#i just need these seven interacting and i can't find A SINGLE FIC NOT EVEN ONE

[tired-o-fighter]

Bokuakakuroken double dating with osasunakomo has been playing in my head non stop

I'm SO SO SO FUCKING CLOSE to writing it but I'm stopping myself in order to finish my wips

I just can't get enough of these seven AH

[slytherinslut0]

tom riddle. | you don’t have to do this

summary: you and tom have endured seven years of ignoring your feelings for eachother for mattheo’s sake, and simply just can’t do it any more. it’s wrong, we shouldn’t be doing this type of trope.

word count: 1.2k

tags: nothing just a lot of angst and mentions of fighting (tom and mattheo), tom and reader kiss at the end. collective yet suppressed pining.

notes: this started out as headcanons and turned into something way longer (story of my life?). i need this as an entire proper fic, this is simply a concept for the time being.

————-

okay so like we all know about the cold, emotionally detached tom riddle—but what about the tom riddle who has been secretly harbouring feelings for you for years? the tom who has kept these feelings hidden because his brother, who has always been open about his affection for you, feels the same way.

what about tom riddle who has watched mattheo hit on you every single fucking day for 7 years and has found himself on the brink of bloody exploding because even though you reject mattheo every single time, the silent torment is unrelenting, and there’s always the gnawing chance that maybe one day you won’t turn him down.

what about tom riddle who forces himself to be distant from you, abruptly severing any tutoring sessions or any other individual interactions that might put you in close proximity to him because he needs to purge these feelings for you yet every goddamn moment near you makes it fucking impossible to do just that.

what about tom riddle who intervenes when you're all gathered in the common room on a friday night, drinking, to tell mattheo to lay off as he continues bugging you after you’ve told him to go away ten times over.

of course, you and mattheo always bicker and banter in a lighthearted manner. mattheo has been in your life for seven years. he’s your bestfriend. you love him, just not like that. never, like that. he just doesn’t know when to relent.

what about tom riddle who doesn’t dare meet your gaze as he succeeds in getting mattheo to leave you alone, fearing the admiration in your eyes would linger in his peripherals, infiltrating his mind and haunting him when he tries to sleep at night. he’d keep his sights glued to his brother, not breaking away until he’d lost him in the crowd, before he’d retreat himself, as well, without saying another word.

what about tom riddle who finds himself intervening more and more frequently, unable to endure it any longer? as though the flood gates were now wide open and he just simply couldn’t stop himself? as though he could sense the shift in admiration you had for him. as though he knew this is what you needed.

what about tom riddle, who knows his brother is harmless, yet simply can't refrain from getting increasingly more irritated with him every time he brings you up until one day it erupts into a full-blown fight in the middle of the common room as mattheo starts to grow suspicious about tom’s intentions, fueling the tension between them to its breaking point.

now, what about you, who watches this entire thing unfold, torn between feeling bad for mattheo and suffocating admiration for tom? you don’t know why tom has suddenly decided to intervene so often, but there’s a knot in the pit of your stomach every time you look at him, and the fact that he doesn't dare meet your eyes only intensifies it.

you’ve always harboured secret feelings for tom, but you could never act on them, knowing it would shatter mattheo’s heart. (more like his ego. we all know this boy would be sleeping around unfazed while still trying to pick you up. he’d just be pissed you chose tom over him.)

what about tom riddle who swallows the pit of guilt lodged in his throat, deep down feeling terrible for what he just did as he goes to brush past you to clean his knuckles up in the bathroom, tensing as tight as a coiled spring when you suddenly stop him with a gentle hand on his arm—a silent exchange of knowing admiration immediately passing between you.

little did you know, the second he met your eyes, the second you touched him, it was over for him. regardless of how cold and indifferent he was coming off. internally, he was in flame. clinging to the very last tattered strings of his resolve.

now what about you, who immediately senses the guilt in tom’s eyes and feels a sense of resonance? you, who is riddled with your own layers of guilt—for being the reason they fought, for not reciprocating mattheo’s advances, for desiring his brother instead, and for the very move you were about to make just now as tom’s eyes dipped over your lips, lingering there for far too long.

“let me help you clean up…it’s the least i can do…”

what about tom riddle who would nod silently, outwardly reluctant but internally eagerly willing, following you out of the common room and into your dorm— sheepishly tracing after you as you lead him to your bathroom, internally counting the number of tiles lining the floor or the seconds between each breath he took—anything to distract him from the intimate proximity he found himself in with you just now.

he had to keep it together. he shouldn’t be here.

and what about you, whose entire body is vibrating, hands trembling slightly but enough to be entirely noticeable as you patch up his knuckles—avoiding looking up at his face as he grimaces from the sting of the cleaning solution, your focus solely on the task at hand.

you, who nearly jumps out of your own skin as he speaks to you for the first time in what has felt like ages.

“you don’t have to do this, you know…”

“and you didn’t have to fight your brother…”

“fair point.” he’d chuckle. fuck, you’d missed that. “mattheo just wouldn’t leave it alone.”

“he hasn’t…for seven years.”

he’d hum a nod. “he’s obsessed. no one can blame him.”

you, who involuntarily looks up, unable to stop yourself now, your heart pounding like a wild animal desperate for release. the room suddenly feels stifling as he looks down at you, meeting your eyes, your mind swirling with thoughts of how badly you want to kiss him, how utterly wrong it would be to do so, and how much it would piss off mattheo. you’re fighting to decide if you even care.

“hm,” you should play it off, but you can’t. “care to elaborate?”

tom riddle who has to fight the urge to reach up and grasp the back of your neck and pull you into him, his fingers practically twitching with the desire to close the gap between you. tom riddle who is merely inches away from you, battling every instinct urging him to give in. he can see it in your eyes, the longing, the desire mirrored back at him. he can practically feel it in your touch.

“all the guys are obsessed with you.” so quiet you almost missed it, so gentle it almost tickled. “you’ve always had that effect. you’re fucking beautiful.”

his eyes are on your lips now and you’re trembling, stomach doing cartwheels. you go to break eye contact but his hand reaches out and cups your cheek, stalling you in place.

it’s wrong. this is wrong. “i…”

“hm?” he tilts his head.

“tom…”

his thumb ghosts over your cheekbone. his eyes don’t know where to land. “don’t act like you don’t have feelings for me…i see it…”

you shudder, scorching under the heat of a thousand suns. gods, you want this. youve fucking dreamed of it. but you can’t, you can’t do that to mattheo, it’s—

“it’s wrong…he’ll be furious…”

tom riddle who intently observes you as you tremble under his touch, your nerves palpable through your skin. tom riddle who finds it almost relieving, to see you like this— as though this is a confirmation of his hopes and suspicions, a validation of the effect he’s always hoped he’d have on you. tom riddle who agrees with you, who knows exactly how fucking wrong this is, but after seven years of suppressing it—doesn’t know how much he fucking cares anymore.

tom riddle who, in this moment, wants to do so many fucking things to you he doesn’t even know where to start.

his hand slides lower, his thumb grazing your jaw. “he’s tried, for so long, to get your attention…and he’s never gotten a damn thing from you…”

his hand shifts again, his thumb reaching for your bottom lip, tracing it and tugging on it gently. you’re in shambles, barely breathing, oxygen fleeing the vicinity and being replaced by suffocating desire, tom’s lips being the only reprieve in sight.

“but look at me…” he continues. “i do one thing, and you’re on fire.”

tom riddle and you, both on the verge of falling apart, unable to contain yourselves any longer. you don’t have to say another word as your eyes lock and you move in perfect synchrony, crashing your lips together with an urgency that speaks of years of pent-up desire.

it’s as if the world would end if you didn't, as if you were determined to make up for seven years of denial and restraint for mattheo’s sake and just indulge in each other for once. your kiss is filled with thirst, hunger, and unbridled passion, evident in the way your fingers dig into each other, as if to confirm that this is real, that it's not just some dream.

[apprenticestanheight]

THE FIVE DAYS OF SMUTMAS QUEUE: DAY TWO

Work Shirts - Lawrence Gordon x gn! reader

All right!! This is day two of my silly little christmas celebration, and of course I had to do what I've been procrastinating since basically the start of this account--write a Lawrence reader insert piece!

I love him wholeheartedly despite my lack of fics for him so this has definitely been a long time coming, and this one, much like yesterdays fic, stems from a thought I had—though with this thought, @mrkheartffmans and I went a lil feral together through the reblogs of the original post and thus, the fic concept came to light!

This is also a few years post trap because I was like "yeah working somewhere for a decade is cool but what about a decade and a half??" also—my mentality was that having it set a few years post-trap would be easier to write?? I don't know how true that actually is but it was my thought process lol.

This fic is for audiences of 18+, so minors, do not interact!

Fic type- this is mostly--almost entirely--smut. There's also angst if you squint because yeah, angst was bound to be present somewhere lol

Warnings- unprotected sex (reader is on BC), and as per usual, the reader is GN for all intents and purposes (petnames included), but I went with AFAB anatomy as that's the anatomy that I know best.

Lawrence wishes he could act like the surprise on the faces of his coworkers when he mentioned having the last two weeks of December off came as a surprise to him, but he can't and he kind of hates that.

Of course people are bound to be a little surprised by it. In the decade and a half that he's worked at Angels of Mercy, the only incident where he took any sizeable amount of time off was while he was recovering from the bathroom trap and could hardly stand, let alone walk like he used to.

But, in the three years since the bathroom trap and aside from that month long period where he allowed himself to recover before going back to work, he'd not taken a single day away. Being at work, seeing to patients and talking to people—even just going to work and filling out miscellaneous paperwork while he sat in the isolation of his office—kept his mind busy and his hands busier.

He came home from work every night and saw you, which just made his entire day as it were. You'd order food or make something quick and just spend your time lounging on the couch, occasionally get a little flirty, and laugh when Lawrences hands started wandering how they used to in the days of your masters degree and his days of medical school.

But, because of a backlog of PTO and the fact that he'd been overworking himself almost to the bone with the onslaught of people needing medical care during the last three months of the year, Lawrence decided to book the 14th through to the 2nd of January off so that he could get some rest and worry about housework so that you didn't have to worry at all, where you normally split the housework fifty-fifty.

Lawrence knew that your marketing job got really, really stressful during the last month of the year. People always unearthed different versions of themselves come the holidays, and all he wanted was for you to come home from your workday and not have to worry about menial things like a messy bathroom counter, week-old leftovers in need of throwing away or dishes not yet moved from the dishwasher to the cupboards.

He gets called into work for an emergency on the 21st, and after running to grab groceries during the afternoon on the 22nd, he's delighted to find what he does waiting for him in the bed you share.

You're typically home from work at around seven, sometimes eight thirty on particularly busy days, and when Lawrence arrives home, it's half past eight.

He goes into your bedroom, having indeed hoped to see you there or at least get a call about work running late with the promise of more details upon your arrival at home as he enters your shared bedroom, but what he sees is so much better than anything he could've hoped for.

You're sitting on the bed, back pressed against the head board, focused on whatever romance book you'd plucked from a charity bookstore on your way home, but it's not what you're reading that Lawrence really takes note of.

No, it's not the book at all, though he does note that the title makes it seem like something from either the regency or the victorian era. It's what you're wearing.

You're wearing the shirt he wore to work the previous day, buttons undone with the cufflinks you'd gifted him for christmas the year his residency ended still holding the sleeves of the shirt together, the duvet covering your legs and hips, which makes Lawrence assume you've stolen a pair of his sweatpants in addition to the shirt.

He knocks, lightly, on the side of the door, and you startle, looking up to the source of the knock and relaxing the minute you see his face.

"You startled me," you say, grinning and closing your book over your thumb so as not to lose your place. "I remember you told me you'd be getting groceries around when I would get home, so I stole one of your shirts and settled in. Figured we could order Thai food or something to that effect, have a late dinner and relax."

Lawrence runs his tongue over his lips, notices the keen way with which you watch him do it.

"Yeah," he grins, further enters the room. "That sounds lovely. I grabbed the last of the necessary ingredients for dinner Christmas Day so that you wouldn't have to worry—I know that work has been something of a mess for you lately and I want to make sure you have the opportunity to relax when you come home."

He approaches the bed, watches you place the book you'd been reading open on your nightstand beneath the lamp.

"I don't deserve you," you laugh.

You've been dating since you were starting up with your masters a year after getting your bachelors degree when you were twenty-three and Lawrence was two years into medical school at twenty-four.

You've been married since you were twenty-five and twenty-six, and seventeen years down the line, you both knew that marrying each other was the best possible thing either of you could've done with regard to the romantic part of your lives, and while you were married you ended up doing the best possible things for your respective careers so it worked in both of your favors regardless.

You were Lawrences rock, especially so in the aftermath of the bathroom trap, and he was yours and would be such forevermore.

"You're right," he says, moving away from the bed to grab a pair of sweatpants. "You deserve more, but I do strive to be what you deserve day in and day out."

"Don't say that," you chide. "You're perfect, Lawrence. I wouldn't've married you had I thought otherwise, I promise."

He can feel your gaze on him as he slips out of the khaki pants he wears, deciding to go commando and put a pair of light gray sweatpants on for comfort. He changes out of the black button up he'd chosen to wear, pulls a baggy dark blue Henley over his torso and climbs into bed beside you, pressing kiss after kiss down the line of your jaw and across your neck.

"How stressful has work been?" He asks, tone genuine but also slightly seductive.

"Oh, so stressful," you laugh, knowing exactly what he's doing and the fact that seeing you in one of his shirts and just one of his shirts has spurred that on by a mile. "I think if I have to hear one more coworker complaining about last minute shopping during the last few days before Christmas Eve or even on Christmas Eve in and of itself, I will start causing heads to roll. December is the worst time to be in the offices because everyone stops caring about year-end quotas and making sure things are good going into next year and starts caring about whatever gossip is being spread around. It's dreadful, Lawrence."

He pauses, looking at you with genuine sympathy in his gaze. "I'm sorry—I feel gross. I didn't mean to attempt to proposition you for sex like that. I really do want to hear about your day and I'm sorry it's been so terrible, my love. Are you going to book time off?"

You grin. Lawrence is ever-so considerate, always apologizing and stepping back if he's done something in a way that he doesn't appreciate midway through.

"You're going to be stuck with me from tomorrow through to the second," you say. "And—for the record, I didn't hate it. I like it when you proposition me for sex with kisses because your kisses are quite honestly one of the best parts of being married to you. Plus, I have had a stressful month and I won't lie and say that my current outfitting was just for comfort. Sure, bare ass on satin sheets is an amazing feeling, but I was hoping that I'd get the reaction I did, admittedly."

Lawrence tilts his head inquisitively. "You're not—you're—I thought you'd taken a pair of my sweatpants," he grins, moves a hand to your thigh. Sure enough, it's bare. "Oh, Christmas must've come early."

You laugh. "You fuckin' wish," you say, ignoring the goosebumps that Lawrences touch brings on.

You unbutton the few buttons done up on the shirt, press your back against the headboard.

"Stressful month, yeah baby?" Lawrence is almost beaming as his hand moves from your thigh to your stomach, lazily perusing up your chest.

You clench your jaw, squeeze your arms against your sides because you are not going to give in to your handsome husband and his illustrious whims just with a few touches and some whispered sentiments.

"So stressful, Lawrence," you nod. "So, so stressful."

"Do you need a way to destress?" His thumb and first finger locate your nipple, and you exhale a breathy moan, quiet and already wanting to give in to his whims. "If you do, I think I could be of assistance."

"Lawrence," you moan, quiet and needy. "Oh, fuck, Lawrence."

Lawrence moves his hand away from you for a second, only to take off his shirt and the sweatpants he wears before he's back to kissing your neck and letting his hands roam across your chest.

A few minutes of much the same passes by, Lawrences kisses lining your neck and jawline and face and your ethereal lips while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. His hand dips to your folds for just a few minutes, taking your slick onto his fingers and laughing against your shoulder.

"You're so wet for me already," he says. "Fuck, you're perfect."

"Wanna ride you," you're almost stunned at how evenly the words fall from your lips but not at all stunned when Lawrence agrees.

He pulls you onto his lap, lets you grind against his half-hard cock until it's fully hard and you're begging to feel him inside of you and moans when you bottom out, gaze watching you intently as his hands settle on your hips.

"Lawrence," you whisper. "Fuck."

A smile spreads onto Lawrences face before he can stop it, and when you start riding him, he presses his back against the headboard, one hand on your hip while the other lightly holds your chin so as to keep your gaze on his.

You get lost in how good it feels within the space of a minute, maybe two—Lawrence's cock is long and thick, and even if riding it takes some adjusting occasionally, it still becomes very enjoyable very quickly.

"You're so wonderful for me, Y/N," he says. "Oh, this never gets old."

He's loving how you feel around him, clenching occasionally and moaning after a particularly deep thrust that hits your g-spot, and you're just—it's just perfect.

And then, Lawrence gets an idea. He moves the hand that's cupping your face to your wrist, which is attached to the hand that you use to grope relentlessly at yourself, rolling your nipples between your thumb and first finger, sometimes moving to rub your clit.

"The cufflinks, baby," he says. "Don't touch yourself, mm? Use those for me."

He watches you press the cold silver cufflink against one of your nipples, moans as you clench around him at the sensation of the cold meeting your warm skin. You moan in turn, pressing the metal against your nipples and moaning his name.

He moves a hand back to your chin, placing his first and middle finger against your bottom lip. You take the hint immediately and bring his fingers into your mouth, grinding down onto him as you do.

"You're so good for me, pet," he says, moving the hand that rests on your hip to your clit. He starts rubbing it with practiced expertise, knowing the way you like it best after nearly two decades of marriage. "Oh, this is amazing. You can steal my work shirts whenever you want, okay? Especially the ones with the cufflinks. You're amazing."

You moan at the praise, pressing the cufflinks against yourself further, loving the way that the metal feels against your sensitive nipples.

He takes his fingers out of your mouth and goes back to holding your chin so as to keep your gaze on his, wanting to watch you orgasm.

You come completely undone when Lawrence speeds up his ministrations on your clit just enough to make you want more, and Lawrence watches.

You thrust your way through the aftershocks, at which point Lawrence releases into you and lets your chin free from his light grip, kissing you and offering praise as he does.

He pulls you off of him and gets a bath set up, helping you into it while giving you more praise and pressing kisses along the back of your neck and shoulder blades because the orgasm had left you both completely and totally breathless.

You bathe in light conversation, once again talking about your days but focusing on the more positive parts, and Lawrence lets you steal a Henley from the days of medical school. You pull a pair of boxers on and curl up in bed next to him, falling asleep only seconds before Lawrence does.

[trillscienceofficer]

A long time ago @nebulouscoffee asked me to write the DVD commentary of “Best Left” (which is a Raffi/Seven/B'Elanna fic set between Picard S1 and 2) and now I'm finally doing that.

This is inevitably going to get long because the fic itself is much longer than anything else I've ever posted, and I still have so many feelings for a story I put a lot of effort and heart into! But first things first, here's chapter one.

Cris, I know you’re really busy these days on the Stargazer, so I’ll keep this short.

As I was coming up with ideas for “Best Left”, my main goal was to have Raffi (which I knew would be the POV character) in a very different place than where we see her first on Star Trek: Picard. I wanted her, by this point established, long-distance relationship with Seven be a part of the network in which Raffi is now deeply enmeshed (ie La Sirena's crew). That said though, both canon events (by this time Rios has been made captain) and my plot ideas were not very accommodating of having literally everyone on board the ship. It would've been too unwieldy for a project that was already shaping up to be very ambitious for my standards. But while Jurati and Picard's absence is, I think, not that big of a deal, I still very much wanted to underline Raffi and Cris' friendship, which I think is essential in order to understand Raffi and one of the few relationships she's had that didn't go sour on her. I obviated to his physical absence with both real and imaginary correspondence, from which Raffi could draw strength in difficult moments. The fic both begins and closes with Raffi writing a message to him.

Raffi hits send on the message and looks up only to find Elnor at her side, looking just as morose as he’d been a few days earlier, when she’d told him first about the road trip idea. She sighs internally; the queue to transporter hub number four advances. It’s a busy day on the new Betazed spacedock, but luckily no one among the crowd seems the wiser to a Romulan young adult carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He holds the straps of his bag and his staff with a white-knuckle grip. Raffi hooks her left arm into the crook of Elnor’s right. “What’s the matter?”

Rereading this I remembered how fun it was to write Raffi and Elnor interact. My intention here (and throughout the fic) was to have Raffi obviously care for him while also not losing her somewhat world-weary attitude because of her affection. Raffi is still a woman who analyzes everything around her, and acts accordingly—not to mention all the unacknowledged guilt she carries wrt her son Gabe. I didn't want to have Raffi be straightforwardly ‘maternal’, it didn't feel right and I think older women in fiction should be allowed to have mixed feelings about this role more often. Plus, like Raffi herself realizes later in the fic, Elnor has already had plenty of other women bossing him around all his life, he doesn't need one more.

Soji is at the navigation console, smiling and waving a little awkwardly. And finally, Seven watching them from the captain’s chair, which she occupies with ease, leaning on one armrest. The very image of the roguish pirate captain; Cris wishes he could pull it off this well. “Welcome aboard,” Seven says, the hint of a smirk on her lips, as if she’d just heard every single one of Raffi’s thoughts.

I honestly think Raffi is constantly roasting Cris in her head. Also when rereading I was surprised about this reprise of the idea of mind-reading from the previous dialogue between Raffi and Elnor, that was cool and I can't remember if I even wrote it entirely on purpose. In any case, I wanted to have both Soji and Elnor along for this story because (1) they could offer an interesting outsider perspective on the older women drama about to unfold and (2) I wanted to have them interact with each other and have an adventure that had nothing to do with their specific backstories. Writing Soji in this story was so much fun! It was a nice challenge to balance her characterization between the right amounts of deadpan honesty and genuine care, and making it obvious that she's still figuring out how she wants to live her life.

“I don’t think Cris would forgive me if I tried to take La Sirena into another Borg transwarp conduit,” Soji says. “And honestly I’m not sure the ship can take it.” “It wasn’t particularly pleasant on a Borg cube either,” Seven adds. “As I’m sure Elnor remembers.” “Crashing on the surface was worse,” he replies, and some of the gloom lifts from his face. The effect Seven has on people sometimes—but Raffi should be the last to judge, shouldn’t she? It’s not as if seeing Seven again, sitting on that chair so lazily and yet still projecting intent, isn’t reminding Raffi of the few weeks they’d spent on board La Sirena before. But it’s probably best if she revisits that particular recap reel in private.

I based this little Seven-Elnor interaction from my own feelings about my Cool Aunt, which I think are fitting lmao (ie especially as kid, if she was speaking to me I would immediately feel better no matter what)

Also while rereading I was like, damn I made this first half of the chapter so horny... but I've been in a ldr myself and this is pretty true to my own experience. Reuniting always means a mixture of attraction and awkwardness, and it's what I wanted to convey about Raffi and Seven here, especially since they both have a hard time trusting in people or believing that they're capable of being around people without fucking it up. The following misunderstanding about room assignments is part of this pattern.

She’s re-learning restraint, in the hardest way possible, in other facets of her life.

So here comes the part of this fic I agonized over the most... Raffi's history of substance abuse and her current commitment to sobriety. I thought the latter is what fit better with Raffi's actions on the second half of S1 (ie locking herself out of the replicator) and some scenes of S2—imho those are clues that she (wants to) simply quit. Now, a commitment to complete sobriety (including weed snakeleaf, like in a 12-step program) is not necessarily an effective way to treat addiction long term—actually quite the opposite, from what I could learn from the research I did, even if still the most popular recommended form of treatment today. I'm not entirely sure it would be at all recommended in the 24th century. So how to reconcile this with the hints about Raffi quitting cold-turkey? Is it even something I would want to depict in a good light? What I eventually tried to do is treat the matter strictly from a character perspective. I hinted that Raffi is seeing a counselor, and now feeling part of a network of people, and is now restored to her place in society via Starfleet (from her perspective). Sobriety is something she thinks she should do and can do now, so that's what Raffi did; it's all part of her wider commitment to live a different life. If this also has a whiff of self-punishment... I don't think you'd be entirely wrong. I tried to hint that Raffi has her own thoughts on her addiction but I don't necessarily share them myself (see the disclaimer on top of chapter 4), and those thoughts might be another way in which she's denying herself (because no one else grants it to her either) the compassion I think she deserves. It's a really complex topic and I don't know if I did it justice here. I welcome feedback if you have any.

She’d thought she’d lost any interest in making out, over the years—she was surprised to find out how much Seven enjoys it, and how much of that enjoyment is infectious.

I have this headcanon that Seven really enjoys making out (it's appeared in other fic of mine too, eg “Doing the Unstuck”) and her partners never expect this of her. I think I like the idea that Seven's approach to sex and intimacy is still about the sudden thrill of closeness she displayed when she twirled Chakotay around in order to kiss him lol. I especially like the idea it's one of the things about Seven that's not changed despite all that happened to her since said kiss, and that she could bring Raffi to enjoy making out again as well.

It’s still the same suitcase-shaped contraption that she cobbled together months earlier with Borg parts from the Artifact, as far as Raffi can tell. Some other parts Seven had replicated on La Sirena, and then had proceeded to build the device with surprising ease. She’d explained that it was a modular design she and other friends had come up with over the years. It hadn’t been the first time she’d found herself needing a regenerator without having one handy. Raffi had admired her resourcefulness then, and still does now.

I ranted a lot about Seven's regeneration last summer, and all my thoughts and headcanons ended up in this fic. Regeneration for Seven is now a bit different than what it used to be on Voyager; still a necessity but quicker, and something that doesn't tie her down to bulky machinery any longer. Something that ultimately Seven has more control over. However, it's also a necessity that now needs to be articulated explicitly to the people she's close to, and that other people have to learn to take into account about her. I also wanted Seven to determine clear boundaries around regeneration—eg, here she doesn't want other people around when she regenerates—but boundaries that she is still constantly renegotiating, as it happens in chapter two when she invites Raffi to stay. Seven isn't used to be around people much anymore, so she's still adapting to new realities (like her relationship with Raffi) and rethinking what is comfortable for her.

“I hope your other stops were less frustrating than Trill,” Raffi offers, making her presence known. Soji looks up at her, and her face breaks into a smile. “Oh hey, I didn’t realize you were here, Raffi. But yes, I can honestly say it was the worst one so far. I think, and Agnes agrees, that their academic institutions really opposed the lifting of the synth ban for some reason.”

This little piece of Trill worldbuilding came to be because in “Second Self” Una McCormack wrote that Raffi has taken part in the zhian'tara of a colleague. Which is absolutely bonkers to me!! I couldn't help myself and expand on it a bit, all the while maintaining my stance on Trill being very conservative when it comes to decide on people's personhood. I know it's maybe controversial but I really don't think Trill institutions are that enlightened on the topic. They might think they are, but in presence of someone like Soji the appearance would crumble immediately. I honestly loved revisiting my Trill feelings through Raffi and Soji, I haven't written Dax fic in a very long time, so this was a nice way for me to scratch that itch.

Raffi crosses her legs, raises an eyebrow. She’s reminded all too well of when Soji had first come aboard, the confusion of a young woman whose entire life as she knew it had been a deception. She can recall how Soji described her relationship with Narek, and how Raffi had been the one to name his behavior for what it was. Maybe some pointing out of the obvious is needed here too.

This is one of the things that caught my attention the most when I rewatched S1—Raffi has been looking out for Soji practically from the start, calling out Narek's presence for what it was (abusive). I wanted to let Raffi speak her mind here as well, about the kind of interactions Soji has had while on tour.

A scratchy, stuttering audio signal starts playing from La Sirena’s bridge speakers. ‘—damage. Propulsion systems offline. Atmospheric controls—’ More digital artifacting of the signal. ‘—predict where the subspace eddies will take the ship. I don’t know how long I still have—’ The audio signal cuts off, then the message repeats once again. ‘—damage. Propulsion systems offline. Atmospheric controls—’ “I think that’s all of it,” Soji says, soberly. “Damn,” Raffi says, at a loss. “She’s dying, if not already dead,” Elnor says, voicing what everyone is thinking. He turns to Raffi. “What do we do?”

When she read this chapter, my partner asked me about the use of pronouns for the yet unknown person in distress—here Elnor assumes it's a she, while Raffi and Soji don't. It was actually on purpose, I wanted to hint at the fact that Elnor's default assumption is that the people that do stuff out there in space are women because the Qowat Milat usually speaks in these terms as well. Maybe it's silly, I don't know, but I wrote it in anyway as a subtle wordlbuilding detail. Maybe too subtle if it leads to pronoun confusion.

“I’m not sure I could live with myself if we didn’t try to save the crew of that ship. There’s a chance they might still be alive.” “Then let’s do it,” Raffi says with a curt nod. “You’re in command of La Sirena now.”

In the rescue scene I tried very hard to let Raffi do tactical evaluation in a way that didn't come off as callous as it sometimes does for Worf on TNG or Tuvok on Voyager—she's honestly trying to give Soji, now in command, a good overview of the situation.

Raffi takes a long look at Elnor, and to his credit he looks genuinely curious, hands folded together, leaning with his elbows on his knees. She knows better than to doubt his intentions, but—when he wants, he knows exactly when and how to ask one of his blunt questions for maximum effect, doesn’t he? In this case, distraction. She idly wonders if this is a skill that everyone in the Qowat Milat picks up, along with the assassin training. Using the truth as a finely honed blade, rather than the cudgel it’s always reminded her of.

That the absolute candor tenet of the Qowat Milat may be used in more than one way and for more than one goal is something I already written about before (ie in “Policy of Truth”). I think Raffi has her own different ideas about telling the truth because she's trained in intelligence gathering and also because pursuing the truth has always been painful for her—see her quest to find out who was behind the Mars attack. So here she's surprised to find out that Elnor's honesty is not at all a weakness, which she's assumed so far, but rather a very well-honed skill.

“It is the ship we’re looking for,” Soji confirms, going through the readings with, once again, an ease that belies her actual experiences. “It is still transmitting the distress call, though it’s extremely garbled. The hull is pressurized, somehow, at least partially. Life signs—one, I think. Humanoid. Very faint” She looks at Raffi, eyes wide, and Raffi braces herself. “We have to beam them over. The subspace tug might breach the hull at any time. I know that we have no idea who we’ll find, but they’re dying.” Goddammit. They really should’ve woken Seven up before getting here. Then again, at this point it’s probably best to ask for forgiveness than permission. If they’re all still alive to do so. But they will; a boy assassin, an android with super strength, and Raffi. Risk assessment used to be her job in Starfleet, long ago.

I still really like Raffi thinking 'oh well, too late to go back now, but at least I have backup'. I thought about her characterization a lot while writing this fic, and tried to convey her dry humor at best I can. She's really funny in canon! I really enjoyed writing her constant quips, even if they're just in her head.

Down the stairs, she hears Emil grumble. “I can’t deliver proper emergency care if you rush me.” “You’ll replicate what you need, as you need it,” Soji retorts impatiently. “Just initiate the transport.”

All EMHs are the same.

She’s older now, and out of uniform, looking much worse for wear after what she just went through. But there’d been a time more than twenty years prior when her face had been on every Federation newsfeed, along with the rest of the crew of the USS Voyager. “You know her?” Raffi turns to Soji, frozen in bemusement beside Emil. “I’ve never met her but yes, I know who she is,” Raffi says. “You two stay here and keep an eye on things. Seven needs to see this.”

I really like the way this chapter ends (so much so that it's the quote I chose for the fic summary on AO3). I thought about the idea of generational difference a lot when coming up with this fic, and how Raffi has witnessed so many momentous events, like the return of Voyager, that Elnor and even Soji really have no context for. It's an interesting aspect of having older characters that weren't around in previous shows, and an opportunity for a different perspective that unfortunately I think Star Trek: Picard squandered completely (Una McCormack was more attentive in her novels, luckily). Regardless, Raffi's experience turns out to be an asset more than once in this fic—no one aboard La Sirena at this point is as intimately aware of the events of the Dominion War as she is.

[rogue-barnes-16]

SECRETS (part IV/?)

Summary: Detectives James Barnes and Y/n Y/l/n never really got along, despite being partners for seven months. You could say they hated each other, however, when James’ past shows up threatening to break him all over again, the truth about their feelings comes to the surface.

Pairing: cop!Bucky Barnes x cop!Reader

Genre: angst-ish

Tags:

Secrets: @just-add-butter

Permanent taglist: @notexactlythatgirl @thisismysecrethappyplace @sofreakinmanyfandoms @pizzarollpatrol @bubblycypress87 @sinviix @loislp @lovenaturefirst @dyanna-corona @2ptonpt @goodnightmode @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @mannls @cutie1365 @catch22inareddress @mybooradley @sebastianisasnack @butifulsoul125

Warnings: psychological and slightly physical abuse, language, angst (probably some typos, since I wrote this in 2 hours)

A/N: I'm alive (surprisingly) yayy! Please, remember to reblog the fics, because you're making me a huge favor if you do. Enjoy this part of Secret (which, like I predicted, it's not the last one) <3

Rogue-barnes-16 masterlist (you'll find the rest of the parts here)

BUCKY'S P. O. V.

Since I had woken up earlier due to a nightmare, I went to the living room carrying some files to keep working on the case until Y/n woke up.

The past few days had been really good for the both of us. I would even dare to say that the hate had turned into some kind of friendship.

Okay, maybe it was more than friendship when it came to my feelings, but that wasn't anything new. Since day one I had felt something that drew me to her, however, I had never let those feelings grow any further for several reasons. During these days, though, Y/n somehow helped me to loosen up a little, which was enough for me to stop fighting what I felt.

The fact that, somehow, she was making me feel safer also helped me to be more confident about my feelings.

While I started to display the files, the extra time I had recently been spending with Y/n came to my thoughts, and with it, the question I had been asking myself for the past two days.

Did she liked me the way I liked her?

Sometimes —most of the times— our interactions would seem friendship-like, with, of course, our considerable amount of teasing.

But other times, the times we were all alone in her apartment, when we would stay up until late hours of the night, the way she acted towards me, the way she talked to me... it was almost as if she wanted something more than a friendship between us.

It was probably just my imagination, playing wicked games on me. Sigh. Even if it's true, I thought, what would you do? You can't do anything, I reminded myself. You're broken.

You're not ready.

You're not good enough.

She deserves better than-

A few angry knocks on the door made me come back to reality, a bit more tired, and a bit more hurt.

I took a couple of deep breaths to regain my composure again. It was amazing how a couple of thoughts crossing my mind could trigger all the insecurities Y/n had been helping me to overcome.

Another few knocks, this time stronger and quicker. "I'm coming" I announced, being careful not too be too loud, since Y/n was still asleep. I grabbed the knob to open the door, not even think about how odd was that someone came to visit at 5:40 am. "Wait a sec..."

Before I could even freeze due to the panic, Dot's hand slapped my face. After all this time keeping up with her, after all the abuse, retreating myself to a safer position was an action I did by inertia.

The thought of shutting the door for her not to enter hadn't even crossed my mind before I was backing out from her reach.

"how dare you?" she questioned, poison dripping from each one of her words. "you can't even wait until we're divorced, right?! First the damn lawsuit, then you cheat on me?!"

"H-how- why- what are-" words came out as a stuttering whisper since I wasn't able to form a single sentence "y-you can't be here"

"why? Are you gonna call the cops, baby?" I frowned and stepped back when she stalked towards me. "You're a cop, honey, if you didn't arrest me it's because no one is going to arrest me."

"what the-" I shut my mouth when she gave me a dead glare. "how did you get here? Who- you have to leave. Now."

"she's still here, isn't she?" Dot huffed, "that bitch is gonna get it" when she attempted to make her way to Y/n's bedroom, I didn't think twice before gripping her arm and tugging her back.

Dot gasped, probably not expecting the amount of strength I had just used to stop her. "don't get her into this"

"so it's true? You're cheating on me with that fucking. dumb. petty. bitch?" with each word, she pushed me back until my knees hit the edge of the couch and there was no way left, but to sit down.

"she's none of that." I managed to say, after gathering all the courage I was capable of when it came to the woman in front of me.

"And now you defend her?" she scoffed, letting out a dry laugh that sent shivers down my spine. "You're so desperate for some kind of affection, baby. It's pathetic" I sat there, trying to digest those words that seemed so real to me. "You're so damn stupid. She's probably just using you- I mean, have you looked at yourself?" she started to pace. "you really don't know what you did by dumping me, love. No one is going to love you. I gave you everything, goddammit! I gave you fucking everything!"

"Stop" I muttered, leaning over myself to rest my face over my palms "Stop it"

"after all I did to you, you're dumping me for some random slut. For a quick fuck" another dry laugh. "YOU'RE SOMEONE BECAUSE I DECIDED TO GIVE YOU THAT PRIVILEGE!"

"I'm gonna say it once" I thought I had imagined it, so I didn't look up the first time Y/n spoke, more like growled. "I'm not even gonna ask how did you get here. Just get the fuck out of my damn house"

"And the slut's here" it was then that I lifted my gaze to stare at Y/n, who looked like we had shaken her awake —we probably did—. "I'm leaving when I finish talking with-" In a swift movement, Y/n had her gun aimed at Dot. "woah woah woah- I can sue you for this" the latter stated, visibly nervous. "are you gonna fucking shoot me?"

"get out" when Y/n spoke again, I tensed. "before I solve this problem with a bullet in your skull"

Dot hesitated for a moment before speaking again, using with Y/n the same tone she used to use with me. "You're not gonna shoot, you fucking crazy bitch"

The problem was that it wasn't me.

It was Y/n. A really, really mad Y/n.

Dot gasped when Y/n, without breaking eye contact with her, deflected her gun to the side and shot.

"Did I fuckin' stutter?" Y/n asked, calmed and collected. "Leave. Now"

After a few seconds that seemed a thousand years to me, Dot gathered her bag and jacket before turning to me. "we're not finished yet"

All from sudden, Y/n was in front of me, grabbing Dot's arm and dragging her away "yeah you are"

READER'S P. O. V.

"I don't want to see you near him ever again" I hissed, dragging the woman to the front door.

"what are you gonna do if I do, detective?" She taunted.

"let's say" I opened the door and, instead of leaving her in the landing, I kept dragging her downstairs "I don't mind going to jail if I know you're gone for good" before she could speak, I threw her to the lobby and went back upstairs.

"how the fuck did she get my direction?" I asked rhetorically, entering into my apartment, where I had left Bucky. "She's fuckin' nuts" when he didn't answer anything, I turned around to check on him, just to see his eyes red. "Hey..."

"I'm sorry"

"what- no!" I wouldn't have realized I had yelled if not for Bucky’s flinch. "this isn't your fault, don't be sorry, okay?"

"I just-" his voice faded, and instead, he took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know what- I mean- she w- I-I'm sorry"

I made my way to Bucky, careful not to startle him, and I crouched in front of him. I took a moment to check on him before slowly placing one of my hands over his. "this is what we're gonna do" I whispered, as tender as possible. "you come back to bed and try to rest. I'll call sick at work for you."

That made his gaze shoot up at me, panic written all over his face. "nonononono don't-"

"Listen, you gotta rest," I replied, stopping him before he could get up. "and you gotta calm down."

"don't Y/n for fucks sake don't leave me here" he tried to get up again. I could practically hear his heart stammering against his chest. "what if she comes back?"

"she's no-"

"you don't know that!"

The terror in his voice broke me more than I expected it to do it. "Okay... Okay, what about this" I got up, not letting go of his hand. "we both go back to sleep. I'll call Steve- Steve knows, doesn't he?" Bucky nodded. "Okay, I'll call Steve and I'll tell him we'll be late to work because you need to rest"

After a second, Bucky nodded again and followed me to the bedroom. "don't leave without me, 'kay?"

"I won't, I promise" I replied, squeezing his hand.