#or maybe they had a safeguard and i just slipped through it? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mssalo · 2 months ago

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safety - Part: Il

Summary: After years of isolation, Joel Miller's life revolves around control and keeping danger at bay, his past as a soldier leaving him constantly on edge. But when a sweet, soft-spoken young woman starts working at the supply store, her innocence stirs something inside him. Despite his efforts to remain detached, Joel becomes obsessed with keeping her safe from the dangers he’s certain are lurking everywhere.

As his protective instincts morph into darker desires, the lines between safeguarding her and possessing her begin to blur.

Warnings will vary by chapter depending on the content.

Warnings: Dark!Joel, 18+ MDNI, Obsession themes, Stalking, Breaking and entering, Scent kink, Voyeurism, Joel has major Trauma/PTSD, Mentions of military past, Manipulation, Power dynamics, Male masturbation, Joel, still, needs a hug and therapy. As per usual.

9k. enjoy.

Part I Part III Part IV Part V

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

Joel found out she was working at the supply store by accident.

He hadn’t planned on seeing her again. After that first encounter, he convinced himself he’d walk away.

She wasn’t his problem.

He couldn’t get wrapped up in someone like her—someone who had no idea how dangerous the world really was.

But then, on one of his routine stops for supplies, he spotted her behind the counter.

She hadn’t seen him

At first, he’d assumed she was just a customer again, passing through, but when she’d ducked behind the register, pulling out receipts, it hit him.

She worked there now.

She hadn’t told him that before, hadn’t mentioned anything about it, and yet here she was, talking to customers, rearranging gear, moving around the store like it was something she’d been doing forever.

And for some reason, that made something inside him tighten.

She was here all the time. Regular hours, regular shifts.

Easy to find.

That should’ve made him feel nothing. But it didn’t.

That’s so fuckin’ dangerous.

From that point on, whenever he stopped by the store, he made sure to keep his distance.

He’d walk in, grab what he needed, and leave before she noticed him.

There was something about seeing her there—watching her smile and chat with customers—that unnerved him in a way he couldn’t explain.

She didn’t fit in with the world he knew.

She was too soft, too bright. She belonged somewhere safe, not in a place like this.

Yet, he found himself coming back.

Over and over.

Each time, he told himself it was the last time.

That he’d stop, that he didn’t need to see her again.

But every time he came back, she was there—talking to someone, laughing at some joke, her voice floating through the air like a song he couldn’t get out of his head.

Joel tried to ignore it.

Tried to ignore her.

But she was like a goddamn magnet, pulling him back in without even realizing it.

And then, one day, she spotted him.

“Joel!” she called, her voice bright and cheerful, as if they were old friends.

He froze, his hand tightening around the bag of supplies he’d grabbed.

He’d been so close to slipping out unnoticed, but now she was looking at him, smiling that same smile that made his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he muttered, forcing himself to turn and meet her gaze.

She was standing behind the counter, hands resting on the edge, her eyes lighting up as she looked at him.

These damn pretty eyes.

“I didn’t know you came here so often,” she said, her tone playful.

“What’s bringing you back this time?”

Joel grunted, trying to come up with a quick excuse. “Needed more supplies. That’s all.”

She didn’t seem to notice the coldness in his voice, just kept smiling at him like he hadn’t been avoiding her for days.

“You always seem so prepared,” she said with a small laugh. “I bet you could survive out there for weeks with all the stuff you buy.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. Survive?

She had no idea what that meant.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Her smile faltered for just a second, her eyes flicking to the side as if she wasn’t sure what to say next.

But then she turned back to him, her expression softening again.

“You know, I’ve been learning more about the gear here,” she said, leaning forward a bit. “I could help you with recommendations if you ever need it.”

Joel stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Why was she still talking to him? Why was she being so damn nice?

“I’m good,” he said, his voice gruff.

But she didn’t stop.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity. “You sure? I’ve been reading up on it a lot. Could probably surprise you with what I know.”

You shouldn’t trust me, Joel thought, his mind racing.

Why are you still smiling at me?

He grunted again, shifting on his feet, his gaze flicking to the door.

He needed to leave. Now.

“Well,” she said, that same smile tugging at her lips, “if you ever need anything, just let me know. I’m here most days now.”

Too much information.

Joel’s gut clenched. She shouldn’t be telling him this—telling anyone this. Didn’t she know how dangerous it was to be so open, so trusting?

“You shouldn’t tell people that,” Joel muttered, his voice harsher than he meant. “Not safe.”

Her brows furrowed, her smile slipping for the first time. “What do you mean?”

Joel felt the weight of her confusion settle on him, but he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “Tellin’ strangers where you work. When you work. Ain’t smart.”

She blinked, taken aback. “Oh... I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”

Of course, you didn’t.

Joel’s mind reeled, his frustration bubbling just below the surface.

You don’t know how to think like that. You don’t know what the world can do to people like you.

But before he could say anything else, she smiled again, though this time it was smaller, a bit softer.

“Thanks for looking out for me,” she said, her voice quieter. “I didn’t mean to—well, I guess I’m just not used to thinking like that.”

Yeah. I can tell.

But instead of saying that, Joel just nodded, his jaw still tight. He needed to leave, needed to stop this before he got in too deep.

Here’s a darker, more intense version of that passage:

“See you around,” she called after him as he turned to leave.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

His throat was tight, his chest heavy. But as he pushed open the door and stepped outside into the cool air, something made him look back.

She was still watching him. Smiling. Soft. So damn innocent.

That look in her eyes—so full of trust—twisted something deep inside him.

She doesn’t know better.

His boots hit the pavement harder than necessary as he made his way to the truck.

Every step felt heavy, like the weight of his thoughts was dragging him down. His hand found the door handle, but he couldn’t make himself move.

Couldn’t shake the way her scent still clung to him, sweet and soft, like she was still standing right next to him.

Joel gritted his teeth, staring down at the truck door, but all he could see was her face.

Her wide, bright eyes, that shy smile, the way she just… trusted.

Trusted him. She shouldn’t.

His body felt hot, the tension coiling low in his gut, his muscles tight.

Too tight.

And then he felt it again—his cock, straining against his jeans, hard and throbbing, a deep, almost painful ache that made his breath catch in his throat.

Fuck.

It hit him like a freight train, sudden and unwanted. His mind raced, trying to push the thought of her away, but the harder he tried, the worse it got.

His pulse pounded in his ears, the heat in his body rising as the memory of her soft voice echoed in his mind.

That innocent, clumsy laugh. The way she fumbled with the gear. The blush on her cheeks.

Joel’s grip tightened on the door handle, his knuckles turning white.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He hadn’t felt this in years. This need. This raw, primal hunger gnawing at him.

His body betrayed him, his cock throbbing harder, almost painfully, as if it knew something he didn’t.

But it was because of her.

The realization, again, made his chest tighten, his breath coming in rough, uneven bursts.

He slammed the door shut, leaning his forehead against the cool metal, trying to calm the storm raging inside him.

No. Not her.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but her image was burned into his mind—her body, her smell, the softness in her eyes.

His cock twitched again, the pressure building, his jeans too tight, the pulse unbearable.

She was so sweet. So oblivious.

And here he was, standing in the parking lot like a goddamn animal, throbbing with need for something he knew he shouldn’t want.

But the thought of her lingered. The way she looked up at him like he was something to be trusted. Something safe.

Joel forced himself into the truck, gripping the wheel so tight he thought it might break.

His heart pounded in his chest, the tension making every breath feel like fire.

He needed to forget her. Get her out of his head.

But his body told him otherwise.

The throbbing between his legs refused to be ignored. His jaw clenched, muscles tight with frustration as the thoughts swirled, dark and unwanted.

He hadn’t felt like this in years. Not since before everything went to hell.

And now? Now this girl—this soft, sweet girl—had him unraveling.

Joel’s head thudded against the back of the seat, his pulse still racing. This wasn’t going to end well.

Not for him.

And definitely not for her.

· · ────

The following days were a blur of uncomfortable tension.

Joel tried to stay away.

He told himself not to go back to the store, not to linger around her.

He even went out on longer drives, tried to immerse himself in the things that usually kept his mind quiet.

But it didn’t work. Not anymore.

She was lodged in his thoughts, a constant, nagging presence that he couldn’t shake.

No matter how hard he tried to forget her, she always managed to crawl back in.

Her face, her voice, the way she smiled up at him like he wasn’t something to fear.

It gnawed at him, a reminder of everything he’d left behind.

A week passed before Joel saw her again.

This time, it was different. He wasn’t just there for supplies or to catch a glimpse of her. No, this time, he watched her more carefully.

Observing.

He kept his distance at first, lingering near the back of the store, eyes flicking toward her every few minutes as she worked.

She hummed to herself again, that same soft tune he’d heard the first time they met.

It wasn’t loud, barely audible under the sound of the store, but he caught it.

And it made something tighten inside him.

For a man who lived in shadows, always on alert, this brightness—this innocence—felt foreign. Her having no need to be quiet so she won’t be seen.

Wrong.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching her.

She smiled as she spoke to a customer, her eyes lighting up as she handed them their change.

She was so goddamn open, so trusting. And that terrified him.

He told himself it was because she didn’t know better. She didn’t know what kind of world she lived in.

She hadn’t seen the things he’d seen, hadn’t done the things he’d done.

That was why he watched her so closely now.

He was protecting her. Keeping her safe.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But it was more than that, wasn’t it?

The next day, she found him again, her voice soft but cheerful as she spoke up. “You’re back! Need anything else?”

Joel stared at her for a moment, his chest tightening at how easily she smiled at him. “Just… lookin’.”

She laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Well, if you ever need recommendations, I’m your girl.”

He tried to brush it off, tried to keep his voice steady, his eyes focused anywhere but on her.

But when she started talking about her weekend plans, everything shifted.

“I’m actually heading out for a solo trip this weekend,” she said, her voice filled with excitement.

“Found this beautiful spot just outside of town. Gonna do some camping, get away from everything for a bit.”

Joel’s blood ran cold.

Camping? Alone?

His jaw clenched as he stared at her, trying to process what she’d just said.

A girl like her? Out in the wilderness by herself?

The world wasn’t safe, and she was too naive to see that. She didn’t understand the dangers lurking just beyond the treeline.

“Where?” His voice was rough, demanding.

The softness from earlier was gone, replaced by the cold, hard edge that usually kept people at a distance.

She blinked, caught off guard by his tone. “Uh… it’s just a little spot out past the ridge. Really pretty.”

Joel felt his chest tighten.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” he said, his voice dark, laced with warning. “It’s not safe.”

She blinked, clearly confused by his sudden shift. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, though there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice now. “I’ve done this before.”

“No, you won’t,” Joel growled, stepping closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. “You have no idea what’s out there.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide, brows furrowed. “I—”

“You’ll get yourself killed,” he interrupted, his voice dropping lower, more threatening.

His paranoia was slipping through now, his need to protect her—to control the situation—overwhelming him. “You’re not prepared for what’s out there.”

There was a long pause, the tension thick between them. She opened her mouth to speak, but Joel wasn’t done.

“If you’re set on goin’,” he said, his tone calmer now, but still dark, “I know a better place. Secluded. Safe.”

His mind was spinning with the need to protect her, to make sure she was under his watch. “It’s past the ridge. You won’t find it on a map, but it’s perfect for campin’.”

That was his land. His very own property, tucked away from prying eyes, isolated and quiet. His land. Where he could keep an eye on her.

Her eyes brightened again, the tension between them easing just slightly. “Really? That sounds amazing! I’d love to check it out.”

Trusting so easily.

Joel nodded slowly, watching her carefully.

“I’ll give you the coordinates,” he said, his voice rough, his gaze still locked on hers. “Just… be careful.”

She smiled again, oblivious to the darkness brewing behind his eyes. “Thank you, Joel. I appreciate it.”

There's that damn blush again.

Joel nodded again, but his mind was already elsewhere.

She didn’t belong out there alone. And now, after hearing her plans, Joel knew what he had to do.

She wouldn’t be alone.

If she wouldn’t protect herself, then he would

· · ────

It happened by accident, really.

Joel had been driving through town, running his usual errands—another routine day where he tried to keep his mind occupied with anything but her.

It was something he’d been forcing himself to do for the past few days, convincing himself that the tension in his chest would ease if he just avoided her, if he didn’t let himself linger in her orbit for too long.

But fate had other plans.

As he turned down a quiet street on the edge of town, his eyes caught movement.

A figure stepped out of a small, unassuming house, barely noticeable in the corner of his eye.

Joel wasn’t even sure why he slowed down at first. He told himself it was out of habit, that old soldier instinct to assess everything in his surroundings. But the moment he saw her, all rational thought slipped away.

It was her.

She stood there, fumbling with her keys and a couple of grocery bags, her hair falling loose around her shoulders in soft waves.

Joel’s foot hovered over the brake for just a second too long as he watched her struggle to balance the bags and unlock the door.

Her face was flushed, lips moving as she muttered something to herself—a frustrated little quirk of her mouth that made his chest tighten.

There was something different about seeing her like this.

Here, in her space.

Not at the store, not somewhere public. But here—outside her home.

He felt a knot of something unfamiliar, something deep and possessive curl in his stomach.

She didn’t notice him at all. She was too busy juggling her things, her focus entirely on the door in front of her.

Joel’s gaze swept over her as he slowly rolled by, his truck moving at a crawl now.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even though a part of him knew he should’ve kept driving.

But the pull was too strong.

There was a softness about her here that felt even more pronounced.

Her home, small and tucked away from the busier streets, suited her in a way that he hadn’t expected. It was unassuming, private, but open in a way that made Joel feel… unsettled.

Like she was too exposed, too vulnerable, and too easy to find. Too easy for someone to hurt.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened as the thought crossed his mind.

She had no idea how dangerous the world really was. How quickly things could go wrong.

He drove past, the truck moving with painful slowness, his eyes flicking from the road to her again and again.

She didn’t see him. Not once. And for some reason, that bothered him more than it should have.

She hadn’t locked the door when she finally went inside.

Of course, she hadn’t.

Joel’s chest tightened with frustration, his jaw clenching as he drove farther down the road, turning the corner and pulling to a stop just out of sight.

Now that he knew where she lived, something shifted. He couldn’t just drive away and forget about it. No, she was here, alone, with no sense of the dangers that could easily find her.

He shouldn’t care. It wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

But that’s not how it felt anymore.

· · ────

It wasn’t until later that night, as he lay in bed, that the dream came.

It wasn’t like the usual ones—flashes of war, the men he’d fought alongside, the sounds of gunfire and the stink of blood.

This one was different and it hit harder than anything he’d experienced in years.

He dreamt of her.

Of her in that house. And something, someone, breaking in.

It was chaos.

She was screaming, fighting to get free, and all he could do was watch, powerless, as she disappeared into the shadows.

He woke up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, the adrenaline surging through his veins.

For a moment, Joel couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been real—that she was in danger and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

His hand instinctively reached for the knife he kept near the bed, fingers gripping the handle like it was his lifeline.

His breath came in heavy bursts, his body rigid with the need to protect, to act.

He could still hear her screams, still see her face twisted in fear.

She wasn’t safe.

And it wasn’t just a dream. Joel knew then, in that moment, that he couldn’t let this go.

He couldn’t just stand by and hope for the best.

It was only a matter of time, before something bad would happen to her.

He had to make sure she was okay, had to make sure nothing like that ever happened to her.

And if that meant going out of his way to keep an eye on her, then so be it.

· · ────

The next day, he drove by her house again.

And the day after that.

Each time, he told himself it was just a precaution, just a way to make sure she wasn’t in any real danger.

He didn’t get too close, didn’t let himself be seen.

But every time he saw her, the tension in his chest loosened just a little, knowing she was still there, still safe.

He found out more about her routines—when she left for work, when she came back.

He watched as she went about her day, completely unaware of the eyes that followed her every move.

She wasn’t like the rest of the world—hardened and scarred by violence.

She was soft, untouched by the darkness that clung to everything Joel had known.

And that’s why she needed him.

· · ────

The more he watched her, the more he realized how easy it would be for something to go wrong.

A stranger could approach her on her walks, someone could break into her house, anything could happen.

And if he wasn’t there to stop it… she would be defenseless.

That feeling from the dream—the panic, the helplessness—still clung to him, gnawing at his gut like a festering wound.

He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t convince himself to turn around and go home.

That’s why he had started breaking into her house.

Naturally.

At first, it was just to make sure everything was secure.

He would check the locks, make sure the windows were latched, make sure there were no signs of forced entry.

But the more he let himself in, the more his reasons shifted.

He started checking her camping gear, making sure everything was in place.

Joel crouched down, fingers brushing over the rough material as he unzipped the bag.

His hands moved through her belongings with the same careful touch, checking each item she’d packed.

He frowned when he noticed some of the essentials missing.

No proper emergency gear. Not enough food. Definitely not enough water.

She wasn’t ready.

His chest tightened with a mix of frustration and concern.

She had no idea what she was walking into.

The wild didn’t care how innocent or sweet you were—it tore people apart.

And she was so damn trusting, so clueless about the danger that lurked everywhere.

Joel zipped the bag back up and stood, a plan already forming in his mind.

She couldn’t go out there alone, not without the proper gear. Not without protection.

He’d make sure she had what she needed.

He’d leave it for her—quietly, subtly.

She didn’t need to know he was the one watching over her.

She didn’t need to know just how deep his involvement went.

His feet led him down the hall, toward the room at the end—the door slightly ajar, a soft, warm glow spilling from inside.

Joel’s breath hitched as he stepped further inside, his boots nearly silent on the hardwood floor.

It was small, simple, but unmistakably hers.

A bed with a soft quilted cover, a small nightstand with a book left open, and clothes folded neatly on a chair in the corner.

Joel swallowed hard, his throat dry as his eyes roamed over the space.

He moved slowly, carefully, his eyes scanning the room like he was surveying a battlefield.

Everything was neat, untouched, just as he’d expected.

But as he stood there, something twisted in his chest. He wasn’t just here to check on her safety.

Something else caught his attention.

Her underwear.

At first, it was an accident. He wasn’t looking for it, but when he stumbled upon it—soft, lacy, and used—he couldn’t stop himself.

His hands reached for it before he even realized what he was doing, his fingers brushing against the delicate fabric.

His breath caught in his throat, his pulse quickening.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew that.

But the scent—her scent—was intoxicating, wrapping around him like a drug. His mind flashed with images of her wearing it, of her undressing, her skin soft and bare beneath his touch.

Joel’s grip tightened on the fabric, his body reacting in ways he hadn’t felt in years. His jeans grew uncomfortably tight, the throbbing between his legs impossible to ignore. He was so hard.

This wasn’t just about keeping her safe anymore. It was about something deeper, something darker.

He brought the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply, letting the scent of her wash over him.

His eyes fluttered shut, his mind filling with thoughts he had no right to think.

He hadn’t let himself feel something like this —this raw, uncontrollable hunger—but now, standing in her bedroom, holding something so private, so close to her, it hit him like a wave.

Joel inhaled deeply, the scent wrapping around him like a haze, flooding his senses. It was overwhelming, intoxicating.

His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing deepened, and the scent clung to him, almost suffocating him in the best way possible.

The sweetness, mixed with something so personal, made his heart pound harder in his chest, heat rising in his body.

She had no idea.

No idea what she did to him.

How that softness, that scent, chipped away at the walls he build.

His fingers tightened around the fabric as he held it closer, the warmth of her scent flooding his senses.

His mind was clouded with images—images of her.

She shouldn’t be this trusting.

He imagined her standing there, blushing, lips parting slightly, her soft voice spilling from them, completely unaware of the thoughts racing through his mind.

She was just too easy to picture—too easy to want.

too sweet.

Too soft. Too innocent for someone like him.

Joel’s grip tightened as he let his mind spiral deeper into the images of her—blushing, trembling, staring up at him with those wide, innocent eyes that would soon be filled with something else.

His fingers tightened around the fabric, his body responding in ways he couldn’t deny any longer.

He fought to steady his breathing, to push the dark thoughts from his mind, but they were there, lurking just beneath the surface, no matter how hard he tried.

He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want her.

He wasn’t just imagining her anymore—he was feeling her, smelling her, letting her invade his mind and body in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his breathing rough as he tried to regain control.

But the more he let the fabric linger in his hands, the more he realized—he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to let go.

Joel stayed like that, frozen in the moment, inhaling deeply, the used fabric of her underwear still clutched in his hands as he lost himself in the dark, possessive thoughts swirling in his mind.

He knew it wouldn’t be the last time. He couldn’t stop now.

The pull was too strong, too overwhelming.

Without even thinking, he raised the fabric closer, his lips hovering just above it.

His heart pounded in his chest, a heavy, aching rhythm, the temptation crawling under his skin.

He hesitated for just a moment, knowing how wrong this was, how far he was crossing a line.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him.

Nothing could stop him now.

Joel’s breath hitched, and his lips brushed against the soft material, barely making contact at first.

He could feel the warmth, the faint trace of her cunt, lingering on the fabric, and it sent a wave of heat rushing through him.

His grip tightened.

The softness pressed against his mouth, and for a split second, he let his tongue flicker out, tasting her sweet pussy, just barely.

It was subtle, a hint of something forbidden, but it sent a jolt straight through him.

He felt himself tense, his body reacting in ways he could no longer control, the line between protection and obsession blurring even more.

He wanted more.

Before he could let his tongue get another lick, Joel heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.

That did certainly stop him.

His body stiffened, and in a heartbeat, all the dark, twisted satisfaction evaporated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline.

His mind raced, his fingers trembling as he fumbled to put everything back exactly where it had been.

Not now. Not like this.

He moved swiftly but silently, making sure every trace of him disappeared. Every drawer closed, every fabric in place. He couldn’t leave any sign that he had been there.

His heart pounded against his ribcage as he slipped out of the bedroom, his movements precise, calculated.

Years of training kept his body moving even when his mind teetered on panic.

The soft sound of her footsteps reached his ears as she moved further into the house.

She was talking to herself again, that light, carefree tune that only made him more desperate to get out unnoticed.

She had no idea.

No idea that he had been so close, no idea of the thoughts that ran through his head while he held her soaked panties in his hands.

Joel paused at the back door, his body pressed against the frame as he caught a glimpse of her through the crack in the doorway.

She was still oblivious, setting her bag down, humming softly to herself. She hadn’t noticed anything. Not the disturbance in the air, not the faint scent of him that still lingered in the room.

So innocent. So trusting.

Must be nice.

He watched her for a moment, his eyes darkening as he observed her, standing there in the home she thought was safe.

He could still smell her on him, the faint scent clinging to his mustache, the lingering effect making his pulse quicken once more.

But he couldn’t stay.

Not now.

With one last glance, Joel slipped out of the house, his movements quick and silent.

He disappeared into the shadows just as she turned toward the hallway, completely unaware of how close he had been—how close he still was.

· · ────

Joel slipped into his truck with the stealth of a man used to evading detection, his heart still hammering in his chest as he turned the key in the ignition.

The engine rumbled to life, but his mind was elsewhere.

The drive home felt longer than usual, each passing second a blur of adrenaline and frustration.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white, his breathing uneven.

He could still smell her, the faint scent lingering on his clothes, on his skin. It was maddening.

He tried to shake it off, tried to ignore the throbbing ache that had been building since he smelled her sweet little cunt, but it wouldn’t go away.

When he finally pulled up to his house, Joel barely remembered the drive at all.

He parked the truck haphazardly, the door slamming shut behind him as he made his way inside.

His boots hit the wooden floor with heavy thuds, and before he knew it, he was leaning back against the wall in his living room, his breath still coming in shallow bursts.

His breath was ragged, the ache in his body refusing to subside.

The scent of her cunt—still clinging to his beard, his hands—seeped into his skin, a constant reminder of what she had stirred deep inside him.

He hadn’t felt like this in years, hadn’t allowed himself to. But now, there was no going back.

His cock throbbed painfully, straining against his jeans, and for the first time in so long, he couldn’t ignore it.

The need was unbearable, clawing at him, demanding release. He leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, every breath filled with the sweetness of her scent.

It was still there, on him, as if she hadn’t left.

His hand hovered over the bulge in his jeans, fingers twitching, as if fighting the urge to touch.

But the memory of her—the feel of her, the scent of her—was overwhelming.

He couldn’t stop now. He didn’t want to.

With a low growl, he gave in, his hand pressing against his cock, the pressure sending a shiver up his spine.

His jaw clenched as he slowly dragged his palm over the length, the throbbing only growing more intense. The sensation was too much, too sharp after years of nothing.

He hadn’t touched himself like this in so long, and the intensity of it almost knocked the breath out of him.

His cock twitched, hard and aching in his hand, the weight of it heavy as he gripped it tighter.

His breath hitched as he finally pulled it free, the cool air hitting his skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat that was coursing through his veins. fuck.

He stroked himself slowly at first, his rough palm sliding over the swollen, leaking head, the friction making him groan.

He thought he’d never feel this was again.

His mind was a haze of her—her softness, her innocence, the way she had smiled at him, so trusting, so sweet.

She didn’t know what she was doing to him. She couldn’t know.

But he did.

His pace quickened, each stroke more desperate, more insistent. The scent of her was driving him insane.

Sweet like her.

He licked his lips, trying to get some of that sweet, sweet taste back he had earlier.

His cock throbbed in his hand, hard and slick as he pumped it, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

Her face flashed in his mind again—those wide, innocent eyes, the way she had blushed when she looked at him.

She had no idea.

No idea how badly he wanted her, how much he needed her.

Joel’s grip tightened, his strokes rougher now, his hips jerking up into his hand as he chased that release, the pressure building fast.

His cock was pulsing in his hand, slick and hard, aching with the need for something he couldn’t name.

Something only she could give him.

His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he pumped his cock faster, harder.

The tension coiled tight in his gut, every muscle in his body straining as the need for release consumed him.

He could almost taste her, the memory of her scent still filling his lungs, making his head swim.

With a rough, guttural growl, Joel’s body tensed, his vision going white as the tension finally snapped.

His cock jerked in his hand, the release hitting him like a storm, fierce and unforgiving.

He groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking as he spilled over his hand, the warmth spreading through him like fire. He hadn’t cum that much in years.

It wouldn’t stop coming out of him.

…well, this was new.

For a long moment, he stayed there, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps, his hand still wrapped around his now-softening cock.

The pleasure ebbed slowly, leaving behind a dark satisfaction that settled deep in his bones.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Because her scent was still there.

Her softness still lingered in his mind, wrapped around him like a shroud, and Joel knew—this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Joel’s mind flickered back to the map, to the spot he’d given her—the spot on his land.

He could see it clear as day, tucked away, isolated, surrounded by woods.

Tomorrow, she’d be out there, alone, completely unaware of what could happen.

His jaw clenched at the thought.

The world was dangerous, filled with things she couldn’t even begin to understand.

But he did.

His pulse quickened, that dark, familiar feeling tightening around his chest.

He’d keep her safe. He’d make sure nothing happened to her—not on his watch.

No one else knew the dangers lurking in the shadows like he did. She had no idea, no clue what she was walking into.

But he’d be there.

Watching.

And if anything—or anyone—tried to hurt her, they’d have to go through him first.

Joel swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. He’d seen too much, lost too much.

But not her. Not this time.

Tomorrow, he’d make sure she was safe… even if she didn’t know it.

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

well… somebody needs therapy (me and him both)

I have no tag list for this (I’m old and will probably fail starting one) but if you comment on here I’ll remind you if there’s a new chapter!!

Deal?

xoxo

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hyperactively-me · 1 year ago

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now NOWWW hear me out, from king!ghost's POV, i wanna know what he thinks of her after the wedding and after he leaves her alone without consummating the marriage. maybe he's just absolutely yearning to fuck her but he's respectful of her. he just really really REALLYYYY wants HER to be willing to give in to him, and to realize that she's not the one with the leverage in this relationship they have. like, he wants to be like "oh yeah, now you're giving in to me," if you know what i mean? idk if i explained that correctly LOL

i think i get where you're trying to go with this one! hopefully i wrote what you were expecting!

He shuts the door behind you gently, standing out in the chilly hallway. His fingers linger on the door handle, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. The sigh he heard through the crevice under the door felt like a heavy weight pressing on his chest, a reminder of the fragile situation you were both in. He takes a deep breath, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do next.

Stepping away from the door, Ghost wrestles with the current dilemma in his mind. No one can discover the unconsummated marriage, at least not for the time being. He's determined to ensure this remains hidden, resolute in safeguarding this secret. He understands that the consummation will come in due time, just not now, not when you’re not willing. He can be a patient man when he wants to be. And for you, he would wait.

Memories of your smiles and laughter during the reception flood back to him. That’s who he wants to see all the time. He wants you to show that side of yourself to him, to be more vulnerable with him, but he knew you were afraid. But the circumstances had kept you away from him, leaving wounds in you.

He quickly makes his way down the hall and to his own personal chambers, ensuring that no one catches him alone and without you.

Slipping into bed, he looks at his ring finger. Now he really was stuck with you forever, and you with him. And one of these days, you’ll realize what you truly want.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

#he's down bad #everything will happen in due time y'all #just let me finish the buildup first!!!#promise its coming soon #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon “ghost” riley x reader #simon “ghost” riley x you #hyperactivelyme

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helios-the-stan · 11 days ago

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So me and my partner came up with something after the last episode of Wild Life and I’ve been brain rotting about it ever since so I figured I might as well share about it here.

So we saw in Limited Life that the Watchers have started to… take more direct control so to speak. The return of the Boogeyman sometimes with multiple rolls in one session. The poem after Martyn’s glass death. Martyn’s finale betrayal and the heavy implication he wasn’t entirely there for it. Me and my partner have head canoned since that finale that Martyn, while originally a vessel of contact for the Listeners within the life series, has since been… corrupted so to speak. Spending so much time inside the games fighting to win every time made him lose his way a bit and let the Watchers start to seep in and try to take over as a way of fighting back against the Listeners. And with Limited Life they succeeded.

And then came Secret Life. The Watchers were celebrating and so sure they’d won they started getting cocky. Interfering further even as their control slipped elsewhere. Both a grab for further power and a way of showing off their success with Martyn. They sent the Secret Keeper to watch more directly. To give out orders and pull the strings on the drama from within it better than their rebellious little winner Grian ever did. After all the biggest enemy against him and them in general was now theirs right? Except he wasn’t. Not really. Sure part of him had been changed. Corrupted by the Watchers influence. He was more unhinged, more violent, more hungry for a win than ever. But he wasn’t lost for good. The Listeners could still fight through him. And they were determined to make it count now too. They guided him to Jimmy. Knew if he had a canary to fight for and have fun with it might soothe him. Bring him down to them again. Maybe he could even break the curse. That safeguard the Watchers had put on the weaker of the Listener influences in the world to keep their strength weakened with his early exits before the Listeners could really make things count, or so the Watchers believed anyway.

But the Listeners were more patient than that. And while Martyn was reckless he was having fun with Jimmy. Lighthearted playful fun in between the chaos he wrought on others. Like he’d used to have, back when Ren was around to have it with. Double Life had been a bigger toll on both Ren and Martyn than either let on. Perhaps the weakness that let the Watchers get to Martyn, though perhaps that was just a matter of time too ironically. And while the Listeners could not risk taking their vessel out… they could save Ren for a time. Take their vessel’s favorite out for a bit so he could relax and heal like they’d later do for Pearl and Cleo. It was a risk. But one they knew would pay off eventually. If they just played their cards right.

And then Jimmy died. It wasn’t first. The Watchers got cocky and pushed Lizzie down expecting Jimmy to die to Grian’s antics just as they had planned just a bit sooner than he did. Grian delayed just a bit too long by Mumbo. By the very tasks the Secret Keeper, one of their own, had given out. So Lizzie floated in the void as punishment. And Jimmy was soon out too. And the Watchers were pissed. So they grabbed their new toy and flung it at a wall, metaphorically speaking. Martyn snapped. Jimmy was dead and he was just as pissed as the Watchers for it, if for very different reasons. But deep down? He wasn’t really mad. He was sad. Heartbroken. He’d teamed with Scott in Limited Life to avoid this very thing. Scott was a winner and he was damn good at the game. It was as much him and his sacrifices and team playing that got Martyn his win as it was himself and the Watchers need for drama. Martyn hadn’t wanted to lose again. Hadn’t wanted to bet on a losing dog again even if he’d always be drawn to the people he was close to more than the people who would get a win. He never really lived up to what the Watchers tried to get out of him after that. Because the Listeners had guided him to heartbreak over wrath if just for a time.

And then Martyn was gone and we got to watch and listen as Scott once again made a sacrifice for his team only to for once have it not be the final step to his or his teammate’s success. The patterns were breaking. The curses and boons faltering. The Watchers were losing control more than they’d realized in their moment of cockiness. Now it was winner versus non winner and they couldn’t let Pearl win again. So despite their desires for a villain in Scar she was struck down and Scar was declared the winner. The hero of the story. All with no friends to his name. At least he thought so. But the Listeners knew better. Several people had been guided to him throughout the sessions. To try and make friends. They were always rebuffed. The Watchers wanted a different path for Scar. But the Listeners did not care. For they knew it was the thought that mattered. That would guide Scar’s heart in the future. Scar was punished for his victory. Trapped in that world with nothing but a girl trapped in the endless void he did not know existed for company. But loneliness would only further cement the path the Listeners wanted for him later. They knew it. Even if the Watchers were too impulsive to see how they were playing right into their hands.

And finally we get to Wild Life. Where no alliance is truly secure and the teams can barely even come up with names for themselves. Where every session is a new fresh hell for the players concocted seemingly at random with no rhyme or reason or ties to what came before. Each week a new torture as everything around them starts to fracture. Their minds and their hearts. The challenges they face. Their connections to others. Everything is exaggerated ten fold as the Watchers drum up as much food as they can forcing things much more extremely than ever before. They know they need the power though. Oblivious to the fact that by overfeeding they are shattering their food source apart. Turning what once was hearty steak into spun cotton candy sugar. Sweet. But entirely innutritious.

Ren was brought back with the explicit goal whispered into his ears to bring Martyn back to the Listeners. To warm his chaotic corrupted heart back to how it had once been when they were king and hand. More playful than violent even if that play had bred violence when Grian and the other Watchers demanded it. He was gifted back to the Listener’s vessel on a silver platter and he was hungry for it. Jumped to be back with him in a new form. Ready to steal victory for Ren like he’d failed to do so many times before. He was a winner now after all. Stronger. Fiercer. Violent. Feared. Wild. It was perfect wasn’t it? The wild card of the winners dragging the former king to his throne? But the Watcher corruption was strong as the world started to shatter. Ren’s attempts at plans and soothing were targeted so that corruption could be maintained and Martyn was set loose to cause problems for everyone even more so than the Grian or the Watcher vessels Pearl and BigB did. And yet still Martyn stays intently loyal to the man despite the betrayals everywhere else, because that’s his losing dog, and he will make him king again.

Meanwhile Scar was gifted two new friends for his new team. Two friends as clumsy and seemingly harmless as him. Jimmy and the one who had broken Jimmy’s curse. Surely he would be harmless too now. Would no longer get in the Watchers way like he had so many times before in seemingly every game. He was a winner now too. Surely he would back off. But if anything it just made him fight harder. Because he was lonely. And he was gifted friends. And he refused to be lonely again now that he had them.

Jimmy was always a Listener vessel. From the very start he’d been guided by them. But Lizzie was a bit of a unique case. Because the Listeners could not send one of their own the way the Watchers did with Grian they instead took two special cases to add to the fray when they needed it most. Not vessels, but simply untouched parties who had not had chunks taken from them like the other players, who when they played could be easily drawn back to the Listeners arms to be healed and comforted. Lizzie was one of these players, Mumbo being the other. And so while Lizzie had no guidance she was still very much a spy of sorts for the Listeners. A piece they knew the Watchers would ignore even if they shouldn’t. Disregarded as unimportant for their weakness and lack of strong food but strong in exactly the ways the Listeners needed them to be so that the other players could one day be like them. She had already served that role once before in unknowingly encouraging the Watchers to prompt her early death and breaking of their own curse on Jimmy, and perhaps even before in distracting her husband and stealing his wrath whenever she was on the field whether in her own body or not, and now she would play it again in helping to keep the boys alive and granting them the gentle love and care they required to heal from the unique punishments dealt to them.

Meanwhile Mumbo had a different task. While Lizzie was like the ocean, gentle on the surface but with the power to be all consuming when they needed her to be, cleaning and distracting with her presence around someone, Mumbo was rather the opposite. He was a cloud of smoke. Coal dust filling the air. Blocking out the eyes that sought to watch so intently. Drawing attention with his anxiety but never quite making strong enough moves to feed. Hiding what the Watchers should’ve been focused on instead with the drama he imposed in his own head but rarely held tightly to amongst others. Rarely doing more than a few paranoid words and always following those with stronger convictions than his own even when they countered the words he’d just spoken. So Mumbo was given to Grian. Half a peace offering considering the Watcher’s unique obsession with the man. And half a distraction for him. Something to steal away his attention so his fellows couldn’t try to force his rebellious spirit to serve them regardless of his wants. A poison in the already chaotic world to break it down further by keeping the one with the most direct control over the chaos focused on someone who clearly needed and wanted his attention.

And that was their goal. Poison this world. This cycle the Watchers had created. It would be painful for the players yes. But the Listeners knew it was what needed to be done. If they did not make the game unable to be repeated the Watchers would just start another one. And another. And another. Until the players themselves were so broken they were little more than puppets. At least this form of chaos had them causing it of their own free will. A painful free will none of them truly wanted to follow. But a free will nonetheless. One that hopefully could break them free so they could be healed piece by piece and allowed to return to the lives they deserved to live outside of all this turmoil.

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clockwayswrites · 2 years ago

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Like Betta Fish Do - Part 9

Masterpost of ao3 link and all parts. wc: 2920

Jason hated Danny, a little. The other had really (accidentally) downplayed the effect the ectoshot would have. Flu like symptoms his ass, Jason felt like his insides were trying to crawl their way to the outside. Danny had apologized profusely and frequently, and Jason had forgiven him. Still, he hated Danny a little for doing this to him. Danny earned a lot of points back, though, by acting as Jason’s personal ice pack through the worst of the fever. Jason spent a lot of hours with his head or chest pressed against Danny’s cold back as he lay, miserable, on the couch with Danny sat on the floor in front of it. It was even nicer when Danny would absently run cold fingers through Jason’s hair and scratch lightly at his scalp. Jason tried not to think about how good that felt. How easy it was to let Danny touch him. He was determined to just blame the fever and ignore how his very bones seemed to hum in pleasure at the contact. Or maybe it was Danny humming. Purring? Fuck this fever, seriously.

So Jason sat close to Danny and Danny spent most of the time doing homework on a laptop that looked one step from death. “Summer classes,” he explained when Jason asked. “I’m trying to get all my gen eds done so that I can double major. Maybe even triple? I don’t know if I want to have spend the time on the language classes a Math major needs.” Jason hummed in response, trying to tuck the information away in his sick ailed brain. He couldn’t decided if he hoped Danny and Tim never met (con, they were both too damn smart), or if he desperately wanted them to meet (pro, Tim would replace all of Danny’s failing tech in a pique of disgust). Maybe the scholarship already came with a new laptop? That sounded like it would be a Tim thing to do, but Jason wasn’t sure how involved Tim was in the scholarships. “Math sucks,” he settled on. | “Sure it does, book boy. I bet you were an English major.” Danny had found Jason’s pile of books early on the second day and made fun of him. But Danny had also found both ‘Pride and Prejudice’ movies to download and had put them on for Jason to watch. They had spend all day trying to make it through the Colin Firth one as Danny kept pausing it whenever Jason dozed off due to the fever. “Nah. Never even finished high school. Too busy being dead,” Jason mumbled and tried to press closer to the cold. Danny must have done something because the chill increased. Jason let out a content sigh. He was almost asleep when Danny spoke. “You’re not just dead any more. You can still have a life.” “Don’t know if I deserve one.” “Of course you do,” Danny said. Danny didn’t know what Jason had done, the Pit groaned in response. Jason let himself slip asleep rather than deal with either of them.

The next time Jason drifted towards consciousness, there was a hand on his forehead. It wasn’t right though. It was familiar, but it wasn’t right. “Too warm.” “You sure are Jaybird. You’re burning up.” Jason jolted up and almost fell right back over as the world swam around him. When it solidified, it settled into a very different pair of worried blue eyes than he was expecting. “Big bird?” But if Dick was here, where was Danny? There was no sign of the other now; no laptop or textbooks or scribbled equations. Too many takeout boxes stacked too messily were the only clue, but Jason figured that could be excused by his sick state. Jason knew that Danny hadn’t been with him the whole time he’d been sick. The other clearly came and went at least a few times to pick up food, his school work, and other supplies. What Jason didn’t know if the timing was just lucky or if Danny had managed to disappear before Dick had made it past all the safeguards. He hoped Danny wasn’t stuck hiding in a closet or something. “What?” Jason asked. Dick had been saying something to him, but Jason hasn’t caught a word of it. He rubbed at his eyes to try and focus. “Did you get dosed?” “Does? No. Just the stupid flu or something,” Jason lied. “Why are you here?” “Because you didn’t show up for patrol for a few days in a row, little bird,” Dick said softly. He brushed Jason’s sweat soaked hair off his forehead. Jason swayed into the touch. Not even two days of finally being touched apparently was all it took to lose his self control. At least Dick wasn’t shying away from him right then. Not like he normally did. Right, his brother had said something. “That made you break into my place? You know that was fucking stupid. What if I’d been…” Jason trailed off and motioned to his eyes. What if he’d been in a Pit rage. “You don’t drop off from everything like this when you are. We were worried,” Dick said. He sounded worried, but Jason didn’t feel like he could figure out if it was real right then, not with his head so full of cotton. Maybe it was. This was Dick, he seemed to care. Of course, then Dick had to go and add, “You should have checked in.” Jason snorted at that. “Not for patrol reasons,” Dick said, rolling his eyes. “So that we didn’t worry, little bird. And so that I could have brought some soup from Alfred.” “Mmm… yeah, would have been worth it for the soup,” Jason decided after a moment. “Most things are worth Alfred’s soup,” Dick agreed with a chuckle. “But no, you had to be stubborn and not let us know you were sick so there’s no soup for you.” “Shut up,” Jason grumbled with no real heat. He tried to let himself fall back onto the couch but was stopped by Dick pulling him forward. “Nu-uh. We’re going to get you up and into the shower. You’ll feel better in clean clothes and I can change the blankets on the couch and get these through the wash.” “No.” “Yes,” Dick said in a sing-song voice that made Jason want to punch him. Instead he let Dick help him off the couch. Now that it had been mentioned, a shower really did sound good. He was left propped up against the door frame of the bathroom while Dick got the shower started. The sound of the water was almost soothing, and Jason eyes drifted closed. Normally the Pit would be snarling at him to stay alert— to stay focused and on guard— even (especially) in the presence of his family, but it seemed as drained by the ectoshot as he was and stayed quiet. “Jay?” “Hum?” “Do I need to get you to a hospital?” Jason pried his eyes open to glare at his brother. When had Dick gotten so close? He hovered just in front of Jason like if he wanted to reach out and pull Jason close. Shit, Dick really was worried, wasn’t he? “It’s just the stupid flu or something.” “I don’t know, you’re really out of it, Jay. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you with your guard like this.” “’S fine,” Jason said and let his eyes close again. “You’re here. I’m safe.” “Okay little bird,” Dick said softly and started to help Jason out of his sweat soaked shirt. “Let me take care of you.”

Dick helped peel off Jason’s shirt and tossed it on the floor. This wasn’t his first time undressing and shoving one of his family members into the shower. Being a vigilante left no room for modesty between the mortal wounds, medical procedures, and decontamination processes. It was easy to be clinical about it at this point. Besides, his mind was too busy reeling over Jason’s words. Jason felt safe with him. Jason, who even when he was sitting right next to them, still held them at arm’s length. Who Dick wasn’t sure would even show up at the few family meals he did attended if it weren’t for Alfred’s cooking. Who struggled to share any details about a case. Who didn’t ask for help when he was this sick… … felt safe with him. Dick had to bite his lip to keep the tears from welling up. He hadn’t thought Jason would ever trust him again, not really. He hadn’t been sure if he’d ever really have his brother back. He didn’t even need— want— Jason back in a creepy ‘just like he was before’ sort of way. Dick knew that was impossible. Jason dying had changed them all. Him coming back had changed them again. Jason had talked to Dick about it once, just a little. They had both been drunk— Jason more than Dick— and Jason had talked. He had talked like the words were spilling out of him, bleeding out of him; a soft steady flow of horror. There in the dim light of Dick’s apartment Jason had talked, just a little, about what it was like to live with the Pit rage in him. How it was like a rabid dog on a leash that was barking, barking barking. Dick didn’t know how someone even thought over that noise, but he was so damn proud of Jason for managing. He was so damn proud of Jason for clawing his way back to life— out of his grave and out of his madness and out of his rage. He didn’t want the old Jason back. He just wanted a chance to get to be a brother to this Jason. He was so damn proud of the man he’d become. His eyes ran over the horrible autopsy scars that crossed Jason’s chest. The stark reminder of exactly why Dick hadn’t been sure they’d ever really have Jason back. Jason, when he had to change around them, always did it as quickly as possible. But right then the scars were on full display. Because Jason was trusting Dick to see them. Dick tried hard not to think too much about it. Jason needed his help right then. He could deal with the mental fallout later. With some wrangling, Dick got Jason into the shower. After getting fresh clothing, he took a seat on the closed toilet, flicking through his phone from somewhere to order food from. He wanted to be close by in case Jason lost his balance in the shower. “Is Ben’s good for pizza?” “What?” At least Jason was sounding a little more clear headed. “Ben’s. I’m ordering food.” “Yeah. Get a supreme. The chicken bbq one is good too.” “Got it.” Dick selected the pizzas, added maybe too much garlic bread to the order, and submitted it. Then he pulled up the family chat. The one that Jason still refused to be part of. Dick: So Jason’s running a pretty bad fever. He thinks it’s the flu. Oracle: He’s actually staying home and not patrolling when he’s sick? Tim: Shit. It’s that bad? Dick: He’s pretty out of it. Shower seems to be helping and I’m ordering food. I’m going to stay the night here unless you need me on patrol. Bruce: We’ll rearrange patrols. Keep an eye on him. Dick: Will do. He wasn’t going to let Jason down again.

When Jason woke on day four, he felt good. He wasn’t perfect, he knew that. Danny had said it would take at least a few infusions— maybe several if his core took to it badly. He might never be without lingering effects. But even with just the one shot of ectoplasm Jason felt better than he had in years. Jason let himself linger in bed for a bit, slowly stretching out his sore muscles, before sounds from his kitchen made him stir. The press of otherness was back, so Jason assume that Danny was back. His arrival still made Jason shudder with a chill of cold. It wasn’t as overwhelming as it used to be, but there was never any doubt when Danny was around. Yesterday Dick had hardly left his He’d convinced Dick that he would be fine for the day and that he should go to work. Dick had still insisted on waking Jason up in the morning before he headed out, but Jason had rolled over and went back to sleep. And now Danny was back. The sound of something clattering, followed by cursing, had Jason finally rolling out of bed and heading to the kitchen. He half debated at least pulling on a shirt over his sleep pants, but the cursing had turned rather fevered. Besides, he didn’t think that Danny would be bothered by his scarring. He had to stop in the doorway to the kitchen and just stare. Smoke hung in the air. Danny was right in the middle of it— holding an ice covered frying pan out at arms length. Jason was pretty sure the tips of Danny’s bangs were singed. Jason was smirking. He knew he was. He really couldn’t help it. “I can see why you always bought food these last few days.” Danny whirled to face him, blue eyes wide. He made a cut off little noise and flushed bright red. Chuckling, Jason stepped into to the space— the kitchen was hardly big enough for two people— and reached around Danny to turn the burner off. Danny’s arm was cold as he brushed against it. When Jason pulled back and Danny was still just staring at him and had grown redder. “You good there, fish?” “Um, what? Oh!” Danny finally blinked. The blush went right to the tips of his ears. “Right, yeah? But, um, I don’t think that the eggs are okay.” “Don’t know if my frying pan is either,” Jason said, eying the frozen hunk of metal. “Sorry,” Danny said with a wince and dumped it in the sink. He waved his hand and let the ice melt. Scorched eggs washed down the sink. “How did you burn them so badly?" Jason asked. He was actually a little impressed. “I never learned to cook, okay? We didn’t really cook at my house so I’m having to pick up all of it now,” Danny said with a little shrug. “It’s, ah, not going so well.” “Neither of your parents chefs?” “Too much ambient ectoplasm,” Danny said as he tried to scrub at the charred pan. Jason didn’t think it would do any good. “When the casserole tries to eat you back one too many times you sort of give up on eating at home.” “What.” “Reanimated food. They’re always bastards. I have scars from the hot dogs still,” Danny said and also gave up on the pan and turned around to lean against the counter. “…I have so many questions and I don’t know if I want answers.” Danny shrugged again. He picked at the ends of the hoodie he was wearing, unraveling the ragged edge further. “You probably don’t. So, um, I was in the right to leave the other night, right?” “Yeah. It was my brother checking up on me. I don’t think I’m ready to explain all of this,” Jason said, giving a little wave of his hand to indicated everything as he leaned against the counter next to Danny. Danny glanced at him, his eyes flickering over the chest scars and back up. “They do know you died, right?” “Sorta hard to miss,” Jason said, crossing his arms. “But they think the Pits brought me back. We all did. Not that…” “It’s different, knowing you’re still dead,” Danny filled in where Jason trailed off. “Yeah. I’ll tell them later, maybe, but I want things to settle more. Shit, wait, am I going to get powers like you have? Then I’ll have to, I guess. It would hard to hide magical ice.” “Oh, you probably wont get ice. There are lots of difference cores. There’s all the elemental ones, fire and electricity and things, but also like, technology and shadow and a the Ancients can have really unique ones like time and hope. We won’t know what yours is until we get rid of the corrupted goop and you have enough ectoplasm.” “Huh,” Jason said with a frown. “So more ectoshots?” “More ectoshots. But we’ll give you a few weeks in between so you can recover. I’ve got to get myself moved to Gotham anyways, and I don’t really think you should take any of it if I’m not around, just in case your powers do develop.” “Yeah, alright,” Jason said, brain already working on how to hide all of this from the Bats. He was just starting to get things back to better with them. He didn’t want to throw ‘hey, turns out I’m still a little dead’ into the mix. He didn’t want to see the looks on their faces at that news. He didn’t want to break anyone’s heart again. He didn’t want to lose them again. Jason cleared his throat. “Well, guess I better give you my number then. Not that I don’t know when you’re around, but would be shit of you to have to come all this way just to check on me. How do you keep getting back and forth, anyways?” “Oh, sometimes I use a portal but mostly I just fly.” “You what?”

-----

AN: So this chapter was originally a single scene, but it decided it really needed more time. Then Dick decided to show up. I’ve gone back and forth about showing a POV other than Jason or Danny, but Jason is such an unreliable narrator about himself and Danny doesn’t know how Jason used to be, and I wanted to be able to show that. So Dick will show up a few times! He’s mostly here to have feelings.

And yes, Danny was totally bluescrened by shirtless Jason there at the end! I debated the POV for that, but thought it was funner that Jason has no clue why Danny is blushing like a tomato.

This is rough in places, I know, but my focus has been shot by pain. Besides, cleaning it up is what rewrites are for! Speaking of, rewrite of chapter 3 will be up on ao3 Thursday! Thank you all always for your wonderful response to this and stay delightful, darlings!

#dp x dc #danny fenton #jason todd #dick grayson #dead on main #danny fenton/jason todd #like betta fish do

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years ago

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Civilian Asset 1.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Your job was supposed to be easy. Just take a flash drive through customs. Now there's blood under your nails and a threat to your life.

Master List / Next chapter Warnings: Violence, peril, panic attack/anxiety

Inaccurate military because COD MW is inaccurate (it's a fantasy, friends, and we're treating it like one).

A/N: Don't ask. I don't know what I'm doing here either. Hello, new fandom?

There’s glitter stuck to the blood on your hands.

It all twinkles and shines in the sickly yellow glow of the alley’s one unbroken street light, and you wonder how long it will take the blood to dry, to turn flaky and dark in the crevices of your palm. It’s already going tacky. As the bass inside the club jars your heartbeat out of rhythm, you settle back into the skin under the blood, remembering you have your own, and you don’t want it to join the puddle seeping into the cracks of broken concrete at your knees. You wonder how much time you’ve lost.

Run, he said.

It isn’t the kind of order you sit and think over. It’s a do-or-die command, and you’re struggling to do much of anything as pins and needles creep through your legs. How long have you knelt there? How many songs have rolled through the speakers while you drifted? Probably too many.

Run.

He admitted he might’ve been followed. You remember that. And you remember the intel whispered in your ear as you pushed down on the bullet wound in his abdomen, fighting to recall every first aid lesson you learned in high school and college. Pressure – actively bleeding wounds needed pressure, so you’d put your weight on your hands as the party music pulsed through the cracked-open door you thought you’d slip back through after the usual handoff. But instead of taking a thumb drive or notebook and getting a little tipsy before calling it a night, you tried pushing his soul back into his body as the blood welled up between your fingers.

You tried. It wasn’t enough.

The body already smells. You didn’t know corpses stank so quickly after death. Now you do. It was a gut wound. Maybe it’s his last meal you smell, turned half to shit in his bowels.

Fuck.

You need to run. You need to get out of the alley. You need to stand up and wipe the blood off your hands so you can slink onto the Tube without getting the cops called on you.

With a clear series of actions in mind, everything switches to autopilot, and you move without really meaning to. His jeans work as a towel for the worst of gore, and a discarded wad of bar napkins near the door are clean enough to sponge away the red from between your fingers. Rust colored stains linger around your fingernails, but your dress has pockets – something you’d thought absurdly wonderful a few hours ago – and hopefully no one will be looking that closely, anyway.

Your numbed legs wobble as you approach the main street, making you look a little drunk without conscious effort, and you slip into the current of university students and tourists heading to the Underground. You board a train back towards your hostel, and pat your pocket as you sit, subconsciously checking for the intel. Of course, it’s empty, and a spike of panic flairs in the split second it takes you to remember there is no physical evidence this time. Your contact broke the rules and poured dangerous secrets into your naked ears. The mole was compromised. The dead drop became a little more literal and a lot more dangerous, and the man barely had enough time to pass his info on by word of mouth to the next link in the chain. That link, the handler, scurried away with a hole in his gut and just enough time to meet you, the courier, passing along word of the threat like a burning coal to scorch you.

You aren’t supposed to know anything, but you can’t keep your eyes closed and your hands clean, because you’re the only one who knows anything at this point. Every safeguard between you and immediate danger is dead.

It isn’t supposed to work this way. You’re just a courier, a very literal civilian who can add a USB drive to her collection without suspicion on your way through customs. A digital nomad with lots of stamps in her passport and dozens of good reasons to be in any convenient country. Nobody important, but a very useful mule.

Keeping your eyes off the data you carry is supposed to keep you safe.

In theory.

In practice if keeps the people you deliver to secure. You don’t get names. You get meeting times or dead drop coordinates. But tonight…

Tonight it’s all gone to shit.

And somewhere out there, someone wants you dead.

You don’t even flinch when the man across from you heaves into the middle of the carriage. Everyone else cringes and shouts, but the specs of vomit on the tips of your ankle boots aren’t the worst thing to touch them in the past hour.

Those filthy shoes march with you from the train, up the stairs to the surface, down the lane to the cheap hostel where you’ll have space to fall apart and figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to do. You don’t leave bloody footprints as you move; you check over your shoulder to see if you’ve left a path for the killers to follow. Nothing. Like you’re just one of the backpackers cackling over drinks in the lobby common area.

You’ve never been more grateful for having splurged on a private room as you unlock your door and sprint for the toilet. It’s your turn to puke, and you shake as burning tears and snot stream out with the bile.

Fucking dammit.

Each heave wracks your gut, your chest burns, and your throat is on fire. You know your head will hurt the second the adrenaline wears off – if you live that long – after all this crying.

How do you fix this? Is this something people can fix? You couldn’t even keep enough blood in the man’s body. You literally could not run for a solid – what? – fifteen minutes? Thirty?

You’re going to die.

Another heave locks you in place with a strangled scream as your belly tries to eject your panic and fear. There’s nothing left, though, not even water. You’ve wrung yourself out, so maybe it won’t smell as much when bullets, or knives, or fucking plastic shivs aerate your torso. Maybe it won’t be as awful for whoever finds your body. You’d hate to pass on that curse.

And it hits you, as you pant for breath, a string of saliva dangling from your chin: A lot of other people are going to die if you don’t get yourself together.

That’s enough. Just barely. But you shuffle back from the toilet, wiping your face with toilet paper before climbing the sink. The cool porcelain grounds you, and the cold water on your face and in your mouth helps, too.

The water in the basin turns pink, and you remember the blood in your cuticles and under your nails as it fades and spins down the drain. It hasn’t stained. It lingers along the bed of your nails and the ridges that will turn into hangnails eventually, but if you scrub, you’re sure you can get it off. For a minute, you’d forgotten you could wash blood off skin, that it wouldn’t sink in and brand you. It’s a relief. A stupid relief, sure, but it pulls some steam from the whirlwind of angst trying to launch another round of dry heaves, so that’s good.

A few specs of glitter still flicker up at you, twinkling under the bathroom lights like so many little eyes.

Okay.

Right.

Okay.

You can do this.

Figure out what it is you’re doing first, though.

You can just leave. Check out of the hostel, get a new plane ticket, and get the fuck out of the country. You can also pretend it didn’t happen, just continue as normal. Your original flight back is booked for the day after tomorrow, which seemed like nothing a few hours ago. Now those hours stretch into oblivion.

The problem is this damn city. London. City of a thousand cameras. The Nanny State. It was almost impossible to get around without getting caught by a few dozen electronic eyes, and if the people powerful enough to take out two trained agents wanted to see who the handler met in the alley outside the club, they probably could.

You should assume as much, at least. So, staying was out. But was it safe to just zip off to the airport? Would they be watching?

There was one other option. The option you’d always been told wasn’t really an option until you had no other choice. They had you memorize a phone number, only to be used in the direst emergency, and insinuated that you should think twice even if you had a knife to your neck. You hope that means it reaches someone important. There’s no time to play climb-the-chain-of-command.

Your shaking fingers punch the wrong numbers three times as you struggle with smooth glass and shattered nerves, but eventually you get the right sequence, you lift the phone to your ear, and the call goes through.

A click. A woman’s voice. “Yes?”

“This is, uh.” You stammer your name, your location, but when you get to the situation, your thoughts start falling apart. “They’re dead. And he may have been followed? And I don’t know what – I don’t know what to do.”

A chair squeaks on the other end of the line, and you can hear the focused frown sharpening the stranger’s words as computer keys rattle. “Take a breath. One thing at a time. I need to understand what’s happening. Now, who’s dead?”

You follow her advice, because breathing is always a good idea, and you’d like to keep doing it as long as possible. Her other instructions help more, though. They give you a sense of direction, a clear path forward.

“The handler. I never know the names, but he – he’d been shot when he came to the meet, and he said his contact died, too.”

“Was he able to complete the hand-off?”

Cool lips coughing up secrets against your ear, a shaking hand fisted in the front of your dress to keep you close, fingers going slack and falling from your arm.

You hesitate, only a beat, and try to wipe the blood from your memory. “Sort of.”

“Sort of isn’t good enough. Did he give you the intel or not.”

“He told me the intel.”

“He… told you.” She confirms, with tone alone, that this is bad news.

But now you can tell her, and everything will be okay. That’s how this is supposed to work, right?

“He said –”

“This line isn’t secure.” She cuts you off, and the bright hope curdles in your chest. It isn’t over, then. “You need to debrief somewhere safe. You need to get out of that hostel and wait for the team I send to retrieve you, understood?”

“Understood.” You want to shake, purge the anxiety from your system like sweat. The fear vibrates inside your bones, but the phone stays steady in your grip. You’ve turned into a statue, a marble shell wrapped around an earthquake. “Where do I go?”

She gives you an address to a safehouse, tells you how to get there without drawing attention to yourself. Hopefully.

“Any advice?” The chaos inside needs an outlet or distraction, and maybe the woman at the other end of the line can hear that, because she plays along.

“Move fast. Keep quiet. Stay alive.”

Shrugging as you pull on new clothes that won’t draw as much attention as your little black dress, you nod along. “I’ve heard worse tips.”

“You’re a step ahead of anyone trying to track you,” the stranger says. She speaks low and slow, like you’re a skittish horse ready to bolt, and even if you feel marginally infantilized, you appreciate the fragile illusion she weaves: that everything’s under control, that you know what you’re doing, that everything will be okay.

With the last of your things stuffed in your backpack, you grab your room key and head for the door. The hostel has remote checkout. You just need to drop your key in the box. “Leaving for the safehouse now.”

“Good. I need to brief the team coming to meet you. Keep your phone handy, and call me when you arrive.”

“Or if something goes wrong?”

“Or if something goes wrong. Be careful.”

The line goes dead, and you begin your trek through the dark. Stepping out of the warm, lively hostel and into the night feels like stripping naked and jumping into the water with sharks. Sure, the hostel wasn’t a great place to defend yourself, the doors were thin and the locks fragile, but it had walls. It felt safe. Now you’re exposed, and the vulnerability creeps over your skin like ants.

You take a night bus in the wrong direction, laying a false trail in case anyone is trying to follow you through camera feeds. Then you cut across ten city blocks on foot to find a new line heading the right way, and sit in the illuminated interior like a product in a butcher’s display. Dead meat. You feel obvious. Foolish. You’re following the woman’s directions to the letter, but inexperience gapes under your feet like an open pit, waiting for you to trip and fall so far down you’ll never get back up again.

Every stranger reads as a predator. Every camera holds malicious eyes.

It takes thirty minutes to walk to the safehouse from the last bus stop, and you make the journey with a white-knuckled grip on the strap of your backpack and a pulse so loud you struggle to hear over the drumming in your ears. The light pollution blots out the stars, it’s a new moon, and the streetlights only make the shadows beyond their miniscule pools of light darker.

By the time you find the safehouse and fish the key out of the little box hidden in the bushes, your hands are shaking again. The tension crackles like static through your nerves, blunting your focus even as your senses sharpen to the point of discomfort. Is the rustle behind you just that plastic bag rolling down the street, or is someone stalking you? The breeze feels like breath on the back of your neck, and every hair stands on end as you wrestle the key into the lock and trip through the door.

You slam it closed behind you, past caring about disturbing neighbors or drawing attention. This is like walking the long dark hallway to pee in the middle of the night as a child. You know there’s a monster behind you, but if you look it will eat you. If you run it will pounce. And once you reach safety, you gasp for air the same way you do after diving to the bottom of the pool. All you did was walk, but you feel as if you nearly drowned.

Your ass meets the floor, knees folding with the door at your back. Quivering fingers press over your mouth, trying to silence the wavering pants that may just turn into sobs if you can’t stuff them back down.

“Fuck.”

Blindly groping over your head, you find and turn the deadbolt. It takes more energy than it should, and you allow yourself a minute to recover before tugging out your phone and making the promised call.

The woman picks up after the first ring.

“I made it.” You take a deep breath. Let it out again. Your head drops back and your eyes slip shut as your heart gradually stutters down to a reasonable pace. “Locked the door and everything.”

“Good.” She sounds like she’s smiling, and you wonder if she’s actually amused or doing the whole horse-taming schtick again. “Your escort should arrive inside two hours. Just sit tight, okay?”

You haven’t even turned the lights on. You’re afraid to let anyone know you’re there, and it’s nice to be the one waiting in the dark this time. “I can do that.”

“I’ll let you know when they’re approaching.”

“Thanks.”

She hangs up without pleasantries. And you’re entirely alone again.

In the silence, you listen to distant traffic and a handful of dogs sounding off on the twilight bark. The world waits outside, but you feel like a weed yanked halfway free of the soil. You fit into that steady rhythm yesterday. Maybe you ferried some secrets to try and make the world a slightly better place, but fuck if you weren’t ordinary.

The debriefing is the goal, retrieving the intel you carry. Keeping you alive and relatively safe until that can happen makes sense, and you don’t blame the stranger on for focusing on the immediate issues. But you can’t help wondering what happens after that.

You consider for the first time since the alley that even if everything goes well, you might not make it home.

#x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #141 x reader #cod mw fanfiction

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imaginedreamwrite · 2 years ago

Note

For your pic ask game…… #3 with pairing of Everything for you! Jake Jensen maybe done with the military but that training never leaves a solider! (I work with veterans) They keep their gear, which means if anything happens to his Queen, harm/kidnap. He would suit up to get to her and anyone would be a fool to try to stop him. Please and thank you!!!!

It was all tucked away in a hidden safe in his closet, the gear that bore his name from his time in the military. The gear and equipment that he’d used during his stint away from the world he had known, was kept and safeguarded. Jake couldn’t forget the training and experience he had in the army, the years of gruelling training that helped turn him into the alpha he was now.

He never expected to have to dig it out, not like this. Maybe he had once thought he could share this past with his future pups but never like this.

“Jake…Jake, we’re going to find her. We’re going to find her, just don’t act brashly-” The safe popped out with a sharp hiss, the gear long stashed now being taken out of storage.

It was a process that was fuelled by instincts, he was being led by his primordial and aggressive need to rip anyone who touched you to pieces. The need to dig his hands into whoever thought they could get to him by taking you, was like a thousand tiny needles pricking his flesh.

Jake didn’t looked back when he started slipping the gear back on his body, led autonomously as one of the guards, meant to keep safe, started prattling on with excuses. It was a means of saving himself, Jake knew that, and he could hardly fault the other alpha for trying to ease Jake’s calm state of rage.

“We leave in ten minutes.” He spoke over the familiar sound of an assault rifle being loaded with ammunition, a clear and declaring threat made with every striking movement of his hands.

“Jake-”

“We leave in ten minutes.” He spoke again, resting the barrel of the rifle on his shoulder, transforming himself from the alpha they thought they’d known to their worst fucking nightmare.

“This must be heavy, its a lot of gear.” Your hands picked at the name on his vest, your scent was coiling around his and even if you hadn’t meant for it to affect him so much, your scent made him weak.

“I’m a big strong alpha, I can handle it.” Jake’s fingers tipped your chin and his eyes searched yours as you preened under his gaze.

Denial and fear of your feelings for him was preventing the two of you from being together as you should have been. But Jake was patient and he would wait.

“And I can handle you, Princess.” His tone of voice took a turn, a hunger burning through him. “I can handle you so damn well.”

Jake was going to burn the world, turn it to ash and debris, until he found you.

#jake & princess #Jake Jensen x Princess #jake jensen & Princess #Jake Jensen x plus sized!Reader

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rosie-b · 1 year ago

Text

True Blue

Chapter 7: Birdbrains

Hawk Moth lowered his cane, setting the tip on the tile floor with a clack.

The akuma was still visible from the window.

“Are they any faster than normal butterflies?”

You can read the rest of the chapter below or on AO3! And next chapter we should finally get to see Marinette transform with the Peacock, which I'm excited about : )

Classes were boring without Adrien.

She’d known they’d be lonelier, but without him, Marinette found it hard to even concentrate in the nearly empty room.

And, okay, maybe the lingering questions she had about Adrien, the other magic-born children, and Gabriel’s plan to akumatize Paris until he got the other magic jewelry he needed had something to do with her distraction, too.

But mostly, Marinette just wanted to know that Adrien would be safe. The Agreste mansion was full of safeguards, but what if someone slipped in through the gate and stole his amoks? What if they turned him into a villain against his will and used him to fight his own father?

She couldn’t imagine anything worse than that, except for Hawk Moth losing. Then, the world would be left with the scars of every akumatization, at least three dead parents who could have been saved, and more negative emotions without any possible comfort.

And what if Golden Bug and Chat Grise revealed who Paris’s ‘supervillain’ was and what he’d been fighting for? If the nature of Adrien’s birth was revealed?

They would call him a monster. They would take his amok and either break it or turn him into a servant they could control. For all Marinette’s doubts about M. Agreste’s actions, he was the one person who could protect her friend and keep him safe from the public’s wrath, and as much as Marinette feared the power of the akumas, she feared for Adrien’s safety more. She only hoped that M. Agreste took the Miraculous soon and made his Wish before things got any worse.

But after morning lessons, she witnessed firsthand why that wasn’t likely.

Gabriel walked into the room just as Nathalie was dismissing her for lunch.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he said, standing stiffly and holding a small orange bottle in one hand. “I forgot to have Nathalie give you your medicine yesterday. I’ve had the prescription reordered, so you will be able to keep yourself protected from the magic’s poison until you fully recover.”

Marinette blinked. She’d felt so much better after the first pill; wasn’t she fully healed already?

“When will that be, sir?” Nathalie asked the question for her. Her voice was tight as she stood rigidly looking at M. Agreste. “How much longer will she be taking the pills?”

Gabriel hummed as he ran a finger over the lid of the pill bottle he’d brought down.

“It could be as soon as two weeks from now,” he said thoughtfully. “But there aren’t any side effects to the pills, so I see no reason to stop taking them before three weeks is up, for better protection.”

“And after that?” Nathalie asked, tapping her heel on the floor.

Gabriel set the bottle on Marinette’s desk and placed a hand on the back of her chair.

“After that, she will be fully healed, so you’ll cancel the prescription and Marinette will return to life as usual, unless something else happens.”

“Something else happens?” Nathalie’s face, usually stoic, betrayed a flash of frustration with her employer.

Marinette’s stomach twisted as she looked back and forth between the two adults. Surely nothing worse than what she’d already done could happen to her now, right?

Gabriel’s mouth thinned, and he drummed his fingers on the wooden chair. The sound went straight into Marinette’s ears.

“Nothing unforeseen should happen. But it is best to be prepared, Nathalie. A woman in your position should know that by heart.”

Nathalie scoffed and looked down. “I understand, sir. I’ll make sure Marinette takes the medicine during lunch from now on.”

“Make it sooner,” Gabriel said impatiently. “As soon as she arrives, you should give her one pill with a glass of water. And she should take one now.”

As he said this, a waiter walked in, holding a tray with a single glass of water on it.

Marinette took the glass, nodding her thanks even though she was growing more confused every second.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to take it during lunch today?” she asked. “After all, I was just about to head to the dining room.”

“Today, I have something else planned,” M. Agreste said, letting go of the chair and walking over the window nearest her desk. “There are always more chances to akumatize someone in Paris. The thing that will serve me best now is timing. Golden Bug and his accomplice are both around your age; surely it is their lunchtime, too. You are hungry, are you not?”

Marinette swallowed the pill she’d hastily taken and nodded. Her stomach made a gurgling sound, and she flushed pink.

Ms. Sancoeur pinched her nose and turned to go after the waiter.

“Then they will be hungry, too. And no one fights at full strength on an empty stomach. I will akumatize someone again today, Miss Dupain-Cheng. And this time, I want you to be with me as I do it. Once you see the true nature of our enemies, I think your mind will be put at ease about my ‘villainous’ doings,” he said.

Marinette could just make out the ghost of a smirk in his reflection before he turned around to face her.

“Well, are you coming or not? Finish your water. We will have lunch after the fight if it goes ill or well.”

“Coming, sir!” Marinette spilled some of the water as she rushed to swallow it all down.

She didn’t really want to do this, but it was true that she still felt uncomfortable about M. Agreste akumatizing people. Maybe seeing things from his perspective would help her to lay her doubts to rest.

M. Agreste led her to the atelier just like he had the day before, but this time, he went into the elevator first.

“I will transform and begin to narrow down the list of potential people to akumatize,” he told Marinette before he called the elevator. “Watch what I do closely. We will not be going to the basement again today.”

Just as he said, this time the elevator rose up with him in it, going through a hole in the ceiling. When it came back down, Marinette got in it, pressed the second button she’d seen the day before, and swallowed as she left the ground floor behind. Glass elevators were cool, but she was more afraid of this one than most. Exactly how safe was it? Had it been included in the building plans gone over by the city, or was it a late addition that traded safety regulations for secrecy?

There were no problems during this trip or any of the past ones, so Marinette brushed aside her fears as the elevator door opened and she stepped out into what looked like a secret attic. It was mostly empty except for a group of butterflies, a large window, and the man she’d feared ever since his first victim appeared on TV.

Hawk Moth beckoned her closer with a hand.

Marinette glanced at him, noticing the strange outfit his kwami had given him and wanting to look at it closer, but knowing now was not the time. Maybe after the fight, she could ask M. Agreste some questions about it.

“There is a man by the Seine who is ready to receive my power,” he said. “Watch how it is done. There is no harm caused to him by this process.”

Holding out one hand, Hawk Moth waited for a butterfly to land on it and loosely clasped his other hand over it. Marinette flinched, but the other butterflies looked fine, and so had the purified akumas Golden Bug released in the past, so this butterfly was probably unharmed.

Then a strange light appeared in Hawk Moth’s hands, and the sound of electricity filled the air. Hawk Moth lowered his hands, and the akuma was revealed; a black and purple butterfly flapped its wings and began to fly towards the open window, which, Marinette noticed, was designed to look like a butterfly, too.

“Fly away, my little akuma,” Hawk Moth said in a low voice. “Find the saddened man and akumatize him!” He raised his cane and twirled it over his head dramatically, probably showing off for her benefit.

Marinette watched as the butterfly continued its slow flight path.

Hawk Moth lowered his cane, setting the tip on the tile floor with a clack.

The akuma was still visible from the window.

“Are they any faster than normal butterflies?”

Marinette immediately wished she could take the question back. She was alone in a room with Hawk Moth! He could just whack her with the cane or throw her out the window if she made him mad! But she knew him, and he seemed to like her. Would he really turn on her like that?

“Oh, of course they are,” Hawk Moth answered in a pleasant, but distracted, voice. “Most butterflies fly at a rate of eight to twenty kilometers an hour. My akumas travel at double that speed, and the stronger the emotion they sense, the faster they fly. Have no fear, it will reach the man in no time.”

As he spoke, the akuma flew out of their view, darting downwards with a sense of dogged purposefulness no normal butterfly should have.

“Almost there,” Hawk Moth muttered.

Marinette clasped her hands together and suppressed the urge to bounce on her toes. This was an awful lot of not doing anything, and it was making her more anxious than she’d like.

A glowing, purple mask like the one she’d seen over Evillustrator appeared around Hawk Moth’s face, and he grinned as he looked out the window, across Paris.

“Mr. Pigeon,” he said, and Marinette scrunched her eyebrows together. “I am Hawk Moth. That police officer stopped you from providing care for the city’s poorest, but neither this police officer, nor any other of the park keepers, should stop you from taking care of your friends. What would Paris be without pigeons? And what would pigeons be without you? Accept this power I give you to fight for the birds’ side. In return, all I ask for are Golden Bug and Chat Grise’s Miraculous. Do we have a deal?”

There was a small stretch of silence, and then Hawk Moth turned to Marinette with a relaxed smile.

“Perfect,” he said, and the mask disappeared.

He took a step towards Marinette, who fought the butterflies swarming in her stomach and dug her nails into her palm as she struggled to return the smile.

“Mr. Pigeon has accepted my offer of akumatization freely,” he explained to Marinette. “They all do, even if they don’t remember it. They all choose to fight on my side.”

Marinette hadn’t known that.

“Even the ones who regret being akumatized?”

That was all of them. Their breakdown was on the news every time.

“Especially those ones. They confuse their negative emotions with regret for their actions, but if they remembered the moment, they would only be sorry that they failed to win. Now, pull up the news on your phone. You cannot see through the akuma’s eyes as I can, so watch what is happening through the Goldenblog. As you’ll see, the city’s heroes do not fight fair.”

They do use unconventional methods, Marinette thought with a frown. But they’d both been so nice to her during Evillustrator! She didn’t want to not be able to like them anymore.

It didn’t take long for Golden Bug and Chat Grise to show up. As soon as they were on the scene, they called for Mr. Pigeon, who could apparently control birds as his main power, to give up his akuma. He shouted back something about it being the pigeons’ world now, and the akuma fight started in earnest.

“Keep the little pests away from each other,” Hawk Moth snapped after Chat Grise nearly clawed the whistle from Mr. Pigeon’s neck while Golden Bug had him distracted. “They’re less efficient that way.”

Marinette watched in confused awe as Mr. Pigeon commanded the birds to form a large ball around Chat Grise, lifting her up and carrying her away from the fight.

“Good,” Hawk Moth praised Mr. Pigeon. “Ask this one to hand over his Miraculous nicely. If he doesn’t, we’ll have to use more... offensive action.”

A tinny laugh sounded from Marinette’s phone.

“Roo rooloo! Give me your Miraculous or face the wrath of my feathered friends, little bug!”

The akuma flapped his arms excitedly while Golden Bug scowled and called for his lucky charm.

“They never listen,” Hawk Moth muttered to Marinette. “They’ll never agree to a truce; they’ll never hear my plan out. All they care about is keeping the Miraculous under the lock and key of the Guardian. And he won’t allow us to heal Emilie or keep Adrien safe. As far as he’s concerned, Adrien should never have been made to begin with. To him, we’re only getting a just reward for our folly, and he does not care if we pay for it by our lives.”

Marinette’s heart twisted painfully as she looked up from her phone at Hawk Moth. He was standing close to the window, his shoulders hunched forward as he looked down.

“We tried for years to find another solution,” he said sadly. “But even now, when I have others fighting for me...”

His voice trailed off as Chat Grise, with a large white spot on her suit, landed back on the screen with a snarl and chased away the pigeons who’d been crowding Golden Bug. He shot her a grateful smile, sneezed, and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand before tearing open the bag his powers had given him.

“No! Control the birds!” Hawk Moth suddenly switched back to addressing the akuma, clenching the cane at his side.

Onscreen, Marinette saw the birds desert Mr. Pigeon in favor of the seeds dropping from the bag. Chat Grise tripped the akuma with her baton as he stumbled over his own birds, and Golden Bug threw his yo-yo, cracking the whistle that had flown off Mr. Pigeon’s neck as he fell, now lying alone on the pavement.

“No!” Hawk Moth clutched his head and cried in despair while Golden Bug threw his lucky charm in the air with a grin, miraculously ridding the city of any damage from the birds.

With a sad frown on his face, Hawk Moth turned to Marinette, who slowly turned off her phone and put it in her pocket.

“As you see, even with this bit of luck on our side, I have reason to fear that we may not win after all,” Hawk Moth said, unpinning the brooch from his neck and scrutinizing it.

The same purple kwami from before came spiraling out of the brooch, practically wilting as it peered up at Marinette while moving further from M. Agreste.

“I’ve been trying for weeks to secure those two’s Miraculous, and I don’t have any progress to show for it. I see now that you were right to have doubts about my plan. If it should fail, the city could be irreparably harmed, and I would have only myself to blame,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose as his kwami slowly floated closer to him. “I must be the worst husband in existence!”

It was a sad display. M. Agreste had thought he’d found the one way to cure his wife and save his son, but everything kept going wrong. No matter how inventive his akumas’ powers were or who he chose to fight for him, he kept losing to Paris’ favorite duo. And now, his last hope was fading.

“Well, you are trying your best,” Marinette timidly offered. “You’ve already done more to save your wife than anyone else has. You offered to work with the Guardian to find an easier solution, and you make sure all your akumas were willing to fight for you. Besides, I'm sure Emilie would approve of all you’ve done for her! You’ve remained faithful to her even in the darkest of situations, and I think that’s all she could ask of her husband. But... you aren’t just a husband. You’re also a father, and it seems to me that you could spare a little more time to spend with you and Emilie’s son. Adrien needs you now more than ever,” she said softly, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she hoped she hadn’t overstepped.

M. Agreste scowled for a moment, but then he looked to the side with a sigh.

“Perhaps you are right, Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he said, looking up at her with a smile. “I shall see what I can fit into my schedule. I am always busy, as you know. Nathalie does what she can to help, yet still... sometimes I wish I had someone else there, fighting with me. Someone with a power of their own— but it’s impossible,” he said, waving the notion off with a hand. “The only other Miraculous we have is the Peacock, and even though we do have medicine for its effects, it remains broken. Go on, head back downstairs and forget about this old man’s crazy ideas for a moment. It was time for your lunch, correct?”

Marinette nodded wordlessly. She wasn’t sure she was so hungry anymore; witnessing the battle had been very stressful, and she’d been too occupied with what was going on in it to be hungry.

But the attack, while somewhat predictable, had not been exactly what she expected. Who knew Hawk Moth asked his akumas for permission before transforming them? And he left so much of the plan up to them, granting them more freedom than she’d thought. On top of that, it was clear he cared about the people his plans affected, and even the butterflies he used! He had a good cause to fight for, and he was not the cold-hearted villain she’d once thought he must be. She didn’t like that it had come to fighting, but Marinette had to admit that Hawk Moth was genuinely trying his best to protect and heal his family.

But he seemed to be losing hope in his own plan. Without an ally to fight on his side, the field was imbalanced; each battle ended the same way no matter what new powers he came up with.

Marinette finished her day at the mansion and went home in near total silence, thinking about all she’d seen. Emilie, Adrien, Hawk Moth, Golden Bug and Chat Grise — she’d thought she knew whose side she was on before, but the reality was more complicated than she’d expected.

She needed Hawk Moth to win. Was she sure he should have resorted to supervillainy without trying harder to reason with the Guardian? No. In fact, she would have preferred it by far if he’d stuck to peaceful methods, but once the first akuma struck, there was only one good way for this to end.

M. Agreste had to make the Wish. Emilie had to get better, the other parents had to come back, and their children (especially Adrien) had to be protected from their amoks. The fabric of life was snagged and twisted; it could only be fixed by tearing out the bad seams and starting over.

Marinette saw that now. She was in this mess for good; there was no way out, and she didn’t want one. She wanted to help Hawk Moth, if only to make sure he didn’t cause lasting damage and not lose not just the battle, but the very people he fought to protect.

She couldn’t stand by and watch Adrien’s fate be decided by two more teens who thought they were choosing the right side, but were actually being played by the Guardian. (And she was beginning to want to fight the Guardian on her own, because how could anyone not care about Adrien? Or the other magic children, and their parents? How could he be so heartless?)

Marinette might not fully understand how Adrien was made or how he could be so human when it was magic that had written his DNA, but she knew that she’d protect him with her last breath if necessary. She could not allow Hawk Moth’s Miraculous, his last chance, to fall into enemy hands.

She had to help him. But how? She could suggest new ideas for akumas, but there was no guarantee they would work any better than the ones M. Agreste came up with on his own. Besides, the real problem seemed to be that there were two (kind of three) people for M. Agreste to fight, but only one person able to fight on his side.

Well, the akumas made that number two, but it wouldn’t be safe for him to fight alongside them, because he seemed to need the silence of his lair to communicate with them effectively. And if he suffered a defeat while in public, he could be unmasked and lose his Miraculous then and there!

No, there had to be something else Marinette could do. Together with Nathalie, they could come up with something effective!

M. Agreste had mentioned that there was only one other Miraculous they hadto fight with. The Peacock was broken, but what if there was a way to fix it? Whoever had crafted it must have known it could break someday; they must have built in some kind of way to make it safe to use again.

Even if there wasn’t a known way, well... Marinette’s parents had taught her that new paths could be made. That was how they’d gotten married, how they’d kept their bakery in business, and how they’d had the courage to let Marinette study fashion even though the odds were stacked against her. There was always a way, you just had to look hard enough for it.

And then again, as long as the Wish was made successfully, it wouldn’t matter if the new Peacock holder got sick from using it. Because they’d just be healed like everyone else, wouldn’t they? So, was it really that dangerous?

The warring thoughts in her head kept Marinette up all night, but deep down she knew her decision was already made.

#bluewing au #ml fanfic #rosie-b writing

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starrynightarchive · 4 months ago

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Can I ask your top 7 favorite ships (canon or non canon) from any media? Why love them?

hi! i received this ask ages ago but I just came around to answering it, forgive me. okay without further ado, here are my fav ships 1. iwaoi

they were my first hardcore ship. god they're so. the man who never stops running and the one who tends to his bruised knees. the boy who wants to make the world his and the boy who walks by his side, spurring him on. the king and the knight. they know each other so intimately and yet, they are two very different people. just. i miss them ok.

2. kunikidazai

not a great time to be a kndz fan I'll admit but. there's something so beautiful about them. love found after a violent past. love found despite a violent past. finding how to be gentle after all he knew was the touch of a knife. learning to breathe, to stand under light. hand in hand, the world theirs to explore. sun against his skin. glasses lost and found, ideals so dearly safeguarded. it's an ode to love, to life. GAH

3. hilson

they are so awful. they are codependent and awful and toxic but. they are kind to each other. they fit like a puzzle piece clicking together. stay. stay. stay. my words are knives and my affection can only poison your skin but stay. let me learn to be gentle for you. I'm so sorry I can't be gentle and this is how I love; through spilled pills and stilted apologies and silence. i promise to hold your heart in my hands when it bleeds for everyone in sight. i promise to keep you close and never let you go, if you'll have me. please stay. because if you die, i'll be alone.

4. kavetham

THEY'RE SO!!!!!! LOGIC AND EMOTION!!! ARTISTRY MEETS COLD SCIENCE AND PRACTICALITY!! WARM TONES VS COOL COLOURS!! THEY COMPLEMENT EACH OTHER SO WELL!! kaveh loves alhaitham loudly, through pointed jabs and homemade meals and kisses pressed against his skin. and alhaitham loves him quietly, quietly. hands tucking golden hair behind his ear, fingers tracing his smile, making coffee in early mornings when kaveh had a long night sketching out his new project and draping a warm blanket over his shoulder when he inevitably falls asleep on top of his blueprints from exhaustion. they are so different, but they care for each other all the same. they clash in every way possible, but they love each other and respect the other so, so much.

5. lawlight

disgusting. awful. they are mirrors of each other. eyes flashing, teeth bared and mind whirring. they want to eat each other whole. they love like a fist to the face, like a kick to the stomach. they love like they hate, burning and all-encompassing. genius meets genius. god meets his unravelling, his doom. chained together, hand in hand. they want to tear each other apart, crawl into each other's chest. they understand each other like no one ever could. they are insane and awful and so is their love, if it can even be called that.

6. zosan

i fell in love with this ship recently and I have so many thoughts about them. a chef and a swordsman. two warriors who value their hands more than anything. warriors, protectors, pillars. always with their eyes vigilant and sharp, fists and legs raised, poised to strike. they protect and they nurture and build walls so high around them. but with each other, they are different. they antagonize each other, fight and yell but at the end of the day, they have each other's backs. with each other, the facades are pointless. lies crumble in their tongues because it's pointless, anyway. he'll know your hurt, your lies, even if you try to cover it up (takes one to know one). wanderers and warriors and protectors. they have never known home. or maybe they have. but it feels fleeting and slips through their fingers but together, they find home. in his food, in his touch. in his embrace, in the quiet song of his earrings. there is peace. there is love. there is life and so much more.

7. okay i have so many more ships so I'm gonna give them honourable mentions. soukokou (they're not in the main list because i've talked about them way too much. if you've followed me for some time you'll know that I'm not exactly. normal about them. ugh. gay people), kagehina (they invented soulmatism, platonic or otherwise), nikonathan (a clown terrorist and a priest walk into a church. what will happen? they're gonna make out nasty get them out of there), sakuatsu (ughhhhh,,, all rough edges and gentle touches and fears and dreams melded together and oughhhhh), fyozai (blegh. they need to stop eye-fucking over a game of chess), fyoran and souheki and chuuran (basically ranpo being Not Normal about weird insane guys in yokohama)

#this got longer than i expected but eh #if you asked me about platonic/familial relationships I would've gone more insane #so uhh yeah you can see i'm normal about a lot of things #squints. i feel like there's a pattern in this list. is there a pattern in this list?#vi talks

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serharwinbreakmybones · 2 years ago

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hold me like we're going home pt 3

first part here second part here

Summary: He hates that it takes him looking around the room at these people who are supposed to be adults, who are supposed to care, to realise that if they don't look after eachother then no one will. It's why he doesn't deny it when Aemond names him as the one who spread 'rumors' of their dear sister's boys being bastards. It's why he only nods at Aemond when no one is looking and takes the blame that would have been aimed at him. It's why he slips into Aemond's room after his mother and the maester have taken their leave and stays awake all night as a guard.

or, Aegon has spent most of his life running away from the responsibilities he never asked for, and too long hurting the people that he should be standing united with. It takes a loss of an eye to wake him up.

Pairings: Aemond x Aegon, minor platonic side pairings included.

Trigger warnings: None, will update if any become needed.

Side note, everyone's ages and certain events have been altered on the timeline for this, so aside from the first part, everyone is several years older.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to marry Helaena,” Aegon says, laying back on the grass and staring up at the trees above them. The light filters down through the leaves, casting alternating shadows and pools of golden light across the grass, and when Aegon turns his head to look at him, just for a second, he almost looks like one of the characters in Helaena’s romance stories, especially with the gold catching in his hair and turning it into spun gold. Aemond looks away, back down to the book in his lap, before he can be caught staring, ignoring the heat that flares in his face. Nothing on the page catches his interest, but it’s better than being backed into talking about why he’s already looking whenever Aegon glances at him.

This isn’t the first time Aegon has said something like this. They’d had a similar conversation at Driftmark the day Aemond lost his eye, but it had been more scornful then, as if the ridiculous part wasn’t that he was expected to marry at all but that he was expected to marry Helaena, of all people. Now, Aegon just sounds tired. It’s not just Aemond that Aegon has been trying to make amends to, he’s noticed all the things Aegon has been doing to make up for how he treated all of them over the years, not just him. It’s easier with Helaena. She’s always been the most forgiving out of all of them, except for maybe Daeron, who is still easily placated with toys and trinkets.

“I don’t want to be King either, no matter what mother says,” Aegon continues, and if they weren’t away from the city, the same place that they always visit when they need to get away from the suffocating tediousness of the court, Aemond would have already told him to keep his thoughts about it to himself. Three years ago, they’d been in this same spot when they’d told each other about the dreams they’d had, the things they had seen, and it’s become something of a sanctuary ever since. Something just for the two of them. “I would make a horrible king, everyone knows it. Yet she would put the crown on my head just to save herself from the consequences of publicly denouncing Rhaenyra’s brood. As if I’m nothing more than a safeguard for her to keep her head firmly on her shoulders.”

It used to bother him, the disregard in Aegon’s voice whenever he spoke of their mother, but it’s been a long time since he bothered trying to rein it in. Aemond has seen the bruises that bloom whenever Aegon is ordered into a private audience with their mother, the redness of his eyes for hours afterwards, the way he flinches if anyone moves too fast around him. He hasn’t seen it happen for himself, not yet, but he knows what it all means. He hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. When his eye had been taken from him, she had been the only one to insist that the act deserved retribution, she had attempted to do the deed herself, no one else had taken his side so completely. At least not until Aegon had found him hours later. She loves them, he knows. She must, or she wouldn’t be so worried about them, she would’ve cast them aside years ago like their father had, but as he grows older he understands more and more that her love didn’t make her a good person, or a good mother.

“Helaena will make a good wife, and a good mother.” It isn’t what Aemond wants to say, not truly, but it’s what he says anyway. It’s not a lie, she would make a good wife, and when the time comes Aemond knows she will make an excellent mother. He’s even almost gotten over the jealousy that fills him when he thinks about it, or so he likes to tell himself. Truthfully, the thought of the wedding that will take place once Helaena comes of age makes him feel like he’s going to either scream or lose his mind entirely. He does neither and keeps how he feels about it locked inside his chest, determined never to let anyone see it.

“If that’s what I wanted, I could find that anywhere. That isn’t what I mean,” Aegon huffs, pulling a handful of grass out of the ground roughly, strands of green poking through his closed fist. They flutter down to the ground in the wind when he opens his hand like falling leaves, and for a moment neither of them speak as they watch.

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something more than live out the life that mother and grandfather have decided for us? Something you’ve never told anyone else, something you’d like to do for you and not someone else.”

Yes, “No,” Aemond carefully turns a page in the book, though he doesn’t register anything on the paper as he does. He’s already read this one before, yet another recollection of the histories of their House, but he cannot for the life of him remember what it says right now. Not with Aegon leaning up and staring at him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. It’s a side effect of the not drinking, it has to be, because Aegon was never this observant before. Or maybe he was and just never bothered doing anything with the things he saw that most others would miss.

“You’re lying. Come on, little brother, what have you always wanted to do but wouldn’t dare? Run away? Fly away to Essos and live the rest of your life as a member of the Golden Company? Brave the ruins of Valyria? Wait, I know. There’s someone you have your eye on, but you’ve talked yourself into thinking they won’t want anything to do with you.”

It hits uncomfortably close to the truth. Aemond hasn’t told anyone, not even Helaena, but he’s sure that she knows something about it, if the knowing looks she gives him across the dinner table is any indication. Still, they’ve never talked about it, and if the Gods are merciful in any way, they never will.

“I’m the second son,” Aemond says, as evenly as he can, “I might not have the expectations on me as you do, but it doesn’t mean I get much of a choice in-“

Aegon flops back on the grass with a groan, cutting off the same rehearsed speech Aemond has been giving for years whenever Aegon tried to start this conversation. He can’t tell the truth, and so he sticks to the facts. When he marries, if he marries, it will be for a political advantage, not because he wants to. His future marriage, if there is one, will be used to strengthen alliances or ensure loyalty, and any feelings Aemond might have about it won’t matter even a bit. Yet another way their mother has shown her hypocrisy.

“You tell me, then. What would you do, if you had the chance to do anything?”

“Run away,” Aegon says without hesitation. “Somewhere far away where no one has ever even heard of King’s Landing. I could live the rest of my life without anyone looking at me like they know who I am, and no one would be around to tell me what I can and can’t do. No crowns, or weddings, or anything I didn’t want to do. Just me and Sunfyre.”

Aemond doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods. He can’t say he doesn’t understand. Aegon has been talking about leaving for years, but for now, at least, he’s never gone through with his grand plans. Aemond just doesn’t know if he stays because he would miss them, or if he stays because he knows the cloaks would find him if he tried. He’d like to think it’s because Aegon wouldn’t leave them, but part of him still doesn’t believe that this new version of his brother isn’t just some elaborate, grand joke.

“I would come back to visit, of course, I couldn’t leave you all to deal with mother and grandfather alone.”

“Of course,” Aemond echoes, and stands up abruptly, crossing the clearing to the stream in the far corner. It’s as good an excuse as any, refilling the water pitcher, and it means that Aegon cannot see his face with his back turned and his hair making a curtain between him and the rest of the world. Of course, it doesn’t matter anyway, because Aegon follows behind him like a shadow, and it’s hard to escape him when he drapes himself over Aemond’s back like a cloak.

“So, when are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t.” Lie. But it’s not his fault. He can’t exactly admit the real reason, and he has no desire to hear the scorn that would be aimed in his direction if he said it out loud.

“You have.”

“Can we not do this?”

When he turns around, Aegon is still right there, and it shouldn’t be amusing that Aegon now has to tilt his head back to look up at him properly but it is. For a second, they just stand there staring at each other, and he’s surely just imagining the way Aegon’s eyes flick down to his lips. Right?

“I think we should. You’re always so repressed, it’s not healthy, little brother, you’ll turn yourself into diamonds if you put yourself under so much pressure,” Aegon grins at him, taking a half step closer, and Aemond clutches the pitcher of water to his chest like a lifeline before he catches himself and lowers it, taking a step back.

Aegon matches him step for step, he really should have expected that, and soon enough he finds himself with Sunfyre warm at his back, Aegon in front of him watching him with sharp eyes, face set into something more serious now. Long gone are the days when Aemond was afraid of anything, and he’s never been nervous of much since he got better with his sword work, so he really has no other excuse for why he breathes in shakily now except the proximity. He hasn’t been scared of anything Aegon could do to him since the night they made the promise to each other to look after the other, so he can’t fall back on that excuse either.

“You look nervous, Aem. Want to tell me why?”

“I’m not nervous.” Damn the shakiness of his voice. The soft fingers on the sides of his face don’t help, especially when a thumb starts to brush along the bottom of the scar that snakes down his cheek. He’ll deny the way he turns his head and sighs for the rest of his days.

“Then tell me the truth. Haven’t you ever wanted to just take what you wanted, damn the consequences?”

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x aegon #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #this is a repost from my ao3 under a different name #hotd aegon #hotd aemond #canon aegon doesn't exist to me idk him

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rosavulpes · 1 year ago

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“ Be careful with it , you break it ? I break you “

Tossing over a few credits on the table as payment , he’d soon move away to a darker corner of the area . Some where he could find a bit of quiet , as ironic as it would be considering he was currently waiting for his scouter to get “ fixed “ inside of a night club .

An odd place to get technical support for his scouter yes , but here ? No one questioned why the credits he was using had droplets of scarlet on them were they ? Regardless of the planet , money was money .

He’d initially considered crushing his scouter , or leaving it turned on somewhere on the planet he’d come from as a decoy to lure in the frieza force soldiers that were certainly looking for him now that he’d finally made his break away from Frieza’s rule . However , he couldn’t deny the fact that having it around was still pretty useful . Being able to scan the ambient power levels of those around him would help him steer clear of anyone that might give him trouble .

Unfurling the length of his tail from his waistline , letting it sway from side to side as it pleased there was no one around here he needed to worry about for now . In fact , there was most likely no in this Universe he would need to worry about ... probably .

He’d already killed his former “ teammates “ during their most recent assignment , knowing full well that they’d turn on him the moment he’d decided to break off from them . A shame he couldn’t have salvaged their scouters for spare parts but ... it had felt all too satisfying to pummel them into the broken earth until his gauntlets were stained with their colors . With how many times they’d berated him for being a Saiyan , or mocked his ancestry ? They had it coming and then some .

The memory of it still bringing a grin to his face as he folded his arms over his chest to keep those stains hidden from view .

Then again ? Turles would have probably killed them anyway . Loose lips sink ships and odds are they would’ve gone running to Frieza to report his desertion the moment he’d decided to slip away .

Who was Frieza ? A galactic tyrant with a level of power that was rumored to be higher than what any scouter , a device that was meant to be worn on the ears that could detect , and then quantify levels of power into numbers that could be measured , could detect . He’d been enslaved to the Frieza force for years now , conquering different planets for them in his Universe of origin ever since he was a kid and not one person he’d every come across could say with certainly just how strong Frieza was . Direct defiance against Frieza’s empire was a sure way to die .

As a rather large plate of food , and jug of water was brought to his table the Saiyan began to help himself heartily . His appetite something fierce since he’d first awoken .

As Frieza ruled his universe of origin , and had the ability to detect ambient levels of power thanks to use of scouters like the one Turles himself possessed , the only way for him to escape had been to enter a state of near death . Lowering his heart rate , and feigning a state of death while traversing through the stars inside of his ship to make it seem like he was dead . With his level of power brought down to near nothing , any scouter that had picked him up ? Probably just thought he was an asteroid soaring on thanks to the pod like structure of his small ship .

Now that he was free ? Part of him was tempted to go out and find a planet of his own to conquer , not for Frieza , not for anyone else but himself but ... there was also a part of him that couldn’t help but wonder if he’d traveled far enough away from his Universe or origin that he couldn’t be detected , no matter how high he raised his own power level . To that end , maybe it was time to get some serious training in , a safeguard to ensure that if someone did find him that knew him ? They’d never make it back alive to snitch on him .

Fangs gleaming as they bit through the bone of the meat he as downing with ease . Maybe there were some fight clubs around here that he could warm himself up with , he could use some more money ...

“ That’s it , get up ... you want to put on a good show for all these people don’t you ? “

Smirking as his bloodied opponent slowly managed to stand , the man had been on his last legs for sometime now , with Turles enjoying the fights he’d gone through thus far . He’d yet to find a proper challenge to satiate his saiyan craving for battle but this still had the makings of warm up , even if it wasn’t a decent one . Stomping his foot over the broken remains of a combat machine whose’ s head he’d ripped off earlier on , he’d flatten the machine completely under his boot . His opponent was the last one left out of this grouping of men and machines .

Easier to make more money when he’d agreed to matches where it was multiple group against him alone .

@grislyintentions

#grislyintentions #ooc. this is for Kafka if that would be alright !#ooc. I only just finished the Belobog area but since the world of Star Rail revolves around outer space #ooc. and different planets I figure them meeting one another at an underground fight club would be plausible !#ooc. especially if she's betting on him to win lol #ic. Turles

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meteodrives · 1 year ago

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𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙴𝚂𝙸𝚂 : ❛ would you believe me if i said i got all these injuries by slipping in the rain ? ❜

he looked to be the equivalent of ruination — even after the initial shock had worn off. bruises were attempting to set, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. had he been anyone else, she might've found his quip funny — but this was a crimson soldier ; the best shinra had to offer. he didn't strike her as the type to back down from a fight, let alone go easy on his opponents. a soft sigh escaped her. ( did every war torn hero have a penchant for violence ? did he hold no grievances in regards to resorting to brutality ? was there no line between man & monster ? ) questions pondered as he sauntered closer to the bar, likely expecting to be greeted with anything to keep from tolerating such pain sober. her head tilted, mentally scolding him for believing she'd hand over that luxury without first ensuring he was alright.

❛ you know , ❜ with a back straightened & a jesting grin, she spoke. ❛ if you weren't such a brawler , maybe i would've . ❜ still, had their positions been switched, she knows it would be the words of a hypocrite. ( if a single punch were a deal with the devil , her soul had long since been sold . ) the tone of her voice made it clear : this was her effort in lightening the mood. undoubtedly, he wouldn't be quite so keen to reciprocate — not after sustaining a blow as clear as day. ❛ let's get you fixed up . ❜ a smile of reassurance ; as if telling him it isn't as bad as it looks. the mako that coursed through his body might have been safeguarding him from any pain at all. was that how it worked? she felt silly, any confidence from moments ago stretching away from her — uncertainty of how to go about helping him taking its place. cleaning off the blood would be a good place to start.

a hand reached for the damp rag next to her, having been used to wipe excess water off a few dishes. she made her way to his side of the bar, taking up the seat next to him with ease. it wasn't long ago she felt wary to stand near one another. the thought is pushed aside. ❛ how about this ? ❜ a gentle pressure is applied, so not to incidentally worsen anything. ❛ you tell me what really happened & i just might give you a discount on a drink of your choosing . ❜

* ◞ @poeticphoenix | prompted !

#poeticphoenix #verse ( 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ) —— ⋆ ･ﾟ * // she mediated by turns on broken promises & broken arches .#I PROMISE IM GETTING THE OTHER REPLY TO U SOON <3 #for now u can have something less angsty dhsjdh

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paralianprince · 2 years ago

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In the minute or so between knocking at the door, and having it actually open, Peter damn near loses his nerve; the temptation to bolt is so strong that his upper body sways slightly, while his feet stay anchored to the spot. Because more than anything, he wants to see Piper-- he’d spent the last eleven hours or so of planes and stopovers wanting to see Piper. He’d spent the last two years wanting to see Piper. Beyond that, if he fled now he might accidentally be playing knock-down ginger on him, and that would just be yet another brush-off to apologise for.

(He’d spent the last eleven hours, maybe two years, lost in all his old photos and letters-- no small part was the sick-to-his-marrow regret of how many times he’d not understood Piper without really trying harder, or taken his best friend’s company so wildly for granted, thinking he would always be there for him, because so far as he'd believed at the time, Piper always would be there-- as reliable as food tins in the pantry or God. Over two years he had put himself on trial from the regret and sting of hindsight, and the duty to explain himself now, and to finally be a better friend, was his conviction.)

(Because while it was true that the longer he’d waited, the more dread and worry had weighed him down into inertia, until finally becoming what felt like an impossible task-- a better friend is still what Piper deserves, which is why) it wasn’t Piper answering the door.

For all he’d daydreamed in advance how their reunion might play out-- scenes where Piper was overjoyed to see him and scenes where he quite frankly was not, or whether he might look any different, whether they would talk things through first or simply revel in being together again, and what the most appropriate apology might sound like-- in none of these scenarios had Piper not been in them, and so he falters. But he knows the emperor (in the always-slightly-awkward way one knows a best friend’s parent), and is on the threshold of hello when he clocks the aura of disdain that almost knocks him over.

His bright expression shuts off with a click of his teeth, and right away he reads a great deal into the position he’s found himself in: The sense that Piper is being safeguarded from him-- an emperor defending his micronation, a father protecting the heart of his son-- is understood so completely in that instant that Peter’s eyes sting. It reminds him so much of his own founder-slash-dad that he can’t help but feel a great swell of admiration and empathy for the man currently barring him from the house. But uncanny though the feeling may be, at least the emperor isn’t chucking petrol bombs at him or firing warning shots or anything, which is... a good sign... probably.

“... Please, er, here,” is what he manages, finally, pulling the pendant out from beneath his shirt. It's a cross-section of geode on a thin silver chain, crystals packed together in lavender and violet, glimmering on its facets wherever it catches the late-afternoon,-early-evening sunlight. He starts to undo the clasp at the back, fingers slipping and clumsy.

“This is for Piper-- I’d just taken to wearin’ it myself sometimes, as it reminded me of him, and that helped, you see-- but it’s rightfully for him, and not me. So...”

Finally it’s in his hand and not on his neck, held out for the emperor to take.

“As I s’pose he does not want to see me-- would you deliver it? And that I am sorry-- please.”

“Should we make him wait?”

“I don’t--Papa, that’s mean,” Piper chided his emperor gently. The two of them knelt by an upstairs window on their knees, taking turns peeking through the blinds at their unexpected (and pacing) visitor and bumping their shoulders together to try and knock the other off balance.

The emperor gave a lackadaisical shrug and got to his feet, using Piper’s shoulder to balance as he groaned quietly. “He hasn’t been by in...how long now? You two used to be inseparable. I thought for a while that I’d have an angry parent coming by to see why I’d kidnapped their child.”

(Piper, with the long-suffering expression of teenagers everywhere, leveled his emperor a Look.)

“--or someone coming to give me adoption papers.”

“Papa.”

“He did miss your birthday,” the emperor added with feigned helpfulness. “Two years running. Does he even know you’ve entered secondaire?”

“Why would he?” Piper asked absently, craning his neck to try and see where Peter’s pacing had disappeared him behind a hedge. “I didn’t tell him because I’m sure he’s been very...busy.” He ignored the disapproval he could feel silently radiating from his father and busied himself with counting the seconds between his rapidly increasing heartbeats.

“Too busy for his best friend? Then yeah, he can wait out there. Two years ought to do it.”

Piper stiffened, whipping around to glare at his father indignantly.

“It’s not like that,” he hissed, hands clenched into fists on his lap. “It’s--it’s just two birthdays and secondaire, they don’t even matter--”

“Piper.” He flinched minutely and turned his eyes down to his hands, eyes growing hot from the understanding and pity he could hear in his emperor’s voice. “You don’t get those back. Those only happen once.”

“Then I get to decide if they’re important or not, since they’re mine, don’t I?” He brushed his forearm over his eyes and rocked back on his heels with a deep breath. “It’s--they’re not going to really matter, Papa. Two years isn’t going to be anything for the life of a--for me.”

“Or it could be a lot. Don’t forget them either, just because we were lucky enough that you lived.”

(”I know,” Piper whispered.)

“Besides,” the emperor continued brusquely, ruffling Piper’s hair. “I don’t like the precedent this sets. Letting him sweat it out a little will make him a man. Or at least a better boy.”

Piper smiled, somewhat unwillingly, and clapped his hands over his emperor’s fingers in his hair to trap them. “Then do you think--”

Two sharp raps at the door made them both freeze before they broke into mischievous smiles.

“--you should answer the door?” Piper asked.

#embassytoeverythingelse #letters to an argonaut

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certifiedskywalker · 4 years ago

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Trouble Doubled - Bucky Barnes

Even after everything, you’re still the person who Bucky Barnes runs to when things go bad. Only now, he brings Sam who fails to hide his grin when he sees how James melts under your touch.

WARNINGS: Blood, stitches, and TFATWS possible spoilers (I think I was vague enough)

“Ouch! That’s going to hurt in the morning!”

“Ha, it hurts now, actually,” Sam grumbled.

You pressed your lips together to stifle the grin that threatened to spill over them. Unable to help yourself, you glanced at Bucky in the hopes he too was biting back a grin. Stood by the door, slightly shrouded in shadow, you could make out the half smile that played on his lips. Though, his expression quickly melted into a grimace as Sam groaned. Reality quickly crashed back down on your shoulders and you turned back to the man laid on the table.

“You’re not going to like this.” Before Sam could ask what ‘this’ was, you began to palpate his wound. He flinched away from your reach at first, but then settled in the discomfort.

“Mm, yeah, no, that doesn’t feel good, Doc.”

“Not a doctor,” you said, still pressing lightly into the bruised flesh. “And I have to make sure you didn’t crack a rib. Otherwise, you’ll need a doctor.”

“Gotta work on your bedside manner,” Sam said as he winced. You pulled your hands away with a sigh and he met your eyes. “Bad?”

“In the grand scheme of things, no. Just try not to throw yourself off a building for the next few days. Think you guys can manage that?”

“Maybe. Harder to fly without jumping first.” Sam groaned once more as he sat up and the pain seemed to convince him to heed your warning. “We’ll try, Doc.”

You rolled your eyes at him before turning to look at Bucky. Still tucked in the darker corner of the room, he seemed small. His brows were knitted tightly together by worry and you imagined that, if he met your gaze, you would see concern in his eyes. Pushed forward by your own worry, you strode over to him. At your growing closeness, Bucky lifted his eyes to yours.

“Your turn.”

“I’m fine, Y/N.”

Despite his protest, Bucky did not lock himself in place. Instead, he gave in and let you lead him by the arm, over to the table. Sam eyed him with a wide grin as Bucky landed in the same spot he had sat in only moments ago. He mouthed something to the century-old soldier that you caught, but could not make out.

“What happened to taking it easy? You told me after, you know, that you would ease into things.” You gestured to the rags you had used to clean Sam’s more minor wounds; the fabric pieces were now dyed a reddish pink from blood. “That doesn’t seem like easing into it.”

“You didn’t see the other guy,” Sam quipped.

“I like to think you didn’t leave any of him left,” you fired back as you pinched Bucky’s chin between your forefinger and thumb. “Look at me.”

Bucky did as you told him to and met your gaze. You took a sharp breath in at the sight of him, at how his pupils blew out slightly as you studied his reaction. All at once, the air around you grew thick. This close, you could smell the sweat and ash on his skin, along with hints of whatever air freshener he had in his apartment.

Was it coconut? Sandalwood? You couldn’t parse out which as you found yourself lost in the blues of Bucky’s eyes. The sound of Sam clearing his throat shook you from your haze.

“No signs of a concussion.”

“Really?” Sam asked, grin still plastered on his face. You raised a brow at him in question before you turned back to Bucky.

“Why? Did you hit your head?”

“No,” he said, clearly tired of Sam’s commentary, “but if I did, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Super soldier or not, a head wound is a head wound. Can you?” You gestured to his jacket and, with a sigh, Bucky pulled it off his shoulders.

“How do you two know each other again?” Sam asked, glancing around the room. “And why are we in an abandoned building.”

“Hard to trace us back here. Didn’t want to lead them to Y/N’s place,” Bucky said, tossing his jacket to the side. He winced as he did, and then you saw the blood.

“Barnes!"

With reaching hands, you peeled back the crimson-soaked material of his shirt. Your movement revealed a long gash along his side that, with each breath, sent dribbles of blood to his hip. Sam made a sound of surprise and mild disgust at the sight. You were inclined to agree with another shout, but you were too caught up in how to stop the bleeding.

“Lay back,” you ordered, pressing Bucky’s shoulder. He yielded and you pushed his shirt up to expose the entire length of the wound. “Why didn't you show this to me earlier?!”

“It’s not that bad.”

"You're bleeding," you huffed, "which is pretty indicative of bad, if you ask me. Sam?"

"This is not my battle,” he raised his hands and shook his head. “I know better than to intrude on a lover’s quarrel.”

Neither you nor Bucky spoke up to correct him. In your mind, you came up with a quick excuse: Bucky was bleeding and you needed to focus on stopping it. Sam’s comment could be corrected later. Though, when Bucky didn’t speak up, you felt your chest tighten. As you worked on dressing the gash, you glanced up at him and found his blue eyes trained on you. He was dwelling on your silence too.

You pulled yourself out of the whirlpool of his gaze and reached over his body towards your medical supplies. As you stretched, your chest pressed lightly against Bucky’s, but you swallowed hard and refocused.

“Sorry, need to sow you up.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but he did avert his gaze. He found some spot in the ceiling to stare at instead of you. His distraction allowed you to work without the prickling temptation to sneak glances at his features; for the most part. It was only when Sam moved to stand over at your side you did you look up from Bucky’s wound.

“What?”

“Nothing, just wondering how many times you’ve done this before.”

A bitter laugh slipped past your lips at his reply. “Too many times to count. If it’s not an Avenger, it’s a masked savior from Hell’s Kitchen. Someone always needs stitched up.”

“But James here is your favorite patient?”

“Sam.”

Bucky’s tone set you on edge. It was warning, cold, and unlike the teasing you had grown fond of. Sam, knowing better than to piss him off, backed away from the table. You looked from him to Bucky and back again. When Bucky did not dare to meet your gaze, you felt a lump form in your throat. Tension weighed down your tongue, stopped you from saying a word or asking a question, despite your want to.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you be, old man. I’ll check with Torres, see if he has anything.”

Bucky’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling above you. He was quiet, like the first time you met, and distant. His gaze seemed far away, as if he were looking through the ceiling of this hideaway. After you heard the door of the room close behind Sam, you went back to work on Bucky’s side in silence.

Carefully, you sowed the gash and tried to keep your hands steady. Every other jab with the needle made Bucky wince. You flinched at his sharp intake of breath and mumbled an apology before you went on to the next stitch. Five apologies later, the bleeding slowed and you gently pressed a crisp, white bandage to safeguard your handiwork.

Immediately after you secured the gauze, Bucky moved to sit up. Before he could, you pressed on his shoulders again and pinned him in place. Though, you knew you couldn’t have pinned him if he hadn’t let you. Your upper body strength was nothing compared to his, you both knew that.

“Don’t move,” you said softly, “you’ll ruin my work.”

“It’s gonna be hard not to.” Bucky met your gaze and, in the dim light of the room, his eyes looked dark, almost sad. Something in his face, perhaps the dull, yet familiar laughter lines around his mouth or the bags under his eyes, alleviated the tension that had silenced before.

“You told me you wouldn’t. That you would take it easy and focus on making amends.”

Bucky closed his eyes at the disappoint that laced your tone. “I tried. I wanted to, Hell, I need to, but I can’t. I never could.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky began to sit up from the table top, “I’m a soldier. I need the fight.”

You watched as he moved, as your hands slipped from his shoulders and fell back to your sides. He pulled his shirt down over his freshly bandaged wound. When he was covered, Bucky looked back up to you, saw your frown and frowned too.

“Soldiers get to come home,” you pointed out, arms crossed over your chest.

“If they’re lucky. I’ve never been lucky.”

You bit the inside of your cheek at that. He was right. Bucky told you his story once before, after a therapy session left him feeling a bit more dry than high. He told you that he couldn’t tell you everything, that he wouldn’t. He didn’t have to, but you still hoped for him.

“Luck can change.”

Bucky scoffed as he pushed himself to his feet. Now, at his full height, he towered slightly over you. Despite his looming figure, Bucky did not scare you. Even when he told you his story, what he had done, Bucky did not scare you.

“Yeah, well, luck, or fate, or whatever, brought me to you and here we are,” he gestured to the dusty dwelling around you. You looked around with a careful eye before you playfully shrugged.

“I’ve been in worse dives.” Bucky chuckled, a unforced sound that rose up from his chest against his will. “Really, I have.”

“I don’t doubt it. But we put you in danger, asking for your help here. I put you in danger.”

“Oh, are you serious?” You threw your hands up in the air, “there’s always going to be danger in this world. Aliens, war, bad luck.”

“I wanted to keep you safe,” he pressed, taking a step towards you.

You could smell the perfume of the air freshener again, how it clung to his clothes. It distracted you, threw you into thoughts of what his apartment looked like, if he would ever share that part of him with you or if he would keep it locked away with his full story. You bit your tongue to keep yourself from asking, from wasting your breath on a question he wouldn’t answer. His words would have to be enough for you and, as if on cue, Bucky echoed his sentiment.

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“How noble, wanting to keep me safe, Barnes. Just me?”

Silence was your immediate answer. Silence and Bucky’s full attention. You didn’t miss how his eyes flickered down from yours to your lips then back again.

“Just you.”

In the quiet that followed Bucky’s statement, you became frighteningly aware of your heartbeat again. It wasn’t pounding like before, but it felt loud, like it was pressing against your ribcage, begging to leap out and into Bucky’s arms. As if propelled by it, you found yourself leaning in towards his warmth just as he seemed to shrink away.

Before he was out of reach, you lifted your hands to his face and cupped his jaw. Stubble prickled your fingers and palm, though you were far too enraptured to care.

“Then stay alive,” you said softly, “change your luck and come home.”

In your mind, you did not picture Bucky’s home as his mystery apartment. Instead, you saw only this moment captured by some invisible third party. You saw home as just the two of you and the image made you heart beat a bit faster.

“I’ll try.”

“Good.”

For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other, stewed in the new, easier tension between you. But then your resolve broke and you lips broke into a smile. Bucky mirrored your expression, a lopsided grin resting comfortably along his features. His eyes fell to the floor between you before he looked back into your face.

“Can...can I kiss y-”

“Yes, Barnes, please.”

Without wasting another second, Bucky leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. Your hands slipped from his jaw to the back of his head where your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his brown hair. One of his hands found your waist and pulled you close to him, while the other cupped your jaw. In sync, his mouth moved against yours and everything around you melted away.

No more wonderings or mystery. It was only you and Bucky, come danger, trouble, or bad luck; and Sam who lingered outside the door.

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joaquinwhorres · 3 years ago

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thorough (fckboy!Joaquin Torres x f!Reader)

SUMMARY ��›››› When Joaquín texts, you know what he wants. And you also know that despite your better judgement and all of the other things you should be doing, you're going to give it to him.

PAIRING ››››› Fuckboy!Joaquín Torres x Female!Reader (written in 3rd person so you can pretend it's an OC like I do) Read the OC version here.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,928

WARNINGS ››››› Joaquín's pretty out of character because my angel would never. oh yeah, and smut

A/N ››››› This idea has taken over the entirety of my thoughts. It has consumed all of my free time, so I figured I should try to wrangle some of the vibes and vague ideas into an actual story. So, here is this little imagine which is v smut heavy and v plot light. But, I am thinking of turning this into a fake dating/redemption fic, so lemme know what you think! Divider from firefly-graphics (not tagging because this is a work of smut).

A single notification flashed across her screen.

U up?

Y/N reached over, clicking the screen dark. She was up. But not for him. Instead, she turned back to her textbook and the packets of printed out notes strewn across the desk in front of her. The only men who would be getting her attention tonight were the esteemed scholars Sedra and Smith. And maybe Dr. Barnaby if she got around to reading her lecture notes over. He would have to find someone else. And there would be someone else. There was always someone else for him. She just had to hold out long enough for him to move on and go find them.

Her screen lit up again.

Or has circuits put u to sleep? 🥱

This time she rolled her eyes as she dismissed the notification, a small smile playing at her lips despite herself. Of course he knew exactly what she was doing. Even if he never acknowledged her, he still sat in the same lecture hall as her and dealt with the same lectures and exams.

Y/N returned back to the textbook example problem, fingers sliding under her glasses to rub at her eyes. She withdrew her hands, fixing her glasses before picking up her pen once more. She needed to stay focused. This test was going to be thirty percent of her grade. If she wanted to pass, she needed to learn how to apply input resistance to both Example 6.11 and her own life.

Oh god. She was broken.

Shaking off the thought of her mental deterioration, Y/N pressed her pencil to her notebook paper, copying down the problem in front of her. Just one more section and a skim through of her lecture notes after this. If she powered through, she could probably finish before three and get a solid five and a half hours of sleep before the exam. Yet, as Y/N worked her way through the problem, her eyes continued to slip over to her phone and the dark glass screen that reflected her desk light back up at her.

Circuits.

Not dick.

Circuits.

Not–

Her phone lit up again.

It didn't kill u did it??? 😱🪦

She snorted a laugh through her nose as she picked up her phone, thumb swiping to unlock it. As she began to type out a reply, the white auto suggestion box popped up.

Not today Satan.

She exed out of her roommate's attempt at a safeguard, as if on autopilot.

Not yet but I am slowly dying.

The three dots in response were instantaneous.

Sounds like you need to take a break. 😉

The auto suggestion box popped up once more as she typed, this suggestion an indictment of both her idiocy and predictability. She clicked on it.

Come over.

Very little studying was accomplished in the time between Y/N sending her text off and receiving the text that he'd arrived. The promise of a break seemed too much for her brain to withstand, and she'd only managed to work out an answer for the RIN before she finally gave in and took off her glasses. After that, she'd only had time to shove her dirty clothes in the closet and straighten her sheets up from where they hung off the bed before her phone buzzed.

Y/N put her phone back down, slipping out of her chair and padding across the still apartment towards the door. Pulling it open revealed Joaquín dressed in a maroon ASU hoodie and dark grey sweatpants. His hair was ruffled, and his own glasses were on.

Evidently he'd been studying for Circuits too.

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a soft smile—the same one that he'd given her last fall when they met eyes across the crowded frat. She had known even then exactly what she'd be getting herself into if she smiled back. But there was something about the genuine delight in his smile–the fact that he looked almost awed–that had her lips curving into a smile almost on their own accord. Much like now.

"Hey," he whispered.

Y/N leaned against the partially open door "Hey."

"Is it cool that I parked in the lot?" he asked with raised eyebrows, and she nodded.

"Yeah, they don't usually check for tags at 3 am."

Joaquín breathed out a laugh, hanging his head and shaking it as his own stupidity as Y/N smiled at him. "Yeah, I probably should have guessed that." He looked back up at her with a small smirk, and it was Y/Ns turn to shake her own head before motioning with it that he should come in. He obliged, stepping into the small dark apartment and waiting for her to lock up behind him.

He probably could have made his way back to her room without her, but instead he remained, eyes roaming over the dark living room and kitchenette as if it were his first time there and he was taking it all in. She took this as an act of kindness–a preservation of the little dignity she had left when it came to Joaquín Torres.

So, Y/N quietly led the way back to her room, ushering him in and closing the door as softly as possible behind them to avoid waking her roommate.

When she turned back to him, she found Joaquín bent over her notes, curls falling into his face. He looked intently at what she had written, his eyes following along each line of her solution before he shook his head. "That problem's been kicking my ass for the last hour," he said, tilting his head to look up at her. "Think you could walk me through it tomorrow?"

The sheepish grin he gave her made her stomach flip, and she really should have kicked herself for it. Because there was no way he didn't know exactly what he was doing when he looked at her like that. And he knew that she knew what he was doing whenever he flashed his dimples too. And yet she still couldn't find it in herself to tell him to go to hell.

"Depends how much sleep I get," she said with a shrug, attempting to fix her face into something more smirklike than smiley and feeling like an utter failure at it.

His eyes gleamed mischievously as he straightened up and turned to face her. "How much sleep is enough?"

She shrugged as she walked past him and over to the foot of her bed, setting herself down to sit on the edge and leaning back on her hands. "I don't know, three hours? Four?"

"What if it's two and a half, but I buy you coffee," he bargained, leaning back against her pushed-in chair with his arms crossed across his chest.

"It'd need to be really good coffee."

"Starbucks counts as really good coffee, right?"

She scoffed, and Joaquín laughed softly, his head tipping back as the amusement lit his face up. When he faced her again, it was with an expression of warm amusement. "What if it's Starbucks, but I make sure you thoroughly enjoy all of the time you're not sleeping tonight?" he asked, eyebrows raising up over his glasses as he took a step towards her.

A tingle shot through Y/N as she followed his slow, purposeful movements towards her, and she fought the urge to press her legs together. "I guess that would depend on how thorough is 'thoroughly'." Somehow her voice managed to keep its teasing playfulness even as the look in Joaquín's eyes became more focused, more intense, more hungry.

He stopped in front of her, close enough that the fabric of his sweatpants brushed against her bare knees and she had to tilt her head up just to see his face. She raised an eyebrow at him, and while she had intended for it to be questioning–a prompt for an answer–she couldn't keep the smirk from playing at the corners of her lips, turning the look into almost a challenge.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand, brushing her hair back behind her ear, his fingers trailing down her neck and along her shoulder until they reached the strap of her cropped cami. His pointer finger hooked under the strap and he pulled her towards him by the thin piece of silk, until her head was tipped all the way back just to see his face.

Joaquín leaned towards her, his breath warm and promising more than his words could ever deliver on. "Thorough," he murmured, letting the word kiss across her skin, setting her nerves alight with anticipation before he closed the space and kissed her himself.

It was easy to get drunk off of Joaquín's kisses. She wondered if this was simply a paired stimuli given the nature of their first encounters. If the dizzying effects his kisses had on her was her body remembering the weightlessness of too much Jungle Juice and a cute boy's attention. If the way she seemed to melt into him was a conditioned response from him pulling her close to him so easily even when her limbs felt heavy from Jell-O Shots.

But maybe it wasn't classical conditioning or muscle memory. Maybe it was just the natural biological response to the way his hand took hold of her waist, squeezing at the bare skin there as he deepened the kiss and stepped forward, between her legs. Maybe it was just a natural reaction to feel lightheaded when an attractive boy slid his hand up under your crop top and moved his lips along your collarbone with each kiss like a whispered promise.

Her head lolled to the side, allowing him more room to work, and he took advantage of the newly exposed stretch of skin, placing hot, open mouthed kisses there. Y/N sank her teeth into her lip, biting down into it to keep herself from making any of the embarrassing sounds threatening to spill from her just from a bit of kissing. It was a pointless measure though, for as if inspired by her action, Joaquín's teeth caught at the tender skin on her neck and pulled it into his mouth, sucking harshly. Her fingers curled into his shoulders, dragging him closer to her as he moved up her neck, picking a new spot to nip. A gasping noise escaped her as his tongue swiped over the spot, sounding far too much like a whimper for her own comfort.

Joaquín dragged his lips further up her neck to just under her ear. "Fuck you make the most beautiful sounds," he praised, pressing a kiss below her ear. "Drives me crazy." He kissed her again before taking a hold of her ear with his teeth.

Another noise, much like the first escaped her, and her fingers reached up into the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the strands and then tugging him backwards and away from her so she could see his face. His glasses had slid down a bit on his nose, and his pupils were blown wide and dark, and she knew, she knew, that whatever happened next, it would be thorough enough.

"Did you come here to compliment me or to fuck me?"

He grinned. "Por qué no los dos?"

She leaned closer so that her lips almost brushed his as she demanded, "Cógeme."

Joaquín practically tore his sweatshirt and shirt from his body, his glasses catching in the material and flying off somewhere with the clothes to a corner of her room. Her own arms were crossed across her middle to pull off her top, but she didn't get a chance before his hands wrapped under her knees and yanked her forward so her back fell onto the bed. He knelt before her, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her pajama shorts and dragging them down her legs.

His eyes snapped to hers as he pulled the silky fabric free of her legs. "Impatient, aren't you?"

Y/N reached down, flicking the side of his head. "It's how I sleep."

"Mhmm," he hummed, disbelievingly as his eyes focused back to her parted legs and her center that was completely bare to him, not a scrap of lace or satin or cotton or anything to shield it from his hungry gaze. He lifted her leg over his shoulder, pausing to press a kiss to the inside of her knee and then trailing a line of kisses and nips up to the top of her inner thigh. Y/N squirmed, and he chuckled, moving his other hand to her hip to hold her in place. "I haven't even gotten to the good part."

"I'm sensitive," Y/N breathed out,

"I know," Joaquín grinned, leaning forward to lick a large stripe through her folds, sending her arching off the bed with a gasping moan. "Qué buena estás."

And then he dove back in.

There were a lot of reasons why allowing Joaquín into her bed at three in the morning was a bad idea.

For one thing, she really should have used the time to study for the test that would make up a solid third of her grade in a class that took many people two tries to pass. There was also the inevitable exhaustion that would probably affect her performance on that test.

Then there was the fact that if they woke up her roommate, she would have to deal with side eyed glances, reproving sighs, and little comments for at least a week. Not to mention the fact that her roommate would probably tell the rest of their friends, and then she'd be getting it from all angles.

But the biggest reason this was a bad idea, the reason with the most inevitable consequences, was the fact that he'd leave behind an ache that chased her throughout her morning, reminding her of how stupid she was for doing this.

But as she gripped onto Joaquín's head like her life depended on it, hips chasing a release on his tongue, it was difficult to really think about any of that. It was difficult to think at all. All she could manage were small bits of breathy praise spurring him on.

"Fuck. Fuck yes, right–ah!" She threw her head back into the bed as he sucked harder around her clit. One hand freed itself from his curls, clawing at the sheets to give herself more purchase as words left her in favor of high pitched, gasping noises that sounded vaguely like his name. And then, finally, she could hardly get out any sound as a wave of pleasure coursed through her causing her whole body to go taut as Joaquín replaced his tongue with his fingers to help her ride out the high.

"I've got you. I got you," he reassured, coming back up her body to place kisses along her jaw as she slowly came down, chest heaving. Y/N pulled in deep breath as his lips continued to rove around her chest and collarbone, neck and face, always whispering bits of praise before gracing her skin with a kiss. One hand slid across her bare stomach, taking hold of her waist as he gave one last kiss before looking up into her face.

"And?" he asked with a small smirk.

"And?" she repeated in question, the word coming out more as an exhale.

"How am I doing so far? Thorough enough?" he asked, his hand inching up under her top to take hold of a breast. The pad of his thumb ran over the nipple there, and for a moment, Y/N's mind went hazy. "Or is there something I'm forgetting to pay attention to?"

"I think you already know." Despite the words themselves, her voice came out needy and airy, and it elicited a low chuckle from Joaquín whose hand retreated back to the edge of her top, teasing her with the promise of taking it off.

"I want you to tell me."

"Stop teasing me, and put that mouth to better use," Y/N snapped, and he grinned this time.

"Close enough," he said, pulling her top up and over her head, flinging it away from them.

His mouth was truly a gift from God, but his hands, and the way they massaged her breast, twisted her nipple, worked her in ways that were positively sinful, they could only have been given that skill through a deal with the devil. So, she lay there, fingernails scratching at his shoulder blades as he worshiped her chest, switching between the breasts and from mouth to hands in ways that made her feel holy. Holy but aching.

"Joaquín," she mumbled, hand sliding from his shoulder to his bicep, pressing her away from him. He lifted himself from her skin, eyes meeting hers. "Flip over," she commanded. His face lit up, and he complied so quickly and eagerly that Y/N laughed.

Joaquín tucked his hands under his head, watching intently as Y/N moved to straddle him. "We can't be too loud," she whispered, placing a finger against his lips. "Ok?"

"Got it," he said, biting her finger playfully. She withdrew her finger from between his lips, running her hands down his muscled chest. It was almost criminal, the fact that he always wore loose fitting t-shirts instead of something that showed off the hard work ROTC had him put into his body.

She leaned down, allowing her tongue to explore the planes of his chest, dipping low to swirl around his belly button and lower to the center of his v line. Joaquín groaned, and Y/N hooked her fingers in the waistline of his boxers, dragging both the underwear and sweatpants down his legs and off his body. When she looked up at him, she found Joaquín's gaze fixated on her. There was a quiet desperation to his look, not as needy as she was sure her own faces were, but almost like he was a second away from an answer, and she was the only one who could help him get it.

Y/N crawled back up his body, taking his cock in her hand and teasing it with long, slow strokes. Under her, Joaquín's eyes had closed, a grunt passing through his lips as he managed to lift a hand to take hold of her hip. Her thumb passed over the head, spreading the precum along his hardened length, her hand twisting around him before she dipped down and kissed the head of his cock. His hips jerked up from the bed, as if chasing her as she pulled away. Joaquín opened his eyes, casting her a look of confused desperation.

"I'm not the one who made promises," she said with a tilt of her head and a smirk. He let out a gasping laugh, pinching her hip, and she rolled over him leaving the boy groaning underneath her.

"Hold on," she said, pressing a hand to his chest and leaning up over him to reach into her side table. She fumbled around, fingers slipping over the contents of her drawer until at last the smooth feeling of the condom packet greeted her fingertips. She snatched it up, not even bothering to shove the drawer closed as she withdrew to her position over Joaquín's hips, tearing open the package with her teeth.

She probably could have been more sensual about it–moved a bit slower with teasing touches and seductive glances–but instead she tossed the empty wrapper and immediately went about rolling the condom over Joaquín's waiting cock. Because while she probably could have withstood a little bit more anticipation, a little bit more build up until this moment why should she have to when she could have him now?

Y/N raised herself a little higher, Joaquín's hands coming to her hips and slowly guiding her down onto his waiting cock. He hissed as she lowered herself even further until he filled her completely. Y/N paused, hands flat against Joaquín's chest to allow herself a moment to adjust to his size. "You good?" Joaquín asked, gently squeezing her side, and she nodded.

"Yeah," Y/N breathed. "Yeah, I'm ready."

There was a reason she always seemed to cave whenever Joaquín texted her. A reason she never told him to go fuck himself or any of the other things her roommate and friends suggested she say. A reason she snuck him in and out of her bedroom late at night or times when most people were at class.

And it wasn't because she was stupid enough to have feelings for him again.

It was because he knew exactly what to do to make her body feel electric. It didn't matter if he was letting her ride him slow, fucking her fast from behind, or clutching her close to him as he stroked hard and deep–he knew exactly what her body craved and he gave it to her. He gave it to her with murmured bits of Spanish and breathless cursing and moans that made her chest constrict. He gave it to her with fingers that circled her clit and twisted her nipples and pulled her hair at all the right times. He gave it to her with hot, hard, and fierce kisses.

And as much as he gave, it was never enough.

Even after her second orgasm left her feeling close to overstimulated and boneless, she still clutched at him. While she hardly had enough energy to raise her hips to meet his thrust, she locked her legs around him and pulled him closer as he buried his face in her shoulder. She stayed with him as his hips stuttered and strokes got sloppy and it became clear that he was going to come.

Admittedly, Joaquín's orgasm face was rather dumb, ridiculous even, with his mouth hanging open and only a grunting sound coming out. But she kept her eyes trained on his face, not to remind her that this god in bed was a mere mortal who made stupid faces too, but because after he finished, when his face relaxed, he was nothing short of angelic. The corners of his mouth turned up just barely into a light smile and his eyes fluttered open and looked at her like she really was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Joaquín placed a kiss on her shoulder as he helped to lower her legs back down to the bed, finally withdrawing from her to dispose of the condom in the trash by her bedside. It was all Y/N could do to catch her breath, her body hot and sweaty from the activity. Yet as Joaquín climbed back into the bed, she allowed him to pull her in close to him, arms wrapping around her, and chin resting on her shoulder. Because this was part of the deal with Joaquín and something that had almost made her doubt her initial assessment of him back when his body was brand new and she was still discovering all of the things it could do—after sex, he always stayed. Not necessarily the night, but long enough to hold and cuddle her and talk about things that didn't matter.

"Better than studying?" he asked, and she let out a snort and nodded.

"Yeah."

"Good enough for Starbucks?" he asked, tilting his head to try to look at her face, and this time she gave a full laugh.

"I'll meet you there at seven."

#joaquín torres smut #joaquín torres #joaquín torres oc #joaquín torres x reader #joaquín torres x oc #fuckboy!joaquín torres #fuckboi!torres #fuckboy!torres #joaquín torres fic #marvel fic #marvel smut #tfatws fic #fatws #fatws fic #tfatws #college!au #college au #marvel college!au

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mrsalwayswrite · 3 years ago

Text

Of The Same Stone - Chapter 1

Here it is! I hope you guys enjoy the start my new short series!

The series does not specifically take place in a certain timeline in the show. But in my mind, its happening somewhere in between season 2 & 3. Also, Gisela and Uhtred were never together in this story.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, brief mention of implied rape

Words: 6100

Series Masterlist

As always, the moodboard is made by the glorious @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

"Lord!"

At Finan's call, Uhtred shifted his attention from surveying the small village he and his men were safeguarding. A tendril of trepidation curled in his gut as he followed the Irishman's worried gaze. What he saw made his posture straighten and his hand itch to grab the hilt of his sword.

The hooves of the Dane's horse barely touched the ground as it flew over the dirt road and towards the village. The warrior on its back seemed to melt into the beast in hopes of spurring it on faster. It was only as the horse and its rider drew abreast to him, did Uhtred speak.

"Sihtric, what is it?"

The Dane spun his horse around in a hasty circle, both beast and man breathing hard. "A raiding party, lord."

"How close?" Finan hastily broke in, coming to stand at his lord's side.

"Not long. Their destination appeared to be the village. They are making their way through the trees as we speak."

"Shit…." Uhtred muttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth. His thoughts swirled like a violent maelstrom with this new information. They had been told there were no Danes in the area before coming here. It's why he had brought so few of his warriors….

"Lord Uhtred?"

The Dane-Slayer peered just behind him, finding Osferth standing there, eyebrows pinched in concern. Clearly he had overheard Sihtric even though the young monk was supposed to be away helping the people.

"The….ah, the villagers are almost ready to leave." Osferth spoke in a monotone but the distress on his face told a different story.

The villagers. Those he had been sent to protect. There were no more warriors amongst them, no able-bodied men to fight off the Danes. The small village was too close to East Anglia, too easy a target for raiding Danes. That was why he had been sent here.

Swiftly, he shut down any inkling of fear, turning his mind to battle-strategy and calculations. He would need his mind clear to make certain the villagers, along with his men, saw the setting sun tonight. Valhalla nor the Christian heaven would greet them tonight if he had any say.

"How many, Sihtric?" Uhtred turned back to his spy.

"Thirty? Maybe more?" Sihtric slid from the horse with a quick glance towards the surrounding forest before returning his attention to Uhtred. "I was unable to count, choosing to make haste here instead."

"You did the right thing. Saved us from a surprise attack."

"Lord, there is one more thing."

His blue eyes swung back from staring in the direction Sihtric had looked to meet the Dane's dark eyes. "Yes?"

"I saw Haesten leading the raiding party."

A foul oath slipped from Uhtred's mouth as he exhaled sharply. His gaze dropped to the overturned ground and his hands landed on his hips.

"What's that pig's arse doing 'ere?" Finan demanded no one in particular.

Although Uhtred would have paid handsomely to know the answer to that particular question himself, now was not the time. Later he could mull over Haesten's presence.

"It matters not." He dispelled that line of questioning, gazing once more at the line of trees. "We need to prepare."

"Lord? Prepare for what?" Osferth glanced back at the small village they were supposed to be helping evacuate. His hands were clasped in front of him, a thumb tapping a rapid staccato against the other.

"Are ya certain of this?" Finan stepped closer, his voice dropping so only their small group could hear him. "We have less than half the men we need."

The Dane-Slayer dragged his gaze back to his friend, a cocky grin on his lips. "Then we will need to kill twice as many."

Finan snorted before smacking Osferth's shoulder. "Baby monk, time for ya to make yaself useful."

"I already do. Whenever I pray for the souls of you heathens."

"And an excellent job ya do. I feel more holy already."

"Finan, take Osferth and go tell the priest the situation." Uhtred commanded, his mind already focused on the upcoming battle. "Have the people make their way to that nearby hill overlooking the village instead of the main road. Tell them to travel only with what they can carry on their backs. Go!"

The two nodded, Osferth immediately taking off, his robe flapping around his legs. Finan gave Uhtred a long look before turning around and sprinting towards the village, his sword bouncing off his hip with each step.

"Sihtric, were the Danes on horses?"

"Just Haesten. The rest were on foot."

"At least we have that to our advantage." Uhtred muttered. He gazed over the area surrounding the small village, knowing soon it would be filled with the sounds of battle, with blood and bodies, sweat and tears. The Danes would come expecting an easy raid and find the little bird they had come to steal and stomp on had turned into a hawk with sharp talons and a piercing cry.

"Come, let us gather the men. By the will of the Norns, maybe I'll finally kill that rat Haesten."

Sihtric walked alongside, leading his horse. "I'll gladly help you put his head on a spike after."

The two warriors chuckled darkly, heading back into the village where his men lingered. Uhtred began calling commands to his men, rallying them to prepare to fight and defend the fleeing villagers.

As the winds shifted, he could almost feel the storm brewing on the horizon. As if nature itself prepared to bear witness to the battle and its dubious outcome. Uhtred could only hope the winds were favorable for his men and himself.

*****

This is not how today was supposed to go.

It was meant to be boring and straightforward. The worst was supposed to be that he might get into an argument with the local priest over his heathen antics or an stubborn, elderly woman about leaving behind a cherished momento.

Not a skirmish. Not a bloody fight.

There were not supposed to be any Danes in the area, or at least that was what Uhtred had been led to believe. Now he could not help but wonder if this was someone's simple way of finishing him off. A fleeting thought brought Alfred's face to mind but Uhtred dismissed it. No, the King of Wessex needed him too much to kill him off now. It must be someone else. And Uhtred had every intention of figuring it out once he made it back.

If he made it back.

Uhtred was already at the larger town nearby when the desperate plea for help came to the steps of the Ealdorman. Uhtred had been sent by King Alfred to scout the area but also help plan defenses since the area was on the border of Mercia, close to East Anglia. Hearing the plea, he offered his men and services to escort the weary villagers from their desolate village to the town, a place that provided better safety.

The village was to be only a day's journey by horseback from the larger town. A welcome respite since Uhtred's patience with Lord Odel, the local Ealdorman, was waning thin.

This was meant to be a simple, uncomplicated journey- he was to explain to the villagers their plea had been heard and space had been granted to them at the larger town, then escort them back.

But when had anything been easy for Uhtred?

Now the Dane-Slayer stood amongst his oathmen that he had brought with him. Less than half their opposition. The air crackled with tension with the change in the wind, the foreshadowing of battle. That tension seeped into his men, their eyes shifty as they awaited the Danes, and their grips on their swords and shields firm.

Although he remained poised, meeting the eyes of his men with confidence and assurance….internally, he wondered if today was the day they would be greeted by death. He swore to himself long ago, he would fight with every last drop of his strength to keep his men alive. They followed him with loyalty that inspired him. He would not fail them. He could not. But still that faint sense of doom could be heard in the brewing storm, echoed within his chest.

Heaven nor Valhalla would have his men today. He would not allow it.

"Lord!" Finan jogged up to stand by Uhtred's side. His sword was in his hand already, a light sheen of sweat on his brow.

"It is done? Where is Osferth?"

Finan nodded. "Aye. The pathetic priest went catatonic when we told 'im of the comin' Danes. One of the women stepped up and started givin' orders. It appears this is not the first time they've narrowly escaped a raid. Everyone's headed in the direction of the hill. We made sure to arm the few elderly men left and gave some of 'em older boys bows and arrows they use for huntin'. 'S not much, but if any Danes get behind us, they have some way to defend themselves."

"But do they have the fortitude to kill?" Sihtric murmured from Uhtred's other side, his gaze straight ahead where they knew the Danes would be coming.

Finan sighed but said no more.

The sounds of mayhem within the village had decreased over the past several minutes. Uhtred looked over his shoulder at the village, its scattered buildings, pens and gardens. Evidence of prior raids still stained the village. At the furthest end, he could see the villagers fleeing, some on foot and some on horses. He had made the decision to lend the horses of his men and his own to help carry those that needed it. Now he stood on the ground, surrounded by his oathmen in front of the village, a wall of men to protect the defenseless. They were to be the rock to break the wave of Danes and their destruction. Or so he hoped.

"And Osferth?" Uhtred shifted to follow Sihtric's gaze, seeing shadows move amongst the trees. The Danes drew closer.

"I told 'im to stay and help since the priest was useless."

"He can guard their backs too. That was wise."

"I try, lord." Finan quipped.

Uhtred would have rolled his eyes any other time at Finan's tease but not now. Not with the song humming in his blood readying him for battle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Finan and Sihtric tap swords like they did before any fight. It warmed him to see the friendship that had grown between the Irishman and Dane. Unlikely companions but brothers by choice.

Up ahead, he could see the first Dane emerge from the surrounding forest. His flaxen colored hair hung loosely over his shoulders, his chest bare of armor or tunic bit riddled with tattoos and scars. A mighty axe was held in both hands but it was the bloodthirsty grin on his scarred face that made Uhtred swallow thickly.

The dim sound of movement behind him drew his attention away as more Danes slowly emerged from the forest. What he saw made him want to swear a black oath while simultaneously gape like a fish. Could the gods, for once, not mock him?

A young woman jogged towards them along the main dirt road that ran the length of the village. A sword and sheath were strapped to her hip over her green dress. A quiver hung across her back and one of her hands clutched a bow.

She jogged directly towards him, only stopping when she was within just out of arm's length. Her thick braid of golden hair swung along her back as she swiveled her head to glance at the approaching Danes then back to him. "Where do you need me, Lord Uhtred?"

For a moment, he stared at her stunned. She was dressed Saxon but the way she carried herself and her weapons spoke of something more. What truly made him pause, to sharply inhale in awe, was as she stood there in the sunlight, her eyes were the same color as the stone in Serpent Breath. Never before had he seen eyes like hers. He wondered if it was a sign from the gods. Freckles colored her pale face like stars in the night sky. Not even the small scar at the corner of her plump, bottom lip or on her cheekbone could detract from the beauty she simply was.

Before he could answer, one of his men nearby spoke up, redirecting attention to himself.

"Edlynne, what are you doing here? Go back and help your mother!" Werian hissed. His shrewd gaze darted from the incoming Danes to her and back, as if debating forcibly dragging her away from the impending fight.

She barely spared him a glance before meeting Uhtred's gaze. "Osferth said you needed all the help you could get."

The overflow of determination in the set of her soft jaw and in the brightness of her eyes surprised him. Even her stance was loose as if they were just casually speaking and not preparing to fight for their lives. She was taller than most Saxon women, her eyes at height with his chin. Her body was svelte, even obvious through the dress that appeared a size too large on her lithe frame, and with curves in all the right places that could easily draw a man's eye.

As he stared at her, blue eyes meeting amber ones, he questioned why the Norns would orchestrate this meeting between them….and why he felt as if a thread had woven around him and now bound itself to her.

A swift shake of his head was his attempt at dislodging the foolish thought and to focus on the present moment. "Girl, you need to return. I cannot watch you during the fight." Uhtred demanded, nodding back in the direction of the deserted village. "Guard the women and children with the others, you have no place here."

He witnessed the spark of a flame burn in her eyes, but as she opened her mouth to reply, Finan's comment silenced her words.

"It's Haesten."

Uhtred's gaze slid away from the woman behind him and to the growing party of Danes approaching. At least twice as many as his own men and then a few more, were all he could see on foot. But it was the one on horseback that captured his attention. With a smug smirk on his ugly face, Haesten gazed across the space between his warriors and the village, locking eyes with Uhtred.

Once Osferth had drunkenly confessed he thought Haesten looked like a deranged hog, with his squinting, piggy eyes, the wild hair around him like some kind of untameable mane and the two small tusks tied into his beard on either side of his chin. Uhtred and his men had laughed loudly before pouring Osferth another cup of ale.

The memory flickered across Uhtred's mind as he stared down the dirt road and met the man's gaze. He could slightly see the resemblance, even if he personally thought the Dane was a weasel.

"Is that you, Uhtred?" The Dane called out, narrowing those wily eyes. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"

"It is I...and what are you doing here, Haesten?"

The Dane gave a lazy shrug. "I am merely on a stroll with my companions on this pleasant day."

Uhtred heard Finan's scoff coming from his right but he ignored it, focusing on the Dane who lied as much as he breathed. "Dressed for battle?"

"You never know when an opportunity arises." Haesten chuckled, his gaze trailing over Uhtred's men. "I am surprised to find you here. I figured you would still be licking the boots of King Alfred, or wiping his ass."

The Danes laughed, a few beating their axes or swords on their shields.

Haesten continued, a malicious glee radiating from him. "I do wonder, does the shit of a king stink as much as a common man? And with how often King Alfred is sick, I bet it must be….well, I am certain you can tell us."

"Haesten, take your warriors and leave." Uhtred commanded, ignoring the insult. He had no patience to banter insults and jabs with a weasel like Haesten, whose mind was as thick as a fart.

"Or what, Dane-Slayer?"

"Or we will kill you."

Haesten sucked his teeth. "I doubt it. I see your woman hiding behind you. Perhaps I shall take her as my own after you are dead. I am in need of a woman to hump." Haesten grinned, then loudly called out to his men. "Any man who brings me Uhtred's woman will get their turn with her after me!"

That brought a riotous cheering to the Danes, several shouting insults in their language and a few making crude gestures. Meanwhile Haesten sat above them looking far too pleased with himself.

"Ah, shite." Finan mumbled, peeking over his shoulder. "Shoulda left when ya had the chance, lass."

Uhtred looked back at her and was shocked to not see fear in her face, only that silent determination she carried and a hint of excitement in her eyes. "Stay behind me." He ordered.

Another round of cheers sounded from Haesten's warriors. The sound of Danes readying for glory or Valhalla.

Uhtred pulled his sword from its sheath across his back. The sword sang its blood-song as it emerged, ready to spill blood and entrails on the hard ground. No longer did he try and still his racing heart but allowed it to gallop like a horse across the fields. It only pushed him further and faster. Shoving aside all doubt and concern, he directed his attention at the Danes. It was too late to change anything. Now he must focus on keeping himself and his men alive….and this strange woman.

Suddenly, her soft voice drifted to his ears as she whispered, just barely audible, from behind him. Yet it was what she spoke that almost made him lose focus.

"Æsir, heed my prayers.

Odin All-Father, bless us with your wisdom and cunning.

Great Týr, let not our enemies beat us but allow justice to prevail.

Share with us your profound strength, O mighty Thor.

Let us bring honor to ourselves that we could be called amongst the einherjar if the Norns sever our life thread.

Keep the gates of Valhalla open for us, so we may feast amongst those who come before us and in the presence of the gods."

Uhtred met Sihtric's own astounded gaze before looking back at her. It was not just that she called upon the gods that surprised him, and Sihtric too apparently. But it was the perfect Norse spoken as she prayed that shocked him the most. No Saxon woman would pray to the gods of the heathens, and equally only a rare few spoke Norse beyond a few scattered words.

His intrigue in the woman tripled after hearing her prayer. It felt every moment he spent in her presence, only brought about more questions as to who she was.

Questions he was inclined to seek the answers to.

Eyes closed, she took a deep breath at the end of her prayer. Then in a single, fluid motion, that bespoke years of practice, she grabbed an arrow and notched it. Only then did her amber eyes open and meet the slightly startled and dazed ones of Uhtred.

She gave him a slight head nod and he found himself returning the action before realizing what he had done. It was then the sounds of chanting, jeers and swords or axes banging on shields filled his ears once more. He blinked in startlement as he turned back around. He had not even noticed how her voice drowned out all else as he avidly listened to her prayer.

"Final chance. Do you wish to surrender, Lord Uhtred?"

"I would never surrender to a rat like yourself, Haesten!" Uhtred shouted back. "My men are worth three times as much as those pathetic creatures you call warriors!"

"Attack!" The Dane warlord bellowed.

With war cries on their lips and weapons drawn, the opposing Danes charged. The sound of their movement was like thunder rolling over the grassy fields, deafening all but the brewing storm.

Uhtred gripped his sword tighter, planting his feet into the hard ground beneath him. His shield was heavy on his arm but a familiar, comfortable weight he embraced. His vision narrowed onto the enemy, deciding who would die by his sword first. Bloodlust ran rampant through his veins like a wild stallion. Serpent Breath sang its siren's call, beckoning them forward to meet their doom.

"We're with you, Uhtred." Finan murmured from his side, his gaze never wavering from the rapidly approaching Danes. "Until death."

"That will not be our fate today, my friend." Uhtred answered. Somehow he knew it deep in his bones. Like a whisper into his ear from the breeze tugging at his hair, the winds were in their favor. The gods smiled down upon them today. Perhaps the woman's prayer had some merit to it after all.

A single arrow flew overhead, planting itself into the eye of a running Dane. An anguished scream shot through the air like a lightning strike. But no one paid any heed to the dying man as another arrow flew by. This one landed in the thigh of a warrior, causing him to tumble forward due to his own momentum and the injury. Another arrow immediately followed, catching a Dane in the face, dropping him to the ground.

Arrow after arrow was released on the encroaching raiding party. Most of the arrows found their mark, either killing or maiming its victims.

But it did not stop the fight.

With his own war cry, Uhtred led the change of his men. Blood roared in his ears, drowning the sound of his pounding feet and his panting breaths. Only the song of battle could be heard….and he answered with a savage zeal.

He swung his sword at the first Dane he encountered. The slim Dane blocked his swing with his own sword but stumbled back when Uhtred immediately followed his swing by knocking him with his shield. In that quick moment, Uhtred plunged his sword into the Dane's innards.

Without waiting, he spun on his heel, raising his shield just as another sword descended towards him. He parried with the towering Dane briefly before an arrow struck the back of the Dane's thigh. The Dane fought on, barely missing a step even though an arrow skewered him through his left thigh. The Dane rained down blows with his powerful two-handed axe. It was now Uhtred recognized him as the berserker that first emerged from the forest.

Only due to instinct did Uhtred suddenly lunge to the side. He spun, drawing his shield close as another Dane had snuck up on him, attempting to stab him in the back.

The berserker laughed as he watched his comrade fight, his voice like rolling boulders. "Ha! The Dane-Slayer may best you yet, Harald!" He jeered in Norse.

Finally, an opening showed itself and Uhtred swung his sword at this Harald's thigh, slicing down to the bone. The Dane dropped to his knees with a roar of pain and fury. But before his knees even hit the ground, Uhtred had slid his sword through the man's head, almost cutting it in half.

Swiftly, he turned to re-engage the massive Dane, momentarily surprised he had held back. Instead he found the berserker dropped to his knees with a bloody grin on his downturned face and two arrows sticking out of his bare back.

A loud curse in Irish wrenched Uhtred's attention back to his men.

With dirt, blood and brains on his face and sword, Uhtred returned to the fight without wasting a moment.

He parried and blocked, he struck and dodged. There was no thought besides the battle. No time for remorse or fear. He killed. And did his best not to be killed.

Except always in the back of his mind was the woman- the archer. Like an itch he could not scratch or an annoying fly, she lingered in his mind.

At one point, he saw she had dropped her bow and was fighting off two Danes. She managed to block their hits and dance away from their swings. One reached out to grab her, but she thrust her sword into his gut. Just as she yanked her sword back, a third Dane approached from behind and kicked the back of one of her legs. She stumbled, barely catching herself before the Dane attacked in a rage.

A tremor of fear burned through him. Uhtred tried to race to her aid, unwilling to see her fall, refusing to let her become a captive. But the pain-soaked shout of one of his men as he fell at Uhtred's feet, stopped the Dane-Slayer. He was forced to divert his attention to the Dane that struck down his man. Furor revived in him as he stepped over the body of his oathman. Lifeblood begged to be spilled.

Once he secured the death of the Dane, a new red stain coating Serpent Breath, he glanced up once more and felt an overwhelming wave of relief course through him as he noticed Sihtric standing by her side as they continued to fight, each their own man. With a quirk of his lips, he dove back into the battle with a shout, thrusting his sword into a Dane that attempted to get behind Finan.

As the skirmish wore on, Uhtred found his gaze returning to the woman in between opponents. Relieved when he saw her still standing, still fighting, but also in shock because she moved like a Dane….like a shieldmaiden.

But he did not have long to process the thought for another Dane would appear in his vision.

He was unsure how long the skirmish lasted, for battle warped time and made it both longer and shorter simultaneously. It was not until he was yanking his blade from the ribs of a man now at his feet, that he heard Finan's shouting.

"Haesten, ya coward! Get back 'ere and fight! I'll scalp ya hairy arse!"

Uhtred looked towards where he had last seen Haesten, still seated on his horse. Now though, the warlord was fleeing. Having turned his horse around, he kicked it into a run and made for the surrounding forest, leaving his men to die alone.

Without removing his eyes from the cowardly weasel, Uhtred spit onto the ground, hoping to shed the lingering taste of blood and betrayal.

"Ya alright? Ya injured?" Finan came over, clapping a hand on the Dane-Slayer's shoulder. He was breathing heavily, blood splattered all down the front of his leather armor.

Uhtred took a deep breath, giving himself a minute to take stock. He could feel a sluggish trickle of blood soaking into his tunic sleeve from a sword slice he had deflected and the sensation of both wet and drying blood on his face, evidence of those he had killed. His shoulder ached from the barrage of hammering against his shield he had endured. Overall he had escaped major injuries, something he was grateful for. "I am well. You?"

"A few scratches but nothin' else."

"Good. The men?"

The two men surveyed the area, noting the many bodies sprawled out or contoured on the ground as if still in the throes of dying. It appeared several of his oathmen were still upright. A surprising and pleasing realization. Maybe they would stop squalling and complaining like fishwives now when he forced them to practice and train. One of his men was still locked in combat with the last Dane further away, as if they were so absorbed they had not realized the overall fight was over and the Danish warlord fled. Another Dane crawled amongst the bodies, blood pouring out a missing eye. One of his oathmen walked over, lifted the Dane's head by his matted hair, and sliced his throat.

Uhtred turned away from the sight. "Sihtric?"

"I last saw 'im over there." Finan gestured in the direction of the village behind them.

Uhtred surveyed around at the carnage before shaking his head. He needed a moment before taking the tally of his men lost and those injured. "Let's find him."

"If we are lucky, a Dane killed that rat bastard and we can finally be done with 'im."

"You are just mad he won that bet. What? He cost you four silvers?"

"And I had to pay for his time in the brothel." Finan grumbled, wiping sweat and blood off his face with his dirty sleeve.

Uhtred was weary from the fight, his breath coming in uneven and his legs demanding a respite, but he still managed to hoarsely laugh and smack his friend's shoulder.

They walked towards the village, leaving the battlefield behind them. As they got closer, they could see Sihtric sitting and leaning against the side of a house. Beside him was the woman, cutting off a strip from the hem of her dress. Without a word, she wrapped it around Sihtric's calf, making him wince.

"Sihtric? Are you hurt?"

The Dane glanced up, seeing his companions approach. "No, lord." The woman must have intentionally tightened the wrap further causing Sihtric to hiss through his teeth. "It's just a scratch, lord. I knocked one of them down and he got me with his sword as he landed."

"If you are certain. We will still have Osferth clean it when we return."

"Yes, lord."

The woman finally sat back on her heels and turned to face them. Bright amber eyes met keen blue eyes and Uhtred felt unable to look away from her. His gaze scanned over her with pinpoint accuracy, searching for any kind of injury. At least, that was the excuse his mind conjured to explain away his blatant staring.

"I am unharmed." She softly murmured. Golden strands of hair stuck to her face and neck, glued there by sweat and blood. A blossoming bruise colored the side of her jaw. Her green dress now carried splatterings of blood on the torso and arms. When she shifted, a long rip in her dress could be seen, giving him a peek at a pale, toned thigh.

Uhtred grunted his acknowledgement since words seemed to suddenly fail him.

"Ya fought well. I didn't think Saxons trained their women to fight."

Her sharp gaze shifted to the Irishman. She seemed to hesitate a brief moment before replying softly. "I was not trained by Saxons."

"Danes trained you, did they not?" Sihtric commented, massaging the palm of his sword hand.

She bit her bottom lip, dropping her gaze away from them. Shielding her thoughts and words. Hiding away her truth.

"Are ya a Dane, lady?" Finan dropped onto the ground next to Sihtric with a groan. Even though his tone and actions were casual, Uhtred could see the intelligent gleam and intrigue in Finan's eyes.

She shook her head, uselessly attempting to brush dirt and blood off her dress.

"But Danes taught you to fight?" Uhtred probed, squatting down. His question came out more of a statement for he had seen her fight. Saxons did not move like that. Like they were born with a sword in hand.

"Yes."

"How?"

Those amber eyes scanned around, seeming to make sure they were alone. "Only few know of my training and by whom. I beg that you keep this information to yourselves."

"Our lips are sealed, lady." Finan cheekily winked.

"Thank you." She murmured as she looked over Uhtred's shoulder.

The Dane-Slayer glanced over, seeing one of his oathmen approach. Then it hit him that this was the same man that spoke so informally with her earlier, that called her by her name. A spark of jealousy ignited in his chest, catching him off guard, as he wondered how Werian had met the woman and become so friendly.

"Lord Uhtred." Werian said, walking up with a limp in his step and a bloody gash on his cheek. Although he spoke to his lord, his eyes lingered on the woman.

A flash of annoyance shot through Uhtred like an arrow. His voice came out more snappish than he meant but he felt no remorse. "What is it?"

"We were blessed by the LORD in this fight. We only lost four men to the Danes, with only Odar's injuries appearing life-threatening at the present. Stabbed in the side."

"That is good news indeed." Uhtred replied, running a hand over his mouth. Four men. He despised their loss, but it could have been far worse. The odds were against him and his men with the Danes being in greater numbers. Somehow they found favor and won. It was as simple and complex as that. They cheated death to live another day.

The Saxon bowed his head to his lord before speaking again. "With your permission, I will seek out the villagers and return with some of our horses. I saw an abandoned wagon nearby that we can place the injured in and find a healer."

"Good. Take Renweard with you."

"Thank you, lord." Werian returned his gray eyes back to the woman. "Edlynne, I will see you back to your family."

"Of course. I know a shortcut through the woods, that should lessen our distance."

"Excellent." Werian smiled at her, his short beard twitching with the movement, then started to limp away, calling for Renweard. He thrust a hand through his cropped, black hair, his other hand on his sword at his hip.

Edlynne gave a brief smile to the three men before rising to her feet with a quiet sigh.

Abruptly, Uhtred mirrored her movement, rising to his feet also. He reached over, wrapping a hand around her upper arm and halting her leave. "Who trained you?"

A teasing smirk grew on her face, even as her voice remained low as not to be overheard. "You did not think you were the only Saxon raised by Danes, did you?"

With that, she slipped away from him like a waking dream, leaving him in a confused daze.

He watched as Werian waited for her. As she came to stand before him, he placed a hand on her shoulder, seeming to ask her something. She shook her head then side-stepped him, forcing his hand to drop. With a short statement, she hurried to grab her abandoned bow and the few arrows nearby. Werian helped her gather arrows, always keeping an eye on her.

"Ah, shite. I know that look."

Uhtred looked over at Finan then Sihtric sitting side by side with matching grins. "What do you speak of?"

Finan pointed at Uhtred. "That look. The one ya are wearin'."

"What look?"

"The one that says ya about to do somethin' stupid."

Uhtred scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do not have a look."

"Aye, ya do. Ya should leave her alone."

"Do not tell me you are not curious about her."

"I am, but this is her secret apparently. We should respect that."

Sihtric spoke up, his brow furrowed as he watched her. "I wish to know who trained her. There is something that feels familiar about her….like a ghost from a past life."

Uhtred gestured at his fellow Dane. "See! I am not alone!"

Finan sighed and rolled his eyes, thumping his head on the wall behind him. "Hild and Beocca would be disappointed in the both of ya."

"Have you not heard? Stupid is in my nature." Uhtred quipped.

"Oh aye, we know."

Uhtred chuckled, turning back to watch the woman and his two oathmen head in the direction they had sent the villagers to hide.

"Edlynne." Her name rolled off his tongue in a breathy whisper. The taste of it like cold mead after a hard day's work.

She had piqued his curiosity. A dangerous thing for he could be relentlessly persistent when he chose to be. And he had every intention of finding out about their shared pasts. He wanted to hear and know her story. To learn more about her and who trained her as a shieldmaiden. But overall, he needed to know why it felt as if the Norns had weaved their life threads together….and what it meant.

It would be at least a two day journey to the nearby town once they started. It would be slow moving with the villagers and now injured men. He had plenty of time to question her.

Or so he thought.

------

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