#oh this round is going to be so messy i can already sense the battlefield twitter is going to be this week

[yixiangs]

hold on so many of these groups have overlapping elements this round is so interesting

[chokemeanakin]

I dont know if you are taking requests but if you are, could you please write something where reader has trouble masturbating, every time she tries she just CANT, so anakin (theyre just friends but they always had lots of sexual tension) helps her out and does it for her so she cums for the first time. THANK YOU!!!

A Dream Come True - Anakin Skywalker x fem Reader (smut)

Masterlist

Read it on ao3

Wc: 5.4k

A low warmth is rising in your belly, pulled from the depths by your wandering fingers. They’re working against your clit, rubbing it side to side, faster and hard, trying so desperately to remain in that warm haze of pleasure you’ve spent so long building up. It feels good, but you need more. 

The many late nights spent with your girlfriends cross your mind, and how you would sit by idly during each one as they discussed their own personal affairs in the bedroom. You were the least experienced, but listened in awe as they told you the latest on what their partners have done to surprise them in bed. How they made them scream and shake, their eyes roll back into their head, and cum all over until they couldn’t take anymore.

You were too embarrassed to admit you’d never felt that way before. You thought you were broken.

Which is why you’re here, fingers glued to your hard nub, rubbing furiously to try and get yourself to feel something. You do feel something, but it’s not earth-shattering, leg-shaking, eye-rolling like your friends had described. Frustration fuels your movements as you attack your clit, holding your breath, forcing the warmth to build and build and build--

Nothing.

Your arm aches with the strain as you halt your movements, chest heaving when you allow yourself to breathe. Self-pity outweighs your disappointment as the subtle warmth dissipates, any pleasure that you had given yourself slipping away. 

Broken, a small voice whispers inside your head. There’s something wrong with you.

What other reasoning could there be to explain why you can’t feel good? 

Maybe, you argue, there needs to be something inside. That was always a big topic of discussion with your friends, how they “loved being filled.” Gathering your wits, you move your finger down, exploring your folds until you find your opening. Squeezing your eyes shut, you push a finger in, wincing at the sudden intrusion. 

It stings more than anything, but you’re desperate so you decide to give it a chance. You’ve tried this before, and it’s never felt like anything more than a finger inside of you-- which is exactly what it is. And now, this situation proves to be the same. You feel around, hoping to find that spot everyone raves about, but your fingers are too short and the angle is weird. You push your finger in and out like how you think you’re supposed to, and it feels like nothing.

Maybe you need two?

You let another finger join the one that’s already inside, struggling to get it in. 

Ow, you wince as your body rejects the intrusion. Your heartbeat picks up, a sudden anxiety joining the whirlwind of exasperation and discontent that has come from this situation. Is it supposed to hurt this much? The remnants of the need to satisfy yourself are still present, so you try again.

Making it back to your apartment had been a relief this evening, as all day you had been battling a relentless urge down below. You’re not too proud to admit that your… situation… had been a direct result of spending the day with Anakin, a good friend of yours who needed help finding a data entry in the corner of the Temple library. The entry supposedly had something to do with a cloaking mechanism for battleships, and when you had asked why he needed it when the Republic already had cloaking mechanisms, he mentioned that he was trying to translate the same technique to his own personal starship. No battlecraft as small as his has that ability, and with a ship as fast as his, it would give him a huge advantage on the battlefield. 

You could listen to him talk about it all day.

You virtually had, as the data entry was just one small piece of paper-- a piece of scrap blueprint scrawled on a fragile, worried edge of some larger text, worn with time. You spent hours searching all over for it. Once you had finally dug it out of a dusty box in the deepest corner of the library, Anakin had lifted you into the air effortlessly, swinging you around as he hugged you and laughed.

You had walked home with a damp spot in your underwear, an undeniable throb that needed to be relieved. 

He had no idea. No idea that his hands shot sparks up your spine as they closed around your waist. That his laugh turned your blood to lava, and his beautiful, smiling face made your heart skip a beat. He had no idea that he is the cause of your desperation, the reason you are torturing yourself by dangling an unknown pleasure before your face, knowing you can’t have it. 

You manage to sink your second finger in a little, but the sting is too much, and you have to pull them both out.

Broken.

The door to your apartment suddenly swings open, and you throw your sheets over your bare legs in a panic. Your eyes find the clock next to your bed-- Shit. You’d lost track of the time. 

The sound of those boots are unmistakable, and you find that praying you’re wrong is pointless when he calls out your name. 

“Y/n--?” Anakin rounds the corner to peer into your room, features lighting up when he finally finds you. Curious eyes roam over your figure, wondering why you’re in bed when it was barely evening. “Are you feeling okay?”

Your cheeks flame with heat, and you can’t find the words to explain yourself out of this situation. Mentally, you’re beating yourself up for losing track of time, especially since you knew Anakin was coming over tonight. While searching for the data log, you mentioned you had always wanted to try his favorite childhood drink-- ruby bliels-- and he promised he’d treat you tonight after you found the blueprint. It was his thank you gift to you, but now you needed to find a way to get him out of your apartment before he realized what was going on.

Your mouth hangs open like a gaping fish, and you know it’s too late. Anakin’s brain is as fast as his superhuman reflexes, and you can see the gears click into place as his eyes flit from your red cheeks, to the messy covers strewn over your legs, to the crumpled panties lying discarded on the floor. Your hand is even still frozen between your legs, your activities becoming clear as he senses the remnants of pleasure and disappointment still hanging around the room. 

“Oh…” is all he says, looking lost for a moment. You expect him to apologize and turn away, run out of the apartment and then never speak to you again. You wouldn’t blame him. Finding a friend in this position can never be a comfortable experience.

Instead a slow smirk crawls onto his face, and he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You need some help with that?”

You should have known. The smug little bastard-- of course he’d find this amusing. Your face grows impossibly redder, and you wish a black hole would just open beneath you already and swallow you up. Anakin finds your humiliation endearing, and laughs good-naturedly. 

“Alright, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it,” he slinks out of the doorway, crooking his finger in the air to close the door after him. “I’ll be in the kitchen setting up for the bliels when you’re done--”

“Wait!”

You’re just as shocked as he is at the words that leave your mouth. He freezes in place, the door still open a crack. There’s too many thoughts running through your head right now, but the one that stands out the most has you pulling your hand away from your center, sitting up in bed so you can address him clearly. 

You never thought you’d be able to speak these words to him. For so long, you had wanted him in every way possible. But he’s a Jedi, unable to form attachments, and more than that-- a friend. A very good friend. And breaching the topic that you know you both feel for each other had the potential to ruin it all. 

But the minute he had opened that door, still dressed in that black leather armor, hair perfectly curled and messy, so tall and strong and devilishly handsome leaning against your doorframe-- he was beautiful, and you’d be a fool not to take advantage of his offering. Even if it might have been a joke. 

You had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t. 

“I… I do need help.”

There. You said it. And you’re pretty certain the only reason you could force the words past your lips is because his back is still facing you. But then he opens the door again, turns to meet your eyes, and cocks his head.

“Really?”

You’re not sure how to feel about the concern on his face. You guess it’s better than him being disgusted, or awkward, or uncomfortable. And it’s not an outright rejection. That realization gives you the push you need to explain yourself.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Now he looks concerned. Walking a few steps into the room, he stops by the edge of your bed and folds his arms across his chest. He’s studying every inch of you, reaching into the force to try and gauge the nature of your words. “What do you mean?”

He’s standing so close now, you can see the blue of his eyes and the wrinkle between his furrowed brows. It does nothing to calm your sizzling nerves. However, you’re concrete on your desires now. While you would have liked to confess your feelings for him in a more… romantic way, the intensity of your need for him in this very moment overshadows rational thought. Besides, it’s not like this is a declaration of love. That could always come later. For right now, you need his help, and you’re certain that you can trust him not to make fun of you or shame you for trying in if he declines.

“I can’t…” you take a deep breath, staring at your hands in your lap. “I can’t make myself feel good.”

Your voice is so quiet, embarrassed and ashamed, but he catches the yearning under it all. His face smooths, comforted by the fact that you’re not injured or dying in some way. Deep down, something sparks alive in his veins. 

That’s the issue? Well… it’s definitely something he can help you with.

“Hmm.” His face is thoughtful as he scans your position. His hand gestures vaguely down your body. “Do you want to show me what you’re doing?”

Your blood freezes at his request. For some reason, it didn’t cross your mind how asking for his help would require him to see you… naked. 

“If you’re too embarrassed, we can just--”

You cut off his words by throwing the blanket off. There, like ripping off a bandaid. His eyes drink in the exposed skin of your legs, and although they’re closed and he can’t be seeing much more than he’s already seen before, they darken. A small twitch of his fingers, and the door clicks shut behind him. 

He takes a seat on the side of the bed, next to your legs, and rests his metal hand on your knee. Your heart beats like a hummingbird's wings at the sudden proximity, and the nerves pile up again at the thought of what’s going to happen.

“Wait-- um… actually, can you come here?” 

You reach out to take his metal hand from your knee, and pull him up the bed so that he’s hovering over you. He’s still sitting, the upper half of his body twisted toward you, caging you in with a hand on either side of you. He’s smiling softly, and his eyes twinkle with something fond.

He doesn’t need to ask to know that you’re nervous. The rigidity in your muscles, the flightyness of your eyes, the hammer of your heart-- he can feel it all, and he wants nothing more than to quell your fears. So he lifts an arm to cup your face in his large hand, smoothing a thumb over your cheekbone in a silent request for you to look at him.

Once you muster up the courage to meet his eyes, his smile grows, and he says something that steals your breath.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh, how long you’ve wanted him to say those words to you. Countless nights, you’d run them through your head, imagining all the scenarios in which it could happen. Certainly, this was not one of them, but you definitely aren’t going to complain.

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you give him a nod, and lean forward a fraction in invitation. Your veins sing with anticipation, warmth spreading from your cheeks to every small nook and cranny of your body as he angles your face up toward his. Your eyes flutter close, and he leans down, and--

Bliss.

His lips are warm against yours, soft, applying the gentlest of pressures. You always thought he’d be a good kisser-- he was experienced, and he’d hinted at some of his more scandalous escapades a couple times in passing conversation. You’d asked him before, how he could do that when Jedi aren’t allowed to form attachments, which resulted in him going into a full lecture on how non-attachment didn’t translate to abstinence being “The Jedi Way”, even if it was supported within the Order. Really, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything, until he fell on the defensive position that he was almost certain Obi-Wan had done stuff as well.

Which-- great. Now you realized you were less experienced than even two Jedi. 

These thoughts are snuffed out like candles, one by one, as Anakin kisses you. In fact, your whole mind goes blank, a wave washing over all of your worries away and dragging them out to sea. You’re drifting on that wave, drowning in the heady feel of him, the warm taste of him. His slow inhale reminds you to breathe as he moves his lips against yours languidly. It’s heaven, the way he’s yours for just this moment. He might not think anything of this kiss, but to you, it’s like your deepest fantasies are coming true. With each moment that passes where he tilts his head and closes his lips over yours, you can pretend that he is yours, completely and unconditionally.

Eventually he pulls back, eyes fluttering open, and you realize you’re still lost at sea.  

“Good?” his voice is low and raspy as his gaze bores into yours. You wonder if he knows how intense his eyes can be sometimes. 

“Yes.”

He presses another quick kiss to your lips, your heart spasming at the act, before he trails kisses down your jaw, tasting the skin of your neck. Your breath picks up again, hands finding his curls as you gasp at the feeling. His teeth skim over the junction of your neck and shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your throbbing pulse. He means for the kisses to be distracting, soothing, so that you’ll be more comfortable with him, and he thinks it’s working until a faint moan leaves your mouth.

So it’s really working.

Anakin’s eyes flick up to yours, and you can feel the smirk against your skin. Embarrassment crashes down on you again but Anakin repeats the motion, nipping at your skin and then smoothing his tongue over the mark, sucking gently to try to elicit another reaction. You gift him one against your will, and suddenly he’s got lava pouring into his veins.

You’re so lost in the feeling of his mouth on you that you don’t even realize his warm hand has travelled from your face, down the middle of your body, gripping onto the pliant flesh of your thigh and pulling you toward him. You let him, rolling your body into him to try and relieve that reappearing ache in your center. 

It’s the same feeling that had built up all day, and it’s returned with a vengeance. You can feel the wetness seep out, slicking your thighs up. Your clit throbs and your pussy clenches around nothing, begging for something to satisfy the ache. You rub your thighs together to help, but Anakin slides a hand to the inside of your thigh and coaxes your legs apart. Any embarrassment you felt before has been beat out by a yearning for his touch, the need to have his fingers on you, inside you--

“Show me how you’ve been doing it,” Anakin mumbles into your neck.

You open your eyes, pulled up from the haze of pleasure he’d submerged you in. Your hand only shakes slightly as you release his hair and bring it back to your skin. He pulls back a few inches to watch, the heat of his body so close to yours causing goosebumps to erupt all over your body. 

His eyes hone in on your hand, following its descent to your warm center. You still can’t wrap your head around the fact that someone is seeing you like this, but now your veins sing with a satisfied realization that he’s the one seeing you like this. He’s the only one who ever has. And he seems to like what he’s seeing.

You don’t miss the way he inhales, the way his teeth capture a sliver of his bottom lip as your fingers finally reach your heat. You begin to do what you’ve always done-- rub your fingers back and forth over your nub, working that pleasure from it.

It feels good, different than what it felt like when you were alone. You’re sure his eyes on you, the proximity, his mere presence has something to do with that. You can still taste him on your lips and you close your eyes, licking them to relive the kiss. You focus on the warmth of his body, the dip of the bed where his arm is planted beside you, the weight of his other hand still holding your thigh open, the scent of his black leather and spice of his shampoo. It definitely feels better when he’s here, the knowledge of him watching adding to your excitement.

But still, you can only build yourself up to a certain point. The pleasure plateaus, and soon you begin to feel awkward at the fact that nothing is happening. It’s not enough to make you moan, or move, or show any reaction really. Your hand stills, and you look at him uncertainly.

Anakin blinks and brings his eyes back up. “Have you tried fingering yourself?”

You almost choke. You’re not sure why his blunt nature surprises you anymore. 

He’s looking at you curiously, completely serious, waiting for an answer. So you clear your throat and slide your finger down to your entrance, pushing in.

It goes in easier than before, and there’s no sting. But you don’t even have to move to know you’re literally going to get nothing out of it, and trying is useless.

“This is what I’m talking about,” you tell him. “It doesn’t feel like anything. And when I try two, it hurts. I think I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he frowns, smoothing your hair away from your forehead and replacing it with a kiss. Your heart melts at the action that you’re sure is meant to be comforting, but only deepens your adoration of him. He sits up and you immediately miss him, although you understand he needs a better angle as he slides his hand from your thigh to the top of your pelvis. He hesitates, questioning. “Can I?”

You pull your finger out and push yourself up onto your forearms, nodding for him to go ahead. 

His touch is light as a feather as his fingertips make contact with your swollen nub. Your breath hitches in your chest, thighs immediately opening wider on their own accord to get him to increase the pressure. He watches your face as he fulfills your silent request, massaging your clit in slow, gentle circles. 

Fireworks are exploding behind your eyes, and you melt into a puddle on the bed. He’s barely even touching you, and somehow it already feels so much better than anything you’ve done to yourself. Quiet whimpers fall from your lips and the sounds make him need a steadying breath, reminding himself to go slow. Obviously, no one has ever touched you before, and he doesn’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.

The sight of your head tilted back, teeth biting at your lips to quiet your sounds, fingers clutching at the bedsheets-- a very sudden, very real desire to absolutely ruin you slams into him. 

But no. That can come later.

He brings his metal hand up to your face, thumb tracing over your bottom lip and pulling it from your teeth. “You don’t have to be quiet with me,” he tells you, the ministrations on your clit with his other hand never ceasing. Instead, he picks up the pace, increasing the pressure, drinking in the sight of your hips moving against his fingers.

You’re absolutely drenched, dripping down your thighs and puddling onto the bedsheets. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this wet before, or felt this good before, and the warmth you’ve always felt is transforming into a ball of heat in your stomach. You hone into the feeling, the heat pulsing with each pass of his fingers, each wet slide of him against you--

“You have to breathe, Y/n,” Anakin chuckles, slowing his touch. You gasp in a deep breath, whining at the loss of friction, but he appeases you by slipping his fingers from your clit to your entrance. He doesn’t push in-- instead he circles his finger around it, collecting your slick, reading your every response. 

“Please, can you…” you buck your hips up, but he doesn’t allow his finger to slide in until you finish your sentence. “Can you put it in?”

He can’t keep the tiny, darkly satisfied smile off his face. He’s always had fantasies of you like this, squirming beneath him and begging for his touch. He basks in the fulfilled wish of his, drinking in every second so he can remember it for later. Meanwhile, his finger massages your hole, dipping in with just the tip before pulling back out. 

“Fuck,” you hiss, once again surprised at your own reaction. Your head is far past the point of clouding with lust, and now you’re dizzy with pleasure and the need to just have him inside of you already. “Anakin, please.”

“Patience,” he answers teasingly, although he does mean it. You can’t rush these things. And… he does have to admit that he loves seeing you so desperate and messy for him. Your neediness has him strain against his own pants, but he pushes that aside. For now, another dip of his finger into your throbbing pussy has you arch off the bed, urging him deeper, and it’s heaven to witness.

He didn’t want to go all in just yet, but you’re gushing around his finger and taking it so well. So he lets you have it, sinking his finger all the way into you. You feel him go deeper and deeper, the never-ending length of his finger a stark contrast to your shorter ones. He’s reaching places you were never able to, and even the slide of him inside you elicits a deep, warm pleasure that spreads to the tips of your fingers.

He keeps his finger all the way inside for a moment, still as he feels your walls clench around him. Once he’s sure you’re all good, he begins pressing into you with shallow thrusts, thumb returning to your clit and rubbing in time with each push of his finger.

Curses spill from your lips, and Anakin can’t help himself. He leans down over you and captures them in his mouth, swallowing your cries of pleasure. The kiss is wet, dirty, and the muffled sounds of your moans combat the indecent slick and slide below. Soon, another finger is nudging at your opening, and you press yourself deeper into his lips in anticipation of that painful sting.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, his finger slides in a couple inches and he keeps both of them there, letting you adjust as his thumb rolls over your clit. You had never been able to use two fingers before, and your head goes fuzzy as he pushes them deeper. Your walls stretch around him pleasantly, accepting the welcome intrusion as he reaches deep inside you.

How is it fair that he can make you feel so much better than you can make yourself? It doesn’t seem right in the whole grand scheme of things, but you decide not to question it as his fingers suddenly curl inside you, searching. It feels odd, and he pulls back from your lips to concentrate for a second until-- there. Found it.

You almost knock your head into his as you shoot up, a startled cry leaving your lips as your vision whites with pleasure. Your fingers claw at his back, meeting the leather that still sits on his shoulders, and scrabbling over the smooth material for purchase. Anakin laughs at your reaction, easing you into a more comfortable position as he holds you against him with his metal arm behind your back.

You can’t find it in you to care that he’s laughing, not as long as he keeps rolling the pads of his fingers into you like this. His wrist curls, applying a harder pressure as he rubs against that spot, and your head falls back, hips pushing forward, the lewdest sounds you’ve ever heard leaving your mouth. 

“You like that,” he notes, proud smile ghosting over your lips. He kisses the corner of your mouth quick and sweet, then asks, “Is it better when I go slow or fast?”

“Both,” you gasp. “Either. All of it. Oh my--”

“Soft or hard?”

“Anakin--”

Your brain is unable to focus on much else other than the feel of his fingers coaxing that blissful heat from your center. He plays around with paces and pressures, but everything feels good, it feels great, it feels amazing, it feels euphoric. Before long, your legs are shaking and a weird feeling comes over you, and you’re crying out,

“What’s happening?”

Anakin pauses, his entire body stilling as he meets your eyes. You’re completely serious, that much he can tell by the vulnerability in your eyes. He frowns, unbelieving at this revelation.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”

You whine and shift your hips into his hand, trying to get him to keep making you feel good. If this wasn’t your first time being with someone else, Anakin would have held your hip still and forced you to talk to him no matter how much you begged and pleaded. But, it was your first time with someone else, so he was deciding to be nice. He soothes your craving, resuming his movements but at a much slower pace. A pleased sigh from you fills the silence of him waiting expectantly for your answer.

“Um..” you swallow, hips meeting his hand with every thrust. “I don’t think so. No. Nothing’s ever felt… like… this…”

It’s like a sneeze, except much, much better. The way his fingers prod into you, slick with your arousal, the tips brushing and massaging against that spot that have you careening into his body. You would have toppled over on top of him if he wasn’t so strong and rooted to the bed. He holds your shivering body against his chest with his metal arm, lips marking their way around your chin and jaw as your head falls back in ecstasy. 

He’s immensely turned on, that much is obvious from the painful straining in his pants. But it’s easy to ignore, knowing now that you’ve never fallen off that brink of pleasure before. He’s curious about it, oddly saddened by the fact, and wants nothing more than to show you the absolute highs he could help you reach. So he focuses back in on rubbing your clit with his thumb, fucking you deeply on his fingers. He allows you to clutch at his back and bury your hands in his hair, moaning in abandon.

Anakin shares you pleasure as the ball in your stomach unleashes, a blissful warmth crashing over you and invading your every cell. For a moment, your body isn’t yours-- it convulses and clenches around Anakin’s fingers, your cries bounce off the walls, your eyes squeeze closed. You hope the hands twisted into his hair don’t hurt him because you physically can’t let go as you ride that pleasure-filled haze, the feeling in your limbs abandoning you to be replaced with something much stronger. 

For a while, the only sounds in the room are your gasps of air and the blood rushing through your ears. Anakin waits until your muscles relax, and then he slides his fingers out of you, smoothing his hand around your waist to join his other behind your back. He lays you down into the pillows again, burying his face in your neck as you struggle to get your legs to stop shaking.

“Y/n,” he mouths a line up your neck. “You there?”

“Mhm,” you gulp, the shock of that intense, pleasurable feeling just beginning to fade.

He pressed his deep chuckle into the spot right under your ear. “Good. I thought I lost you for a moment.”

If you were in your right state of mind, you would have laughed at his teasing. Now, all you can do is cup his face lazily in your boneless hands, pulling his face up so that you can look at him. His cheeks are flushed the slightest pink, eyes dark and sparkling, lips so red and full and inviting…

You kiss him, and he’s yours for a moment longer. 

If only it could always be like this. If only this could be a daily experience, and afterwards you could take care of him, and you could feel that wonderful euphoria with him at the same time. If only he wouldn’t have to pull away soon, untangle himself from your still-shaking limbs, brush off what just happened, and be on his way. If only he could be yours forever.

All of this, you try to tell him through the kiss. Your lips are hot, sliding over with a wanton need. He feels your yearning, and he can tell it’s a different kind than earlier. You move to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away.

“I know what you’re thinking,” his low voice murmurs, and now he doesn’t look so playful. In fact, he looks very serious, and the rumble of his words causes your stomach to drop. “You should know, Y/n, I want you too.”

The whole room could be on fire and burning and falling to ash around you, but you wouldn’t notice. Everything pales in comparison to the flames that erupt in your heart at the sound of his words. 

“You do?”

He purses his lips, running his eyes up and down your face. You’re nervous, and hopeful, and so, so scared. And also… still shivering. Most likely due to the cold, at this point. And he’s sure the drunken affects of your orgasm are still holding sway over your mind.

“This is a conversation I think would be much better held over some ruby bliels,” he decides, and begins to unwind himself from you. You let him, that hopeful spark still searing through your veins. Before getting off the bed, he presses a kiss into your hand and then smooths over it with his thumb.

You want to say something cute or witty, but the only thing your dumb brain can come up with is, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he smiles fondly, moving toward the door. “I’ll meet you out there. Feel free to remain pantsless.”

This has you rolling your eyes, laughing lightly as you fall back against the pillows. Don’t tempt me.

The prospect of a future with Anakin is at the forefront of your brain, blood pumping thick as molasses as you struggle to convince yourself this is reality. He shuts the door behind him as you leave, and you roll onto your stomach to scream into the pillow. 

This was a dream come true.

[m1m1kyuirl]

Parkner Play Video Games

A quick one-shot about Peter, Harley and Video Games.

Summary: Harley Keener moved into Stark Tower a week ago. One week later, Peter had just about enough of Harley’s constant snarky remarks. Little does he know, all he needs for his world to change is a few rounds at video game.

Warnings: None

Rating: Teen

Words: 1496

Read it on Ao3

             “Wow, you’re really bad at the game, Peter.”

             Peter felt his body stiffen at Harley’s comment. He tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard the slightly older boy. Harley had just moved into the Stark tower last week, and from the moment he had walked out of the elevator with his brown hair perfectly messy, with his strong arms, one underneath the cardboard box brimming with gadgets and the other holding the handle of his luggage, with his icy blue eyes that froze Peter in place on the sofa and made him feel as if his skin was on fire, from that moment Peter had known that Harley was trouble. Tony had said that Harley was smart, but he never said anything about him being hot.

             “I mean, you’re really, really, bad at the game.” Prodded the taller boy.

             Peter prayed for patience silently. He already had plenty of strength, not that his superhuman strength had prevented Harley from making small remarks at everything Peter did. When Peter grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge last Tuesday, he almost spilled half of it on himself when he saw Harley leaning against the kitchen door frame. Harley had said that sugary drinks stunted growth and then turned on his heel and left. Thinking about it still made Peter’s face burn. He wasn’t that short. Besides, he had read a study that said that most humans don’t stop growing until they were 21. That still left him with 4 years of time to get taller.

             “Wait. You’re actually really, really, re-” Harley began, but was cut off.

             “I get it Harley! I’m really, really, really, bad at this game, okay? Just stick it, will you?” Peter interjected hotly.

             Now the only thing that was heard in the living room was the sounds of Peter firing guns and being shot at. He felt a twinge of regret and wondered if he had been a little too harsh but felt that the reprieve from Harley was worth it. A reprieve that was shortly enjoyed.

             Harley bounced onto the sofa. The distraction was enough to throw Peter’s aim off, and he was quickly shot down.

             “See? Really, really, really, bad.” Harley’s calm and nonchalant tone made Peter see red.

             “I only died because of you!” Peter screamed, his voice cracking at the end. He saw the look in Harley’s hazel eyes and felt his anger flare up again. They were gleaming. With glee.

             “Not. A. Single. Word.” Peter growled. He hit “respawn”.

             Peter peripherally saw Harley open his mouth.

             “Not a word.”

             He died again.

             His eyes shot to his left, where Harley sat, shaking his leg. He saw his shiny lips part.

             “Not.”

             Harley raised his eyebrows.

             “A.”

             Harley widened his eyes as if he was trying to appeal to Peter’s better nature.

             “Word.”

             Harley raised his arms, which Peter noted still looked strong, in surrender. A smirk spread itself across Harley’s face. Peter hated how perfect Harley looked like this. How perfectly infuriating.

             Peter hit “respawn” again. He walked through a doorway, thinking about whether to aim for the head or if the chest was better, to account for the recoil of his gun, when he was shot dead again. He struggled to resist the urge to curse. He shoved the controller into Harley’s hands, and made a valiant attempt to shrug off the electricity he felt when their hands touched.

             Peter stood up from the sofa and stormed off, thinking about the excuses he was going to have to make up and tell Mr. Stark so that he could avoid being in the tower whenever it was inhabited by Harley. Maybe he would conveniently forget his jacket at home, maybe even fall sick. He just didn’t feel like being around Harley. Maybe for the next 20 years. Harley was so mean. It didn’t even matter that he was gorgeous. Or maybe it was the fact that he was so hot that made it worse.

             His dramatic exit was brought to a halt. Peter felt a hand on his wrist.

             “Wait. Peter.” Harley said. All trace of the snark that Peter had heard all week was gone. “Stay. I’ll teach ya, okay?”

             It wasn’t the offer of having Harley teach him that made Peter sit back down on the sofa. It was his tone. It didn’t feel like a knife against his throat, waiting for him to make a mistake, for a reason to cut him. It felt warm, gentle, and caring. Either way, Peter found himself back on the plush sofa in the living room, albeit carefully ensuring that he didn’t face its other occupant.

             Peter felt something nudge the side of his arm. He carefully peered over, laying his eyes on the black controller with Harley’s hand still holding it.

             “I said I’ll teach ya,” Harley offered, raising his eyebrows. Peter swore he saw Harley physically resisting the urge to wink.

             “So, play. What’re you waiting for?” Peter said.

             “I ain’t gonna make it that easy, Parker. I’ll teach ya, while ya play.” Harley drawled. He nudged Peter with the controller again.

             Peter snatched it out of his hands, earning a grin from the southern boy. His compliance could have been attributed to Harley calling him “Parker” for the first time, or the way his accent and drawl made Peter’s insides flutter.

             He hit “respawn” once again, and started controlling his character, walking him out of spawn.

             Peter froze. There was a thumb that wasn’t his own on the controller, causing his character to move away from his usual route. Harley was leading him into an underground tunnel, away from all the chaos of the battlefield. Rounding a corner, Peter jumped as he saw a crouching enemy. His gun fired, taking the enemy out. Peter looked down, puzzled. He certainly hadn’t fired. That was when he realized that Harley’s right hand was hovering inches away from his own hand. He pieced two and two together. Then, Peter’s mind went blank. Harley’s hovering hand fell onto his, confidently maneuvering through the map, calmly gunning down any enemies that dared to cross his path. What really took Peter’s breath away, however, wasn’t Harley’s stellar gameplay. It was the fact that for Harley to have his hands on the controller like he did, he would have had to be essentially bear-hugging Peter. Which he was. The contact was driving Peter crazy. His mind buzzed, his skin blazed.

             “W-what do you think you’re doing, Harley?” Peter choked.

             “Teaching my boyfriend how to play this video game. He’s really thick, it took my literally getting him to straddle me for him take a hint.” Harley said nonchalantly.

“Boyfriend?” Peter squeaked.

“Yeah. Did I mention he’s thick? I’ve been dropping hints all week since I moved into the same building as him. All he got was mad, though.” Harley continued.

Suddenly it all made sense. All the comments. It was classic playground flirting. If you want a person’s attention, give them a shove. Peter felt so stupid for not connecting the dots earlier. But now he had more important things to worry about. He hoped Harley wasn’t noticing the tent forming in his sweatpants.

“I think he’s got the hint now, though.” Harley gave that smirk of his again. Peter could just feel Harley smirking.

That was when the elevator dinged.

             It was too late for Peter to get in a more presentable position so all he could do was sit there, frozen in between Harley’s arms – and legs – as Tony Stark strolled out of the elevator. It took the mechanic a few moments before he saw the boys straddling on his million-dollar sofa, as he was in a holographic conference with the other Avengers.

             Then his eyes focused past the semi see-through Captain America and on the scene in front of him. Harley wrapped around Peter, the two of them playing some trending shooter. The former smirking at Tony just like he did all those years ago during the Mandarin fiasco, and the latter, with his face the color of a tomato with the same facial expression he had made when Tony made fun of his Spider-man suit that Tony secretly thought resembled that of a constipated baby.

             “Guys, I’ll call you back.” Tony said. “Hold call.”

             “M-Mr. Stark I can explain!” Peter sputtered. He didn’t get a chance to find out how Tony had felt about stuff like this. Peter himself wasn’t even sure what this was. Apparently, he wasn’t as straight as he thought.

             Tony paused.

             “Take care of him, Harley. And Peter, keep Harley in check.” He eventually said, walking towards his office (on this level).

             Peter turned his head to face Harley. Their brown eyes met. Their laughter filled the previously silent room.

             “Oh yeah. I won the bet by the way. Peter didn’t know, did he?” Tony returned to the room, once again surrounded by the holographic Avengers.

             “Yea, you were right. Darlin’ didn’t have a damn clue.” Harley smirked.

[aethelar]

FB week day 5: Crossover

Newt’s not sure, later, exactly how it happens. There are spells. Dragon flame. Bombs. There might have been thunder, or maybe just more war, echoing off the sky as though it could reach out and swallow the stars.

War seems to reach everywhere these days, Newt wouldn’t be surprised if it could.

In the immediate sense there is the slick feel of wet leather under his aching hands, the dull sheen of rain on polished metal, the freezing bite of a storm as he struggled to keep hold. He hooks a numb arm around one of the ironbelly’s ridged neck-spines, fingers frozen and useless even in his gloves.

“Down!” he yells, again, bracing his shoulder against the wind. “Damnit Katya, land!”

She roars a frustrated denial, head whipping left to right as she struggles to see anything through the storm. Newt isn’t the only flier in the dragon corps but he’s the only one stupid enough to be airborne; they’re alone in the sky and though he trusts Katya to keep them steady he’s rapidly losing control of the warming charms that are the only thing standing between him and hypothermia.

Her wings flare out in a sudden turn and Newt is thrown sharply against his harness, the force of it knocking the wind from him. He wheezes, blinking through his sodden fringe as his chest pounds, and scrabbles desperately to right himself.

“Katya -”

The fire comes out of nowhere. Katya warbles in alarm and dodges again, but not fast enough; she misses the fire but the hulking mass of the horntail slams into her left side. Newt yells something incomprehensible, pushing forwards with a burst of magic to shield the delicate membrane of her wing. He feels more than hears the skitter-thud of impact as the other dragon’s spiked tail swings up against Katya’s armoured underbelly; her scales hold, but the horntail has her, talons wrapped around her wing joints and jaws angling for her neck.

Newt swears. He forces numb fingers to curl around the handle of his wand; one jagged slash releases him from the harness and with the second he points blindly at the horntail and summons. She’s too big to be moved so he’s flung upwards, and he spins through the air, wand aimed and squinting through the pelting rain - there, he can see her rider -

“Stupefy,” he spits. The woman - man? - jerks to the side and the spell dissipates harmlessly off the horntail’s hide, but it’s enough to break her concentration. Newt lands awkwardly, sticking charms on his knees keeping him from tumbling off, and immediately flattens himself under a shield to avoid her retaliation. It creaks under the onslaught and Newt grits his teeth in anger; he uses stunning spells specifically so he won’t hurt the dragons but clearly the other rider doesn’t have the same concerns. It means that Newt can’t dodge for fear of the horntail getting caught in the crossfire - he has to shield them both and he has to end this fast. Katya’s armoured and fierce, but tangled as they are the dragons are plummeting to the ground.

The rider spits an instruction and the horntail swings her tail again, wings flapping for balance. Katya bellows, tongues of her blue-white flame lighting up the sky around them but Newt has to trust that she can hold her own for a minute longer. He flings himself at the distracted rider, knees bent and shoulder first in the tackle Theseus taught him - she goes down with a yell, her wand already up and a spell cracking into Newt’s side - he hears bombs, or maybe thunder, or all of the above - the dragons roll and Newt hangs by the sticking charms on his knees - the other rider falls - the ground is too close - the horntail roars and the world is on fire - the rain stings against his skin and Newt can’t breathe -

He’s not sure, later, how it happens, but they skid to a tangled, messy landing. Newt is half-crushed under a scaled limb, the ground is gritty and hot beneath him, and he thinks his side is bleeding from the other rider’s spell.

His last thought before passing out is, but where did the rain go.

He wakes up slowly, wading through a molasses headache to a world that’s far too bright. He squints, the skin on his face pulling in a way that announces, delightfully, that it’s sunburnt. The arm he raises to block the sun is similarly tight-skinned and achy, though at least some of that pain is radiating out from his shoulder.

He can still move it though. Probably not broken. Which is good; skel-gro remains one of the most disgusting and unpleasant potions he’s ever taken, no matter how many times he’s had to use it. Dragon riding just isn’t good for his taste buds.

So: he’s sunburnt, but conscious, and he hasn’t broken his arms. The pain that flares out from his side when he tries to sit up suggests that his ribs weren’t so lucky - the spell the other rider hit him with has left him with a dark burn and at least one break, though thankfully it doesn’t seem to be more than a fracture. Beyond that his legs are scraped sore even through his thick leather chaps and one ankle is tender from having a dragon land on it, but he seems ok. A shaky episkey to patch over his side and he’s not even bleeding anymore.

Much.

Eh, it’ll do until one of the healers can look at it. There are other things to worry about - first being his dragon. She’s curled up not far from him, wings tucked in tight against her back. The sun glinting off her white scales is almost blinding.

“Katya?” he tries, testing his weight on his ankle. It holds, so he walks gingerly over to her. “Katya, malecha? You alive over there?”

She twists her head back, fixing one upside down eye on him with a warbling chirp. The knot in Newt’s chest loosens at her relaxed expression. “Katya,” he repeats, hobbling faster. “Let me see, poppet, show Mummy how bad it is.” She huffs, but hauls herself to her feet, too used to his fussing to complain. Each wing is stretched out for inspection - neither are torn, thank Merlin, though the thin membrane is in danger of drying out and cracking in the heat - followed by a slow turn to show the damage she’d taken.

“Oh, baby girl,” he soothes, running a hand down her neck. “My poor thing.” Her side is barely hurt, thick scales protecting her from the horntail’s claws, but the base of her neck is badly scratched. It’s right where the harness loops over, which both is and isn’t surprising; it makes tactical sense to try to tear a rider’s harness off as a rider-less dragon is rarely as great a threat, but horntails aren’t known for their use of strategy.

Horntail riders, on the other hand, are sometimes known for their use of the imperio curse. Newt’s mouth settles in a grim line. Even some of the ironbelly riders had used spells to control their dragons. They all swore they didn’t, of course, but dragons were unpredictable and they rarely liked the people that tried to fly them into battlefields.

When this stupid war was done, Newt was personally going to see the dragons set free - or at the very least given a good home in a reserve. He didn’t care about the contracts Gringotts had to buy them, he’d sneak in at night and steal the dragons if he had to. And the horntails, if he ever found out where Grindelwald’s forces were keeping them. It wasn’t their fault they were fighting against him. They were dragons. They shouldn’t be fighting anyone.

“Time to get this off you, malecha,” he says, peeling the harness back from Katya’s neck. It’s unwieldy for one person to manage but judicious use of feather-weight and levitating charms get the job done, and she shakes herself out with an approving rumble when it’s gone.

“Careful,” Newt cautions. “Let me look. It won’t hurt, I just need to see.” He keeps up the soothing commentary as he climbs up to her back, taking advantage of the wing she crooks forward to lift him up. It’s trickier without the harness but Newt’s had over a year of practice and she holds still enough that he makes it easily.

“Good girl,” he praises, smoothing his hands over the unbroken patches of skin. “My brave girl, the best of dragons. Just hold still for me Katya, just for a minute.” He taps his wand against the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieves a tub of faintly glowing blue gel. “Katya, eyes on me,” he says, holding it out. “Katya, look. Eyes on me.”

She cranes her head round as instructed and he waits until she’s acknowledged the tub before he unscrews it. Her neck spines flatten back with displeasure but she knows how this one goes, and does little more than hiss when Newt spreads the cold gel on her scratches.

“Best girl,” he tells her. “The very best of dragons, my bravest Katya.” He even reaches out to give her eye ridge a scratch in reward and she huffs at him, but presses closer for more when he stops. He laughs, obliging her with more scritches.

“We’re going to be alright, malecha,” he murmurs. Battles are always horrible and he’s got some fabulous new additions for his nightmares, but Katya’s wounds are minimal and his own are survivable, so that’s the important things down. It’s a relief that she’s ok, a frantic buzzing at the back of his skull that goes quiet and allows him to focus on the rest of their situation. Newt takes the chance to look around at the oddly bright place they’ve landed, trying to work out how far it’ll be to get back to the stables.

He blinks.

“What…?”

The stables are roughly twenty miles outside St Quentin. They’re hidden behind wards, muggle repellents, and trees, and are close enough to the Western Front that Newt knows the route by heart and could draw an aerial map if he needed to. The map would contain fields in varying stages of muddiness, dead trees, some living trees, a handful of towns and trenches and assorted people, and at least one river.

The map would not contain a desert. Newt’s pretty sure he could draw a map of the entirety of Europe and not find a desert like this.

“Katya, how far did you fly last night?”

She opens her eyes long enough stare disinterestedly at the blank wasteland around them and shuts them with an uncaring shrug. Newt navigates. She breathes fire. Nothing to burn, nothing for her to worry about; she nudges into Newt’s hands and demands more pets.

“Katya - no, not now little girl, Mummy needs - point me Theseus.” It’s the strongest form of the spell Newt knows, latching onto his care for his brother to direct him unerringly back home. It never fails. Sometimes it leads him astray, if Theseus isn’t where Newt expects him to be, but the spell has never failed. It wouldn’t. Even if Theseus were - it wouldn’t.

The wand spins.

“Point me Theseus,” he repeats. “Point - point me Katya.” The wand angles straight down, almost falling from his fingers. “Point me Theseus.”

It spins.

Katya croons, pushing her head against his chest and knocking into his broken ribs. That’s fine. Newt can’t breathe anyway. He shakes his wand and tries again for the same result, and he almost throws it away from himself in disgust because it’s broken, it must be broken -

Katya pushes harder, the rougher scales around her jaw scraping against the burn on his side. He drags in a harsh, shuddering breath and tightens his grip on his wand.

“We’re too far away,” he says, forcing his voice steady. “That’s all baby girl, we’ve gone off course. We need - we just need -” He stops, breathes, counts it in and out until he thinks he can talk again. He has to keep his voice steady. Katya’s shifting her weight, unsettled by his panic, and he has to keep her safe.

“We just need to find out where we are,” he tells her when he can speak again. “Find where we are and find the way back, and we’ll find Theseus when we’re close again, that’s all. It’ll be ok, Katya, you’ll see. We’re ok. We’re all good.”

He strokes a hand down her neck, staring blankly at the miles of desert around them. His hand is sunburnt. It’s almost glowing red against her white scales. How the hell did they end up in a desert.

“Everything’s fine, Katya,” he promises her. “We’re fine.”

They’re not fine. It takes until nightfall for Newt to be sure, but the sky confirms what every variant of scrying spell he knows have been trying to tell him for the past five hours: they’re a long, long way from home.

He can’t find a single constellation he knows.

He can find a moon, though it seems larger and ever so slightly brighter than he’s used to, and the white pinpoints of starlight against an otherwise black sky is also familiar. He doesn’t think he’s in a dream or a memory, and there’s enough natural magic on the edge of his senses that he doesn’t think he’s trapped in an object either. He can’t get a proper grip on the magic though to be sure - it’s oddly thick and sharp, skittering off his reaching senses like something almost physical. But it’s definitely magic and it’s definitely natural, which means the endless desert is an unfortunate reality.

So is the cold. And the hunger. And the fact that, real or not, he and Katya are hopelessly lost.

“Eyes on me, Katya,” he murmurs again, holding his wand up for her to see. She huffs in annoyance but turns her head to look, blinking sleepily at him as he casts yet another perimeter charm. It flickers into life around them with a flare of gold-green before fading invisible into the sand. Katya curls her tail in tighter around Newt; the charm won’t hurt her, but she’s intelligent enough to recognise a boundary when she sees it. 

“Best girl,” Newt promises her, and settles back against her as she grumbles a reply and goes back to sleep. The armoured plates on her stomach are too thick to let any heat through but the softer scales of her side are warm; Newt buries his fingers in his armpit and presses in as close as he can.

In his brown army jacket, he has a basic field medkit, a more elaborate dragon medkit, official papers identifying him as a member of Her Majesty’s Magical Airforce, his wand, and a lopsided drawing of a hippogriff Theseus had made to remind him of home. On his belt he had four flares, a now half-empty canteen of water, and a pocket knife that doubled as a quill pen and a corkscrew depending on which way he opened it.

“What we need, malecha,” he says, “is food. And water, but with any luck they’ll be together. You might be able to go a week without eating but your mummy, he’s not as strong as you are.” He folds and unfolds the hippogriff sketch restlessly, smoothing the paper out between his hands as he thinks. Katya doesn’t respond but he doesn’t expect her to - he’s more talking for the sake of it, in the vain hope of keeping himself calm. “What do you reckon, baby girl? Travel by day? Travel by night? It’s hot in the sun, you think you could be nocturnal for a bit?”

Katya groans and moves and lifts a wing over Newt, pressing it down like a particularly smothering blanket. He sputters out a laugh, pushing it until his head at least is free. “Ok, ok,” he relents. “No travelling by night, we’ll sleep. Breakfast can wait til the morning.” He bites his lip. He’s got three different ward spells running and even in the war that’d be overkill, but he doesn’t know where they are or what might be out there. He’s not the worrying sort but he’s not the reckless sort either, not when it comes to his dragon’s safety.

“Katya?” he says, lifting his wand. “Sorry baby girl, just one more."

The wards flare barely an hour before dawn. Newt scrambles awake, instinctively putting himself between Katya and the threat, wand raised to defend. Katya herself stayed still, wings tucked in to protect the delicate membrane and head lowered in watchful wariness.

On the other side of the wardline two figures jump back to a safe distance, crouched in battle-ready positions. They don’t seem to have wands, and they aren’t attacking, but they don’t seem friendly either; their clothes aren’t military in the way Newt recognises but with the matching i marked headplates they definitely look like a uniform.

“Hello,” Newt says cautiously. “I don’t mean you any harm. I’m lost.”

No reply.

“Bon jour,” he tries, repeating his statement in French, then Guten Morgen, and finally dobroye utro in a stumbling attempt at Russian.

One of the figures says something back in harsh, aggressive language - or that might just be the woman’s tone - that Newt doesn’t recognise.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reverting back to English. “I don’t -” he mimes, pointing to his ear and shaking his head - “I don’t understand.” He chews his lip in deliberation, then slides his wand up his sleeve in obvious, telegraphed motions and holds out his empty palms. “I come in peace,” he says, and tries not to feel too much like an idiot as he does so.

The wards ping behind him and Newt spins but Katya is faster, rearing up with a roar and unleashing a gout of flame at the intruder.

“Katya, Katya wait!” Newt yells, flinging his arms up to shield himself from the heat. The wards break with a static crack and Newt gropes blindly for Katya’s leg to try to climb up, desperately dodging her beating wings. He can hear the others shouting and a sudden, fierce wind sends him sprawling back - he cries out as it hits him, a flare of foreign magic-not-magic that leaves stinging papercuts over his skin. His ribs ache as he lands on them and the sand burns, molten glass from the dragonfire mixed in with the other grains.

Katya shrieks, furious and terrified, and Newt shakes the pain off to focus on her. The two figures have been joined by a third, same uniform, and between them they’re working in a smoothly coordinated attack that’s almost too fast for Newt to see. There’s no way he can hit any of them with a spell and with Katya in the middle of them he can’t use an area-effect either.

“Katya!” he yells. One of the three attackers splits off, flinging a pair of knives that clatter loudly against Newt’s shield. “Katya, up!” She growls, twisting her head round to look at him and letting out a high whistle of distress when she realises he’s too far away for her to reach. The knife-thrower has given up on projectiles and now appears to be summoning glowing air-blades that extend out from each hand; Newt reinforces his shield and wishes, desperately, that he knew more about the magic here and whether his defences would hold.

“Up, Katya!” he commands again, begging her to obey. She roars, sweeping another torrent of flame out in protest, but with a final leap she’s airborne and spiralling away. Newt grins. Bereft of their other target all three of the attackers now begin to circle him, testing his shield with their weapons and strange elemental magics. With dragon safely out the way though he doesn’t have to worry so much about using his spells.

He drops his shield and banishes the ground in one movement, stifling a yell as the force of being thrown in the air jars his ribs. One of the men wastes no time in following him, leaping thirty feet straight up in the air and landing a spinning kick to Newt’s solar plexus that leaves him gasping and tasting blood. He apparates, aiming for the ground in a panic and lands in a wheezing mess; he’s far enough away that he gets a second to get his wand up and shoot out a shaky freezing charm, slashing his wand in a harsh arc as he does so to cover a wider area.

One figure drops, arms pinned to its side and spine ramrod straight. Newt apparates again just as the other reaches him - then again, in panic, when a giant eagle made out of wind nearly eviscerates him. He’s breathless and running dangerously close to exhausting himself, and he needs to get away somewhere safe so Katya can find him again but if he keeps apparating like this he’ll splinch himself.

His magic flares a warning and Newt flicks his wand up in a shield charm but he’s too slow. Rough hands grab his head, hauling it back to hold a blade against his throat, and a foot slams into his wrist to make him drop his wand.

The man barks something at him, a single word command that Newt doesn’t understand. The meaning isn’t hard to guess, and he holds himself deliberately still. The next sentence that the man says though he doesn’t have a hope.

“I don’t know,” he says, trying subtly to lean away from the knife. The man repeats it, harsher this time with his hand tightening painfully in Newt’s hair. “I don’t know! I don’t understand you, I don’t know what you want!”

For a second he thinks that’ll be it, the man will try to cut his throat and Newt will have to risk apparating and probably splinch both of them in the process - then in a movement too fast to follow, he flips the knife and slams the blunt handle into Newt’s temple and Newt is suddenly, jarringly unconscious.

[colorofmymindposts]

Hope for the Stars

Fandom: Doctor Who 

Pairings: Twelfth Doctor/Missy

Warnings: Major Character Death, Alternate Ending to series 10, Major Canon Divergence, Description of a Corpse 

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Status: Complete but part three of my The Doctor Falls series. Reading part one is pretty optional but I definitely recommend checking out part two before reading this. 

Word Count: 2134 

Chapter: 1/2. 

Summary: A final goodbye between the oldest friends in the universe seems as though it's the last chapter. But with the Doctor, every end comes with a beginning.

Tags: Heavy Angst, Messy Feelings, Coping with Death, Funeral, Grieving Missy, Twelve is very dead

I don’t know if the tagging system is still messed up, but you can read this work on ao3 under my username colorofmymind! Kudos and comments will be much appreciated!

The silence is deafening, save for the intermittent low hums of the TARDIS. Her hands drift and glide over the console as she circles round it, making no effort to start for any destination. A destination would require a plan. Missy has none.

What was the original plan, exactly? Redeem herself in everyone’s eyes, and then? No more tentative friendship. Renew their pact. Midnight, with the stars and him. It had been absolutely too vague, almost totally meaningless. And yet it was something. Now, there is nothing, no friend, without hope, without witness.

“Without reward, indeed,” Missy chokes out, voice hoarse from disuse and grief, realizing now she never precisely knew what that meant until this moment. Her death at least would have allowed her to escape from the shallow, crude reality of it all. Missy makes the mistake of looking down at the Doctor’s lifeless body. The sight alone is enough for her hands to tremor, knees to buckle, eyes to water and weep openly, now that the privacy allows for it. It takes much more time than she’d like to find the lapels of his jacket, fisting them in her hands for purchase. It doesn’t do much other than prevent her from strangling him, or herself.

“You absolute imbecile!” she cries out, venom behind each word. “I would have stayed here, the Vault, anywhere you would have liked for the rest of those thousand years! Two thousand even. You’d be there at least. You’d be alive.

But we were always so impatient, weren’t we? We couldn’t keep to the confines of Gallifrey or the Vault. We just wanted the universe. I wanted you.” Those last three words fall out her mouth without her permission, and she knows full well what she communicated with them. The humans always wait, desperate for that confession, that one word: love. There isn’t even a comparable translation for it in Gallifreyan; what is the need of such a word to Time Lords? Time Lords are supposed to have two hearts that are full of nothing.  

She wants to rip her hearts right out of her chest, stamp them into mincemeat under her boots, and wail with the confidence and indignity of a newborn babe until she keels over. Or maybe she could cut her hearts out, carefully, scientifically, and transplant them into the Doctor, make him breathe, live again; he could cry over her body, but at least that’d be familiar for the both of them.

Death is for other people, dear. Missy said that, once. She never dreamt that the Doctor would number among the others.

The grip she has on him slackens. With complete gracelessness and depravity, Missy collapses on top of him, her chest on his, face burying into the crook of his neck. The endless propulsion of loss and guilt wracks her body; the tears flow out as quickly as the notes to Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor K. 466 - 1. Allegro, one of the Doctor’s favorites that she used to play on the piano. The piano he gifted to her. Missy cannot form words even if she tries. So heavy is this sense of finality, and she’s drowning under it. Her friend is dead. Time levels and undulates and then ceases to be around them, and all Missy is aware of is the uncontrollable shaking and the gasping and crying like she’s being gutted from the inside out for existing at all and the fact that he’s gone, gone, gone forever and she’s the only one left...

It’s some time later that Missy finally awakens next to the Doctor, colder than he’s ever been. It’s not really him, she reminds herself. His essence, the playful and wonderful mind, they’re gone. Could she reclaim them, she would. She should, really. It’s the least she can do when this whole monumentally stupid test to prove herself was the very reason they had found themselves in that disaster, created by her former self, no less. Resurrection has its risks though, this she knows. The potential for a miscalculation or chemical imbalance is extremely high, and his entire body could irrevocably malform; of course the safer alternative, transferring the consciousness into a living host, is something the Doctor would have never even entertained whereas the Master had, ever so frequently when in a tight spot, regrettable now in retrospect.

The stinging pain in her back and abdomen from the Laser Screwdriver has lessened slightly with her rest, but her eyes feel terribly sore and dry from what was probably the greatest lapse into emotional breakdown of her life. There are no more tears to cry, now. Missy picks herself up, squeezing the Doctor’s hand before standing only to find it has become extremely stiff with the onset of rigor mortis. The realization leaves her nauseous and quite wishing she hadn’t done that.  

That does bring up the present dilemma. What to do with his body. A Time Lord’s body, particularly the DNA, would be a precious asset to almost any alien species. Burial and cryogenic freezing are right out then. The Doctor will have to burn.  

Somehow, she still manages to hobble over to the TARDIS console with that thought on her mind, pulling on the levers and buttons by mere muscle memory. Already, Missy has the perfect idea for the location for the Doctor’s funeral, a strange thing to be sentimental about, but if he were still part of the universe, she thinks he would appreciate it.  

“I’m almost certain you never prepared for this, my dear,” Missy begins, completely aware that the Doctor can no longer hear or respond to her. “I’m not talking about death, no, you practically begged for it when you were feeling particularly morose. What comes after is what I mean. Did you really think you could lie on a battlefield and that just be the end? It should take no more than a few centuries for a human exploratory crew or some other ship to find you with all your DNA and unleash terror on the universe. That just won’t do, not when you’ve put so much work into the place.”

The whole monologue was meant to calm her down, but she’s made an all too rational point. This is a universe without the Doctor, and it has been such a very long time since that was the reality. What will happen now, without that man roaming the stars, trying to bring kindness and goodness to the places and people he visits? As flawed as he could be while doing it, a small voice inside her offers.    

“Because one day everyone's just going to need you too much.” Bill was right. The universe will never survive without the Doctor.

The TARDIS hums somewhat admonishingly, and suddenly the psychic link is made between her and the ship, and a flurry of images and memories are the sole occupiers of her thoughts: the TARDIS landing unannounced and needing help for some unknown reason, Missy’s constant maintenance of the TARDIS, Missy trying to find a way out of the TARDIS doors to help the Doctor and his companions when he was about to sacrifice himself to the Cairn gate, and the moment she stepped out of those same doors declaring confidently “Hello I’m Doctor Who.”

Oh. Oh.

Missy smiles and tuts quietly at the now reicent sentient machine. Being, she corrects herself mentally. After, she and this Type 40 are going to have to get along if this is to work.

“You knew well before any of us, didn’t you? Oh, you clever girl,” she purrs.

The ship creaks and groans upon arriving to their destination. In all fairness, this is the most hectic point in time and space besides the literal end of the universe, and Missy’s been there before. Placing the stabilizers on as a precaution, Missy retreats down one of the corridors, hoping she’ll find what she’s looking for.

“Ah, there you are,” she says upon finding it. The casket’s exterior shines just as brightly as the wood from whence it came: the silver trees of Gallifrey. Adorning the side panels are the traditional Gallifreyan rites for the deceased. Measurements in this case are not necessary; Time Lord technology has once again thought ahead to accomodate for any particular regeneration--the dimensions are bigger on the inside. It’s a difficult task for someone of her stature and injured status to not drag the damned thing on the console flooring, but she manages it for the Doctor’s sake alone.

Upon placing the casket next to him, however, she cannot seem to find the strength in the moment to lift him into it and send him away for good. A hand of hers secures itself on one of the handles on the console to ascertain that she does not collapse again.

“Well, this is it then. Me, Missy, your oldest friend, assisting you with your death. Goodbye, effectively for the two of us. What am I even saying,” she finishes under her breath, beginning the process of lifting the Doctor’s body into the casket. For appearances’ sake, she brushes off the lingering dust and debris off his coat and trousers and face, though it won’t matter for much longer. No one else besides her will be viewing him, and he’ll be crisper in just a few minutes than she ever was back in the old days. From underneath the console, Missy locates four hover discs, placing one at each end of the casket to ensure his departure is as seamless as possible. For some inexplicable reason, she is unable to close the casket lid. There is something she must say first.

“We made a pact once, you and I. We were going to see the stars together and abandon all the trivial troubles of Gallifrey. But something went wrong in the plans. We went on separate paths. Well, you went on your own path, and I followed you. I followed you everywhere I could,” Missy confesses, tangling her fingers in her Doctor’s curls. “In some ways, I wish...I wish I hadn’t woken up from that shot, the one I should have died from. We both could have been dead martyrs together. Wouldn’t that have been nice? But I understand now why I couldn’t...join you. I never got the chance to, did I?” Her voice escapes her for several moments, and she blinks away the forthcoming tears she previously didn’t know she still had.

“Standing with you...was all I ever wanted, too. Thank you, Doctor, for trying. It worked. I am standing for something now, after this and evermore, and I’m sure it will kill me someday, for good.” Missy pauses to collect herself. If she’s giving him a closing testimony she’s making sure it’s a damn good one.

“This is the last chance you have to announce you’ve miraculously survived before I send you off into Dante’s Inferno, just so you know.” The silence that follows is answer enough to her request.

“It actually isn’t Dante’s Inferno. That place isn’t real. You wanted the stars, so I brought you to them. Every single one.”  

In a few quick steps, Missy is able to pull the doors open, revealing that they have indeed reached the intended destination. Gas clouds are just beginning to circulate and weave their ways, nebulas are brewing stars within their wombs, and galaxies expand their territory among the vast devoidness of empty space. The constellation of Kasterborous is just a few hundred million light-years away from forming.

“It isn’t the moment, not the singularity that started it all. Although, it’s reasonable enough to presume you’ve already been there. We’ve entered the structure formation period of the Big Bang, when stars began existing,” she explains.

“No star ever existed before this point or would be able to exist without this moment. Your casket will fly into one of those stars and burn with its light and passion, and your atoms be dispersed all around the universe and help bring life to all of creation. I think without a doubt this is the best surprise party I’ve ever thrown for you,” Missy claims, placing her hands on her hips with a certain sense of self-satisfaction in this truly bizarre and dizzying ceremony.

The casket hovers just by the TARDIS doors. All she has to do is guide it out, and discs will direct it over to that red dwarf star, his final resting place. With a certain solemnity and poise Missy has never reserved for anyone in her lives, she seals the casket shut.

In a whisper, hushed so only the infant forces of the universe behind the two of them can hear, she gives the Doctor her final farewell.

“Goodnight, my dear friend.”