#in the deserted bar where it was just us and the very cool manager who hung out with us and gave us all but two drinks free | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

neonponders · 3 years ago

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Here’s a prologue for my The Mummy AU!

This all started because of the moodboards above, created by @memes-saved-me and @harringrove000 . I just couldn’t help myself.

Here’s my original post about this au (it includes links to the moodboards) ~

And @hoegrove I know you wanted to see this so 🌹

Read on ao3 ~

• • • • • • •

The overhead bulbs and candlelight cast harsh shadows and warm light throughout the grimy bar. Everyone glistened with sweat from the desert heat. The night brought with it gentle, cool breezes over the Nile, but in this packed place, the occasional thworp of paper and silk fans being thrown open could be heard. Even the swish of luxurious ostrich feathers swayed to cool people off.

Steve moved his legs to cross his knees, the papyrus green trousers brushing against the military beige breeches of the man sitting opposite him at their small, round, gambling table. They had gathered quite an audience; the messy pile of money had long since included bets beyond Steve and this man’s wagers. Steve hadn’t caught his name, but he felt the heat of his body through their trouser fabrics, and more than once caught himself staring at how the light gleamed in that dark blond, honeyed hair.

“You trying to distract me?”

“No,” Steve smirked, “I’m trying to get comfortable.”

“Stressed?” the man crooned.

Steve removed his gaze from those pin-made waves of his hair. They had long since given up their shape to the day’s heat, but a tress outright curled over this handsome bastard’s forehead. Steve dared to think he looked better unkempt. “Not one bit. Play your cards. You’re dressed like you have somewhere to be.”

“I’m in no rush,” he replied lethargically, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.

Steve let his eyes wander him a little more. “You sure? You look like a military man.”

“Honorably discharged.”

“Congratulations.”

Steve knew his eyes were blue, but in this lighting they looked like clear glass over onyx pupils when he tilted his head to look at Steve curiously. The latter retaliated before he even spoke. “Is that a strange thing to say?”

The blond shrugged with a gentle shake of his head as he plucked at his cards, rearranging them in his hand. “Only if you worship at the alter of hyper patriotism and military imperialism.”

Some chuckles sounded around them as harlots shared long, cigarette filter stems with their johns, and the barkeeps made glass clatter. Steve exhaled in a huff. “Whatever that means. I’d like to win, already. Play your cards.”

“You first, dear.”

He did, laying down his fan of cards underneath the row of cards from the dealer. The Madame of the place listened to their exchanges with amusement but kept it professional as she narrated, “Full house. Always something to brag about. And you, Mr. Hargrove?”

Hargrove, huh? Steve mused as he watched for any amount of discomfort on the man’s face. He didn’t get it.

“Straight flush,” the Madame said, aligning the winning cards with those from Steve’s and her own line. Steve had practically given him that win. And more of his father’s allowance than he would ever admit.

Hargrove moved a stack of chips to the Madame’s side of the table for a substantial tip, and then offered that hand to Steve. “Good game, Mr…?”

His eyes lolled under a slow blink before he accepted the hand. “Just Steve. It’s what I get for losing.”

“Let me top off your drink, at least, Steve.”

He took his loss with grace and stood to follow Hargrove to the bar. The crowd separated for him apart from a random slap on the back and long fingers stroking his hair in consolation. Hargrove reached the bar first, and watched all this while leaning back on his elbow. A light overhead moved across the exposed skin of his chest, just as honeyed as the rest of him, and the sparse hair there. Steve discretely lowered his gaze as if to not trip over the tiled stair raising the bar from the regular floor.

“Do you come here often?”

Steve snorted a quiet laugh and lifted his gaze. “You’ve already got me here. Ask me a real question.”

Hargrove smiled as the barkeep approached. “A bottle of red, please. Two glasses. It is a real question. People respond to you as if they know you here.”

Steve mirrored his stance and leaned into his elbow on the bar. “My sister and I come here sometimes. When we want to get away from…all of it.”

Hargrove hummed deep in his chest as the sound of a cork popping briefly diverted their attention. “Sister?”

“Stepsister, if you want to get specific, but she’s not here. You’ve only got little ol’ me.”

The barman poured two glasses without stopping, holding the vessels together with a practiced hand before he set them and the bottle on the bar. Hargrove paid him as he replied, “I have one of those. A stepsister, I mean. Although I don’t know how much it counts if you haven’t seen your so-called family in years.”

Steve reached for his wine and asked before he meant to, “Do you miss her?”

It was a bit too personal of a conversation between strangers. Hargrove’s pause made him quickly add, “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I’ll miss you, depending on how the rest of this night goes.”

Steve coughed on his wine. Hargrove chuckled as he offered a pale blue handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “Are you always this generous to people who’ve lost money to you?”

“Only the ones who are pretty enough to be a prize themselves.”

Steve’s eyes lolled in his head despite the rouge blooming in his cheeks and dusting across this throat. “If I’d known you were so used to winning I might’ve spent my money better.”

Hargrove’s eyes held steadily on him. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

* * *

Steve’s back pressed hard enough against the wall to break the kiss with a huff. He craned his face towards the sky as Hargrove made him shudder with soft lips and prickling stubble on his throat. They could hear the bar’s goings-on just on the other side of the exterior wall, but leaving the humid interior was refreshing on their wine-flushed skin. The darkness of the Cairo alleyway freed Hargrove’s hands to massage Steve’s backside.

As Steve caught his breath, he managed to slip his own hand between them, feeling the muscle of that chest for himself before he ducked to taste Hargrove’s skin. Salt and the neutral sweetness of a man’s skin. He liked the little sounds that Hargrove hummed while making a mess of Steve’s hair.

“I want this hair all over me. Better than silk.”

Steve lifted back up to frame Hargrove’s head in his hands, claiming and tasting and licking into his mouth. The way Hargrove kissed—like Steve was an oasis and honeycomb. Delicious and all his. It made Steve want to have him right here. Better than wine and cigars—intoxicating, having this kind of attention all to himself.

Hargrove hummed again, this time to get Steve’s attention. “Put your arms around me. I’ll do the rest.”

He didn’t fully understand until his trouser buttons slid free with ease. Steve openly moaned in the wake of Hargrove’s hand massaging his front, finding which direction his erection stood and easing it out into the night air. As his warm palm pumped him to aching readiness, Steve’s hands continued to wander Hargrove’s body. The man kissed him in a rush, almost brutally plundering his mouth before releasing to latch onto Steve’s collarbone.

One of Steve’s arms remained anchored around Hargrove’s shoulders. The rest of him rocked gently against the man intent to take him apart in a back alley—not that Steve minded one bit. His other hand pushed aside that half-open shirt to squeeze a nipple. Hargrove groaned deliciously and lifted his head to give Steve’s ear the same tantalizing attention—

Steve frowned a little at the hard and heavy rock of a thing knocking against his hand. It didn’t take much to pry the thing out of Hargrove’s jacket breast pocket. Steve didn’t have the time or the lighting to see what it really was. He had half a mind to hold onto it just out of petty spite. A token for taking so much out of his own wallet.

A reason for Hargrove to find him the next day.

Except a voice made Steve chirp, “Huh?”

And then Hargrove faced him with the same curiosity. They realized together that neither of them had spoken. Gas and oil lanterns were quickly moving through the alleyway, held aloft by harsh voices.

“Shit!” Steve hissed, rapidly putting himself back in his trousers. He yelped a choked sound as Hargrove yanked him out of the alley by his arm.

“We gotta go!”

“No shit!”

“Split up!”

“What?”

“GO.”

With that, Hargrove shoved him right into the vaporous air of a crowded hookah restaurant. Steve could only dodge and duck around rapidly standing patrons as the police flooded inside. The kitchen staff only reacted after he’d already dashed through the room, and by then, the police were too held up to catch up with him. Steve didn’t stop running. He heard yelling and whistles in the streets behind him, but he kept going—Hargrove’s strange stone clutched tight in his hand.

Only once he’d finished a very round-about path back to his lodgings, did he sneak quietly past his sister’s room and light a lamp to see his prize. The octagonal…thing…fit well in his palm. On one face, jagged lines had been finely carved, but all around its edges were familiar hieroglyphics.

“Oh. What the hell—better yet, what is a handsome American in Egypt doing with you in his pocket?”

Steve went over to his writing desk to find his glasses in a drawer. He popped them on and recognized a cartouche when he saw one. “Seti. Pharaoh Seti, huh? Well, Robin’s going to be all over this when she sees it.”

A shrill whistle outside startled him enough to drop it heavily on his floor. The whistle sounded far away, but he remained very still in case the wrath of a woman awoken before dawn barged into his room.

If Robin woke up, Steve remained blissfully unaware. He quickly undressed, washed as much of himself as he was able with the washbasin, and collapsed onto the bed. With Hargrove’s fancy artifact on his bedside table, Steve let the memory of sharp beard stubble and firm hands guide his own down to his cock. He got himself back to standing and finished what Hargrove started quickly.

But it was soft lips, open arms, and steady eyes that eased Steve to longing sleep. A slumber so deep that had his stepsister threw a pillow at him the next morning for oversleeping on her way to work at the National Library.

#harringrove #here we go again #the mummy!au #neonponders #pondermoniums #1920s!au #fic rec #updates will be hella slow

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the-enamorando-deity · 4 years ago

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Oneshot where Sara Lance and Ava Sharpe take care of a badly wounded and unconcious Reader? Fluff and Angst please 🙏 ❄

i need this to happen like rn

sara lance x ava sharpe x reader

no warnings i don’t think???

Sunken Like Steel

This was entirely Nate’s fault. Or at least, that was what you were going to tell everyone, if and when you woke from whatever had taken away your consciousness. In reality, it had absolutely nothing to do with Nate whatsoever. If anything, he was the first one in the water, turning to steel to sink faster to reach you before you vanished to the depths.

He got you out with help from Mick, your waterlogged clothes doubling your weight. It wasn’t an accident you ended up in the water, though, nor was it an accident that you’d been wearing so many layers. The Legends, yourself included, had been facing a portal maker the last week or so, and every time he threw you across time and space, you ended up in the most freezing cold places, usually the tip of an iceberg or the desert at night.

This time you were prepared for him, but something had changed in his methodology. He’d set off a bomb in the centre of your group, portal-ing himself somewhere safe, leaving you all to feel the blast. What he hadn’t counted on was you diving for him from behind, getting caught in the middle of the blast, but still managing to fall into the tail end of the portal.

There lay the problem, as he appeared on the dock of a nameless river, with you falling from the sky not far behind him. He went to fire at you, but noticed you were unconscious as you plummeted towards the water. You hit it with a sickening splash, sinking slowly to the bottom as he watched on. Rather than wait any longer for your irritating team to show up, he ran, leaving you to drown.

Sara and Ava had split up the team to search as many locations as possible, Zari making Gideon check for any residual portal energy from the past few minutes. There were only three options, and they immediately moved.

Ray, John and Ava wound up at a bar in Taipei, while Zari and Charlie found themselves in a lion den halfway across the world. Mick, Nate and Sara had appeared at the dock just as you hit the water, and the man you had all been hunting was gone.

You didn’t wake up when you were pulled from the water, but Sara managed to get the water from your lungs using her lifeguard training from summer camp. You don’t know how they got you back to the ship, but Mick later let you know that Sara didn’t let go of your hand the whole time.

Ava refused to leave your side from the moment she sat down, not even wanting to move her eyes away from you. She and Sara both blamed themselves for everything, not even letting themselves sleep as they watched you lay there, unmoving. Gideon couldn’t determine if you would wake up at all, which only made them want to leave you less.

The others all came to check on you, but found only silence from Sara, and the most basic of reports from Ava. They were too worried to eat, until Nate insisted that it wasn’t what you would want. They needed sleep too, as it had been days, and they were also starting to stink up the room.

He agreed to watch you, but Sara wouldn’t let go of your hand. ‘I swear, Nate, that dude better be dead by the time we get to him, or he’s going to wish he was.’

‘I know, Sara. Come on, I’ll let you know if anything happens,’ he assured them.

Ava and Sara left together, exhausted beyond words. They felt guilty for leaving you there, knowing that although you loved the team, your connection with them wasn’t as strong and you might panic. They didn’t know how hard you’d hit your head, if you’d remember anything, but they couldn’t do much else.

Surviving on caffeine had only exhausted what was left, the sugar highs and lows taking a toll that you would never wish on anyone. Ava’s head leaned on Sara’s as they walked, holding each other up as always, something you hoped would never change. You had heard them arguing before all of this, their opposing views on taking down your current fugitive sparking a fire that wasn’t going to be easy to coax down.

And yet, it seemed that all it took for them to stop was for you to choose a third, unexplored option, ready to risk your life to prove a point. Tensions had been high recently, some close calls making everyone doubt themselves. Sara tried to argue in Ava’s favour, while Ava almost completely shut her out, insisting that all their approaches were wrong, and that they needed more time.

Sara’s impatience led to them having a blow up in front of the team, only to have you confront them later on and tell them how ridiculous they were being. They almost didn’t listen, until you proposed an experiment, but refused to tell Ava the parameters no matter how many times she requested.

‘Okay, so,’ you started, in the middle of the room before them, ‘Ava’s usual approach is assess the situation, listen to your team for information, observe the area for emergency exits and possible ambush locations, hydrate to prepare for participation, and attack for summation.’

You had tried so hard not to laugh at the eye rolls you got from the pair, but it had stopped them from being against each other for a moment.

‘Sara is usually run in headfirst, die, get brought back to life, do it again,’ you grinned, watching her stick up her middle finger. ‘But, she has since adapted since leading the team. Instead, she now uses herself as bait, leading out all attacking parties, so we can surround them, or get surrounded on purpose, because we work outwards and strong.’

She looked a little chuffed with that, nudging Ava with her elbow all proud, before growing suspicious. ‘Wait, what’s the point of this?’

‘There’s a third option,’ you smiled, holding up your arms. ‘Gideon, show them the Y/N Approach Simulation.’

Ava and Sara left the room in agreement that you should never be in charge of anything ever, and that maybe each other’s approaches weren’t so bad apart, but together, they could adapt and make every situation winnable.

If only they hadn’t doubted themselves this time, the situation something neither had thought about before, and were so unprepared for, they panicked. But then they knew, thanks to you, that there was always a third option, even if it was terrible and stupid.

You didn’t awake until after they’d returned, hair messy and still damp from their shower, Ava falling asleep on Sara’s lap as she laid there. Sara’s fingers ran through your hair as she sat beside you, your cheeks twitching as your eyes began to open.

‘Hi, sleepy head,’ she cooed, a tired smile on her face. ‘Babe, Y/N’s awake.’

Ava bolted upright, flustered as she turned to you. She threw her arms around your neck and kissed your forehead softly, then grabbed your chin as her expression turned serious.

‘Do that again, you better hope you wake up a million times faster, because this was super not cool,’ she ordered, before smiling and sitting on the bed beside you.

You both turned to look at Sara, who had gone rather silent since you had awoken, only to find her gently snoring away, asleep between you and Ava, hand still curled in your hair. Ava held your hand and looked between the pair of you, grateful her girls were still safe, and now under her watchful eye.

‘Ava?’

‘Mm?’

‘This was all Nate’s fault.’

‘Of course it was, sweetheart,’ Ava nodded sarcastically, giving you that look she gave Sara when she tried to lie. You needed to work on your bullshit, it seemed, but Ava was just glad the humour you had used to endear yourself to them was still very much intact.

taglist: @marvelfansince08love @mymarvelwomen @imnotasuperhero @natasha-danvers @veteranwerewolf95 @monihaswritersblock @natasharomanoffswife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx

#asks #anon #❄️ anon #fanfiction #request complete #sara lance #ava sharpe #sara lance x reader #ava sharpe x reader #sara lance x ava sharpe #avalance #sara lance x ava sharpe x reader #white canary #dc #legends of tomorrow #lot

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horansqueen · 3 years ago

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could u make one where y/n is Niall's assistant and they don't like each other but have common friends and they go to a club together with their friends and Niall get's jealous when a guy hits on y/n and she asks him why and he starts kissing her and ends with saying that's why lol

request from @cursedlover !!! FLUFF! with a bit of inappropriate touching at the end but nothing dirty. 2k. hope you enjoy!!

"You're so annoying, you're so fucking annoying!" I thought as I looked at my boss, squeezing my jaw to make sure the words wouldn't escape my lips.

I knew it was just a difference of personalities and that he wasn't really as annoying as I felt. After all, everyone seemed to love him except me and perhaps that proved I was wrong about him. I could just resign and get a job somewhere else, i knew it, but there was clearly no way I would find a job that paid that well. I was not sure it made out for the clash of personalities Niall and I went through but for money I desperately needed, I could manage to stay a couple more weeks, right?

"Yea, no problem, I'll do it." I replied with a smile, knowing perfectly it was hard for me to hide my irritation.

All my friends said I was like an open book and hiding my feelings was not an easy task but I tried very hard when I was around Niall. I sighed of relief as soon as I stepped foot out of his apartment as if I had been holding my breath the whole time. I started walking to my car just as my phone rang and I groaned of displeasure when I thought it could be him calling to ask me something else.

"Hello?"

"Y/N, you sound grumpy!" I heard my friend on the other line.

"I thought it was Niall." I explained, sitting in front of the wheel and leaning my head against the bench. "He's so annoying, Jay, I don't know how long I'll be able to handle it."

Jay was actually the link between Niall and I. He was the one who found me the job and I was really grateful to him, but I didn't know who Niall was and now I wish I didn't know.

"It's better than minimum wage in a retail store." Jay pointed out, making me raise my nose in a grimace. "Besides, Niall's an amazing guy, you're just being rude because he's exactly like you."

"Is that how you expect me to say yes to the favor you're about to ask?" I wondered, raising my eyebrows even if he couldn't see me.

"How do you-"

"I know you!" I cut him, my voice getting slightly louder. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm actually just calling to invite you tonight. We're going to a bar and you should come, I can hear in your voice that you need it."

I sighed again and closed my eyes, my head still leaned against the bench. "I was actually thinking about watching Netflix in bed."

"Oh come on!"

"No seriously, after spending the day with Niall Horan, I need to relax and clear my head."

---

I don't know how I ended up agreeing to it but when I entered the bar, I immediately regretted it. The music was loud and the lights hurt my eyes. I let my eyes roam around and my lips curled when I noticed Jay , standing up next to a table with a bunch of our friends. I walked up to the quickly, making my way through all the people in the bar, but when I was close enough, Jay moved slightly and my smile fell. Niall was there, laughing his head off, and something twisted in my stomach. It took him a few seconds to notice me since I had stopped moving and when our eyes met, his smile fell. I breathed in and turned quickly on my heels, ready to get out of this place as fast as I could until I felt two hands on my upper arms, holding me gently.

"Hey, you promised, remember?"

I sighed again, closing my eyes as Jay's hand slid down my arms. I had, indeed, promised to be there, and I was mad at myself for that. I turned around and shook my head, looking up in his eyes.

"You didn't mention he would be here."

"Oh come on, Y/N, get to know him okay? I swear he's a cool guy."

I glanced at the table behind my friend and noticed everyone was talking and laughing except Niall. He was staring at me and I licked my lips nervously.

"Okay."

I joined everyone at the table and ended up sitting right in front of my boss. It was not the kind of friday night I expected and I felt constantly checked. It scared me that if I did something that would bother him, he could just fire me for the sake of it, and I hated it. I could feel his eyes on me from time to time, burning the side of my face, and for some odd reason, it made my heart skip a few beats. If he was anyone but my boss, i would ask him what the fuck was his problem, but no one asks their boss that, no matter how much they stare, right?

After a while, I got up and walked to the bar to order a drink and leaned against it until someone did the same next to me, catching my attention. I glanced at them but realized I didn't know him and finally sent him a small and polite smile before grabbing my drink and leaving a bill on the counter. I turned around to go back to my friends but he followed me and I swallowed hard.

"Hey, I'm sorry for being so upfront but, would you want to dance?"

My eyes scanned the dance floor for a few seconds before meeting his again. "I'm not so much of a dancer."

It was sort of a lie, I actually liked to dance but not with someone I didn't know. He was cute and I could probably be interested, but I was too emotionally frustrated at the moment to start anything with anyone, even if only something that would last one night.

"Can I buy you a drink then?" he asked again as we stood next to my table.

"I mean..." My hand gripped the glass in my hand and I pressed my lips together. "I'll let you know when I finish this one?"

His lips curled and he nodded, pointing the table a bit further with his chin. "I'll be sitting there with friends, whenever you feel like it."

I nodded and sent him a small smile and he winked at me, turning his head back to look at me on his way to his own friends. I chuckled and tilted my head, remaining motionless for a few seconds and after a while, I sat back next to Jay.

"You're not gonna let that arsehole shag you, right?"

My heart jumped in my chest when I recognized Niall's voice and when our eyes met, I noticed he was frowning. I could have sworn he was angry and it surprised me more than I thought.

"I don't see how it's any of your business." I quickly replied, feeling suddenly slightly guilty for the way I was talking to my boss. After a few seconds, though, the guilt disappeared. Just because Niall was my boss didn't mean he could tell me who In can and can not have sex with. I was off at the moment and I was allowed to do anything I wanted. "You don't have a say in who I shag."

His lips parted and his eyebrows raised. Clearly, he was not used in the way I was talking to him and he scoffed low. It didn't seem rude though, just slightly surprised. He didn't expect me to be rough with him but I could swear I had seen a small smile on his lips for half a second.

"Please, don't tell me he's the kind of guy that turns you on."

"What if he is?" I asked daringly, raising my chin up. "What would you do about it?"

I glanced at his hands as he gripped his beer more and my lips parted. Was he mad? Pissed? Annoyed? I shook my head a bit, telling myself I shouldn't even care about what Niall Horan thought anyway, and got up again, taking quickly the direction of the bathroom.

"Wait, Y/N!"

I looked behind me and frowned when I noticed Niall following me and finally rolled my eyes, turning around in the deserted hall before crossing my arms on my chest.

"What?"

"I just don't think... I don't think this guy likes you for the good reasons."

"Look, Niall, I'm not expecting to date anyone I meet here. Sometimes, people just want to fuck, and it's okay too." I explained a bit condescendingly. "Why do you even care who I fuck?"

I held my breath when he suddenly bent down, crashing his mouth against mine. I thought I'd be tempted to push him away but the way his lips pressed on mine made me feel dizzy. He took a step closer and my back hit the wall gently as his lips parted mine. He tasted amazing and I couldn't help but let out a low whimper. He swallowed it, kissing me deeper and my hands found the front of his shirt, gripping it tight. When he broke the kiss, he brushed his lips gently on mine and a shiver crossed my back as my eyes fluttered open.

"That's why."

"Mm, no." I let out in a whisper, shaking my head lightly. "No, you get on my nerves, and I know I get on yours, too."

"You get on my nerves because I can't stop thinking about you." he admitted in a murmur. "That's so fucking annoying. I just can't fire you, and at the same time, I can't handle myself when you're near. So I try to be rude to you. I hoped it would make me like you less."

"And how's that working for you?"

This time, his lips curled and he chuckled, making me smile too. "Clearly not good." he confessed, moving his face away as his eyes roamed on mine. "I never thought I'd have feelings for my assistant. I guess it's useless to try and deny it, now."

I tilted my head, suddenly endeared by the man that annoyed me the most only a few minutes before. "Then embrace it."

Slowly, he moved closer and leaned his forehead against mine. "Okay."

My eyes fluttered close again when he got near me and I moved my chin up until my mouth reached his again. I never thought my heart could beat that hard inside my chest, so hard that it was threatening to jump out. His hands slid from my shoulders to my arms and when he gripped my waist, I held my breath.

"I really want you." he whispered, pressing his body against mine.

I had to swallow hard when I felt him push his half-hard cock against my thigh and let out a low "Fuck." under my breath.

"I just don't want to go too fast." he whispered as I felt one of his hand move up on my stomach and brush against one of my breasts. "I want to do this right. I want to bring you on a date, get to the who you really are, and take my time to fall so deeply in love with you that I can never fall out of it."

"You're doing very good."

He smiled more and chuckled, kissing my lips gently. "Do you want to try?"

I couldn't believe what was happening and at the same time, it was not really surprising that all this annoyance towards each other was hiding something else. It was so obvious now that I had liked him since day one and just didn't want to admit it to myself.

"Yes."

#niall horan #niall horan fluff #niall horan oneshot #niall horan blurb #niall horan fluff oneshot #niall horan fluff blurb #blurbs #my fanfics #my blurbs

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writethelifeyouwant · 3 years ago

Text

Femme Fatale - Ch 1 / 2

Pairing: Alex x Reader (background J2) Rating: 18+ Tags: Dom/Sub relationships, Sub!Alex, Domme!Reader, Dom!Jensen, Sub!Jared, sex/bdsm club, voyeurism, exhibitionism, pegging, humiliation kink Word Count: 3.3k Created for: @spnkinkbingo - Dom/Sub

A/N: Thank you so much for being my first ever commission Sin! I've had a lot of fun tackling this challenge because I've never written a Domme!reader before but I really appreciate you trusting me with your idea, and I hope I do it justice ❤️

Series Masterlist

This is a weird idea, even for Alex. A night out with his cast mates isn’t unusual, and Y/N has gone along on plenty of group dinners with Alex, Jared and Jensen (that were essentially double dates) before, but they usually ended by closing out the hotel bar or crashing in someone’s guest room. They had never ended up at a proper club before, let alone planned a whole evening around going to a specific one. But that’s the plan tonight.

When Alex informs her that the location was Misha’s suggestion, it makes even less sense to Y/N. Misha seems like he would be the least likely of all of them to actually enjoy clubbing but hey, what does she know?

“Alex, I don’t have anything to wear!” Y/N complains from inside their closet, hoping her boyfriend can hear her through the bathroom door.

“That cannot be true,” she can hear the amusement coupled with a light mix of exasperation in his tone.

“What did they tell you the dress code was?” Y/N calls as she continues to flip through the clothes hanging in front of her.

“Misha said, and I quote, ‘dress slutty’.” Alex appears in the doorway to the closet and leans against the frame, tucking his arms across his chest. Y/N actually does a double take when she sees him.

“I see you took that advice literally,” she eyes him, gaze dragging across his body and catching against each new feature she notices like sandpaper running against the grain. Alex is dressed casually, but most definitely sluttily too. A loose and frayed wife beater hangs off his shoulders, showing off his waist where one side is tucked into his shorts. The elastic of his boxers is sticking out over the shirt too, which is completely on purpose in a move to tease. The denim shorts are tight, torn-up, and just to the knee. Y/N has seen him wear them before, and she knows when he turns around she’ll have an amazing view of his ass.

“I’m good at following instructions,” Alex smiles, clearly pleased with himself that he’d successfully fulfilled his remit.

“So eager to please,” Y/N teases over her shoulder as she goes back to thumbing through outfit potentials. “Honestly, the fact that Misha is telling us to dress slutty and not Jared must mean dress really slutty.”

“You could just not wear anything,” Alex offers as a suggestion. “Nothing sluttier than free access.”

“In your dreams, babe.”

“How did you know?” Alex is mock horrified and you laugh along with him when he breaks character. “Still can’t decide?” and Y/N shakes her head in response. “Can I pick for you? I do have a pretty good memory of all your sluttiest outfits.”

“Hey! Who you callin’ a slut Mr. Slutty McTightShorts?” Y/N rounds on Alex, comically enraged.

“You, duh,” Alex laughs and pecks her on the cheek as he moves over to a drawer where Y/N keeps her underwear.

Alex goes straight for the lingerie, Y/N should have guessed, and he pulls out a matching set of lacy thong and longline bra, both enmeshed in patterns of criss-crossed elastic and ribbons. Then he ducks down to the bottom drawer where Y/N keeps a load of her old college clothes that she’s too sentimental to get rid of, and rummages through it, clearly looking for something specific. He finally liberates a skirt that barely has the right to be called a piece of clothing. Y/N can’t even remember why she owns that. Finally he reaches for a swingy tank made of a light gauzy material. It’s really meant to be a cover-up for the beach because of how loose and flowy it is but Y/N imagines that is Alex’s intention behind picking it – he knows it won’t stay on properly or do a single thing to hide the bra she’ll be wearing beneath it. Alex hands her the pile of clothes, again looking very pleased with himself.

“You’re really not pulling punches tonight, are ya?”

“I just want to show off how awesome my girlfriend is,” Alex shrugs.

“Yeah, you want to show off all of her, apparently,” Y/N holds up the small skirt skeptically.

“You’ll look incredible, scouts’ honour,” Alex swears, grinning.

“If we show up and the others aren’t dressed super slutty, I’m gonna maim things.”

“I won’t stop you,” Alex laughs and pushes Y/N out of the closet. “C’mon get dressed so we can go down some alcohol before the car gets here.”

They’ve both knocked back a beer and a shot when the car pulls up and a message pops into the group chat saying they’re here. The night is close and warm outside of the air conditioning, and for that reason at least Y/N is glad to be wearing such a small amount of clothing. When the young couple slides into the car they’re greeted by Jared, Jensen, Misha, and his wife Vicki – another surprise to Y/N, as she doesn’t come out with them too often. Something about tonight must be special.

“Hey hot stuff!” Jared greets them, grinning as he eyes them both up and down. Jensen pinches him on the leg. “Behave.” Jared doesn’t let it derail his examination.

“Thanks, I know, right?” Alex jokes and ruffles his hair, throwing Jared a wink. Y/N gives him a side eye, silently imitating Jensen’s instruction of behave. Alex grabs for her hand and kisses it in a gesture of reassurance, dropping their joined hands to his lap and keeping them there. Alex is a flirt, just like Jared, but Y/N knows that he would never stray from her. At least, not unless she tells him to.

The car proceeds to drive them across town to an area of L.A. Y/N isn’t familiar with. She and Alex haven’t lived in the city very long, so it’s not like she’s expecting to know every inch of its nightlife scene but this place seems much more out of the way than she was expecting them to be going. The streets they’re trundling down are dark, not bright and shining with neon and glittering lights like so much of downtown tends to be. The occasional person or couple is walking along the sidewalk, but overall it’s deserted by city standards.

“Where are we going again?” Y/N pipes up from her seat, looking out the window and spotting another couple in dark coats holding hands as they amble down the side street.

“We’re almost there,” Vicki smiles reassuringly at Y/N, then turns to Jensen. “Tom texted to let me know he’s set aside a table upstairs for us, so everyone can just watch or they can join in, whatever you want.”

“Who’s Tom?” Y/N asks curiously, she hasn’t heard the name before.

“He’s our boyfriend,” Misha answers matter of factly, like he’s trying not to betray any emotion around the statement until he can judge Y/N and Alex’s reactions to that news. Y/N can’t pretend she isn’t surprised, but the more she thinks about it the more she realises that Misha is always quite private about his and Vicki’s relationship – this must be why.

“Oh, cool dude,” Alex laughs, giving an approving nod, almost like he’s impressed with Misha’s nonconformity. Y/N smiles. Alex always loves finding out about what people have going on ‘outside the box’, it helps him come out of his own shell just a little bit more every time.

“Can’t wait to meet him,” Y/N chimes in, just to quiet the small hint of wariness she can see playing behind Misha’s eyes. He relaxes visibly and smiles, much more his carefree and goofy self in that instant.

“Oh, s’that it?” Jared points out the window to a dim neon sign and a small group of people sitting on benches and little round tables, smoking. The block letters shine against the rough brickwork of the building they’re mounted on, grey and sophisticated, unlike all the garish colours Y/N would usually expect from a nightclub.

Femme Fatale.

Y/N hadn’t known what to expect when they got inside but she never would have expected what she’s witnessing now. Femme Fatale is a swingers club. Not just that, it’s a BDSM swingers club.

How had they known? Y/N wonders. She and Alex don’t usually make a habit of discussing that aspect of their relationship with other people. Especially since Alex is still pretty new to being a Sub. He had toyed with the idea of being a Dom in a previous relationship, and technically he labels himself as a Switch when people ask, but he once he had told Y/N that since he met her she brings out a part of himself he hadn’t really connected with properly before, and he loves it.

His eyes are wide now, blown out with obvious lust as Y/N watches him watch his surroundings. Jared is the same, and Jensen is watching him just as intently as Y/N is watching Alex. With how they act, Y/N always suspected that Jensen and Jared were in a Dom/Sub relationship, and she was quietly smug that she had been right. Misha and Vicki had left the party at their table on the exposed balcony as soon as their boyfriend Tom, who Y/N now understands is the manager of this club, had shown them in and sat them down. Now, Y/N knows what Vicki had meant in the car about them just being able to watch if that’s what they wanted to do, instead of joining in. Misha and Vicki have clearly opted to join in, and Y/N can’t see where they went off to, lost in the heaving crowd of people below them.

So far, she’s enjoying watching, and Alex clearly is too. His slutty shorts are doing nothing to hide the semi he’d popped almost the second they walked in. It isn’t so much her thing, but Y/N knows Alex has an exhibitionist streak, and she can easily imagine what must be running through his mind right now. Being out in the middle of everything, shown off, performing. And Y/N thinks she might like showing him off, showing everyone what a good little boy he can be for his Mistress, showing everyone how much control she has over him. How much he wants to do everything she asks of him, to please her.

“Jared,” Y/N looks away from Alex when Jensen speaks, and Alex looks up from the ground floor where he had been watching some of the people on display. “Do you want to go play?” Jensen asks neutrally, very carefully leaving the choice up to Jared, without betraying his own feelings on the notion.

“Can we?” Jared’s eyes light up instantly and Y/N smirks to herself. Jared and Alex are more alike than she realised.

“Yeah, c’mon baby boy,” Jensen smiles indulgently and holds out his hand to Jared, who takes it and follows him down the stairs to the play areas. Y/N looks back to Alex, whose eyes are glued to his cast mates’ backs.

“What about you, baby boy?” Y/N purrs, using Jared’s nickname teasingly and Alex blushes as she runs her nails up his bare arm. She’d never called him that before but it’s clear he likes it. “Do you want to go play?”

“I–” Alex breaks off, considering. “Can we just watch for a bit? See what everyone’s doing?” he asks nervously.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Y/N smiles and offers Alex her hand. They make their way down the iron grate staircase into the madness that has been churning below them this whole time. It’s easy to spot Jared and Jensen, despite the crowd. They stick out above the heads of a lot of the people nearby because most of them are bent over or crouched down to some extent.

They’re at the edge of the dance floor, in a space that’s still public but is cordoned off for more… intimate play. There’s two St. Andrew’s crosses bolted on the wall, both currently occupied with girls – one wearing an assortment of leather straps with metal studs poking out of them, and one wearing absolutely nothing but the cuffs binding her to the beams. Leather couches and benches are dotted around the floorspace, all covered with partially to wholly naked occupants engaging in every variety of sexual activity Y/N can imagine. Alex looks like a kid in a candy store watching it all unfold before him.

“You can watch whoever you want, but no touching without my permission, okay?” Y/N speaks into Alex’s ear so he can hear her over the bass of the music that’s vibrating through the crowd around them.

“Yes, ma’am,” Alex salutes her cheekily and starts to move away but she grabs the neck of his shirt and hauls him back, looking him sternly in the eye.

“Do you want to try that again with a little respect, baby?” Alex drops his eyes and looks penitent.

“Yes, Mistress.” He gives her a weak smile, asking for forgiveness, and Y/N decides to let him off this time.

“Good boy,” she leans up and kisses his forehead before giving him a swift pat on the backside. “Have fun, I’m going to grab a drink,” Y/N points to one of the bars lining the far side of the play area. “Find me that way if you want me, okay baby?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Alex nods meekly, giving Y/N a small kiss before he ducks into the crowd towards a group of spectators all watching a girl tied to a bench getting teased by her Domme and a flogger. Typical, Y/N smiles to herself and makes her way to the bar to order a glass of wine.

Wine in hand, Y/N spins on her heel and looks around the room. Alex is still where she left him and a few groups over she spots Jensen, his back to her, watching something else she can’t quite make out between everyone’s bodies. Jared doesn’t appear to be anywhere though. Y/N decides to have a look at whatever Jensen’s observing, curious what’s got him so stoically still. There’s a lot going on around him but it becomes instantly clear which performer Jensen’s watching when Y/N approaches and peeks over his shoulder.

Jared is on his hands and knees, in amongst a crowd of people. There’s a sort of black leather platform that he’s perched on, so they’re elevated from the floor. It puts Jared’s mouth at the perfect height to reach people’s waists, which he’s currently putting to good use by swapping between two men with their cocks standing out stiff from their jeans. Jensen is watching closely, smirking at the crowd all raptly watching his boyfriend. When Jared takes the man with the bigger cock so deep that his nose is pressed to the man’s stomach, Y/N can’t help but laugh.

“I see why you like him so much,” Y/N bumps her shoulder against Jensen and he jumps, looking down at her and grinning when his brain catches up to her comment.

“Yeah he’s good with his mouth,” Jensen agrees, smiling proudly.

“Nice of you to loan him out.”

“I like to think I’m generous,” Jensen shrugs. “But not too generous,” Jensen catches the arm of a man trying to round the platform to get to Jared’s ass instead of his mouth. “Sorry man, no guys back there.”

“Oops, sorry dude,” the guy backs off quickly, and Y/N is impressed by how respectful the whole exchange is.

“Is that Jensen only territory?” Y/N questions, wiggling her brow.

“Yeah I don’t like other guys fuckin’ him,” Jensen explains. “But I like girls pegging him, it’s fun to humiliate him like that.” Just then Y/N spots a small woman climbing into a strap on with the help of her partner, who drops to her knees to suck on the dildo a little before covering it in lube from the bottle on the ground by the platform.

“No kidding,” Y/N whistles lowly, in awe as she watches the girl push the black silicone inside Jared, inch by inch. The way his hole is pulsing around the intrusion is almost hypnotic. She tries to picture what Alex would look like, on his hands and knees amongst all these people, everyone watching him get split open by some little girl with a big dick… everyone seeing him loving it, like Jared clearly is.

Y/N hears Jensen laugh beside her and she jumps a little, clearing her throat in embarrassment at being caught out staring at Jared’s asshole so blatantly.

“Sorry,” she clears her throat again and takes a sip of wine to hide behind her glass.

“It’s okay,” Jensen laughs again. “I wouldn’t let him do this if I didn’t want people to watch him.”

“Good point,” Y/N acknowledges, feeling a little better. “And um, out of curiosity,” Y/N pauses, trying to frame her question politely. “How did you get Jared to agree to the pegging?” Jensen raises an eyebrow at Y/N curiously. “You know, one Domme to another,” Y/N elaborates, so Jensen doesn’t think she’s trying to ask if she can peg Jared. That’s the furthest thing from her mind right now.

“No kidding?” Jensen chuckles, clearly impressed. “Well, I don’t know what you and Alex get up to normally, but it wasn’t too much of a stretch for Jared. He gets off on humiliation and I get off on humiliating him, and this fits that bill for both of us.” At that comment, Jensen looks back to Jared and smirks before reaching down to adjust himself subtly, and Y/N laughs. “What about it is calling to you?” Jensen asks, and Y/N has to pause to consider that before she can hit on the answer.

“It’s the one part of Alex I don’t think anyone’s touched. I mean he’s never mentioned it if he has done it before but I don’t think he has. The idea of marking him like that, of having something no one else can have from him…” Y/N trails off, letting her thoughts spiral as she feels the space between her legs heat up. When she adjusts her stance, she feels the slick brush of wet panties against her skin. Yes, she loves that idea. The thought of taking that last first, touching a part of Alex that no one else has touched. Being literally inside of him. Fucking him into submission would take on a whole new meaning.

“Yeah, that’s hot,” Jensen agrees and Y/N smiles dreamily. Now she just needs to figure out how to bring it up to Alex. “Hey,” Jensen taps her on the shoulder and points over Jared to the other side of the crowd, “you might not have to do as much convincing as you think.”

Standing across from them, Jared still on his hands and knees between them being fucked at both ends, is Alex. His eyes are fixed steadily on Jared, the rest of the world a mere blur around him and the object of his focus. His pupils are huge, in part due to the dark of the club but Y/N knows it’s also to do with desire. She watches his eyes dart back and forth and realises that he’s not just watching Jared, he’s watching the dildo that’s steadily fucking in and out of Jared’s ass, following its movements closely. He licks his lips and Y/N smiles. Jensen is right, she’s not going to have to convince him at all. He already wants this.

Part 2 - read ahead on WordPress here

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oddsnendsfanfics · 4 years ago

Text

Christmas Cookies

Genre: Fan Fiction (Sand Castle) Pairing: N/A Warnings: It’s so fluffy! Pure Absolute Christmas Fluff! Rating: G Length: Drabble Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.

A/N: I just wrote multiple pages of Sy being an absolute marshamallow, with his nieces and nephews. It’s as sweet as Maple Syrup! Enjoy.

Henry Cavill Master List

“You're sure that it's okay if the kids come over?” The concern for her brother didn't go unnoticed, the blue eyes they shared were locked on his face as if she didn't believe him, when he had given the green light.

He looked ridiculous in the white and red ugly Christmas sweater. The knit garment depicting Santa on a beach. Leave it to Sy. Aimee had lost it laughing a few weeks ago, when her brother had called to tell her that he'd got ugly Christmas sweaters for his nieces and nephews, too.

A smirk curled his lips under the thick beard that had been growing on his face for the last ten or twelve years. Running a hand over his grown out hair, her little brother laughed. “Yes, Aim. I am sure. I wouldn't have told them to come, if I didn't want them here. Go on, we're fine. I am sure Mike will appreciate the night off.”

Early this morning, Sy had been woke to his phone ringing on the night stand beside his head. Stupidly loud, the phone screamed at him, begging him to answer. After the fourth ring, it was clear that the person on the other end was not giving in. Despite the headache and heartache from hell, he reached over and answered.

On the other end, his youngest niece greeted her hung over Uncle. “Uncle Sy, I want to come stay with you tonight. Mommy said that I can't invite myself over, but I want to see you. Please say yes.”

“Morning Wispy,” Sy muttered sitting up, rubbing his hand over his face. “Uncle Sy is a bit hazy this morning, I'm gonna need ya to repeat that. Slowly.” He shook his head and chuckled at his niece.

Repeating her request, Willow waited for her uncle to give her the all clear. She was his favourite person, after all, he would never tell her no.

“Sure can bub. Let me talk to your ma, please. And Wispy, I love ya bug.”

Taking the phone from her over excited daughter, Aimee greeted her brother. Her first round of questions assaulting the youngest Syverson.

“Four kids, are you really sure?” Aimee raised her brow looking at her brother. “I can't believe we let Willow talk you into this. I had no idea she was calling you until she came in with the phone. Apparently she and Harley had planned this yesterday.”

“Whatever. I'm cool with it. I didn't have much to do anyway. Probably spend another night down at The Hole.” Sy shrugged. His favourite dive bar had become his temporary home, since his girlfriend of five years had decided she wanted more than a cranky Army vet to share her life with.

Willow had heard her parents discussing Sy's break up, when she coerced her cousin Harley into the plan for a weekend with their uncle. Uncle Sy was her favourite person in the whole wide world, they even shared a birthday, and Uncle Sy was the most fun! He would often let Willow paint his nails and decorate his beard. Why wouldn't that silly woman want him? Willow had grumbled about her “Aunty Nina” being a bit meany who probably ate boogers for breakfast.

“If you think you are okay with this, fine.” Aimee laughed peeking around her brother into his house to see her two children, plus niece and nephew running around his kitchen like four wild beasts. “But if you need help...”

“I will call in the Army.” Sy's laugh rumbled. “I'm kidding. If we need you, then we will call.” He leaned in giving her a kiss on the cheek, straightening up he called to the kids. “Come say good bye to your ma and aunt.”

Children thundered to the door, rushing Aimee and Sy. Hugs and “I love yous” exchanged as Aimee gave her brother one last out for the weekend. Raising his hand to wave her off, Sy wore the biggest, goofiest smile. She'd behaved like he had never had all four children on his own before. Hell during his Army days he had been responsible for a lot more bodies than four. All had made it home, too. Most on their own accord, but he wasn't going to relive those memories right now. Those were the sort of things he thought about when he was alone in the dark. This weekend was going to be anything but dark.

With only a short span of time to plan, Sy did his best to get a few activities together for the children of various ages. Ben, 12; Annie, 10; Harley 7; and Willow, 6.

Ben had likely only agreed to his sister's impromptu weekend because it was better than staying home with his parents. Besides, he loved hanging out with his Uncle, even if it meant three other children tagging along.

“Okay, listen up.” Sy clapped his hands together, grabbing attention. He bent to gently scratch behind the ears of his beloved shepherd. “You know where your bedrooms are, go take your stuff up. Then meet me back here for our first item on the list.”

Lagging behind her brother and cousins, Willow bounced over to Sy hugging her arms around him as tightly as she could. “Do I have to share a bed with Annie? She kicks me.”

“She kicks you?” Sy stooped to scoop her up in his arms. Her dark curls tied back in pig tails, gently he tugged at the end of one. “Well then good thing I got them pillows you asked for.”

“The really big ones? With the pink sparkle unicorns.” Willow's eyes went wide as she gasped. Sy nodded and laughed. Vibrating with excitement she hugged her uncle's neck tight kissing his cheek. “I want to make a fort in the bed and then Annie has to stay on her side. But it's okay, because we can still share the blanket and my night light.”

“Is that so? Well, you best go tell her that. The others will be back down before you get up there, hurry up.” Sy let her down. “If you need some help, ask Annie. Okay, Wispy?”

“Okay.” She shouted, little legs carrying her to the stairs. Thumping and running through the house, Sy smiled and went to the kitchen to begin planning phase one of their weekend.

With Christmas right around the corner, he had broke down and dug out a few early Christmas Eve gifts. Since it was Syverson tradition to spend Christmas Eve with his momma and daddy, decorating and what not, he was in charge of supplying the kids with gingerbread houses and cookies to decorate. Momma would forgive him, if he told her that the houses were done early this year. If she was adamant about it, he could buy a few more for Christmas.

Pulling out the kits, Sy laughed when Ben trudged into the kitchen. Clearly the kids had gotten the message when they found sweaters laid out on the beds. In a blue and green sweater with penguins at a disco on the front, the twelve year old rolled his eyes before laughing.

“It suits ya.” Sy laughed.

“Sometimes I wonder if you love us or secretly hate us.” Ben laughed along with his uncle. Laughing harder when Harley strode in wearing his green and red sweater, two reindeer on the front throwing snowballs.

“I think you secretly love it.” Sy nudged Harley with his elbow. “Should have gone bigger, huh?”

Harley nodded, the arms of his sweater a little too short. “Do I have to wear it long?”

“Nah,” Shaking his head, Sy pointed to the gingerbread house kits. “Long enough to get a photo for Nana and your momma.”

Giggling, Annie and Willow rushed into the kitchen. Purple and pink ugly sweaters worn with pride. Annie stood straight to show her uncle how well the new shirt fit. Purple decorated with dancing snowmen in a ballerina scene, a nod to Annie's love for dancing. And of course Willow, in her pink sweater with cats in Santa hats with red and green mittens.

“I love it, uncle Sy!” Willow exclaimed jumping up and down. “We look very pretty.”

“We look something.” Her big brother snickered.

“Are those gingerbread houses?” Annie eyed the items on the counter suspiciously. Sy nodded and grinned. “Nana is going to be mad at youuuuuu.” She sang out.

“Well this year, Nana is fine with us decorating early. We can get more for Christmas Eve.”

“We better!” Harley exclaimed wide eyed. “Santa will be upset. He always gets a gingerbread house and he eats it all!”

The tradition of leaving a whole house for Santa had began when Sy was a little boy. Perhaps even before, Aimee and Will had left houses surely before he was born. Over the years Santa had devoured a lot of houses at the Syverson's. He'd even had a few to eat while Sy was over in the desert, serving his country. His momma, without fail, had managed to get him a kit or two. Sy would set them up and let the other soldiers have their fill before sending photos to the kids back home to tell them Santa had came by.

“You know that Santa isn't...” “Going to be upset, because he will still get Nana's homemade cookies.” Ben cut in glaring at Annie. This was her first year on the “Santa isn't real wagon”, but Ben wasn't going to let her ruin that for Harley and Willow.

Nodding and giving Ben a subtle thumbs up, Sy picked up to defuse the tension. “Right, he's still going to get lots of treats. And I don't know that I'd want a boring store made gingerbread, if I could have my momma's homemade shortbread and peanut butter blossoms.” He clicked his teeth together and made a show of rubbing his hand across his stomach.

“Uncle Sy, do you think Santa ever takes cookies home for the elves and Mrs. Claus?” Harley stared up at his uncle, his face scrunched at the thought.

“Sure does, bud. I bet he takes one cookie from every house home to share.” Sy winked at his youngest nephew.

Pulling out the hard as rock cookie house pieces, Sy instructed Ben to get the candies from the counter that he'd set out for the purpose of making these a grand master piece. Even The Grinch would appreciate the work that went into a Syverson House.

“So, what's everyone been up to? I feel like I've hardly seen y'all lately.”

If he asked the kids to talk about themselves, it meant that Sy would have to talk less. He loved hearing what the kids had to say. They chattered and laughed, Annie and Harley bickered a little over who got to put the door on the first house. A squabble ended when Sy reached in, putting the pretzel door on the house himself.

Lost in their good cheer, Christmas songs, and general chaos of four children with limited rules – for the time being – Sy sighed and began to relax. Something he hadn't done since Nina had decided to pack up her things and leave him nearly two weeks ago.

Whatever. Five years wasted. If she had known that she didn't want to be with him, then why had she stayed? His brother had a few ideas about that, stating that it was the perfect opportunity for any gold digging – Sy wouldn't even repeat the word to himself. Living in a house that was paid off. A car that was hers. Never having to pay bills, it all allowed her to work and save while she decided one day she'd had enough and wanted something better.

Better. More money.

Well, whoever took her next, Sy wished them luck. He hated that he was so broken about this. But he'd loved her. Maybe. He had his doubts these last few nights, as he sat thinking over a pint or eight at the bar.

“Uncle Sy,” Willow's soft voice broke his thoughts. Glancing down at his niece, he smiled. “When we finish, can we make cookies?”

“What if we make some cookies tomorrow, Wispy?” Wiping his hands on a tea towel, Sy bent to scoop her into his arms. “We can make some sugar cookies to decorate. I also thought I could make ya some snow crackles that you love so much.” he nudged cheek her with his nose.

“The gooey chocolate ones?” Her eyes were wide. Sy nodded. “Benny!” She turned, calling excitedly to her brother who was less than four feet away. “Uncle Sy is going to make us those crack cookies!”

“Crackle.” Sy gently corrected her with a deep laugh.

Sy's snow crackles were always a welcomed hit. Family, friends, even the post man loved the damn things. Hell if he'd had those over in the desert to hand out, the war could have been over in an hour. Or so a few of his superiors had always teased him.

“Can we make them with the candy cane?” Harley asked wiggling in his seat.

“Absolutely!” Sy agreed with a wide smile. A touch of peppermint in the cookies were the perfect Christmas treat. Even better when enjoyed with a nice cup of rum and homemade egg nog. Although he would save that for the adult parties.

“I love Christmas!” A giggling Annie exclaimed, not going unnoticed that she and Ben were enjoying the left over icing for the houses. A tube each, the two older kids were trying to be stealthy about their activities. Nice try Sy thought, they knew nothing got by their Uncle.

“My favourite holiday is my birthday.” Willow declared.

“That's not a holiday.” Ben laughed at his sister, shaking his head.

“Yes it is! It's a holiday, because it celebrates me and Uncle Sy. Right, Uncle Sy? It's a holiday?” Willow pouted at her uncle, hoping for some back up. If Uncle Sy said it was, then it was true.

“I think birthdays are kind of like holidays. We just don't get time off work or school.”

“See!” Willow stuck her tongue out at her brother Ignoring his sister, Ben had already moved on to something else.

“Okay you two, enough.” Sy let Willow down. “Let's get this mess cleaned and we can get some plans for dinner going.”

“Can we have ice cream?” Doing her best puppy dog eyes, Annie looked at her uncle.

“After we eat dinner.” Sy smiled kissing the top of her head.

“Candy cane ice cream?” Harley was hopeful. Sy had never met a kid, or anybody, who loved candy canes as much as his nephew.

“I have some candy cane. I also have chocolate and pecan. Something for everyone.”

“And grape nut for you?” Wrinkling her nose, Willow shivered in disgust. Ice cream was one of the only things she didn't agree with her Uncle on.

“Yes, grape nut for me.”

“You're such an old man.” Ben added gently tossing a candy piece at his uncle's head. Nailing Sy in the side of the cheek, Ben laughed and threw up his hands in victory.

“Oh is that how you want this?” Sy picked up a few candies, launching them back at his nephew. Nailing Ben with four our of five, Sy straightened himself up. “Still got it.”

Gingerbread construction cleaned, photos taken, Sy announced that the children were free of their ugly sweaters. Rushing upstairs to change, shouts and laughter filled the house. Sy, comfortable in his sweater, worked out the decision for dinner. Ordering pizza seemed like the clear winner and nobody would complain.

Four pizzas later, enough variety that everybody had something they liked, Sy announced it was time to settle for a bit and watch some movies. Who could resist? Pizza, as promised ice cream, and various snacks that he always had on hand for the kids. It was the perfect way to spend an evening getting over a break up.

Sprawled out around the den, the kids got comfortable. Blankets and cushions all over. Sy resting on the leather sectional, Willow curled up on his lap – of course. A bowl of candy between them and Harley, who laid stretched out. Annie and Ben occupied a bean bag each, blankets pulled up around them while the decided upon “Miracle on 34th Street” played on the screen.

Dozing on and off, Sy didn't know when it had happened, but at some point the movie had come to an end the dvd menu replaying over and over. A soft whine of his beloved shepherd is what roused him this morning. Scratching his nose and sitting up, Sy scrambled to grab Willow before she slid off of his knee. Around him the kids were asleep, the house quiet and his watch informing him it was nearly dawn.

Gently sliding Willow into his spot on the couch, Sy stood and raised his arms, joints popping and his body waking. Tiptoeing out of the den and to the kitchen, Sy opened the back door letting the dog out. Rubbing his eyes, he watched the dog zoom around, before debating coffee or going back to bed. The kids would sleep another hour or two at least, which would be nice to sleep as well. Coffee won, brewing a fresh pot Sy looked around the kitchen.

His house still, the presence of the kids not going unnoticed, it felt nice to have someone else in the house. The bodies moving and bringing merriment. A kick to the gut, really. Nina having told him that part of her leaving was because she wanted children and he didn't. He loved his nieces and nephews, but full time parenting wasn't a project he was cut out for. Sy sniffled, fuck it. Shaking his head, he grumbled under his breath. She and her notions were gone now.

Opening the back door, he let the dog in. Giving a morning scratch and cooing to his faithful friend. Coffee filled the house with a delicious aroma, Sy poured his first cup and sat at the table watching the backyard. Once this coffee was gone he would get to work on his crackle cookies, they would need to freeze before baking. Tiny, nearly silent foot steps caught his attention. Willow hummed softly as she walked, her momma always told her that it wasn't polite to sneak up on people. Especially Uncle Sy. No matter how much he loved her, sneaking up could scare him and Willow didn't want that.

Sy hated the thoughts of his family feeling like they may not be safe in his presence. But he appreciated her attempt to let him know she was awake and moving around.

“Morning Wispy.” Sy's voice was steady and quiet. Willow giggled lightly. She loved that he knew it was her, without having to look. “Come here.” Sy held out an arm. Willow rushed her last few steps. “Have a good sleep?”

“Uh huh,” she rubbed her eyes and nodded. “Morning, Uncle Sy. Did you sleep good?”

“I did,” he nodded taking a sip of his coffee and pushing out his chair. “Have a seat, Miss Henning.”

Climbing into the kitchen chair, Willow sat quietly.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yes, please.” Willow yawned and nodded. “But no coffee, it's yuck and daddy says I'm too little.”

“Your daddy has the right idea,” Sy smiled fondly, pulling out the cocoa mix and Willow's favourite mug. A big mug with a photo of her and Sy's old dog Aika.

“Uncle Sy, are you happy that I came over and brought my brother, Harley, and Anna?”

“Of course, Wispy.”

“Good, because I think you were sad but I didn't want you to be sad. I told my momma that we would make you happy if we came over. I think I was right.” she beamed through tired eyes.

“Wspy, bug, nothing could ever make me happier than you kids.” Scooping the cocoa into the mug, pouring cold milk until the was half full to save it from getting too hot.

“Not even if you had your own kids? Do you think you'll get married and have kids? Momma said...”

“Wispy,” Sy held up a hand to stop the unintentional prying. It was too early. “I will always love you. You're my best gal, yeah? All you need to know, bug, is that I will love you forever.”

“Do you love me more than Christmas cookies?”

“Well,” pausing for effect, Sy took a beat to pretend he was thinking, “I do love Christmas cookies. But yeah, I suppose I love you more than Christmas cookies, even.”

“Good, because I love you more than Christmas cookies, birthday cake, anddd Nana's biscuits.” the little girl wiggled in her seat, giggling.

“More than Nana's biscuits? Oh boy, that is some loving.” Stirring the hot cocoa, Sy lifted the mug and placed it on the table in front of his niece. A can of whipped cream in hand, he shook it before adding more than required to the top of her mug. Sitting down, he glanced at his coffee and shrugged, the hiss of the can when he added a dollop to his coffee. “Cheers,”

“Cheers!” Willow slid her mug a few centimeters to clink it against Sy's.

#captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson #henry cavill #captain syverson imagine #captain syverson fluff #christmas fic #captain syverson sand castle #henry cavill fluff

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cherrywoes · 4 years ago

Text

prologue. (acanthus.)

SAKURA HARUNO LOST THE ability to use medical ninjutsu when she turned twenty.

There had been no warning, no sputtering of her chakra, no imminent sign that she was about to lose the very foundation that her newfound strength had been built upon. She woke up one morning to her squad members with their throats slit, one just barely clinging on to life—a Hyuuga, her pretty lavender eyes wide with shock and desperation—and when Sakura sealed her hands over her pale throat, intent to close the wound as best she could and haul ass back to Konoha, there was nothing. No pale green chakra to flood her systems, no pinpoint accuracy of healing down to the very cells, nothing—just razor sharp chakra, cutting so deeply into her teammate’s throat that it went far enough to decapitate her completely.

Sakura watched the light fade from her eyes with pale pink strands of hair blowing into her face on a warm, humid breeze.

She continued this for some time—accidentally murdering her teammates when they were on the brink of death. Fear kept her from telling Tsunade. Ego kept her from revealing she was not, in fact, the prized healer of Konohagakure anymore. Arrogance forbade her from admitting any harm she had done. Sakura made herself forge the stories of her teammates’ deaths when she couldn’t sleep, their eyes haunting her dreams and her not so kind hands wrapped around their throats. It kept her up at night, so every afternoon, when she returned from narrowly avoiding every single healing session that was tossed her way at the clinic, after pushing them off on overworked nurses and doctors on overtime, she took enough sleeping pills to kill a horse three times over just to rest.

The people in her dreams were faceless, then, and easier to deal with when she woke up.

“Forehead, you look like you’re about to pass out.” Ino’s long blonde hair was a bit too bright in the sunlight. It was shinier than it had ever been, flourishing under the happiness of a successful pregnancy. She glowed, and it was even in her personality. She was chipper, far more perky, and while her appetite was something to be feared, it didn’t stop her observative eye from catching on to the dark circles underneath her friend’s eyes or the sallow look of her face. “Are you alright? Is Tsunade making you run night shifts again?”

Sakura sighed and rested her forehead on the cool marble tabletop. It felt nice against her heated skin; heated as if it was under the sun of the Suna desert. Suna, where she had managed to disembowel her adorable teammate instead of stitching her leaking intestines back together. Suna, where she had been forced to kill her second teammate who had witnessed it to hide her secret and spread his limbs amongst their enemies before returning home. Suna, where that ninja probably still remained, rotting in the hot sun and being picked apart by vultures.

Ino, a concerned hum exiting her mouth, pressed a hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up! Sakura, how long have you been like this?”

She didn’t answer and pressed her cheek further against the table. Her hair, long, longer than she had ever had it before, the ends brushing past her waist, stuck to the side of her face and neck, clinging with sweat. Her thoughts were muddied and sluggish. An image of a face flashed through her mind—cute, chubby with baby fat, and eyes of the lightest Yamanaka blue—in livid color, doused in vermillion red seconds later, Sakura’s rough hands held over her injured eyes.

“I’m so tired of this, Ino,” Sakura sighed. It was mumbled and nearly incoherent, but the blonde caught it anyways, pressing an ice cold cloth to her forehead. “I’m so tired of killing my teammates.”

“What?” Ino’s voice was tight. The lights around her warped in and out of focus. “Sakura, what did you just say?”

Sakura couldn’t answer. She slipped into darkness, the faces of her victims—her teammates—floating seamlessly through her dreams, as if they had never died at all.

Sakura spent the next four months in a cell. She was given subpar food—a multigrain bar, some vitamins, IV fluids to flush her system of the high doses of sleeping pills, water that tasted far too much like chlorine—and equally appalling care. When her chakra cuffs dug into her wrists, no one came to heal them, so they scarred over and opened back up in an endless repetition until they were permanent accessories to her skin, shiny and puckered and irritated. When her period did eventually come, spotty and unusually light at best, they gave her tiny packets of pads for her to stretch through months, and if she suffered several bacterial infections afterwards, they didn’t much care. Her hair had grown long and matted, unbrushed, and combing it with her fingers did nothing to help the endless matts and knots that had grown near her nape. Her clothes were the same ones she had gone in with, so they were dirty, threadbare, and practically dry rotting off of her body.

She felt she deserved it—this torture. She was only afforded the barest of luxuries—her food and IV—because she was, despite what she had done, the Hokage’s apprentice. Former apprentice now, she figured, since they had most likely discovered what she had done. Four months was enough to follow Sakura’s bloody trail all the way back to her twentieth birthday when she had been sent out on a mission. It was also enough to compare the discrepancies in her reports; enough to exhume the bodies of the dead and charge her with a dozen counts of murder, and recover the other bodies she had neglected to bring back.

When anyone did deign to visit her, it was to cross reference what she had said with the actual truth. She had no reason to lie, anymore, not when her little slip of the tongue in a delirious fever had gotten her caught in the first place.

“Haruka Hyuuga.” Sakura could recognize Kakashi even when he wore the ANBU mask and attempted to disguise his voice. His hair was impossible to hide—she had tried on several occasions to dye it, only for it’s unusual hue to spring back within a few days and nearly blow their cover. He was, at the moment, playing the role of Hound, but she knew once the mask was off he would be her former partner, former teacher, and broken hearted friend; because he, of all people, would believe it was his fault she had ended up in a cell just because she was too proud to say she was an awful human being. “Do you remember her?”

“Yes.” Sakura leaned back against the small wooden shelf that made up her bed. It was covered with a thin white sheet that wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but as a kunoichi it didn’t bother her like it would a normal civilian. She dragged her shoes across the concrete floor to break the lack of noise within her section of the underground jail cells. They had been ground down to the latex-polyester sole when she paced in boredom or dropped her heels and skidded them as she walked. “She was the last one… Someone had gouged out her eyes. Or tried to, I think; it was all a blur. It didn’t matter in the end, though. I couldn’t heal her.”

Kakashi—Hound—was quiet as he wrote something down in his tiny square notepad. “When did you first lose your medical ninjutsu?”

Her pale pink eyebrows furrowed. No one had bothered with this line of inquiry before, past merely wanting the knowledge of when she had lost it in the first place. Kakashi was usually there to interrogate her about her teammates, nothing more. “When I turned twenty; so, maybe six or seven months ago.”

“And you had no precursory signs beforehand to indicate you would lose it?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly and reached for the small metal tin cup he had placed in her cell. She was surprised to find it was filled with her favorite drink—apple juice, of all things—and cherished the tiny little sips of flavor she was granted. “It just… happened. I was healing—or I thought I was?—and then it wasn’t… healing. It was cutting, sharp as a razor’s edge. I couldn’t have stopped it if I had wanted to by then.”

“But you continued going on missions after that, knowing you would hurt others in your attempts to use medical ninjutsu again.”

“I didn’t think that. That I would hurt them.” Sakura paused and admitted, so quietly it was barely a whisper,”I thought it would come back if I tried hard enough.”

More scribbling, this time a little slower than the previous. “I think you tried hard enough after the second person you killed.”

Hound stuffed the notepad into his white flak jacket. With a cursory nod to the guard standing just out of her field of view, he was gone, vanishing in a puff of smoke that had Sakura’s eyes watering.

“You know what they’re calling you, right?” The guard goaded when he was certain there was no one to hear him. Sakura closed her eyes; she didn’t want to know what they were saying about her out there. “They’re calling you ‘Ninja Killer Sakura’. Like teacher like student, huh?”

A few days later, her Strength of a Hundred seal was gone, as if it never existed in the first place. The vast amount of chakra she had stored within it was gone, spirited away from her body. No one had removed it from her; no one had sealed it while she had been asleep. It had just disappeared in the same way her medical ninjutsu had, in nearly the same fashion. The only clue she had that it had vanished was the faint tingling in her forehead, right between her brows—but something else was clearly there, because the next guard in her rotation was calling for a Nara guard before she could wonder what it was.

She found out, later, after being immobilized by a shadow technique and examined by a medic, that the symbol upon her forehead had changed into a crimson red spider lily. It was no larger than the diamond had been, but was more ornate and complex, with interlocking rings centered at the bottom and sun phases etched into said rings. When the rest of her chakra, the chakra she used to maintain her health, was sealed off because of it, she didn’t complain.

She deserved it, after all.

“I don’t know if I should kill you or slap you and kill you and revive you so I can kill you again.”

Her next visitor was Tsunade. She hadn’t expected her to visit her at all, much less come traipsing in her cell with clean clothes, a basin of water, shampoo, soap, new shoes, and a pair of scissors. While the Hokage was angry, Sakura wasn’t sure if it was her fondness for her keeping her alive or the fact that it would be fairly inconvenient for the Senju woman to kill her and dispose of her without the council’s input.

“What were you thinking, Sakura?” Tsunade whirled on her, scissors in hand. She watched them cautiously, fiddling with the scars on her wrists when they itched. “Really, I mean, what was going on inside your head? I had thought you of all people would be level headed and rational—”

“Rational went out the window when I lost the only power keeping me equal with Sasuke and Naruto, Shishou.” Sakura met her gaze head on, unflinching. Her eyes were dull mimicries of the once vibrant jade they used to be; she was tired, sick, and most of all, guilt was eating her alive. “I lost everything keeping me from drowning in the ranks of endless genin. And now I’ve even lost the Strength of One Hundred seal—I don’t think I’ve been level headed or rational for a while.”

“I see.” Tsunade sighed. “That’s good, then. We can plea insanity—”

“You’re helping me?” Sakura blurted incredulously, her first real show of emotion in months.

“Of course. It isn’t out of the goodness of my heart, though. If I had my way you’d rot down here for the rest of your life.” The Hokage crossed her arms and shrugged her shoulders. “But I owe a certain teacher of yours a favor, so after this we’ll be more than even. Now clean up and get dressed so I can cut your hair. Your trial starts today.”

When the cell door slammed behind her, Sakura picked up a clean rag—the cleanest thing she’d seen in months—and dipped it into the water. It was pleasantly cool as she ran it along her neck experimentally, bringing with it the grime and dirt of four months without a shower. When it came back visibly stained, she soaked it clean and lathered it with soap and got to work.

When she finished with her body and hair, the basin was almost pitch black. She wasn’t very surprised. She had seen worse when she returned home covered in dried blood, mud, dirt, and various other secretions she would rather not recall due to the pungent odor. She smelled like mint and watermelon, a scent she purchased personally before she had been put in prison, and she was momentarily comforted by the smell until the stench of mildew crept past it.

Tsunade had provided her with a simple long sleeved turtleneck she had seen many ANBU wear underneath their flak jackets and a pair of slightly too large pants that she quickly realized were men’s pants. She tucked the shirt as best she could with the sagging waistline and pulled on the standard issue civilian shoes (flats, uncomfortable on her high arches), and felt like an entirely new person. Clean, renewed, with clothes that didn’t smell like death and underwear that wasn’t blood stained for once, she felt a little bit of the old Sakura creep back in like a breath of fresh air.

When her former teacher returned and began hacking away at the giant knots in the back of her head, she allowed the faintest, most miniscule thread of hope to worm its way into her heart.

masterlist ❚ 一 (ichi)

a/n: this is my first attempt at writing something out of my comfort zone (at least moderately; it's very tame compared to what i normally write.) feedback is appreciated! i just let the words flow and didn't take it too seriously. <3

#naruto #naruto shippuden #sakura haruno #haruno sakura #kimimaro kaguya #kaguya kimimaro #kimisaku #kimimaro x sakura #sasusaku #kakasaku

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hermannsthumb · 4 years ago

Note

Can I get something where Newt barges in on Hermann doing some yoga in the most scantily clad yoga gear ever...

ok this is for like 3 people and wholly inspired by the hermann tank top renaissance on side twitter this past week. 18+ under cut!!!

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

The good thing about living on what used to a pretty bustling base—Newt considers—is that the average athletic hopeful has their pick of at least three different gyms at any given time. And the good thing about that—Newt further considers, as he half-jogs down to the gym closest to the k-science lab—is that the rangers don’t bother with any gym besides the one directly off of their quarters, because it’s got the sparring mats and the nice equipment and all that shit. Look, Newt’s not exactly the most ripped guy in the world. Or even really very fit. When he feels the rare urge to hit the gym, he doesn’t want to be struggling over some push-ups while rangers with muscles as big as his head lift 300 pound barbells and bust open punching bags or whatever. It’s...degrading.

Lately Newt’s been hitting the gym more frequently than usual, on account of a something that passed between him and Hermann at lunch in the mess a few weeks back. Hermann had caught eye contact with one of the muscled rangers across the room, looked down at his little bowl of soup, and said—calmly—“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”

Anyway, that’s why Newt has to get all buff now.

It’s disappointing to see that the gym lights are on, but maybe no one will take any notice of Newt if he sticks to a deserted, badly-lit corner or something. He’s so set on creeping inside undetected that he doesn’t even realize who it is that’s beaten him there that morning, until he hears a small, surprised “Newton?”

Newt looks up sharply. Hermann is on a yoga mat in the middle of the gym floor, his left leg stretched out far to the side, and bent halfway over to touching one socked foot. But that’s not what stops Newt dead in his tracks and sends a fiery jolt of arousal rocketing straight down to his stomach, and it’s not even the little grunting noises Hermann’s making as he goes: that’d be Hermann’s outfit. He’s forgone his usually twenty wrinkled old layers for a pair of baggy grey yoga pants and the absolute thinnest white tank top of all time, a tank top which shows off shapely, toned arms, a thin layer of sweat over each, and collarbones, and clings to a shapely set of pecs, which has ridden up just enough to show off a patch of pale stomach, with a small trail of light-colored hair leading down, and... “Newton!” Hermann repeats, shooting up in alarm.

“Wha?” Newt says, and then he trips over a weight bench.

It’s one of their more uncomfortable trips to medical.

"Don’t tip your head back,” Hermann says.

“Thanks,” Newt says, except Hermann’s handkerchief is pinched to his nose, so it sounds a great deal more nasal. “I know, dude. Not my first rodeo.” He’s gotten his ass kicked for mouthing off in bars to jackasses more times than he cares to admit. He pulls away the handkerchief and scowls at the blooming scarlet stain, as if doing so might stop the source of it. It doesn’t; another splotch of blood lands on his hand, and he quickly shoves the handkerchief back into place. “Unbelievable. I’m gonna look so fuckin’ gnarly tomorrow.”

“Well, I suppose it’s an lucky thing you haven’t broken it,” Hermann says. “Or anything else, for that matter. How on Earth did you manage to do that, anyway?”

“I was thinking about,” Newt casts about for a suitable lie, “...kaiju. You know me. Haha.”

Newt had landed pretty flat on his face. The way Hermann had sprung into action would be admirable, really, and Newt would feel grateful enough to treat Hermann to takeout coffee for at least a week, if the act that necessitated fast action hadn’t been so completely and utterly mortifying. Hermann is still in his little yoga pants and tank top; he didn’t even remember to grab his shoes from the gym before he escorted Newt out. The knotted drawstring of the yoga pants is hanging well down his thighs. Skinny motherfucker. Since when has Hermann had pecs? “Aren’t you cold?” Newt blurts out.

“Cold?” Hermann says.

With a great deal of difficulty, Newt forces his eyes up from the swinging drawstring of Hermann’s yoga pants to his torso. His half-bare torso. With his shapely arms, and his shapely pecs, and his elegant collarbones. If Newt squints hard enough, he could probably see Hermann’s nipples through the white fabric. Especially now—the Shatterdome really is always so cold, with the A/C blasting, and Hermann is usually so sensitive to it... Oh, God, someone help Newt. “Because you’re in,” he says, and then swallows a few times, “th—that. Tank top.”

Hermann looks down at himself, like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing—like it’s inconsequential what he’s wearing—and hums. “I hadn’t really noticed—I was a bit overheated, I suppose, from my exercises.”

“Your exercises,” Newt says.

“Yes, my stretches,” Hermann says. “They do wonders for keeping my leg limber.”

Limber; Hermann is limber. Hermann, in his little yoga pants and tank top, grunting away while he stretches out, is limber. “I didn’t know,” Newt says. He’s started to feel a bit light-headed again, and hopes Hermann doesn’t notice the funny way he’s walking. He’ll be grateful when they get back to the lab and he can sit down a little, or maybe run back to his bunk and take care of his...problem.

They walk under one of the larger A/C vents; Hermann gives a little shiver. Newt forces his eyes all the way down to Hermann’s socked feet to avoid catching sight of any potential physiological responses in Hermann’s pectoral region. “Maybe you should put on a sweater,” Newt says, helpfully. He watches Hermann’s cane move up and down with each step. He’s never seen Hermann not wearing a sweater before. Not even at Shatterdome parties. Up until today, Newt would’ve thought that Hermann wore sweaters to the beach, some sort of special waterproof wool. Maybe he wears tank tops to the beach.

Hermann says something.

“Uh-huh,” Newt says. He thinks about the small beads of sweat that had been dotting Hermann’s exposed collarbones.

“Were you listening?” Hermann says.

Newt looks up. “No,” he says.

“I said we ought to go to the gym together, in the mornings,” Hermann says. He gives Newt one of his rare, blinding smiles, his funny mouth going lopsided. “It’s too bloody quiet in there. I’d appreciate even your company.”

Unlimited access to Hermann’s bare arms, his bare shoulders, his collarbones. Grunting. Stretching every which way. It sounds like a fucking nightmare, or maybe a hellish wet dream. Besides—Newt doesn’t go to the gym. Not like Hermann. Apparently. “Sounds cool,” Newt says.

Hermann looks pleased. Stupid, stupid Newt.

He jerks off furiously in the empty communal showers that night, thinking—extensively—about what it would be like if he was jerking off on Hermann’s stupid tank top instead.

They make plans to meet at the gym the next morning at six, with a trip to the mess hall for breakfast at seven after. Hermann, it turns out, has an extensive workout routine, but not quite an extensive workout wardrobe, and so—as Newt attempts a few puny sit-ups in his oldest pair of MIT sweatpants—he’s treated to another view of Hermann’s weirdly gorgeous arms straining and sweating in that stupid tank-top. He watches Hermann stretch and bend each leg and lift some of the smaller weights for ten minutes before he realizes that he hasn’t actually moved a single inch since sit-up number three. Hopefully Hermann hasn’t noticed. “You’re not tired out, are you?” Hermann says, having apparently noticed. He groans as he arches his back. He has a small birthmark on his left shoulder. “I don’t mind finishing a bit—”

“No!” Newt says. “Not tired. Just, uh—” Hermann shuts his eyes and groans again, a little louder. “Just—” Hermann’s tank top has ridden up, giving Newt a glimpse of that little dusting of hair, the elegant vee of his hips... Newt bites his lip to keep himself from saying something stupid. “I. Uh.”

Hermann, bent half-over, looks up at Newt through his pretty dark eyelashes. Newt cracks.

“Holy shit, dude,” he whines.

Hermann straightens up languidly. “Mm?”

He doesn’t even look surprised when Newt reaches out a fumbling hand towards his knee, nor when—a moment later—Newt surges forward to kiss him clumsily. Hermann’s mouth merely curves up in a smirk against his, and he fists the back of Newt’s ratty old t-shirt to draw their bodies tighter. “I’ve been wondering when you would do that,” he says, and his voice hitches up in a small gasp when Newt presses his kisses onward across his jaw. “You’re the least subtle man I know.”

“Don’t even care,” Newt mumbles. He nips some of the soft skin at Hermann’s throat and lifts his hands up to squeeze his biceps. They’re nice and sturdy under his fingers. Is this moving into new territory with Hermann way too fast? Maybe. Sort of. They’ve made out a few times at parties before, and once Newt gave him a discreet (fully-clothed) handjob in a kinda nasty alleyway outside a bar on his birthday, but nothing, like, serious. Though it’s not like this is serious. Lab partner stuff. “Holy shit, dude, I didn’t know you were so strong.”

“Strong?” Hermann snorts. He goes easily when Newt urges him onto his back against his dumb little yoga mat; his pupils are wide and dark, and a pink flush has started creeping down his neck. He drapes his arms over Newt’s shoulders. “I didn’t know you cared about those sorts of things.”

“I don’t,” Newt says. “I didn’t.” He tracks more kisses down the dips of Hermann’s collarbones, following that blush. “I guess it’s just you?”

He doesn’t wait for an invitation before rucking up Hermann’s tank top. He hasn’t got a six-pack, or anything like that, but Newt doesn’t really care, because Hermann’s pecs rock even more when they’re bare. He squeezes at one just to see Hermann make a face, and—laughing—ducks down to graze his teeth across the left one, taking care to catch at his nipple. Hermann hisses sharply and grabs at his hair. He looks a little silly with his top bunched under his armpits, but it’s kind of cute too. Newt trails his tongue across Hermann’s sternum and tries his luck at the other side, too, and is pleased when Hermann gives a full-body shudder after each. “Ah, Newton,” he moans. “I’m—sensitive—there.”

Newt kisses over the spot instead as way of apology. Then he starts to trail his kisses lower, down Hermann’s slightly concave abdomen, where the skin is luminously pale. Newt amends his earlier assumption that Hermann wears tank tops to the beach; he’s not sure if Hermann has ever even stepped foot on a beach. “Newton,” Hermann moans again. He gives Newt’s hair a little tug when Newt takes the drawstring of his yoga pants between his teeth. If he goes down on Hermann good enough, maybe Hermann will let him test out last night’s fantasy... “Mm. Be quick about it. We haven’t got all—”

The door to the gym swings open; two rangers, chatting away happily, step inside, and stop in their tracks when they catch sight of Newt and Hermann. Newt flings himself off of Hermann, but it’s too little too late. It’s pretty obvious what Newt and Hermann had been doing. “Oops!” one of the rangers says, turning their back to them. Their friend turns away, too, and laughs awkwardly. “Sorry, Dr. Geiszler, Dr. Gottlieb. We didn’t realize this was—uh. Occupied.”

Hermann yanks down his tank top.

“No worries,” Newt squeaks. “We’re. Uh. Just about done.”

The door clicks back shut; Newt hears laughter. Hermann is covering his face. “Hand me my bloody sweater,” he says. “We’ll finish this later.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous #not sfw /////

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worlds-forgotten · 4 years ago

Text

Stranger

summary: A night between the events in the bar with the townsfolk and the battle with the Karyt dragon. Cobb offers his home to the newcomers, with pleasurable circumstances that follow.

pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Cobb Vanth

warnings: smut, swearing

word count: 7.7k

rating: Mature

posted: 20/11/23

“It could have gone worse, ‘suppose.” Cobb kicked some sand as they exited the building, thumbing his belt and looking to the setting suns. The Mandalorian’s gaze followed that of the marshal’s, and he sighed. “Just glad they’re willing to work together, for now.”

The heat of the day was still fresh, despite the cool evening creeping in. Din felt it under his heavy armour - sweat behind his knees, on the back of his neck, in his gloves - if time and privacy allowed it, he may stray away from the town far enough to take off his gear and wipe down a bit, get some fresh air. But as he looked at the ground, where the foundling was just at his boot, Din realized he would need to settle the child in before anything else. They didn’t have any food or water left with them, and that night, he would be relying on the generosity of strangers to feed the kid. His own stomach could wait, despite the faint hunger pang he felt.

The bi-sunset created a warm, orange glow across the desert dunes, casting a feeling of security, even with the next day’s task ahead. It had been awhile since the Mandalorian felt he had the time to appreciate the scenery; Always on the run, looking for a job, tasked with an adventure, it didn't allow for a lot of sightseeing.

The child cooed and grasped Mando’s boot, so he leaned over and scooped him into his arms, before turning toward Vanth.

“He needs rest, and nourishment. Is there somewhere-”

“Ha!” Cobb loudly interrupted, patting Din roughly on the back. “Any visitor in my town is a friend to me. That includes your little pet here, follow me.”

Mando had the urge to correct the marshal as he followed him that the kid wasn’t a pet, but he didn’t have an accurate description of what he was, so he left it, opting to stay silent as he crossed the town’s main roadway and into a hut tucked in the far end.

Inside wasn’t anything particularly special, just some basic furniture, some of which looked knocked together and recycled from scraps, but it clearly suited Cobb just fine, who placed down the green helmet that had been tucked under his arm, along with his belts and blaster.

“It’s not much,” Cobb pushed aside some glasses on the table, though he had no shame in his voice. “But we don’t need much out here. You seem like the kind of fellow who knows how to live off of bits and ends.”

“We manage.” Mando replied gruffly, adjusted the kid in his arms. He was feeling rather ansty on his feet - it had been a long 24 hours without much rest and a lot of travelling, and he was sure he would sleep a solid 10 hours if he allowed it, but the dread of facing the giant sand creature and gaining the armour back from the marshal lay heavy on his mind.

This deal didn’t only benefit himself and the child, but his entire culture. If the plan went awry and he couldn’t take the armour back, he wasn’t sure what he would do. It wouldn’t be fair to take it forcefully after the deal, but it felt even worse to think about leaving it behind. The recent loss of the allies back home (though he didn’t really think of it as home anymore) kept the bounty hunter on edge now, as if any bit that was left of his people inside him would crumble away if he wasn’t careful enough.

The marshal seemed much more relaxed, considering the circumstances, especially since he was ready for a faceoff with the town’s new visitor only hours earlier. But now, the silver-haired man was sporting a grin and a casual gaze that made Din feel like there was an ulterior motive to why he and the kid were now cornered in the marshal’s hut. Mando’s fingers ghosted the blaster in the holster on his side.

“Well, there’s green and blue milk for the kid,” Cobb gestured to the food bin, “not much to eat I’m afraid, except some Bantha veal.” He stood and pulled out a strip of dried meat and offered it to Din, who visibly calmed as he accepted it. No harm in trusting strangers, occasionally, he supposed.

The kid happily snatched the food and was placed on the table, as the marshal poured some floral green milk into a cup, which was also passed along to the foundling, who slurped it up quickly.

“So, uh, if that’s yours,” Cobb leaned against the counter, a little too close for Din’s comfort, and gestured between him and the foundling. “Is that what you look like? Under there?” He said this, referring to the hemet. “Or did you hook up with a..”

The Mandalorian had picked up a long time ago that despite wearing a mask, he was unusually good at reflecting his emotions, and others were very good at picking up on his body language. Vanth clearly got the message when he stopped talking and laughed, holding his hands up defensively.

“Sorry, that was rude of me. Never mind, hey?” He laughed, all charming grins. He struck Mando as the type of guy who thought flashing smiles and sly remarks could get him out of anything. “You wouldn’t be able to fit those big ol’ ears under there anyways, right?” The marshal reached out a hand to give a gentle tug on the kid’s ear, who cooed in response, green milk dribbling down his chin.

Din wiped it away instinctively, before picking the kid up, who had finished his meal, clearly grateful as he let out a quieter, sleepier coo.

“Oh!” The marshal stood up, looking around. “I’ve got a crate of sorts, he can sleep in it if he likes. Probably better than sleeping out on that old bike outside.” Mando followed the man into a small room in the back that appeared to be fairly unused, just some old boxes and clothes, and a few weapons on shelves. The room across the hall seemed to be the marshal’s bedroom, but the door was only slightly ajar for viewing inside.

“Here ya go,” Cobb stepped aside to reveal a rectangular crate lined with an old blanket. “Little guy is all tuckered out.”

Looking down, Din saw that the foundling had fallen asleep while being held, so he was placed gently inside the crate, with Mando acutely aware that Vantha was watching, right behind him. He unwrapped the cowl from his neck and used it to wrap around the little green child, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Mando placed a hand on his hip in the main room, “if there's anything I can do..”

“No, no,” Cobb waved his hands cooly, walking into the kitchen. “You’ll be doing more than enough tomorrow, and now, you can sit and join me for a drink.”

“Marshal-”

The gray haired man laughed, pulling out a glass and a bottle of something pale gold and glimmering. “I know, I know, you can’t in front of me. Unless you want a straw to just suck up from under there?”

The look was given again, and the marshal couldn’t seem to stop laughing. Din didn’t see what was so amusing all the time, though he supposed the town didn’t get too many visitors, and perhaps Vanth had gone mildly loopy from seeing the same 30 people everyday.

“Just kidding, you take things too seriously. Sit down,” he offered, reclining himself at the table. The Mandalorian took the offer, clunking down into the seat, and feeling heavier than usual. He still longed to go and take off his gear, if just for a few minutes, in the clear of any prying eyes. The recent missions had taken a toll on his body, while he was extremely well trained and adapted to his lifestyle, the peak in activity between the Guild and the business with the foundling - it was beginning to feel more like an ache in his bones, with no time to cure his exhaustion. The thought of sleeping in a warm bed without fear of his or the kid’s life could make him drool if he thought too hard about it.

But now, he watched Cobb down one, then two, small glasses of the gold liquid without so much as a flinch, even though he could smell the bitterness of the alcohol from across the table and through the helmet. The marshal was impressive, for sure, even despite their stand off earlier. Really, to the defense of the marshal, he had only been looking out for his fellow man, and not having understood the intricacies of the Mandalorian culture, thought donning the armour would help that along. He wouldn’t have known the offense behind it, and perhaps Mando had been a bit harsh, before. But with his recent revelation with his worry for loss of connection to his people, he himself also couldn’t be blamed for his reaction.

“Thank you, again,” Mando leaned forward, elbows on the table. He watched Cobb’s face carefully for any signs of dishonestly, but there wasn’t any - just that same, genuine toothy grin. The marshal laughed. “It’s all good, friend. New faces are more than welcome, even if at first they’re a bit..”

“Standoffish?”

“Yeah,” Vanth swiped a hand through his silver locks. Mando swallowed hard. “I was ready to blast your helmet off straight. Could have done it, too.” Cobb knocked back the rest of his drink.

Din had to chuckle. It was evident to the both of them that Cobb would not win hand to hand, or even with blasters, but he allowed the man a small victory. “You must be familiar with a weapon, to have fought off the mining corp yourself.”

“Mostly thanks to your peoples’ fashion choice.”

“Were you trained?’

“Me?” Vanth choked. “Maker, no. I was no better at shootin’ than Kalaks are at simple thought. It was a lot of chance - I was determined to make sure this town was better than how I had grown up. No person deserves to be a slave.”

This peaked Mando’s otherwise tired attention. “You..”

“Yep. Lots of us around here were. There’s been liberations, freeing the people and what not, but it’s still there, y’know? It doesn’t just leave overnight. Hasn’t left me, I don’t think it ever will. Even if I’m not a physical slave anymore, I still have..” He swirled his cup around the table for a moment before seeming to snap out of his daze. “Well. All that’s in the past now. I’m much better with my hands now,” he added with a wink and that damn smile again, and Din felt hotter under his mask than he had all day. He could punch out Cobb’s perfect teeth. “So tell me about you, then.” The marshal added with another sip of his drink.

“Not much to tell.”

“Come on, there’s got to be something. We’ll start nice and easy. What’s your name?”

Mando cocked his head. He wasn’t getting that comfortable.

“No? Okay,” Vanth smacked his lips. “Are you human?”

“Yes.”

“There we go!” Cobb threw a hand up. “Now we’re getting somewhere! How old are you? You seem young, pretty fit, wouldn’t see no guys with aching joints doing your kinds of jobs.”

Din thought of his tiredness. He wasn’t old, but he didn’t feel young anymore either.

“I’m not too old myself, don’t worry, the hair is a misnomer of its own.” The marshal ruffled his own haircut, and Mando wondered what he had meant by ‘too old’. For what?

There was an animal howl from somewhere deep in the wastelands of sand dunes around them, and the Mandalorian clenched his jaw to suppress a yawn. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it the whole night without falling asleep. He looked around the room. There was a tattered chair that had a cushion, he could maybe doze in that for an hour or two before sunrise.

“So how come your armour’s so much nicer than mine?” Vanth pointed at the chest plate, a look of genuine curiosity on his face.

“Mine didn’t come from a Jawa’s trashpile.”

“I mean seriously-”

“It’s beskar. It has a long history with my people, and is nearly indestructible. Which is why it’s so valuable.”

“More indestructible than what I’ve got on?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” Cobb smirked. “So it stays on.”

“Yes.”

“All the time.”

Mando sighed. “Yes, in front of others.”

“Like, even during..” Vanth gave the Mandalorian a knowing smirk, and Din felt that familiar heat on his face return, and he turned his visor away, giving the marshal a good chuckle. “I guess that means you don’t get around much then.”

You don’t know me, Din wanted to say, but Cobb was right. The lifestyle and religion certainly didn’t allow much leeway in terms of physical relationships. Not that it mattered, he was never in one place long enough to even entertain the idea. Not that it hadn’t happened before, though it was very rare. The last time was more than a year ago, on Ithor. It was quick and messy, and she had barely touched him, save for her legs wrapped around his hips desperately. A quick lift of her dress and it was over in minutes, he hadn’t even had time to take his gloves off. He supposed it could have been the nature of her species, and he certainly didn’t like to discriminate, but the ache he had deep in his soul, a longing to just be held-

He thought then of Omera, left behind on Sorgan, when she had tried to make him stay, and how gently she had touched his hands and helmet, and a deep longing stirred in the pit of Din’s stomach. It was not the time or the place to be thinking like that.

Instead he watched Cobb’s gaze, which was lowered beneath thick eyelashes. He was playing with his glass again, before his eyes flicked up to meet the Mandalorian’s behind the mask. Din couldn’t deny that the marshal was ruggedly handsome, with a certain charm that could melt his beskar armour away to reveal the reserved man beneath. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds of eye contact before Cobb leaned across the table, swaying slightly with presumably the influence of alcohol in his system. “What do you look like, under there?” He asked quietly, his drawl less pronounced with his whisper. “Has anyone seen you?”

“Not since I was a child.” Mando replied, lowering his own voice to match. He felt a lump in his throat and a rise in his heart rate. He had been with men before - not many, but it was the little experience he had that kept him planted in his seat, despite the logical side of his mind telling him to leave before things escalated. He knew what the marshal wanted, he could see it in those glazed and squinting eyes, in the way his hand creeped across the table, and how his gaze swayed from the tip of the helmet to Mando’s hand which rested on the surface of the table in front of them.

Ever so slowly, as if trying not to scare away an animal, Vanth reached over and touched Din’s glove, and he flinched away, but Cobb seized his wrist, touched that little bit of skin that poked out between his glove and sleeve. Their bare skin was melding - the marshal’s fingertips caressing the inner exposed arm of the Mandalorian.

“Vanth-” he said shortly, unmoving.

“Mando.” Cobb replied with a flash of teeth. His grip tightened slightly, urging Din to react. “Don’t be nervous. You won’t break my heart if you say no.”

I can’t say yes is the problem. Heart racing, the Mandalorian closed his eyes behind the helmet. He relished this small contact, the way Vanth thumbed beneath his sleeve, which was pushing it, but a welcome intrusion. Somehow, Din knew the marshal needed it just as much as he did. The tell tale sign was the shudder that came from Cobb’s finger. “Nervous?” Mando broke the silence. “That’s saying a lot from someone who’s shaking.”

Cobb playfully squeezed where his hand rested. “Shakin’? Nah,” he stood suddenly, his chair almost falling back, but it stayed upwards, and surprisingly so did Cobb, despite the alcohol he consumed that evening. The marshal walked around Mando’s chair, and leaned in close to the helmet, where Din’s ear would be beneath it, and whispered, “I’m just thinking about how good you’ll look sprawled on my bed.”

Without another word, he walked down the short corridor and turned into the bedroom. The swagger in his walk said, I know you want me, with a thumb in his belt and the slow thunking of his boots against the stone floor.

Din stayed in his seat, his hand still on the table, wrist exposed, and a stupid expression on his face behind the mask. He supposed he could just stand and leave, collect the kid in the morning, and forget this ever happened, but something kept him in the hut; Desire, loneliness, a sense of duty or repayment, a yearn to feel something more than he had before (as if this stranger could give what he was looking for, but it was a start in the right direction).

Wanting to slap himself, Din resisted the urge to laugh aloud. Was he the one who had drank half a bottle of whiskey? His ache was getting the best of him. Better to deal with the issue in the bedroom before he began fantasizing too much about an easier life where he could be held whenever he desired.

“You’re drunk,” he stated, and felt stupid after, standing in the bedroom doorway, since it was an obvious statement, but he didn’t know what else to say as he watched Cobb sitting on the edge of a bed, pulling his boot off.

The marshal laughed mirthfully. “Yeah, well,” his second boot thumped onto the ground. “I often am. Ain’t no bother, I know what I’m doing.” Standing, the silver haired man crossed the room, standing before the Mandalorian, a bit taller, and he ran his hands down Din’s arms. “Thing is, I don’t know much about you. Tell me your name, at least, stranger.”

He contemplated this for a moment. It couldn’t do too much harm to tell him the truth - the chance of it causing any problems were slim to none. No one else had to know. But, it would be against…

He didn’t have the chance to answer before Vanth tugged him closer towards the bed, and eventually was on his knees on the thin mattress, so they were about eye level. Cobb ran a hand over the shiny Beskar of Din’s helmet, and held either side of the mask. For a moment, Mando was worried he was going to yank it off, and instinctively, reached for his blaster, but the marshal laughed, grabbing his hand gently.

“Just calm down, ‘kay?” He unbuckled the belt and holster from Din’s pants and cast them aside. “Don’t talk much, do you? All action?”

“Not much to say.” The marshal laughed at this, and the Mandalorian wondered if he found everything funny or if he did it to cease awkward silence. “Well, you don’t gotta say anything except my name tonight, stranger.” He added with a wink, and reached forward to unhook Din’s chestplate.

“Wait,” He stopped him with a hand on the sternum.

Cobb instantly froze, matching Mando’s gaze in the visor, “Not okay?”

“Not the plate. Not the helmet.”

“Rest is fair game?” He smirked, Maker, the smirk, and tugged Din’s belt loops so he stumbled forward and fell flush against Cobb. “Just cause you don’t got much to say doesn’t mean you can’t say anything. Let me know if I, uh, cross any Mandalore lines, okay?”

Din didn’t reply and stayed stiff for a moment, before reaching to unclasp his arm gauntlets, and Vanth took the message and helped him and himself taking off various weapons and belts and shielding. They did this in a comfortable silence until it was just them, the pile of extremities on the floor, and Mando’s chest armour and helmet.

Cobb thumbed the thin fabric of the long sleeved shirt Din was still wearing, along with his pants. As they were the two items closest to his bare skin under layers of other clothes and armour, the Mandalorian was acutely aware that he probably smelled a bit ripe from the hot desert, and felt embarrassed, but if Vanth could tell, he didn’t seem to care. His bare hands rubbed across Din’s stomach and he got a glint in his eyes. Clearly, whatever Din was doing by just standing there, straight as a board, was getting Vanth off, because he moaned quietly before meeting Mando’s eyeline.

“You’re a real work, y’know that?”

Din wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but he let Cobb guide him to lay down on the bed, and watched as the marshal straddled him, then reached to grab the hem of his own shirt and pulled it over his head.

His sun kissed skin gleamed with the warmth of the desert sky, and his toned chest tensed as Vanth shifted his weight to get more comfortable in the Mandalorian’s lap.

“Enjoying the view?” The silver haired man teased.

Mando hummed in response, placing his ungloved hands on the marshal’s hips. “Be a lot better if you weren’t being so kriffing slow.”

“Wow, eager much, stranger?”

“Stop calling me that,” Mando squeezed Vanth’s hips a little harder. ‘Stranger’ made it feel wrong.

The marshal laughed, ever amused. “Well, you won’t tell me-”

“Shut up, or I’ll leave.” He retorted, a little harsher than intended. “Just..”

Cobb smiled gently this time, his hands gently meeting Din’s on his sides, then nodded in understanding. “S’okay. Lemme show you what I can do.”

Leaning down, the marshal brought his face into the crook of Din’s neck, and the Mandalorian tilted his helmet away to allow excess. His breath hitched as he felt the kind lips sucking a spot on his throat. A deep groan left his chest as Cobb rotated his hips in place, grinding against Din’s lap.

Vanth tugged the collar of the other man’s shirt, kissing along his collarbone and licking sweet stripes anywhere he could reach. He tugged at the chest plate, back and forth, before sitting up and swiping his flopping hair out of his face.

“You gonna keep that dinner plate on or are we gonna man up about this?”

Mando rolled his eyes behind his visor, but couldn’t help his own small smirk. He unfastened the armour with a sigh, and gently cast it aside on the bed, then sat up to pull off his shirt, carefully, over the helmet.

Adjusting himself in the lap, Cobb wrapped his long legs around Mando’s waist. “Hot damn. Open the chest, and reveal the treasure within,” he joked, running his hands up and down Din’s front. “Nice tits.” He playfully squeezed a pectoral, and he wriggled, making the Mandalorian hard in his pants, faster than he would have liked to admit. Cobb could obviously feel him underneath, and gave a knowing smile, before pulling them close together, their bare chests touching each other.

Vanth had less chest hair than Din did, but it tickled a little nonetheless. The marshal kissed his bedmate’s shoulder, then bit it playfully, before whispering into his ear.

“Maker, you’re so hot,” he muttered, rolling his hips again. “Bet you’re strong, too.” He ran a hand up Mando’s bicep, stopping to squeeze the muscle there. “But you ain’t gotta do any heavy lifting tonight. Just relax. You’re wound up tighter than an ignition coil.” He rubbed Din’s shoulders, letting him know he was safe - they were safe, in this moment. Maybe Mando would never be able to let his guard down fully, but he would try, tonight. He also enjoyed that Vanth was implying there would be another night, where Din’s strength would be needed.

He looked down as Cobb fiddled with their pants, before reaching into the Mandalorian’s briefs to stroke him a few times. A sense of embarrassment fell over Din as he panted, feeling very warm under his helmet. It had been awhile since he was on the receiving end of intimacy, usually opting for showing others a good time, but Cobb had a sly look of determination that told him it wasn’t the marshal’s first rodeo when it came to taking charge.

The dry contact on his cock was a bit uncomfortable, but Din braced himself on Vanth as the marshal pulled it out from the confines of his pants, stroking a little harder now.

“Nice,” Cobb flashed his perfect teeth again.

“Shut up,” Mando inhaled sharply at a particularly painful tug of his skin, and Cobb pulled his hand away, his stupid grin still growing, ear to ear.

They sat in silence for a second, the room warm and their skin beginning to perspire. Suddenly, the silver haired man ran his hand up to Din’s collarbone, before touching his jaw beneath the helmet.

The Mandalorian tensed, used to the concern that his mask would be ripped away - it had almost happened far too many times recently, more than he could recall - but instead the marshal’s fingers found Din’s mouth.

“Suck,” he ordered, with a tint of that sheriff attitude he had seen with the townspeople earlier that evening. Not used to being submissive, Din hesitated, and when Cobb didn’t break eye contact, the bounty hunter obediently parted his lips and brought the digits onto his tongue.

They tasted rough and vaguely of alcohol, but his tongue swirled around them before releasing, feeling a bit of drool escape his lips.

“Well, at least you ain’t got fangs,” Cobb muttered with a laugh.

“I told you I’m-”

“Human, yeah,” the marshal’s wet fingers resting on Din’s jaw, “but you could say anything to ride one out.”

“You’re vulgar.” Mando didn’t say this with any particular venom, and he wasn’t sure why he had said it, considering he himself had spoken some pretty crass comments in moments of passion, but he found himself now wishing that Cobb would just shut up and get a move on.

The marshal didn’t reply but drew a wet stripe down Din’s chest with the saliva before capturing the dark haired man’s cock once more, this time slick for ease. “There, that’s better, innit?”

The Mandalorian did not justify this with spoken words but a tightening of his muscles in response to the pumping of Vanth’s hand and a quiet gasp, amplified through the helmet’s modulator.

“There’s a good boy,” the marshall encouraged, licking and biting his lip. “Maker, I wish I could see you under there, writhing - bet that mouth can do a lot.”

Shutupshutupshutup-

“I would love to feel your pretty lips wrapped around-”

“You could.” Mando interrupted. Fuck. Too late now. “You can. If you want.”

The hand stopped moving and Cobb shifted in his lap. “I thought..”

“If, uh,” the bounty hunter paused for a moment. This was so stupid. He felt stupid. Embarrassed, even. The last time he had done this it was a wild night full of handcuffs and blindfolds and rough play, but it had worked. It felt really against the creed, but technically it was a loophole. Cobb would never actually see him, and that was most of it, anyways. “If you wear something over your eyes. I can take it off.” He finished plainly. His heart was beating so hard against his ribcage. “Like, your..your scarf, or something.”

The marshal’s eyes widened a little and a cat like grin spread wildly across his face. “Whoohee!” He clapped his palms together loudly, like he hadn’t just been giving Din a handjob five seconds before. “You’re just full of surprises, stranger!” Cobb clambered off of Mando’s lap, rifling through the clothes they had tossed around, “I’d be happy as a bantha in Winter to, a minute now, to take you up on your - aha!” He pulled up the red garment triumphantly. “I didn’t peg you as the kinky sort, but then again, I haven't pegged you yet, have I?”

“Don’t make me take it back.” Din warned, pulling his pants down but keeping on his briefs, after having tucked himself back in. He stood to offer to help tie the scarf, but the marshal stepped back and held out a hand to stop.

“Wait a minute. Oh, yeah.” He looked at the Mandalorian, who was standing in nothing but underwear and his helmet, and he rubbed his chin and bit his lip with a smirk. “I’m just taking it in. Gotta give me something to think about if I’m going blind in a minute.”

Not feeling one way or the other about it, Din let him gawk for a minute, his arms sitting lamely at his sides for a minute before he sighed. “Are you done?”

“No rush,” Cobb laughed, but turned around nonetheless, offering the cloth over his head, and with nimble fingers, Din tied it tightly around the marshal’s eyes. The silver haired man turned slowly, his arms out like a bird to feel the space around him. “Mando?”

“Yeah. Can you see?”

“Nothin’. I swear.”

There was a comfortable quiet in the air, as Cobb relaxed and stood still, clearly waiting for a go ahead. At that prompt, Din reached up and carefully pulled his head free from the Beskar and knelt down to place it on the floor. He inhaled a deep breath of mildly fresh air, and ruffled his curls, knowing his helmet hair was probably terrible. At least Vanth wouldn’t see.

Cobb stood with a goofy grin, and only flinched slightly at the unexpected contact of the Mandalorian touching his hands. He ran his fingers up and down the marshal’s forearms twice before using the connection to bring the older man closer - and slowly brought their hands to hover above Din’s cheeks.

With a sharp inhale, Mando melted skin to skin, and gasped quietly at the sensation of Vath’s palms flush against his face. The feeling of having his head cradled in someone’s hands was unmatched - the marshal gently brushed his thumbs across his lips, then touched his nose (where underneath he was sporting a pretty decent moustache), ghosted over his eyelids, and ran his fingers through the bounty hunter’s hair, playfully tugging when he was done.

“ ‘Feel handsome,” Cobb whispered. “Ready to fuck now?”

“Shut up.” Mando growled low, roughly yanking open Cobb’s pants, to which he only got a snort of laughter.

“Whoa now,” he said, as if calming a taun taun. It was a hopeless cause, trying to get the man to be quiet for longer than five seconds.

Din switched their places, so the sheriff was closest to the bed, and eased him into a sitting position. The marshal warily held his hands hovering above the mattress, before relaxing and wiggling a little in the spot.

“The suspense is killin’ me,” he whispered, his eyeline upwards as he waited for Mando to make a move.

Din moved down onto his knees in front of the marshal, gently running his hands up and down his thighs. The silver haired man gasped in reaction, and moved quickly to take off his pants. Once they were thrown away, the bounty hunter gave a gentle kiss right beside the other man’s belly button, then another just below. With a gentle and soft movement, Din pulled the cock from Cobb’s underwear and gave it a firm tug.

“Ah-” Vanth grunted, his beautiful mouth hanging open, then found the Mandalorian’s hair with one hand. “Please..”

“Please what?” Din found himself taking his usual charge, which caused the marshal to giggle and grin.

“Slow down there, stranger, I thought I was the big man here.”

“Then act like it and tell me what you want.”

Cobb gripped Din’s hair tightly, earning a groan of surprise, but also arousal. “Take my cock in your pretty little mouth and suck like a good boy.”

Mando attempted to pull the grip from his curls away. “Don’t do that.” He growled.

“Like you don’t like it,” The marshal grinned, “stranger.”

Din wanted to slap him and his stupid goddamn smile- but he opted to not do anything drastic and instead took Cobb in his mouth, deep and fast, earning a second hand tangled in his hair. He gripped the man’s thighs hard as he bobbed his head up and down, taking in the marshal’s taste and girth.

“Pfassk-” Vanth moaned. “Oh, fuck..Maker-” His grip tightened in the Mandalorian’s hair.

Din hummed in reply, running his hands to the marshal’s waist and keeping him still while he worked his tongue around the head of the older man’s cock. He felt dirty and debauched to be on the marshal’s floor with his member in his mouth. Someone who he had only met a day ago, grasping at his body desperately under his lips. It was exhilarating if not madly loose of him.

Cobb’s gasps grew faster. “Kriff, kriff, kriff,” he used the hands in Din’s hair to move him away, and the bounty hunter stopped, with some drool escaping his lips. “Wait,” the marshal panted.

“What’s wrong?” Din rasped.

“I don’t want to finish yet. I’ve got a good time to show you as well, partner.”

The Mandalorian paused for a minute, letting the air return to his lungs, and gently smoothed his palms down Cobb’s thighs. “Sure. Where do you, uh,”

“On the bed. Come on now,” Vanth patted the mattress and stood, carefully, his lack of eyesight clearly a mild hindrance as he tumbled across the room to get something from a drawer. The bounty hunter laid back on the bed, and took off his underwear, now completely nude in the presence of the silver haired man, who was none the wiser. It felt fairly freeing, but Din knew it was a dangerous game. If he got too comfortable with the beskar off, he may never put it back on. That was a terrifying thought, because as much as he could pretend to deny it, it was something he could see happening if he did it too often.

This was interrupted as Cobb practically fell into the bed, bracing himself with his hands, with a small jar of what Din assumed was lube in his palm.

“I’m back. Did you miss me?” Cobb grinned in the direction he must have thought was the bounty hunter, but too far to the right and Din felt a wave of warmth run through him. Unfamiliar but kind.

The Mandalorian gently took Cobb’s cheek in his hand to turn his face in the right place. “Immensely.” He joked with a small smirk, and ran his thumb down the marshal’s cheekbone. There was a moment of comfortable silence, the two of them sharing the warmth together.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” Vanth leaned forward a little. “Or were you waiting for me to be the big man and tell you what I want?”

With that, the bounty hunter captured Cobb’s mouth with his own in a passionate kiss. The moment their lips touched, Din gasped and pressed harder, grabbing both sides of the Marshal’s head. Vanth returned the passion, with a hand in Mando’s hair (Din was beginning to think Cobb really liked his hair), and rubbing Mando’s back with the other.

They moved their tongues together, engaging in a long, hot embrace, before Cobb’s hand wandered down to discover Din’s nakedness.

“Oh, hello,” he purred. “Nice buns, stranger.” He squeezed a cheek much to the bounty hunter’s unamusement. “Really cheeked up back there. I love a good set of-”

“Shut up.” Din hissed, moving to nibble the marshal’s ear. “I thought you had something you were going to do.”

Cobb laughed. “Oh yes,” he was holding up the jar that had been set on the bed. “Time to oil up, stranger.”

Pushing Din down, Vanth settled on his knees between the Mandalorian’s legs after pulling off his own underwear, then spread some lube into his palm, lathering his cock in it, completely blind behind the red scarf. He kept grinning, excitement beaming off of him. The bounty hunter was on his back, propped by his elbows, and watching the display. Cobb’s confident movements and beautiful body, sprinkled with gray hair and tanned skin, was truly a sight to behold. Din felt a tad self conscious about himself, if just for a moment. Did he hold up to Vanth’s standards? Clearly he did to some extent, but their bodies were different in ways that the Mandalorian thought too hard about.

The marshal was lanky, though toned, with graying hair and smooth movements. He was tall with sharp cheekbones and a handsome smile. Din had never smiled in a mirror. He didn’t know what it looked like. He had once noted his nose curved in a way that made him think of a bird. Din’s body was thicker, and he was shorter. His wild curls often tickled his forehead under the helmet, and his facial hair was nowhere near as well kept as Cobb’s marvelous beard.

Din laughed quietly. How stupid. It was ridiculous to compare his own beauty to someone else’s - no one had seen him in over a decade and nobody ever would. These were the sorts of thoughts that would emerge when his armour was off. More reasons to get it over with quickly and into the comfort of his usual beskar shell. Underneath it, he paid no mind to things as petty as looks.

“Okay, relax. Lay back.” Cobb felt outward until he touched the bounty hunter’s chest. He then pushed the Mandalorian down onto his back, and hooked his leg over his shoulder. The marshal took a moment to get comfortable. “Do you need me to rev you up a little, stranger? Get a finger in there?”

“N-no,” Mando swallowed hard and looked at the ceiling. “No, just do it.”

“Alright, stranger. Goin’ in.”

“Din.” Dank ferrick. Fuck. Fuck. Stupid.

The marshal paused. He cocked his head, and turned his face downwards, as if he could see, and for a moment, Mando wondered if the sheriff had lied, and was staring at the man beneath him now.

“What’s that? ‘Din’?” Cobb was grasping the bounty hunter’s leg.

Din took a deep breath and sighed. “My name. Din. Please- not ‘stranger’.”

“Din. Din, Din. Huh.” Vanth smiled widely. He said it a few more times. “Thank you.” He whispered sincerely, and leaned down to kiss the Mandalorian, who quickly moved to meet his lips, or else he would have gotten a wet one to the eye.

The marshal’s blindness was rather amusing as he felt around him to move the jar out of harm’s way, before repositioning himself with a sturdy grip on the Mandalorian. “Alright, Din.” Another smile. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Din replied, and hissed through clamped teeth as he felt Vanth push into him eagerly. His fingers curled around the sheets harshly, and his back arched with the movement of Cobb burying himself deep inside. “Maker-” he gasped.

“Kriff, that’s good. Oh, yeah.” Vanth panted for a second, before pulling out almost all the way, then pushing back in. He did this twice more slowly before picking up speed. His thrusts were precise and confident, like the rest of his personality. His hands moved to either side of Din’s head, adjusting his body, and Mando moved his leg from the shoulder and wrapped his thighs around Cobb’s waist.

The new angle brought a wave of pleasure to crash over the bounty hunter’s body, he spread his arms out, arching and writing in arousal beneath the sheriff. “Fuck- Cobb-”

“Yeah? You like that?” The marshal panted with a wide smile, rolling his hips into Din. “You take it good.”

“Come on,” the Mandalorian grunted, wiggling his hips to encourage his bedmate to move faster. “Move.”

“Oh, kriff, yes,” Vanth withdrew and pushed back in, and began that quick pace again, pounding into the bounty hunter with such speed that the mattress groaned horribly beneath them. Din briefly thought of the kid, wishing he had brought the egg shaped carrier for him to sleep in, lessening the chances of him waking to the sound of the men in bed together. But he knew the child was a fairly heavy sleeper, which settled his mind a bit to allow him to focus on the situation at hand.

A deep warmth shuddered through the Mandalorian’s abdomen, and he moaned louder than intended, grasping at the sheets with renewed desperation. He wished then that he could meet the marshal’s eyes - those striking hazel eyes - but that was too much. He already had the blessing of a name, and Din couldn’t risk giving more than that.

Cobb picked up on the direness of Mando’s need and sat up, gripping Din’s hips with his sturdy hands, allowing the bounty hunter to arch his back, supported by his broad shoulders, and the marshal pushed a few deep thrusts in, grinning ear to ear.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Cobb purred as he went for it, pushing and rolling to get the most out of their new position. “You like that? Oh, you feel so good. Din. Come for me. Come for me.”

The Mandalorian panted and moaned, sweat and sex and heat filling the room, that wonderful tension pooling inside of him and he pushing himself as well as he could to meet the marshal’s perfect thrusting, and he shuddered and gasped as cum shot all over his own stomach, warm and more than eupphric as he rode out the high of his orgasm.

“Oh fuck, yes, Din, good boy,” Cobb kept pounding, quickly, hitting those sensitive spots until Din felt himself fill with warmth as the marshal came hard, shaking and groaning, before he collapsed on top of the bounty hunter was a quiet sigh.

They laid in silence, both panting and hot and sweaty, but together. Din found himself reaching for Cobb’s hair, gently running his hand through it. It was soft and fluffy, and his fingers were able to comb through it seamlessly. This brought a gentle smile to the bounty hunter’s lips.

In turn, Vanth made little circles with his fingers on Din’s chest, humming in satisfaction.

“That was good,” Cobb whispered, seemingly content with not moving. “Nice. Very nice. You’re not half bad.”

“Your thoughtful words are inspiring.”

They both chuckled, and Cobb adjusted himself, slipping himself out carefully, then settling back on the Mandalorian’s chest to continue their post-sex cuddle.

He liked to think of that. That they were cuddling. He couldn’t remember the last time he had let someone cuddle him. Certainly not any of his previous endeavours, though to be fair, he had never had sex on a bed with them, so there hadn’t been any chance for something so intimate. Din shifted his weight a little and sighed contently. He figured it must have been his mother or father who had last held him lovingly, but he tried not to dwell on that.

Now, Cobb, still with his scarf on (Din thought the world of that - the marshal was incredibly trustworthy), seemed to be close to sleep, so the bounty hunter gently nudged him.

“I should put something on. The kid might come in here when he wakes up,”

“Hmph.” Vanth huffed against the Mandalorian’s chest, before rolling over to release his bedmate. “Fine, but come right back.”

Din climbed off the bed and found his shorts and shirt, and after climbing into them, he picked the helmet off the floor and stared into the visor. The armour felt heavy in his hands, and the idea of placing it back on was less than appealing after a, dared he say it, fun evening. He glanced back at the mattress, where Cobb lay with his hands behind his head and everything on show, and Din smiled lightly.

A gentle kiss was placed on the marshal’s lips, and when he pulled the scarf from Cobb’s eyes, the bounty hunter had returned the beskar to its usual spot on his head. The sheriff blinked a few times in the dim light as he sat up, with Mando moving to let him past. Cobb slipped his underwear on before climbing back into bed, this time moving the blankets and crawling under.

An extended hand from the marshal was an invitation for the Mandalorian to join him back in the warmth of the bed, and without hesitation, Din joined him, tucking them into the sheets and settling down. The silver haired man wriggled next to Din, resting against his broad chest.

Still sticky with sweat and cum, it was only mildly uncomfortable not to shower immediately, but the bounty hunter knew there was always the morning. The next day would be wildly unpredictable and full of danger, but deep in his gut, the Mandalorian knew it would end well.

As if reading his thoughts, the marshal shifted slightly. “Nervous for tomorrow?”

“No,” Din answered honestly. “We’ll have what we need to defeat the dragon.” “I’m worried about those damn Tuskans.” Cobb huffed. “If something goes awry-”

“It won’t.” The bounty hunter assured. “They’re..a little rough around the edges, but they’ll keep their word and help. Don’t worry about it. Just rest now.”

“Alright,” Cobb laughed a little, rubbing his hand across the other man’s waist. “Din, the Mandalorian. Hell. You’re quite something. It’ll be an honour to take down that Krayt menace tomorrow by your side.”

“Same to you. Rest well, Marshal.”

“Goodnight, Din.”

Cobb drifted to sleep quite quickly after that, leaving Din with his arms wrapped around the marshal and his late night thoughts. He deeply inhaled, smelling the desert winds in Cobb’s hair. The cool evening breeze that drifted from the window was comforting, and the only noises to be heard were crickets, and the drifting of the thin curtain blowing quietly in the wind.

Din was at peace, on that evening, content to lay with a man he enjoyed the company of curled in his arms, and the child safely sleeping in the room next to them. The next day would bring adventure and battle, but now, Din was safe and happy, as he drifted into a deep sleep, in the sanctuary of the marshal’s home.

#Lavina's Fics #Lavinia's Fics: Stranger #dincobb #din djarin x cobb vanth #cobb vanth x din djarin #the mandalorian x cobb vanth #cobb vanth x the mandalorian #pedro pascal #timothy olyphant #the mandalorian #the mandalorian season two #chapter 9 the marshal #din djarin #cobb vanth

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ombreblossom · 4 years ago

Text

speaking words unspoken

This is my gift for @bluejayblueskies for the 2021 @tma-valentines-exchange! I hope you like it!

AO3 link is located in the source :)

Summary: They're a week and some change into their stay at Daisy's safe house, and Martin is still having some trouble with the Lonely. Jon picks up on this and tries to make things better. And he does! In his way, but not before some miscommunication and exhaustion waylay his efforts (about 6.5K words)

The grocery store is awfully busy for a small town nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Residents of the village wander among a haphazard collection of shelves ranging from middling height to impossibly tall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason for where items are placed from aisle to aisle, forcing Martin to have to search around in order to find anything, increasing the number of people he inadvertently bumps into.

If Martin gave it any more than a cursory thought, he'd come to the conclusion that it's not entirely unexpected, the nearest Tesco many tens of kilometers away and only a smattering of towns in between.

Martin isn’t really in a position to have that cursory thought, though, as freshly escaped from the Lonely as he was. Nervous energy thrums along his skin, speeding his movements and making him quick to avert his eyes in the infrequent event someone meets them. Most people still easily pass their gaze over him, as if he were merely a wisp of tepid air lazily making its way across the store room—a left-over effect of his association with the One Alone. Martin doesn't mind so much the lack of attention paid to him, but he can't help but feel an uncomfortable pressure against his skin when other people are near.

He can't even be near Jon sometimes, not without the pressure overwhelming him, and doesn’t that just smart.

Martin resolved to brave the thick, after-work crowd for this, though, “this” being gathering the supplies needed for a relaxing night in Daisy’s safehouse following a rushed and terrified flight from London and everything that had happened with Peter and Eli-Jonah, Not!Sasha, and the hunters. They weren’t on holiday, Martin had to keep reminding himself. They weren’t on holiday, but he was probably the happiest he’s been in years, and he wants to celebrate that. With Jon.

With Jon. What a concept. He was elsewhere in the store, continuing an extended effort of picking up things they'd conceivably need for the long term. Just in case. Martin’s trying to not examine his shaky optimism too closely, but he is in love, and it's impossible to not consider his current position beside Jon as anything but a miracle.

Ah, there’s finally some room in the sweets aisle. Flanked on either side by various baking paraphernalia, Martin enters the aisle and heads straight for a small section of colorfully-wrapped bar chocolate. Not that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London likes sweet chocolate—goodness, no. Or sweets at all for that matter. At least not things he classified as “obnoxiously sweet,” an ambiguous term if Martin had ever heard one. Over time, Martin has come to understand it to mean barely sweet, like an echo of sweetness that had once been present and is no longer. He's never said as much, but Jon likes his sweets like he likes his tea: oversteeped to the point of bitterness with the barest hint of sugar and the slightest bit of added color from milk.

And Jon does this unbearably adorable thing where he breaks the bar up into smaller pieces, not even according to the pre-set perforations, mind you, and nibbles on the thing for hours at a time, either to savor the flavor (which Martin cannot possibly fathom) or because Jon is a lying liar who lies about liking bitterness to that degree, and this is the one thing he has managed to successfully lie to anybody about.

It’s probably the former, but Martin would be delighted to find out it’s the latter.

So, he gladly picks up a couple of ninety-percent dark chocolate bars for Jon and turns them over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the plain, if colorful, wrapping paper surrounding them. Martin does his best to dodge around other shoppers who've entered the aisle, picking up some granulated sugar, flour, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon for banana bread (his personal favorite). It stirs feelings in his chest that Jon had bought bananas several days ago with the (if not explicit, then quite obvious in hindsight) intent to let them over-ripen. Martin starts to head toward the cashier with the rest of his items when he feels a cool hand slip into his, interlacing their fingers together.

“Hey,” Jon begins, a soft warmth in his voice, “Did you get everything we needed?” Jon rubs his thumb in light, rhythmic circles onto his own, and it takes everything Martin has in him to not instinctively pull his hand out of Jon’s gentle hold. It feels nice—Jon feels nice—but it's very nearly too much right now. He hates this, hates constantly putting Jon in a position where he has to somehow intuit Martin’s feelings because not even Martin himself quite understands what exactly sets off the chain reaction of fear and pressure and too many people and the roaring—

There’s suddenly nothing but air around his hand, and Martin misses Jon’s solid presence acutely as much as he found it altogether too much. He doesn’t want to look over at Jon to see his placating smile, the one Martin imagined Jon wore as he all but dragged the both of them through King’s Cross station to barely make it on time for the soonest train to Inverness. That same smile that Martin watched Jon affect as he took on the bulk of the dusting and washing that needed to be done upon arrival at Daisy’s safe house. The same smile that Martin woke up to every morning, knowing that Jon had very likely spent several hours just sitting in their bed waiting for Martin to wake up to make sure he didn’t do so alone.

Martin looks anyway and isn’t surprised to see the smile in question.

If Martin had to describe it, he’d say it conveyed a sense of loss, of mourning, of wanting to protect what remained of a previous whole. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of the pieces of Martin that have been irreparably warped by the Lonely and an acknowledgement that Martin had already lost much to mundane loneliness long before Peter took advantage of his grief and recruited him in waylaying the Extinction.

He never wants to see that smile again, and so he looks away.

“Is there anything else we still need to get, Martin?” Jon rephrases and, after a long beat, continues, “Why don’t I finish up here and we can meet up in a few moments at the bookshop?” The bookshop that Martin knows that Jon knows is likely deserted at this time in the late afternoon, not too long before the elderly shopkeep, Fiona, closes her doors in anticipation of beginning her own nightly rituals. “I’m almost finished with the books we brought from London, and last time we were there—”

“Jon—” Martin sighs while Jon continues.

“—you mentioned Discworld, and it occurred to me that I have somehow managed to avoid reading any Pratchett, despite reading what I can only imagine was nearly every book left at all the second-hand bookshops in and around Bournemouth. Did you know—”

Jon keeps going with tidbits of what he knows of Terry Pratchett, which is an awful lot considering he just admitted to having not read anything by the man. Martin missed this, listening to Jon talk about anything and everything. He dare not interrupt him, even with everyone walking around them. He also refuses to throw Jon’s gift of distraction back at his face.

Color rises in Jon’s cheeks and his brows furrow when he presumably realizes he’s been talking for a while. “My point is I don’t mind finishing up here. Really, I don’t.” Jon’s trying to help. He’s trying to help, damn it, he repeats to himself. Lord knows that all Jon has ever done is try to help, in his way. Martin’s the one who can’t go five seconds without his fear around other people flaring out of control. Jon shouldn’t have to go it alone to preserve his comfort.

Martin takes some deep, steadying breaths. Jon waits patiently for him, his free hand fidgeting unobtrusively.

“No, I'm good," he asserts, threading his words with as much certainty he can manage, and decides then and there that it is so. "I have everything we need for dinner tonight here and a couple extra things, too." He waggles his eyebrows a little at this. "I assume that you're over here because you've finished getting the essentials."

Every time Jon laughs is an exercise in appreciating opposing extremes. His eyes close as if he can’t bear to look at the object of his amusement any longer, and the corners of those eyes crinkle in the prettiest way, taking the breath right out of Martin’s body when it happens. And he holds his hand in front of his mouth like his laughter is something to be smothered, never to see the light of day, the reasons for which Martin can't be certain, but he suspects he wouldn't like them. "Indeed. And a few extra indulgences," Jon teases, winking. Winking! Does Jon wink? Clearly he does, but this is new information, a treasure trove hidden among stormy seas. “I picked up some sausage; sausage always adds an extra depth of flavor to this sort of thing.”

Laughing lightly, Martin says, "Let's get going, then. We have an extremely full evening of relaxation ahead of us."

"Since when do you find cooking relaxing, Mr. Microwave Meals?"

"Since it's a safe activity that we can do together now that we're away from the Institute of Terror, Mr. Will Subsist on Granola Bars and Spite For Days at a Time If Left to His Own Devices."

Jon looks thoughtful suddenly. "Safe. Now there’s a concept," Jon says with no small amount of incredulity.

Martin pauses. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jon?” Martin goes cold at the thought that Jon might have seen something and not told him.

“What? Oh, no. It’s just…” He trails off, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. “This, being here—with you—is probably the safest I’ve felt in a long time. It-it almost doesn’t feel real. Like any little thing I do or neglect to do could potentially burst this bubble of happiness I’ve all of the sudden found myself in.”

It’s moments like these that Martin might actually be willing to believe that Jon is in his early 40s, the age he’d be now if the ridiculous lie he told about his age when they all started in the archives had been true. The pressing weights of repeated trauma, responsibility, and regret age his features considerably, and it hurts to look at. Martin wants so badly to smooth away the lines that seem to have taken up permanent residence between Jon’s brows however he can.

Martin ventures that he’s calm enough now to at least comfort Jon, if not enough to accept any for himself. He grabs the same hand that grasped his own minutes before and just. Holds it. Jon goes taught, like a newly-strung bow, words of reassurance waiting on Jon’s lips, that no, it’s okay, Martin, you don’t have to do this.

Well, too bad. Martin wants to do this, the Lonely’s lingering influence on him be damned. Martin draws Jon’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. Jon gasps quietly, eyes wide. His grey-streaked dark hair is slipping out of its loose braid, whether from Jon playing with it in idle moments or from the wind that is altogether too often present in the Highlands, Martin couldn’t say, but the image endears him to Martin all the same.

“Well, take it from someone who’s spent a lot of the last year feeling not-quite-real: this is real, Jon. We’re here and safe, at least for now,” Martin assures him, grinning. “Let’s go pay for this stuff, yeah? And let’s go home.” Jon, momentarily speechless, simply nods his assent.

They’re able to leave the store with their purchases eventually and decide to make their way to Fiona’s bookshop anyway, picking up a few volumes while they’re there: a collection of Robin Robertson’s poetry for Martin and a geographical history of the Scottish Highlands and Terry Pratchett’s Guards, Guards for Jon to chew through. And neither of them would dare leave without giving Maggie, the resident feline guardian, some well-earned scritches. “It takes an awful lot of energy to mind an entire bookshop, after all,” Jon says every time they visit, all the while accumulating what could only amount to an unhealthy amount of cat hair—so much so that Martin’s started to find it laying about in the safe house. Jon doesn’t seem to mind it and says it reminds him of living with The Admiral.

It’s a decent walk back to the safe house. They started late enough in the day that the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, so they end up leaving after giving Maggie far fewer scritches than any of them would have preferred. Jon rebuffs Martin’s offer to carry all of their purchases, stubbornly hanging onto their books and his share of the groceries. This is becoming a familiar game to them, one that tends to escalate to silly, frantic grabbing for the others’ bags and eventually devolves into giggles and light shoulder bumping. Today, Martin manages to relieve Jon of his groceries, opening up one of Jon’s hands for holding, which Martin promptly attempts to take.

Jon turns his head to him and gives him a look that practically asks in his stead, “Are you sure this is okay?” The likewise unsaid “I don’t want to hurt you” bounces back and forth between them, and Martin answers by interlacing their hands and giving Jon’s a squeeze in hopes that it will quell the worry that’s carved into the lines of Jon’s face.

It does, and the contented sigh Jon makes is one of the loveliest sounds he’s heard. They continue their trek home, the route long and winding.

Not too much later, though, Martin notices something...off about Jon. He notices in increments almost minute winces when Jon steps on the leg Prentiss' worms ravaged, more frequent bumps into him that had nothing to do with showing affection but allowing Martin to take some of his weight for a moment, and some far-away looks.

Martin doesn’t quite have the shape of it until they’re talking about something or other, something simple, easy, meaningless in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, and Jon stumbles. He tries to laugh it off, but there's something not quite right about Jon's laughter this time. The way he bounces his shoulders in suppressed mirth is subdued—sluggish, even. An increasingly concerning picture paints itself in Martin’s mind.

A long, hard look at Jon forces him to confront the deep, dark circles under his eyes set against skin uncomfortably grey, nearly all traces of flush gone from his face, a stark contrast to earlier in the day.

How had he missed this? Maybe he’s been more absent than he thought. He’ll have to keep a close eye on Jon throughout the evening, maybe shepard him to bed if he seems to get any worse.

Only a sliver of the sun remains visible above the horizon when they arrive at the safe house, casting a soft orange glow over the vast grassy spread of the Highlands. Martin pays the sight little mind, though, all of his focus intent on the man in front of him currently unlocking their front door, and he can’t not notice how long it takes for Jon to insert the key into the locking mechanism.

As they’re putting away their groceries, visions of Jon doing the very same thing by himself play in his mind’s eye. He’s only able to summon disconnected images of the first several days of their....could he call it an elopement? Their not-so-great escape from the Archives? He recalls Jon preparing meals for them, bundling up to leave the safe house for groceries, washing their clothes in a small, foot-powered washing machine and later hanging them up on a clothesline outside to dry. Martin also recalls Jon bringing him overly-steeped tea and an old crocheted blanket when all he could do was sit on Daisy’s ancient green corduroy sofa and stare into the void in front of him, the sounds of lapping waves Coming ever closer.

All the while wearing that damnable smile. Shame pools within Martin, shame that Jon had had to take up so much responsibility recently and that Martin can’t say how well Jon’s been sleeping or taking care of his own needs in the meantime. If today is anything to go on, Martin supposes the answer to both of those questions is likely “no.”

“Martin, could you turn on the lights? We’re losing daylight fast.” Jon has a balancing hand on the countertop and is putting their dry and canned food items. Martin does as he’s asked, bathing the entire kitchen and living area in warm light. Martin walks back toward the kitchen area and is greeted with a “thank you” and a kiss. He could get used to this, used to feeling loved and appreciated.

“Is something bothering you, Martin?”

He looks at Jon, concern writ large on his still ashen face and eyes boring into him. Concern has no place being there right now. If anyone has any right to be concerned at the moment, it’s Martin.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet since we got home, and after what happened at the store, it’s not surprising that you might still be feeling...off.”

Projection, much? Martin wants to say but has the wherewithal to hold it back. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Jon. I’m all right.”

Jon eyes him up and down, and after seemingly not finding what he’s looking for, nods once and smiles (again with the smile...) once more. “All right. You’ll tell me if something’s bothering you, though, won’t you?”

“Yeah, Jon, of course I will.” And he intends to mean it.

“Good,” Jon says and walks over to where Daisy keeps her cooking vessels, grabs her Dutch oven, and places it on the stovetop.

“Why don’t I be your line chef today, Jon, and you work the stovetop? You’re much better at the actual cooking part than I am.”

“Mmm. There’s a lot of prep work that goes into this and not a whole lot of actual cooking, so let me help you,” he says, shakily opening a couple drawers in search of a suitable chef’s knife.

“You sure? You’re looking a little peaky over there,” he replies without meaning to and curses his loose tongue.

Jon pauses midway through grabbing one of Daisy’s old wooden cutting boards and blinks slowly. “Oh…. Yes, I’m sure. What do you mean, looking ‘peaky’?”

“It’s just,” Martin starts, collecting the fennel seed, basil, rosemary, and the rest of the spices they needed for their meat sauce and a bowl to mix them in. Too late to not approach the subject now. “You’re exhausted, Jon. You spent most of our walk home either tripping over air or leaning on me for support.” He had wanted to be subtle, but subtlety is no longer on the cards.

Considering this for a moment, Jon’s eyebrows scrunch up in a way that Martin finds so endearing and opens a nearby cupboard to take out a couple onions and a bulb of garlic. “Sure, I’m a little tired,” he concedes, “but we have all evening to relax. I’d like nothing more than to cook with you, Martin.”

He should’ve known Jon was a sap. The signs were all there. “Well, how could I say ‘no’ to that?” He says and means it, though worry continues to percolate in the back of his mind.

“You can’t, and you know it.” Jon teases.

They go about preparing their meat sauce, Martin double- and triple-checking each measurement before pouring the appropriate amount of each spice into the mixing bowl and Jon dicing onions.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Chop onions without tearing up and cursing your hubris that ‘this time will be different’?”

Chuckling softly, Jon apparently thinks better of sliding his hand down his face before answering, pivoting to the most level deadpan Martin thinks he’s ever heard from him, “It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I spent years perfecting my abilities. Training with the best of the best to strengthen my tears ducts to such a degree that they are, quite literally, incapable of passing tears from my lacrimal glands to my eyes.”

Martin raises a dark eyebrow, amusement in his voice as he replies, “You should probably see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he draws out. “The real answer, of course, is my grandmother devoted a lot of her time to making sure I could at least cook according to a recipe along with providing some general rules of thumb. I chopped many an onion in search of culinary adequacy. Never progressed much past following recipes, though. Ask me to create something from scratch, and you’ll witness a horror the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“Just out of curiosity, which fear do you think takes credit for culinary disasters?”

“Probably depends on the nature of the disaster, honestly, but…. Hmm. Maybe Corruption? Or Flesh, maybe? Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not while we’re preparing to eat ourselves.”

While Martin is rummaging through the fridge in search of where Jon put the ground beef and sausage, he hears a hiss coming from Jon's direction.

Martin whips his head over to where Jon's been dicing onions and his heart clenches at the sight of deep red blossoming over the wooden cutting board.

"Jon! What happened? You're bleeding," He says, stating the obvious, feeling like his throat is closing up behind his words. "Where are you bleeding from?" Martin crosses the room in record time, places a hand in Jon's shoulder and surveys the area in front of him.

Blood leaks sluggishly from a cut on Jon's middle finger. A splatter of crimson on the knife Jon has been using clues Martin in to what happened. "Jon, just stay right there, okay? I'll go grab the first-aid kit. I’m sure there’s some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant in there. I’ll be right back!”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin’s already gone, heading for the cabinet under the bathroom sink, head abuzz with worry and heart hammering in his chest.

When Martin returns, Jon’s running his hand beneath the running tap and blood trails down into the sink in pink rivulets. Jon glances at him, the same exhaustion that stared back at him when Jon and the rest left for Great Yarmouth on his face, a combination of physical exhaustion and the culmination of several months of emotional upheaval, of bitterly contemplating his own humanity and his role in Elias’ inscrutable plans.

“There’s no need to worry about the first-aid kit, Martin. Didn’t you hear? I heal, ah, preternaturally fast these days. See?” Jon holds up his hand to Martin, and, much to Martin’s surprise, the seeping cut on Jon’s finger is completely gone, no trace even of a faint scar.

“I...I didn’t know, Jon,” he almost whispers. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since I—since I woke up. From the coma.”

Martin mouths an “oh” and considers what this means in the context of what knows about Jon’s actions while he’d been working for Peter. It’s almost sadder that Jon ventured into Ny Alesund knowing that he couldn’t be permanently harmed—or into the coffin, for that matter. Walking into extreme danger knowing that he’d likely bring pain on himself but he’d almost certainly live despite it—”self-destructive” was even more accurate than Martin had imagined at the time Daisy said it.

Martin heaves a tension-relieving breath and hopes it doesn’t sound like a sigh. Making Jon feel guilty about something he can’t exactly help isn’t something he wants to do tonight. Or ever. “Why don’t I go put this back, then, and let’s pick up where we left off. I’ll take over the solemn duty of chopping onions if you start preparing the beef and sausage.”

“Yeah, that might be for the best,” Jon concedes too easily.

The room is quiet after that. Not much sound ever permeates the safe house’s walls, trees and hills absorbing much of the ambient noises of the surrounding area before they even get to their cottage. And they’ve both gone silent, the only sounds filling the room the sharp thuds of a knife hitting wood and the squelching of ground meat.

By time Martin’s done dicing one onion to replace the one Jon bled on and an extra onion that the recipe didn’t call for because “onions are flavor vehicles, Martin,” or so Jon claims, Jon’s still mixing the beef and sausage together.

“H-hey, Jon, I think you’ve mixed those pretty thoroughly, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He stills, hands still submerged in the mixture.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks slowly, head and gaze drawing downward, like he no longer has the will or strength to work against gravity.

Martin reaches out a hand to shake him out of his stupor but thinks better of it. Has he somehow lost more color in his cheeks? “Jon, I think you should maybe go lay down or at least sit down.” Nothing. “I’d love to hear you talk about Discworld if you’re not ready to lay down yet.”

This seems to break him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “Oh. Ah, yes. Right. I understand. I’ll, um, just go.”

What is there to understand, Martin wonders as Jon turns back to the sink and runs water and soap along his hands, movements almost comically slow if not for how worrying they are and the frenetic energy that usually accompanies Jon completely missing.

Martin reaches out a supporting hand, intending to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “The bedroom’s awfully far away; let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll bring over some tea and blankets, yeah?”

With energy summoned from the aether, Jon leaps out of the way of his hand, throwing himself boldly against the lip of the countertop with a cry. “No. No. That’s all-that’s all right. I can get there by myself,” he says, chest heaving and the trembling Martin noticed more pronounced than even a moment ago.

“Jon, love, you’re not in any condition to be doing anything by yourself. In the most affectionate way possible, you look like you feel awful right now. Please let me help.” Martin’s unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Jon looks—Looks?—looks at him, eyes wide, almost bulging, fear and a host of other emotions dancing wildly in them. “No, n-no. You don’t have to…. Please, don’t. I didn’t want this.”

“Don’t what, Jon? What didn’t you want?”

“This. I didn’t want this.”

“Um. I don’t really understand, Jon, but let’s talk about it over on the sofa. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Martin takes a small step forward, palms of his hands facing forward in a gesture of openness and safety. This time when Jon leaps backward, he slips. Martin’s not close enough to grab onto him, and a split second later, the deafening crack of Jon’s head hitting the wood floor fills the room and clamps a vice around Martin’s heart.

Too shaken to yell his name, he bounds over to where Jon lies still and slides into a sitting position beside him. All Martin can see for a terrifying, desolate moment is Jon in that familiar adjustable hospital bed, crisp, undisturbed white sheets carefully arranged over top of him, attached to various monitors that have been silenced to not alert staff of his absent heartbeat and non-existent oxygenation levels.

“Jon. Jon. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Jon, do something—say something if you can. Please, don’t….” Should he move Jon at this point? Martin remembers from a rudimentary first-aid class he took when his mother’s worsening condition started to accelerate that you shouldn’t move people with suspected head or neck injuries without first stabilizing them, but they had nothing like that here. And there was still some question as to how far his healing ability really extended.

He has to be okay. Without giving the action any thought, Martin gently places a hand atop Jon’s chest to check for breathing. They’re shallow breaths, but his chest does rise and sink in a slow rhythm, and Martin lets out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

“Love?” He near whispers, as if Jon were merely asleep. “Come back to me.” He brushes away some of the fly-away hairs that have fallen onto his face. That is when Jon begins to stir.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin exclaims. For whatever mysterious reason, Jon is trying to wriggle away from him. “Don’t try to move yet. You hit your head pretty hard, and your healing isn’t immediate, Jon. Just stay put!” Jon wasn’t listening to him, still scrambling to move out of Martin’s reach.

That’s enough of that. Martin lays himself over Jon’s chest and holds him while he waits for him to calm down.

It takes some seconds, maybe a minute or two, but Jon does calm down eventually, becoming boneless in Martin’s arms.

“Hey,” Martin starts, “you with me, Jon?”

Jon lifts a hand slowly, making a so-so gesture.

“Okay. How’s your head?”

He winces. “Hurts.”

Martin hmms. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head.

“Okay. I’m moving us to the sofa, then. And don’t try to protest,” Martin warns.

Martin gets half-way to his feet, slips his arms until Jon’s legs and back, and proceeds to pick them both up off the floor. In the short time it takes to cross the room, Jon nuzzles his head into Martin’s chest. The frustration and concern and worry Martin’s feeling subsides somewhat in the face of overwhelming affection for this man, and he hugs him just a little bit closer.

“Stay here; I’ll be right back,” Martin says as he lays Jon down gingerly onto the sofa. He puts their dinner ingredients back into the fridge for the time being and puts some water on for chamomile tea. His thoughts drift as he waits for the water to come to a boil and some more as he waits for the tea to steep. He glances at Jon every so often, who has rolled over onto his side while Martin’s been gone.

“Hey, you,” Martin says as he sits in front of Jon at the edge of the sofa, the mug of chamomile making a soft thunk on the table.

“Why are you doing all this, Martin?” Jon murmurs into the worn fabric underneath him, and Martin can’t tell if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Jon.”

“Why are you staying so close to me, touching me? Taking care of me?”

“I would have thought the answers to those questions were pretty obvious,” Martin says mildly, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon’s silence says everything.

Martin exhales and then steels himself for a delicate conversation. “I love you, Jon. Have done for quite a while now. If there’s anything I can do to lessen your pain and discomfort, I want to do it.”

Jon clenches a fist and refuses to look at him. “I know that, Martin, in every way possible. But...” he stops, apparently to think. He sounds wrecked. Tabling this conversation for when Jon is feeling better might be a better idea, but it’s rare that Jon gets the gumption to speak openly about the things really bothering him, so Martin’s remains quiet. “Things haven’t been easy for you since…. Christ, for a long time, I think. Since Prentiss, at least. But since leaving the Lonely, you’ve been…. You go away for long periods of time, and it seems like you can’t handle people being around you, too.”

It occurs to Martin that they’ve never actually addressed any of this together, not their individual traumas, not their shared traumas, not this thing, these feelings, between them. They’ve been testing the waters, so to speak, bit by bit. Touches and soft barbs and sweet words pass between them unacknowledged but nevertheless heartfelt. But so much else has also remained unsaid in the interim, he now realizes.

“And I get it. No one escapes one of the fears without being marked, and you’ve been marked thoroughly by the Lonely, Martin. It’s...it makes perfect sense that these things are happening, that you feel overwhelmed when people are near.”

He stops again, and Martin gives him ample time to gather his thoughts. Martin is still running his hand through silky salt and pepper strands when Jon lifts his head and looks up at him. His complexion still carries that worrying gray tint and his eyes are and cheeks shine with moisture.

It’s the darker green spot on the sofa where Jon had had his face pressed that really does Martin in, that causes him to throw caution to the wind

“Move back a little, Jon. Just a little, okay?” He says, low and soft. Jon mutters a “yeah” and does as he’s told. “Thanks, love. Now, hold still.”

Daisy’s sofa is by no means a large sofa, and Martin is by no means a small man, but he’ll make this work. He lays himself down beside Jon and works his arms around him, tucking himself into any space he can against him, the lines of their bodies almost completely flush with one another. His back is close enough to the edge that Martin constantly feels like he’s about to fall, but it’s worth it to have Jon in his arms like this. “I’m listening, whenever you’re ready to continue.”

Jon buries himself in Martin’s chest before picking up where he left off, prompting Martin to cup the back of his head and pull him in closer.

“You’ve borne the brunt of maintaining our relationship for so long, Martin, and now it’s my turn. I can take care of you when you’re far away, when you can’t be around people. I can do the shopping, I can cook. I can do all these things.

“And I can stay away when it’s too much for you to be around me.” He clenches the fist caught between them even harder. “I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, Martin. That’s the last thing I want.”

Martin considers all this for...several moments, really, and comes to an ugly conclusion.

“Jon...is this why you didn’t let me touch you earlier?”

A muffled “yes” reaches Martin’s ears, and his heart just breaks.

“We really should have a long conversation about this in the near future—preferably when you’re feeling better—but I want to say a couple things right now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Martin. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Martin gives a little squeeze of gratitude and then continues, “For one, you’re right. There’s leftover stuff from the Lonely I’m dealing with right now, and sometimes it’s hard to be around anyone. And I hate it so much that ‘anyone’ sometimes includes you. From here on out, I’m going to try to tell you when I’m feeling this way, so you don’t have to try to guess. And if I’m reaching out to you, please trust me that I’m okay in that moment.”

“I do trust you, Martin. I trusted you to handle Peter. I trusted you to handle the Extinction. I’ll...do my best to trust you in this, too. I...I’m just deeply afraid of ruining this, ruining us.”

“Thank you. And I understand. I worry about that, too, but please also trust me when I say there’s not much that you could do that would ruin this.”

Nodding into Martin’s chest, Jon whispers, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. And second, I want you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to feel like you need to make up for anything.” Jon is tensing up, preparing to protest—he can feel it. “No, I mean it. Our relationship isn’t transactional. You don’t have to meet every comfort I offer you with one of your own just for the sake of reciprocation. That’s not how it works. You’ve done so much for me Jon, just by being you. That’s not even including the Lonely and everything that’s happened after, though I’m grateful for all that, too. You’re already here for me in every way that matters. You don’t need to do anything more.”

Martin places a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head, and they just lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, previous evening plans all but forgotten. Martin thinks Jon dozes a little bit, the stress of the evening finally taking consciousness away from him, but he’s proven wrong when Jon speaks up once more, muffled slightly by Martin’s jumper.

“For the record, I love you, too. In case that needed to be said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘need,’ necessarily, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like hearing it!”

“I see,” Jon croaks. The man needs to rest. “Well, I guess if you don’t need it, then I won’t bother saying it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He laughs and feels the smile on his face widen.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Good. Now, drink your tea.”

Martin pushes himself away from Jon to give him some room to sit up and to get a good look at this face. His face isn’t covered in tears anymore (now probably absorbed by the fibers in his knitted jumper), but he looks positively exhausted, eyes lidded and face otherwise lax in an easy smile, not at all like the one he wears with the intent to soothe. Martin places the still warm cup of chamomile in Jon’s hand.

“Still feeling up for a little dinner?” He asks.

Jon hmms and replies, “Yeah, I could eat a little. Just give me a few minutes to—”

“Absolutely not, Jon. I’m going to make dinner while you take a nap here. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. A nap sounds wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll wake you up when everything’s finished.”

Martin starts to dislodge himself from Jon when Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Love you. And good luck.” Jon gives him possibly the most self-satisfied wink he’s seen before taking a sip of his tea.

It’s not terribly cold in the safe house with a fire going, but Martin lays Daisy’s crocheted blanket over Jon anyway, and starts taking everything back out for dinner.

It’s meat sauce—how hard could it be?

#tma valentines exchange #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #tma #scottish honeymoon #set between mag 159 and mag 160 #idk if there's a unifying scottish honeymoon tag on here #miscommunication #panic #hurt/comfort #sickfic (arguably)#ombre writes #ombre writes fic

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janicho88 · 4 years ago

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Fire, Fur & Mistletoe Chapter 5

Pairing- Eventual Dean x Female Reader.

Word Count- 2,497

Warning- Mentions of car accidents, fires, and alcohol. Possible swearing. Fluff.

Summary- A rewrite of the Nine Lives of Christmas, Hallmark movie. AU, Dean is a firefighter who doesn’t do commitment, the Holiday’s don’t mean much to him. Coming home after a shift he finds a dog in trouble. The reader is a veterinary student who works in a coffee shop trying to make it to graduation, until someone causes problems there for her. She isn’t interested in finding anyone other than her own dog until after she finishes school. Do their four legged friends have other plans?

A/N- This series is written for @spnchristmasbingo. The square filled for this chapter is the free space, Christmas cookies. The first two chapters will stay closer to the movie than the rest will. This has its own tag list and it is open. That way I am not tagging anyone who doesn’t want to be tagged in Christmas stories. This story is unbeta’d.

Header by the amazing @winchest09

Divider from freepngimg.com

Series Masterlist

Dean went in for a shift the next day taking Miracle with him and you went back out job and apartment hunting. Still no luck on either front. Heading home to Dakota you got out a few more Christmas decorations you had in boxes and added some in the kitchen, and up the wood staircase, being careful none of Dean's hard work got scratched.

You were heading upstairs to your apartment when the front door opened. Turning around quickly you saw a blond woman walking in who seemed almost as surprised to see you as you were to see her. Maybe Dean had found another girl to go out with and was keeping it a secret.

“Hello.” You greeted her.

“I thought Sam was joking, if I had known he wasn't I would have knocked instead of using the emergency key.”

Not entirely sure what was going on you kept quiet.

"I'm sorry I didn't catch what Sam said your name was. Like I said, I thought he was joking about Dean's girlfriend moving in."

That got your mouth semi working. "Not Dean's girlfriend, just friend. Just sleeping together. No, not sleeping, living, I mean staying. I’m staying in the apartment. I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you Dean's not girlfriend, I'm Jess."

"Oh your Sam's girlfriend."

"Yeah, actual girlfriend. We live and sleep together too." She says with a teasing smile.

"It's nice to meet you, Dean's told me a little about you." You told her about your eviction and Dean offering you a place to stay and the brothers moving you out.

She was extremely nice and had a very bubbly personality. She was someone who would be friends with everyone.

"I came over to look at something for Dean's Christmas present, but I don’t want to bother you.”

“No, your fine. I just put a few more Christmas decorations out, I was going back to the apartment. Do you need any help?”

“Do you know where Dean’s tools are? He was telling Sam he broke something and we were going to get him a new part for Christmas. I just need the model number.”

“Yeah, I can show you.” As you led her past the living room she froze looking inside.

“I can’t believe there is an actual tree in here, with presents underneath. In the years I’ve known Dean he doesn’t do much for Christmas at all.”

“I asked if we could, I’ve always enjoyed having a Christmas tree.”

She looks over at you. “You’re good for him, girlfriend or not I think he really needs someone like you in his life.”

You weren’t sure how to respond so you just smiled and led her down the hall.

The first half of Dean’s shift kept the guys moving. One small restaurant fire, then car accident to a residential oven fire. When things finally calmed down and it seemed like they might get a few minutes peace Dean headed to the bunks to try and get a some sleep with Miracle following along behind him. After Dean layed down he was soon joined by his faithful companion. The boys managed to get a few hours before the alarm went off again. Coming back this time they headed to the kitchen to find some food. Bobby would sneak Miracle some scraps when no one else was looking. Sitting around the table Sam turns to Dean.

“Get all your Christmas shopping done?”

“Yep, done and wrapped.”

Cas looks between the brothers, “I think I missed something, Dean went shopping?”

“Yep, Y/N got him to go to the mall with her.”

“Does this mean no gift cards this year?” Cas wanted to know.

“They sell gift cards at the mall.”

“I would laugh at that, but knowing you that’s exactly what you bought,” Sam stared at his brother.

“Have to find out when you open it.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely what he did.” Benny injected.

“Alright you idjits” Bobby starts talking as he walks back in. “Don’t forget the fundraiser party is in a few days. Winchesters, you both are on deserts, aka Christmas cookies. Benny and Cas have drinks, preferably not alcohol.”

“Hey Chief, why am I on desserts this year?” Sam wanted to know.

“Do you remember last year's party?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember last year’s egg nog at the party?”

Sam’s smile gets bigger, “Yeah.”

“That’s why. Most of these people are driving home, we don’t need them buzzed before they finish their first drink. The list the other shifts are bringing is on the bulletin board by my office.” He starts to walk away, “Oh and Dean.”

“Yes Bobby.”

“An edible dessert would be nice this year.”

“Hey, at least they looked good last year!”

Bobby left the room muttering about being surrounded by idjits on his way out.

Dean arrives home to find you going through the cupboard, “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Alright, I was just making a grocery list. Is there anything you need?”

“Yeah I actually need to pick something up, I’ll come with you.”

Getting the dogs settled the two of you are off to the grocery store. Going through the bakery section Dean stops and looks at the premade desserts. “

Holding up a package of frosted sugar cookies and one of cupcakes he turns to you.

“Do you think either of these are edible?”

“I would hope so since that is what the store is selling them for.”

“Well do you think they are any good, that they taste alright.”

“Probably, yeah. If you want one, just get it. I thought you were more of a pie lover though?”

“Oh I am, these aren’t for me. We have a fundraiser party for the station and I’m on desserts. I’m supposed to bring Christmas cookies.”

“And you want to take those with you.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

He looks down at the cookies with such disappointment. “Okay then one of those packs instead.”

“Dean, you aren’t going to buy a pack of cookies to pass off as Christmas cookies. You need to make those.”

“Not a hundred percent sure they would be edible then. Bobby said they had to be edible this year.”

“I’ll help you don’t worry. It’s another Christmas activity for you.”

“I really think buying those on the table would be easier.”

Finishing the rest of the shopping you take Dean down the baking aisle. “So what kind of Christmas cookies were you thinking.”

“I don’t know, I was thinking whatever kind I could buy in the store.”

“Alright. How about Sugar cookies to start with. How many do you need?”

“There is usually a good number of people there. Both Sam and I are bringing them. Probably need a hundred each, maybe a few more.”

“What is this for exactly?”

“It’s a fundraiser we have down at the station. People donate toys, and other needed items. Santa is there for the kids.”

“Okay a big group of people take peanut butter out, don’t want to risk an allergy.” You thought through your mental list of Christmas goodies. “You could do the cranberry bliss bars I used to make at work, those are always a hit, and I have a recipe for white chocolate ginger cookie that’s really good. If any of those interest you?”

“You would really help me bake all that?”

“Yeah, I like baking and I have nothing else to do. Plus you are still letting me stay with you and won’t take my money when I try to pay you.”

“I’ll accept your payment in cookies.”

“Great.”

The two of you grab what you need from the aisle before heading to the checkout.

After arriving home the groceries you don’t need right now are put away. The Cranberry bar is made first, so that it can cook while you roll out the sugar cookies. He was chopping the dried cranberries into little pieces for the cake, and having way too much fun with the knife. Miracle and Dakota joined you in the kitchen hoping to catch anything that fell.

“I think the cranberries are small enough Dean.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um, yeah. Any smaller and they are just going to be red dots.”

Your plan was to keep it simple and just do round sugar cookies, but someone had other ideas.

“Where are the shape thingies?”

“What thingies?”

“You know the things that make snowmen, Santa and stockings.” Dean’s hand was going up and down in the air, almost miming cutting out cookies.

“You mean cookie cutters? I can go see if I can find mine.” Heading to the apartment you looked through the boxes to see if you could find any. Luck was on your side, finding a bag of cookie cutters and a rolling pin you made your way back to the kitchen.

He rolled it out the first time and got it so thin you swore the cookies would have burnt the moment you put them in the oven. Getting it all back in a pile you showed him how thick he wanted it to be before you started cutting out cookies. He went through the bag of cookie cutters finding the ones he wanted to use. Grabbing out a stocking, snowman, tree, and a dog bone. To his disappointment you didn’t have Santa.

“Guess, I’ll have to get one for next year.”

You watched him do a few, “Okay I have to ask, what is with the dog bone cookies, how are they Christmassy?”

“Those are in honor of Miracle. We can decorate them red and green.”

“Okay.”

When the bliss bar came out of the oven Dean came and looked it over. “Do you think it’s edible?”

“Do you mean right this minute, because it needs to cool first then it gets frosting.”

“I mean in general.”

“Yes, it’s edible. I made these at the coffee shop all the time. Why do you keep asking if things are going to be edible?”

“Bobby, the Chief, told me I needed an edible dessert this year.”

You looked at him a moment, “Okay I have to ask, what did you take before for a desert that wasn’t edible?”

“Last year I went to the store and saw this container with what looked like cutout sugar cookies. Some had frosting, some were decorated with just sprinkles. They looked really nice.”

“Uh huh. How did they taste?”

“Like bitter disappointment mixed with the tears of children.”

“Oh my.”

“They were so hard you couldn’t even bite into them and if you managed to break off a piece to eat, it had a sour taste to it. Guess that’s why they were on the sale rack.”

“That sounds,” You were trying to control your laughter. “Sounds very delightful. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to try them.”

“Yeah yeah, laugh all you want. They looked good at least.”

“You are trusted with cookies again this year? Aren’t they afraid of a repeat?”

“Apparently not as much as they were with Sam and the eggnog. He dumped a whole bottle of rum in it last year. He was moved to cookies this year.”

“Getting the guests drunk to be able to eat the food, sounds like the Winchester brothers put together an interesting Christmas party.”

Dean just laughs “Yeah we can get a little crazy now and then.”

“What do your Christmas plans usually include?”

“It’s just my sister, her husband and I. Donna is the under sheriff and some years she has to work part of the day. This year she works in the morning, and I’m volunteering at a pet adoption day in the park. Then we are having dinner at their house.

While the sugar cookies were in the oven the two of you worked on the batter for the ginger cookies.

“I’ll be honest,” Dean started to say. “I don’t like gingerbread cookies.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why are we making them?”

“We aren’t. These are ginger cookies, slightly different. I promise they are good. They will also be edible.”

Dean gave you a hard look before going back to the mixing bowl grumbling. “They smell like gingerbread cookies.”

“They smell like ginger. But if you don’t like them, you don’t have to eat them.”

While the last of the cookies were in the oven you started on the frosting for the cranberry bar. Dean kept trying to stick a finger in the bowl.

“Stop it, what are you five? You can have the bowl when the bar is done.”

“This doesn’t take like regular frosting what’s in it, cream cheese, butter, vanilla, powdered sugar, orange juice, and white chocolate. It’s the last two that make it a little different.”

“It’s actually really good.” You glared at him. “Not that I was doubting your baking abilities at all. Mine 100% doubtable, but you’re great.”

Finishing that you two moved on to the sugar cookie frosting Dean poured a little too much powdered sugar in to mix and ended up with it all over the counter and on the dogs laying at his feet. He snuck them each a cookie to make up for it. Adding some red and green food coloring to two bowls then getting sprinkles out the two of you went to town.

The last job of the night was dipping the ginger cookies in white chocolate. When one had hardened up you gave it to Dean to try.

“I’m not sure I want that, I would rather have pie.”

“Just a bite, if you don’t like it you don’t have to eat it.”

“Fine.” Taking a bite he chews for a minute. “Actually they aren’t bad, the chocolate tames some of the flavor.”

As the two of you worked together to clean up the kitchen, Dean suggested ordering dinner so you wouldn't have to clean up another mess tonight.

“Sure, that’s fine with me.”

While he was gone to grab dinner you took out a few other items you bought at the store. Quickly whipping up a pie crust you grabbed the cans of filling. Just not enough time tonight to make some. Putting some crumble topping on, the pie was in the oven before Dean made it back.

When he walked in a short time later he came in the kitchen with his nose in the air.

“The cookies make it smell really good in here, I didn’t notice that earlier.”

“That’s not all the cookies, I may have a cherry pie in the oven for you.”

Oh his eyes go so big. “Really?”

“Yeah, you’ve been talking about one lately.”

“Man, you are amazing.”

Finishing dinner you took the pie out to cool. That lasted about five minutes before Dean cut himself a giant slice.

Trying to get some work on the house done the two of worked together painting one of the spare bedrooms before the four of you headed to the living room to watch tv.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 6

Tags- @winchest09 @waywardbeanie @whatareyousearchingfordean @flamencodiva @deanwanddamons @jensengirl83 @abuavnee @lunarmoon8 @amyzombie1013 @akshi8278 @that-one-gay-girl @mandalou29 @igotmadskills @440mxs-wife @paryl @supernatural-love14 @krazykelly @anotherspnfanfic @bobbie3939 @deanwinchestersnightmoves @winchestergirl2 @thoughts-and-funnies

#fire fur & mistletoe #dean winchester #spnchristmasbingo #dean x female!reader #dean x reader #firefighter dean winchester #supernatural

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wallstoothin · 3 years ago

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Revolution (P5/PJO)

A warm up fic that I'm too nervous to put on A03. Unedited.

At age sixteen, Akira never expected to be part of a war. But then again, life as a demigod is anything but normal to begin with. He’s not even...he’s not even anything in the eyes of the gods but for some reason he was the child of the prophecy, whatever that meant. Akira always considered it a death sentence in waiting. Aren’t prophecies once in a lifetime opportunities?

Since the age of eleven, Akira has been forced to go on all sorts of different quests ranging from petty things such as being an over glorified uber eats for a god or something like preventing a war between two different monsters. Now it was a war.

A war that could be easily prevented if the gods or even some of the camp managers and leaders just opened their eyes and look. Akira would know. He was the son of a minor goddess after all, a mother who never bothered to claim him and a camp that force him into a cramped cabin of a god who is “so kind and merciful to let someone like him inside.”

Children of minor gods are usually one that can live in the outside world without major trouble. Apparently their scent is thinner and are less appealing than children of major goddesses such as his bunkmate Ryuji, child of Hermes and sweet Ann from Aprohidites. They are his best friend and he does not envy them at all. Both Ryuji and Ann has been through s much trouble because of their parent lineage. Left alone to single parents and their own human trouble combined with their demigods' trouble. He would do anything for them. Still, it would be nice to have someone to call as family. The only reason Akira even found out about his parentage is because of Goro.

Goro.

Goro had high expectation placed under him. As the son of Zeus it was expected. But he was never chosen to be in any important quest and spend most of his time training or in his cabin. Goro was one of the first people Akira met when he first came to camp. According to gossip, Goro has been in camp since the age of seven after his mother killed himself, overpressed by the idea of raising a child of god and especially after how lord Zeus practically left the two on their own. Goro was a loner on the outside and very bitter on the inside. When Akira got his first quest a month later, Goro practically ignored him. It was heartbreaking for the eleven year old for his new friend or at least someone he consider his friend to suddenly hate him.

He really wanted to go to the outside world with him but instead went with Ryuji and Ann. When he came back, bruised and bloodied, filled with new fears and deep hatred for salt water. He hoped his time away would have let his friend cool down enough for them to talk again but as soon as Akira laid eyes on the other the boy ran straight for his cabin. It wasn’t long until Akira got his first fetch quest. This time with Yusuke, son of Apollo and Futaba the quirky daughter of Hephaestus. It was a strange team, filled with dumb fights and hiding in the bathroom but it was successful.

Goro still won’t talk to him. Instead he ended up with two Ares girls on his twelfth birthday.

It was after this quest when he was finally given a small break. At this point he was desperate. He was tired,scared and most of all he wanted his friend back. So once he was left alone after dinner, he dragged Goro by the arm from the archery ring and into the Zeus cabin.

“We need to talk.”

They talked and talked and talked way past curfew, maybe they could have reconnect months ago. If only Akira was given a chance to settle down. But now he did.

It was Goro that figured out who his parent was, Goro always did say that whenever he was around Akira he always felt safe, at home. Other people told him that too. Even Akira felt the sense of family whenever he’s with his friends.

They hit the book soon after and came up with an answer.

Epione, the goddess of soothing pain.

Akira’s power seems to work with mental pain and after going on a quest with Goro and Hifumi, he can soothe small physical pain. Anything bigger than a small knife wound would leave him passed out on the ground. But it was better than any ambrosia or nectar, it was a rewarded feeling and an especially tiring one.

It made the quest after a lot easier.

Everything breaks down around the age of fifteen, it was quiet and sudden. Akira knew of camp deserters, they all did. It is often talked about in late night horror stories. Akira may have made one or two up on his own as well. But there has been an increase in unrest between the minor god and goddess children.

“The gods are using you as their playthings aren’t they?” Ten year old Nozoki told him one day. “How long can you keep winding yourself until you break?”

He still hasn't told anyone of his talk with the gods, yet.

It was after that day that people started leaving the camp in groups.

Yukki

Nozoki

And Goro.

The older boy didn’t even say goodbye.

Was it something Akira has done?

Their last talk was another late night one. This time hanging out on the roof of Goro’s cabin. They were talking about school. Akechi was close to finishing high school and Akira was on his way to his last year. When Akechi asked of his future plans, Akira hesitated. Was there a future for him? Akira never thought he would make it this long, even then, he did not have the time to develop any hobbies or focus on school work compared to his peers. Who cared about school when the world was ending.

Maybe it was his defeated tone, he hated it at first he really did. But now Akira just accepts it as another part of life. Demigods don’t get to live long, everyone knows that, that’s why the camp was created in the first place to provide children a safe place to live and to teach them to survive. Akira who's been in and out of the camp in almost all of his teen years has a higher chance of an early death compared to his friends.

“What if everything change.” Goro talked in a low and deep voice. A tone Akira rarely hear outside of anger and battle. He must be serious. “What if we had a chance to go out into the world without any fear of getting killed or being forced by the gods to do whatever they want.”

“That’s a dangerous thought you have there.” He replied.

“Humor me Akira.”

“Well,” What kind of answers would satisfy Goro. He honestly never really bothered to even spend time daydreaming about this. What are somethings the seasonal campers talk about during dinner time?

“I think I want to go somewhere populated.”

“Somewhere populated, Kurusu-kun?”

He nodded. “Yeah like the scramble or Kyoto, maybe even destinyland.”

“Those are tourist traps Kurusu-kun.” Goro replied wirily.

“So? What I want my wallet to get tricked by the many faces of capitalism. Aren’t they places of memories. I don't mind spending my whole day in these places. It seems like fun.”

“You know, I expected someone like you to want something more dramatic. For someone who always lives in the danger zone.”

He shrugged. “Normal is Ok, I think I would like to be that mysterious man behind the bar.”

Goro actually snorted at that. “Are you even able to stay in one place for that long?”

Ok, so maybe Goro has a point. There no why he can stay in one place for so long. But if he gets to meet new people everyday it sure to be just as fun.

“-beside, I can’t see you handling alcohol.”

“Geez Goro, way to crush my dreams. I was thinking of running some kind of underground coffee bar. “

“An underground coffee bar. That sounds like you. I think I might have isted everyday.”

“Oh? A loyal customer ? Thank you for your patronage, good sir.”

“You’re very welcomed overworked barista.”

They sighed.

“Goro is everything OK?| He finally asked. “What you have been saying lately has me worried. You know the people upstairs can hear everything here right?”

“Of course, please do not worry about me Akira-kun, I’m sure you already have lots on your plate right now.”

“But I always have space in my heart for you. Please ‘kechi, I won’t tell anyone no matter what you tell me. On my life.”

“You really shouldn’t be putting your life on the line so easily.” Goro mumbled, mostly to himself but Akira heard it all anyway.

“It’s all part of the job.” He chirp back.

The next day he was gone.

A traitor everyone called him, someone who abandoned the gods to join the wrong side historically and morally. It did not take long for the rumors to start around camp.

“I’ve always knew he was evil.”

“He was always acting so creepy around Akira I wonder if he was ever planning on killing him.”

“It’s good that he left, who knows what he would’ve done if he stayed. “

It was getting harder and harder to face each day with a smile without Goro. His other friends at least one that has yet to publicly disowned Goro stayed by his side comforting him telling him that everything is alright.

But war, war is coming and Akira is expected to be in the front line as a leader. He can’t. He does not want to do this any more. Oh godly parent please give him a sign.

But nothing came.

Nothing but ruin for Tokyo.

They were

Winning

Losing

Dying

...fighting.

They were fighting for their life, each of his friends split up into different groups to try and take back different parts of the city.

Akira was tasked to find the leader of the resistance and to put an end to it once and for all, a fitting task for the hero.

It did not take long to find him, he was exactly where Akira expected him to be and exactly where Goro wanted him to be at.

“Goro,” He mumbled, approaching his enemy with his dagger clutched in his hand tightly. “I came to stop you.”

Goro turned around to face him. Instead of the camp t-shirt and ripped jeans that Akira normally sees him in. He was instead wearing a leather jacket and a collared shirt underneath his regular jeans. It was a strange combination but Akira can’t help but to think it suits Goro well.

“I’m happy you came.”

“This is our meeting place after all.”

Enough with the banter, Akira can’t afford to stall now, not when everyone is fighting for their lives.

“Goro, surrender now. I can get the gods to put you on probation or something bu-”

“You know that’s not true. Do you really think that will pay attention to a mortal even someone like you, since when have they done anything for you.”

“I-”

“Think Akira.” Goro shouted, holding on to his shoulder for dear life. “You’ve been used over and over again. We were just kids. You don’t even have a childhood doesn’t that upset you?”

It did, it still does but Goro knows that he does not like to think about that.

“I used to be so scared.” Goro’s volume went down all the way to a whisper as if talking about this of all things would finally get him stuck down by lightning. “Everytime you come home your eyes would grow darker and darker. I used to have nightmares that the darkness would eat you alive. The trauma you endured. As a son of one of the big three it should have been me.”

Akira shook his head vigorously, he could even feel some of the hair strand stabbing his eyes. It burns a bit, but that’s not important.

“No Goro! I would never wish this life on anyone. The quest, the glory. It’s not worth it! I wanted you to be safe and happy but you ignored me.”

“I know.” Goro’s hand slowly trailed down until they came right above his waist putting the two in some sort of half hug position. “I’m sorry Akira.”

Akira swallowed back a sob threatening to come out. His dagger was right there and Goro was so close and vulnerable. He could end this, he can stop this war once and for all.

“Goro please, end this war. That way everything will go back to normal.”

“You know that’s not what’s going to happen. The gods will use you again and again until you one day burn out and they choose the next unlucky kid to be the hero.” Goro paused. “Akira...why don’t you join me.”

“Hu-”

“Lots of our men need healing. With your powers you can save them! Your mother may not recognize you but we do. We can stop this cycle and give everyone a better future. We would no longer live in fear or worried over someone’s temper tantrum. Akira, I know I haven’t been a good friend to you but I can make it all up now so please.”

Goro reached out his hand and dropped his weapon.

“Join me.”

Akira dropped his dagger as well.

He knows this isn’t the right choice, if they were to fail both Akira and Goro would face harsh unimaginable punishment. But Goro along with everything he ever wanted was right there.

Akira reached out his own hands and-

#persona 5 #goro akechi #akira kurusu #PJO AU #accomplice au #Not much PJO just using the rules

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frogsmulder · 4 years ago

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Maybe There’s Hope: chpt 7 Together Towards Entropy

Starting from the final events of 09x20 The Truth, Mulder and Scully tackle their new reality as fugatives. When they finally settle into things, Scully finds out she is pregnant again. A canon divergent AU where I thought, what if Scully got pregnant whilst on the run instead of at the end of season 11?

3.6k words; rated t; tagging @today-in-fic; read on ao3

With the last box packed, Margaret Scully locked the door to her daughter's apartment for the final time and handed the key over to the landlord, who mumbled his appreciation and ambled back down the hall. Maggie was left there, standing by the shut door like it was the final page turned and the chapter ending. She shook the thought from her head, knowing it was a silly one. It was never over: God has his way of bringing people back together.

Back in her own home, Maggie put the final boxes into the guest room all of their things safe under her roof. All of the furniture had been sold-- that was mostly inconsequential-- but everything else was here. Taking a final look at the room, she hummed. It was like she could feel the physical presence of Dana in everything she had loved, cherished, and lived with.

Closing the door, she padded down the stairs and into the living room where the glow from the fishtank illuminated the room. She checked the temperature of the tank water, watching the mollies swim around in the bag that floated on top. She could tell they were eager to return. To their familiar surroundings, but the water wasn't warm enough just yet, but soon.

----------

Scully quietly mused the breakfast menu, feeling calm and content sat in the booth of a Mexican restaurant. Mulder was sat on the other side of the table looking out of the window to the sun-speckled bay. His hand had been grasping hers under the table the entire time; his thumb traversing the mountain range of her knuckles repetitively.

"You seem happy," she commented, turning the page of the menu awkwardly with one hand.

"I am." He turned his attention to her, his smile fading slightly as his mind began to race ahead with implications. "Are you not?"

"No, I am," she sighed, continuing to puzzle over some of the dish names. Mulder lowered his head to try and get under her fixed gaze and her eyes flicked up to meet him. "What? I am happy."

Mulder sat back and nodded, smirking to himself.

Scully looked up from the menu, bringing their hands to rest on top of the table. "Have you had any more hallucinations?"

"No, I haven't actually." His head had been surprisingly clear since that night on the beach like his words had freed him when he'd finally shared them. He hoped it was the case.

A refreshing smile turned the corner of her mouth upwards and she subconsciously held his hand slightly tighter. "That's good."

"Hmm," he agreed, lost in her smile. Her hand was soft under his thumb, sparking gentle memories of her surrounding him and the bed sheets the last few days they had given in and spent every night in a motel, comfort of waking with her head laid against his chest a luxury beyond compare. It made a difference to the cold sweats she used to wake in, lurching from her position to escape the night terrors. On restless nights he had witnessed it, when only his arms could wrap around her and anchor her to this world as she gasped to gain control.

But not the last few days. She had woken as peacefully as he had slept, usually with a tiny speck of drool decorating his bare chest, which he didn't dare tease her about.

"And you've not had your nightmares for a while...Unless?"

She had rushed to the bathroom again this morning, although she had told him it was nothing to worry about.

"No, I haven't," she reassured him.

"Maybe we're finally getting it right then."

Scully laughed and shook her head. "I used to think we'd never get it right."

The past few months she'd forgotten what right felt like until she saw the familiar glimmer on the horizon that meant the sea and she'd persuaded Mulder to make a stop-off. That night, with the water at her feet, she felt something click, like the reassuring words of her father existed in the sea spray, telling her that she was loved and trusted. Being close to him had put her soul at ease. She still worried for her child in the world, for Mulder, for her mother so far away but that anxiety had eroded into a constant ebb of care for all of them.

"I saw a little place down the road that does postcards, I thought we could pick one up later. We could start a collection. Maybe even do a scrapbook."

She licked her lip and bit back a smile. Of course, Mulder had found the one she had taken. It was impossible to keep secrets from him, especially given their current circumstances.

"Yes, that would be nice."

Giving the menu one final look over she handed it to Mulder as she stood up and moved out of the booth.

"Can't find anything?"

He looked up at her and she stroked his hair affectionately as she walked past, making him grin.

"Just order for me whatever you're having. I'm going to the restroom."

Taking her hand, he kissed her palm, and gently let her go.

"Okay."

Scully moved through the bar to the back, pushing against the door to the restroom. It was quiet inside, a welcoming contrast to the constant hum of conversation. She brushed her hair out of her face, holding her palm to her forehead, trying to quieten the loud ache that resided there. Standing in front of the mirror, she considered herself and smiled. Once again, she could recognise the person in the mirror, despite the unfamiliarity still of her longer blonde hair. The dark rings from under her eyes had disappeared and there was a warmth to her cheeks again underneath her dusting of freckles. She shook her head, foolish thoughts of happiness flooding her mind. But they were good. She was good.

And then she felt the clenching in her gut again, not as powerful as this morning, but enough to make her lurch. Splashing some cold water to her face, she refreshed herself, sweeping other thoughts under the carpet. She cupped her hands under the water and brought it to her mouth to drink, tempering her queasiness and headache.

By the time she got back, Mulder had already ordered and a glass of orange juice was waiting for her on the table.

"I chose the huevos rancheros. It's the specialty dish and I thought you deserve a treat for putting up with me this last couple of months." He smirked mischievously and then he turned sombre. "I know I haven't always been there for you when you needed, Dana, and you're still here for me–"

She brought his hand to hold it against her cheek.

"Of course, I am," she interrupted, which made his smile reappear.

They waited in companionable silence for their brunch, never deciding whether to gaze out at the bay or at each other. When the food came, Scully made her way through the large portion of fried eggs, which Mulder raised his eyebrows at but didn't question.

----------

Midday and they were back on the road driving to nowhere, an appetising silence filling the space. Mulder's hand rested on her leg and Scully had her fingers twined through his. He kept stealing frequent glances at her, smiling every time he caught a glimpse of the freckles that dusted her rosy cheeks, or the curl of her lips, or her red roots showing through her blonde hair-- the Scully he loved reappearing from behind the cracks in her walls.

"Do you ever think about him? Our son?" She broke his spell of reverie and looked at him inquisitively. "What he might be doing at this very moment whilst we are miles away?"

He sighed and gently squeezed her hand. "Dana, you know the answer to that."

"I know... I wanted to hear it from someone else."

She continued to look at him with a softness that almost broke him and he paused for a moment, remembering holding his tiny baby. It seemed so long ago and wished there was more to remember, but he held them with fondness, the phantom feeling of his tiny fingers wrapped around his little one, never letting him forget. Those fingers would be bigger now, stronger, but he could still feel them. He clenched his fists on the steering wheel reflexively.

"Not a day goes by when I don't think of how well he'll be doing and how proud I am of him."

"Not a day goes by where I don't think the same." She looked out towards the glistening of the sea with a frown knitted into her brow. "It... It's strange... learning to love someone from afar... Accepting... that we only a small part of his life now takes some getting used to."

Mulder swallowed apprehensively, his heart clenching around her words pinning precisely how he had felt out in the desert and now.

"Dana?" His voice was pricked with worry. "What's brought this on?"

"I don't know," she sighed.

Pressing the cool flesh of her fingers to her forehead, she sucked in a breath. Every lump in the road seemed amplified with the motion of the car. The churning of the tires over asphalt mimicked the churning in her stomach.

"Stop the car. I need to get out," she whispered.

"Scully?"

She gulped a breath and managed to raise her voice a little. "Stop the car!"

As soon as Mulder had pulled over to the side of the road, Scully was out of the car and doubled over, the contents of her brunch returning. Initially, shock had caught him like a deer in headlights, but Mulder rushed to her side and swept the hair from her face, anxiously clenching his jaw.

"Jeez Scully," he breathed, rubbing her back.

Coughing, she stood up and brushed away his hand.

"It's okay, Mulder. I'm fine."

He cupped her cheeks, wiping some spittle from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, and gazed into her welling, blue eyes. Back-dropped by the ocean, they glistened surrendering to something solemn deep inside. He sighed and pulled her into his chest.

"You forget I know what 'I'm fine' means."

She let his words hang in the air, trying to avoid them but only hurtling towards inevitable admittance. With her head cradled between his hand and chest, she let the tiniest tear form and fall.

He stood still for her like that, absorbing her sniffs, stroking her hair, never questioning her need to let go and have control over herself. She tried to stay rigid and unmoving and he feared that she was drawing into herself again, hiding from him to protect herself again. That their rhythm was out of sync again after things felt like they were falling into place. In reality, he knew it had only been a couple of months since they had started this journey: no time at all. He couldn't expect deep wounds to heal with one plaster of good fortune. But it had already felt like years of waiting, and he was tired, exhausted from the grief, wanting to move on. Maybe they weren't ready to move on yet.

"I feel fine, Mulder." She pressed the words muffled into his chest. "Better than I have in a while but... I-- I don't think I am... fine."

"What do you mean?"

She lifted her head from his chest but still couldn't look him in the eye, ashamed that she might have kept something so important from him. "I think I might be ill. From either stress or a virus, I don't know. But I've had migraines and nausea for some time now."

She watched as his eyes softened with compassion, and she felt more guilty for ever thinking he shouldn't know.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

He brought his hands to her face more gently this time as if he were holding delicate china, his thumbs soothing over the pattern of her cheeks. Scully placed her hands on his arms, pulling them away.

"I didn't want you to worry, especially with your own condition. And I thought it would pass."

"Scully, you need to let me worry." He wanted to cup her cheeks again, to feel the reassuring weight of her press against his skin. He looked down at where their hands slowly swung like a cradle between them, all their worry turned to motion as it tried to escape. "What do you need?"

"Some ginger ale and some painkillers for the symptoms." Her tone took on a cold and measured value, detached from feeling and from herself as doctor Scully took over.

"For the cause?"

"I should probably see a doctor."

He nodded solemnly. "Okay. Let's get you some ginger ale and pain killers first."

Mulder guided her back to the car, his hand like it always had been, a rudder at her back. She didn't shy away from his touch and even gave him a smile from one corner of her mouth. She sat down clumsily in the passenger seat, grasping onto Mulder's arm to steady herself.

"We'll get through this." Scully looked up at him earnestly. "Us both."

"I should be the one saying that to you, Scully."

She gave him an honest smile, letting him know that what she had said was true: she did feel fine. Even better than that, she felt good-- great-- until another wave of nausea hit, but it never lasted long. She was more worried about him than she was herself.

Time seemed to drag along with each steady revolution of the wheels. Mulder was driving extra slowly, conscious of Scully who had the window wound down and the fresh air blowing in to keep her nausea at bay. She looked radiant even though she was struggling to keep the rest of her breakfast down. The sun danced through her golden hair and over her skin, lighting little kisses of freckles across the flush of her cheeks.

He felt her small hand reach across and squeeze his knee, and although he was focusing on the road, he could tell she was smiling, gazing at the city they were driving through. Her index finger was probably over her lips, her arm resting on the door like she did whenever she was quietly happy. Mulder kissed the back of her hand before pulling into a grocery store parking lot.

"You coming?" she asked as she got out of the car, hope sprung in her voice.

He grinned. "I wouldn't dream of leaving."

Inside, the ginger ale and tablets were easy enough to find, but it was something else in the health aisle that had made Mulder stop. He felt like his heart had stopped and the air had stopped moving in his lungs. The only thing that hadn't stopped was his mind whirring at a million miles an hour, escaping down a rabbit hole without him and he was left to chase after the implications.

"Mulder? Are you okay?" She tugged on his arm.

"Yeah. I'm good..." He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Have you thought..."

Scully stepped in front of his gaze,

"Have I thought what?"

She turned around and followed his line of sight like a red piece of string held in the air, connected to him stretched out beyond her. It was almost tangible the way he was focused so intensely like she could trail it with her fingers. She too stopped when she caught sight of what held his attention, the breath knocked out of her.

"Mulder don't be ridiculous. You and I both know it's impossible," she breathed.

He reached for the innocuous box, holding it tentatively.

"When was the last time you got your period? You haven't used any of the tampons we bought. It's been almost two months."

Anger broiled in her gut, wanting so desperately for him not to be correct. She hadn't thought about the tampons, why hadn't she thought about the tampons? She pushed aside all rationality in denial, feeding that fire that she might not recognise the pain.

"Mulder, just because I missed my period does not mean I am pregnant." Her voice was shaky with restrained emotion. "It's normal to miss a month once in a while, and with the stress of our current situa--"

"Just, please. And then we can rule it out for definite."

He looked mellowly at her, eyes soft with a mix of affection and concern, and she felt her resolve puddle.

"Fine," she sighed, half snatching the kit from him in her frustration.

He felt her rip at his heart as she grabbed it and he wanted to take it back, wish he never thought of it himself. She was frightened, he could tell in the way she projected her strength. But her strength only pushed him away from where he wanted to be most. He blamed himself for bringing this upon her, that he couldn't help her without harming her. He gently took her hand back and she looked at him, holding back tears that threatened to fall, holding back a heaviness in her breathing like cries threatening to spill. It made him queasy seeing the look that had haunted him the last couple of months return. Like a ghost, he saw her desperately cling onto everything familiar whilst inside she was starting to strip herself empty, using numbness as a defence. He wanted to give her back the smile that she had had earlier, fill her back up with laughter and love. He looked at the box.

Scully turned, slipping out of his hands to find the checkout. "You coming?"

Yeah, he thought.

Scully was silent in an all too familiar, daunting way. She stood in front of him, strong but rigid, confident but scared as she paid for the ginger ale, the paracetamol... the pregnancy test. He winced as she reached her hand back to touch his, felt the tremours brush through her fingertips as she stayed rigid.

She reached her hand back to ground herself in him, control the dizzying, drunk feeling of floating in a void of uncertainty. She was burning up from the inside with an injustice she tried to ignore, and the feel of his skin was cool enough to douse her and keep her anchored. Whatever happened she wanted him there, and she wanted him to know that. Whatever happened it was for both of them. She only hoped to god it wouldn't be true.

----------

Her fate was already sealed, she knew that, but if she prayed hard enough she felt like she could twist reality in her favour. Mulder was waiting outside the restroom and she was alone inside, holding the test between her fingers. The cap clicked loudly as she removed it from the tip of the test. Suddenly, her heart started to thump in her throat and her stomach tried to work its way up to meet it. Taking deep breaths, she did her best to push that anxious part of herself down. Her fate was sealed, and she wanted to trust God, whatever he had decided for her, but she wasn't sure she could. She wasn't sure he was still there for her. The only thing she could do was take the test.

----------

Mulder heard the toilet flush and, tipping his head back against the wall, he held his breath. He was leaning against the wall that separated him from Scully, waiting for the verdict. He didn't know what he wanted, except for Scully to be okay. He held onto that idea lest he start thinking of futures that could never be.

The restroom door opened and he stood up, watching Scully as she quietly walked out.

"Do we know yet?"

"No, we'll have to wait a few minutes."

She kept her head hung low, avoiding his gaze.

"Do you want to go and wait in the car?"

He touched her cheek and she startled, offering a weak smile when she saw his.

"Umm, yeah."

Mulder held the test level as they walked out, Scully clutching his other hand. She took a sip of the ginger ale, but it did nothing to quell the nerves brewing in her. Her walk was unsteady as she tried to ignore the other people around her. There was only her and Mulder in the world, but the loud intrusions of other people talking, of traffic, tested her to her limits.

Mulder leaned down to whisper in her ear, "It's okay: no one is watching us." and Scully smiled, reassured that his uncanny ability to read her was still strong. She leaned into his arm. Us, she thought, together in spite of the outcome.

They both sat in an itchy silence waiting for the time to pass, Scully stock still and Mulder fidgeting with his fingers. It was only a few minutes but it felt like hours, constantly checking the radio clock. The illuminated digits didn't change quick enough, every time they looked back at them they were the same as if time was standing still. Or at least time was going slower, edging towards entropy, the final moments before the answer closer and incrementally closer like Schrodinger's cat finally getting a diagnosis. Until she reached to turn the test over.

Scully looked at the stick and sat back, putting it back face down on the dashboard.

Mulder picked it up and a sudden surge of joy infected him, a grin spreading across his features. Two lines. Until he looked at Scully, whose eyebrows were pinched together as she stared up at the sunroof. Slowly she closed her eyes and let a single tear fall.

#maybe there's hope #msr #fox mulder #dana scully #on the run #Okay all caught up now 😊#xf fanfic

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chrysalispen · 3 years ago

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iv. never give the heart outright

AO3 link HERE Chapter under cut.

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The day Aurelia Laskaris left Gridania dawned damp and foggy: as mundane and unremarkable a sendoff as one could possibly wish. The heat wave had relented overnight and the wind with it, and the trees’ leaves hung still and sparkling with droplets of dew. Pale rays of early morning sun filtered through the low-hanging wisps of cloud and collected dust motes and small insects in their wake. The quality of it reminded her of L’haiya’s lace curtains, the way their softness and the delicate patterns and filtered sunbeams had always framed the sitting room windows of her girlhood home.

The driver of the chocobo carriage aimed to set out from the city before full daybreak. Thus she stood in drowsy silence along with half a dozen other passengers set to board, watching the lalafellin teamster as he and the Canopy’s porters secured the larger bags. Barring any unforeseen incidents, the carriage’s route would take them south past Quarrymill, through the marshes near old Amdapor, and south into the high desert of northeastern Thanalan until they reached Ul’dah.

It had taken her all of three days to conclude her affairs: there was, after all, no property for her to sell, nor any anxious relatives to wheedle her into remaining.

Watching the small man loop his handfuls of hempen rope to secure over boxes and bags and other people’s assorted belongings, Aurelia felt a certain twinge of wistfulness that she had not expected. The forest city was not quite home, but it had served as the closest thing she had to one for nearly five years. But it was not enough to keep her. The excitement of the road ahead had not left her, and she faced the morning with bright eyes and a clear mind. The sun was up and so was she.

Keveh’to did not share her optimism, that much was obvious with a mere glance. The Miqo’te stood at her side with an expression one could only describe as pained. His ears lay flat against his fluffy hair, and his fawn-colored bottlebrush tail lashed emphatic and agitated beats against her leg.

“I know I’ve asked you half a dozen times now,” he said quietly, “but are you absolutely certain about this?"

Her answer was the same as it had been each time he had asked:

“As certain as I shall ever be.”

“That isn’t reassuring.”

“Yes, well,” she felt a twinge of annoyance at his pessimism surface at last, “as one recalls, ‘twas you who made the suggestion that I consider further study afield.”

"When you told me you’d give the matter some thought, I didn’t expect you to come back to Miounne’s place the same day with a letter of introduction already scripted and sealed.” His arms folded over his chest and he stared up into the canopy. “E-Sumi-Yan must have had that letter already waiting to give to you, whatever he said.”

“Perhaps. It’s not as though he would have told me if he did.” Aurelia looked down at herself and smoothed the pleats of her skirt yet again. All of it, from head to toe, was new. It felt so odd; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had new clothing. “Thank you again,” she continued, somewhat awkwardly. “For the traveling attire. It's quite fine.”

Keveh’to shrugged. A dull rosy flush crept up the sides of his neck. “It’s Ul’dah,” he said. “They’ll toss you out the gates on your arse if you show up looking like a beggar.”

“Hells below,” she tried to make a jest of it with a soft laugh, “you make it sound as though they’ll have a fashion inspector awaiting my arrival.”

“No. But I’ve known my share of that lot, and ‘tis not unlikely they’ll hit you with a demand for a hefty bribe at least once.”

“Yes, I’ve heard stories from some of the others.”

“And for goodness’ sake, Relia- please do yourself a favor and be careful about the company you keep. No one needs to know about you-know-what.” He tapped his temple with a humorless smile. “Ul’dah is a great deal more cosmopolitan than our humble little forest abode, but even they might balk at that.”

The stare she gave him could best be described as obstinate, with the hard set of her jawline. “...I might be ignorant of many Eorzean customs, but I should like to think I am not that much of a fool.”

“I’m trying to watch out for you.”

“Rest assured, I do appreciate the thought.” Still so glum. She frowned at him, “I thought that this decision would have pleased you. You made no secret you were tired of watching me mope about.”

“I- yes. But-”

He opened his mouth, stuttered into empty air, then sighed.

The other passengers milled about them in a somnolent shuffle, muttering to each other and passing bags back and forth. A pair of snowy-haired elezen twins in clothing as new and fine as her own brushed past Aurelia and Keveh’to without sparing a second glance, their identical braids and hair-ribbons stirring in a cool and sluggish breeze from the riverbank. She waited for the pair to pass well out of earshot before she continued, as gently as she could manage:

“This isn’t goodbye forever, you know.”

“I know.”

“They gave me honorary citizenship. I think I’m obligated to at least visit from time to time.” Another jest, one which failed in a like manner as the other to crack his solemn visage. “But I do fully plan on returning once I’ve completed my studies.”

“Right. I understand that. It’s…” His ears swiveled forward, then back, still flattened unhappily against his hair. “...Never mind. It’s not important.”

“No, go on.”

“It’s a trifling personal matter. Naught that you should worry about.”

“If you have something to say-”

That stony stoicism faded at last, relaxing into a smile, but it was as sad a smile as she had ever seen Keveh’to Epocan give anyone. “Matter of fact, I did. Once. But I see now that I’ve gone and waited too long,” he said cryptically. “Saying it now won’t change anything, and I wager I’d only feel worse if it did.”

“I’m sorry.” Aurelia worried at her lower lip with her teeth. “Truly, I am.”

His smile stretched into a grin. It made him look far more like the man she had come to know, the friend who teased and needled her and let her talk herself into momentous decisions. “You’ve no cause to be sorry for anything, my friend. The fault is mine own if there’s fault to be placed. I’m just being sentimental, I suppose. And, mayhap, a touch selfish.”

“Last call for luggage,” bellowed one of the porters. “If ye don’t bring it up now, ye’ll be carryin’ it yerselves! ‘Tis a long road ahead! Last call for luggage!”

Aurelia looked down at herself, then the bags at her feet. She only had the three pieces: her salvaged field kit, her herbal bag, and the pack which held in it those few trifling personal possessions she owned, including her mother’s memento mori. The field kit’s thick carbonweave strap perched on her shoulder, its tripartite-link imperial insignia long since removed by her own hand (Rhaya Wolndara’s angry reaction to the sight of it had been a valuable lesson in precaution) and its once-hefty weight now considerably lightened with even her most conservative usage of its contents over the years.

“Well,” he said after a moment, with transparently forced cheer, “let’s be about it. This lot won’t load itself.”

“The field kit needs to stay with me,” she drew out of reach when he stretched out a hand to take it from her shoulder. “Too many fragile items. Glass and the like. I’ll not trust it to the vagaries of a draught chocobo.”

“Fair enough.”

He picked up the others and made his way toward the waiting porter as the small collection of passengers began to mill towards the slatted steps. A Highlander man drowsed near the front of the carriage, hand wrapped loosely about a wine bottle and otherwise oblivious to the world. Aurelia double-checked the small leather belt she wore to make sure the letters Miounne and E-Sumi-Yan had penned were intact; a fine mess it would be if she were to lose them on the journey.

“Aurelia!”

The matronly Duskwight proprietress of the Carline Canopy stood head and shoulders over most of the passengers, and she quickly drew their attention as she made her way towards the small gathering with a swift and decisive stride. The Garlean offered her a small smile.

“Good morning to you, Miounne,” she said. “Come to see me off, have you?”

“I certainly have. I hope you weren’t planning on leaving us this morning without breaking your fast, girl,” was Miounne’s brisk reply, though she returned the smile as she held out her hands. In them, she carried a steaming tin cup and a small cloth-wrapped bundle. “I set aside one of my eel pies for you. ‘Tis a bit chilly as well, so I thought some hot tea might do you well on the road. Don’t worry about the cup; I have plenty of them.”

Touched by the gesture, Aurelia carefully took the cup and the wrapped pie, one in each hand.

“You didn’t have to do this-”

“I know,” Miounne said, a wry smirk tilting her lips. She wiped her hands on her apron. “But I did. The pie is heavy and should keep your belly full for a day or two. You’ll be changing carriages at the station in Highbridge to the Sunroad trail; you’ll want to get more supplies while you’re there-- make sure you have plenty of fresh water. There’s naught betwixt Drybone and the city save malms of scrubland, and this time of year the water holes will be too low to sustain travelers. I imagine the Calamity will have made the pickings slim for hunting as well.”

Aurelia nodded.

“Once you pass through the city gates, make your way to the Quicksand. That’s where the Ul’dahn Adventurers’ Guild operates; the proprietress’ name is Momodi Modi. I sent word ahead that she’s to expect your arrival within the sennight. All you need to do is give her your name and mine.”

“I... yes. I’ll do that.”

“And please, Aurelia dear- do take care in Ul’dah. It is a very different sort of city from ours. You are a kind woman with the best of intentions and there are those who would…” Miounne hesitated. “...Well. I’ll not fearmonger; I’ll wager you’ve heard enough of that. But I would ask the Twelve to watch over you nonetheless- if that’s all right, of course.”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, she watched Keveh’to’s back, the way his officer’s overcoat pulled taut across the shoulders as he passed her bags to the porter, then cast her eyes down at Miounne’s parting gifts.

The sight brought back a memory of the last time she had left behind the familiar to set out for the unknown: fresh from her schooling, set to board a train at the capital’s processing center after she had enlisted in the imperial army. No one had accompanied her. Not to give her well wishes or helpful directions, or even to wave their farewells from the platform as the train departed for the tunnels bored beneath the mountains and into the heart of Castrum Pinnaculum. She had gone to the station alone, had left alone, and for the first few weeks of basic training, she had struggled alone.

But she was not alone now. Perhaps she no longer owned a marvel of a garden, or slept in a fine bed, or wore silks, but since coming to Eorzea she had made more friends in this past handful of years than in the previous decade. That had to count for something.

Aurelia stared into the steaming teacup and swallowed past the sudden constriction in her throat with considerable effort, then looked at the other woman with glassy blue eyes.

“I’d like that,” she said at last. “And thank you, Miounne. For everything.”

Before the woman could muster a response Aurelia had turned away and hurried towards the lowered carriage steps. She didn’t want to lose her nerve or shed tears, not today, and she still had one more farewell to give.

Keveh’to reached the steps first; he plucked the carbonweave strap from her shoulder and slung it over his own the moment she drew near. “Let me pass that up to you once you’re seated,” he said. “You can’t carry both your breakfast and this great bloody thing onto the carriage.”

She was the last to board. The wooden stair was showing its age and it creaked even under Aurelia’s slight weight as she made her way onto the covered deck. The platinum-headed Elezen twins she had seen earlier sat in the back near the cargo across from the last empty space: the one in blue was wholly absorbed in perusing a tome while the one in red dozed upon their companion’s shoulder. Neither of them paid her any mind as she set her teacup and snugly wrapped meal upon the open seat. Nor did any of the others, for that matter.

Mayhap this part was not so very different from that long ago train ride after all.

Aurelia chuckled aloud, though the sound lacked humor, and turned towards the other end of the carriage at the sound of swift footsteps. Keveh’to had come up behind her to deliver her remaining bag. The half-empty imperial field kit, still large and cumbersome for all it lacked much of the weight it once bore, smacked with a quiet dull thud against his thigh with each step. His expression was unreadable as he set it down at her feet.

“Suppose Mother Miounne already said it so I don’t need to,” he said, “but I will, anyroad. Take care of yourself and be careful who you trust. And if there is trouble and you need to leave for any reason, you always have a home here.”

“Keveh’to-” Before she could finish what she had meant to say his arms had wrapped about her shoulders in a heavy embrace, tail wound around her calf.

“Write to us once in a while, will you?” he muttered in her ear. “Just… just so we know you’re doing alright. Even if it’s something about your alchemy that I- I mean, we don’t understand.”

“Or care about,” Aurelia said wryly. She knew full well that Keveh’to was not asking her to write to Miounne. Her arms tightened about his shoulders in return, just for a brief moment. “...I’ll write as often as I can manage.”

“Good.”

The Miqo’te looked for a moment as though he wanted to say - or do - something more, but instead released her with all haste, tail flickering and ears swiveling with his discomfiture as he went. Aurelia said nothing further as she took a step backward and turned to the seat where her tea and morning meal awaited. It was easy enough to spare him his blushes, to pretend that her focus lay upon how best she might secure her bag under the seat. Once that was done she picked up the teacup and took a thoughtful sip, placing Miounne's eel pie upon her lap. She was too full of nerves to be terribly hungry but that would no doubt change within a bell or two.

His retreat down the narrow steps came just in time for the porter to lift and shutter the low-slung door behind him with a brisk snap. Aurelia felt her eyes prickle and burn but her composure held fast, and when she turned about and lifted her free hand to wave at her friend it was with a bright smile on her face.

Her minder - her friend, now - gave only a half-second’s hesitation before he waved back. At his side, Miounne too lifted her hand in silent farewell.

“Quarrymill!” the driver shouted. “Next stop, Quarrymill!”

Following upon the heels of the teamster’s call came the draught chocobos’ twin kwehs. She braced herself and her teacup a moment before she felt the sharp initial jolt of the carriage’s forward motion. Within seconds it smoothed into a sedate and seamless drift as the wind aether filled the balloons overhead, and they were off down the half-paved cobbles that led to the Blue Badger gate. In moments they would pass out of the city and turn onto the southbound road.

For the final time, Aurelia allowed herself a glance over her shoulder, back over the lip of the carriage and in the direction of the Carline Canopy. Keveh’to, it seemed, had chosen to remain outside the chocobo paddock. He stood stiff and unmoving save for the tail that lashed erratically at the air, his hands shoved into his deep pockets and his mouth turned in a downward bow she could see even from here.

His words drifted across her mind like errant clouds.

I’ve waited too long. Saying it now won’t change anything.

She kept her gaze upon the dwindling figure until the carriage had rounded the bend and that splash of bright yellow was no longer visible through the foliage.

~*~

Watching the commotion below from his perch upon a flight of corrugated metal steps, Nero tol Scaeva knew what was coming next. The cohort’s work had come to a screeching halt and several of the engineers had gathered about to investigate the rear quarter panel of the left leg. None of them seemed to know what orders they were to give or be given if any, and the resulting confusion left them milling aimlessly about like ants puzzling at a stray piece of food someone had dropped on the floor.

Thus it fell to him to restore order, as much as he would rather not: his presence alone would subject him to fearful kowtowing and stammered excuses. He knew he could be a hard man when the situation called for it, but he liked to think he was also a fair one, and even the greenest of the signal corps had no reason to fear his wrath so long as they could explain themselves to his satisfaction. Still, he was a Garlean, and the provincial fear of his countrymen was deeply ingrained into the army's conscripts -- ingrained when it was not beaten.

No help for it, I suppose.

He made his way beneath the iron scaffolding that surrounded the warmachina's exoskeleton at a brisk pace. The clatter of his sollerets upon the metal tiling set an easy and unhurried rhythm as he crossed the open floor until his stride slowed to a full stop mere fulms away. The engineers’ chatter, quiet but idle, dwindled into an anxious silence.

One of the engineers, a tiny Auri woman with her lavender-tinted hair bound in regulation braids, went visibly pale at the sight of his approach but to her credit did not make a show of flinching from him, and even had sufficient courage to offer up a salute as was proper. He folded his arms over his chest and peered down at her through the visor of his helm. They stood close enough that he could see how her forearm - still stiffly crossed over her chest - trembled at his proximity.

“Architectus,” he said very calmly.

“Y-yes, my lord?”

“As you were,” she dropped her salute, but her back remained ramrod straight and the tension did not leave her shoulders. He continued as if he had failed to notice, “I mark a number of you performing a very serious study of this warmachina’s leg joint, in lieu of performing your assigned tasks.”

Her swallow was audible even through his helm’s transceiver, but her stone-faced stare did not waver. “Apologies, my lord. There is-”

“I believe I have stated on multiple occasions that we have a schedule to keep, and not a terribly lenient one at that. Perhaps the cohort is in need of a reminder.”

“My lord, please,” the woman blurted, then winced almost immediately, “I am sorry to interrupt. But you see, there’s a problem.”

Shite and swiving hellsfire, if I never hear ‘there’s a problem’ again in my lifetime it will be too soon. Still, unlike sas Junius it was not in Nero’s nature to vent his spleen upon hapless messengers. He released a long-suffering sigh instead - only somewhat dramatized for her benefit - and watched those large ocean-blue eyes break their impasse at the sound. They flickered nervously up at his face, then down, then back out to stare at that fixed point past his waistline.

“Of course there is,” he said aloud.

“My lord?”

His own fault, he surmised, for expecting any other response to his bit of japery. “Never mind. Continue.”

“Yes, my lord. We ran the initial tests using the Vanguard H-1’s specifications, as dictated. The operating system ran as expected upon startup. But when we tried to proceed with full activation... well, we tried to switch over from the H-1 but it caused a power surge and nearly started a fire- as you see here. As it is we’re dead in the water. She won’t power on at all now.”

“I assume our engineering teams ran down their checklists for aught that might have compromised structural integrity, prior to attempting the activation.”

“Just so, my lord. Circuitry, fuel lines, motherboards-- it was all green.” She bit her lip. “If… perhaps we might speak to the quartermaster and requisition another part. Or perhaps a larger-”

“The next step up would be the specs for a low-velocity assault craft,” Nero interrupted dryly. “While I share your readiness to explore all possible options, I think it unwise to blindly run through every single spare part at our disposal hoping for a result. Aside from the obvious risks, ‘tis inefficient. We do not have a great deal of time to make what amounts to an educated guess.”

“I- yes,” she stammered. “I apologize, my lord, I should have thought-”

He waved an impatient hand. She fell silent as instantly as if he had slammed a door shut in her face. “Who is your immediate superior?”

“Valens nan Varro, my lord.”

“Kindly inform him that the activation test has been delayed pending an internal review. We will reschedule after I have spoken with the legatus.”

Now she was staring at her feet, her face pale once again. “...He will be sorely displeased if he discovers we have failed you, my lord. Sorely.”

“Ah, yes. A terrible burden indeed, the primus architectus' personal inconvenience. Unfortunately, we shall all have to bear it,” Nero said briskly. He did not care to argue the matter with a subordinate; such behavior would undermine his authority, and the engineers present were well aware that his word was the final say.

“But-”

“If nan Varro is displeased with the decision and wishes to contest it, then he may take his grievance up with me directly.”

Her shoulders slumped forward ever so slightly, not in relief but defeat. Beneath his helm, Nero raised his brows at the response but said nothing further.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And I expect an incident report on my desk by 0700 tomorrow morning. Posthaste.”

Her answering salute was stiff and formal, expression as stony and unyielding as a statue’s. Whatever emotion he had spied was carefully hidden now; the wall was back in place. Curious. Irrelevant. He had neither the time nor the wherewithal to waste in wondering after it.

Nero passed her without another word, her fellows hastening to clear a path for him as he approached the enormous back leg. There were scorch marks on the edges of the chassis panel, he noted; exposed copper fibers trailed from the opened casing like wilted ivy creepers. The ends were blackened and a thin line of smoke still curled in slender lines; the smell was acrid and familiar and the castrum's ventilation system would disperse it within a half hour.

One hand hovered just over the scorched plate as he studied the sight, with a furrowed brow and pursed lips.

Retrofitting Allagan technology was not a precise art, as much as it pained Nero to admit it. Some artifacts worked so readily with Garlean magitek that the process was utterly seamless, as if it had been meant for their hands. Others were far more complex, and thus more time-intensive. The Ultima Weapon had been his longest project to date, and the tribunus laticlavius had to remind himself that the machina had been experimental even to the greatest scientists of its age: a groundbreaking anti-eikon countermeasure that partnered the arcane with the mundane. A seamless blending of aetherology and engineering, borne of man’s ingenuity.

Blended---

Ah.

“My lord?” a timid voice echoed at his back. The engineers were watching him; they had gathered a respectful six fulms away.

“...This is not a public spectacle,” his hand fell away from the plating. “See to this mess. I want the machina checked from top to bottom for aught that could possibly cause further delays. Exposed joints, chassis warping, blown fuses, exposed wires, all of it.”

"My lord, the test-" "Is no longer your priority," his impatience filtered through as a short, barked command. "Attend to your tasks. I will not ask you twice." The gathered cluster of engineers sketched their salutes and scattered like mice, scrambling to obey before any of them could experience the implied consequences for perceived insubordination. Nero watched them in silence for a few beats before taking his leave. He made his way back along the catwalk and up several flights of steps, to one of the administrative bays that oversaw the hangar. Once he was certain of his privacy, he removed his helm with a soft and relieved sigh. It was a mere press of a button after that to open the transceiver link and set it to a specific frequency. Static hissed in the confines of the empty office for one second, two, before the link became stable and there was smooth air and Gaius van Baelsar's gruff baritone:

“State your business.”

“Lord Gaius. Have I interrupted something?”

“Yes, but naught of particular importance. For a small blessing.” The legatus of the XIVth Imperial Legion sounded vaguely put out, but not irate. An encouraging sign which meant he was like to be at least somewhat amenable to the discussion Nero wished to have. “I take it you have something you wished to discuss.”

“I do. The activation test failed. I should have an incident report within the next 24 hours that will list the particulars.”

“Again?”

“Indeed. This is why,” Nero took a deep breath, “I should like to request that the Weapon and all hands involved in the project be transferred to the research facility in Agelyss Wyse.” “The Vylbrand coast? That is not exactly shouting distance from Gyr Abania. And there are certain dangers present which make your proposition quite risky.” Refusal to take risks will not garner the results we seek. "With all due respect, my lord, you did not assign me this project with any fond hopes that I would remain complacent,” he could almost feel his commanding officer bristling at his bluntness, “and these failed tests have made it abundantly clear that - as you will recall that I posited, against protest from certain quarters - ceruleum combustion alone will not be sufficient to bring the Weapon back online. Not at full capacity.”

“What do you propose?”

“I will get to that eventually, but first and foremost: I need data. Current data. Simulations and conjectures will only get us so far.” He glanced out the bay window at the massive machina, a dormant monster, each opened claw the size of a juggernaut. “The Weapon was designed to do far more than subdue eikons, and we have merely scratched the surface of its capabilities. But scratching is all we will manage if we remain here.”

Nero managed - only just - to keep the excitement out of his voice. The Black Wolf of Garlemald was a straightforward man, he knew from long years of experience: interested in results, not theories.

“I understand this, but you are also asking to upend our timetable for the sake of a hypothesis.”

“A hypothesis with its foundation in the methods the Allagans used to create and maintain Dalamud- as Lord van Darnus would attest, were he still with us. I think it a safe assumption that the Ultima Weapon operates upon a similar methodology.” Van Baelsar’s only response was a sigh of consternation. Nero continued, “And yes, it would move our overall timetable forward a few weeks. I admit it.”

“Nearly two months,” the legatus said sourly. “You understand that even if I agree to your proposal, it is not something that can be immediately enacted.”

“I would not expect to presume thus, my lord, of course.” There was bureaucracy involved, and the logistics of moving entire teams between castra -- not to mention the machina itself. Well, Solus zos Galvus had not built the Empire in a day, either. “I realize there are protocols to follow. I only ask for consideration-”

“And due consideration will be given, tribunus- in due time. At the very least I must needs contact the Occidens praefectus and discuss the matter. We will speak on this anon.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He could afford the wait. In the meantime, there was much yet to be done- and new plans to be made. When the legatus called for him again, as he inevitably would, Nero would be prepared to explain what must be done ere their goals could be met. Allag’s mighty Weapon would awaken from its slumber by his hand, and he would receive his fair due at last. There was no one and nothing now to keep him from reaching forth to take what was rightfully his.

This victory shall be mine and mine alone, he thought. And you, old friend, will be as chaff in the wind. Discarded and forgotten.

Beneath his twin veils of tempered glass and chromed crimson steel, Nero tol Scaeva began to smile.

#aurelia laskaris #garlean warrior of light #keveh'to epocan #gaius van baelsar #nero tol scaeva #mother miounne #werlyt cameos sort of?#and the leveilleurs #you get a cameo! and you get a cameo!#this concludes reborn by fire #off to ARR we gooo #upon pale dawns #chapter 4

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writethelifeyouwant · 4 years ago

Text

Dive Bar Ch. 7/ ?

Pairing: Dean x Sam (eventually, he he he)

Rating: 18+

Prompt/Summary: After a one night stand with a random college chick turns into a threesome that also featured his little brother, Dean- well, frankly, he panics. What’s even worse than gay panicking? Gay incest panicking. Luckily, Sam winds up being a little more cool about the whole thing than Dean ever would have imagined.

WC: 2,276

Tags: gay panic, allusions to brother/brother incest, angst, Dean having graphic naughty thoughts

Beta: @daydream3r-xo - thank you for reading lovely 😘

A/N: To keep things realistic, as this chapter takes place one month on from the previous one, I figured I better make you guys wait that long too! JK, 🙃 I just suck spectacularly. So sorry for the unplanned hiatus, but I’m getting back into the swing of things, and promise the next chapter is already in progress and will be out next week 😊

Chapter 6

One month later

They’re out west working a vengeful spirit case and pretending, pretty effectively Dean thinks, that the events of nearly two months ago now have been forgotten. Sam doesn’t bring it up, he doesn’t bring it up, that should be the end of that. Except it’s not. Inside, Dean’s head is a mass of tangled emotions and twisted thoughts and dark crevices broadcasting a siren’s song - like the allure of hearing a snippet of “Cherry Pie” seeping out into the dusty blackness of a desert parking lot illuminated by the warm neon outlines of poles and women - except the images hidden in those crevices aren’t mostly-naked women with too much makeup and not enough self respect. Hidden in the recesses of Dean’s mind are the images of Sam’s cock thrusting into a tight throat, and an echo of the words, “hey, if you ever need help figuring it out…”

Those words have haunted Dean more thoroughly than any ghost they’ve hunted, than any spectre they’ve burned. And Dean couldn’t manage to burn those words out of his memory.

A knock on his shoulder draws Dean out of himself and back to the present, where the object of his fantasies sits blissfully unaware on the sticky black leather next to him. The desert is hot.

“Are you listening to me man? Thought you said we were gonna pull over for the night, find some A/C?”

“Yeah, of -” Dean cleared his throat, dropping from the embarrassingly high octave his voice had come out in. “Of course, just uh, point me to the next exit I guess. There’s gotta be something coming up.”

“Yeah, it looks like there’s a little resort town coming up just a coupl’a miles from here. If it’s a tourist spot they should at least have functioning air conditioning, maybe even a shower that isn’t broken,” Sam huffed.

“Yeah, sounds good Sammy.”

To Sam’s relief they had a cool room and a clean shower about half an hour later, and he relished in the chance to stretch his legs and rinse off the dust that clung to him from driving with the windows down most of their way there. Towelling off his hair with a rough shake he lobbed the towel onto the bed and grabbed for a fresh t-shirt.

“I’m going to grab some grub. You want to come or you gonna stay and read that nerd book you picked up in the last town?”

“You mean Mythology of the Spirit in the American West?” Sam corrected Dean exasperatedly.

“Yeah, like I said, nerd book. You coming with or not?”

Sam huffed and considered his options. He was looking forward to sitting down with that book, but he’d also been cooped up in the impala for innumerable hours not too long ago, and it would feel good to walk around for a bit, even if his brother was being an ass.

“Yeah, sure. I’m coming.”

Dean picked out the first joint they walked by with bright lights and loud music. This was definitely a tourist town, because even on a weekday this place was packed, but Dean liked the noise and the buzz. It made a welcome change from the monotony of his thoughts broadcasting over a tinny radio all day.

The place didn’t have much in the way of decor beyond the theme of ‘bar’. It was crowded with mostly guys - dressed a little more loudly than Dean would have expected but, hey, they were probably on vacation, cutting a little loose - and the occasional group of girlfriends had tables dotted around as well. It looked like your typical food and drink establishment.

Sam slapped him on the arm and gestured to a free table on the other side of the room. Dean gave him a thumbs up and pointed to the bar, to indicate he’d grab the first round of drinks and hopefully find a menu while he was at it, he was starving.

The bartender gave him a friendly smile when he asked for two draughts and pointed out the menus when Dean asked. Dean grabbed the first beer that was passed over to him and hung around at the bar while he looked through the menu and waited for Sam’s drink. That turned out to be a poor tactical decision, because standing alone at a bar and being as attractive as Dean is a combination that invited attention.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Dean looked up, startled, into the face of the tanned, polo-shirt-wearing guy that had just spoken to him. He was giving Dean what was supposed to be an open, disarming smile, but which really just looked weirdly nervous.

“Uh, hey,” Dean responded, leaving it open for the newcomer to pick up the conversation, but not really knowing what to say to him.

“Nice night, huh?”

“Um, yeah, sure-”

“Here’s your other drink, man,” the bartender cut across the exchange and dropped the second glass next to Dean’s first.

“Thanks,” Dean grabbed quickly for the second drink and tucked the menu under his arm before grabbing his own. “Uh, nice to meet ‘ya,” he nodded awkwardly to polo-guy and hurried past to get back to Sam, who was playing on his phone at the table, leaving any thought of how weird that was back at the bar with the now deflated looking tourist.

An hour later, suitably fed and two beers down, Sam suggested a game of pool.

“You know I’m always up for beating your ass, Sammy.”

Dean grinned and racked up the strangely coloured billiard balls in a bright pink frame. He’d never seen rainbow-coloured pool before but, whatever, people were weird. He gave Sam the break, and tried very hard to look anywhere but his baby brother’s ass as he bent stoically over the felt top and crashed the cue into the white ball, grinning smugly when he straightened up and rounded the table to pound a brightly striped ball into a corner pocket. Dean breathed a sigh of relief that he no longer had to avoid looking at Sam with his perv-o-vision on, but realised too late that the front-on view of Sam wasn’t any less enticing.

The way his chestnut bangs curled over his brow and caught on his insanely long eyelashes - seriously was he wearing mascara or something? Dean yanked himself from his thoughts, only to be confronted with Sam’s eyes glancing up at him from behind those lashes and curls, like he wanted to check Dean was watching him while he took his shot. He holed another ball, and the clack and thunk of ball against porcelain and then wood shuddered through Dean and settled in his bones. The cocky smirk on Sam’s face took it one step further, and sent a shock of arousal through his chest and down.

“I’m gonna go get us some refills,” Dean grunted and motioned to their mostly empty glasses. Sam shrugged and eyed his next shot, smirking to himself, under the assumption that Dean was bailing because he didn’t want to watch Sam slaughter him right out of the gate. He was partially right. At the rate he was going, Dean was going to be on the floor soon; and it had nothing to do with the pool or the alcohol, and everything to do with the thoughts Sam was stirring inside him.

Up at the bar, Dean called for two more beers, and a double shot of something strong. The amber liquid was dropped in front of him quickly while the bartender waited for the taps to clear. Dean took a healthy gulp and let the burn in his throat ground him, reminding him of what he could control in this world. And maybe he couldn’t control his thoughts about Sammy, but he could control how mind-numbingly drunk he got to forget them. Taking the second and last gulp of the liquor, he nearly choked when he felt a tap on his shoulder. And he knew it wasn’t Sam, because he was watching Sam still bent over the pool table from across the room.

“You drank that pretty damn quick,” the stranger chuckled deeply. “Good stuff?”

“Strong stuff,” Dean grunted, and flagged the bartender for another, which was quickly poured out for him.

“I know something else pretty strong that would feel good sliding down your throat.” This time Dean did choke on his liquor, prompting the stranger to thump him on the back, which Dean flinched away from violently. “Sorry hombre, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” the stranger had the decency to look slightly abashed, “it’s just… you got the best damn blowjob lips I’ve ever seen.” Dean almost swallowed wrong again.

“I, uh…” Dean cleared his throat, grasping at straws for words that made any sense, and tried again. “That’s, um, that’s very flattering of you but I’m not… uh, ‘on your team’ amigo, sorry.” In a bid to hide his awkwardness, Dean went to down the rest of his drink. It stung on the way down, where the flesh of his throat was raw from choking.

“Oh, sorry man, I thought uh- with your friend over there you two must be… well, among friends here.” He gestured vaguely around the room and Dean followed his motion, paying closer attention now than he had all night. And that’s when he noticed that a lot of the guys were sitting just a little closer than friends do, the groups of girlfriends dotted around all had pairs amongst them… His eyes darted back to Sam and the rainbow coloured billiard balls he hadn’t thought too hard about before.

Dean’s stare hardened when he noticed that Sam, who had pocketed all his balls, effectively finishing the game while Dean was at the bar (and Dean did not let his heart strings tug proudly at that), was leaning casually against the side of the table, arms resting on his pool cue in a way that made him look carelessly sexy, eyes raking over a guy slightly shorter than him with spiky hair and a tight henley. His brain echoed with the sounds of shattering glass as he turned, wide-eyed, back to the incredibly forward man who had been hitting on him.

“This is a gay bar?” Dean hoped he didn’t sound offensive, he was just confused.

“Wow,” the stranger laughed, tucking a hand into his pocket, “you really are straight aren’t you?”

He shook his head bemusedly and slapped a bill on the counter, gesturing for two of what Dean had just been downing. When they arrived, he clicked his drink against the glass he pushed in front of Dean. “Hope you forget whoever it is you’re drinking to forget about, and if you want some help with that, I don’t mind working with beginners.” The stranger left with a wink and made his way back to his group of buddies across the room, laughing off their sympathies at his strike out.

Dean was left at the bar, puzzled, embarrassed, but vaguely flattered. Except then he remembered Sam was talking to someone, some jag-off who didn’t know how to buy clothes that fit him properly, and a feeling he wasn’t sure how to name writhed and burned in his chest. Eyeing his little brother over the drink he’d just been bought, Dean tried to do a little introspection for once. If he didn’t have a name for what he was feeling, then it was probably something new, right? It wasn’t his protective instincts kicking in, Sam could take this guy easily; could probably split him in half, Dean thought to himself ruefully. But then that thought conjured up an image Dean wasn’t mentally prepared for.

Like he was watching it through the flickering of a candle, shadows jumping across the figures he was trying to focus on, Dean saw Sam grab the man’s hair and slam him over the pool table with his arm twisted behind his back, saw Sam pull down his too-skinny jeans and bury his face between the guy’s ass cheeks, saw Sam naked, slamming into him, splitting him in half, the muscles in his back flexing and glistening with sweat in the weird half light Dean was watching through.

In a blink, Sam and his boy-toy had disappeared. Not just from Dean’s lecherous imaginings but also from Dean’s actual view. Panicked, he searched for Sam in the crowd, breath easing when he saw him further down the bar ordering drinks, but every muscle in his body clenched when he saw Sam’s hand land on his companion’s shoulder and squeeze.

What the hell did Sam think he was doing? Picking some random guy up in a bar? That wasn’t like him at all, that was Dean’s thing. Except, when was the last time he’d gone home with someone? A few weeks? A month? With a gut-wrenching feeling, Dean realised that he hadn’t taken anyone home with him since Dani and Sam. So maybe picking people up in bars wasn’t his thing, if he hadn’t done it in so long. Maybe now it was Sam’s thing.

But then what’s my thing?

Dean scrambled in his head for a new identity, a new label. Something like ‘big brother’ that he could use to define himself, ground himself in the haze of confusion he felt himself slipping away in. Hunter? High-school dropout? Badass? Border-line alcoholic? He looked up from his empty glass and cast around his surroundings, frustrated and dazed and searching for an answer - and he locked eyes with Sam.

You’re the guy who’s hopelessly in love with his little brother.

Fuck.

***

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#dive bar #wincest #spnkinkbingo #gay panic #bi!sam #dean has gay thoughts #sexy times

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