"

Buck shakes his head. Closes his eyes. Then, with the smallest hint of a smile: "I mean, my ass kind of hurts. But I think that's gonna be fine."

Eddie huffs a laugh, but he's already pulling out his phone to shine the flashlight onto Buck's palms to get a better look. "Okay. This part's not going to be fun." He carefully releases Buck's hands. "So let's take a look at that ankle first." Then, thoughtfully, looking around: "There's some shade right there, if you think you can make it before we take off your boot?"

Buck grits his teeth and nods, and then, with another nod, he's being pulled to his feet by the elbows, Eddie making sure not to run into his palms. A wave of nausea, sharp hot-cold, but he breathes through his nose and lets Eddie walk him down the hill. He tries to distance himself from the pain; to pretend that this is happening to someone else.

He feels every step.

Eddie sits him down on a rock in the shade. Unties and loosens his boot. Pulls it off as slowly as he can, but Buck still gasps. "Wiggle your toes?"

It sucks, but he can, and after some more unwelcome poking and prodding Eddie nods. "I'm guessing sprained." Buck nods numbly, because he knows what's coming next. "Let me wrap it, and then we'll start on your hands, okay?"

He nods again, because there is no alternative here. He can feel the need to cough building in his chest, and he hates it and dreads it and can't fight it anymore. Eddie braces him with a hand on his chest and the other on his back, rubbing slow circles as he gets his breath back. Buck slumps against him. The adrenaline of the fall is wearing off, and everything just hurts.

The crackle of the radio, and Buck has the sick realization that they're going to have to tell someone what happened.

Tell everyone what happened.

He groans quietly and Eddie shifts a bit so that he can get to his radio without making Buck sit up again.

"Cap?" Steady, steady. "We've got a bit of a problem here."

Buck closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him: the explanation, the worry, the planning, the "good luck."

The only upside of their current situation is that they have well-stocked medical kits, along with food and water and other supplies. But—

"What if the hikers need this stuff?"

Eddie looks up from where he's wrapping Buck's ankle. "They'll get whatever they need from whichever group finds them. Which, I'm sorry to say—" he secures the wrap— "won't be us."

"Right," Buck whispers. Eyes down.

Eddie pats his good ankle sympathetically, then rocks back on his heels. "You ready for this next part?"

"No."

Eddie doesn't fight him, just rubs his knee and then stands up. Stretches out his legs. Pulls the supplies he'll need out of the bag.

Buck swallows thickly and braces himself. "Okay."

"Okay?" Eddie's eyes search for his, and lock in, and he waits until Buck nods to say, "Okay."

Gloves on. Tweezers out. Bottle of saline solution. Packets of gauze for afterward.

"Your choice."

Buck hesitates for a second, then sticks out his right hand, the one that took the brunt of the fall.

There's something about the inside of you being exposed to the outside that is very unsettling indeed, but it's the saline running over those parts that should be inside but suddenly are not that trips his vasovagal response.

Eddie's hand is on his back and his head is between his knees and he's gagging; he's faint; he's shaking hard, whole-body tremors like an earthquake.

What was that earthquake, 7.1?

If there hadn't been the earthquake he wouldn't've met Ali.

That's a weird thought.

He hasn't thought about Ali in a while.

Ali-Taylor-Abby, thrown backward in time like your body against the seatbelt when the brakes get slammed.

Car crashes.

Chim, pinned. Chim, stabbed.

Maddie's blood in the white of the snow, in the white of the collar of his sheepskin coat.

Eddie, in the rain and the mud and the impossible odds. I thought I lost you.

I thought I lost you.

He retches again.

"Okay," Eddie's murmuring; "Okay, okay."

Hold onto that voice like a lifeline. Eddie's here, alive, in the air and the heat of the afternoon sun.

Buck tries to grasp for him, but that's a terrible goddamn idea right now, and Eddie stops him with a warning, shushing sound. "I'm right here."

Some kind of sound, frustration and sickness and fear, and then Eddie's smoothing his hair back again.

"I'm right here."

Eddie kicks dirt over the mess on the ground, and gets him to lie down in the shade a little ways away. Recovery position, just in case. Arm outstretched so Eddie can work on his hand.

It's sick, dizzying work. He can feel the tweezers digging out the rocks. He's panting with exhaustion, and pain, and the way the ground is rolling beneath him. Eddie is talking quietly. Mostly about Christopher.

It helps.

The first hand takes so long that the adrenaline fades, and then it's just sick awfulness, the fever magnifying every sensation and mixing them together until he's heaving again, bile and spit in the dry, dry dirt. Eddie's wrist meets his forehead, wiping away sweat with the cuff of his uniform shirt, blue-gloved hand angled carefully away.

"Sorry," he whispers, eyes closed tight. The headache that started yesterday on his drive over to Eddie's for Thanksgiving dinner is a vice grip now.

"You're okay," Eddie says, gentle, and Buck shivers and tears leak from his closed eyes, and the dig-dig-digging goes on and on.

More saline poured into the wound, the world spinning, and then Eddie's bandaging his hand. Buck lets his eyes flutter open, and Eddie gives him a little half-smile. "One down."

"Oh god." Under his breath.

"The other one's not as bad." Eddie gives his arm a squeeze, then sits back to check in on the radio. "They're gonna send an ATV," Eddie says, correctly guessing that Buck's tuned out the staticky chatter. "Once they find the girls." He tries to keep his tone light and hopeful, but Buck knows that means the timeline is still completely up in the air.

"Okay," he whispers, and holds out his other hand.

It goes faster, this time; less blood and fewer rocks and more of the skin intact, but it's still torturously slow. Eddie's telling him about Christopher as a little kid now, back before Buck met him. When he first discovered the wonder of creatures and planets beyond this time and place: dinosaurs and woolly mammoths and Mars and Jupiter and the asteroid belt.

And then both hands are wrapped and he's coughing weakly, curled in on himself for warmth, and Eddie's stripping off his gloves and repacking the first aid kits and the backpacks and coming around to sit behind him with his back against a rock.

"C'mere," he says, and Buck curls up with his head on Eddie's thigh, still shivering hard and coughing into the dirt. Eddie pulls out the space blanket covers him up. "Just for a little while," he says, and Buck nods, because he knows he has a fever, knows the air temp is perfectly fine; knows that medically, Eddie shouldn't be letting him trap all of his heat.

"Thank you," he says: for the warmth, for the comfort, for patching him up; for his endless patience and gentleness and everything else.

Eddie runs his fingers through Buck's hair, pausing with his palm on his forehead. "Think you could keep down some painkillers? For your hands, and your ankle, and to get that fever down?"

His palms and ankle and head are throbbing. He nods, and Eddie comes up with pills and water and half of a granola bar that Buck grudgingly eats.

"My throat hurts," he murmurs when all of that's done, half-asleep with Eddie's fingers still running through his hair. He shivers, but it's sporadic chills now, the space blanket doing its work. Amends, "Everything hurts."

"I know." Low and familiar and so perfectly Eddie."They're gonna find those girls, and then they'll come for us, and then we'll go get you patched up and then I'll take you home. My place," he clarifies before Buck can even contemplate going back to his empty loft, and then grins. Buck can hear it in his voice. "Christopher will take good care of you."

"Not as good as you." Slurred with sleep.

Eddie hums, and it sounds like agreement. "Sleep for a while. I've got you."

He does.

#911fic #9-1-1 #buddie #hurt/comfort #follower celebration #by:hopeintheashes

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nincompoopydoo · 4 years ago

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PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— I’VE SEEN FIRE, I’VE SEEN RAIN ; PART 2 / ?

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 1909

SUMMARY: Being laid off isn’t very fun but Bruce tends to find himself even more entangled in your life, including his alter ego—Batman.

A/N: I’m loving this series and if you are, feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading my crappy stuff aka my daydreams <3

WARNINGS: Guns! Death threats! Crying! A mental breakdown!

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

James Taylor’s Fire and Rain plays like a funeral hymn on the record player, echoing through your studio apartment. You’re sitting on the ground, back against the ratty couch with a pizza box on your lap. You take a bite of a BBQ Chicken pizza slice, furiously wiping your tears away as you replayed the events from six hours ago. From being called to the principal's office to only be told that you’re one of the non-tenured teachers to be laid off due to cutbacks. Gotham High was...a tough school. The students were mean to you because well, you're young and always gave them the benefit of the doubt. Plus, you taught English Literature and frankly, your students didn’t exactly enjoy the subject as much as you wanted them to. Nevertheless, you’re devastated. Teaching was a dream of yours, and it’s being taken away from you. You cried all the way back home, tried to call your mother but it kept going to voicemail. You must have called someone else, but you don’t remember and couldn’t care less to check your phone—the whole day went by like a blur.

Then, there’s a sound. An insistent buzz, it’s the doorbell. You furrow your brows, not recalling ordering anything else other than the large pizza from Domino’s. Yet, it doesn’t cease, and you’re forced to bring yourself to stand on your feet, instinctively flattening your tousled hair to make yourself seem somewhat presentable. Like, you’re doing fine and you have everything completely under control. Maybe, you did call your mother, and she’s at the door. You’re hoping she is although she’s going to kill you for the mess.

Another buzz and you’re toddling across the wooden flooring and towards the doorway. It’s starting to become infuriating by the second, like a house fly don’t won’t stop bugging you. Considering the mood you’re in, it doesn’t take much to tick you off. Swinging the door open, you expected to see the radiant face of your mother but to your surprise, it’s not.

It’s Bruce.

Shit.

You haven’t seen him in two weeks.

You nearly choke at the sight of him in a slightly crumpled oxford blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair as much of a mess as yours and tired eyes staring down at you with concern. You note how Bruce is very charming, no matter how disarrayed he is. Meanwhile, you’re realizing the current state must be a little startling. Your eyes are probably bloodshot, hair still in a tangled mess and glaring tomato stains everywhere on your GCU t-shirt. This is such a low point for you.

“Bruce,” you say, voice raising an octave with wide eyes as you stare at him like he’s grown another head, “What are you doing here?” His frown is immediate, seemingly confused by your question. “You called me.” He gestures to his phone within his grasp. “It sounded bad even though I couldn’t make out what you were saying half of the time,” He chuckles and holds up a familiar looking paper bag “So, I got you bagels. Three of them. Thought you could use some of these.”

It takes a second or two for you to finally process what he just told you before your emotionally wrecked brain decides to do the most irrational thing ever—You just start sobbing. You’re crying so hard that it terrifies Bruce. He blinks, thoughts racing. The sight of you in complete misery strikes him like a punch to his gut and for the first time, he doesn’t know what to do. Not immediately. Yet, through glassy eyes, you manage to notice the way his face dropped and morphed into pure horror. Justification is key, you don’t want to weird him out and think you’re crazy. You wave your hand in the air dismissively, rubbing your eyes as you spoke between strangled sobs. “I’m sorry, it’s been a tough day and that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me all week.”

Oh.

Your words are a tug to the heartstrings, and it sends his head reeling but relief was all that overwhelmed him. Bruce would never wish to see you hurt, especially when it’s caused by him. Actions of affection were primarily reserved for those closest to him, but he never experienced the urge to be intimate and care so much for a person ever since his parents died. Yet, out of everyone, you’re the one that brings out the most in him. Moving closer to you, he reaches and pulls you in a hesitant embrace. You stiffened at the mere touch of his arms around you, unsure of what to do with yourself.

Sure, you had a fair share of intimate moments with the man but this, this was different. You couldn’t shake the thought of how something so warm felt so right, smelt right. Despite the fact you had been trying to suppress your feelings for Bruce, and this was doing the exact opposite of that, you can’t help but feel this was what you needed at the moment. So, you let your body sag, muscles becoming loose and you let yourself truly cry for the first time.

You end up inviting him in later, when your tears are dry. You eat two of the bagels, sharing the last one with him. You called a peace offering, a gift of appreciation, for the whole emotional massacre you unexpectedly shoved at him. He simply laughs, eyes crinkling with fondness. He thinks you’re beautiful, especially when your hair is wild, laughing like you don’t have a care in the world. It’s what keeps him grounded, to know you’re raw and very real. The next thing you know, you end up shuffling cards of UNO until the wee hours of the morning—exchanging knowing smiles and Bruce trying to pick a Wild Draw card from the deck to get you to lose. But, he lets you win anyway.

He slept on your couch that night, still in his dress shirt. You must've peeked a glance at his sleeping form, squeezed onto the couch that’s clearly too small for him. Cute. You snap a picture before heading to bed. For blackmail purposes, of course.

You end up working a night shift at a burger joint called Big Belly Burger somewhere in midtown. Your first week comes and goes, and you’re starting to hate how your uniform itches and how the restaurant can get really filthy by the end of the day. Yet, it’s the kids from Cameron Kane High that come after school that keeps you going because it makes you miss being a teacher even though they tend to leave a mess after a meal.

Thursday comes and you’re exhausted. Even so, you’re thankful it’s a slow night. You’ve done all your cleaning duties earlier on and Lucie, the manager went out to buy a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store around the corner. Hence, it’s just you, slumped against the counter, devouring a Triple Belly Burger.

You’re half way through the burger when you hear the door swing open. Expecting to see Lucie, you turned around to see two men brandishing handguns your way. “Everything from the register, now!” The taller masked man shouted, gun gesturing to the cash register. Your eyes are wide, and you can feel your chest heaving. There was no way you’ll be able to fight them. Not two of them with guns pointed at you.

The burger drops from your hand and so does your heart. With trembling hands, you slide the drawer of the cash register open and begin pulling out dollar notes. From the corner of your eye, you spot your phone on the counter, close enough for you to make an emergency call. Your eyes scan the two men wearily and with every ounce of courage you had left, you managed to unlock your phone, pulled up the messaging app and texted the first name on the list: Bruce Wayne.

help, was all you managed to say.

To say your luck ran out was an understatement; you were never lucky anyway. One of the robbers must have caught on to what you were doing and just as the call goes through, he snatches your phone away, throws it onto the ground and shoots it.

So close, yet so far.

You don't know if the message got through.

The muzzle is now inches away from your forehead, and you hear the cock of the gun. “Don’t you dare pull somethin’ funny like or I’ll blow your brains out. Give us the money, now.” It was in that moment, your tears give way and your life flashes before your eyes. You pray for a miracle, a savior.

Then, you see him.

A looming figure appears by the doorway and your breath hitches. It’s Batman, looking like a Goddamn angel. The robbers seem to realize this too, guns quickly directed towards the vigilante. He launches batarangs to the pair of men and immediately disarms them. In a flash, he knocks them out, unconscious bodies dropping to the ground like dead flies.

You stare at him in awe although he’s very frightening and intimidating but Batman...just saved you. Now, this is a story you’re going to be telling everybody until the day you die. He approaches you with caution, and you instinctively take a step back. Then, he calls you by your name like it’s second nature. You stare at him with blank amazement, brows raised.

“You know my name?” Your voice dwindled; It’s so soft and timid you hardly hear yourself. Despite the mask, the vigilante looks like his brain just short-circuited for a moment. He clears his throat.

“...Bruce has mentioned you.”

You ignore how his synthetic voice makes every hair on the back of your neck stand and the familiarity that struck for a split second when he said your name because you’re too wrapped up with the fact that Bruce has discussed about you to his other ‘best friend’ as one might call it. Brooding over this lump of a thought, the corner of your mouth twitches. “He did?” you say with a hint of affection. It’s hard to read the man under the mask, whoever he was but you’re certain he looked taken aback by your response. Maybe, it was the way you delivered it—the longing in the very core of the expression. You may have outed your feelings for Bruce to...Batman.

This doesn’t get any stranger than that.

“Yes,” he replies curtly, and you hear the police sirens afar. “Are you hurt?” Like the true caretaker of Gotham, he wants to be sure you haven’t been injured. You shake your head, lips pressed together. The whaling of the police sirens grow louder, lights of red and blue flashing before your eyes. He appears like a shadow against the glaring lights from the police cruisers and before you can blink, he flees with a muttered ‘Goodnight’ and disappears before the police come flooding in and does Lucie. The poor woman looked at with frantic eyes as soon as she glimpsed the two men on the ground, groaning in pain.

The glint of the batarang on the floor captures your attention, you smile at this.

You may or may not have taken it back to your apartment that currently sits proudly on the bookshelf in your living room.

You’re so telling Bruce.

TAGLIST:

@raineeace

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #justice league

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shini--chan · 4 years ago

Note

OKAY IMAGINE THIS - by some mirracle, s/o get teleported back in time to the pirate era and suddenly just drops from the sky as Antonio and Arthur are battling! Everything comes to a halt because a friggin woman fell from literally nowhere - Arthur is quicker and he captures s/o first, DEMANDING to know where she is from, how did she get here. Poor s/o tries to tell him the truth but it just isn't working. How stupid do you think Arthur is, huh?! He's not buying what you're selling love! (1/?)

Oh blazes, my dear. You’re trying to seduce me into writing a novel for you, correct. Well, not today (sadly) so I’ll be going ahead with my usual mixture of headcanons and snippets. Also, to everybody out there: Requests are still being accepted – I just can’t bring myself to close my ask box.

Also, I wanted to write Arthur’s and Antonio’s lines in an older English, but then I remembered what it was like having to read books from the 19th century for school and decided not to inflict the torture upon you.

Yandere Love Triangle: England vs Spain (Historical Pirate AU!)

As mentioned in the ask, you would be minding your own business, more or less, when you would suddenly be granted two of the wishes many harbour in their hearts: to time travel and have an adventure. Unfortunately for you, that wouldn’t happen with a forewarning and you wouldn’t have any chance to blend in. I wouldn’t say the battle would completely stop – with all the smoke and gunpowder and bangs going on only those close by would have a chance noticing.

Antonio was having a wonderful day. Yes, extremely wonderful. Life on the ship had been very good as of late, supplies running high and spirits even higher. They were reaching their climax now, with Spain showing England the business ends of sword and cutlas and cannon. It was a fitting sort of revenge being able to rob the lilly-livered bastard after he had stolen so much Spanish silver and gold.

The runt in question was baring his teeth and snarling like a cornered dog while their blades were interlocked, when Antonio heard a loud crash from behind England. It was probably just part of the ruckus of a sea battle, yet something – his fantastic intuition most likely – advised him to take a look. Of course, making the other combatant to move just how he wanted proved to be tricky, because Arthur had always been an uncooperative like blight and liked to fight dirty.

Yet he wasn’t a famed duellist for nothing. The sight that caught his attention when he got the opportunity to see it nearly caused him to lose an arm due to inattention. Men of both sides had briefly abandoned the battle to crowd around a failing figure that was desperately trying to free itself from a tangle of nets and torn sails. The onlookers whispered amongst themselves. The chorus of voices only grew louder when a very confused woman.

He found himself remarking: “It seems like you’ve finally started to develop a good taste in bed mates. Say, when did that happen, fishy. I always thought that you’d have luck to get a starved old tramp to warm your bed.”

“Shut up, Anthony!”, came the immediate reply, proving that the island nation wasn’t aware about what he was playing at. “Let’s not get on about you. Or should I tell your precious monarch about what you do in the stables when all the servants are gone?”

Pathetic little weasel. Enraged, Antonio brought the hilt of his sword down on that pale, cruel face and busted a pair of thin lips. “You should guard yourself from spreading lies, English pigdog. Or else the Almighty himself will smite you.”

Naturally, being the cunning demon he was, England used the opening Spain had provided him to barrel into him and send him flying overboard and into the sea.

That action would be quick to turn the tides, especially with so many men coming to aid their captain and help him out of water. This would result in Arthur then discovering you on his ship, probably when his first mate would rush to him and explain that a very strange women in a strange get-up had just suddenly appeared on the ship.

England would go and investigate and discover you surrounded by his crew, each of them having different responses to your presence and hence causing quite a commotion. He too would find you utterly alien – in your attire, in your mannerisms, even in your speech. But Arthur would be ever the pragmatic and reason that there would have to be another explanation to your appearance, one that doesn’t include miracles. But because he wouldn’t have either the time or the head space to deal with you at the moment, he’d have to thrown in the brig with strict orders to leave you alone. That would also be a way for him to torture you and force you to wallow in your worries and terrors.

The brackish water of the brig had long since made your feet wet, cotton soaks completely soaked through and chilling you. The stench it all emitted, and Arthur’s relentless questioning only further enhanced your discomfort.

He was prowling in front of your cage-like cell, like a tiger in the zoo. Only that he didn’t want to break out, rather that he was being continuously tempted to drag you out of your cell and onto the deck to be flogged for your insolence.

“At every turn you say to me that you’re from the future and that you don’t know how you came here”, he rehearsed the main points of your conversation with him. There had been a snarl on his face the whole time throughout the interrogation, his anger only making his voice curl tightly around the vowels and roll the r’s harder until you had to strain to understand him.

Mutely you nodded – you yourself had come to the conclusion that he understood you better when you kept your words simply, underlay them with gestures and expressions and spoke slowly.

In return, England shook his head and spat: “I do not believe you. Going backwards in time is impossible, it only goes forward.”

In any other situation you would have been inclined to agree with him. But you were living proof that there were glaring exceptions to that rule. Having unexpectedly landed in a long-gone era, you had first found yourself desperately grappling with your new reality. You had pinched yourself and read the letters on crates and barrel and closed your eyes and read them again to see if anything had changed – everything to assure yourself that you were dreaming.

You weren’t, nor had you taken any psychedelics, so this was painfully, gruesomely real. A fact that Arthur wasn’t excepting even with evidence right past the tip of his nose.

“Then how do you explain the ripped sails then? How do you explain my strange clothes?”, you questioned him. Then, after a brief pause, you asked: “How do you explain that I know who and what you are?”

You knowing that he was a personification of a budding Empire was a sore spot for him and made him even more suspicious of you. Something that was now backfiring on you.

He waved your words off with evident irritation and countered: “There are more reasonable explanation for all of that. That you’re a spy from a foreign country for example.”

Arthur would never cease with side-eying you and constantly be on the look-out for more logical explanations for your otherness. He would find them as well. Yet there would always be a little voice in the forefront of his mind nagging him that you are telling the truth and that he was wasting the opportunity of the millennia by blowing your words in the wind.

Those doubts would be the main reason he would keep you alive, along with his quest to extract the “truth” from you. However, there would be times when he would be tempted to fetch those thumbscrews from his quarters to see if you’d crack under pressure. Yet he would still restrain himself.

That wouldn’t mean your stay on his ship would be pleasant. You’d constantly be wet and cold, with rats crawling around the brig and your meals being a near inedible gruel that would be set aside for you.

Therefore, it would be an absolute relief when Spain would swoop in to rescue you. It would be an even greater wonder when he would actually listen to you and take into consideration what you would say.

“Tell me if I’ve got this right: In the future, you don’t send letters anymore that take months to reach another country. Instead, you send messages from small machines which the other person can read only after a few seconds, no matter how far away they are”, Antonio summed up what you had just cautiously explained to him.

You had been so shy when he had taken you aboard his vessel, so afraid he would just maltreat you like Arthur had. It had taken its time for him to convey that he was different from that godless brute, that he was civilized and patient. He wouldn’t disregard miracles and let them slip through his fingers. It had taken its own sweet time to coax you into telling the truth, but now you were sitting across him in his quarters, nodding enthusiastically.

“More or less, yes. There is a lot more to that, but that is the start of it”, you affirmed his words. You were relieved that you finally had somebody to talk to in this time were you previously had nobody. The food being served helped you weigh yourself into safety – fresh fruit and other perishable treats, an absolute luxury onboard a ship with a sizable crew. Indeed, you were becoming so comfortable with your host, your lifeline at this point, that you were betraying things about your future that you otherwise wouldn’t have.

And wasn’t yet about detail concretely concerning him, but you would both get there eventually. Spain was sure of that.

Meanwhile you didn’t notice the hungry gleam in his eyes when he purred: “Fascinating, my dear. What else can these things do?”

Being a Catholic, Antonio would be far more inclined to believe you on the time-traveling thing. He would also add two and two together on your strange clothes and their material, not to mention your different attitudes and behaviours and realise that you would be telling the truth. He would treat you kindly as a way of getting you to talk to him, eventually becoming the only person you could trust.

He would guard you jealously and ensure that you would only speak to him – having knowledge of the future would be a right he would reserve for himself alone. It would also cause him to become obsessed with you, keeping you in his quarters or leading you onto the deck at night for short walk. Of course, he would paint the whole isolating thing as he keeping you safe, saying that Arthur was after you.

The argument with Arthur would have far more validity then Antonio would even imagine. The wisdom that you don’t know what you really have until you lose it would be especially true in his case. It would finally dawn upon him that you were telling the truth the whole time and that would lead Arthur to beat himself up over it. A pursuit to recapture you would ensue.

Not to mention that it would make his blood boil to think that Spain would be courting you, persuading you to tell him everything he could ever want to know about the future. Besides being a threat to his future existence and ongoing success, England would like to have all that knowledge himself and for himself only. Knowledge is power, after all.

Arthur would also miss you for your wit and endurance, fantasizing and dreaming of you to the point of obsession and never quitting his chase for you.

#yandere spain #yandere england #yandere hetalia x reader #yandere hetalia #x reader

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writteninkat · 4 years ago

Text

ii - rubies?!

word count - 1,903

warnings - mention of scars

"he's so tall and handsome as hell. he's so bad but he does it so well."

index

As you waited for April to come around, you spent your remaining days working out and training your quirk on your own. You didn't want to look for your father nor did you want to bump into him- the only time you wanted to see him was during UA's sports festival where you know he'll be watching so you can rub it in his face how good your life is without him.

As you work out in your apartment building's gym, you can't keep the blond out of your head. Was he doing alright? Should you have asked for his phone number at least? Where did he study? Was he even from this area?

Your mind races and wanders around thoughts about the blond, causing you to trip on your own feet on the treadmill. Before your hands come in contact with the running deck, you feel strong arms wrap around your waist, saving you from the fall but not from the embarrassment.

You take a few moments to stop and think about what just happened, allowing the whole thing to just sink in. I almost tripped because I was thinking about some guy. Stupid mistake.

Your savior puts you down beside the treadmill, hands immediately letting go of your waist. "You okay?" Despite having such buffed-up arms, he had such a sweet voice. You look to your right, checking to see the face of your knight in shining armor.

"My name's Izuku Midoriya." He smiles widely, extending his hand towards you. You take it, smiling back. "Y/n L/n, and yeah, I'm alright. Thanks for saving me, I could have attended my first day in UA with a bandage on my forehead." You chuckled, watching the guy's facial expression turn into excitement.

"No way! You'll be attending UA? That's crazy so am I!"

Your eyes widen, finally someone I can be close to in that new school. "What class are you in?" You move to turn off the treadmill, picking up your water bottle from the floor. You unscrew the cap, taking large sips as you looked at him, waiting for an answer. "Class 1A."

The water backfires, going down the wrong pipe. You cough out the water, rubbing your chest in pain as Midoriya pats on your back in worry. "You okay? Again?"

You wave your hand at him, coughing a few more times before clearing your throat. "So am I." Your voice comes out rough and broken but still understandable.

For the rest of the day, you chat with Midoriya, getting to know each other as you helped each other work out. Like whenever you needed help with your form, he'd guide you. When he needed more weight on his back as he did push up, you were more than happy to sit on him as you scrolled through your cellphone.

As the end of the day, before the two of you part, he asks for your number so it would be easier to contact you. You kind of regret giving it to him cause he wouldn't shut up about the heroes he looked up to. He was such a hero nerd you found it funny.

When he calmed down and told you good night, you hit the sack yourself, images of the angry blond with beautiful ruby eyes filling your head as you fell asleep with a smile. And honestly, that was the best sleep you've had in years.

You're walking yourself to your new school, heart drumming against your chest. The feeling was a little too nostalgic, it was the same feeling you felt back when you came to UA for the practical exam. It felt like time went by a little too fast. You calm your mind, remembering your mom's text to you earlier that morning, telling you good luck with your first day.

You try recalling your goal- to become a hero despite my father telling me I couldn't. To become a hero, to become a hero to become-

"Hey Y/n!" Midoriya waves at you, his smile as bright as the sun. It's sickening but you shrug it off, it suits his face. "Oh, I hope it's alright if I call you Y/n."

"Only if I can call you Izuku." You wink at him, smiling as you continue your way towards the building. As Izuku rambled on about how nervous he was for today that he couldn't sleep properly, your mind raced back to the thought of the school uniform being uncomfortable.

You were so used to wear pants that showing off your legs seemed taboo to you. Don't get it wrong, you like your legs, you think they're okay. But you've been wearing pants maybe eighty percent of your life that you don't like showing even your knees. You can't sit the way you want with skirts- especially if the way you want is your legs either parted apart as you sink onto your chair or your legs on the desk as you scroll through your phone lazily.

Given that it was school rules to wear a uniform, you decided to cover up your legs with black thigh high instead, cursing at the skirt for being a little bit too short for your liking.

"Here it is." Izuku points up at the board right above the classroom door that read 1A. "I just hope I'm not classmates with Tenya or Kacchan." He chuckles, reaching for the door.

"Tenya? That glasses dude who seemed like someone pissed in his cheerios the morning of the exam?" Izuku nods his head but your mind wasn't at ease just yet. Who the hell was this Kacchan?

Your mind wanders again but your thoughts clear away when you hear two people arguing.

"Take your feet off that desk now." You chuckle, recognizing that voice. You mentally send a sorry to Izuku's way.

"Hah?" And that voice too!

You look up, scanning the room and looking for your two new classmates who were arguing. Iida's back covers who he's getting mad at, forcing you to step inside the classroom to get a better look.

"It's the first day and you're already disrespecting this academy by scuffing school property you cretin."

"You're kidding me right? Your old school put a stick in your ass?"

As you thought, that voice belonged to the same guy who's been infiltrating your head ever since you met him. Day and night. However his attitude caught you off guard, he wasn't this rude when the two of you met.

"Rubies?" You say out loud, the blond, or as Izuku calls him, Kacchan looks your way, eyes widening at the sight of you in the same classroom as him. His once smug expression is wiped off his face as he stares at you, completely taken off guard.

Tenya and a brown haird girl who looked a little too much like Kirby approached Izuku and they began talking to him. You, in the other hand, are being pulled out of the classroom by the blond. His hand still as soft as you remember, his grip isn't even that tight around your wrist. Just enough to tug you to where he wanted to bring you without hurting you.

The two of you stand right outside the door leading to the back of the classroom. He turns around, smug expression completely gone and replaced by confusion.

"You never told me you went to UA." He says, stuffing his hands in his pocket as he leans his side on the wall. You cross your arms on your chest, leaning to the side as you rest most of your weight on one leg. "You never asked." The two of you look at each other in silence for a few moments, your heart going haywire in your chest as he keeps his eyes on you. Such eyes that could keep you in a cage of trance forever.

Bakugou opens his mouth but before he could get a word out, a tired voice cuts him off. "Get inside the classroom." He tired-looking man with unkept hair and peach fuzz tells you both. Was he the school janitor? Nevertheless, the both of you walked back inside the classroom, Bakugou's eyes silently telling you that the two of you were going to finish the conversation later.

You sat down on your seat, eyes following the same tired-looking man as he stood in front of the class. "My name is Shota Aizawa. I'll be your homeroom teacher from now on."

He hands all of you your PE uniforms, telling you all to quickly change into them. You follow the girls to the changing rooms and you hang your PE uniform on your locker, already unbuttoning your uniform but you stop yourself.

I can't show them that.

A girl with long black hair, similar to yours, looks at you from the side, her expression questioning. "I don't think Aizawa sensei is okay with late students. You should quickly change."

You wrap your hands around yourself, cringing at the thought of other eyes on your body. The girl's expression changes into a softer one and she smiles, "Don't worry, nobody here will judge. All bodies are beautiful the way they are."

Exactly, yeah. If these girls were going to be your second family until you graduate highschool, you shouldn't be afraid. You can trust them, right?

Slowly, with slightly trembling hands, you begin unbuttoning your uniform. Taking a deep breath in, you slip your long sleeve down your body, showcasing the many scars that littered all over your back.

You can feel the atmosphere change into a silent, much colder one and your thoughts begin to race. Was it wrong for you to show them this? You've only been together for a few hours, how could you show such a vulnerable side of yourself?

Your eyes squeeze shut, ready for the comments and snickers but instead you hear a squeal. "We have the same bra!" A pink girl squeals, pointing at her pink lacy bra. A smile creeps onto your face as the girl extends her hand towards you, "I'm Mina Ashido. Nice to meet you, twinnie!" She perks and as soon as you take her hand, she shakes it softly before pulling away.

You quickly dress up into your PE uniform, pulling your hair up into a ponytail. "Woah, L/n! The white streaks on your hair look so cool! Where did you get them done?" Mina asks, completely taken by your hair, her eyes sparkling as you flushed at her compliment. No one has ever complimented your hair so genuinely like that before, makes you feel kind of proud having it.

"It's actually natural. My dad has black hair and my mom has white." The girls begin to ooooh and soon after, you all have reached the fields. Aizawa stands beside a white square with a device in his hand, patiently waiting with lazy eyes on his students.

"You should put your hair up like that more. I think the white streaks are cool." Bakugou tells you, his eyes and face forward as he listens to Aizawa talking.

You wouldn't tell him, but his words had your stomach feeling weird things and you feel your face slowly heat up. You swallow whatever you were feeling and face forward.

"Don't tell me what to do, rubies."

You had to buy more ponytails.

#bakugou fanfiction #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou x y/n #mha bakugou #bakugou bios #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x you #bakugou imagine #bakugou fluff #mha imagines #mha fanfiction #mha fluff #bnha fluff #bnha imagines

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inventors-fair · 3 years ago

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Risky Business

So... I briefly mentioned in the contest post that there can definitely be such a thing as too much randomness. After all, chaos players are one of the most notoriously disliked EDH players, just behind stax and infect. But how much randomness is too much? I have a lot of thoughts on that question, and I have haphazardly tossed them below the cut. Read on, if you dare.

The first thing to consider is the inherent randomness of Magic as a game. Obviously card games need some level of randomness in order to function broadly. If players were allowed to stack their deck however they chose, we’d never see anything but the top seven cards of our deck. Therefore, even the most basic “draw a card” has a huge element of chance attached to it. Will you draw your game-ending bomb card, or your 15th land in a row? Magic is also a game of hidden information. While that’s not technically the exact same thing as random chance, it’s a similar enough concept that I’m fine with discussing it here. Just like you don’t know the order of your library, you also don’t know what’s in your opponent’s hand. Mechanics like morph and foretell play into this space too, forcing your opponents into a guessing game about what you might have at the ready. In the absence of all the information (like you would have in a game of chess), players must use what they have at their disposal to figure out what they can. If a player has two untapped islands, their opponent should be a lot more cautious about slinging spells. This was a bit of a tangent, but hey, it leads into my main point. Kinda.

Magic is a beast of a game, and it has carved out a really nice space for itself. Part of that success is how well it straddles the line between leaving too much up to chance, and not enough. The natural variance of deckbuilding, aided by the 4-of or 1-of restrictions, means that the majority of games are decided by a combination of skill and luck.

But why do players hate relying on luck? The easy answer is that it’s about a sense of control. In Magic, you can craft your deck around a particular set of cards, and increase your chances of seeing them by filtering your deck, or tutoring those cards, or including an additional playset of a different card that accomplishes the same purpose. Those are all knobs that you as a player and you as a designer can be aware of to help give players a sense of agency. On the flip (heh) side of things, there are few outcomes more frustrating than a player getting up from a game of Magic feeling like they didn’t even need to be there. Knowing that there was nothing you could have done to win makes for a very unfun experience, and that’s exactly what we try to avoid when designing cards. So the takeaway from this bit is that, as you design, try to make sure you aren’t overpowering the natural variance of the game with even more luck-based situations. Your card shouldn’t completely decide on the outcome of a game on a coin flip. It can nudge the game one way or another, sure, but be careful with the power level. Some custom designers look at a card and think “well, one outcome here is ridiculously overpowered, but it’s such a small chance of happening that it doesn’t really matter.” While it might be true that it won’t happen a lot, the few times that it does will really suck for the players involved. That one is more a matter of opinion than anything, but from my perspective, even a couple of the dice-rolling cards from AFR strayed a little too far over that line. But I digress.

The final thing I want to ask you to consider is the purpose of your card. Scrambleverse and Warp World are held up as two of the most annoying, egregious effects out there, because, well... they don’t do anything. Barring some insane luck, everyone involved will be worse off than when they started, and the game will proceed to drag on even further. Wildly random elements that take a long time to resolve but don’t have any major impact (or worse, a major negative impact) are exactly what I want you to avoid for this contest. Think about playing your card, and the energy it will bring to the table. Will the players lean closer towards the rolling dice, holding their breath until they see the outcome? Or will they groan as they realize they’re going to spend another 30 minutes trying to recover from the chaos that was just dumped on their laps?

The be-all end-all of this, I guess, is that Magic is a game. Which, I know, duh, but hear me out. Games are meant to be fun, and we wouldn’t all be here if we didn’t enjoy it. So the lesson I want to bring away from all this, for this week and beyond, is that your card should be fun. Obviously good designs incorporate more than that (much more than a single post could encompass), and fun doesn’t necessarily have to equal exciting (vanilla commons have their much-needed role as well), but they should contribute to the positive atmosphere of a game. After all, if we ever reach a point where there are more un-fun Magic cards than there are fun ones, that’ll be the point where the game probably dies out. We’ll never reach that point, but you get where I’m going.

Anyways, I’ve rambled on for long enough, and congratulations if you made it this far into my tangential rants. I hope this brings some clarity about what I’m looking for in this week’s submissions (and in the submissions for all contests, I suppose). As always, if you have any questions/comments/concerns, you know where to find me.

judge @naban-dean-of-irritation, going to play some poker. (Not really, I’m just going to go play more Magic instead.)

#thoughts and musings #mtg #magic the gathering #custom Magic card #inventors-fair

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inherhouseshewaitsdreaming · 7 months ago

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Queen of Coins

I'm going to be posting daily prompts to inspire writing, art or journaling. Use these as you would like to help keep your creative practices moving.

Key words/ideas:

self-made wealth

nurturing success

the abundance of nature

Some thoughts that occur to me:

A character who is connected to nature achieves success that is normally its opposite. How does she achieve this without compromising her morals?

In Rumpelstiltskin the titular character can spin straw into gold. Make a magic system based on this concept. How would a world in which this can happen be shaped by it?

Imagine a future where wealth is based on the abundance of nature in a positive way. Who is the ‘queen’ in this world?

Note that cards are drawn at random and may be drawn more than once. In that case I will repost with an additional idea. I am going to cap the number of repeats at 3 until I’ve been through the whole deck, but other than this I let the luck of the draw decide. Coming up with more ideas for the same card will force me to be more imaginative and its something I strongly recommend.

#writingprompt #prompts #writing #tarot

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bedlamsbard · 4 years ago

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Part two of the reluctant roommates AU concept! A reminder that my concept writing is deliberately not titled, chaptered, or betaed and is generally low pressure writing. (I think to some extent I burned myself out on the titled stuff, but that’s for another post.)

Previous: Part 1

About 8.2K below the break.

Please note that while I don’t generally do content advisories, this contains discussion of fairly severe (unnamed) depression and anxiety, as well as physical abuse (about the same as other Inquisitor!Kanan concepts).

Agent Syndulla’s fear made Kanan’s back teeth ache, leeching into his dreams and giving him a flurry of nightmares that he knew had to come from her, not from within himself. He woke with a start and lay in the unfamiliar bunk with one arm thrown up over his eyes, feeling like a voyeur despite the fact that he hadn’t done it on purpose. Dreams weren’t a reflection of reality by any means, but they often had more to do with it than most people wanted to believe. From what he had seen in Agent Syndulla’s dreams, most of them had been drawn from her memory. He wished he didn’t know that.

At least it made a change of pace from his usual nightmares.

Eventually he made himself get up, wincing as his recently broken ribs twinged with the movement. They were mostly healed now, but were still fragile and painful, liable to get broken again if he wasn’t careful for the next week or so. With any luck, this particular assignment wouldn’t involve getting shot or stabbed or thrown off in any cliffs, though given the way the past decade had gone Kanan wasn’t sure he really believed in luck anymore. He still felt as though he had used up whatever he had remaining to him getting away from the Hunter for however long that lasted.

He dressed slowly, careful of the ribs as well as the rest of his assortment of healing bruises, cuts, and other miscellaneous injuries. Some were from the assignment where he had gotten his broken; some were the Hunter’s parting gift, since his master had been extremely displeased by the order that split them up for the foreseeable future and Kanan had taken the brunt of his ire. He touched his tongue to what he thought was a loose tooth and winced at the confirmation, feeding the Force through it to reseat it in the gum.

He could sense the Agent Syndulla was awake now, her attention focused on something other than her fear. Kanan delayed leaving his cabin again as long as he could, not wanting to disturb her, but eventually had to answer the call of the refresher. He was washing his hands when he sensed her sudden realization that he was awake and the spike of terror that followed, and winced. He was used to people being afraid of Inquisitors, but usually his master got the bulk of that kind of attention; when it was aimed at Kanan it tended to be mixed with an odd kind of pity and relief. People in the Imperial service expected nonhuman Inquisitors; they didn’t expect human Inquisitors, especially one with the right accent and one who was so obviously subordinate – as well as other things – to a Pau’an. Service members looked at the Hunter and felt fear; they looked at Kanan and thought, thank the gods that isn’t me. It shouldn’t have surprised him that a nonhuman officer would feel differently.

He splashed water on his face, running a finger along the line of his jaw and the new growth of beard there; he eyed it in the mirror and decided to leave it for now. It was something he hadn’t had at the Crucible, anyway, and at the moment he felt rather desperate for anything to remind him he wasn’t just the Hunter’s Hound.

He ran his damp fingers through his hair, finger-combing it, then drew it back into a short tail at the back of his skull. When he couldn’t think of anything else he could do to delay, he went back out into the corridor, and then up to the cockpit where he could sense her presence.

She jumped as the door slid open, having obviously not heard his approach, and Kanan flinched back, startled by her reaction. They stared at each other for a few moments as her astromech grumbled threateningly at him, then Agent Syndulla dropped her gaze back to the datapad she was holding.

She was a beautiful woman, the kind of woman he would have tried to seduce back before the Hunter had dragged him to the Crucible and beaten the spirit out of him, and he thought he probably could have succeeded, too. He was hardly about to try now; for one thing, she was clearly terrified of him, and for another, the idea of letting anyone else touch him after the past few years was agonizing. Even a pretty girl.

He said, “Can I get you some caf, while I’m up?”

She gave him a wary look, then said hesitantly, “All right.”

“How do you take it?”

“Milk and sugar,” she said after a moment. “A lot of both.”

Kanan nodded to her in what he hoped was a friendly fashion – he wasn’t sure he knew how to do that anymore – and let the door slide shut between them as he stepped back. He took his time making the caf, pouring equal amounts of milk and sugar into her cup, and enough sugar into his that the spoon nearly stood up. He had started drinking caf while he was in the field with the Grand Army of the Republic a decade ago, and after the first time he had spat out his mouthful – to the uproarious laughter of Styles and Gray and Depa Billaba’s barely concealed amusement – any clone who had made it for him had sweetened it enough to be tolerable for his palate. He’d never lost the taste for it that way.

He took both mugs back to the cockpit. Agent Syndulla didn’t jump when he came in this time, but she had clearly been braced for his return. She took the mug from him with polite murmured thanks but didn’t sit back in her chair, sitting with the balls of her feet pressed against the deck, as if bracing herself against the need to suddenly flee. Kanan prudently took the seat furthest from her and only belatedly realized it was the one nearest both exits. He could tell from her fast, sideways glance towards the door to the living quarters and the hatch to the hold that she knew it too. The droid grumbled again, rolling so that he was placed defiantly between the two of them, then swiveled his dome to glare at Kanan.

Agent Syndulla took a sip of her caf, looking a little wary at first, then surprised. “I didn’t know it could taste like this,” she blurted out.

“I worked in a tapcaf once,” Kanan offered. “Some of it stuck.”

She looked badly startled by that response.

He could have told her that he hadn’t always been an Inquisitor, but he wasn’t in the mood for the kinds of questions that might inspire. He sat back and drank his own caf instead; neither the caffeine nor the sugar would do much for him, since Force-users processed most kinds of stimulants too fast for them to have any meaningful effect, but the taste helped wake him up.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking their caf, until Agent Syndulla finally settled herself, as if bracing for a fight, and said, “I’ve been looking at the files you sent me.”

Kanan raised his gaze to her. She was, if nothing else, lovely to look at, but she wouldn’t have made it to the ISB or lasted this long if she was just a pretty face. She clearly didn’t enjoy being under his scrutiny, though – most people weren’t when it came to Inquisitors – so after a moment he flicked his gaze slightly away from her.

“There’s an auction the day after we’re scheduled to arrive,” she went on, after a moment’s brief hesitation. “We could call in the local Imperial garrison for backup, but if the regulars could deal with this, then they would have done so by now.”

“This isn’t the sort of thing they’re really equipped to handle,” Kanan said. If it had been, no one would have bothered to send an Inquisitor and an ISB agent to deal with it. Though he had his suspicions about why the Whip had assigned it to him as his first solo assignment. He was less certain about what it had to do with Agent Syndulla and didn’t have enough of an idea about the ISB’s internal politics to even begin to guess.

She nodded in response to his comment. “Depending what the situation is like, we might want them later, but Barzhun doesn’t have a large Imperial presence. As far off the beaten path as it is, it’s not impossible that the local garrison has some sort of relationship with the black market there. It isn’t unheard of.”

And was usually the job of the ISB to deal with, though on occasion the Inquisition dealt with corrupt officials instead. Kanan nodded. “What do you want to do?”

She looked a little surprised that he hadn’t just tried to give her an order. Kanan said in explanation, “Most of my assignments have either interfaced directly with the local garrisons or been – ah, more direct. And my ma – I wasn’t the one who did any of the planning.”

He saw her lekku twitch slightly at the slip, but she didn’t ask about it. Instead she braced her shoulders again and said, “Can you pass as a civilian?”

Kanan glanced down, giving the question due consideration because it had been a long time since he had been in a position where that was even an option and he wasn’t immediately certain of the answer. “Yes,” he said eventually, “but I don’t have any civilian clothes.”

When she looked a little worried, he added, “I’ve got clothes that don’t have the Imperial seal on them.” And there were plenty of civilians who only wore black or gray. “You’ll have to lend me a blaster, though.”

She met his gaze for an instant. “Can you use one?”

“I wasn’t always an Inquisitor.” He looked her over, this time with a more a critical eye than he had done before; past her prettiness she was muscled under her gray ISB field uniform, her holstered blaster a natural extension of both uniform and self. He had also noticed earlier that her lekku signals were erratic, not quite explicable to anyone familiar with Twi’leks “Can you pass as a civilian?”

“I’ve done it before.” She glanced down, clearly uncomfortable under his inspection. “Chopper too.”

“That I can believe,” Kanan said.

That startled something that was nearly a smile out of her, a quick flash of amusement that warmed the Force for no more than an instant as the astromech grumbled at them both. Then she dropped her gaze again. “The HoloNet posting on the darknet said that there would be a reception the night before the auction for potential bidders to review the items up for auction. I assume that you’ll recognize what we’re looking for?”

Kanan nodded. “I’ll know.” And a Twi’lek and a human together wouldn’t make anyone look twice at them, no matter how they played it. Both were common species and common in company with each other.

Agent Syndulla looked at the chrono, then said, “We should be making planetfall in two hours and the reception is in six.”

“All right.” He started to stand up, putting his hand out for her empty caf cup.

She handed it to him once she realized what the gesture meant, then hesitated, looking up at him. Kanan stopped rather than leave the way he had intended to. “What is it?”

“I can’t call you ‘Inquisitor’ in the field,” she said, sounding uncomfortable. “Do you – do you have a name? That I can use, I mean?”

Kanan bit his lip. She didn’t know how loaded that question was, and he wasn’t about to answer her with “the Hound.” Still, it took him a surprising amount of effort to say, “It’s Kanan.”

No one had called him that in almost four years. Sometimes he was surprised that he could remember it at all.

Something about either his face or his voice must have made her realize the gravity of the confession. She said, her voice suddenly very shy, “Thank you.” She hesitated, then said, “My name is Hera.”

He hadn’t been expecting that, and the surprise must have showed on his face. She shifted uneasily in her seat, then looked away, embarrassed. “I’ve sent you the ISB files on the local garrison and government,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you had them.”

“I don’t. Thank you.” He looked back at her for a moment, putting personal name and surname together, and blurted out, “Syndulla is a clan name.”

Her eyes went wide. He felt her low-grade anxiety snap into sudden fear, jolted from its previous course onto a new path. “Yes,” she said eventually, small-voiced, and then, with a defensive edge, “There are thousands of Syndullas.”

“I’m sorry,” Kanan said; he could tell he had said something that he should have avoided.

She dropped her gaze, but it didn’t do anything to hide the unease juddering along the Force.

“I’m sorry,” Kanan said again, then fled before he said anything else stupid.

Hera knew from personal experience that she mostly just looked uncomfortable in civilian clothes, which wasn’t exactly something she could do anything about. She suspected that if she had been human she could have attended the black market auction in an Imperial uniform, if not an ISB one, and not had anyone look twice at her, but a Twi’lek in uniform always got attention. At the moment she felt even more obvious in her plain dark spacer’s trousers and jacket, as if she was wearing a beacon or a sign that said “I’m an Imperial agent, ask me how.”

She snuck a sideways look at the Inquisitor, who was slouching in the co-pilot’s chair next to her. Hera didn’t like having him that close, but since they were working together she couldn’t exactly justify not letting him be there as long as he didn’t touch anything. She supposed that he had to be able to fly, though she doubted he had ever flown a freighter like the Ghost before. Basic piloting was required for officer candidates at the Imperial academy, but unless you were tapped for pilot training, the Naval Academy, or the ISB Academy, most officers never actually had to fly anything larger than a landspeeder or anything faster than a speeder bike. She had no idea what Inquisitors learned or how they were trained.

Without his armor or his lightsaber he looked less like an Inquisitor than she had been worried about – less so than she still felt she looked like an Imperial agent, even dressed in all black. He wore the DL-18 blaster pistol she had found for him – its grip was too big to be comfortable in her own hand, so she had thought it might work for him – and somehow managed to look as if he had been carrying a blaster for most of his life, not a lightsaber.

He straightened up as they entered atmosphere and entered one of the flight lanes on approach to the planet’s capital city. If any of the other ships in the flight lane happened to glance into the Ghost’s cockpit, they would see a pilot and a copilot both apparently doing their jobs, though Hera hoped the Inquisitor didn’t actually touch anything.

“You can fly, can’t you?” she asked him reluctantly.

He flicked a glance at her. “Yes.”

“Freighters or just starfighters?”

“I’ve flown freighters,” he said after a moment. “Not recently, but I’ve done it. Cargo freighters, mostly, short-haul – longer haul sometimes, but not as a regular thing.”

Hera turned to look at him in surprise, trusting Chopper not to let the Ghost veer off course. The Inquisitor was stubbornly not looking at her, his gaze fixed on the viewport in front of him. I wasn’t always an Inquisitor, he had said a few hours ago. She had assumed that that meant he had been elsewhere in the Imperial service before he had been recruited by the Inquisition, though he wasn’t that much older than she was. Well, people came to the Academy from all walks of life, especially those recruited by the flight academies, who could sometimes skip normal Academy training. Presumably the Inquisition operated similarly.

She didn’t have anything to say in response to him and he didn’t seem to expect one, so she turned her attention back to their flight path. She set down in one of the spaceports in Kethun City, the planet’s capital, and had the Inquisitor transmit the docking fee while she and Chopper shut down the ship’s engines.

Hera eyed him again once they were outside the ship, standing in the small docking bay and trying not to frown at the drift of wind-blown dirt and yellowish pollen that coated the floor. She sneezed involuntarily, her eyes watering, and dug into her pocket for the allergy tablets she had grabbed when she realized what season it was here. She dry-swallowed them and hoped that on this occasion they wouldn’t make her sleepy, which they seemed to do at entirely random intervals rather than consistently.

In the thin light of the overcast sky that filtered down through the open hatch doors above them, the Inquisitor’s dark garments looked pale, nearly washed out. Black didn’t suit him, especially in daylight. Hera looked at him, sneezed again, then wiped at her streaming eyes and said, “We should probably get you more clothes.”

He flicked a wary glance at her, then relaxed slightly at whatever he saw on her face. “Is it that bad?”

“If we’re going to several days of receptions and auctions,” Hera said. On some of her ops he would be unremarkable, but he would stand out amongst the kind of people who attended black market auctions, and not in a good way.

“All right,” he said, sounding more weary than anything else. “Let’s go find the market.”

Hera was startled at how much the addition of colors to his garments changed the Inquisitor’s appearance. He looked deeply uncomfortable, as though he knew he wasn’t supposed to be wearing anything other than black and gray, but his green shirt brought out color in his face and pale eyes and eased some of the hollows in his scarred cheeks. Hera thought that he wouldn’t raise eyebrows or twitch tentacles in company now, or at least not for the reasons he would have done before. He also looked younger, more vulnerable, less dangerous; she wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Hera hated paying any attention to her appearance other than making sure that her uniform was neat and that none of her caste markings were showing, but for this particular occasion she made sure that she was wearing something that at least suggested she had more money than the average spacer. She didn’t even own any clothes that could pass muster as something a high-caste Twi’lek would wear, not that that was a distinction that would make much sense off Ryloth or outside the enclaves. Maybe not even the enclaves, but Hera avoided them whenever possible and had no idea what went on there. Being among other Twi’leks made her so nervous that it was often debilitating; she had almost failed her ISB Academy field trials for just that reason.

She left Chopper with the Ghost; even though this wasn’t her usual kind of op, she knew that in this setting an astromech droid might stand out – Chopper certainly had no talent for being unobtrusive. She and the Inquisitor got their cloaks and the speeder bikes from the Ghost’s hold – while the city was small enough they could have walked, there was always the chance that they would need to make a quick getaway. Hera felt a little better with the handles under her hands, anyway.

She watched the Inquisitor out of the corner of her eye as they sped down the road towards the site of the reception. He handled his speeder with a light, delicate touch, less heavy-handed than a scout trooper – more like a starfighter pilot than anything else, but not a TIE pilot, she decided after a few minutes of silent observation. That puzzled her, since privately owned starfighters were illegal except under very rare circumstances – not that you couldn’t make those circumstances come about with enough credits – and the vast majority of those available were TIE-variants. He must have learned on one of the others, since she knew Inquisitors flew TIEs. If he was aware of her attention, he didn’t show it.

They pulled up in front of a neon-lit nightclub, where they handed their speeder bikes over to a parking droid and received a claim token in exchange. Hera tucked it away, bemused, and fell into step with the Inquisitor as they made their way to join the queue at the door. The sound of pounding music from inside made her wince; she hated clubs and crowds alike.

The bouncer let both of them in after relieving them of their blasters, for which they both received claim tokens. If the Inquisitor had his lightsaber on him, the scanner didn’t turn it up; Hera wasn’t certain whether he had brought it or not, and hadn’t been about to ask. Hopefully he wasn’t so trigger-happy as to pull it out without absolute necessity, but having never seen him in action Hera had absolutely no idea.

Once they were inside and past the initial crush of people at the door, Hera surveyed the wide dark room beyond with distaste; it was full of beings of various species dancing, drinking, and eating, with a stage set up at the far end and a band playing something that she supposed technically counted as music, assuming you had no taste.

She glanced at the Inquisitor to make sure he followed her, then edged around the dance floor, past several shadowed – and definitely occupied – nooks. Hera fixed the instructions from the darknet posting in the front of her mind and hoped that the Inquisitor remembered them too.

After several minutes and a handful of propositions – to both of them, not just her, which was a refreshing change – they made it to the back of the club. A back hallway led to the kitchens and some refreshers that Hera suspected were intended for the staff rather than the patrons, as well as a door with a keypad on the control next to it. Hera punched in the code from the darknet, holding her breath until the door slid open, revealing descending stairs. It slid shut again as the Inquisitor stepped in after her and the pounding music from the club vanished as cleanly as if it had been cut by a knife. Hera let out her breath in relief.

She went down the stairs with the Inquisitor at her back and emerged into another room. It was a little smaller than the dancefloor above them, but more brightly lit and with far fewer people. There were still a good number of beings, but they were older than the club-goers and mostly more finely dressed. A pair of Togruta lounge singers draped themselves over the top of some kind of big instrument being played by a Nautolan who struck keys with a number of small hammers held expertly between his fingers.

A serving droid came up to Hera and offered a tray with a selection of stemmed and un-stemmed glasses holding a variety of colored liquid. “Drinks, madam, sir? I have alcoholic or non-alcoholic as you prefer –”

“Non-alcoholic,” Hera said; she could tell she was in the mood where alcohol would make her paranoid and angry, even if she drank on the job, which she didn’t unless there was no choice.

“The same.” The Inquisitor’s voice was soft.

The droid obligingly rotated the tray for Hera. “I have fruit juices, carbonated beverages, flavored waters from a variety of worlds –”

Hera accepted a glass of what she hoped was meiloorun juice – it was about the right color – and was gratified to find she was right when she tasted it. The Inquisitor chose a glass apparently at random and took a perfunctory sip; she suspected he had taken it mostly to have something to do with his hands.

Once the droid had gone, she sipped her drink and looked around the room. Another look revealed that there were a number of tall display cases placed at regular intervals; the beings gathered around them had obscured them from Hera’s initial observation. She flicked a look at the Inquisitor to make sure that he had seen them too, then moved towards the nearest one.

The beings already there – a trio of Rodian males, an Ithorian couple, and a human of indeterminate gender – all glanced up at their approach, briefly registered their appearance, then went back to their conversation. The male Ithorian moved aside so that Hera and the Inquisitor had a better look at the contents of the display case.

She heard the Inquisitor hiss softly through clenched teeth. The sound made the Rodians twitch, looking over at him before apparently deciding it was an expression of interest rather than – whatever it was. Hera glanced up at him worriedly, decided it was unlikely that he was going to snap and go on a murder spree – at least not in the next thirty seconds – and looked back at the case.

The contents were unremarkable, at least to her eyes – a set of four small sculptures of various near-human beings in long robes holding upraised lightsabers in different poses. They were made of some pale gray stone she didn’t recognize.

Hera was trying to figure out a discreet way to ask if this was what they were looking for when she realized that under the current circumstances, there was no real point in being discreet. She looked at the Inquisitor and said, “Is that it?”

He nodded without saying anything, his expression grim.

They moved onto the next display case, which held more statues and a stained glass window propped up with a light behind it. Hera glanced at the Inquisitor again and saw the tightness in his jaw; she didn’t bother asking this time, since his face was answer enough.

They rotated through several more display cases, all of which got the Inquisitor’s nod. Now and then someone new would come down the stairs, but by and large the occupants ignored each other, except for a handful who all obviously knew and liked each other well enough to speak to one another. Hera supposed that there weren’t too many people in the galaxy who traded in Jedi relics and most of them were probably in this room with her; she wished she had dared come down with a recording device so that the ISB could match known names to faces.

The serving droid came up to them again to take their empty glasses – well, to take Hera’s empty glass; the Inquisitor had barely touched his, but handed it over anyway. Hera accepted another glass of fruit juice and drifted over to the nearest case that they hadn’t inspected yet.

She felt the air change as the Inquisitor went absolutely still beside her.

Because she knew what he was, she looked at him first, not the contents of the case; some of the other occupants of the room had felt the shift as well and were looking around warily at each other or at the cases.

He was shaking so badly that she could hear his teeth chattering together, his stillness transmuted into fury that she could feel like a weight in the air. Hera shot a look at the case to see what it was that had upset him so badly and saw a collection of innocuous-looking thin braids and strings of mismatched beads; they struck something in her memory, but she couldn’t remember what at the moment. She set that aside to worry about later, hesitated for an instant, and grabbed the Inquisitor’s arm.

He flinched violently at her touch, his eyes gone suddenly wild with shock. She could feel muscle beneath her palm, stiff as steel cording; as much as she wanted to she didn’t release him. “Calm down,” she said to him, pitching her voice low but not whispering. “Do you need some air?”

He didn’t look around, but she saw awareness bleed into his panicked eyes. He shook his head slightly and Hera felt the pressure in the air lifting as he forced himself to something resembling calm, pulling his furious response back inside his own skin. She could still feel him trembling beneath her hand.

She pushed her half-full glass of fruit juice into his other hand. “Drink that,” she said.

He hesitated, and she snapped, furious and embarrassed, “It’s not tainted just because a tailhead drank from it.”

He shot her a startled look and said, sounding genuinely baffled, “Why would you think I thought that?”

Hera stared back at him, so surprised by that reaction that she briefly forgot why she had handed him her drink. “Humans –” she started to say, then shook her head. “Just drink it.”

He drank it.

She kept her hand on his arm until he had stopped shaking, then released him, tucking her hands awkwardly into her pockets to have something to do with them. When he had finished the glass, he stared at the display case again, then dragged his gaze away and went off to the next one, handing the empty glass off to the serving droid as he did. Hera followed, hoping her fury wasn’t plain on her face. The other guests veered away from him, though something about the way they did so made Hera think they didn’t know or understand why they were doing it.

The next case only held more art, to Hera’s relief. The Inquisitor stared blankly at the delicately figured tiles as if he didn’t really see them, though Hera suspected he knew exactly what was on them and – going by his reactions so far – what they meant.

“I suppose some of these still have some juice in them,” a passing Quarren woman said in her watery voice, and laughed. Hera saw the Inquisitor’s shoulders tense in response.

She stepped tentatively up beside him. “We’ve seen most of it,” she said. “We’ll be back for the auction tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “I need to see all of it.” He shut his eyes tightly, clearly trying to calm himself down even though he was still badly upset.

Hera eyed him doubtfully. Looking at him now, it was hard to remember that he was in all likelihood one of the most dangerous beings Hera had ever met; all of that coiled threat that had been there only a few moments before was gone, replaced by real distress.

She recognized the expression abruptly. She had seen it in the mirror, on one of the occasions when she had been back at the Academy and invited to some event or another at the home of a local potentate on Naboo. He had been a collector – “of everything,” he had said while showing cadets around his estate. He had looked at Hera as if he was considering collecting her too, but she had managed to avoid being in any proximity to him for most of the evening, and once the other cadets began drinking heavily she had made her excuses and left early, for which rudeness she had been roundly rebuked the next day. She had been looking at his displays – arranged in order of what he thought was most attractive, not in anything that made sense – when she had turned a corner and found herself looking at a kalikori.

It wasn’t a Syndulla one, not her family’s and not from any of the patrician Syndulla families; she had known that immediately. She hadn’t recognized the clan, but kalikori were intimately personal to each family; no one would ever let it pass out of a family line except through marriage or adoption. But there had been a lot of looting done during the Clone Wars, and more during the Imperial occupation.

Searching further through the collection and trying not to make it look as though she was doing so, Hera had found a lararium, the household shrine each family kept, and the little figures that represented the protective spirits of a Twi’lek family, the ancestral genius and the patron lares, both separated from the lararium and the kalikori alike and jumbled together on a shelf of other small statues that Hera hadn’t recognized. She hadn’t thought, at that point, that she had much Twi’lek feeling left after four years in the Academy. Apparently she had been wrong about that.

It was the same expression on the Inquisitor’s face now.

She raised her gaze to the Inquisitor again, keeping her voice low as she said, “Those braids in that case – they aren’t from the High Republic, are they?”

He shook his head a little, his face a mask of grief and fury fighting for calm. Then he looked at her sharply, some of that starting to bleed into alarm. Hera could guess why; she didn’t know much about Jedi, but she had known enough to ask. She met his pale gaze, resisting the urge to look away; she hated making eye contact with other people and there was something disorienting about him.

It was the Inquisitor who looked away. He swallowed, his throat working, and looked back at the tiles in the case in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, then swallowed again. “I need to see the rest of the items up for auction.”

Hera bit her lip. “I want to get a feel for the crowd,” she said to him. “Will you be all right on your own for a few minutes? I don’t think we need to stay long.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said a little distantly. “I was surprised. It won’t happen again.”

“All right,” Hera said. She stepped away from him, hoping that he actually could behave himself if left to his own devices. It was balanced against her own nervousness about interacting with other people; she wasn’t particularly worried about being recognized as an Imperial agent, since in her experience no one ever looked at a young Twi’lek woman and came to the conclusion she was an ISB officer, usually including other members of the service, often including times when she was in uniform. Hera was a decent field agent, but she knew that she hadn’t exactly lived up to Agent Beneke’s desires for her, which was how she had gotten this assignment with the Inquisitor in the first place.

She got another drink from the serving droid, this one a fermented fruit juice with some bubbles in it that looked alcoholic at a glance but wasn’t, and settled her shoulders before she went back to the case with the figurines in it, which had a small group of people gathered around it. She lingered on the edge of the group, drinking her juice and listening in on the conversation – a trio of scholars debating the authenticity of the figurines, apparently. After a few minutes of that she drifted away to another case, which held what looked like ornaments. She glanced up to track the Inquisitor’s location in the room and saw him steadily working his way through the remaining cases, his mood like a thundercloud keeping people away from him.

“Lovely, aren’t they?”

Hera turned, pasting a polite smile on her lips, and saw a thin, white-bearded Pantoran male standing beside her. “It’s very intricate work,” she said.

He smiled with as much appreciation as if he had been the creator rather than some long-dead Jedi. “Mirialan,” he said, indicating a pair of round belt buckles propped up on display. “Do you see the floral work around the rims and the eclipsed suns at the centers? Variations on those themes have recurred amongst Mirialan Jedi for centuries – millennia, perhaps, though the older examples are disputed. They stem from an old Force cult on Mirial, one that hasn’t been active since before Mirial joined the Republic. We know nothing about that cult, not even its name; it no longer has any worshipers on Mirial, but until a decade ago there were still elements of it amongst the Jedi.”

He gestured to a collection of small coppery rings, each about the length of a knuckle and inscribed with knot-like decorations. “Weequay hair ornaments – for their braids, yes? You still see some Weequay wearing them today, but if you ever have the occasion to examine them closely, you’ll see that the finework is all different. That’s because Weequay Jedi had their own patterns that were used back on Sriluur before the Hutts conquered the world more than eight thousand years ago. Another Force cult, perhaps. When Weequay were first recruited into the Jedi Order, they took the symbols with them; you won’t see them on Sriluur or the other Weequay worlds today.”

“Eight thousand years is a long time,” Hera said, since she couldn’t think of anything else to say and it seemed like the point in which he expected a response.

“Perhaps longer. The Hutts – especially in the days of the old Hutt Empire – prefer to destroy the records of their conquered worlds, so that those worlds might seem to begin with their coming. It’s hard on historians.” He sighed wistfully, then looked at her more closely.

Hera resisted the urge to double-check that her markings were covered, since he seemed like the sort of person who might know that caste markings were more than just decorative tattoos the way most non-Twi’leks thought.

When she didn’t say anything one way or another, he seemed to decide that she was interested and pointed at a quartet of ivory bangles inside the case. Each one was a double-curve, small enough to fit around a near-human’s wrist, and incised with intricate patterns, some of which had been filled in with black, red, or gold, others of which were bare. The ivory was yellowing with age. Something about them was familiar and Hera frowned, trying to place them.

The Pantoran saw her expression and smiled, open and pleased rather than malicious. “Ryloth river hog tusks,” he said. “I can’t pronounce the name in Twi’leki –”

“Ruti’ara,” Hera said after a moment of thought. “From a region in the equatorial jungle. They’re extinct now.” She didn’t say that there was a set of similar bangles in her mother’s jewelry case back on Ryloth, a gift from Cham’s grandmother – then the clan head – when they had married; they had been passed down among the women of the family for a thousand years.

She looked back at the bangles in the case, now seeing the pattern of half-familiar clan markings amongst the carvings. “Fenn,” she said slowly. When the Pantoran blinked, she said, “The geometric patterns, there – in black. Those are Fenn clan markings. They’re a curial clan on Ryloth –” And had been in vendettas with the Syndullas no less than three dozen times over the past thousand years, including after the Curia’s ban two centuries earlier (which everyone on Ryloth had just taken as a strong recommendation for the first few decades), but who was counting.

“The clan is still extant?” the Pantoran asked, sounding a little disappointed.

Hera fought back family feeling she didn’t know she still had and resisted the urge to reply unfortunately. Instead she said, “Last I heard, yes. There was some scandal a few years ago, but they’re still around.”

“There is a clan that has died out, though, yes?”

Hera bit her lip. “There are a few, mostly smaller patrician clans. You’re probably thinking about the Indahs. They were a curial clan like the Fenns and the Sy – the Securas. They were in a –” She had to search for the word in Basic before going on. “– a vendetta, a blood feud, with the Fortunas. That’s another curial clan. The Fortunas tricked the curial family – the Indah Hid Indah – into agreeing to peace talks. When the Indah Hid Indah and the heads of the patrician families in the clan were all at table for the banquet, the Fortunas slaughtered them. Then they hunted down all of the other Indah patricians and killed them too, not to mention most of the plebeians. When news got out, the Republic Senate wanted the Jedi to come in and arbitrate it, but the Curia – that’s the governing body on Ryloth – wouldn’t let their ships land. They sent the Fortuna – the clan head, I mean – into the Bright Lands and ostracized most of the patrician family heads, and banned the Fortunas from being able to vote in the Curia for twenty years. They also banned the vendetta, so there aren’t supposed to be blood feuds anymore. The only Indah patricians who survived were the ones who had married into other clans cum manu, and when you do that you give up your clan rights – they weren’t legally Indahs anymore, I mean, they were legally members of their spouse’s clans. I know at least one petitioned to revoke her marriage, but there weren’t enough Indahs left for there to still be a clan. And the Fortunas had destroyed their lararia and kalikori, burned the shrines. That’s supposed to destroy the clan’s connection to their ancestors and the genii – the – the earth-gods, I suppose is the closest thing you can say in Basic. Since the Indah Hid Indah were a curial clan, they traced their line in direct descent from one of the gods – I think it might have been the –” She fumbled for the Basic again, aware that her Ryloth accent was starting to come out very strongly, and if anyone knew enough to recognize it, that it was the purest high-caste Twi’leki. “The Son of Sands. There are other curial clans descended from the Son of Sands too but the Indah Hid Indah were very, very old, as old as – the Fenns.”

She had almost said “as old as the Syndulla Tann Syndulla.” One of the surviving Indahs had actually been married to the Syndulla prime heir at the time, and had almost succeeded in convincing her and her twin brother to declare vendetta against the Fortunas themselves before the Syndulla clan head had gotten wind of it and stopped them.

“This was a long time ago?” asked the Pantoran.

“Not really,” Hera admitted. “About two hundred years.” She tensed in expectation of a comment about how barbaric Twi’leks were, never mind that there were humans on plenty of worlds who still practiced various forms of blood feud, but none came.

“An old custom?” the Pantoran said instead.

“Um, yes,” Hera said. She was too embarrassed about having given a speech about the Hid Indah Massacre to offer up that the vendetta went back to the days of the gods, when the children of the Mother of Mountains had torn Ryloth apart in war with each other after the Son of Sands had murdered his sister’s lover. It was why so much of the planet was desert, except for the equatorial jungle; their oldest records showed that millennia earlier much more of the planet had been jungle and there had still been enough ocean to separate the continents. “What does that have to do with the ruti’ara tusks?”

“Ah. Nothing.” The Pantoran beamed at the case again.

Hera let out her breath through her teeth, annoyed. She could feel heat in her cheeks, traveling up to her ear-cones and the base of her lekku.

“The marvelous thing about the Jedi is that they were so very, very old and had members from all over the galaxy, all kinds of species, so customs, traditions, peoples – animals, even – were preserved within them like insects in amber, passed down from master to apprentice over so many generations few sentient minds can really comprehend them. They provide a window into a past where there are no other windows – no holograms, no texts, no oral memories. And yet that past was preserved amongst the Jedi – it was still a living thing. The Empire might have you believe that the Jedi stole children from thousands of worlds, stripped them of their identities, their cultures, their species, and made them all Jedi and nothing else, but if that was true, then how would there be any of this?” He swept an arm around at the room and its display cases. “When I was a very young, there were pirates preying on my family’s station, and a Jedi came to deal with them – a Togruta woman, very beautiful. She wore the akul teeth headdress of a Togruta warrior, an animal which those among the Togruta who wish to prove their strength hunt and kill. Why would she do that if she was not Togruta as much as Jedi?”

He looked back at the case and sighed. “Many of those here are here for the money, or are enthusiasts for the forbidden – some for the Jedi. Others enjoy beautiful things, the rarer the better.” He flicked a glance at the Quarren who had passed Hera earlier, his expression disapproving. “When they were destroyed, it was not merely the Jedi who were lost, but a thousand others who were preserved only amongst the Jedi.”

“Most of the people on those worlds pay attention to their own history,” Hera said hesitantly.

“Ah. Yes. Some do. Others would, but their histories were stripped from them – the Hutts, as I said. The Empire, more recently. Even the Republic, in its way, as you said yourself.”

Hera blinked. “Did I?”

“When you said that your people would not allow the Republic to take over the punishment of its wrongdoers,” the Pantoran explained patiently. “Others were not so stubborn; at other points, the Republic would not have cared about their wishes.”

“They’re not –” my people, she wanted to finish, but she couldn’t get the words out.

“But sometimes history is just lost,” he went on sadly. “Not maliciously or in war or natural disaster, it just…falls out of use, and then out of memory, and if there are traces at all, then they are traces we cannot recognize. By the time one realizes it is gone, it is just not there to find.”

Hera bit her lip.

“You make it sound as if the Jedi are only the composite of others, with nothing of o – of their own,” the Inquisitor said quietly from behind Hera.

She almost jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t heard him approach, and from the way the Pantoran flinched he hadn’t noted the Inquisitor’s arrival either.

“No – no, of course not,” he said, when he had gotten control of himself. “But my – my interests have always lain elsewhere. There are so many who are interested in the Jedi and only the Jedi for what they themselves are, and not all that they represent.”

“I see,” the Inquisitor said gravely. He sounded more amused than anything else, which Hera decided to cautiously take as a good sign.

Hera half turned so that she could watch him and the Pantoran at the same time. He was looking at the case, not at the Pantoran, his gaze moving over the beautiful objects inside. She realized abruptly that he had used the present tense, not the past. And that he had started to say “our,” not “their.”

“You are an enthusiast of the Jedi, perhaps?” the Pantoran said, recovering.

Hera tensed again, but the Inquisitor just raised an eyebrow. “I have an interest.”

The Pantoran turned to Hera again. “And you, you are a student of history, I see?”

The Imperial Academy’s version of history was “things were terrible until the Emperor took control” but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Just a few things,” she said instead. “But I enjoyed our conversation,” she added, because she did know how to be polite; not something she had learned from the Empire. She took a chance and laid her hand on the Inquisitor’s arm, suspecting that he was probably aware of her brief hesitation before she made contact. “I think we’ve seen what we came here to see,” she told him.

He was tense under her palm, giving her the impression that he didn’t like to be touched any more than she did. None of it showed in his face as he glanced down towards her and nodded.

“I will see you tomorrow evening, perhaps,” the Pantoran said.

“Perhaps,” Hera agreed, and hoped a little vaguely that she wouldn’t have to arrest him.

She released the Inquisitor as soon as they turned to walk away. They were silent all the way up the stairs into the noisy, crowded club, as they retrieved their speeder bikes, and on the ride back to the Ghost, the wind from their passage whipping Hera’s lekku back behind her.

Hera was stowing her bike and trying to decide whether the appropriate thing to do in this situation would be to debrief the evening when the Inquisitor said, very tiredly, “I’ll see you in the morning,” and vanished up the ladder. A few moments later she heard his cabin door slide open and shut again.

“Well,” she said to Chopper, who had come down to make sure she was all right. “That was interesting.”

#cut scenes and concept writing #reluctant roommates au tag #as always comments are appreciated #I'm trying for a bit more plottiness with this concept

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plumoh · 4 years ago

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[SK8] whirlwind

Rating: G

Word count: 2341

Summary: Three times Kaoru gets into a fight; Kojirou is never too far away. / high school era.

Note: AO3 link. As usual, high school era means pre-relationship and Kaoru being a little bit oblivious to Kojirou’s feelings haha.

Kaoru didn’t mean to punch him.

Well. That’s not exactly true. He did want to punch that smug smile off the bastard’s face, but he didn’t mean to knock him out. It’s not his fault that his punch landed exactly at an angle that made the guy’s head twist on the side and bang on the streetlamp, before collapsing on the ground and invoking a silence so loud everyone’s breathing felt like an entire storm.

And then all the guy’s goons start screaming and yelling for blood, pointing accusing fingers at Kaoru like Kaoru just killed someone (their boss isn’t dead, not yet), and most of them also start crowding around him with a palpable vengeful intent. As if that will ever intimidate him.

Nobody thinks that Kaoru is built to fight, which propels them into a state of shock and complete disbelief when he attacks first and manages to strike down two people by smashing their heads together and kicking them in the stomach for good measure. He doesn’t stop moving, always ready to spring back and to collide his fist with something breakable or crouching low to dodge and literally sweep them off their feet. He’s like a volcano being poked until it swallows everything around him.

His impulsiveness means he gets hurt too, mostly from his own moves that use more strength than necessary, but also from attacks he decides to go up against instead of avoiding, simply to get closer to his opponent. He ends up with scratches on his face and bruises on his legs or cuts on his arms, in a way that undeniably adds to his overall appearance of a troublemaker. He doesn’t give a shit; the messier and more dangerous he looks, the better.

It’s when most of the guys have fled, leaving Kaoru breathing hard and leaning forward with his hands on his knees, that Kojirou materializes next to him.

“What the hell, Kaoru?” Kojirou yells, not knowing if touching Kaoru will be a wise idea. “Did you pick a fight with random people again?”

“I didn’t pick a fight with them, they provoked me,” Kaoru growls, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. It comes away with a little blood. “Why do you always assume I’m the one instigating?”

“Maybe because two times out of three you’re the one who throws the first punch,” Kojirou mumbles.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

Kaoru makes a poor attempt at shoving Kojirou in the shoulder but he misses by a large margin and ends up swatting at his chest, which does nothing to abate Kojirou’s annoyance.

“Shut up,” Kaoru says.

Kojirou shakes his head and takes Kaoru’s arm to steady him, dragging him towards a less crowded and more luminous place to get a look at his injuries with supplies that seem to have appeared from nowhere.

ii.

Kojirou nearly lands on his face after failing a trick, all graceless and devoid of finesse, which makes Kaoru double over in laughter.

“That was really stupid,” Kaoru snorts.

“Yeah, I didn’t see you try doing that trick,” Kojirou scoffs.

“At least I don’t look like a limp caterpillar when I’m on the ground like you are.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Kojirou picks himself up from the ground and dusts off his pants, looking back at the track that he just descended from. Kaoru watches the way Kojirou is considering the path again, eyes focused on the last meters of the bumpy pavement. They chose this part of the track specifically because it isn’t well-maintained, full of holes and uneven ground that forces them to work on their stability. Kojirou, like the brainless ape he is, wanted to show off by doing some fancy trick that only served as evidence of his stupidity.

“Hey, you’re Sakurayashiki, right?”

Kaoru turns around and raises en eyebrow. He has no idea who the guy talking to him is.

“Get out of our turf,” the guy says on a tone that’s supposed to be menacing. “Or you’ll regret it.”

“Your turf?” Kaoru repeats, unimpressed. “The hell are you on?”

“You thought you could swing by after sending some of our guys to the hospital?”

The words go in Kaoru’s ear and make a swift exit in the other. He blinks.

“I didn’t send anyone in the hospital,” he says, tone raising like a question as he turns around to address Kojirou.

Kojirou lifts his hands in sign of innocence. “I don’t know, I’m not there to watch you fight every single person in this city.”

“You would remember if I did anything like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I just said I don’t know!”

“Stop ignoring me!”

Kojirou shouts wordlessly and yanks Kaoru by the arm, saving him from a well-aimed kick that would have sent Kaoru sprawling, and suddenly it’s like a switch has been flipped.

People say that Kaoru has a bad temper, an accusation that’s not totally unfounded. He’s quick to anger and he doesn’t mince his words—when he’s having a casual conversation with someone, many wrinkle their nose at his lack of proper forms of address, and others outright say he shouldn’t be so aggressive in his choice of words. One can only imagine how vulgar and straightforward he is when he’s insulting someone or spitting out a string of curses that are probably not yet in the dictionary.

Kojirou, of course, has a deep knowledge of the ways Kaoru can react before a taunt, a physical threat or a low blow to his ego. He’s not exactly a saint either, since he will without a doubt get into a fight if he’s provoked enough, or throw back cruel words when the situation calls for it, but between the two, Kojirou has less difficulty keeping his bad mood in check.

Kaoru twists around and is ready to swing his fist at full speed, but Kojirou is already scolding him while having a grip of iron on his arm. He’s also trying to drag him back, stopping him from making even one step towards their opponent who is, quite frankly, looking too fucking pleased with himself.

“What, too chicken to fight me?” the guy snickers. “Too scared of hurting your little hands?”

“I’m gonna punch a hole through your skull, you absolute buffoon,” Kaoru hisses, struggling against Kojirou’s grip. “Let me go, Kojirou!”

“Stop getting into fights, damn it!” Kojirou yells.

“He asked for it!”

“Same difference, you idiot!”

Kojirou loops his arms under Kaoru’s armpits and keeps him still, pressed against his torso, even when Kaoru is trying to pull forward with the sheer force of his will. Kojirou’s stronger than Kaoru, but Kaoru doesn’t give a shit when he is moved by rage alone, stomping and wriggling and squirming in the hopes of getting away.

The guy is watching them with the most self-satisfied smirk ever, as if Kaoru’s inaction is proof of his victory over a petty squabble that Kaoru himself doesn’t remember. It pisses him off.

He usually wouldn’t resort to such dirty tactics. In a fight, the more they use their fists and feet and entire bodies, the more gratifying it is. Sporting injuries and scars are simply a natural consequence of it, and everyone should wear them proudly—like real battle scars, resembling a physical history of their hard-won fights.

Kaoru’s skateboard is within leg reach. He has long legs, Kojirou keeps reminding him, so might as well make use of them. He makes one big step forward, grunting when he’s met with resistance due to Kojirou holding him back, but he manages to have his foot on the tail-end of the deck and brings the skateboard at his feet. He can feel Kojirou’s and the bastard’s confused and intrigued gazes on him; all he does is offer a grin, the sunlight catching on his lip ring like some wicked gleam of mischievousness.

Kaoru gives a harsh kick into his skateboard that goes straight towards the guy, hitting his ankle at full speed and tearing a cry of pain and surprise out of his throat. He puts all his weight on his other foot and cradles his injured ankle, glaring at Kaoru with burning anger. Kaoru isn’t sorry in the least.

“I’ll end you,” the man threatens, visibly shaking with fury.

“Good luck with that ankle,” Kaoru replies smugly. “You’ll fall over before you can land a single hit on me.”

Kojirou audibly sighs and shakes his head. And then, two things happen at once.

The first is that their friend bends down with difficulty, not wishing to put strain on his ankle, and picks up the skateboard. He gives it a long contemplative look, like he’s wondering if this object is worth his interest, before dropping it back on the ground and getting on it.

The second is Kaoru watching this with mounting irritation and rage, and he decides that stomping on Kojirou’s foot to let him go is less aggravating than letting some random prick steal his skateboard. So he does just that with minimal hesitation, causing Kojirou to loudly yelp as his grip loosens enough for Kaoru to slip out.

Skating all day doesn’t mean they can’t run with their feet. Kaoru pushes on his feet like his life depends on it and in a few large strides he catches up to the guy just as he starts skating away, and Kaoru, without a second thought, decks him.

Skateboard back in hand, a broad smile splitting his face in two, Kaoru leaves the track with a victorious fist lifted in the air, to Kojirou’s growing exasperation.

iii.

Kaoru presses his lips together and remains stubbornly silent.

“Kaoru.”

Arms crossed and a frown deeper than usual on his face, Kojirou is staring at him with disappointment so clear that Kaoru actually feels bad, for once. He shrugs.

“You’re lucky that it didn’t rip off your lip,” Kojirou continues. “Why did you get piercings if you know you’ll never resist fighting people? Do you want to risk permanent damage just because your brain is filled with a useless need to fight?”

“Shut up, Kojirou,” Kaoru mutters.

Kaoru winces when Kojirou presses something cold on his mouth, gently dabbing at it and being careful about the lip ring, whose presence alone did a number on his face. Having his head smashed into the ground would do that, he supposes.

Kojirou is silently working on cleaning and bandaging his various cuts and bruises on his face. Kaoru glances up, noticing that the tense line of Kojirou’s shoulders is heavier than usual, a bit more worried, as if today’s encounter could have ended in a disaster. It wasn’t any worse than the previous times. Maybe Kaoru got roughed up a bit more and maybe he got kicked in the ribs more times than necessary and yes, maybe he should have taken off his earrings and lip ring before going skating, but these are all possible factors disrupting his routine he always considers before doing anything. And it’s not like he knows in advance that someone will pick a fight with him. He just got unlucky this time.

Kaoru watches Kojirou’s brows knit together in concentration. This isn’t a rare expression on his face, but Kaoru has never noticed the way Kojirou’s focus is single-minded when he does this kind of detail-oriented tasks, or the way he purses his lips like he does when he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. It’s the face he makes when something requires his entire attention, unperturbed and going at the pace he needs to finish what he started.

“Hm,” Kaoru says, partly because he’s thinking and partly because he shouldn’t open his still bleeding mouth.

“What?” Kojirou’s gaze never strays from Kaoru’s injury.

Kojirou takes Kaoru’s hand and guides it towards the compress placed on the corner of his mouth, and makes him apply pressure while the cleaning shifts to his ear. Kaoru’s lip isn’t bleeding as much as before, judging by the color of the compress that didn’t become completely red in five seconds, so he supposes talking shouldn’t make matters worse.

“Your precision is a bit surprising,” he admits, laughter in his voice. “I didn’t think you could be so calm while handling things that need careful maneuvering.”

“I’m not the one who can’t break eggs without dropping pieces of shell in them,” Kojirou snipes back.

Kaoru rolls his eyes. “Breaking eggs needs practicing, and I can still pick out the shell pieces if I really need to. If you poke someone in the wrong place while tending to their injuries then you’ll make it worse, moron.”

Kojirou is visibly putting all his efforts into remaining focused on his task, trying not to get riled up by Kaoru’s comments. It would be funny to watch, actually, if Kaoru wasn’t the one receiving treatment.

“I haven’t let you down yet, have I?” Kojirou asks.

And Kaoru can’t find anything scathing as an answer, staring at Kojirou’s bright eyes that never hide what he’s feeling.

“I suppose you haven’t, no,” Kaoru says lowly.

“You’re so much trouble, you know that?” Kojirou sighs.

But he finally meets Kaoru’s gaze and Kaoru is almost taken aback by the sincerity and raw emotion shining in it, like Kojirou is looking at a treasure he has locked behind a chest and kept the key close to his heart. Kaoru swallows.

“Not as much as you,” he replies with less bite than he intended.

“Says the one who is covered in bandages and band-aids.”

“I have to put up with your nonsense every day!”

“And I have to drag your ass back from whatever scuffle you get involved in!”

Kaoru shoves his hand in Kojirou’s face, and they start jostling each other, as if they weren’t being as still and cautious as possible to avoid complicating the process of patching Kaoru up. This familiarity, too, is something that will never change, no matter what happens—Kojirou has Kaoru’s back.

#matchablossom #joecherry #matcha blossom #kaoru sakurayashiki #kojiro nanjo #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #kaoru was a delinquent and i'm 100% behind the idea he picked fights for fun #and was quick to get angry....#but kojirou is always here for him!

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fanmoose12 · 4 years ago

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Levi just couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t believe that his ship – a legendary Wings of Freedom, the pride of the British armada – was ambushed. He couldn’t believe that he – an experienced captain and famed veteran – along with his crew of the most skilled soldiers in the whole sea force was captured.

By fucking pirates. Stinking, dirty pirates.

Levi was enraged, he was humiliated, and most of all, he was confused.

How those fuckers managed to approach their ship undetected? How did they get on it unnoticed? And how could that woman, their captain, get inside his private chambers?

Levi was an extremely light sleeper. Years in army and, before that, years of living on the street had taught him that it was an essential skill. The smallest of noise, the quietest creak could wake him up.

But somehow this woman managed to open the door, walk inside his room and stand directly above him, as he kept peacefully slumbering. Only when she pressed a cold dagger to his throat, only then Levi woke up.

And as he opened his eyes, he was met with a face of a woman he had never seen before. She was wearing round glasses and her left eye was covered by a black patch. Her hair was haphazardly put up in a ponytail. Her lips were curved in a wide, almost crazy grin.

“Hi,” she whispered to him, pressing her dagger tighter to his skin. Her voice was soft as honey. “I really don’t want to hurt you, and I’m sure you don’t want me to hurt you. So let’s cooperate, alright?”

Levi bared his teeth at her. Like hell he would cooperate with someone like her. There was a dagger hidden underneath his pillow. He started to slowly move his hand, if he could just reach it—

The woman grabbed his hand, before it touched the handle.

“Ah, ah,” she shook her head. “Don’t move.”

She held his arm firmly, she was evidently strong. But not stronger than Levi. He could overpower her, he was sure of it.

“I wouldn’t do it, if I were you,” the woman said, seeing through his intensions. “Even if you can win a fight with me,” If? Who did she think he was? “My people are standing outside, and all of your people were already dealt with.”

Levi tensed, all blood leaving his face. Was his crew—?

“They are alive,” the woman assured him. Her gaze turned surprisingly soft. “And unharmed. And if you promise to cooperate, they will be safe.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“I am an honest person.”

“Pirates don’t know what honor is.”

“Then you’re in luck,” she laughed. “After all, I’m only a part-time pirate!”

***

Hange Zoe – a part-time pirate and a full-time explorer of distant lands.

That’s how she described herself to Levi. The name, the name sounded so familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember, where he had heard it.

Levi glared at her furiously, as she walked around the deck, talking about herself, her crew and what they were intending to do to their ship. Levi didn’t really listen, he was too busy, thinking of the best way to murder her. He could shoot her, or run her through with his sword, or, maybe, he could throw her off the ship and watch her slowly drown. He also could capture her and take her back to England. He wasn’t a fun of executions, but he would happily attend Hange Zoe’s hanging.

But first, he needed to free himself from the ropes that bound his legs and arms together. Levi was actually impressed – those pirates certainly knew how to tie up a person, he couldn’t move an inch. They probably had a lot of experience. He glanced to his right, checking on Mikasa, his second in command. She looked just as furious as he did. So, she couldn’t free herself either. Levi turned to his other crew members – Armin, Eren, Jean, Connie and Sasha – all of them looked as helpless as Levi himself felt.

Shit.

Levi turned his attention back on Hange. She was looking right at him.

“I asked where you are heading,” she crouched next to Levi. “So?”

He stared at her, letting her see all of his fury. If she was actually expecting an answer from him, she was going to be very disappointed.

Hange waited for a moment, smiling expectantly. When Levi continued to silently glare at her, she huffed and turned to the person next to him.

“You,” she pointed at Armin. The boy immediately tensed. “Where are you going?”

“Um…” Armin’s eyes darted to Levi, as sweat started to drip down his face.

“C’mon,” Hange’s smile grew wider. “Just tell me.”

“We are… going to Port Royal,” he finally whispered.

“See? It wasn’t so hard.”

Her voice was so gentle and her eyes were so soft, and it all looked so genuine, Levi felt sick. What a vile, vile woman.

“Well, you’ve heard him,” Hange got to her feet and turned around, addressing the three of her crewmen. “Moblit, set course to Port Royal. Nifa, go and help him. Abel and Keiji, stay with me.”

Once she was done with giving out orders, Hange turned back to Levi. She put hands on her hips, staring at him intently. She didn’t say a word for a very long time, continuing to watch him.

“You’ve said that pirates don’t have honor,” she said finally. “Members of the navy do?”

“Of course, we do!” Eren, another member of his crew, shouted.

Hange turned to look at the boy, her lips twitching in an attempt to hide a smile. However, when her eyes returned to Levi, all signs of amusement were gone. She gazed at him, grave and serious. “Can you guarantee that?”

“I can,” Levi nodded.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’m going to release you then. You can walk around the ship freely, doing whatever you want. We will get you to Port Royal safely. We won’t harm you, if you promise to cooperate.”

“You won’t kill us?” Levi asked slowly. “What do you want from us then?”

“I just want your ship,” she answered simply. “And I don’t want to hurt you. If you give us your ship, no one will be hurt. That I swear to you.”

“And what if I won’t agree? What if we start fighting the moment you free us?”

“I could have killed you. I still can. But I don’t want to. If you’re as honest man as you claim, you will respect that. And honor our treaty.”

It was stupid. Foolish, reckless, senseless. Pirates can’t be trusted, they’re murderers and thieves. But something told him that this woman was different, that Hange Zoe, a part-time pirate and full-time explorer, would keep her word.

And Levi, once he gave his word, always kept it.

“I agree to your terms. I promise not to hurt you, or your men. Once we get to the shore, you will get your ship.”

Hange smiled, bright and happy. “And you will get your freedom.”

***

Sharing a ship with pirates was surprisingly… easy.

Hange and her trusty crew were nothing like the pirates Levi had previously encountered. They weren’t violent or greedy, and they didn’t spend their days drinking and cracking vulgar jokes. They were actually… quite pleasant and obviously intelligent bunch. Those words, of course, didn’t apply to their captain. No, Hange was different, she got on Levi’s nerves so frequently, he felt like he was slowly losing his sanity.

She was loud, brash and bold. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and she didn’t stop to think about her choice of words, always spurting out the weirdest, most inappropriate shit. Hange was absolutely infuriating, impossible in every way. And it angered Levi, made him fucking furious and just realizing it was painful, but she intrigued him. He was captivated by her unusual persona, by different, and often clashing, parts of her character.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Levi’s whole crew liked Hange. Armin and Eren were fascinated by her stories about distant lands, Jean enjoying listening about different cultures she studied, Sasha and Connie were stuffing themselves with exotic food she found during her travels. Even Mikasa, who, at first, acted hostile towards her, started admiring her, when Hange showed her the collection of bizarre weapons, which she accumulated over the years of exploring the many realms and continents.

All of them were in fucking awe of Hange, and Levi suspected that even if he decided to break his promise and kill Hange to save their ship, he would have a really hard time convincing his subordinates to go with his plan.

Luckily, Levi had no intention of going back on his word. As long as Hange was keeping her end of the bargain, of course.

The more Levi watched her, the more it seemed like his first impression of her was wrong. Hange didn’t look like the cruel, violent woman Levi thought she was. On the contrary, she seemed kind and even gentle. She fiercely cared about her own crewmembers and she treated Levi’s crew with warmth and good-naturedness.

All in all, Hange appeared to be a good, honest person. At least, that’s what Levi wanted to believe.

***

Another thing about Hange that frustrated Levi so much was her name. It still eluded him. He was sure, absolutely adamant that he had heard it before, but he just couldn’t remember where. He even asked Armin to look into this, but as for now, the boy didn’t give him any real answer.

So all he could do now was to continue watching her from afar, hoping that with time he would be able to solve this mystery.

***

There were many aspects of Hange that surprised and bewildered Levi. But the most amazing part of her was how skillful she was. She was a great and evidently experienced captain, passionate and knowledgeable explorer, who knew a whole myriad of different languages and culture customs. And she was also a very good fighter. Whatever weapon she used – sword, musket, crossbow, spear or axe (Levi especially enjoyed watching her wield that for the reasons he didn’t want to think about) – she was always deadly efficient with it.

In her spare time, Hange helped Mikasa train and, from time to time, she also agreed to duel with some of Levi’s subordinates. Eren and Jean were the ones who liked to challenge Hange the most, even though they always lost to her.

Naturally, it hurt some parts of Levi’s pride. He was the one, who trained those idiots. And Hange won fights with them without much hassle. But he would lie, if he said that he didn’t like watching her. Hange was strong, quick and endlessly graceful. Even with patch, covering her left eye, she was swift and coordinated.

It was one of those times, when Levi watched Hange effortlessly disarm Eren that Armin sat down next to him.

“I think I found out the origin of captain Hange’s name,” the boy said, handing Levi a book.

He scanned through the contents of a page Armin showed him. So that’s where Hange was from? He would need to ask her about it. Finally, he gained some leverage on her.

He was so lost in that satisfactory feeling that he didn’t notice that Eren had clutched his arm and started dragging him upwards.

“Captain, please!” Eren lamented, as he continued to pull Levi up. “You have to fight with captain Hange. She always wins, it’s unfair!”

“Yes, you have to show her what we’re made of!” Jean agreed.

“We believe in you, Captain!” Sasha cheered, giving Levi one last shove in the direction of Hange.

Hange herself stood in front of him. She put hands on her hips, grinning at him. “You don’t have to fight with me. If you’re afraid to lose.”

Oh, so that was it? She was that cocky? Well, Levi couldn’t just let it continue. He snatched the saber out of Eren’s hand, taking a stand and smirking at her gloomily. “You fought those fools and think you can win a duel with me? Not in a million years, pirate.”

“Why won’t we spice it up a little, sailor? Want to start a bet? Whoever loses has to fulfill the winner’s wish.”

Levi scowled. “You didn’t start any bets with those brats.”

“Because I knew it would be an easy. But you… I think you are quite a challenge.”

“And what kind of wish are we talking about?”

Hange gave him an almost feral grin. “Anything that comes to your mind.”

“And if I ask you to jump over the railing and give me back my ship?”

“Um, yeah,” Hange chuckled. “Anything but that.”

Levi huffed. “Fine, let’s get on with it, then.”

Hange mimicked his stance, ready to strike. “Show me what you got.”

As soon as Hange stopped talking, she attacked. It wasn’t a mighty swing, she was evidently just testing the ground, and Levi blocked it easily. Hange immediately followed it with another hit, and then another. Levi had no choice but to step back. He looked at Hange closely, he watched her fight with Eren, Jean and Mikasa, and she used a different style then. In duels with them, she was more on a defensive, waiting for an opportunity to land her critical hit. But now, she was moving swiftly, attacking him again and again, forcing him to either block and give her an opening, or move back.

Oh. So that’s what she was trying to do.

Levi looked her in the eye. Hange met his gaze, grinning wildly.

He blocked her next attack and then countered it with his own. Before Hange could react, he inflicted another blow. Two could play this game.

So very soon, Hange had to start evading his attacks. She jumped to the side or took a step back. She tried to retaliate, but Levi didn’t give her even a chance to do so. And in a matter of a few minutes of furiously charging at her, Levi finally had her exactly where he needed. Cornered against the door of a cabin. With a heavy swing, he knocked the weapon out of her hand. Then he moved his saber up, pressing its tilt to Hange’s throat.

He took a step closer, until their chests were nearly touching. Hange was breathing heavily, and with a start Levi realized that he had some difficulty breathing too.

Was it because of their fight? Or something else?

Hange licked her lips, before curving them in another grin. Levi’s eyes traced that movement. Suddenly, he wanted to take another step closer. Move so close that he would be able to look into her eye. From where he stood, it was near impossible to see the brown color of her iris, almost all of it was taken over by the black of the pupil. Was she so excited because of their fight? Or something else?

And then, as Hange slowly lifted her hands in surrender, Levi realized. He could kill her right now. She was weaponless and helpless, entirely at his mercy. He could end it right there and then, get rid of Hange and then deal with the rest of her team. Take his ship back. But somehow, murder wasn’t the thing that occupied his mind.

Instead, for some weird reason, he couldn’t look away from her lips. From up close, they looked soft. If he touched them right now, if he tasted them, pressing his own mouth to them, would he like it? Would Hange like it?

“That was great, Captain!”

Eren clasped his shoulder with a smile, and Levi moved swiftly, as though his proximity with Hange had burned him. He threw the saber to the ground, hastily leaving the deck.

What was wrong with him? What the fuck was he thinking about? Hange was his enemy, a dirty pirate, who had stolen his ship, and what he wanted to do with her? Make out? Stupid fucking idiot.

“Levi, wait!”

Oh no, it was Hange. Levi tried to close the doors to his cabin, but she had already stepped inside.

“You didn’t tell me your wish,” she explained, smiling softly.

Oh, right, the wish. Certainly, there were a couple of things he wished to do with Hange. And those were the same things he shouldn’t even think about!

“Come out to the deck at midnight,” he said instead, ignoring the weird feelings inside his chest. And the almost irresistible urge to get close to Hange. “I want to talk with you about something.”

“Roger that!” Hange saluted to him, leaving his cabin.

Levi watched her go. She seemed completely unaffected. Was he the only one, who felt this? This tension, this atmosphere between them. It was intense, charged with something powerful and unnamable. It pulled Levi closer, made it impossible to look away, when Hange was in his line of sight.

He just couldn’t stay away from her. And the worst thing – he didn’t want to.

***

As soon as his watch stroke midnight, Levi walked out to the deck. Hange was already there, waiting for him.

She looked different than usual – she changed from her shirt, pants and long coat into a thin white shirt a light yellow robe. Her hair was free out of the familiar ponytail, and now the soft brown locks cascaded down to her shoulders. She looked weird, seemed almost innocent and fragile. Levi mentally scoffed, as that word came to his mind. Hange was many things, but she definitely wasn’t fragile.

“Did you want to talk?” she asked without looking at him. “Or did you come here to stare at me?”

Shit, so she noticed him. Levi felt his face burn. Damn it, he needed to focus.

“I found your family,” he said, thrusting a book Armin gave him into her hands. “Francisco Zoe, that’s your father right?”

“Maybe,” Hange shrugged, not even glancing at the book. “What does it matter, though?”

“He is a member Parliament, he owns a massive amount of lands and estates – he’s rich and very influential!”

“So what?” Hange lazily required.

“So what?!” Levi gasped. “You, his only child, are a pirate captain, who can’t even afford your own ship!”

“I’m not his child,” she retorted bitterly. “He is a cruel and heartless man, who doesn’t give a shit about me. He never did. The only reason, why he kept me by his side all these years was because he wanted to marry me off. And when I refused, he disowned me.”

“Your father kicked you out…” Levi stared at her incredulously. “So you’ve decided to become a pirate?”

“I’m not a pirate,” Hange reminded him. “I always dreamed of being an explorer – of studying and researching different cultures. But no university in England wanted to hire me, so,” she rolled her shoulders. “I stole a ship and decided to make my dream a reality.”

“And your crew—?”

Hange smiled, the gesture softening her features. “They’ve been servants at my father’s house. I used to read them my books, and when I was preparing to run away, they wanted to go with me. We’ve been together ever since.”

Levi shook his head, trying to make a sense of Hange’s story. She had it all – wealth, social status and a safe future, but she decided to sacrifice it, because she had other dreams, because she wasn’t content with her life. It was hard for Levi to understand it, or her. He grew up poor and struggled all his life, just trying to survive. His mother died, when he was a boy, his uncle left him, when he was barely a teenager. He would have given anything to be in Hange’s place, to live a comfortable and safe life. But she threw it all away and didn’t seem to regret it in the least.

“You seem troubled,” Hange noted with a quiet chuckle.

“I don’t understand you,” Levi answered truthfully. “You just left your comfortable life behind, became a criminal and an outlaw, who can be killed at any moment. Dozens of British officers are trying to capture you, send you to jail, or, worse to the gallows. Why did you do it?”

“To free myself,” Hange said softly, but proudly. “To get away from my asshole father and live my life the way I want it to. And by the way, you’re wrong,” she smiled mischievously. “There aren’t any British officers, who are trying to capture me.”

Levi raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you so sure?”

Hange leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I didn’t cut my ties with London completely. I still have a few very influential friends.”

Levi’s eyes widened, as he realized who exactly Hange meant. There was only one person, who held such a high rank and was daring and reckless enough to conspire with pirates.

“And what that bastard needs from you?”

“B-bastard?” Hange choked. “You know Erwin?!”

“He’s my superior officer,” Levi grumbled, avoiding Hange’s curious gaze. “And you didn’t answer my question, four-eyes.”

“Ah, well,” Hange adjusted her glasses. “Pirates frequently attack ships. And sometimes Erwin points me to especially well-equipped vessels.”

“You spy for him!” Levi pinned Hange with a hard gaze. “Did he tell to attack our ship as well?”

“No! It was a mere coincidence,” Hange smiled slyly, playing with strands of her hair. “Or maybe fate?”

“There is no such thing as fate,” Levi huffed.

“So everything happens without a reason?”

“Exactly,” he nodded.

Hange elbowed him in the side, chuckling. “You’re a cynic.”

“And you’re naively optimistic.”

“Opposites attract?” Hange smirked.

And there it was again. That same electrifying tension, which pulled Levi closer to her. He tried to resist it, but the longer he spent looking into her eye, the harder it became to tear his gaze away. Hange stared back at him just as intently, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. It looked like a completely involuntarily action, but Levi’s pulse raced double time.

Was Hange’s heartbeat as loud and fast as his? Was she as affected by their sudden proximity as he was?

Without really thinking about his actions, Levi slowly lifted his arm. He didn’t know what he was trying to do – put it on her shoulder to bring her closer? Tangle it in her hair, so he could crash their lips together?

But before he had a chance to decide, Hange jumped to the side, escaping his arms.

“It’s getting late, don’t you think?” she giggled. The sound was so forced, it made Levi cringe. “I think I’ll head to bed now! Goodnight!”

And then Hange almost ran to her own cabin.

Shit.

Levi lowered his hand and tightened it into a fist. What was he even thinking? What was she doing to him, why couldn’t he control himself in her presence? It wasn’t like him at all, he was always in control. He controlled every emotion and feeling, every move of his body and word from his mouth. But when Hange was around, all of his carefully constructed walls crumbled and fell. One smile from her was all it took for Levi to lose his mind, to completely surrender to her charms or whatever it was that made him react so wildly.

He needed to get a grip on himself. He needed to stop thinking about the brown color of her eye, or the soft curve of her smile, or the way her laughter reminded him of warm, sunny days.

Hange was a pirate, his enemy. She stole his ship for Christ’s sake! He must hate her, not want to kiss her so hard that she would forget everything, but his name.

He needed to get her out of his head. To avoid her at all costs, until they part their ways.

***

Surprisingly, avoiding Hange wasn't as hard as Levi had feared. All he really had to do was to close himself inside his cabin and take as much books from Armin, as the boy had.

It wasn't an ideal situation, Levi hated sitting around and doing nothing, and Armin's choice of books was boring, to say the least. But. It gave him at least something to think about besides Hange and whatever was going on between them.

Still, even though he was spending all his days behind closed doors, it was hard to escape from Hange. The walls were paper-thin and so Levi heard her every laugh or exclamation. And every time he did, his treacherous mind filled with images of Hange's infuriating face. He'd think about her stupid cocky grin or her annoyingly sweet smile or her pretty brown eyes that seemed to sparkle, when she was excited or happy.

And it drove him mad, made him want to bang his head against the wall, because goddamn it, but he wanted her. He wanted her so much it was insufferable. It confused him, and, more than that, it scared him.

He had never felt like this - sure, he wasn't a stranger to sex, and sometimes, when he was on land, he'd seek some pleasurable company, but he never did it intentionally. He had never wanted it, needed it so much.

But when Hange was next to him, he could barely resist himself. He wanted to kiss her so much it almost pained him.

But somehow he knew— he knew that if he let himself kiss her, if he managed to taste her on his lips at least once, then he wouldn't be able to let go. And he couldn't, wouldn't let that happen.

Soon they'll reach Port Royal. Hange would be gone from his life forever. And, hopefully, she'd be gone from his heart too.

*** Levi was reading a particularly thrilling paragraph about navigation, when his door began to shake with thunderous blows. He groaned, recognizing Eren's knocks right away.

"The fuck do you want?" he shouted, not bothering to get to his feet and open the door.

Unfortunately, either Eren didn't hear him or he misinterpreted his words for a welcome, because in the next second he tumbled inside his room.

"Captain!"

Levi tensed, as he saw that the boy looked absolutely wild - his face was flushed and his eyes stared at him with a desperate implore. Did something happen? Were they attacked or—

"It's an absolute disaster!" Eren cried out. "Captain Hange's crew, you have to stop them!"

What? Did Hange decide to break her promise? Levi felt his blood go cold. He believed her, fucking trusted her and she betrayed him?

"Eren," Levi walked to the boy and tightly gripped his shoulders. "What happened?"

"The tournament!"

The what?

"We decided to organize the tournament, to find out who is better - pirates or members of navy, and—"

"Wait," Levi took a step back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Headache started to form behind his eyelids. "You are this panicked because of some stupid competition?"

"We can't lose to them, Captain!"

"Our honor is on the line!" Connie added, materializing seemingly out of thin air. All other members of Levi’s crew appeared next to him as well. All of them had the same desperate expressions as Eren.

Levi sighed. The headache was rapidly intensifying. "Fine, tell me what happened."

"We were kind of bored, so Сaptain Hange proposed to find out who are the best fighters," Eren began. "There were four duels."

"I defeated Keiji!" Connie shouted proudly.

"But that horse Jean lost to Abel," Eren shook his head. Jean glared at him, elbowing him in the side.

"Mikasa won in a fight against Moblit," Armin said, smiling nervously.

"But Sasha couldn't defeat Nifa," Connie sadly finished.

"So now we have a tie!" the fire returned to Eren's eyes.

"And the fuck I have to do with your shit?" Levi asked, crossing hands on his chest and scowling at his subordinates. "You still didn't fight, Eren. Go and duel with four-eyes. Win that stupid tournament and get over it."

"But Captain! I've fought with her dozens of times! And I didn't win even once!"

"Guys," Levi tensed, as he heard that voice. Soon its owner appeared in his doorway. "Don't pressure your Captain so much. If he's afraid of losing, there is nothing you can do."

Oh, that's how it was? She was back to her insufferably cocky self?

"I won last time, four-eyes," Levi coldly remained.

"Doesn't mean you'll win this time too," she smirked.

"If you want to embarrass yourself again," he growled, pushing past his crewmembers.

He grabbed the saber from Mikasa, gripping it tightly in his hand. His grip became even tighter, when he saw the smug look on Hange's face, as she sauntered to stand in front of him.

She twirled her own saber, that damn smirk still plastered on her lips. Levi wanted to wipe it off with his fist, or, more preferably, with his own lips.

"The terms are the same as last time? The one who loses has to fulfill the other's wish?"

"You were the one, who lost last time," Levi reminded her again.

"The past is in the past," Hange shrugged, before taking a fighting stance.

In the next moment, she attacked. And even though, Levi was ready for it, he wasn't quite ready for the force of her hit. Hange swung her saber so heavily, Levi's own weapon had almost fallen to the ground.

He cursed under his breath, she changed her fighting style again. She didn't give him the slightest chance to adapt. What an irritating woman. Fighting with her was absolutely exhilarating.

Before he could perform his own attack, Hange hit him again. And again. Her swings were fast, but strong, and all Levi could do was try his best to avoid them. He blocked, ducked, jumped back, stepped aside. Soon he and Hange were dancing around the deck, going around each other in circles.

Hange was an excellent fighter, but not better than Levi. Dueling with her wouldn't be that hard, if he could focus on something else, except that exciting twinkle in her eye.

And, of course, because she wasn't just a good fighter, but an incredibly sharp person, Hange saw right through him. And turned his fault into her advantage. While Levi was so centered on her face, she swung lowly, hitting his wrist. It was an intentionally soft hit, Hange was evidently extra careful not to hurt him. However, the impact still made him drop his weapon.

A wide, victorious grin appeared on her face. Behind them, Hange's crew began to shout in triumph, while Levi's men groaned in defeat.

"I'll be waiting for you at midnight," she whispered, patting his shoulder.

And then, she went to accept congratulations from her crew, leaving Levi stare after her with a dazed and shook expression.

***

Levi knew it was a bad idea. To stand next to Hange on the empty deck in the middle of the night - he was practically asking for trouble. But he always kept his word, and he wouldn't break his principals now. He'd listen to what Hange wants from him, he'd perform whatever stupid task she'd ask. And then he'd leave.

Without looking back.

He got a sense of déjà vu, when he walked out to the deck and saw Hange there.

"So you came," she noted without turning to face him.

"You doubted me?" Levi took a few steps closer, but still stood a little distance away.

"Well," Hange shrugged. "You were avoiding me for three days."

So she noticed, huh? Well, he wasn't exactly subtle.

"What is your wish?" he asked gruffly, trying to mask his uneasiness.

Hange grinned, finally looking at him. "Kiss me," she said simply.

"What?!"

"Kiss me," Hange repeated sweetly, as though she was talking to a child. "On the lips."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Maybe. But you agreed to a bet. Or does honor means nothing to you?”

Levi let out a low growl. She was taunting him, he knew that. Telling her to go fuck herself and then leaving was the smartest thing to do.

Unfortunately, Levi didn’t consider himself to be a very smart person.

So her grabbed by the shirt and crashed his lips against hers. He meant for it to be brief, just a simple touch. But when Hange opened her mouth and a quiet moan escaped her, Levi knotted his fists into her shirt, pulling her harder against him.

He felt shivers run down his spine, his knees were getting wobbly, but he didn’t stop, not until he was completely out of breath.

“Jeez,” Hange whispered, when they broke apart. “I knew you were good, but I could have never imagined that.”

“You thought about kissing me?” Levi asked dizzily. His heart hammered inside his chest and his hands trembled with desire to touch her again.

“Yeah,” Hange laughed, not an ounce of shame. “Many times.”

“Then why—” Levi glared at her. “The last time we spoke, I wanted to kiss you.”

“I know,” Hange nodded.

“Why did you push me away then?”

“I got scared,” she answered simply and honestly. “No one has ever made me feel like this before, and I was confused about it.”

“And what changed?”

“Remember what I told you? About living my life the way I want it? Well,” Hange spread her hands. “I like how you make me feel, and I very much like you, so why should I deprive myself of that?”

“So that’s it?” Levi asked. “It’s that simple?”

Hange shrugged, her lips curving into a grin. “Yeah, for me it is.”

Levi raked his hands through his hair. “I need… to think about it.”

“Sure,” she softly patted his shoulder. Her understanding, kindness and acceptance bewildered Levi beyond words. “Take all the time you need. I’m not pressuring you into anything.”

“This thing between us— what if I agree to it?” Levi looked up at her, his eyes desperate for something he couldn’t name. “How would that even work? We probably won’t see each other again.”

“We don’t really have to say goodbye,” she mused. “We can… work together?”

“I’m an officer of the navy,” Levi reminded her.

“And I’m only a part-time pirate,” Hange said cheekily. “I mean we both work for Erwin anyway.”

“And I won’t have to give my ship to you…” Levi agreed, feeling uncharacteristically giddy. What if… what if that actually can work?

“I can help you get rid of violent criminals and—”

“And I can help you travel around the world,” he finished.

“Mm,” Hange smiled. It was the brightest smile Levi had ever seen on her face. “So does that mean you agree to cooperate?”

“Your terms don’t sound that awful,” a small smile tugged at Levi’s own lips. “I think we should seal our deal.”

And with that, he wrapped his hands around her and kissed her once again.

***

A part-time pirate was also an exceptional thief. However, it wasn’t Levi’s ship that was stolen.

It was his heart.

#pirate!au!!!!!!#writing it was extremely fun!!!!#btw i'll get to all of your prompts about ch132 soon!!!#at least i hope so.....#had the busiest of weeks!!!! and even busier weekend awaits #snk #levihan #levihan fanfiction #levi and hanji #levi ackerman #hanji zoe #hange zoë #levi x hange #snk fanfiction #aot

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fangirlwriting-stories · 3 years ago

Text

Reflecting Light

Chapter Five

Watching sunrises up in the air was one of Remus’ new favorite things. They were also usually high enough for him to touch clouds or grab at birds, both of which he had done before.

He had done it almost every day for the now couple weeks he’d been on the ship, and it hadn’t gotten old yet. Every now and then someone joined him, usually Jackson or Stella, as the only other morning people on the ship. The three of them often ended up making breakfast after the sun rose, and they had many deep probing conversations about life and how much they missed ketchup.

Remus felt more at home on the ship the longer he stayed there, and after a while he started to feel like, strangely enough, he was starting to matter to these people. It didn’t stop him from missing home. It did solidify his feelings against going back.

He also got the sense that he was getting closer to Janus and Virgil than most others on the ship were, though he wasn’t really sure why that was happening. He definitely didn’t mind, as the rest of the crew had started to matter to him too, and that very much included them. Maybe especially them, as a matter of fact. But he couldn’t be sure if the feeling was mutual until the day Janus offered to teach him sword fighting.

“What? Why?” Remus asked, tightening the rope he was tying down.

“Just so you know how to fight,” Janus said, and something in Remus froze. “We have run into our fair share of enemies on our travels, and we’re pushing our luck the longer we go without seeing any. I just want you to be able to defend yourself.”

I already know how to fight, Remus thought, at the same moment the opposite half of his brain screamed I don’t want to fight!

He swallowed. “Okay,” he said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice as much as he could.

Remus had seen others carrying around various weapons before, and he’d correctly assumed they’d just kept them in their rooms. He hadn’t assumed there would be a crate full of various other weapons. He eyed the morningstar that he’d definitely be coming back for later as Janus searched through it for a sword that he thought would work for Remus.

After a moment, he pulled a couple out and offered them to him. “Which one of these feels better?” he asked.

Remus took them one at a time and shifted it around in his hands, until he handed Janus back one of them and kept the one felt better, which coincidentally happened to have a curlier and fancier handle, and Remus very much approved of this.

“Alright, let’s do this on the deck,” Janus said, closing the crate again and pulling his own sword out from his belt. Remus had never really gotten a chance to look at it before, but it was very obviously Janus’ sword. It had snakes carved all over the handle that matched the tattoos on his face, and Janus held it naturally enough that it looked like he was made to hold it.

Everyone else seemed to realize what was happening once they both made it out to the deck, which Remus honestly couldn’t blame them for given the fact that they were both holding swords.

“Okay, try and copy my stance,” Janus said, crouching down in a pretty typical sword fighting stance that Remus could easily mirror.

Okay, so look. Sword fighting wasn’t actually one of Remus’ best skills. He had of course trained how to fight with a weapon, but he was better with just his hands, or with blunt force weapons, hence that morningstar he was going back for. But that didn’t mean that he’d never held a sword before, like Janus seemed to think. How was he supposed to make this work?

He crouched down and tried to get the stance a little bit off. It seemed to convince Janus enough if the look on his face was anything to go by.

“Shift your right foot a little closer,” he said, and Remus did so, after which Janus gave an approving nod.

“Okay, I’m going to start slow.”

Oh, by all means, please do.

Remus tried to move sloppily enough that he would miss a couple of swings, and he thought he did alright, but Janus still seemed impressed.

“You sure you’ve never fought with a sword before?” he asked.

Remus blocked his swing and moved forward to counter, trying to decide how to respond as he did so.

“I mean, I have fought with like, my hands before,” he said finally. “I learned how to dodge. I got into a lot of fights as a kid, which I’m sure will shock you.”

“Never could have seen it coming,” Janus said with a smirk, blocking Remus’ next swing.

Remus’ skill being better than Janus thought it was meant Janus started upping the difficulty as they kept going, and the others around the deck started watching too, staying out of the way.

Remus figured he probably could really learn something from this, and he tried to watch what Janus did and parrot him back to him if he saw something he didn’t already know how to do. They moved around the deck faster as they went, until they were actually fighting somewhere closer to Remus’ skill level, with Remus blocking and parrying and swinging back at him fairly quickly.

“You’re not bad at this,” Janus said with an impressed smile.

“You said that already,” Remus said, hoping Janus wouldn’t get suspicious about that.

“No, I meant learning.”

“You can be bad at learning?”

“You can absolutely be bad at learning,” Janus said. “Mostly by not trying. But you’re clearly paying attention.”

“Hmm,” Remus said, trying to shut up the tiny nervous voice in the back of his head for once that kept saying he’d be found out. “In that case, why don’t we see if I can win?”

Janus grinned. “Oh, yeah? You’re on.” He started moving faster, enough that Remus had to take a moment to adjust. Janus’ sword moved towards his hand, and Remus didn’t move quite fast enough, hissing as the sword cut across the skin and yanking it back to his chest.

Janus slowed down slightly. “You alright?”

Remus grinned at the change of pace and swung his sword around Janus,’ knocking it out of his hands and down into the deck.

Janus blinked in surprise down at the sword, then looked back up at Remus.

The others around the deck started to cheer, and Remus grinned around at them.

“What— hey, you liar! You caught me off guard!” Janus cried.

Remus grinned back at him “Mmm-hmm, sure.”

“I just started teaching you this morning, no one’s that good.”

“Maybe you’re just that bad,” Remus said.

“I am offended,” Janus scoffed. “You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“And yet I beat you,” Remus said, swinging the sword over to rest on his shoulders and starting up to where Virgil was steering the ship from the wheel, and giving high fives to people as he passed.

“Alright, alright, back to work!” Janus called as he followed, and most people listened, although they were still smiling as wide as Remus was.

“Hey, Remus,” Virgil said with a smile of his own that meant he’d clearly been watching. “How’s the sword lesson going?”

“I won,” Remus said, at the same time Janus said, “He cheated.”

“Did not!”

“You can’t pretend to be hurt just to catch me off guard!”

“That can’t help me that much,” Remus said, grinning at Janus.

“Yeah, he’s right Jan, suck up your pride and admit that you lost,” Virgil said, starting to grin himself.

“Never.”

“I’m better than you,” Remus sang.

“Lies and slander.”

Remus and Virgil both laughed, and Virgil looked back down at the compass they were traveling on and readjusted the wheel.

“Besides, who said I was lying?” Remus said, waving his injured hand.

Janus stopped looking irritated instantly. “Wait, did I actually get you? It’s not deep, is it?”

Remus blinked, surprised at the tonal shift. “What? No, it’s fine,” he said, waving it off. “I can wrap it later. It’s no big deal. Well, no more than the fact that I used it to win a sword fight.”

Janus didn’t say anything for a moment, instead clearly thinking something over. Virgil was looking at him too, and now Remus wasn’t quite sure what was going on.

“Remus, can I get some clarification on something?” Janus asked finally.

Remus swallowed nervously. “Okay?”

“This is the second time I’ve seen you brush off an injury, along with the time at Remy’s shop, and both times you’ve seemed surprised that anyone even cares. Do you not think that we would care if you’re hurt?”

Remus had no idea how to respond to that. “I mean… no one ever really has before,” he settled on finally. When Janus looked even more concerned, he quickly amended, “I mean, because there were so many kids where I grew up, you know. Just… not really enough time for someone to care.”

“Dude,” Virgil said, sounding just as concerned. Remus glanced over at him. “That’s fucking awful.”

“It… is?”

“Yes,” Virgil said firmly. “Someone should have cared, Remus. It’s not fair to leave you to learn how to deal with everything yourself.”

“I mean… Patton,” Remus said hesitantly, trying to come up with a way to talk about this and still hide where he was from. “Patton was another kid I lived with. He was the one who taught me how to patch myself up. He cared.”

This seemed to calm Janus and Virgil down a little.

“Okay,” Virgil said with a nod. “That’s good. Just… please understand that we are going to care if you get hurt, Remus. We’re not going to just let it happen.”

Remus blinked, trying to consider that idea. That made it sound like they weren’t going to hurt him on purpose. How did they intend to deal with him when he screwed up?

Remus paused as he thought back. Janus had talked about that before, about finding an alternative way of letting Remus know when he messed up. Is that… is that what he meant? Holy shit, how nice were these people?

Well, Remus certainly wasn’t going to complain. That sounded way too nice to complain about. No wonder everyone on this ship cared about him, if they were all such freaking angels.

Right, he should probably reply to Virgil, who was still looking at him. “Uh, okay,” he said, rubbing the back of his arm to give his hands something to do. “Thanks.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely something you need to thank us for,” Janus said sarcastically, as if they weren’t being nice enough already. He nudged Remus gently in the side and walked over to lean against the railing behind the wheel. “Seriously, though, your hand isn’t badly hurt?”

“Nah, not at all,” Remus said, moving to join him. “I was pretending to be in pain in order to win a sword fight.”

Janus shot him a playful glare. “Dirty trick.”

“How is it my fault that you two care about me? I’m just using that horrendous mistake to my advantage.”

Virgil laughed. “Yeah, Janus, this is really all your fault for having a heart.”

Janus sighed. “Why do I care about you two again?”

“You love us,” Virgil sang, leaning towards Janus. “You big softie.”

“I will not tolerate such slanderous accusations in my presence.”

“Oh, so we can call you a softie all we want when you’re not around?” Remus asked innocently.

Janus shook his head, affronted. “You’re both so mean.”

“Nah, you’re just a sore loser,” Remus said, sticking his tongue out.

Janus opened his mouth to make some other kind of protest, but was cut off by Virgil spinning the wheel and jerking the whole ship slightly to the left.

Cries of surprise rang out below.

“Virgil,” Janus huffed. “Has anyone ever told you how ridiculously petty you are?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Virgil said, jerking the ship to the right. “I’m trying to focus on flying.” He jerked the ship again and Remus laughed.

“Okay, give me the wheel,” Janus said, elbowing Virgil out of the way and setting the ship back on course. “It’s a miracle anyone on this ship still considers me an authority.”

“And when my plan is complete, they never will again,” Virgil said casually, moving over to lean next to Remus against the barrier.

Remus laughed again. “Careful, Janus, it sounds like you’ve got a mutiny on your hands.”

“Betrayed by Virgil,” Janus said, shaking his head. “I thought I could at least count on my own brother to support me.”

Remus winced and looked away.

“Ah, so your list of people you’ve mistakenly cared for grows,” Virgil said, putting his arms behind his head and leaning back against them. “I think we can say you’ve learned a valuable lesson today.”

“Yes, that I should throw the both of you overboard,” Janus said with a deadpan glare.

Virgil laughed and moved his hands back from his head, shifting his gaze off the back of the ship in the way that meant this conversation was probably drawing to a close. Remus looked back, moving his gaze to watch the birds that were chasing them, and decided he was alright with that. He was alright with all of this.

He sighed and tucked his hands against the railing to lean on. He’d stop missing his family eventually. Besides, he liked this family, in all the ways it was starting to feel like one. Remus could be content with that, in the same way a village in the middle of a drought could be content after a short rainfall. It would be good. He would be good. He just needed a little time, that’s all. His worries and missing of everyone else would fade.

Chapter Six

#sanders sides #remus sanders #roman sanders #pirates #rebellion #angst #abuse #tw abuse #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #my fic

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wickedmilo · 3 years ago

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THREE, MIRROR | MILO & BEA

PLACE: A coffee shop near the university campus TIMING: 10:37 PM SUMMARY: Bea notices Milo being the worst vampire in the world, and makes a begrudging effort to help him. WRITING PARTNER: @beatrice-blaze CONTENT WARNINGS: Very brief mentions of substance abuse, mentions of emotional abuse

Milo’s mind was still reeling. From finally running into his killer, from being forced to accept the fact that he had allowed the man to escape Dani’s stake, from being given the chance to explore the space where he had lost his life, and really see it for the first time since waking up as a vampire. It was an awful lot to process, which was why he was feeling slightly idiotic, and simultaneously slightly desperate, as he waited in line to order a coffee. Of all the places he could be drowning his sorrows, searching for an answer at the bottom of the bottle, a coffee shop was probably the last place anybody would expect him to be. Maybe that was a part of why it felt so comforting; the unpredictability, the spontaneity of the decision. Also, he supposed, the mundanity. He was waiting in line alongside late night students, people working on screenplays, or trying to complete assignments that were dangerously overdue. He could hear scribbling notes, hear the tapping of keys, even the subtle whir of laptop machinery if he allowed himself to focus. But he wasn’t here for other people, he was here for himself. For the familiar scent of coffee. For the feeling of wrapping his hands around a hot paper cup. He could only assume that was what everybody sought when they visited a café after dark.

He couldn’t count the amount of times he had stumbled into this particular shop with a bad hangover, or even still drunk. It had been a saving grace first thing in the morning. And it was proving to be a saving grace now. At least here he felt vaguely human, at least here he could pretend everything that had happened to him over the course of the past few months had been some awful fever dream he had finally woken up from. Something he could move past, and forget. Something he could wash away with the right combination of syrup, coffee, and oat milk. When he reached the front of the line, he placed his order, asking for far more syrup than he usually would in the hope of granting the beverage a stronger taste. A few more minutes of waiting, of forcing any unwanted thoughts to the very back of his mind, and he picked up his cup, making his way over to the wall lined with mirrors.

It was a staple of any coffee shop trying to appear sophisticated. And he was so used to the décor that he didn’t stop to consider whether his favourite spot could still safely be his favourite spot. Pulling out the chair closest to the wall, he dropped down onto it, leaning back against the cool surface of the glass as he began to tap his fingers against the drink in his hands. It was a nervous habit, one he never could seem to shake. Taking a careful sip of his coffee, a quiet sigh managed to escape him at the dull, one-note taste. If only it would taste as strongly as it smelled. It didn’t seem fair that one sense had been heightened while he had essentially lost another entirely. Maybe if he mixed it with some blood? Could he do that? Would that work? So lost in his own thoughts, it took him far too long to realise he was being watched. Catching the eye of a stranger, when they didn’t look away he raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to wallow without being interrupted.

Bea had gotten used to sleeping when it was light out in New York. The habit had still lingered after her return, her night owl tendencies too much of a hassle to break at this point. It helped to sleep in the light, to wake up gasping and be able to see everything in her room. There was no fear that the Hunter stood in the corner of her room in the light. The ocean could not flood her room. She could see that Adam’s dead eyes weren’t staring at her, crawling to her and telling her he needed to come back. The day rid her of her nightmares far faster than the night did. There were no corners to hide in. She was safe awake at night and safe asleep in the light.

Usually after a show, Bea would find herself at the Stacked Deck, martini in hand as she gambled. She was trying not to drink on bad days, on the days where memories tore at her. Partaking in another vice, that seemed safe. Her mouth was dry as she stared into the steaming coffee in front of her. This wasn’t usually her first pick of a café, but it was the closest she had been to when her walk started to turn into wandering, aimless. These moods, they hit like waves, battering her over and over again, small moments of reprieve falsely claiming the storm was finally over. It exhausted her, cement added to her bones, trapping in the cold, dragging her down further into the sea. Water slipped into her lungs, coughing it up, inviting more in, but there was no release of consciousness, no, she was forced to live it all, feeling herself drown, over and over again.

A hand gripped the back of her seat and Bea jolted with the motion, magic rushing to her fingertips as she looked for an enemy. It was some college kid, punchdrunk from hours spent in front of a laptop. Her heart hammered in her chest, her pulse screaming that she was alive, they were safe. Find five things you can identify in the room. That’s what her therapist had said, right? She couldn’t remember, but she began to count. “One, coffee,” She forced her eyes around the room. “Two, table. Three, mirror.” Mirror… She could see the mirror clearly, could see herself from across the room, all too sophisticated looking for the wild look in her eyes to fit, but not the man in front of it. He was a vampire, he had to be. She had stood in front of a mirror enough with Kian to know. His eyebrows went up and now she was too. A tide pulled her to him, pushed her to do what always made her feel safe and take care of someone else. “You’re in front of a mirror,” She said, her voice stronger than she expected.

Milo hadn’t been expecting the woman to approach him, and he stared at her as she closed the distance between them both. It took far too long for her words to fully register, but when they did he felt an irrational surge of annoyance. “What?” He snapped. Why should she care where he was? What business did she have trying to tell him something he already knew? The mirror had always been there, it didn’t exactly feel like an important piece of information. But as quickly as his irritability had risen to the surface, it was replaced by a sudden realisation. Oh shit, he was sitting in front of a mirror. A jolt of panic shot through him without warning, uncomfortable, and disorienting. Had he really just announced to the entire coffee shop that he wasn’t human? As if hoping to prove he hadn’t been quite so moronic, he glanced behind himself to be met with the reflection of the woman, the shop, and absolutely nothing else. “Fuck- shit-” He muttered, scrambling to his feet, backing away until he was standing beside a window. No longer within reach of the mirrored wall, he still felt nervous, and unsteady. Only when he took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure did he fully understand what this stranger had done for him. But why? What had compelled her to care?

Offering her a hesitant smile, still battling the anxiety clawing at his chest, he did what he could to calm down. Part of him understood there was a possibility this wasn’t the end. The person standing by his abandoned table could be a slayer who had decided to toy with him, or somebody who loathed vampires and was hoping to laugh at his lack of intelligence. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would deal with that later, for now he needed to focus on the present. “I-uh… thanks.” He muttered, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. It was important to look unassuming, he knew that. Lest he be seen as a threat. But the sheepish demeanour came naturally to him, so he said the first thing that came to his mind. “It’s easy to forget sometimes… I just…” Glancing back down at his coffee, still sitting on the table where he had left it, he let out a quiet huff of frustration. “Hey- I don’t suppose you could pass that to me?” He asked. She was only going to say yes or no, he didn’t see the harm in pushing his luck. “That drink is… it’s me trying to stay sane. Apparently it isn’t working…” He added, gesturing vaguely to the mirror.

Irritation rose swiftly in her chest as the man snapped at her. For a moment, Bea considered turning around and letting him suffer the consequences of his actions. The memory of her sister cradling Adam’s body swam to meet her anger, tempering her. This vampire was not Adam, but just like with Eddie, she had the urge to force him to take care of himself. Death had been a friend when she was the one reaching out to it. She understood who truly held the power now. No matter what she could do, there would be people who she lost. Death might be something she could circumvent herself, but that did not mean she would not witness the ramifications of it. She could still try to make others safer from it, even if after it took them, they refused to come back to her.

Dull brown eyes watched as the vampire scrambled back from the mirror. “It shouldn’t be,” Bea said with reproach. She didn’t want this man to hurt, but she did not like him. She still remembered the taste of Kian’s disappearance in her mouth. She still felt the sting of rejection. The understanding of his goals with her, had come later in life. She had even truly realized that he had been using her until she spoke to her friends about their relationship. Abuse seemed like a terribly harsh word for it, but she could not think of something softer that described it correctly. Her lips pressed and for a moment she thought of saying no. She passed it to him wordlessly, eyeing him with suspicion. “Are you always so careless?”

“Oh, come on. Like you don’t forget to eat sometimes, or put on lotion before you go out into the sun.” Milo countered. Self care, and self preservation consisted of so many little things, things that were difficult to remember when you were busy, or tired, or your life was getting complicated. Surely anybody could understand that. Pointedly ignoring the tone the woman had chosen to take, he was surprised when she handed him his coffee. It wouldn’t take a genius to see she was annoyed, maybe she too had come to the coffee shop for some kind of escape, and he was ruining it for her by being an all too present reminder of the supernatural. Focusing on her scent, on the sound of her heartbeat, she clearly wasn’t a werewolf, vampire, or zombie. So what was she? A spellcaster? A human who knew too much? “Thanks…” He said quietly, his demeanour softening. She didn’t owe him anything, and she had given him his coffee in spite of that fact.

Hugging the cup to his chest, he watched her, unsure how they were supposed to move forward in such an unusual circumstance. But then she spoke again, and a laugh managed to escape him. He pushed his hair back away from his face, relief at only being caught out by one person was beginning to wash over him. Lowering his inhibitions, and making him all the more grateful for the stranger’s begrudging intervention. “Not always.” He insisted, feeling the need to defend his intelligence. “Sometimes…” Mirrors weren’t always an issue, and when they were he had proven relatively competent when it came to avoiding them. But he had an awful lot on his mind. He didn’t want to dwell on his many mistakes. He wanted to pretend, to enjoy the little bubble of safety the coffee shop felt like it was providing. “Look, it’s been a really fucked up week, okay? I just… I needed a break.”

Bea’s expression soured even further at the man’s reply, “Those things aren’t the same and you know it. I’m not going to have someone attempt to kill me if they notice I didn’t eat.” She didn’t know why she cared, maybe she didn’t actually but wanted the distraction, but whatever caused her to come over here kept her here, even with her mounting irritation. Hadn’t her therapist said something about this? She couldn’t remember it, not with her pulse roaring in her ears, but she knew that Miranda wasn’t going to be happy with her for butting into something again. She’d probably say that taking care of other people to ignore her own self care was a form of escapism or some shit. Bea wasn’t really all that willing to work on breaking out of that habit just yet, it’s what made her useful to the people around her.

It was always a fucked up week in White Crest. There was always another building disaster. There was always something that ruined someone’s life. It was just how the town was. She bit her tongue and said nothing. Taking a moment, she looked away from the man, back to the mirror. She stared back at herself and her eyes lingered on the scar circling her neck. Wicked’s Rest always took something from the people who lived here, it was just how it went. She looked back to the man, “Find a place that doesn’t have mirrors to take a break then. Or one day a hunter will find you sitting in front of a mirror and they will try to kill you. They’ll make sure you stay dead too.” She certainly didn’t hate hunters, especially knowing the ones she did and how they were driven to make the world a better place, but she didn’t want to be a bystander to someone’s death.

Milo was half expecting to win over the woman’s sympathy, convince her in some way to feel for him rather than see him as an idiot. The fact that his words only managed to irritate her further only managed to irritate him further too. Maybe she had a point, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “Whatever, I’m only saying it’s easy to forget the important shit. Especially when your life is a mess. So, bite me.” Taking a sip of his coffee, out of habit more so than in an attempt to calm down, he found the hot drink did manage to soothe him a little. It reminded him of why he was here. The desperation, and longing for an escape. He wouldn’t be able to find one while he was being yelled at by a stranger, that much was undeniable. Though he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to escape this interaction. This woman had genuinely helped him, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from her. No matter how determined she seemed to ruin his night.

Watching as she turned away from him, he saw her stare at her own reflection, but couldn’t follow her gaze without stepping closer, something he absolutely wasn’t willing to do. She would only berate him again, and he didn’t want to encourage her. “I used to come here a lot while I was studying.” He countered, glaring at her even as she ignored him. “Forgive me for wanting something familiar.” If he had chosen almost anywhere else in the cafe he might have been able to avoid the mirrors, but he hadn’t been thinking, too lost in his own pain. As far as he was concerned that was understandable, more than valid given the circumstance. Though his company would probably argue otherwise. “No shit,” he shot back. “I’ve met one or two, I-” He broke off before he could insist he knew what he was doing. How could he say that after such a ridiculous mistake? “I’m fine.” He answered instead. “Okay? I don’t need your help, or- whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”

“You’ll have to excuse me if I decline that offer,” Bea sneered back. Maybe on another night she would have been kinder, gentle in her correction. The combination of bad night and an unshaken dislike for vampires was a potent one. She wouldn’t apologize for it, not when she felt she was justly annoyed. She took a deep breath in, Miranda’s voice ringing in her head. She had to keep her cool, they were still in public and she had a reputation to uphold. She kept her eyes off the mirror now, unwilling to see how her face had shifted as anger took over. She was better than this. She knew she was better than this. It was just that this vampire was in front of her and she could barely stand the proximity. The grief of her past had never truly been dealt with, pushed aside instead in favor of continuing on. That was the way of the Vurals, wasn’t it?

Familiarity. Bea could understand that. She found that in the Stacked Deck and Coffee Plus after her death. A place to feel normal just for a moment. It was the most human thing a person could want. “Be more mindful about where you sit here then,” She conceded, her throat tight at the grim reminder that he was struggling with his own demons. A sharp smile took over her face, “You don’t need my help now, after I helped you.” That was the way of it though, wasn’t it? She never wanted help after she proved she needed it. She could, in a way, sympathize with that. “Look, I don’t like vampires, but I wasn’t going to let you get caught like that. I’m not in the business of watching someone make a fatal mistake, even if I don’t like them. That’s all I’m doing.”

“You’re excused.” Milo countered, unable to think of a witty comeback. He was torn between gratitude and frustration. The fact that this woman had done something genuinely good for him, and then turned on him almost the moment he was safe, was pathetically causing his head to spin. Was it really too much to ask for a quiet night? He didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with such inconsistency. He had been polite, he had thanked her, and he had been met with a less than positive attitude. It didn’t feel fair. Raising his eyebrows as a few beats of silence passed between them, he watched the stranger as she turned away from her reflection. She was a difficult person to read, which only served to make the interaction feel more irritating, and unnecessary. “I don’t know whether it counts if you stick around to insult the person you helped.” He pointed out, although he knew she could argue against his statement. Regardless of whether she was being kind to him, she had stopped him from potentially becoming a target. Nothing she said now was going to change that. He and Deirdre hadn’t exactly parted as friends, but that didn’t erase the medical attention he had offered her.

Letting out a huff of breath, unsurprised to hear she didn’t like vampires, he appreciated the reason for her behaviour. Even if said reason was bullshit. “I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you’re Team Jacob. I’m not about to fucking fall at your feet because you did me a solid in spite of what I am.” He awkwardly crossed his arms over his chest, careful not to drop his coffee cup. His confidence was rapidly fading as he realised he didn’t always like vampires either. When he met them for the first time, he felt nervous, and scared. It was a product of his history with them. It was only after getting to know them that he became comfortable in their company, maybe this was something they both had in common. “Okay, shit. I get it…” He muttered begrudgingly. Shifting awkwardly on the spot, he chewed on his bottom lip, steeling himself to be honest with her. “You think I like vampires?” He asked. “I was fucking killed by one… but that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me like you already know who I am. We’re still people. There’s still good and bad.”

“Asking someone if they’re always careless isn’t an insult. My attitude towards you isn’t an insult just because it’s not immediately positive.” Bea could feel the heat in her blood, felt herself simmering under the surface. The world was unfair, so why did she have to be fair to everyone she met? She was kind when she didn’t have to, better than other people had been to her. It shouldn’t fall on her shoulders to carry on with optimism and generosity at all times. Shouldn’t she get to be as bad sometimes? You’re spiralling, she thought grimly. Miranda had told her she did that, where all of her thoughts started to go too fast to logically go through them. She wanted to go home, but what waited for her there. Felix was in New York, Nell at their parents’ house, Luce at the cabin. The house was empty and it was too late to call anyone over to fill in the gaps that ghosts had left.

Bea’s eyes narrowed, “When you spend three years of your life getting used as a convenient blood bag, I’ll listen to your opinion on how I should feel around vampires.” The relationship she had held with Kian was complicated, but she had grown to realize that their love had been toxic. She had begun to understand that they had only lasted so long because he hadn’t felt motivated to find someone else only a year or so ago. Her throat tightened, she had assumed that he was like Kian, someone who had chosen this life. She had never forgotten with zombies that many of them didn’t pick this. It was harder with vampires. It was hard to look at him now, the stripped truth of what was in front of them almost too much to bear. She nodded, such a small movement that it could have been lost with a blink. An apology stuck on her tongue, thick, hard to move. She could type apologies, but speaking them, that was a very different story. “You’re right,” She conceded. “I let my bias get the better of me.”

“It wasn’t what you said, it was the way that you said it.” Milo pointed out, although he strongly suspected the woman might already know. He wasn’t sure why he was even bothering to continue with this argument, but walking away felt too much like admitting defeat, like agreeing with her. “It is when you’re generalising.” He added, figuring it definitely counted as an insult if her mood was in relation to his vampirism. It wasn’t the first time what he was had managed to make somebody uncomfortable, and it didn’t seem to get any easier. But at least she was making it easy to be annoyed, at least she was making it easy to not feel guilty. Bex had been different, she had been soft, and regretful in a way that made him self-conscious, that made him want to apologise for being himself. His current company had an edge, one that as far as he was concerned, gave him permission to be less than content.

Fully prepared to defend himself, he found his expression shifting once again when he registered what he was being told. There were so many details to her story that would change the context of it. Had she given blood willingly? Was it being taken by someone she knew? Was she being held captive? Or manipulated into sharing? But as quickly as his mind began to run through the possibilities, he was reminded of her obvious trauma. How it had happened wasn’t relevant. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how upset she clearly was, how deeply affected by the past. She had damage, same as him. He couldn’t exactly blame her for that. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” He said quietly, a frown creasing his brow. He had been used as a blood bag once, and it had cost him his life. He tried and failed to imagine how he might feel if he had been used for three years, if he was still alive, and vulnerable to another attack. He still felt vulnerable, though he knew nobody was going to drink his blood now. She couldn’t say the same. “Yeah, you kind of did… but it’s whatever.” He unfolded his arms, trying to assure her without letting her think she might have won. “That shit stays with you, I know it does…”

Irritation continued to mount, but now it was focused inward. Bea did not lose control. She presented herself as a measured person, her actions had meaning. There was hard to find meaning with the pressure building between her ears. She had fallen from her path without realizing it, twigs broken from her blind tumble. Left behind her an ugly, broken mistake. Her jaw locked, unwilling to deny the truth of his words, unwilling to apologize or put herself in a worse position. She felt young again. At least there was no threat that she would break all the windows in the café, even as far she had fallen, she had more control than she did at nineteen.

“It’s not,” She finally said. She had let him speak, let him apologize for what happened to her. She knew he deserved to be heard after she spoke to him as she had. “It’s not appropriate or kind of me to treat you the way I did.” The way, she knew, certain witches had in the past. The way her zombie friends had. “It’s not alright or whatever. I was wrong,” The words throttled her, the alarms in her brain begging her to shut up. She never enjoyed admitting she was wrong, it made her feel dizzy, out of control. But she was already there tonight, she was already spiralling, might as well dive in to fix something she had made. “I’m sorry too, for the little that it’s worth, that it happened to you. That you were killed.” She knew the feeling, the wrongness that came after that. She didn’t know how being changed into something else felt however. “White Crest isn’t kind. Just try to be careful and maybe it’ll avoid pressing its misery on you again,” She finished softly, weakly.

Milo listened to the apology, taking a moment to really register the woman’s choice of words. He recognised the fact that she was trying, in the same way he understood how difficult it was to take responsibility for a mistake. He appreciated it more than he could say, so he offered her a hesitant smile, hoping to show her he was no longer offended, or upset. He was too tired to cling to so many negative emotions, too desperate to forget, if only for a little while. “You, uh… you don’t have to be so dramatic about it.” He teased, careful to gauge her reaction. He was attempting to lighten the mood but he knew there was a possibility of pushing her further away. He wanted to move forward, he just didn’t know how to. “Look,” he said, becoming serious again. “I know how it feels, I really do. Or part of it, at least. I also know that’s weird because I guess I’m like, one of them now. But I didn’t ask for any of this… You were used by a vampire, and I was used by a vampire. Different outcomes but it still fucking sucks...” Catching the ironic phrase the moment it left his lips he laughed quietly, unable to help himself. “I mean, figuratively but…”

Falling silent when his company warned him White Crest wasn’t kind, it made him wonder what else she had been through, how else she might have suffered at the hands of his hometown. His memory flashed suddenly back to Dani, and his killer, to the moment he had allowed the person responsible for his death to touch him. He couldn’t do anything to suppress a shudder. As it always did when he truly considered what had taken place, anxiety began to claw at his chest, and he swallowed, staring down at his coffee so that he could collect himself before looking back up again. It was a strange conversation to have, and maybe not one he was ready for given recent events. But he pressed on. “I’m Milo. I probably should have said that earlier.” A soft sigh escaping him, he pointedly ignored the pain still weighing him down, remembering distinctly why he had come to the coffee shop in the first place. “Hey, I don’t suppose you want to, uh… start over? Maybe get another coffee and find a table that isn’t in front of a mirror?” He asked. He didn’t have anything to lose, but maybe, just maybe, he could gain a friend. A friend who partially understood the way the aftermath of his attack was still affecting him.

A snort left Bea, an amused smile lighting her face, “Trust me, this is me not being dramatic. I’m usually far more over the top.” She knew how to make a show, knew the words to say to get crowd reaction, knew how to dress and act to get the attention in a room. Her calm was often everyone’s dramatic. She watched his face closely, knowing that these conversations were never easy to have. Personally, most people didn’t know the details of her relationship with Kian. They didn’t know her history or how she felt dirty after it was all said and done. She had never gotten close enough to another person with ties to vampires to compare notes, see how trauma was different on other faces. “I find a lot of people turn into the thing that destroyed them, your’s just couldn’t be stopped.” She had become a killer after the Hunter, had walked this world with the goal of making sure others knew she could end them if she so wished. She had picked that, this man hadn’t. “It does fucking suck, pun intended, considering what happened,” She repeated back, that small smile still on her face.

Bea considered her options. She could just walk away, this had ended amicably enough, or she could give him a shot, accept company and let herself get pulled from the hole she had placed herself in. “I’m Bea or Beatrice, either work.” She always introduced herself that way, even though she rarely went by Beatrice anymore. Her mother had loved her full name though and so Bea had never stopped. Maybe it was time to. “I know a spot here where there are no mirrors, should be pretty safe.” She had never really stopped looking for those safe spots, not after three years of it. “I’ll get us more coffee and meet you over there?” She offered, guard still up, but willing to take some time to pull it down.

Milo watched the woman, pleased to see a genuine smile light up her face as she spoke. He smiled too, unable to help himself, but it didn’t take long for the expression to fade. He tried to imagine a world where he killed people so callously, where he was willing to take a life because it was convenient, and made him feel good. He refused to let himself become that, he was never going to forget the trauma, the unrest his experience had caused him. It might actually haunt him forever. He knew he could be selfish, knew on the odd occasion he put his own wants and needs before the wants and needs of others, but never to such a scale. That wasn’t him, and it was never going to be him. “I really hope that isn’t true…” He murmured. Maybe his company was right, and becoming a vampire was enough. Maybe she wasn’t talking about the murderous tendencies that apparently came as part of the package. Humming quietly in response to the pun, he glanced back up at her and was surprised to find she was still smiling. It made him feel better somehow, the knowledge that she might actually be enjoying the conversation.

“Bea...” He echoed, committing her name to his memory. He didn’t enjoy being given a choice, not when names could carry so much weight, and be so personal. It only made sense to use the first option he had been given. A laugh escaping him at the mention of mirrors, drawing him out of his thoughts, he was struck by how ridiculous it was relying on a human to show him where he would safely be able to sit. He felt like a child, although he knew he was in no place to complain about that fact. She was helping him, and considering how their interaction had begun, that alone seemed like an outright miracle. Following her gaze to a handful of tables, he nodded before catching her eye. “Coffee sounds good.” He agreed. “With oat milk, and as much syrup as they can legally give me.”

“Sometimes hope can be enough, if you follow it with determination.” There were moments where Bea looked toward Luce and saw hope in a manner she didn’t with many other people. It was a Vural trait to never go down easily, but Luce always felt like the most hopeful somehow. She was by far the least optimistic, yet somehow when hope was introduced to a situation, the eldest sister thought of the lightning caster. She couldn’t completely explain it, but it felt right in her chest. Luce didn’t let go of hope once she found it, she held fast, a dragon with her horde. “Oat milk,” Bea nodded, heading over to the front. “I’ll convince them to give you some illegal syrup too, don’t worry.”

Milo grinned at the mention of illegal syrup before turning away from Bea, making his way over to their new table. He felt okay, he realised. Not good, and definitely not whole, but okay, and that was undeniably the best possible outcome of the evening. He had been expecting the drink to help him. Had been expecting the solitude, and the quiet sense of normalcy to ground his overwhelming emotion. When in actuality it was the company helping him settle. Bea may have been cold, and short to begin with, but he was really beginning to like her. Maybe there was something in that. He had called Evelyn, hadn’t he? To help him when he was catatonic. Didn’t he usually call Orion when he was feeling particularly miserable, or confused? Even Macleod and James on the odd occasion had helped him to organise his thoughts. It struck him suddenly that he didn’t need coffee, he didn’t need to cling to his old life, or wallow in it entirely alone. He needed to find somebody to be with, somebody who could distract him from his thoughts, and allow him a sense of freedom. He knew the clubs now, he knew the substances. But did he know anybody willing to get on his level? If he looked in the right places, he strongly suspected White Crest might finally deliver.

#c:bea #milo and bea #emotional abuse tw #drug abuse tw

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