#this is what his rousing team speeches sound like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

minisugakoobies · 3 years ago

Text

Bet On It | MYG

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: smut, fluff, enemies to lovers, non-Idol!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: swearing, kissing, drinking, fingering, getting frisky in a public bathroom, uh i'm gonna say light bondage, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), Yoongi is a blond menace, undercut warning

Word Count: 6.5K

Disclaimer: NSFW, obviously I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me

Summary: What's a little wager between enemies? How about if it's your body on the line?

A/N: Sooooo this was supposed to be a drabble, part of my Milestone Celebration. The prompt was “That was the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.” I wrote 500 words... and then another 500... and then bloop! It became a one-shot. Originally I intended to post this on his birthday, but I'm impatient to get started on my next fic idea, so.... here you go!

Thanks to @thatlongspringnight and @namjinsmoonchile for brainstorming trivia team names.

Unbeta’d as usual. I would love to hear what you think - my inbox is always open! 💕

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

“Okay, you motherfuckers, let’s do this. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!” With a vicious grin, you raise your pint in a toast to your teammates.

Blank stares greet you from around the table.

“She’s doing it again,” Jungkook says.

“I know. Just ignore her,” Seokjin replies.

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “Help me out here! It’s been three weeks with no wins. You’re our leader, Seokjin–give us a rousing speech! Do something to rally the troops!”

Jungkook frowns. “Jin, you promised you’d talk to her about the military metaphors.”

“I did! And do you know what she said? ‘Roger that!’ Then she saluted!”

“I’m sitting right here, jerks. You’re not even pretending to whisper!” With a frustrated pout, you turn your attention to the busy room around you.

The Blue & Grey is packed once again as you sip on the pub’s latest brew (an apricot wheat, perfect for early summer) while you wait for your trivia match to begin. It’s your Friday night post-work routine, just as it’s been for the last five months, ever since your coworker/work spouse Seokjin invited you to join his team, the Real Jiniuses.

He’d heard through the office grapevine that you liked games. And were a little competitive. Clearly, his source understated the facts.

You love trivia. And you fucking live for the thrill of competiton.

So once you’d stopped mocking him for the team name, you’d agreed.

Seokjin leans forward, long black hair flopping over his forehead as he gently clasps his large hand over yours. He utters your name calmly, like a parent trying to reason with a bratty child. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously?”

“Pfft, I think you’re not taking it seriously enough! Do you really want to lose to You Just Got Served? Again?”

You Just Got Served. Aka the Real Jiniuses’ rivals. Led by Hoseok from Legal aka Hardass Hobi as you and Seokjin refer to him. So named because of his ruthless attitude in the office.

Also he had a peach so firm you could bounce a paperclip off it. Not that you, the head of HR, had ever tried that. Ahem.

Normally, your teams trade the top spot in the match rankings, but they’ve been kicking your asses for the last few weeks. And you know it’s all thanks to one man.

Min Yoongi. Your nemesis.

He’s You Just Got Served’s ace. The man with all the answers. The man who annoys the fuck out of you. Because just as quickly as you marked him your biggest competition for ultimate trivia master, he sussed you out as the same.

A sneak glance at his team’s table confirms what you already knew. He’s watching you. Which only adds to your irritation. Sure, his whole team is technically your competition, but all your ire is reserved for the annoyingly sharp, vexingly handsome man studying you from across the room.

Make no mistake, he is handsome. As he gazes at you now with those cat-like eyes, newly bleached-blonde hair hanging messily over his brow, examining you from behind a pair of thick black frames, your pulse quickens slightly, despite your best efforts to appear calm and unperturbed.

“Do I want to lose to Hardass again and have to deal with him bringing it up in our Monday morning meeting? No. But it’s a minor annoyance in the grand scheme of things.” Seokjin pauses. “Do you really want a repeat of Trivial Pursuit night?”

“You always bring that up!” A few weeks into your time with the team, Seokjin had invited you to his apartment to play board games with some of the others. It had not gone particularly well. The ‘take no prisoners’ approach to trivia you’ve got makes for a bad scene when your opponents are your friends. “I said I was sorry!”

And you’d been permanently banned from board games night.

“You made Jungkook cry!”

You scoff, sipping your pint. “Oh, like that’s hard!”

“Hey!” Jungkook protests with a tiny sniffle. You gesture emphatically.

“Fine, point made,” Seokjin concedes, lovingly rubbing his boyfriend’s back while carefully avoiding his glare. ”Can we just have fun tonight? Please?”

Only because he’s your favorite coworker, and only because you don’t want to lose yet another friendship over a game, you give in. “Yeah, yeah, fun, whatever. I’ll get the next pitcher.”

The bar is horribly crowded as you approach. Apparently all the other players have decided to place their drink orders at the same exact time. Tapping your fingers on the smooth wooden surface, you’re patiently waiting to catch the bartender’s eye when a velvety voice rumbles in your ear.

“Back for more, huh?”

The devil himself. “Hi, Yoongi.”

He slips in beside you, propping himself up on an elbow on the bar. If you were friends, you’d tell him that you think his fresh undercut is striking, and paired with his newfound blondness, makes him look like a goddamn snack.

But you’re not, so you just ignore him and keep focused on flagging down the bartender.

“I never pegged you for a masochist,” Yoongi notes, tongue licking at the corner of his mouth. You try not to follow the movement with your eyes but it’s like breathing - happens completely involuntarily. “Yet here you are again, looking for more pain. Which I’m more than happy to provide.”

You finally place your pitcher order with the bartender before sizing up the man beside you. This is your other Friday night routine–trading insults with Yoongi. It’s how you prepare for the game, exchanging verbal jabs with the enemy. Though lately it’s been more innuendos than barbs, especially on his end, and these back-and-forths leave you feeling more heated than ready for battle.

Damned if you'll let him know that, though. Admitting that Yoongi has some sort of power over you feels like admitting defeat. And that’s the one thing you’ll never do.

“God, I can’t wait to make you choke on those words when we beat your ass tonight.”

His lips twitch mirthfully. “Oh, now you want to choke me? And there’s the sadism. Fascinating. I’m just learning all sorts of new things about you tonight.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan, rolling your eyes. He’s so transparent with these attempts to get under your skin. It’d be hilarious, if only they didn’t work. “Maybe you should spend less time learning about me and more time studying up on your trivia? Then you won’t have to resort to these childish attempts at riling me up to feel superior.”

“Please. We both know I don’t need to do any of that. When it comes to trivia, I’m the king.”

“You’re the worst, your highness,” you proclaim, tone dripping with disdain.

He sidles closer, near enough that you breathe him in. Despite all his sharpness, his scent is so soft–lavender, with woodsy notes, mixed with the spice of the whisky cocktail he exhales as he peers at you through those dark glasses. Warm and inviting.

“Oh, I like that. You can call me that from now on, if you’d please.”

“Fuck off. Prepare to be dethroned, asshole.”

“Ha. You making a run for the crown? Good. Bring it. But know that I never back down from a challenge.”

Your retort is cut off by a voice behind you. “Yoongi, did you–oh.” It’s Hobi, looking devastatingly gorgeous as usual in a perfectly tailored suit. Since most of the players here come straight from your place of work, it's a rather well-dressed bunch of nerds. No complaints on your end. “I was gonna ask what’s taking you so long with my drink, but nevermind. I see now.”

“Just having a friendly little discussion here.”

“I’m sure.” Hobi nods coolly at you before he nudges Yoongi out of the way to speak to the bartender. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Oh no, please do,” you quip. “I insist.”

Yoongi pouts, pretty lips puffing up before that cocky grin reappears again. It’s never far when he’s talking to you. “But we were having such an illuminating conversation.”

“You mispronounced ‘torturous.’”

His smile widens and you realize you’ve once again led him where he wants the conversation to go. It’s incredible. You never intend to set him up like that and yet there you go walking directly into his traps every time.

You sidestep.

“Well, it depends on–what? What are you looking at?” He slaps a hand to his slender neck suddenly, rubbing as though he’ll find something staining the skin there, based on the way you’re squinting as you stare at his throat.

“Sorry, I’m just marveling at the structural integrity of your neck.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s amazing that something so thin can support something so big.”

His eyes flash before he smirks, opening his mouth.

“If you’re about to make a big dick comment, I swear to God I’ll kick you straight off this team right now,” Hobi promises from over his shoulder, and Yoongi swiftly closes his mouth. “Come on, enough harassing the competition.” He tips his drink towards you. “Best of luck.”

Hobi leads Yoongi back to their table, and you know you shouldn’t ogle him openly, but Yoongi’s tight pants hug his ass so obscenely that you can’t stop yourself and oh, great, he caught you looking. Hastily, you grab your pitcher and bolt for your table, which is close enough to where Yoongi sits that you can hear him chuckling delightedly.

The quizmaster welcomes everyone to trivia night, and your thoughts are quickly replaced by the only thing that could drive Yoongi out of your head–the exhilaration of the game.

Two hours later, sitting at the bar, you’re trying to drown your sorrows with yet another pint. You Just Got Served’s winning streak continues.

“That was the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.”

You frown as Yoongi takes a seat on the barstool next to you. “What sound?”

“The little noise you made when your team lost.” He sips his drink casually, eyes once again fixed on your face, observing your reaction closely.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you sniff, crossing your arms. “I didn't say anything.”

For once, you hadn’t. You’d been so sure that your team was going to pull out the win with the final question tonight that you were left completely speechless by the results. Unlike last week, when you’d let loose a flurry of loud expletives, much to Seokjin’s absolute embarrassment.

Okay, maybe tonight you’d made a little exclamation of protest. Just a tiny one. But there was no way Yoongi could’ve heard it.

“You absolutely did. Kinda sounded like a… a needy whine?” The smirk returns. “I’ve never heard anything so sweet.”

Your eyebrow quirks. “Is that because you’ve never made a woman whine before?” Yoongi scowls as you raise your pint to your smiling lips.

Hobi suddenly materializes at your side like a sexy but stern magician. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You should really consider joining our team,” he says, motioning to the bartender for a refill. “Aren’t you tired of losing?”

“Cross over to the Dark Side? Aren’t you supposed to entice me with saving my friends or offer me cookies or something?”

“Fuck, even for a nerd, you’re a nerd, you know?” Hobi sighs. “Which is why you should be with us. You’re absolutely wasted on the Jiniuses. Don’t you want to be on the winning team for once?”

“Save it, Hoseok.” With one hand, you shoo him away. “Go gloat elsewhere. It’s bad enough I can never shake this one,” you thumb at Yoongi.

“Yeah, weird how that always happens,” Hobi comments drolly, clapping Yoongi on the shoulder as he drifts off to bother Seokjin.

“Anyway…” Yoongi drawls as if he were never interrupted, “what will it take to get you to make that noise again? I miss it already.”

“God, what will it take to get you to shut up about it?”

“How about a little wager over next week?”

“Mmmm, not much of a gambler.” Contests, you like. Gambling, not so much. You don’t believe in luck. Just in yourself.

“Afraid you’ll lose? I would’ve thought you’d be used to that by now.”

He’s such an ass. “Fine, let’s say I take you up on this. What’s in it for me?”

“Name your prize.”

“Okay, how about… if my team wins, you pick up our tab for the night.”

He taps his glass thoughtfully. “Is that all?”

“What, that’s not enough?” He has no idea how much Seokjin alone can drink.

“I’m just saying. Make it worth your while.”

Tossing back the rest of your drink, you reconsider. What do you want? “All right. You pick up our tab, and you have to stop annoying me every week. Which means no more comments about stupid shit like imaginary sounds.”

He’s silent for a moment, still examining you as he mulls your words. You wonder if you’ve made a mistake with your choice of prize. Don’t you enjoy being the center of his attention every week? Crave his fiery words and longing looks? There’s a weird sense of panic growing in the pit of your stomach while you wait for his response.

“Okay,” he finally replies, setting his empty glass on the bar. He tilts towards you, and the loud din of the room around you dies away as he murmurs, “But when my team wins, I’m finally going to take you home and do everything I’ve ever wanted to do to you, over and over, until you can only make that sweet little sound.”

A jolt ripples through you. Shifting in your seat, squeezing your thighs together, you inhale deeply to control your breathing, so you give nothing away. “Are you kidding me? You really think I’d agree to that? To offering myself as a prize?”

“Yes.” Stated so matter-of-factly.

“And just why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because you want to come home with me. You’re just too proud to admit it. So I’ll make it easy for you. When I win, you’re mine for the night.” He lightly skims a long finger down your arm, and goosebumps rush to fill the space where his skin touched yours.

The satisfied look in his eyes as you struggle to compose yourself is the only thing anchoring you to reality, keeping you from grabbing him by the tie and dragging him straight into the bathroom.

You won’t let him win that easily.

“Well. That is simply not going to happen. I’ll take the bet, because I know it’s the only way to get you to stop bothering me, and because I know I’m going to win.” Gracefully, you climb off your stool, thankful that your legs haven’t turned to jelly after what he said. “You’re going down.”

He winks. “Well yeah, fingers crossed, love.”

Your scowl leaves him laughing as you stalk away.

“I’ve been dreaming about that noise all week long.” Yoongi’s voice drifts over the clatter around you. After another long week, it’s Friday again, so you’re at the bar, ordering provisions. And of course Yoongi’s here, too, wearing a grey three-piece suit, running his hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, looking delicious as always.

How annoying.

“You’ve been hallucinating an imaginary sound? You should probably get that checked out.” The bartender slides a cocktail towards you and you give them an appreciative nod before taking a sip.

“Really?”

“Really what?”

He grins, pink lips revealing a gummy smile. “Is that the best you’ve got tonight?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“You’re not stressing about the match, are you? Wouldn’t want to win because you’re not on your game.”

“I’m always on.” Maybe it’s the exhaustion of a long week getting to you, but his snarky comments are even more irritating than usual tonight.

“Good. Because I want to know I’ve beaten the best.” The corner of his mouth lifts, that familiar crooked smile igniting a flame inside you.

You quickly tamp it down.

“Always so damn confident, aren’t you, Yoongi? Talking so big. Even if you win, do you really think you can make me make that sound again? Or any sounds, for that matter?”

He watches you over the rim of his glass as he takes a long dram. Something flutters against the bare skin of your thigh and you glance down to see his other hand brushing lightly along your leg.

“I assure you that I can and I will. But if you’d prefer a demonstration…?”

The hem of your skirt is pinched between his fingers. He rolls the fabric up slightly and you inhale sharply as his thumb strokes the smooth skin beneath. Tearing your gaze away from his hand, you find him studying your reaction. Waiting.

The quizmaster for the evening announces ten minutes until the match. You snap out of your trance and swat his hand away, hoping your bored expression is more convincing than it feels. “No need to embarrass yourself now. Save it for the quiz.”

Even though you know you shouldn’t, you glance back over your shoulder as you saunter away. Yoongi leans against the bar, tongue poking his cheek as he watches your hips sway and fuck, he’s caught you looking again. That spark inside you burns as he winks, and you turn away, in desperate need of your drink and a distraction.

Without a doubt, trivia night is always the highlight of your week. But tonight you’re too keyed up to truly enjoy it. Every round has you on edge, wondering if you’re one step closer to winning or losing the bet–and trying to figure out which outcome you’d prefer. All of this means a quieter, more subdued you than usual. Naturally, your friends notice.

“You feeling okay tonight?” Jungkook asks between the second and third rounds, nudging you gently with his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You flash the briefest of smiles. Jungkook jerks his head at his boyfriend, who shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here looking right at you.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Seokjin exclaims.

“Please. Your face is louder than a fire alarm.”

“You say you’re fine, but you’re still on your first drink, and you haven’t made a single warfare reference all night,” Jungkook states. “So obviously you’re not.”

“It’s nothing! Just a little out of it after a rough week,” you lie, trying to summon some enthusiasm. “Don’t worry, I’m ready for the next round! Once more unto the breach!”

Jungkook wrinkles his nose adorably as Seokjin grants you a half-grin, but you know they’re not fully convinced.

Is this Yoongi’s evil plan? To psych you out with this bet and mess with your mind? Prevent you from playing your best? If it is, it’s really working, goddamn it.

Somehow, despite your inability to relax, the match flies by, a blur of questions and answers and shouts of victory and defeat. It comes down to a repeat of last week, the Real Jiniuses and You Just Got Served neck-and-neck to the very end, with everything hinging on the final question.

“Alright, the category tonight is ‘Literature of Future Past.’ If you don’t know this next question, don’t blame the stars. What famous phrase from classical literature was infamously uttered by General Chang, the Klingon villain from the 1991 film ‘Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country?’”

As your teammates whisper to one another, hazarding wild guesses, you glance at Yoongi’s table. Like your team, he and the others sit with heads bent towards one another. But you have a clear view of Yoongi’s face, all furrowed brows and pouting lips.

For once, he doesn’t look confident.

“Hey!” Seokjin’s voice brings you back to the group. “You haven’t said a single word in the last five minutes. Do you have a guess or what?”

You don’t need a guess. Calmly, you whisper the answer to Seokjin. Everyone else seems uncertain, but you’ve never been more sure in your life.

“And the answer is–“

You can’t hear what the quizmaster reveals because one of your teammates begins screeching in your ear. Your eyes are fixed on You Just Got Served’s table as the scores are revealed.

Yoongi’s expression says it all.

You won.

There’s a lot of cheering and even more drinking after the results are announced. You’re thrilled that your team has finally snapped their run of losses. But you hang back a bit, watching your friends carry on carousing without you.

The celebrations eventually die down and your teammates begin to drift away. Soon, you’re the only one left, nursing another drink at the bar. You know you should go home, but you feel antsy, like you’re not quite done with the night yet.

“Congratulations,” Yoongi mutters, shouldering his way next to you. He motions to the bartender that he’s ready to close out his tab, which is undoubtedly astonishingly high given how much your team imbibed after you told them it was on him.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that?” Mustering up a playful grin, you cup your ear.

His mouth sets in a flat line before he speaks again. “Congratulations. You won. I’ll stop bothering you.” His long fingers drum quietly on the bartop as he waits for his card. There are no quippy comments, no teasing smiles, nothing but silence and distance.

Well, you don’t care for this at all.

“How disappointing,” you remark, twirling the stir stick from your cocktail between your fingertips. “I guess you talk a big game, but just can’t deliver, huh?”

Yoongi turns to you with narrowed eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“For your information, I didn't miss a single answer tonight, other than the last one! Any other night, that would’ve been enough to beat you,” he sulks. “That final round was bullshit. Who’s even watched that stupid old movie?”

Wow. Someone’s a sore loser.

“Except it wasn’t any other night, it was tonight, when you really needed to dig deep and secure the win, and you just… couldn’t.” You tip your head, giving him an appraising look. “And now you’re just giving up, huh? Throwing in the towel, because you lost one match.”

“Throwing in the - what are you talking about?” he hisses, attention fully focused on you now. You can feel the heat of his body where his arm presses against you, jostled closer by the other patrons vying for the bartender’s attention. “The bet’s over! You won. I lost.” His jaw twitches slightly with that last declaration.

Oh. You understand instantly. He’s mad at himself for losing.

It’d be so easy to reach out and grab his chin, look him in the eye, and tell him that you don’t care about any stupid bets. You want him to take you home. Make you his. But that requires you to surrender yourself to him, and that’s not the way you play.

“You know what I want?” The last dregs of your drink flow down your throat as you tip your head back to drain your glass. Yoongi watches closely, eyeing the graceful line of your neck with interest. “What I want is for you to show me that I beat the best tonight. Didn’t you say you never back down from a challenge? Then prove it.” He’s breathing hard as you smirk, twirling his black tie around your fingers. “Show me that you can deliver on that offer you made earlier. Make me whine, Yoongi, right here, right now, and I’m all yours.”

His eyes are darkened pools as he studies you. God, how you long to dive in. “Are you serious?”

"Mmmhmm. If you still want to take me home, you gotta make me want it. Show me what you can do.” Gently, you untwist his tie, smoothing the silky fabric, letting your fingertips skim against his chest as you gaze at him through lowered lashes.

“Fuck,” he whistles a low note. His tongue dances over his lower lip. “Come on.”

His hand grasps yours, pulling you off your seat. Most of the trivia crowd has cleared out by now. The quizmaster has been replaced by a deejay currently spinning something loud and fast. You wind your way through the crush of bodies on the dance floor as Yoongi leads you into the back hallway of the pub.

He pauses for a second at the door of one of the bathrooms. When no one answers his questioning knock, he quickly urges you inside and locks the door behind you.

In the flickering fluorescent lighting of the restroom, Yoongi removes his glasses, tucking them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His gaze slowly roams over your body, a nakedly hungry look on his face. Gone are the winks, the smirks, all those cocky little gestures he loves to tease you with. This is the expression of a man who wants to devour you whole, in no uncertain terms, and he’s dying for you to know it.

One of his hands cups your cheek while the other slides up your thigh, bunching your skirt as it goes. “If at any point you want me to stop, just say the word,” he instructs you. “This is only fun for me if you’re into it, too.”

“Okay.” Your breathing is a little shaky. The intensity of his gaze has you rattled. But you’ve already decided you want this, so you don’t plan on saying a word.

In fact, you don’t plan on making any noises at all. You’re not giving him an inch, or rather, a whine, unless he earns it from you.

With a tilt of his head, he pulls you into a kiss. A hint of whisky still clings to his lips, sweet and smoky, but it’s the bite underneath that has you leaning into him, seeking more, getting drunk on him. You curl your fingers into the lapel of his suit as he slides his hand around to your ass. He palms you through your panties, then lifts your leg to wrap around him as he grinds himself into your core.

He’s so hard against you already. Knowing that you’ve done this to him spurs you on, your lips falling open enough for him to lick into you. His hands find the zipper on your skirt and in an instant it’s crumpled around your feet.

“You taste so good,” he whispers, kissing a trail down your neck. “Do you taste like this everywhere?” You nearly moan his name, but bite your lip in time. Abruptly, he drops your leg and pulls away, and you teeter for a moment before catching yourself. In your head, you call him a few choice names, but you say nothing out loud.

His smirk reappears as he drops to his knees. “Better hold on to something.” He buries his face in your heat, kissing you through the sodden silk and lace he finds there. A keen bubbles up but you swallow it back down as his nose finds your clit and rubs against the sensitive nub. “You can start with me.” He grabs your left hand, placing it in his hair. Instantly, you card your fingers through his platinum locks. With your right hand, you grip the sink, needing something steady to keep you in place.

The man between your legs yanks your panties to the floor and dives in with no hesitation. His tongue licks a long stripe up your slit before he begins to swirl it around your clit and then his hands join the fray, fingers prying back your folds as he slips inside.

Your own tongue is speared between your teeth, to the point that you begin to fear you might chomp clean through. But if you let go, there’s no telling what sort of sounds will escape your lips, so you continue to hold it. Releasing his hair, you clutch at the sink with both hands.

Yoongi chooses that moment to replace his tongue with his index finger, and your mouth falls open as you rock your hips forward. How did he find that spot so quickly? He’s playing you like a musician plays an instrument, all deft fingers and graceful tongue, making your body sing.

“You like that, love? Hmm? Want another?” He adds a second finger.

Swiftly, you stuff the palm of your right hand into your mouth, gnawing to suppress any whimpers. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel yourself nearing your peak, continuing to rut your hips brazenly as you chase your high on his thrusting fingers. God, you’re going to cum if he keeps this up, but there’s no way you can possibly do that silently.

“Oh, look at you,” Yoongi groans happily, mouth lapping at the wetness clinging to your thighs. “Humping away, so needy. Are you wishing that was my cock inside you? Hmm?” He nips when you don’t reply. “I asked you a question, love.”

His fingers suddenly withdraw as his tongue stops.

Your eyes fly open. Releasing your palm, you glance down to find him resting on his heels, watching you with a wicked glint in his eyes.

“So that’s your game, huh?” he rasps, grabbing the hand that was just in your mouth. His thumb rubs over the teeth marks there. “Muffling yourself, so you won’t make any sound?”

You shrug, crossing your arms. “Maybe. Does it matter?”

“I think it does. Seems a bit like cheating to me.”

“It’s not cheating,” you petulantly claim, frustrated beyond belief. Can’t he just let it go and get back to proving his skill? You were so close. “It’s just… it’s like the final round. You know, it’s meant to be a challenge, not a walk in the park.” He doesn’t make any movements, continuing to observe you closely, and you pout. “Come on, I thought you didn’t back down from anything!”

Yoongi tips his head to the side as he considers your words. “I suppose you’re right.” He stands, loosening his tie. “You never really set any rules for this… challenge… of yours, so I can’t really say it’s not fair. But, you also didn’t specify what I could or couldn’t do, so....” He yanks the silky material from around his throat. “Turn around.”

He grips the tie tightly as you shoot him a curious look. “And what exactly do you think you’re going to do with that?”

He doesn’t answer, just takes a step forward and lightly grasps your chin. “Turn. Around.” The tone of his voice is commanding, but there’s a question in his eyes. A way out, if you want it.

You turn around.

“Clasp your hands together.” Silently, you obey, and he wraps the tie around your wrists, binding them together. “Too tight?” Testing his work, you find that you have a little give, but not enough to get loose. Once you shake your head, he spins you around to face him again.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be now,” he murmurs, lowering his face to your neck and sucking at a sensitive spot beneath your ear. You huff a breath through your nostrils, still determined to keep completely mum.

Yoongi’s hands run over your blouse before tugging it up, sliding it over your breasts. His lips glide down until they meet your bra. He mouths at your nipples through the dark lace and you arch into him, wishing your hands were free so you could remove all the fabric preventing his hot kisses from touching your bare skin. Having him so close is torture.

Which is obviously the point.

You’re shifting around, trying ardently to get him to slide your bra down without actually saying anything, when there’s a knock at the door.

You both freeze. Yoongi lifts his head.

“Maybe we should–”

“Do you want to–”

“Hello, is someone in there?” More knocks. “Come on, there’s a line!”

“Do you want to stop?” Yoongi asks.

“God no,” you answer immediately, without a trace of shame.

A full gummy smile crosses his face. Then he turns and bellows, “FUCK OFF!”

The knocking ceases.

“I guess I should move things along,” he hums, tracing his hand down your torso. “As much as I wish I could take my time right now, I can’t. But that’s okay. After this, we’ll have all night.”

Without warning, he pulls you flush against him and kisses you fiercely. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by his greedy mouth. With your hands bound, you can’t run your fingers through his hair or cling to his shoulders or touch him in any of the million ways you’re dying to right now. You can’t even hold yourself up, melting into his embrace. He’s completely in control.

So you surrender.

His kisses grow messy, more desperate, until you’re both gasping for breath. His hand finds its way between your legs, stroking and plunging, one finger, then two, before he’s on his knees again.

“Lift this for me,” he bids you, bending your left leg. “Just let it rest here.” You wobble a little as you try to balance your thigh on his shoulder, puffing a frustrated breath, but before you can keel over, his strong hands grip your waist. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, love. Just lean back.”

Your back tilts against the cold sink. Yoongi’s supporting most of your weight as his hand splays on your stomach, holding you in place so you’re angled just right, completely open to him, just as he desires.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs reverently. “Such a shame I can’t savor you right now. But I promise I will later.” And then his mouth is on you.

The rude interruption seems to have lit a fire under him, because as soon as he sets a relentless pace, he doesn’t stop. He keeps finding that spot inside you, lithe fingers brushing over it again and again, making your eyes roll back in ecstasy. As he tongues at your clit, treating the tiny bud like a drop of the sweetest nectar, you realize your end is approaching quickly again.

You try to keep quiet. You really do. But all your effort is completely useless against Yoongi’s talented hands and tongue. Once your mouth goes slack, it’s over.

You begin to wail.

“Yoongi, oh fuck!” The floodgates open and you gasp, you moan, you scream his name. “Jesus, fuck, oh my god!”

He’s laughing into you, and you struggle hard against the tie, fighting to slip a hand loose so you can get your fingers on him, grab his hair, touch him, but in addition to being a trivia master he’s also apparently a fucking knot expert, so you’re not getting free. With a frustrated whine, you drop your head.

Game over. He wins.

He replaces his mouth with his thumb as he watches you through heavily-lidded eyes. “There it is, love! There’s that beautiful sound I’ve been dreaming of. I knew I could get you there.”

All you can do is groan his name. “Yoongi, please!” Not even sure what you’re pleading for, just knowing that you want whatever he’s willing to give.

The fingers pumping in and out of you make the filthiest background noise as he babbles on, caught up in the rush of victory. “Fuck, love, everything you do is so fucking hot - the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you moan my name. You’re so fucking sexy. I can’t wait to have you tonight. You ready to get fucked by the king?”

“Yoongi.” He’s still the fucking worst and you hate how much you love it, clenching at his words. “Oh fuck, please don’t stop!”

He feels you tightening around him and growls. “Say it. Say I’m the king.”

Right now you’d say anything he told you to if it meant he’d keep going. “You’re the king! Ah, fuck, you’re the king!”

With another thrust of his hand, you come undone. The burning inferno inside you spreads, consuming you so completely that your right knee buckles and you pitch forward. Yoongi holds you up, one hand on your torso, the other gripping your left thigh, still lapping at your cunt until you can’t take any more.

Panting, you protest. “Too much, Yoongi, it’s too much.”

He stops, glancing up at you. A glossy sheen of sex is smeared all around his nose and mouth, and as you fight to catch your breath, he removes his hand from your core and sucks each finger clean, one by one.

“God, you’re so over-the-top,” you huff as he laughs. “Will you untie me now?”

He rises to his feet. “Say it one more time and I will.”

“Say what?”

“You know what.” He blinks languidly, a proud smile curling his lips. “Tell me I’m the king.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Just say it.”

He’s unbelievable. You try appealing to his baser instincts. “Please, Yoongi, I wanna touch you. Don’t you want me to touch you?” Bringing your knee up, you rub against the massive tent in his pants, smirking as he exhales forcefully.

Yet he doesn’t cave, running a thumb over your lips. “Come on. One more time. I wanna watch this pretty mouth say it.”

You want to kiss him and curse him all at once. Pleasing him wins out.

“You’re the king,” you sigh. “Now untie me and fuck off.”

You start to turn, but Yoongi stops you with his hands on your hips, and leans in for a kiss, slow and sure. Something must be seriously wrong with your knees because they’re seconds from giving out again. His fingers pick at the knotted tie, releasing your wrists. As soon as your arms are free, you loop them around his neck, never breaking the kiss for a second.

Until there’s another knock at the door.

“Hello? Look, whoever’s in there, can you please wrap it up?” the bartender hollers through the door. “Other people need the restroom, you know.”

“JUST A MINUTE!” you boom, giggling at Yoongi’s startled expression. “Sorry.” “I’m assuming my demonstration was satisfactory, given the many, many sweet sounds you made. I didn’t hear a single complaint, but I think I did hear you call me the king once or twice….” he trails off, grinning as you push him away and adjust your blouse, straightening the wrinkled fabric over your stomach.

“Oh, fuck all the way off, will you?” You reach for your panties but he swipes them up first and stuffs them into his pocket.

“What?” His tone is airy and innocent. “I earned these.”

No argument there.

Once you’re both looking respectable enough to leave the bathroom, he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “I know what you said earlier, but you’re not under any obligation to–”

“Yoongi.” His voice falters as you place your hand on his chest, fingers curling around his tie. “Take me home.”

With a smirk, he opens the door.

#ksmutclub #ficscafe #btswritingcafe #btscreatorscorner #bangtanarmynet #btshoneyhive #min yoongi smut #yoongi smut #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #bts smut #possumswrite #min yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #min yoongi #fic: bet on it

1K notes · View notes

wizkiddx · 4 years ago

Note

hiii could you do one of tom asking your dad to marry you?? thankuuuuu

okay so I don't believe in boys having to ask the dads, because we are strong independent QUEENS and no man owns me ever, but I hope this is still okay <33

not proof read and written super quick so sorry!

summary: Tom's terrified to ask your dad a very particular question question

///////////////////////////////////////////////

“Mr Y/l/n” Tom called your dads attention from the dishwasher he was loading up. The holidays spent at your parents meant a lot of good things- but mainly food. So much so the dishwasher was almost continually on, just so you didn’t run out of crockery.

“Its Y/d/n Tom, we’ve been through this.” He was joking but with your Dad - Tom could never really tell. At heart your dad was an absolute softie, except no one really saw that except your mum and you. Always a daddies girl, Tom knew how much your dad had meant to you. He had guessed before he’d met you parents , that he would be protective.

And that he was, never frontally rude or cruel. It was more subtle - though to Tom it was very damn clear, he had his doubts. As a people pleaser, Tom didn’t like the fact he didn’t like him. Time and time again, he’d tried to prove just how much you meant to him and yet it seemed to fall on deaf ears. So three years down the line, it was safe to say he was bloody terrified. Heart-in-mouth sort of event. Tom did a lot of ‘terrifying things’: talking to massive studio heads; going on stage with thousands of people screaming; jumping out a plane even.

But no, a single conversation with your dad had his adrenaline going like nobodies business. Asking to marry you.

“You going to just stand their gawking? I hope the moviestar doesn’t make my Y/n do all the housework?”

“No sir I-of course I don’t” Stammering his way through with wide eyes, Tom practically leapt across the kitchen to the opposite side of the dishwasher to your dad. Secretly your Dad was chuckling away to himself, taking absolute delight in how terrified the ‘movie star’ was of him, but managed to keep a steely outershell. In silence, the two uunloaded the dishwasher, Tom desperately racking his brains for conversation starters.

This is what he did for a living, learnt the speech he’d spent hours preparing, then retell it. Why then, was Tom having such an issue with the script he’d arguable practiced the most? Deciding he needed a buffer, Tom went to the safe space of small talk.

“So how was the pub? Y/n said you were meeting some old friends?”

“Watched the match, bloody awful game and Wilks was crap, I don’t know why he even started.” Now this football talk was something Tom felt safe in. He had learnt as much as he could about your dads team - just so there was some mutual conversation.

“Yeh tell me about it, I caught the last half. Though the ref made so bad decisions too, that penalty never really was VAR or not.”

“Thats the most respectable thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

The next couple of minutes were spent with both men raving fanatically, letting all their anger out on the pretty subpar game this afternoon. In fact, Tom swore your dad actually laughed along with him at one point. Admittedly he’d caught himself almost immediately- but for two seconds, he had cracked it.

With the last mug placed in the cabinet, Tom was quite frankly shocked at what your dad said next. He had presumed that since it was late and everyone else was in bed, Y/d/n wouldn’t want quality time with his daughters boyfriend.

“You fancy a nightcap son?”

He’d never called Tom that either. Frankly, you dad preferred the nickname ‘moviestar’ because he knew it infuriated Tom. Made the tips of his ears flush bright red, that was Toms tell - one that your dad had noticed too early on.

Jerkily Tom nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he followed the elder man to the sitting room - where he kept the scotch glasses and bottle. No sooner had the drinks been poured, that Tom practically exploded with his thoughts.

“Mr Y/l/n-sorry I mean Y/d/n I-I um I needed to ask you something.” All he got was a long sigh and a nod, encouraging him to continue. “I-uhm….”Tom scoffed, clearing his throat because all of a sudden it felt like he hadnt had a drink in 10 hours, mouth completely dry.

“Well first off-and all respect. I know I don’t have to ask you. Y/n is the most independent and strong woman and we aren’t living in the 1950s. But, well but she loves you alot.” Tom stressed that last point especially, looking up to your dads poker face. It put him off for moment.

It was just how grumpy he looked, it was bloody terrifying. Taking a big gulp of the malty liquid, Tom steeled himself once again. “ And she respects you, your opinion always matters and I’d never come between that. And Y/n, she likes her traditions right? Like the stupid hat game you all play at Christmas dinner which makes no sense to me? Or the puzzle that you don’t start till everyone’s pretty drunk and tired at 3 o’clock in the morning on christmas? So that is… uhm thats why I’m asking you.”

Again all Tom was met with was a stern gaze, once again taking another generous sip of the scotch.

“Look I know you have your doubts about me- “ That got a response, a snort of agreement from your dad as if saying ‘you think’.

“But-but I really love your daughter. She’s my whole world and I can’t imagine being without her. And I know my lifestyle probably doesn’t fit with how you imagined your daughter to have. I mean-I’m not always at home and I’m away for months but- but…. look.” Tom sighed, shifting awkwardly on the sofa to directly face your dads armchair. “When I’m homesick and tired and grouchy from filming and I get back to the hotel I facetime Y/n. Everyday. And just seeing her smile, you-you know, the really soft small one that makes her dimples pop out? One look at that smile and everythings fine. Because all I’m thinking about is seeing that smile for the rest of my life. When she finds out she’s pregnant with our kid, when we’re taking them to college. I mean even when we’re 80 and probably sick of each other- she’ll still have that little smile that puts me into this sort of stupor. I just- I love her. And I’d do anything for her, I always will, I promise you that. So-so” With a shaky breath, Tom delivered his hitline.

“This is me just letting you know that I’m going to ask her to marry me and- I really hope she says yes.”

Tom was almost out of breath, and the breath he did have was shaky, looking up desperately at the older man across from him. He watched with wide eyes as your Dad placed his glass back on the drinks table with a clink, before leaning forward and standing up from the chair. He groaned slitghtly at the movement (his knees werent what they used to be) and took the two steps forward to be stood right infront of Tom’s seat. In that moment, Tom honestly thought he was getting a punch to the jaw at the very least. Afterall, he had just pretty much demanded that he were to propose to you.

As he braced for impact, tensing all his muscles, instead what he felt was a light pat to his right shoulder. Tom trailed his eyes up your dads figure to see what he thought was a gentle smile on his face too. Though he hadn’t ever seen your Dad smile at him before, so couldn’t say for certainty.

“You’re a good kid Tom, and you make Y/n very happy. Just pull yourself together when you ask her alright son? Didn’t think moviestars got stage fright.” And with that, your dad turned his back, heading toward the doorway that lead to the stairs to the bedrooms. Stunned, it took a moment or two before Tom processed - long enough that he had to leap up and call your dads name to get him to halt in the hallway.

“So is that a yes? You’re giving me permssion?”

“Oh Tom….” Your dad sighed in the lowlight of the hallway, in a more muted voice - now they were closer to the bedrooms where both you and your mum were sleeping peacefully. “ You already said, Y/n is strong and fiercely independent. I don’t control her, heck I don’t think she’s ever listened to me and never will. But…. for the record, I hope she says yes too and… I know she will.”

Scoffing in excitement, Tom combed a hand through his scalp, feeling such a wave of relief it was almost indescribable as your dad turned and trudged up the stairs. Once he heard the door of your parents bedroom close, he couldn’t help himself. He ran back into the kitchen, where he preceded to do an excited jumpy dance thing.

Because it meant a lot. To have your dads approval, to have your dads support. That meant the world. Not only for the sake of proposing but also, everything Tom said was true. He wanted to build a family with you - which meant that man was going to be the grandparents to your kids one day. That man had helped to craft you into the person you were today - his ‘person’. His perfect angelic, sweet woman.

Whenever he felt this excited, this happy, this elated - theres only one person he wants to be with. So, after turning all the lights off and checking the doors were locked (with a very obvious spring in his step) he then hopped up the stairs. Tiptoeing around, he got ready for bed in no time, before getting to the highlight of each evening.

Delicately he crawled into bed, sliding under the covers, so as to not disturb you. Naturally though, feeling the bed dip made you turnover- hooking your legs round his and resting your head on his chest. Tom chuckled quietly at your cuteness, stroking your cheek lightly with his thumb. It was enough to rouse you awake, enough to make you acutely aware of the thundering sound from his chest. With tired eyes, you propped your chin on his breastbone looking up at him with concern.

“You alright T? Hearts really racing.” He only replied with this loopy lovesick grin, his right hand coming to cup your cheek.

“Go back to sleep darling, I’m okay.” He did look okay, but he was almost too smiley and even with a foggy sleepy brain, you were still suspicious.

“Whats going on, you’re being weird?”

“Nothing…. your dad and me just had a chat… He called me son.” That shocked you too - clearly the conversation you’d had with him about being nicer to Tom had rubbed off.

“He did?”

“He did…. you are beautiful you know?” Now he was definitely being weird. You furrowed your eyebrows, as if trying to read his mind because something odd was going on in there.

“Now you’re just being creepy. What’s up?”

Tom just leant forward to kiss your forehead, then pulled you down onto his chest.

“I just love your family and I love you, you know that?”

“Are you trying to get into my pants? Because my parents are literally in the next room.”

“Oh shut up and kiss me.”

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland angst

255 notes · View notes

vickorydickorydock · 3 years ago

Text

I have watched Batman vs Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles three times now, and have to say it’s pretty good. It’s hilarious, the turtles are really sweet and badass, and it is frankly astonishing how many references they managed to cram into this movie. It may not be particularly deep, and I may have a few personal nitpicks, but overall Batman vs TMNT was a funny and enjoyable movie that paid homage to the source material of both franchises.

~~spoilers and nitpicks under the cut~~

That said.

I have mixed feelings about this movie. On the one hand, as a stand-alone movie it’s pretty solid. Lighthearted and funny for the most part, with appropriate darker emotional beats to give it some depth, and action packed with some pretty wicked fight scenes. Sounds like the perfect tmnt movie. It's just, some parts of the plot were really shallow. Look at all these Batman villains! Ooh, all of their greatest enemies are combining super evil serums that mutate people into crazy monsters! They have to fight mutant versions of Batman’s entire rogues gallery! Oh shit Batman got mutated! Nvm it’s fine he’s cured now! Like I know they probably didn’t have enough time to set up something more elaborate / deep, and they want it accessible to newcomers and kids, but sometimes it just really niggled at me.

A few of the emotional beats were also really, really forced. The prime example of this is when Bruce tries to kick the turtles off the mission. Like, that drama was so unnecessary. They saved his life, they’ve fought the Shredder more than just about anyone, they don’t cause wanton property damage like his JLA pals, so there’s no logical reason besides drama to give them the boot. Then Raph has that rousing speech about family equals team equals family, but uh…. They’re not family. The turtles are, but they’ve been working with the Gotham vigilantes for all of two days, tops. (Tbh I cringed through that speech every time I watched it).

I did love all the nods (and jabs) to the tropes within both franchises. Seriously, I could make a whole other post about all the references in this movie. It may be a little silly at times, but it paid serious homage to the roots of both Batman and TMNT. The end credits especially.

Some of the jokes were hit or miss, but when it hit it HIT. This movie was so fucking funny. Commissioner Gordon wanting to retire somewhere “where the turtles don’t talk and clowns are funny.” Mikey pointing out Gotham’s numerous, inexplicable blimps — and it coming back as Checkov’s gun joke at the end — was hilarious, as was Harley complaining about how nobody respected her doctorate. “Eight years of college, three years residency, and he says nurse!” Mikey vs Alfred was something I never knew I needed.

Ra’s wanting to turn the human race into animals makes sense, from what little I know of Ra’s al Ghul. Nobody could agree on how to pronounce his name though. Raesh, Race, Raws, pick your poison.

Bruce pulled his “I work alone” bullshit… after the turtles save his ass. But what gets me is when the turtles say, “we’d be better off on our own.” Because it’s true in this case. The turtles get downplayed next to the Bats, especially when they go up against Batman. That scene where they first fought Batman bothered me so much. Like, these guys have been training since they could walk in most iterations. I know he’s “The Batman™” or whatever, but you’re telling me four highly trained ninjas can’t land a single hit? Puh-lease. I’m not saying they’d beat him that’s up for debate, but come on, they could put up a better fight than that.

Damian’s voice is the WORST. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, I winced every time he opened his mouth.

Speaking of Damian… Look, I gotta say it. Haters don’t @ me, it’s nothing personal. But it was so obvious to me that they wanted Tim Drake for this movie. TMNT is a goofy premise. Even in the more serious versions, they get up to silly antics and do dumb stuff.

Damian doesn’t do goofy.

I haven’t read Super Sons — I hear it’s far more lighthearted than some of his comics — but Damian’s non-fanservice plot lines tend to edge toward the gritty, edgy, and angsty. Though characterization varies, Damian is often a proud, snide, forty year old curmudgeon in a preteen’s body (when he’s not being a spoiled brat). Lighthearted, weird adventures are not his thing, and his character/personality doesn’t mesh well with those kinds of storylines… as evidenced by this movie. It just felt so forced every time he did something silly with the turtles.

Tim is the Robin who went on goofy adventures. He’s the one who giggled after close calls, and pulled ridiculous antics to save himself and others. It just doesn’t work with Damian, knowing him from the comics as I do.

But what really got my goat is when HE PULLED OUT A FUCKING BO STAFF

(That is Tim’s signature weapon, for any non comic book fans reading this)

Like Jesus, just use Tim. You clearly want to.

Side note, but semi related: I think Cassandra Cain’s Batgirl would have been much more interesting to play off the turtles than Barbara’s. Especially since these guys seem so similar to the 2003 iteration. I think I’m going to have to write a fic where 90s/early 2000s Batfam meets TMNT.

I loved the turtles in this movie. Their introduction with the fight against Penguin was all kinds of awesome, and they all get a chance to shine throughout the movie. Mikey technically saves the day twice. With some help from his bros of course, but Mikey strikes two key blows, and his skills are never downplayed even when he’s being goofy. I said it earlier, but his interactions with Alfred are hilarious. Raph and Leo chafe against each other at times, but not to the point of overwhelming Mikey and Donnie (looking at you, 2007). They are both fiercely protective of their family and that love gets spotlighted. Donnie is so smart and geeky, I fucking love it. He figures out where the Batcave is using maps and common sense — eat shit Bruce! That scene where Leo and Donnie face off against Ra’s is so fucking good. (Also, when Leo kicked Ra’s in the nuts I nearly took back every bad thing I said about this movie).

Look at these turts. They’re so fucking cute. And badass. Adorabloodthirsty, to traumatize you ex-Homestuck folks out there

In summary, I have some personal hang ups with this movie, but from a trying-to-be-objective stance it’s a solid 7/10, do recommend. Thinking about reading the comic Batman vs TMNT to see how similar / different they are

#tmnt #batman vs tmnt #batman vs teenage mutant ninja turtles #this review is a mess #no chronology whatsoever #i have so much to say but i tried to cut it down #i did not pick a tense and it shows #vickysturts

21 notes · View notes

greyias · 2 years ago

Text

FIC: Chance Encounters - Chapter 5

Title: Chance Encounters Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight (pre-relationship) Rating: T Genre: Canon Divergent AU. Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn Synopsis: Even the smallest change can have large, unseen ripple effects. When Theron Shan books a voyage on the Esseles, he has no idea how a chance encounter with a Jedi Knight will change the course of his life. A canon divergent alternate universe examining what happens when Theron and the Hero of Tython meet much, much sooner. Author’s Notes and Spoilers: See Chapter 1.

When they arrived outside the door to the primary airlock, Theron and Highwind found the security team already waiting. The Commander Narlock that Haken had referred to was a tall Mon Calamari, and they walked in just as he was finishing giving a rousing speech to the men assembled around him. This was by no means an elite fighting force — most in the ragtag group looked very young, and it was possible they were fresh out of the academy. Although Theron would have loved more personnel and weaponry, this was probably the best that could be achieved, given the surprise attack and sabotage. And beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers.

Narlock paused in his pep talk to acknowledge the new arrivals. “We also have some very brave volunteers to help us, including a Jedi!”

Theron exhaled an annoyed breath, even as Highwind gave a slight bow of greeting to them.

“The Force will guide us,” she intoned, the absolute picture of sincerity.

“Do you hear that, men? We have the Force on our sides!”

Her and Narlock’s words seemed to have the intended effect, as the security guards let out a round of raucous cheers. Theron managed to mostly contain his derision, and his snort came out sounding more like a cough. This seemed to finally get the Commander to notice the second volunteer in their midst, and at the tell-tale wrinkle of his nostrils, Theron interrupted him before anyone else brought up the lingering aroma of alcohol.

“Don’t ask. It’s a long story.”

Okay, it was a short story, but he didn’t feel like repeating himself.

Narlock seemed to shrug at that and then addressed the group at large. “Men, take up defensive positions. We need to be ready when the Imps make their move. Master Jedi, do you mind taking point?”

“Not at all, Commander,” Highwind dipped her head in deferral. “My lightsabers are at your disposal.”

Theron exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes at the Jedi’s comment as they moved to take up the center position. “I’ll have you know my blasters are just as capable as any lightsaber.”

Highwind held his gaze for a moment, her lips pressed together into a straight line. Then a half-smile cracked across her face and she could no longer keep her composure. “You seem quite confident.”

“Pretty sure I already proved their usefulness earlier,” he said, not missing a beat.

“I was not questioning their capability.” She lost the battle to maintain her serious composure, one corner of her mouth quirking up into a half-grin. “However, I do think lightsabers are a little more eye-catching in action.”

” I don’t need my weapons to be flashy,” Theron tossed back with a dismissive flick of his hand, “just accurate.”

Highwind just arched an eyebrow. “Sure, Sparky.”

“I don’t know, Blondie. Accuracy seemed to work pretty well taking out that sniper taking aim at your back.”

“I would have blocked it,” she insisted with a touch of exasperation, and then a beat later frowned. “Blondie?”

“Oh, I just thought we were making up nicknames to mock each other’s hair.”

“But... That’s just a literal description of my hair.” Her face scrunched up quizzically as she absently brushed a stray lock back, almost as if he’d reminded her about it. “I do not see how that is meant to be an insult.”

That was, unfortunately, a very fair point, but despite his best efforts to come up with an equally biting and witty nickname, he was at a loss. Freckles? No, that was simply a description of a different feature. What the hell, he was normally so much better than this.

“Yeah, well,” to his credit, he did not stammer, but neither was his delivery smooth, “your hair is blonde.”

The sound of a blowtorch firing up muffled whatever response Highwind could have given, giving the impression that the Force had decided to show him a little mercy and spare him any further humiliation. It was a mixed blessing at best. It seemed Kilran was staying true to his word, and the Imperials were going to breach the airlock by force since no one had rolled out the welcome mat for them.

Theron frowned. Compared to the boarding pods the Imperials had previously used, this manner of ingress was a lot slower. Had Kilran blown his whole load (pun partially intended) on the initial attack? That certainly didn’t sound like the brilliant tactician that had brutally blown away military and civilians alike in the attack on Coruscant a decade prior.

Before Theron could contemplate that little mystery any further, the blow torch finished cutting through the door, breaching the airlock. He focused his attention on the here and now, as it would just be insult to injury if he caught a blaster bolt because he was too lost in thought. He could feel a puff of displaced air signaled the activation of Highwind’s lightsabers before she had maneuvered herself in front, twin blades deflecting a hail of incoming fire before it could strike anyone.

With a roll of his eyes at Highwind’s flamboyant saber spins, Theron focused his fire at the Imperials pouring through the airlock. He squeezed off a few shots that hit their mark, but Highwind and her flashy acrobatics drew most of the fire. Without looking, she deftly turned, leapt, and spun, deflecting several bolts back at the Imperials, moving with a grace that seemed to defy physics and becoming nothing more than a twirling blur of motion.

It was with begrudging respect that Theron admitted, if only to himself, that the display was an impressive one. And it was also effective. Highwind shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she weaved complex patterns with her blades, letting them whirl around her while giving her a complete control of who got a shot off at her. She was unquestionably a master duelist, yet in those graceful movements Theron noticed gaps in her defense, and it would only take one observant opponent to exploit that and turn the tide of a battle.

In the heat of battle, he didn’t have time to act put out or needle her for the flaws in her technique; it was more important that he compensate for that gap now — and he could have the satisfaction of point it out to her later. Maybe it’d chip away at a little of that smug Jedi superiority.

As he moved to cover her, so they were now back-to-back, he could feel the warmth radiating off her and the light swish of the lightsaber as it moved to deflect the incoming fire. The high-pitched whistle of an astromech sounded behind them, followed by the rain of blaster fire. He looked over to see her T7 unit rolling into view, a blaster firmly gripped in an attachment that had popped out of a hidden compartment in the little droid’s head.

Okay. Perhaps her flank had not been as open to attack as he’d assumed.

“Your astromech has a blaster?” Theron asked incredulously, having to shout to be heard over the crash of blaster his voice just barely carrying over the din.

“Of course he does,” her reply almost lost to the constant blaster fire. “Although he has requested a lightsaber upgrade.”

For a moment, despite the battle raging around them, Theron couldn’t shake the mental image of the tiny astromech with a lightsaber hilt strapped to his head, charging through the lines at the enemy like an adorable beeping instrument of murder. A new series of blaster shots rang out from behind them as the droid continued to fire on the Imperials. For a little guy, Teeseven was a pretty decent shot. Maybe he’d look into getting a pistol for M-6 — clearly, there were situations where it would come in handy.

Undeterred, Theron focused on the task at hand, namely their attackers. Between the two of them, Teeseven, and the security team, the rest of the boarding party quickly fell. Narlock let out a triumphant cry and the other security men cheered. They had saved the ship — which considering the trap that Kilran had nimbly set up, was nothing short of a miracle.

This was too neat. Too tidy.

He frowned, about to question their good fortune, when the cheers of the Narlock and the security team suddenly quieted. In unison, he and Highwind turned back to see that the Twi’lek from before had joined the group.

“Friend of yours?” He asked in a hushed voice as they made their way towards the huddled crowd.

“Just a concerned passenger.” Highwind’s frown did not seem to contain any of Theron’s own rising suspicion. “She had been telling me about rumors of a potential Imperial ambush right before the attack.”

“Well, that is awful convenient,” Theron muttered darkly.

“Odd that she could find her way here, though,” Highwind mused quietly, almost to herself.

Yeah, odd was definitely one word for it. As they approached, he didn’t bother to disguise his skepticism as they apprised the new arrival. A slim, mostly nondescript woman, not much stood out aside from her Twi’lek heritage. Her azure skin, striped lekku, and bright green eyes were possibly her most remarkable physical traits, but she could easily slip in and out of any crowd unnoticed. He watched as she spoke to Narlock, her voice quieting the security team. From the expressions on their faces, whatever she was saying was clearly not what they wanted to hear. So far, that seemed to be par the course for this cursed ship. From the furrow of Highwind’s brow and the uncharacteristic tightness of her lips, Theron gathered she was reaching a similar conclusion.

“—that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” The Twi’lek rubbed her temple with a thumb and forefinger. “The ship isn’t saved.”

“What do you mean?” Highwind asked with an unruffled, almost serene tone of voice. “We defeated the entire boarding party — no one could have slipped past without one of us seeing.”

Teeseven enthusiastically beeped his agreement.

The Twi’lek pursed her lips together, eyes darting between Theron, Highwind, and even the little astromech. Seeming to evaluate each member of their little group before responding to the question. “Yes, you defeated all the Imperials here, but that’s what Kilran wanted you to do. This was a trap, and the First Officer Haken had us walk right into it. While you were busy here, another strike team led by a Mandalorian named Ironfist snuck aboard elsewhere.”

That certainly went a way to explain the slow method of entry, not to mention the relative ease for their little ragtag crew to defeat an entire boarding party after what seemed like a meticulous plan to invade and disable the ship. That Kilran had no qualms about sacrificing several of his own people to achieve his goals lined up perfectly with his merciless reputation.

Theron leaned against the bulkhead and folded his arms in front of him. “You know an awful lot for a simple passenger. How’d you learn about all of this?”

“I watched the whole thing happen on the security cams,” the Twi’lek shot back.

“And exactly who let you into the restricted crew area to do that?”

“There weren’t exactly any security personnel around to stop me,” she pointed out. “And I have as much of a vested interest in saving this ship as the rest of you.”

“Ah.” That’s when it clicked into place, and Theron leveled a stare at the woman. “Ambassador Asara, I presume.”

It was only a very subtle movement that he caught in the periphery of his vision, but Highwind started a little at the revelation, before catching herself almost instantaneously and slipping that Jedi tranquillity back into place. Despite trying to wear her serenity as a mask, Theron was pretty sure if the Jedi ever sat down at a Sabacc table, she’d get cleaned out.

“I don’t understand,” Narlock piped up. “Why are the Imperials so desperate to capture you?”

“My work as an ambassador for the Republic takes me to Imperial controlled worlds. I open dialogues with their governments, and try to convince them to join the Republic.”

“I can’t imagine that wins you a lot of friends inside of the Empire.”

“It doesn’t, but all I’m doing is showing the people of these planets an alternative to Imperial rule. It spares the Republic unnecessary conflict with the Empire, and gains us more allies in the long run.”

“It takes a lot of courage to go against the Empire like that.” If Highwind had carried any misgivings, from her gentle tone it seemed that she’d moved on from them.

Asara smiled slightly at that. “I’m no hero, but I do what I can.”

Theron wasn’t as quick to let go of his distrust. “Whatever the reason, it’s clear that Kilran is more than willing to spend a lot of resources for the chance to capture you. Alive at that. The man’s not exactly known for his mercy.”

Asara shook her head, her lekku shifting across her shoulders. “I imagine the Empire wants to make a very public example out of me.”

She didn’t need to elaborate. They all knew what that meant. Including the naïve Jedi, whose eyebrows bunched up into an exaggerated expression of concern. With anyone else, he might think that was some sort of manipulation tactic, but with her, he was suspecting it might actually be genuine. If it was, that bleeding heart of hers would get her killed at some point, probably sooner rather than later.

Asara, however, seemed more pragmatic. “We can talk about my work later, unfortunately right now, we have more pressing matters. Ironfist and his men stormed the bridge and triggered the lockdown. There’s no way in or out.”

“That definitely makes things worse.” Narlock rested his fists on his hips, his gaze falling downward as he sought to make sense of the situation.

“You’re chief of security,” Highwind glanced at Narlock. “Can’t you cancel the lockdown?

“Unfortunately no. It’s a protocol designed to keep intruders at bay, and it can’t be canceled from the outside.”

“I guess Kilran figured out how to turn our own security protocols against us,” Theron said flatly. “Any other options?”

“Our chief engineer, Salen.” Narlock snapped his fingers. “He might know of a workaround.”

“Hopefully we can get to him before the Imperials do,” Highwind said. “How do we find him?”

“He’ll be down in the engineering section with the rest of his team.”

Highwind gave him a nod. “We’ll start there, then.”

“My team and I will make some noise. Hopefully that can provide enough of a distraction so you can slip in unnoticed.”

It seemed like for a moment, the Jedi might argue, but then she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Stay in contact over the comms. And be careful, Commander. They won’t hesitate to kill you or your men.”

“Likewise,” Narlock gave her a tight nod. “May the Force be with you, Master Jedi.”

Those words ignited a flash of something somewhere between anger and loss inside of Theron, but he ground his teeth together, trying to swallow the knee-jerk reaction before anyone around him noticed. This was not the time for him to revisit old wounds and shattered childhood dreams.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Highwind sliding a fleeting, questioning glance in his direction that he couldn’t decipher. So he ignored it, and their little group headed off towards Engineering.

Next Chapter

#swtor fanfiction #theron shan x jedi knight #Theron Shan #Female Jedi Knight/Hero of Tython #oc: greyias highwind #otp: adorkable #au: chance encounters #swtor #fanfic #greyfic #i was halfway through my line edits when everything went down last night #and i was like 'fuck it imma finish this'#so have another chapter!

6 notes · View notes

hiswhiteknight · 4 years ago

Text

Fighting with Fire – Part 3

Summary: The Reader is friends with Erin Reagan, but absolutely hates one of her brother’s. After meeting Erin for a case, Reader meets Erin’s youngest brother. But due to her hatred of a certain Reagan, the Reader isn’t necessarily warm towards the youngest Reagan.

Pairing: Jamie Reagan X Fire Fighter Reader

Words: 1700

Warning: This chapter focuses around learning attack strategy, please be cautious if this can be difficult. I recommend watching Chelsea Kyann tutorials about self-defense. Also some cursing, eventual angst, eventual fluff

As much as it displeased you, it was nice to have a male volunteer. It was usually one of your brothers or one of the guys from the station. Usually they are pretty distracting for the ladies at first, but it was able to show them potential real-life scenarios. However, it did feel strange bossing a Reagan around. Eddie, Jamie, and a friend who was a fighting instructor for jujitsu named Chloe.

Chloe walked up to you, leaning in, “Well this is new, what a snack.”

You and her watched Eddie and Jamie chatted with a few regulars. You could tell it meant a lot to them both to build rapport with the community. It felt strange to not see a Reagan male not take up so much space and give off an ego, testosterone driven vibe. If his brother were in this space, he would show the woman he is a strong powerful male, who will protect and avenge their justice. Jamie vibe was a bit different and you couldn’t necessarily map it, which bothered the shit of you. Acknowledging Chloe’s statement, you made a vomiting sound in your mouth, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

She looked at you strangely, straightening up and turning to look directly at you, “Something weird is going on.” She looked at you closer, Chloe had a psychology degree and loves to add her own analyses to things. Usually she only uses it to counselor some women after a bad trigger or if they want to open about a past trauma. Before she can pick your brain or poke you, you clap your hands heading towards the crew.

This caught Jamie’s reaction, as you ignored the mischievous look your friend is giving from behind you. He turned his body to face you, “What do you need boss?”

You shook you head, “Don’t call me that,” you point at him. You spend the time to give the group of women a greeting before directing instructions towards the pair, “So Eddie, I’d love for you to help pair women up and volunteer to be someone’s partner. Chloe usually floats because she is the true expert when it comes to fighting techniques.”

“Sounds great,” Eddie nodded.

Clearing your throat, you look at Jamie, “I don’t think I have to tell you, but most women in these classes had some bad experience with a man.” He nodded his head slightly, still listening, “I don’t let men come to this particular class to learn for a reason. Though usually a guy plays an especially important role in this class.”

Jamie looked excited, rubbing his hands together, “What is it?”

“My dummy,” you smirk. Eddie chuckled into her hand, trying to make it sound like a cough. You took a second to think about your feelings, a glow of satisfaction to be able to kick the crap of a Reagan and nervousness, though you couldn’t pin point why, “That’s not a problem is it?”

He shook his head, “Use me any way you need,” he tried not to smirk.

You look him up and down, looking unamused by his comment, “Stay hydrated, I don’t need you passing out,” you said walking away to prep your resources and workspace.

Eddie tapped him on the chest, “Real smooth Romeo.”

He looked down at her, before glancing back towards you, “I think I got a chance.”

Straightening up to look at him directly, she wore an amused look at her face, “That woman is going to eat you alive.”

You had all the women pair up and explained the boundaries and expectations of the class, like not pushing themselves and taking a break if they feel overwhelmed or exhausted. It’s a rousing speech about the realities of being a woman and how to be a community. You introduced your volunteers before instructing each of them to discuss their comfortability level with their partners, as well a little about themselves. This gave you time to look at Jamie to explain some of the movies and what he should do, “You got to make it real,” you say to him. “Don’t be gentle, don’t hold back, the best these women can learn is if they see what it’ll possibly look like in real life if it happens.”

“If I were to hold back, it would be because I know you can kick my ass,” he whispered down to you, “But I get your point.” He looked around to the women talking, “You did quite a thing here, I wish we had a program like this.”

You blinked a few times, looking taken back. You never anticipated hearing something nice from a Reagan, well at least a young Reagan, “Thank you.” You instructed the women to wrap it up to start the officially lesson.

Jamie noticed how you got flustered after his compliment. He decided to break whatever tension you were feeling, “Should we have like a safe word?”

You smirk, not looking at him, “Just tap out Reagan, give me a few taps.”

You hated to say it, but Jamie was a great asset. As you taught the class about getting attacked in different scenarios, from the front, the back, with a weapon, etc, he was patient with you tossing him around and hurting him in various ways. He and Eddie were able to add some insight from the police perspective. And he was extremely good at complimenting and empowering the woman. Honestly, outside of enjoying beating up on a Reagan, he was a great member of the team.

This was the last exercise of the day, where the attack gets them on the ground. This was the first time Jamie seemed hesitant, “Well let’s go dummy,” a few woman chuckle.

Taking a deep breath, Jamie gets on top of you and you start your instructions, like how to use your legs, how to protect your body, different ways to use your own weight as your weapon. Your favorite instruction dealt with using the attacker’s shirt as your weapon. It didn’t have to do with as much strength as it was strategy. Jamie rapidly tap at your waist, you let go and bounced up before instructing the pairs to try. Jamie finally caught his breath stepping up to you, “I wish Danny knew who scary you were.”

You let a laugh leave your mouth while watching some pairs. You give him one more smile before walking away to give some individual tips.

After some talking with some of the students and cleaning up, Chloe and Eddie were talking about the next lesson when Jamie approached you, “This was really great, I hope you keep me in mind to help even if I’m a Reagan.”

You look away from the brochures in your hands, “The jury is still out on you, but I’m getting a vibe you are different from your brothers.” You put rest of the stuff in your resource box, “Thank you for your help, you are always welcomed.” Jamie was about to say something, “But don’t think for a second I’m letting my guard down, this might be a ploy from Danny about getting in my head. I’ve got my eyes on you and him.”

He put up his hands defensively, “If that was ever a plan, I would never start something with you after what I learned today.”

You jabbed at him, “And that is just the tip of the iceberg there sparky, spread the word don’t mess with Y/N Y/L/N.”

Shaking his head, fighting this feeling on intrigue he has about you, “I will definitely spread the word of your power to all who can hear, mainly Danny.” You smirk holding your box, waving to Chloe as she headed out, “Look Eddie and I are grabbing a beer, would you want to join us?”

Eddie was casually looking at you both from the stairs. You were taken back for a second, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just got done working a 48-hour shift, I’m dead on my feet. But thank you, like for everything.”

“My pleasure, really and maybe next time,” he started to walk you towards the entrance, meeting up with Eddie, “You wouldn’t want to walk us to our car, would you,” he joked at you.

You genuinely laughed, shaking your head. You plopped your box in you back seat before looking at him. Eddie tried to stop her scoff of his response. He surprised you differently from any other Reagan including his sister and father, “I don’t believe that in necessary, I felt all that muscle you got underneath there,” you point towards his clothing. “Plus, you’ve got Eddie I know she saves you all the time from humiliation, attackers, etc.”

“She’s got that right,” she pointed at you, “Bye Y/N.”

Jamie started to walk backwards in the direction of Eddie, “I’ll see you later Y/N.”

“Take your time,” you smile back at him, “I’ve had my monthly fill of Reagan males.”

You got in your car, starting it up, and driving off. Something was different and you didn’t take the time to acknowledge your physical attraction to the younger Reagan. It was easy to distract your thoughts when teaching self-defense, but now all you could think about was Jamie’s body and how it felt around you.

Eddie teased Jamie some more about the interaction between the two of you, “Hey man, you’re making waves. This time she didn’t show her teeth and she acknowledged your assets,” she gestured to his body.

He rolled his eyes, “Shut up.” He drank some of his beer, “I’m not crazy right, you see the chemistry?”

“Oh no, you’re crazy,” she commented. “But I do like to watch you try to be charming and epically get torn apart by her,” she added.

He shook his head thinking about you, you had a good feeling and it had nothing to do with hate, “Whatever, I am charming.”

Eddie scoffed before getting distracted by a game on a tv.

Taglist: @screeching-student-unknown

#Jamie Reagan #jamie reagan imagine #jamie reagan x reader #Blue Bloods #blue bloods fanfiction #blue blood imagines #fanfiction

160 notes · View notes

gloriainalbis · 4 years ago

Text

Strangers

Part 1 - Losers (S1E1)

Nathan Young x Reader Words: 4.4k Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sex, drugs Songs: Strangers - The Kinks Bad Reputation - Joan Jett

“So you've been where I've just come From the land that brings losers on”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Ao3

As bad days go, you’re having a pretty horrible one when you arrive at the Wertham Community Center. It’s the first of many to come, part of the court-mandated service that goes along with your ASBO. Your dad keeps telling you that you’re lucky the judge had been so lenient and should be grateful that he’s allowing you to stay with him and your stepmum again– even though you have no one to stay with and nowhere else to go. And he’s your dad. “In the future,” you tell him while getting out of the car, “I think I’ll walk.”

Striding through the frosted glass of the front doors, you continue on to the locker rooms to change into the orange jumpsuits you find waiting for you. You choose a locker on the far wall and dump your stuff there. You decide to leave your t-shirt on underneath, zipping the suit up most, but not all, of the way. Finished, you lean back to take a look at your designated companions for the 200 hours to be dispersed across the next few months. One girl has chosen her locker to be in front of the mirror. Her hair is short, curly, and pinned back on the side to form some cute bangs-like fringe. You notice an ankle monitor adorning her lower leg as she strips down to a pink lace pushup bra and panties and steps into her jumpsuit, rolling up the sleeves and bottom cuffs and adding a gold belt around her waist to complete the ensemble. The color of her earrings and bangle bracelets– both large, round, pink, and plastic– match her underwear. She steps back to take a look at herself and smiles. Another girl brushes her hair back into a high and tight ponytail. She looks curvier than the first girl, but just as confident, pairing smoky black eye makeup with shiny, pale pink lip gloss and gold hoop earrings. The guy who’d taken a locker near yours fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and sticks it between his lips. He looks equal parts cute and odd, tall and lanky with a mop unruly, curly hair framing his face. He wears a red and black checkered shirt and an air of swaggering cockiness radiates from him with a pungency usually reserved for uncommonly offensive odors. He smirks at you slyly. The guy with the locker across from the two girls looks vaguely familiar to you. He has two gold chains, one with a cross, and a grey tank top. His jumpsuit is only zipped up halfway, with the arms tied around his waist. He looks remarkably fit, and, not having much of an affinity for sports, you wonder where you recognize him from. The last person you see in the locker room is shadowy and reserved. His hair is short and neatly combed and his jumpsuit is buttoned up all the way to the very last button. He holds a small, black camera phone in his hand and shifts his gaze between people nervously. As you start to file out, one last person stomps in front of you, looking you up and down as he nearly bowls you over. You grimace as he winks. The first thing you notice about him is the immaculate green flat-brimmed baseball cap. You suspect that this hat and others like it are a large part of his personality. Once you’re all together, a man introducing himself as your probation worker, Tony, leads you outside and has you line up against some railing as he gives what you believe is supposed to be a rousing speech. From left to right is Curtis, Gary, Nathan, you, Kelly, Alisha, and Simon. You would learn their names later, but for the purposes of clarity, we’ll start using them now. Tony paces before you, attempting to assume the macho, fear-inducing demeanor of a boot camp officer. “This is it,” he barks. “This is your chance to do something positive. Give something back. You can help people, you can really make a difference to people’s lives. That’s what community service is all about. There are people out there who think you’re scum. You have an opportunity to show them they’re wrong.” He has the tone of someone who has given this speech before and is just barely holding onto their faith in its underlying message. The girl to your left, Kelly, looks mildly offended at the word “scum,” as if Tony had been speaking directly to her. “Yeah, but what if they’re right?” Nathan interrupts on your right. He looks around at the rest of you, “No offense, but I’m thinking some people are just born criminals.” You smile to yourself and try to hold back a chuckle as a look of anger flashes over suspected-douchebag-Gary’s eyes and he bursts out with “Are you looking to get stabbed?” “You see my point there?” Nathan asks, turning back to Tony. A phone rings and Alisha answers with a casual “Hey,” while twirling a curl between her manicured fingers. Tony tries to continue, but he’s becoming increasingly exasperated. “Doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past-” “Doin’ my community service,” Alisha speaks to her phone. “Hey!” He tries and fails to catch her attention. “Boring as fuck,” she continues. It was getting harder not to laugh and you glance at Nathan out of the corner of your eye, amused at the part he had to play in the deterioration of Tony’s speech. “Excuse me!” He tries again. “Hello, I’m still talking here.” “What, I thought you’d finished?” She didn’t care, evidently. “You see my lips still moving, that means I’m still talking.” He tries to assert something akin to authority but clearly doesn’t realize how poorly that approach tends to work on rag-tag groups of rebellious young offenders. “Yeah, but you could have been yawning, or chewing,” Nathan points out facetiously in a drawling tone. Tony ignores him, but you are full-on laughing at this point. “End the call! Hang up!” He shouts at Alisha to no avail. “My probation worker,” she explains to the person on the other line. “You all right there, weird kid?” Nathan leans past you to point at Simon, who stood alone at the far end of your lineup. Tony fumed. “Don’t be disgusting. I’ll call you later.” She finally hangs up, looking over at Nathan, who was approaching Gary and making kissing noises at him. “I’ll rip out your throat and shit down your neck,” Gary snaps back. He looks amusingly short in comparison, you now realize. Curtis grimaces and leans away from the touchy ball of anger standing next to him. “I shouldn’t be here, man.” Kelly gapes at his arrogance as Gary starts to scuffle with Nathan, grabbing at his jumpsuit. “We need to work as a team here. Hey, that’s enough!” Tony takes a few steps forward. “Can I move to a different group? This isn’t going to work for me,” Curtis continues, even though Tony is clearly otherwise engaged. You lean back, nearly bumping into Kelly as she steps to Cutis’ indirect insults. “Um… What makes you think that you’re better than us?” “What is that accent?” Nathan comments, drawn out of his conflict by the way her “us” sounded a lot more like “oss” “Is that for real?” Curtis scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What, are you tryna’ say something or yeah?” She speaks, the latter half her sentence mostly lost due to her lack of enunciation. “Its- you- that’s just a noise! Are we supposed to be able to understand her?” Nathan exclaims. You shake your head and raise your eyebrows at their audacity and Kelly’s incoherence. She sticks her hand out and flips him off, “Do you understand that?” Things escalate again when Nathan puts an arm around a violently unwilling Gary who responds by grabbing him and preparing to punch. “Hey, pack it in!” Tony lunges forward to separate them “It’s love, man!” Nathan yells. You double over, stepping back to get out of the way. Kelly meets your gaze and smirks at the growing scene before you. Alisha laughs, a high-pitched giggle. Tony stood between them now, pulling Gary further and further away from Nathan, who assumed a boxer’s stance and put up his fists comically. “Do it man! Do it! You’re a prick, man, look at you!” Gary calls, trying to push past Tony. “What the fuck are they doin’?” You say to everyone behind you as Kelly looks between you and Alisha. Simon looks like he’d rather be elsewhere, as does Curtis, but for different reasons. Nathan had taken to punch the air, which only served to further aggravate Gary. “You’re a fuckin’ pussy, bruv! He’s takin’ the piss, come here!” Cue the intro music. -- Tony eventually diffuses the conflict between Nathan and Gary and finally leads everyone to some benches by the lake, which you are told to paint white. Paint drips everywhere, from your shoes to the concrete sidewalk, but you hardly care. How different is this from the reason you were here in the first place? You were reprimanded for painting on someone else’s property and were told to instead paint on someone else’s property to pay for it, how is that supposed to work? The only difference is that the first time had been art, and this was largely pointless. They wanted to cover up the graffiti on these benches, but the new paint job would only make future acts of vandalism easier to see. You did it anyway, though, happy to peel off with Nathan and Kelly as Curtis and Alisha and Simon and Gary pair off to the benches on either side of you. You watch as Gary leans down to pick up more paint on his brush, his hat brushing dangerously close to the fresh paint before it finally touches, leaving a stark white smear on the brim. You poke Nathan’s shoulder and point as Gary notices, ripping off his hat in horror and stomping off in a huff, kicking a bucket of paint into the lake and leaving behind a violent burst of white. “Oh, man! There’s paint on my cap, this is bullshit!” “Ooh!” Alisha whistles as he walks past. Everyone turns and stares as he struggles with a shopping cart that’s in his way, kicking it at first before trying and failing to shove it into the lake as well when it simply falls in front of him, still blocking the path. “I know you,” you hear Alisha say to Curtis, perking up due to your own curiosity. “No, you don’t,” he brushes her off. “Yes, I do,” She continues, unphased. “You’re that runner guy. You screwed up big time.” That’s it. You’d seen him years ago at your secondary school’s track meets and races, and later in the news for his accomplishments and subsequent arrest. “You noticed, yeah? Thanks for reminding me.” He grew increasingly annoyed, and it was abundantly clear. Overhearing, Nathan glances up at Kelly and tries to strike up a conversation, “So I’m guessing shoplifting?” She ignores him. “No?” He was about to speak again when she cuts him off, “Don’t act like you know me, ‘cuz you don’t.” “I’m just makin’ conversation!” He motions to you and Kelly, “This is a chance to network with other young offenders. We should be swapping tips. Brainstorming!” He looks at you to continue, but you stay silent, also curious about Kelly’s infraction. You shrug and he looks back at her. “Come on, what did you do?” “This girl called me a slag so I just got into a fight,” she admits, slapping her paintbrush to the bench in annoyance. “Was this on the Jeremy Kyle show?” He jokes. “No, it was at Argos.” “Argos?” you ask, finding the store an odd place to get into fights. “You know what you should’ve done? You should have got one of them little pens and jabbed it in her eye.” He was referring to the pens for filling out the catalog cards at Argos and you smirk at the image, but Kelly just stares at him incredulously. It’s an odd thing to say to someone you barely knew. He turns to look at you, “And you? I need to know what we’re workin’ with here.” “Ah…” You glance between Nathan and Kelly before continuing, “Graffiti, mostly, and throwing a party that bugged my neighbors, breaking the peace.” You had broken the law, technically, but it was nothing compared to punching someone and getting into a fight in the middle of Argos. He raises his eyebrows curiously, “Is there a story behind it or was it just mindless vandalism?” “It was on the wall of my apartment, my landlord saw it when he went to break up a party that my friends were throwing and he said he’d report me.” “Oh, what a wanker!” Nathan exclaims. “The worst part is I lost the apartment and now I’ve gotta live with my dad and stepmum again and it’s a living nightmare.” You don’t want to exaggerate or sound like too much of a cliche, but your stepmother is one of the meanest people you have ever encountered. You could understand it to some extent, as she has two young children and you aren’t the greatest of influences. You call these siblings stepfuck and stepcunt respectively, case in point. “Well, I can sympathize with that. But at least yours is a stepmum, they’re, like, inherently kinda hot, amirite?” You glare at him and begin to understand some of Kelly’s annoyance. He redirects, turning his attention to Simon, who is now painting his bench all alone after Gary’s outburst. “What about you, weird kid? Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you look like a panty-sniffer.” He holds his hands up beside his face, mocking a disgusting sniff of some invisible panties. “I’m not a panty-sniffer,” he responds. “I’m not a pervert.” He tries to return to painting the bench, but Nathan begins walking towards him, pretending to jack off with his paintbrush still in his hand, grunting disgustingly. You sigh and roll your eyes, glancing at Kelly. He could be funny, sure, but you were quickly learning about his tendency to take things too far. Kelly shrugs at you. “I tried to burn someone’s house down,” Simon blurts out to get Nathan to stop. Everyone who’d heard snapped to attention, as arson seems considerably more serious than vandalism or a few punches. “Fire?” Nathan laughs and walks back. Kelly looks up at him, “What did you do?” You were still curious about the fire and arson, but you let the conversation move on regardless. “Me? I was done for eatin’ some pick ‘n’ mix.” “Yeah, right,” you scoff. “Bollocks,” Kelly agrees. “What is goin’ on with this weather,” Nathan muses, distracted, as thunder rolls down from overhead and you quickly noticed the growing dark storm clouds in the sky just across the lake. Huh, odd. That hadn’t been there just a few minutes ago. “How did that happen?” you hear behind you, looking around to see Tony returning, an angry look instantly plastered to his face. He points to the overturned paint can, part of Gary’s carnage, and holds his arms up in exasperation. “I mean, you’ve been here five minutes. It’s painting benches. How’d you screw that up? You tell me, because I’ve got no idea.” From out of nowhere, a giant white ball of something smashes down on the car behind Tony, completely caving in the roof and sending the car alarm blaring. Shocked, you jump back and duck amid the various screams and cries of “What the hell was that?” and “Oh, Jesus!” Nathan’s smug grin immediately falls and transforms into fear and wonderment. Alisha shrieks, crying out in a warbling tone, “What’s goin’ on?” Tony turns around slowly in disbelief and gasps, “That’s my car!” “Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath. But Nathan isn’t taking it as seriously. “Classic,” he chuckles, thinking it to be some sort of prank. But then another thing falls from the sky into the lake behind you, whizzing past your heads and spraying you, Nathan, and Kelly in an onslaught of lake-water. “Okay, so I’m a little bit freaked out!” he admits. “No fucking shit!” you agree. “What is that?” Alisha asks, turning your attention to the storm Nathan had pointed out just moments ago. It had grown, somehow, turning dark and dangerous as it travels at an unnervingly fast pace towards your group. Simon holds his phone up to film the storm and its effects just as another ball crashes into the dumpster beside him, knocking over the heavy, metal container and spewing ice at him as he ducks and runs from it. More and more ice falls from the sky, huge blocks larger than your head, and you don’t want to think of what could happen if one of them hit you. “Right, let’s get everyone inside,” Tony instructs as more and more of them fall all around you. “Move! Move! Run!” You sprint back to the community center at top speed, holding your head as ice shards rain down on you, pelting and stinging your face and arms. Your heart practically beats out of your chest. One ball of ice pummels into the sidewalk in front of you, breaking a concrete tile. Another falls into a phonebooth, and the glass shatters to the ground around your feet. The storm seems to get thicker as you near the center, and your hair is plastered to your face from the mixture of sweat and water that you were drenched in. You could barely hear Tony yell “Keep going!” over the crashes and booms that fill your ears as you run for your life. Curtis reaches the door first, pulling on the handles and banging on the glass before stepping back and yelling over the din to Tony, “It’s locked! Open it!” Tony groans, “Come on…” and fumbles with the keys. You throw yourself against the wall, as far away as possible from the mega hail storm, and scream, “Just fuckin’ unlock it!” “What is happening?” Kelly shrieks as another massive ball of ice falls onto the pavement beside her. “Open the door, come on!” Nathan yells as Tony grows increasingly frustrated. “I’m finding the right key!” he bellows back “Open the door!” Curtis yells again, and Alisha agreed. “Open the fucking door!” Tony whips around in a burst of anger, “Don’t speak to me like that!” You were about to berate him for his poor priorities when a bright white burst of cold lightning cracks in front of you and sends you flying backward in a chorus of screams. Time slows as you fly through the air and the electricity transforms from a chilling shock to a burning flare, searing and snaking through you as you soar and tumble backward onto the hard pavement. You hit the ground with a sickening thud, from which groans and cries of pain follow. A few remaining snowballs hit the ground around you, but the storm appears to have passed. “I feel really weird,” you hear Kelly say. Your vision is still black, which has you worried until you realize it’s only because your eyes are still closed. You open them and sit up, rubbing the back of your head, which is still screaming in pain. “That’ll be the lightning,” Curtis says to try and explain what just happened. “We should be dead,” Simon points out. “Well, that’s comforting,” you snap back. “A little reassurance might be nice, you know,” Nathan agrees, instead directing his comment to Tony, who is sprawled before the door of the center and has just started to sit up. “‘You’re fine!’ ‘Looking good!’” he elaborates. “Wanker…” Tony groans, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Did he just call me a wanker?” Nathan asks, indignantly glancing at you and everyone else. He snaps his fingers at Tony, “Hey? Hello?” You see a quick look of anger flash across Tony’s face before he grumbles, “Is everyone alright?” “We could have died, you dick,” Alisha adds. “Are you alright?” Kelly asks tentatively as Tony shakes his head and coughs out a growl. “You’re actin’ like a freak.” He ignores her, “Maybe we should call it a day.” -- Tony finally manages to unlock the door, and you return to the locker rooms to gather your things. You feel like you should be annoyed, leaving early only means you’ll have to spend another day here, but you are too exhausted to feel anything. That was probably the closest you’d ever been to death. You can still feel your heart beating, a deep, steady drumbeat, and your lungs ache from the running and adrenaline. Beside you, Nathan closes his locker and leans against it before turning to you, “Do you think we’ll stick together now, bonded by our shared experiences?” “Dunno. I’d rather spend as little time here as possible,” you explain, closing your locker and stepping away to put on your hoodie. “Oh, you’re one of those types, are you?” Nathan smiles. “What type?” You glare at him. “The I’m-too-cool-for-this type.” “No, that’s Curtis,” you quip, knowing that he’d already left the room. “I just happen to not like community service.” Or any of these morons, all the other girls are total slags. “Hey!” Kelly snaps, swinging around to glare at you suddenly. “Oookay?” You turn away awkwardly and leave, you can’t imagine anything you’d said having offended her. Maybe she just really loves community service or something, but that is decidedly not the impression you’ve gotten from her so far. You walk out to the waiting area by the vending machines, where you find Curtis and Simon standing around in heavy silence. Nathan follows after you moments later. “Do we just go, then?” Curtis asks, clearly annoyed. “Where’s the probation worker?” “I think there’s something wrong with him,” Simon speaks up. “It’s like he was having a spasm.” “He was probably just faking it, trying to get some compensation. Cheap bastard,” Nathan scoffs. “I don’t think he was faking it,” Simon insists, looking back down at his phone. “And you know all about being… mental.” Nathan takes a few steps forward as he talks, leering at Simon and lowering his voice. Then he pretends to convulse and yells “Wanker!” You punch him in the shoulder. “Ow, what the hell was that for?” He sticks his head out at you almost comically. You stick your head out back at him. “Stop being such a prick, he might have a point.” Alisha walks in, already looking bored. “Are we waiting for something?” “Probation worker,” Curtis explains. She scrunches up her face in disgust. “I’m not hanging around for that dickhead.” She turns on her heel and leaves, which everyone else seems to take as their cue to leave as well. You can’t be bothered to be the only one waiting around, so you follow suit. Once outside, everyone pretty much goes their separate ways. Nathan, however, trots after you. “What’re you doin’?” You ask. “Thought you looked a little lonely, and, well, I’d like to recommend my own company as recompense.” He motions to himself like he’s all that, which honestly has you snorting to hold back your laughter. “You can’t be serious.” You raise your eyebrows. “Fine, I happen to live along this way, alright? I’m Nathan, by the way.” “Y/n.” You smile at him. “And I’ll have you know that to date, I haven’t had a single complaint.” He says it like you should be impressed or something. “Can’t have complaints if you haven’t been with anybody,” you joke, smirking. His jaw drops in mock surprise, “Oy! I have, too!” He keeps trying to impress upon you the depth of his sexual prowess, offering many stories as proof, all of which have you in stitches. He peels off when you were about halfway home. You say your goodbyes and wave as he walks away, grateful for the company. A few houses down from your own, though, you stop walking, contemplating what to do next. Home doesn’t seem like a particularly fun place to be right now, but it’s not like you have anywhere else to go. It’s still the early afternoon, so it would probably be only your stepmum at home, with your dad at work and your step siblings at school. It’s practically a worst-case scenario, as you doubt she would believe that they let you go early. You wish this day had gone differently. As you’re musing and trying to work up the courage to walk the thirty or so meters left to your front door, the skies begin to darken. You look up to see if a cloud had rolled in overhead, not exactly trusting the weather as of late, but as soon as you do so, it disappears and the sky goes back to normal. You think nothing of it, which is probably a poor choice on your part, but you are too burned out to care. You finally reach the front door, closing it gingerly behind you, but to no avail. “Y/n? Is that you?” You hear from the other room. “Yup.” You stand in the doorway to the kitchen, knowing you need to address this, but desperately wanting to leave. “They let us go early today.” She eyes you quizzically, “Really?” Now here’s the thing, the truth isn’t even remotely believable– There was a freak hail storm and everyone in our group got hit by lightning or something but now we’re all okay and our probation officer did too, he let us go early and then disappeared– so you have to lie. “Yeah, ‘cuz it’s the first day. They mostly showed us the ropes, got us started on something, and then let us go.” You wait, holding your breath. “Oh.” She looks disappointed. “I thought you’d be out today.” “Yeah, well I did, too,” you mumble as you walk away, not really caring whether or not she heard. “What’d you say?!” she calls after you. “Nothing!” you yell back as you walk as quickly as possible to your room. Once inside, you sigh and collapse onto your bed. You feel like a teenager again and it’s horrible, being forced to be somewhere where you’re treated like immature crap every day, living at home again, constantly having a row with your stepmum. You hope, but doubt, that the next day will be better.

#misfits #misfits tv #nathan #nathan misfits #nathan young #nathan young x reader #nathan young misfits #nathan young imagine

92 notes · View notes

quietlyimplode · 4 years ago

Text

Whumptober2020 — #2 Kidnapped

Clint/Nat - With Tony and Pepper coming to help.

“Natasha’s been kidnapped. She was taken off the roof of our hotel adjacent building. There was a struggle. I need your help. This is a secure line.” He says it robotically, breaking it down so there’s no room for misunderstandings.

He can hear Tony typing. “Where are you?”

Clint/Nat

Day 1 //

——-

The mission in Morocco was indeed a shit show.

Landing in Rabat, Clint had that feeling that things were just going to go wrong; an overpowering pit of the stomach, dejavu butterfly- monster mash of anticipation; making him drag his feet at every transition. Natasha, however, had been in her element, large hat, beautifully dressed, tan the perfect shade and looking like a local as they headed for the Kasbah of the Udayas to meet with their contact.

Their driver had, of course, taken them the long way round but it had given them time to scout the area so neither minded the drive.

“You,” the driver had started, “here for a holiday?”

Natasha had smiled, making light conversation easily. It had allowed Clint to take in the scenery, and scout points where he could perch. He paid more attention when Natasha reached across and grabbed his hand squeezing lightly. Looking across, she signed low for him to check if anyone was following, whilst continuing to talk about London where she was supposedly from. He’s often in awe of her but it’s times like this where the phrase ‘competence porn’ feels apt. There’s no way he could multitask like her.

Clint hadn’t noticed anyone following, assuming their arrival had gone unnoticed, who were they in a city of just over half a million people?

Intel leading them here had been from Natasha’s contact in Casablanca, he assumes it’s clean; the Black Widow’s reputation for revenge of those who would dare cross her is obvious, perhaps now, outdated.

He signs back his observations, to which she nods and inquires to the driver how much longer til they arrive. It obvious that the driver doesn’t want to give up the fare, as he drives around the tourist attraction , before stopping to let them out. Clint tips him well enough to be forgotten instantly as Natasha heads to the front desk to pay the entry fee.

The meet goes as well as can be expected and the intel they gain is easily fed back to their superiors. They ditch the burner phone and shed their personas and walk to their hotel, holding hands like two lovers on a evening walk. Their hotel is basic and they hope to be gone by the morning. Natasha takes first watch and Clint makes himself sleep, trusting she’ll wake him when it’s his turn to watch their backs. They could stay in the hotel room, but both know the risks of being ambushed in a confined space, the odds they would both make it would be low; so the compromise of shift watch is fair. He had properly scouted the area whilst Natasha had gone for dinner- he’s confident in the spot he chose for the watch, high enough to not be noticed, close enough to the hotel to raise alarms.

Clint's body clock wakes him exactly 5 hours after falling asleep- no Natasha. Which in itself isn’t odd as she may be on her way, but he feels it, Clint’s damn spidey-sense is fucking blaring. He heads for the scout point and he can feel the butterflies turn into stones as his stomach bottoms out again, feelings returning tenfold. It makes him want to throw up. Desperate now, he calls Natasha. There’s no answer, of course she didn’t take her phone and they’d got rid of the burner earlier. He hopes to god she left her earpiece in.. The one he left back at the hotel. Fuck.

The scout point shows signs of a struggle- scuff marks, blood, she had time to put up a fight then. He’s nervous. And worried.

Hurrying now, he calls Tony, sprinting back to the hotel. He can’t think of what else to do. If he goes through the proper channels, he’d be recalled, they’d go through the mission with a fine tooth comb- all of that takes time. Time he does not have; time Natasha does not have. He wants to capitalize on not being too far behind whoever’s kidnapped her.

Clint dials Tony again. And again when he doesn’t pick up. Clint rounds on the hotel, out of breath. Hands on his knees he swipes to get into the room.

Ringing Pepper now, he’s desperate. He calculates quickly in his head the time 1am here means 10pm in New York; laughing darkly as he thinks that the one time Tony’s gone to bed early or actually getting some sleep. Pepper answers on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Pepper? It’sNatashaineedTony.” He said catching his breath and blurting it out.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Pepper, it’s Clint. I need Tony,” he rephrases; slowing his speech and breaking his words.

Pepper sighs, “he’s in the workshop, can you hold?”

Nodding and then realizing she can’t see him, he responds affirmatively.

He’s packing a go-bag, Natasha would be appalled at the organization but he’s not thinking right.

Tony’s jovial hello is not what he needs right now.

Clint makes himself stop. Makes himself explain the necessity of Tony and Iron Man.

He can hear Tony typing. “Where are you?”

Clint gives the coordinates, looking them up on his phone.

“Rabat? You’re in Rabat? That’s a 12 hour flight commercial, maybe 6 by quinjet, maybe 2 by suit. I’ll re-task one with medical now,” Clint can hear Tony thinking; at least one of them is thinking straight. “I’m looking at satellite footage, when was she taken?”

Clint doesn’t know.

“We got back to the hotel, ate and then she left for the scout point. She was on first watch. I think she has her earpiece in. Can you track that?”

More furious typing.

“She’s about 21 miles from you, the earpiece is pinging from an importer warehouse. I can meet you there but it’s going to take me around two hours flying at full speed; even if we get her the jets going to be 4 hours behind me. Do you have a plan?”

Clint is reluctant to admit he doesn’t. He wants to get to the warehouse now. He doesn’t want to wait two hours, it’s going to take around an hour to get there regardless.

Tony is, surprisingly a voice of reason. He knows Tony loves Natasha - not like he does but they connect in a way he doesn’t get. Maybe joint trauma, who knows. He respects it, and right now he is thankful for it.

“I’m on my way. Head to the warehouse; I know you are anyway, and I’ll meet you there. The warehouse is guarded - I would advise not to engage tactically it’d be better to have a diversion and get her out when attention is elsewhere.” He can hear Tony jogging, talking as he goes “Who are these guys? Clint; so you know; they’re everywhere. If you can; wait for my signal. Get yourself in position I’ll be there as soon as I can, I’m swapping to your comms line now. The jets already left, Pepper is on board, and a med team. They’ll be there in just under 6 hours. We will have to get her out and get to the airport. Let’s try and get her on coms.. If she’s conscious…” he leaves that thought hanging.

“Anyway. I’m now on comms, I’ll catch you soon bird boy. Hang tight.” He hangs up the phone, and stuffs it in his back pocket. Clint’s taken the opportunity to check out and head for the ally; looking to steal a car whilst Tony’s been talking.

Tony’s right, it’s going to take him an hour to get there, even at this time. He’s thankful for the cover of darkness; the black fiat is ugly but does the job. It’s an old enough model that he can jimmy the lock and hot wire the steering. He sets the coordinates on his phone and leaves.

By the time he gets there he checks in with Tony, who reports he’s 45 minutes out. Enough time for a full scout. He tries Natasha again, tapping his com-link. It’s toast. Unless.. He connects it to his phone and runs diagnostics. He’s not as technical as Tony but he has a few tricks. When he reconnects he hears the tail end of his name.

Had she been calling it the whole time, or was that just freakishly good timing? Tony hears it too.

“Tash?!” He tries. He can hear her breath hitching. Fuck. She’s not ok. “We’re coming for you.”

Tony’s more practical and Clint’s never been more thankful for him. He’s an ass but a helpful ass, “tell us what you can?”.

Clint wants to infiltrate now. He’s desperate; Natasha describes that she can’t see anything. Not helpful. And that she can’t move. Worrying. There’s nothing after that. Tony lets her know that they’ve tracked her earpiece. She’s silent after that. No one really has anything to say except the obvious. They’re coming.

Clint heads to the back of warehouse.

Tony is now 20 minutes out.

And then it starts.

Natasha is screaming.

It’s excruciating.

Tony’s yelling at him to wait, but he can’t. He heads in. This place is a maze. Navigating the stairs, he hears Tony arrive. The explosion that sounds and rocks the building. He should have waited but he can still hear Natasha screaming and it’s ringing in his ears.

All of sudden she stops, and so does his heart. Moving faster he gets to the lower levels. Shooting two thugs in the face he starts checking rooms.

Tony is creating a hell of a diversion, drawing fire. Clint let’s him know that he hasn’t found her yet. The firefight outside continues.

The last room he checks is dark, and he heads inside. There’s something inside, he clears the doorway and finds her strapped to a table, his heart breaks in two- there’s straps around her feet, torso and arms; as he gets closer he sees the one around around her neck. Fuck.

The minefield of this trauma is just starting. He can see the rise and fall of her chest and at least she’s alive to see the c-ptsd.

Trying to rouse her he calls her name, he unstraps her ankles, and wrists; moving to her torso she starts bucking against the restraint. He tries to reassure her whilst undoing the strap; wounds that were oozing now have a streaky stream of blood. The wound on her stomach is hideous and her wrists and ankles have broken skin all around them and that’s just what he can see. He can feel her body tremors which he knows from experience only comes from electric shock. He finishes with her torso and moves to her neck. In hindsight, he should have started there, her body curls up in a fetal position - sounds of distress that aren’t words and not crying come hard and fast. Clint squats next to her face, brushing her hair back, his hand coming away with blood. He’s working as fast as he can with the strap around her neck, blood making it both slippery and sticky, fingers working the clasp.

It takes a lot for Natasha to scream, this he knows. He wonders how many were working on her to get her this distressed, this quickly. He tells her that it’s over, it’s done and they’re dead (he hopes they are), he picks her up and advises her they’re leaving.

Clint pulls a blanket from his pack and wraps her in it. He places a gun in her hands. At the most it makes her feel safe, at worse she shoots something or someone. He just wants her to be safe with him. She was supposed to be safe with him.

Clint just talks, tells her everything that’s happened since they split up. Clint tells her everything and nothing hoping it’s enough to keep her semi-lucid and awake.

Tony updates him that he’s leaving to meet the quinjet that’s made double time across the sea. He bundles her in the tiny fiat and heads for the airport. Clint tries to keep her awake, failing miserably; Natasha is moaning in pain and there’s nothing he can do at this point. He worries about concussion and trauma, but it can hold. He wants to get out of here.

Arriving at the airport, he sees Tony and Pepper and the quinjet waiting. Bundling Natasha into his arms, he tries to rouse her. He greets the couple, both taking one look at Natasha and hurrying into the jet. It’s when they’re sitting and he’s strapped himself in with assistance from Tony; arguing about whether Natasha should be in a hospital or at the very least needs medical interventions that Clint feels Natasha rouse. He feels her burying her head into his neck, straining for breath. Cracked ribs maybe? Tony notices, of course he does, her breathing is audible; Tony tries to make his case again and he feels Natasha trembling when medical is mentioned. Clint feels her pain. He brushes her hair away from her ear, wanting to be clear.

“Natasha. We can sedate you and fix you up if you want?”

He feels the shake of her head and he drops it immediately. It’s a long ride back to New York.

—-

Next up: we head back to the events which led Natasha to be captured (it’s shorter). Thanks everyone who’s liking and reblogging, you’re all brilliant. I also need to say, that I’m 100% on mobile so the formatting is shoddy - I’ll try and get on the computer to put it under a cut but that won’t probs happen til Monday, so sorry about that.

#whumptober2020 #clintasha #natasha romanoff #black widow #clint barton #tony stark #hawkeye #pepper potts #fanfic #whump #no.2 kidnapped #no.2 #kidnapped tw #torture tw #21 miles is 35km - just so you know #mine #let the games continue #sorry not sorry

45 notes · View notes

rosesisupposes · 4 years ago

Text

War & Peace

It’s here! My contribution to @sanderssidesgiftxchange 2020!

Adriana, this is for you! @corrupted-sun

Read on ao3

relationships: platonic DLAMPR, intrulogical, prinxiety, moxiety

summary: One of the perks of the mindscape? Even Florida can have a winter wonderland

word count: 2,776

It’s a rare quiet moment. Two walls stare each other down, each hiding the combatants from each other’s gaze. Behind them, the small teams rally themselves to launch once more into battle.

Virgil huddles in the trench, holding an arm around Patton protectively to keep them low and out of sight.

“Pat, I know fighting’s not your thing, but remember: this is war.”

“Isn’t there another way?” Patton asks, eyes huge behind their glasses.

“They’ve left us no choice,” Janus says, checking their supply of ammo. He adjusts his yellow gloves, both eyes glinting. “It’s only a matter of time before an attack comes. It’s either us, or them.”

Patton sighs and takes some ammo. “Just tell me when.”

On the opposite side of the battlefield, Roman kneels, staring off into the middle distance with intensity.

“This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian!”

Logan looks up from their pile of supplies, hidden well into their trench. “Is this really the time, Roman?”

“If not now, my dear nerd, when?” Roman replies, then launches in anew.

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother-”

“I am your only brother here, Woe-man.”

Roman scowls at his twin. “It’s a metaphor, you potato with eyes-”

“I would prefer to not be even a metaphorical sibling to Remus, thanks all the same,” Logan says calmly, doling out piles of ammo. “It would make our dates rather awkward.”

Roman pouts. “Fine, ruin all my attempts at an inspiring speech. Can you at least attack?”

Remus grins, grabbing as much ammo as they can hold. He stands, torso fully clearing the edge of the trench, and starts throwing fast & hard in a steady barrage at the opposing camp. As they throw, he shouts out loud and clear, “LEEEEROYYYY JENKINSSS!”

Across the battlefield, Virgil looks to his left and gasps. “Patton, you’re hit!”

Patton smiles bravely. “It’s just a scratch, Virge.” But both their teammates see a wet patch spreading, stark against their light blue coat.

Janus pulls Patton carefully to just against the trench wall, the safest spot available. He locks eyes with Virgil, who nods with a flinty gaze. As one, they each lob a projectile hurtling over the wall, and another, and another, relying on their intuition to aim, but in perfect sync with each other.

From the field, they hear a surprised shout.

Virgil smirks. “Got’em!”

In the distance, in a voice full of reproach, they hear a familiar call, “Bitch, you ruined my hair!”

“If you can’t handle the slush, get out of the snowfort!” Janus snarks, and throws another snowball over the wall.

Roman brushes ice pieces and damp hair out of his crimson face, pouting even as he grabs more snowballs. “Okay, that’s it. Let’s get them!”

Logan, looking up from his perfectly-arranged pyramid of snowballs, remarks “Once more into the breach, once more?”

“Finally, you get it! Thank you!”

Remus grins at his teammates. “Let’s go!”

They charge over the wall, the twins leading with snowballs in their fists, Logan just behind carrying a stack of pre-made ones as backup. Roman and Remus are yelling incoherently as their arms move like windmills, throwing snowballs as fast as Logan can hand them over.

Virgil and Janus stay behind their snowfort wall, sniping from around the sides, taking time to aim. Virgil aims for the twins’ faces, while Janus targets Logan, trying to disrupt the supply.

Their teamwork functions well, right up until Remus crashes straight into the fort’s wall, falling through the snow fortifications in a crunch of powder and ice. Patton squeals in surprise and pushes a pile of snow onto their face, surprising laughs out of them both.

Remus pops up with snow stuck to his hair, mustache, and chin. “Look, Lolo! I’m Satan Claus!”

Logan smiles and dumps his remaining snowballs on top of his head. “You’ve forgotten your hat, Mx. Claus”

Roman continues the fight, and tries to retaliate with a snowball to Virgil’s face. As he tries, though, a weight grabs him at the waist. He falls back, facing the icy blue sky, lying in the snow, with Virgil on top of him, pink-cheeked from the cold and exertion.

His captor smirks. “Surrender, Princey?”

Roman can’t stop himself from grinning widely up at the taller side, even as he bravely responds, “Never!”

From just outside his vision, he hears a drawling voice say, “That’s really too bad, I was going to make my specialty hot chocolate once the battle was done, guess I’ll need to delay it now…”

Roman stills. “The double chocolate recipe?” he asks cautiously.

“That’s the one,” Janus says with a regretful sigh. “I even got the mini marshmallows shaped like snowflakes.”

Roman bites his lip. “Perhaps we could negotiate a ceasefire.”

Virgil chuckles. “Knew that would work, Princey. C’mon.” He stands, brushing off his purple snowsuit, and helps Roman to his feet too.

Roman sniffs. “I want it noted for the record that you two aren’t winning from your prowess in snow battle, but through bribery.”

Janus grabs the shorter man around the shoulder, messing up Roman’s hair even as he brushes the snow out of it. “Better to be lucky than good, my frozen prince. Let’s go round up the others.”

The other three are sitting in the wreck of the team’s fort. Remus has already decorated the snowy ruins with a dramatic scene of mini snowmen in the middle of a pitched battle, with snow-demons all around the melee. Their hair is sticking in every direction and his tongue is sticking just out of their mouth as he crafts detailed snow-tentacles as the centerpiece. Patton sits beside them, happily building snow puppies around the edges of the snowy battle scene.

Virgil carefully stops short of the display. “Y’all wanna stay out here, or come in for Janus’ hot chocolate?”

Patton and Remus both look up at the same time, eyes alike as they speak simultaneously. “Chocolate? Chocolate?! CHOCOLATE?!”

Logan stands, brushing off his sensible navy coat and adjusting his glasses. “Emile would be so proud of you two.”

Remus carefully extracts himself from their snowscape, waiting until he’s right next to Roman to shake off the snow like a dog. Ice and water spatter out onto their twin as Roman sputters. “Race you to the kitchen!”

The twins are sprinting headlong towards the doors of the Imagination, both trying to shove each other out of the way and laughing the whole time. The rest of the group walks at a more reasonable pace, still pink-cheeked from the cold.

“Virgeeyyyy-” Patton wheedles, their eyes huge and pleading behind their glasses.

Virgil looks over with a grin. “I’m surprised you made it this long before asking, Patty-cake.” He stops and kneels, as Patton claps happily and crawls onto his back. Virgil stands, carrying Pat on his back, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of their wrist where it peeks between mitten and jacket.

“I wish someone would carry me,” Janus says wistfully. “I also don’t want to walk.”

Logan snorts. “Keep on wishing, Jan. I’m not getting into another game of chicken just because Virgil sticks his tongue out at you again.”

“Humph. Guess someone wants to be served his hot chocolate last.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Oh no, what horr-”

“After the twins have gotten into the marshmallows.”

Logan’s head whips around to look at Janus, then back to the twins’ rapidly-retreating backs. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“L, we all know he absolutely would,” Virgil throws back over his shoulder, making Patton giggle as they sway.

Suddenly, a blur passes them as Logan tears after the twins.

“What a dork,” Virgil says fondly. “He never gets less logical than when his sweet tooth is on the line.”

By the time they’ve all trooped back through the Imagination doors into the mindscape, they can hear the bickering from downstairs. Patton slides off Virgil’s back and snaps away their snow gear. “Let’s go see what the kiddos have gotten up to, shall we?”

Janus rolls his eyes as they discover the scene in the kitchen. Roman and Logan appear to be playing keep-away with the bag of marshmallows, both so intent on the sugary treats that neither has appeared to notice that Remus is currently unattended in the living room, starting a fire.Luckily, he actually conjured a fireplace first, this time.

Virgil’s eyes light up as he goes to help them, or at least to go place with matches.

Janus and Patton exchange looks and immediately split up.

Patton calmly hops up on the island in the kitchen as Logan and Roman scramble for the marshmallows.

“Jan promised me hot chocolate!”

“You don’t need the sugar, your diet is terrible enough as it is.”

“Then why should you get it, all you eat is Crofter’s anyway-”

“The brain needs sugar to function!”

“So does creativity!”

Patton just sits and beams at the other two with all the intensity of their megawatt smile. Slowly, both notice them sitting calmly and go sheepishly quiet.

“Ahem. We just wanted to-” Logan begins

“That is, we were making sure that-” Roman stammers.

Patton tilts their head slightly, still smiling, making a small sound of inquiry.

“Sorry, Patton,” Roman says, hanging his head.

“Apologies, Patton,” Logan says, placing the bag of marshmallows gently on the island and stepping away.

“There’s my good boys!” Patton says cheerily. “Now, can y’all get out everyone’s mugs?”

“Heheheheh snap! Crackle! Pop! Rice crispies!” Remus cackles to himself, throwing another branch of dry pine needles into the flame.

Virgil stares into the light, eyes and smile equally huge as he prods it with the poker. “We should add wax!”

“Or newspaper! I like how it delays when it lights!”

“Newspaper covered in wax?”

“Oh fuck yeah!”

They sniggering and toss more flammable objects into the stove.

Janus leans against the wall and sighs, so softly that it would be inaudible, if both Remus and Virgil hadn’t frozen the moment Janus entered the room.

“Remus,” he says calmly, inspecting his gloves.

“Hey there Janabanana!” Remus responds happily. “It’s contained this time, look!”

“Yes, Remus, it is. Was that what I’d said you should do?”

Virgil pushes kindling behind him, trying to move slow enough as if to avoid attention.

“Virgil,” Janus continues, icily calm. “You were there last time, correct? What advice did I give Remus?”

“Um, you know, I think you should ask Logan, my memory is crap-”

“You forgot, Virgey? But I thought you had fun last time!!” Remus asked, their eyes huge and his lip wobbling in a pout.

“Now Virgil, look, you’ve made Remus sad,” Janus says, sympathy dripping as heavily as sarcasm. “You know, it’s funny, I seem to remember my advice was actually for both of you last time. What was is it again? Something along the lines of do not start fires in the Thomas’ home?”

“We’re in the Mindscape, not Thomas’ actual home…” Virgil begins, but trails off at Janus’ raised brow. “Can we keep it going in the stove if we stop adding shit to it?”

Janus hums tunelessly. He gazes through lidded eyes at the two pleading faces watching hopefully, two pairs of mismatched eyes trying their best to look precious rather than chaotic.

But sometimes, a little chaos can be precious.

“Fine, you can keep it, but you two can’t be with it unattended. And I need to make the hot chocolate, so at least one of you is coming to the kitchen.”

Immediately, they both touch their noses, Virgil beating Remus by just a hair of a second.

“Aw, shitfucker,” Remus says with easy humor. “Okay, Jancake!”

As they rejoin the group in the kitchen, Janus gives Roman and Patton a look. “One you needs to go chaperone your boyfriend. He has matches.”

Roman smiles. “As if he could get any hotter!” He twirls out the room, humming something that sounds suspiciously like “Disco Inferno.”

Remus spots their own boyfriend and immediately shifts his shape, shrinking in size just enough that they can literally clamber up Logan’s body. He wraps their arms around his torso, resting their chin on Logan’s shoulder.

“Ah, am I a climbing tree once more?” “Yes you are, Euca-Lo-ptus!”

Janus moves around them all to the stove, listening with a smile

“I was thinking he was more of a Lo-tus, myself,” Patton says with a giggle.

“That may-ple be true, Pat!”

Logan closes his eyes and takes an exaggeratedly deep breath, but the twitch of his lips gives away his amusement. “Must you two always do this?”

“Why, Lolo, wood you rather we leaf you alone?” Remus says with a shit-eating grin. He presses a kiss to Logan’s cheek with a loud smack of lips.

“You know what they say,” Patton says seriously with a nod. “Where there’s a willow, there’s a way.”

“Hey, hey Lo,” Remus says, wiggling with excitement. “If you come up with your own, I promise there won’t be any syca-more of these.”

Logan looks over at Janus, and they share a fond smile at the dorks they live with. “Hmm,” he thinks aloud. “Here’s one. It doesn’t surprise me that you both enjoy tree puns, given that you’re both quite chest-nuts.”

“Oooh, hello Mr. Sassy-fras!” Patton says with a sly wink.

Logan narrows his eyes. “I thought you said you’d stop.”

“Technically, that was just me,” Remus says.

“It’s cause under all that bark, Remus is really just a big old sap,” Patton says, grinning in glee as Logan groans. “I’m done now. It’ll all be oak-ay!”

“Patton!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m done! Promise!”

“Patton, I’m sorry to say you’re banned from the kitchen for that,” Janus says, mixing ingredients over the stove. “Can you bring out the blankets in the living room?”

Logan finishes taking down the mugs and arranges them on the island, Remus clinging to him like an oddly-affectionate backpack. Janus uses his extra arms to heat two saucepans of chocolate at once, and one extra hand to keep the marshmallows at a safe distance away from the other two.

Once he’s poured out equal amounts into everyone’s favorite mugs and distributed an even amount of marshmallows, Logan and Remus help Janus carry the mugs to the living room, where the other three wait in a nest of blankets and pillows near the fireplace. Roman is lying with his head in Virgil’s lap as Patton leans on Virgil’s other shoulder. They all untangle to accept their mugs, shifting to give everyone equal access to the warmth of the cheery glow.

Janus gives Logan a look, and he responds with a lopsided grin. He sits and accepts two mugs of chocolate, saying, “C’mere, Reme, I got us extra marshmallows.”

Remus is immediately distracted from their beeline towards the fire and makes a u-turn into his boyfriend’s side. “Oooooh, are they the gooey ones?”

“Of course, do I look like a man who forgets my own partner’s favorites?”

“Nah, you look like as big a snacc as the marshmallows,” Remus says, flopping into Logan’s lap. Only ease of long practice and anticipation of their behavior allows Logan to avoid spilling all over them both.

Janus chuckles, wrapping himself in a particularly fuzzy blanket that Patton saved for him. “Before you ask, Roman, yes, I brought you extra marshmallows as well.”

“What need have I for extra sweetness when I am allowed to bask in Virgil’s presence?”

“So I should give them to Remus too?”

“Nooo, gimme!”

Virgil snorts. “Oh princey, you’re so predictable.” Before he starts to pout, Virgil bends down to kiss his forehead. “And adorable too, of course.” Visibly mollified, Roman accepts his hot chocolate without taking his eyes off Virgil’s smirk.

Patton reaches across to get their own mug from Janus, using the movement to snuggle more into Virgil’s broad shoulder.

Janus sighs, relaxing into the heat of the blanket nest and the fire. “Did y’all have a good snow day?”

“Practically perfect in every way,” Roman says dreamily.

“Yeah, it was good.”

“It certainly was pretty cool!”

“Patton- yes, Jan, it was quite enjoyable.”

“I liked the part where the snow looked like jizz!”

Roman scoffs. “Reme, do you gotta-”

“It’s okay, Ro. That means they liked it,” Janus says fondly. “I had a good day, too.”

“Love you all,” Patton says sleepily, already getting drowsy despite the sugar.

Virgil kisses the top of their head. “We love you too.”

#sanders sides gift exchange #genderfluid remus #nonbinary patton #p dlampr #snowball fights #hot chocolate #fireplace #platonic cuddling #ts remus #ts janus #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts logan

17 notes · View notes

shebeafancyflapjack · 4 years ago

Text

King Takes Knight (Part 3)

This has a plot now. Sorta. I don’t know.

Part One

Part Two

(TW: Captivity, isolation, torture, humiliation)

A large wheel is propped up at the front of the stage, each with a panel containing a different word. Scorpions. Spiders. Bees. Bees with Teeth. Lightning. Ice Spears. Nickelback. Whipping. Flesh Tearing.

“Time to spin the Wheel of Misfortune, Bad Janet.” Shawn instructs.

After an obligatory slur, the Bad Janet dressed in a black, glittery showgirl outfit does as instructed. The crowd watching cheer out their predictions as they watch the wheel spin, panels clattering against the arrow at the top, slowing down with each second.

The unlucky ‘contestant’ shivers against the stake in the centre. They’ve wrapped a blindfold around the top of his head so he doesn’t get to see the result. That would ruin the surprise, after all.

The clacking stops. The crowd laughs.

“Ah! Always a classic. Bring them in, boys.” Shawn strides up to Michael, grabbing him by the jaw and putting his lips to his ear; “You’re gonna go for a nice little swim, you stinking jellyfish. There are some creatures who are just eager to play with you...and they are very, very hungry. And horny. And electrified.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd again as a broken whimper escapes through the constrained lips. His chain is loosened, wrists still bound behind his back. There will be no attempt at ‘swimming’ in the tank that’s brought out.

“Don’t worry, Mike. We made sure to keep the water nice and cold for you. It will be like floating on the sea after the Titanic sunk. And we know how much fun those guys had.”

Shawn yanks his hair back as he’s moved forward.

“Hold still. I want Bad Janet’s camera to get a good long look at you...We want your filthy humans to see their demon daddy at his best, don’t we.”

Another cringe, a helpless writhe, then he’s pushed forward into the tank.

“Turn it off.” Tahani requests, getting to her feet and turning her back to the screen, “Please, I can’t watch anymore.”

Janet does as requested. She’s already seen it all for herself. She hadn’t intended on showing the others, hoping what she described would be enough, but she’d had no choice.

She looks to Jason who’s staring forward, vacantly. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was completely oblivious to what was going on. But she knows her boyfriend and knows, more than anything, the worry that’s going on behind those blank looking eyes.

Eleanor remains seated on Mindy’s couch, running her hands over her mouth, her skin much paler than it had been a few minutes ago.

“You see now why I have to go back?” Janet tells them; “This has gone on long enough.”

“She’s right.” Tahani doesn’t miss a beat; “I haven’t seen anything that awful happen to someone I cared about since....You know what, I’ve never cared about any famous person more than I do Michael to compare it to!” she wipes a stray tear from her eyes.

Eleanor gets to her feet; “Look, guys, I get it, I do. That wasn’t easy for me to watch either. But...we need to think about this.”

“What is there to think about?” Tahani challenges; “We need to save Michael! You saw what they were doing to him!”

“I know!” Eleanor responds, heatedly; “I wanna save him too but if we just rush in then we’ll be doing exactly what they want! This isn’t like last time when they didn’t know we would find out Janet had been swapped out - they sent us that footage hoping it would bait us into going back there! They want our Janet to reopen the tunnel because I guess their own Bad Janets suck at it.”

Janet watches as their team leader’s fingers twitch as she clearly struggles to remain pragmatic and reasonable against the distressing footage they’ve just witnessed. A part of her admires and respects Eleanor for thinking clearly. And there’s nothing in Janet’s omniscient mind that would question her reasoning.

Yet, oddly enough, she wants to say ‘fork that’ and get...angry. That’s new.

“I hate to be the one to say it but we’re doing so well and they know this! They’re trying to sabotage us again by having us risk ourselves going back there, which is the last thing Michael would want.”

Jason finally pipes up; “I dunno, I think being pushed into a tank filled with giant electric piranhas, might not be what Michael wants either.”

It’s almost impossible for Jason to sound sarcastic, but Janet senses an undertone of it beneath his usual vague tone.

“Look....Michael knew the risks when he chose to stay behind, he told you guys to get out safe and not to reset...We would be making his sacrifice for nothing if we threw our progress away now...”

“How can you be so cold? He’s our friend!” Tahani stares at her.

“And I was the first one who wanted to go back for him when I saw he wasn’t on that handcart, remember?!” Eleanor snaps back, “Janet was the one who said to wait it out, in case he escaped!”

“I was wrong.”

Everyone goes quiet, their eyes turning to fix on her. She clenches her thumb tight in front of her dress.

“I’ve never been wrong about anything before...I didn’t think it was possible. But I was wrong about that.” Janet admits, her lip wobbling; “I thought they would just do what they did to me for all those months, lock me in a cell and have me watch Vicky’s bad rehearsals. I never thought they would...I hoped that Michael would...”

Jason gets up and quietly moves over, putting his arms around her. She puts her hand to his back, not having realised how badly she needed a hug right now.

“It was easier not knowing...Horrible but, you’re right...Now I can’t stop picturing what they’ve been doing to him. Poor Michael. He looked so...” Tahani’s fingers touch her hcest.

Small. Scared. Weak.

Alone.

“We only have a few months left. He’s lasted this long, if we can just bear through-.” Eleanor tries.

“No.” Janet responds.

She’s not used to saying that word.

Eleanor looks at her, sympathetically; “Babe, I know it’s hard, trust me-.” She tries to reach other to touch Janet’s wrist.

She moves back.

“No, Eleanor. I don’t think you have any idea how hard it is.”

“Oh, really? You don’t think that I’ve had to make sacrifices recently? Did you forget what I had to give up...What Chidi had to-?”

“Chidi gets to walk around in the fresh air, he gets to teach and do the things he loves, with only the mild anxious torture. You get to watch over him and make sure he’s safe and know that in a few months, he’ll remember you again.” Janet points out, “Michael is suffering. Every second he stays down there...and you know, as well as I do, Eleanor, what a baby he can be just getting a hangnail. He did that...to save me. To help us! And you just want to leave him there?!”

Eleanor exhales, looking a little knocked back. It’s about time someone knocked her out of the tunnel vision she’s locked herself in since this started.

“Of course not.” She replies, voice breaking; “I’m just not sure-.”

“He loves you.”

Eleanor stops. Her mouth opens, wordless.

“You know it already, don’t you? You must know, you’re not stupid.” Janet tells her, “He loves all of you so forking much...If you don’t know that, I might need to check you didn’t suffer some sort of aneurysm when he gave your memories back, because I saw it all. I watched him start to grow tired of torturing you all. I watched him have to fake looking ecstatic when Shawn said he was being promoted and then, as soon as he was free too, have a freak out at the idea of having to betray you all. I watched him collect all the mementos he has of his time with you guys. I’ve listened him talk for hours about how he adores you all...”

Tahani and Jason both look solemn. Janet’s eyes focus on Eleanor.

“I watched him cling to your ticker tape for over a year. Never sleeping, never stopping...You were all he cared about in the Universe and was prepared to risk everything to save you all. And he’s never once asked for anything in return...He sure as There wouldn’t ask you to save him now. That’s why we should.” Janet rouses, “Jason told me about what happened that night before I got rescued. Michael did so much for you all and you were willing to risk losing him over a lie.”

“It wasn’t like that-.” Eleanor winces with guilt.

“He’s never stopped believing in any of you guys since he changed.” Janet cuts in, “And he’d literally jump into fire to save any of you! But you’re not willing to do the same for him? Damn...you humans. I’m starting to get why some immortals feel the need to torture you.”

That feels like too much to say. Being angry isn’t fun, it turns out. It almost conflicts enough with her Good nature that she feels ready to melt. No wonder humans say and do stupid things when they’re pissed off.

“Janet...You know what’s at stake here and why we need you-.” Eleanor tries again.

“So we should be willing to let Michael be in pain in order to win?” Tahani interrupts; “I’m sorry, Eleanor, but I’m with Janet on this one. If saving humanity means sacrificing our own then I want no part of it.”

“Oooh, good one.” Jason comments.

“Thank you.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes. Janet can see how torn up she is right now. It’s no easy position to be in. But neither is the torture dungeon where one of them is trapped right now.

She takes a step forward, reaching out to touch Eleanor’s arm.

The short human sniffs; “...Why did we have to teach him to be so....not selfish?!”

“If it helps, I don’t think you did. Michael might have learned ethics and morals from you guys...But that love he has? That...unconditional, reckless, self-sacrificing love? He found that all on his own. It’s easy for me, I was designed to care about humans. But Michael had to fight against every one of his natural, evil impulses to be our friend. You don’t have to love him back after what he did to you for all those years....But you should at least appreciate that.”

The humans have no words. So much for Janet’s not being one for speeches. But then she’s no ordinary Janet.

Enough chit-chatting. That’s just another few minutes Michael has had to suffer.

“You guys have shown you can run the neighbourhood with just Derek. You can do it again. I’m going to rescue my friend...my oldest, my truest, most loyal friend...” She repeats the words he said to her; “...Because I do love him.”

To love a demon, something else that seems to go against her natural instinct, as she feels her essence fizzle a little. Worth it.

#whump #angst #tgp fanfic

8 notes · View notes

captain-kelli · 5 years ago

Text

Call Sign: Renaissance // 08

08. From the Ashes

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader (platonic)

Chapter Summary: A revelation prompts the Nerudan army and our team to storm the base taken by HYRDA. Steve has a revelation of his own.

Word Count: 3,032

Warnings: angst, violence, war, blood, injuries, kidnapping of a child, language

A/N: Buckle up, fam! You’re in for a ride.

The fool wouldn’t listen, but that wasn’t anything new.

The very minute you were done cleaning the cuts on his face, Sam was shoving his arms into a pair of scrubs so he could help you with the other trauma victims. Side by side, two sets of hands treated wounds and stitched flesh. Between them passed scissors, gauze, and tape. Together, they comforted the hurt and brokenhearted.

It’s your first time back in a field hospital since Afghanistan, but you and Sam fall right back into step, almost like muscle memory.

I suppose there are just some things you don’t forget how to do.

As the last patient is tended to, one of Sam’s hands meets your back. “Baby girl, I think you’ve earned some rest. There has to be an empty cot around here somewhere.”

The thought of sleep brings a yawn to your lips as you roll the tension from your shoulders. “I’ll rest when you do.”

Finding an empty room tucked into the back of the hall, Sam all but pushes you in and gives you orders before shutting the door. “Get out of those scrubs and get some sleep. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

Bare of blankets or pillows, the cot doesn’t look to be all that comfortable. Peeling off the scrubs coated in blood, you eye the makeshift bed wishing instead for the one back in Brooklyn.

It’s better than nothing.

You barely have time to think about Sam or HYDRA or a potential war before sleep quickly takes you.

Steve wishes he could give you longer to rest, but Márquez and his men have returned with news you need to hear. Grasping the handle, Steve gently opens the door to find you curled up on your side, fast asleep.

Two hours would have to be enough.

The cot squeaks under his weight, but the sound doesn’t rouse you. Is it selfish, he wonders, to take a moment to see you so peaceful? The little crease that forms between your eyebrows during moments of frustration has disappeared. The frown that accompanies your worry has eased into a ghost of a smile.

She needs another minute of happiness before all of this.

Steve brings his hand to meet your cheek, faintly brushing his fingers across your skin. The warmth of his touch slowly stirs you and it fills him with regret.

“How’d you sleep?”

Regret for waking you. For pulling you out of a country that so obviously needed your help. For putting Sam in harm’s way, knowing how you lost Riley. Weighted by a burden that doesn’t entirely belong to him, guilt all but consumes him.

“We saved several lives today, including Sam’s. So I slept just fine.” You say it in an effort to console him, he knows. The gesture is humbling, but not enough.

“He only needed saving because of me. When Beckett mentioned Bucky… I should’ve seen the lie for what it was. I compromised the team. That’s on me.”

His shoulders sink and his head drops which prompts you to stand up. Your expression is defiant, determined. Seeing one of your lips tucked into the other and a furrowed brow, Steve braces himself for your justified wrath. Expects it, even. But it’s not for him.

“The only thing compromised here is Neruda’s chance at democracy.”

Your voice, small and weary before, is booming now as your hands are thrown into the air. “This country, these people, spent years fighting for freedom. They finally have that chance and HYDRA is trying to steal it from them. I can’t let that happen.”

Steve watches you pace the small room, recounting Neruda’s journey to liberty. Listening to your impassioned speech about your original mission, Steve is captivated by every detail. It’s been months since he met you on that airport tarmac, but the time away compounded with recent events has only multiplied your devotion.

Do the Nerudan people know you care this much? That you are this dedicated to their cause?

Somewhere in between stories of a dictator fallen and a constitution drafted, Steve draws a deep breath because he finally realizes it. Nothing about the mission - you had his buy-in the minute you explained everything that was at stake.

No, he realizes something about himself.

With his shield resting on his back, Steve’s defenses are down. Title and duty are abandoned in favor of being a little more vulnerable. A little more honest. He realizes he wants to let you in.

Because I’m falling for her.

This Renaissance woman who is both a mediator and a fighter. Who battled sleep to heal the injured and overcame her past even when it meant putting her life on the line. Strong and sarcastic, but softhearted and gentle.

A woman who is made up of tiny little details which make her one of the only people who could understand him in this new life he leads.

Steve wants to say something, anything, but the words are caught in his throat once you return to the cot to sit beside him. Your eyes that, by all accounts should be tired, shine as they meet his. A knowing smile dances across your lips and the guilt starts to melt away.

“I got in this game to save people, Steve. Today, it was Sam and a dozen innocent Nerudans. But know this,” he waits as you pause to consider your words, “if you didn’t listen to your gut instinct, people would’ve died and HYDRA would be in charge right about now.”

If only I could admit to her what my gut was telling me now.

But he can’t, so he settles for showing you. Resting both hands on your cheeks, he pulls your lips to his and it stuns you. It’s urgent, the kiss. Eager. Desperate to say all of the things he can’t.

Not yet.

Far from New York, far from his time, he finds a familiar home in you. Unlike the world outside, it’s peaceful here in your arms. That’s what he wants to say, but it just doesn’t feel like the right time.

Will there ever be a “right” time?

If life has taught him anything, it’s that time tends to run out. That wars are never-ending and enemies exist far across this universe, both ready to cut life short. But as your fingers trace his skin and lips linger over his, it feels like time could stand still. And for a moment, as he breathes you in, he wishes it would so he could put together the perfect words to express how he feels.

The right words to tell her I love her.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls apart from the embrace and tells you the news that came with Márquez’s arrival. With every syllable, he sees your reserve crumble. He’s done nothing but brought you bad news and it breaks him.

Rising from the cot and rushing for the door, you leave Steve to search for Minerva.

Neruda was and has always been a country divided into opposites. Globalists and nationalists; rich and poor; liberals and conservatives. Those contradictions were on full display during the peace negotiations, Minerva and Márquez rarely agreeing on anything. That’s why it’s so jarring to find her sobbing into his arms as he consoles her.

The thing to understand about Minerva is that she is fierce. Resilient. She’s a single mother who put herself through law school while graduating at the top of her class. In a room full of military men, she stands her ground and never backs down. Her heart beats for her country and its future.

But upon hearing the news that HYDRA has taken her young daughter hostage, she is debilitated. Reduced to her knees as any mother would be.

Her cries reverberate off of the hospital walls as her countrymen surround the scene to offer support. Factions? Sides? They no longer matter because one of their own has been taken.

Patria. A little girl who is the spitting image of her mother, but wears two braids instead of just one, ribbons tied at the ends. A burst of sunshine that brightens dark rooms full of arguing adults. Whose smile melts even the most hardened of men.

Captured.

It becomes readily apparent who the real enemy is.

When you finally make your way through the crowd, Márquez pulls Minerva tighter into his arms and speaks directly to you. “Vamos a derrotarlos y rescatar su hija.”

Nodding, you turn on your heels to find Sam and Steve. If there was to be a fight, Márquez would need all the help he could get.

The sky erupts into bursts of orange and red in a sunset that serves as a backdrop for the battle to come. Marching up to the fortress is Márquez and his men, Sam and Steve accompanying him at the front.

“All I’m saying is I don’t understand why she was so hell-bent to run the rescue by herself.” This is the fifth time Sam has raised the complaint since leaving the hospital.

“Yeah. I know, Sam.” Steve doesn’t bother hiding his exasperation, “But she wasn’t exactly listening to either of us. Did you want to be the one to tell her she couldn’t do something? Or needed a chaperone?”

He isn’t happy they lost the argument either.

You had insisted that the covert operation could only be covert if you went alone.

Steve and Sam listened impatiently as you made point after point. You assured them you knew exactly where to go after freeing Sam earlier. You explained that Patria already knows you, so she’s more likely to trust you. And, saving your best point for last, you reminded them that they were needed for combat.

So he conceded.

Steve works to separate his feelings for you from the mission. As a way to steel himself against fear and worry, he replays the plan over and over again. By now, you should be waiting at the back of the base as HYDRA readies to meet the Nerudan forces at the front. It should be the perfect cover while you save Minerva’s daughter.

She’s more than capable to do the job.

As predicted, HYDRA agents line the ramparts and train their rifles on the army below. Márquez’s forces, northward of five hundred soldiers, stand firmly in place as he walks forward to meet the HYDRA commander waiting for him.

While they talk, Steve eyes the palisades. From his earlier counts to what he sees now, he knows the numbers are in Márquez’s favor, but HYDRA has the benefit of the defensive position and the arsenal.

It’s anyone’s game.

When Márquez returns to the men, he shakes his head at Steve to suggest that the conversation didn’t go so well. “They’re willing to give up the girl if we surrender our country.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.” Snorting at the assertion, Sam swipes the remote on his wrist guard to fire two missiles at the citadel gates. With the barrier removed, the Nerudan army swarms its familiar command post and brings the fight inside the walls.

Sam soars into the air while Steve crashes into the HYDRA unit before him. His fists connect with several mouths, blood gushing on his hands. Bullets rebound off of his shield before Sam takes out the shooter.

Where is she?

Shoving a guy to the ground, he turns to look for the stockade. It’s been enough time. You should be there by now. Before he can make his way over, another agent charges towards him, moving Steve to spin in the air and swing the shield against his face.

I just need to know she’s alright.

All around him, Nerudan soldiers defend their country. Fight to take back their base. Mount a full-out assault to save a little girl. It’s patriotic and courageous, but the droves of men are blocking his view.

Steve rips his way through the masses, tearing men apart just so he can catch a glimpse of you. As he breaks through the front lines, the sheer might of the Nerudan army finally becomes too much for the terrorist troops. They yield.

And then it gets quiet. Because he sees you.

Off in the distance, you enter the prisoners quarters and he finally breathes. His sigh is one of relief.

They’ve won.

War is often a numbers game.

Number of soldiers. Number of guns. Number of tanks.

The side with the overwhelming numbers is almost guaranteed to win.

Almost.

Only one thing can beat numbers like that.

At the back of the base against the dying sunset a bomb detonates.

A flash of light temporarily blinds Steve’s sight, the sound of the blast rings in his ears. It’s disorienting until he can gain his bearings again. As an amber blaze devours the sky, billowing smoke blocks out the sun and Steve’s blood runs cold.

The bomb went off right where she stood.

Your name falls from his lips in a whisper as he drops the shield. His feet drag across the ground, slowly picking up speed as he prepares to run into the fire. He’s shouting your name now in pure desperation.

“Y/N!”

He can’t lose you.

Not now. Not before...

Someone is pulling him back, stopping him from getting to you. Arms wrap around him, tugging him away right as a second bomb explodes. The blast throws Steve and his protector backwards, causing him to land hard on his side.

When he looks up, the heat from the flame radiates off of his face. Ash soils his cheeks, thickened by the tears streaming down them. Pushing himself off the ground, Steve’s hands reach above his head as his eyes scan the debris looking for any sight of you.

And then he spots it.

A hazy shadow walking out of the inferno with a child in its arms. As it moves closer, he realizes it’s you. Patria rests her head on your shoulder, her face nuzzled into your neck.

“These things we do, that others may live.” Walking past Steve and out of the base, you quote the pararescue motto, a nod to your purpose here.

Night has finally come for the endless day. The sky is dark and blanketed with stars by the time you finally arrive back at the hospital. When you enter the lobby cradling Patria in your arms, Minerva rushes to your side and tears pour from her eyes.

“¡Mija! Oh, mija. Y/N, thank you for everything.”

Patria clings to her mother while Minerva strokes her head. The reunion is sweet and you’re thankful.

Scores of Nerudans shout in revelry over the mission’s success, for Patria’s safety, and for their country. Men shake your hands while women kiss your cheeks, passing you between them in a show of gratitude. When the Nerudan army returns, a roar of applause greets them in total celebration for their true heroes.

HYDRA’s plan to divide these people only brought them closer together.

Across the room stand Minerva and Márquez, the diplomat and the soldier, existing in perfect harmony. It gives you hope for the future of the nation. For yourself.

What is a Renaissance woman if not a woman of warring opposites?

There’s plenty to learn from the remarkable people before you, but in this moment you’re stunned by the realization that, like Neruda, you don’t have to choose between the two parts of who you are.

You can be the woman who dives out of airplanes behind enemy lines. You can be the woman who sits at conference tables and negotiates peace for foreign governments. You can play the piano and shoot tequila and wear heels and rock t-shirts.

I don’t have to be any one thing.

While you mull over the possibilities of your new life, Sam and Steve walk through the front doors of the hospital.

Steve.

The man who seems to understand all of the things that make you you.

Sam gets to you first. “You were like a fuckin’ phoenix comin’ outta the fire like that!”

He pulls you into his arms and warmth washes over you. Two very close calls almost took both of you out in a span of 24 hours.

“You know I like a dramatic entrance.” You wink at Sam before looking over his shoulder to find Steve’s gaze fixed upon you. Sam must feel a bit like a third wheel because he leaves the two of you in favor of celebrating with the others.

“That was quite the fight.” Your smile is teasing, almost coy, as you poke his chest. “Told you I could manage the rescue on my own.”

Steve’s expression is soft and filled with awe as he looks over you. Clothes singed and skin sooty, you are indeed a phoenix that has risen from the ashes. It’s like he can hardly believe you’re standing in front of him.

“Before... I was going to tell you. I was going to say…” Steve’s stumbling over himself and it so obviously frustrates him. Biting your lip, you wait for his next words, unsure of what they could be. “...and then the fight and I almost lost you before I got the chance....”

He breathes out and you breathe in.

Could he feel the way I do?

“I’m in love with you, Y/N. And I have a feeling that things are going to get a lot worse before they get better so I couldn’t let another minute go by without telling you.”

The power returns and the city sparkles once again in its light as Steve leans in to kiss you. When he pauses to rest his forehead against yours, you whisper back, “I’m in love with you, too.”

The festivities have moved into the streets. Couples are dancing and children are playing in commemoration of Neruda’s second liberation, this time from a more invisible enemy. Patria sits in your lap as you talk elections with Minerva and Márquez while Sam and Steve chat with a couple of the soldiers.

The war is far from won, Mosley is still at large, but you allow yourself this brief moment of happiness.

#Steve Rogers x Reader #Steve Rogers x you #Steve Rogers x y/n #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers fanfiction #call sign: renaissance

243 notes · View notes

the-jade-cross · 4 years ago

Text

Knight of the Forest - Chapter IX

From where she stood perched on the seamstress’s little crate box, Lillia felt like she was on a pedestal and it frightened her. In a few days she would be standing before the whole court swearing her love and Fidelity to the man of her dreams and she was positive that she would mess up, skip a word or worse, drop something! Wouldn't it be terrible if she tripped over her gown as ser Jaime escorted her to the altar?

Lillia cringed at the thought. At least the wedding ceremony would only be an hour long at the most. She would be married to Loras for the rest of her life! How would she be able to even share a meal with him without saying something stupid? She wished she had had longer to get her nerves under control but when Maya and Oberyn announced that they would be having a long engagement, Lillia and Loras's marriage had been moved from three weeks to three days in the future!

“ you look absolutely stunning my lady,” the seamstress assured her, “ the wedding gown will be ready by tomorrow afternoon! Now for the other dresses.”

Lillia hopped down from the box once the woman finished measuring her and approached the table where the seamstress and her team had drawn up some sketches of different outfits. As was custom, a newlywed bride would be outfitted new gowns for her wedded life but Lillia had somehow managed to swindle Ser Jaime into talking to a few people and instead of thirty separate new outfits, Lillia had managed to only order six. Two everyday dresses, a nightgown, two party dresses and a dress for cold climate.

The girl studied the drawings and she suddenly came to realize why Margaery loved dressing people up against their will. Every one of the dresses were unique in color, design and cut. Lillia knew that Mace Tyrell would be expecting them to be happy in their marriage together even if the love within was one sided and he would expect grandchildren and Lillia knew she would not get pregnant unless she could entice Loras into her bed and what better way to do that than wearing a low cut dress? Or nightgown... But what was the point of an enticing nightgown if Loras was not enticed to join her in her room? So both the nightgown and one of the dresses?

It had better be one of the daily dresses or she would be seen as a regular whore by everyone if she wore a low cut dress to a party. Why was picking outfits out so difficult and trying on the brain!? Finally she snatched up a lovely but simple green dress drawing.

“I like this one.” she told the seamstress.

The woman beamed and went to agree when a third voice cut in and made both Lillia and the seamstress turn. There stood Loras with his arms lazily crossed over his chest and a smirk on his lips as he leant against the door frame.

“I rather like the dress you are wearing at the moment.” he said.

Lillia looked down at her attire and blushed Crimson when she realized what she was wearing. The dress was cut so low and fitted so tightly that her breasts were half visible and pushed up so that they were pronounced. The dress ended at her knees revealing her bare legs and feet and the fabric was so thin that you could see the color of her skin!

“ these are my undergarments!” she squeaked at him, crossing her arms over her chest as the seamstress assisted her in pulling on a very thick cotton robe.

Loras his eyes widen in shock before he smirked, doing a ridiculously good job at not appearing flustered or turned on by the rather revealing outfit that his bride to be was garbed in. He walked over to the two women until he was towering over the very flustered Lillia.

“ well, it is nice to know that my future wife has very tempting taste in nightgowns. Madame, be a dear and select the rest of my lady’s outfits based on what you feel she would like. My lady, would you care to join me on a walk?”

Lillia paused and considered her fiance suspiciously for a moment before she grabbed the dress that she had worn earlier that day and dove behind the curtain to change. She emerged a moment later and followed the beaming Loras out of the room period it was a short calm a quiet walk down the corridor to the battlements and Lillia wondered if Loras had just asked her on a walk for the sake of being nice and not because he actually wished to speak with her.

“ I hope you don't mind that once we are married we may have to live in Kings Landing for some time period I am only a knight and third in line for Highgarden. My father assures me that he has a plan but until I discover if his plan actually exists, we will have to live here.”

Lillia nodded, “that sounds reasonable. I have lived here for a few years and so far I have remained sane alive. After all, Evelyn and Ser Jaime lived here together when they were married for a few months and they also managed to share a room without complaint so I feel that we will be able to manage just fine.”

Loras stopped walking and turned to the girl, “do... do you see us ever being like that? I mean... the perfect couple who love each other's company and share bedroom... do you see us like that?”

Lillia tilted her head as she pondered the question before shrugging, “ I like to imagine us like that but I am not sure if it would be the way that we would live. After all, Willas and Garlan complain daily of your snoring habits in their letters and I do happen to have powers of the earth. I may attack you with your breakfast peas in the morning at the table.”

Loras chuckled and smirked, “you know you love me. You would not want your husband dented now would you?”

Lillia's face went grave. A fine time to use a figure of speech that was more real and true than Loras realized. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and began to walk off.

“ do not underestimate my morning grumpy moods.”

Loras trotted over and caught up to the girl before grabbing her arm and turning her to look at him. “Lillia... you are important to me... you always have been and I would like to think that you care something for me too... I truly wish for this marriage to work out not just because it will make our parents happy because I want you to be happy married to me since I know that I will be happy with you as my wife.”

Lillia smiled softly but felt her heart stop period of course he cared about her even if that was the extent of his affections. He would be happy to wed any girl who would feed him, clothe him and bear him children. It just so happened that she was the girl he would be married to and expect those things from. She reached out and left her arm through his.

“ then let us make the most of this marriage and try to make each other happy.” she suggested.

Loras beamed and cradled her hand with his free one period “deal. On the condition that there will be no modeling of vegetables or by vegetables.”

Lillia giggled and found herself beaming, happier than she had been in a very long time... Even if Loras still did not love her back.

******

“My lady,” the maid Maria called, attempting to rouse the heavy sleeper.

Lillia rolled over from where she had been laying out spread like a pancake on her bed. Her hair was sticking out in all places making it look like a beaver had made its home on her scalp. Maria smiled at the girl’s disheveled state before she began opening the drapes and pulling out the things required to prepare the girl for her day.

“You are getting married today my lady!” the girl said, a huge smile lighting up her face as Lillia swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up groggily. “Alice is bringing your wedding dress up in a moment and once you are dressed, we will get your hair styled. What are you considering? Up or down?”

Lillia shrugged as she grabbed her thin lace robe and wrapped it around herself as she yawned, “I am not sure… Marg…Queen Margaery gave me a very detailed explanation of how having your hair up or down can clash with a dress… I am not sure what hairstyle would best suit the gown.”

Maria smiled, “Well then why don’t we get you washed up and we can take the dress to Queen Margaery’s room. That way you can get her opinion and since her chambers are closer to the great hall, you will not have to walk as far in the gown.”

“That sounds perfect,” Lillia stated, beaming at Maria.

About an hour later the girl was wrapped in a thick robe as Maria escorted her down the corridor to Margaery’s room. Tommen had left earlier to discuss the ceremony with Tywin and Cersei and hopefully telling them to not cause a scene. The moment Lillia stepped through the door of the bedroom, Margaery practically threw her into a chair and got Maria and Alice started on doing her hair while Margaery and her handmaiden Rose set about laying out the gown.

“I’m sorry that Maya and Nanteza couldn’t be here for this,” Margaery told the girl when the room became uncommonly silent.

Lillia smiled sadly at her in the mirror as Alice continued to pin up her wild curls. “It’s alright… they had things to do that couldn’t wait.”

After all of her curls were pinned up and out of her face, decorated by beautiful pink peach blossoms from outside Margaery’s bedroom window, the three-woman worked together to slip the gown on from Lillia’s feet up. That is until they realized just how soiled Lillia’s feet were, and they had to take a pitstop to give them a thorough and rather painful scrubbing. After finally getting the dress on and laced up as well as finally finishing buttoning the 200 pearl buttons on the back of the dress, Margaery went digging through her collection of shoes until she found a pair of white sandals. She knew that Lillia hated closed toe shoes as well as heels which ruled out the majority of Margaery’s shoes.

“We should have remembered to tell the seamstress to prepare you shoes as well!” Margaery huffed. “I just forgot because… well…”

“I never wear shoes,” Lillia finished for her.

Margaery chuckled but when she reached into one of her small boxes containing the millions of jewelry pieces she had accumulated, she frowned.

“I can’t find that pin,” she muttered, “You know… the pin you use to help hold two pieces together. It has a needle and then a little cap.”

While Maria and Alice began scouring the whole room for the pin and Rose was trying to keep Margaery from freaking out and bursting into tears, Lillia felt that this was the perfect time to escape the flutter and feathers. After all, she had forgotten her necklace that Jaime had procured for her and she dearly wished to wear it since it would go well with her neckless dress. She trotted down the hallway, the embroidered beads on her long but slender dress tinkling against each other in the absolutely silent corridor. Everyone must be downstairs preparing for the celebration which made the girl both relieved and also terrified.

Lillia paused when she reached her door, hand hovering over the doorhandle. Perhaps if she dropped in and said hello to Loras? She weighed the options. When Lillia had told her mother that it was Northern custom that the groom would not see the bride until she was escorted to the alter since it was bad luck to see the groom or bride on the wedding day, Lysa Arryn had whipped the girl over the knuckles for reading such “trash” and had told her there was no such thing as luck. Lillia pondered whether or not she should hold fast to the custom but decided that since she was definitely in the South, no one would care.

Padding down the hallway in her bare feet, careful as to not trip over the long dress that hugged her curves elegantly, Lillia rapped her knuckles against the door softly. She received no answer so she wondered if Loras was still asleep or perhaps he had already left. Lifting the handle, she poked her head inside.

“Loras?” she called softly.

Lillia heard loud and urgent rustling to her left and she peered around the door, only for her eyes to widen and her hand slip from the handle, allowing the door to swing all the way open. There lying in his bed was Loras, stark naked and at his side… Olyver.

Loras’s eyes were just as wide, if not wider than Lillia’s as he looked upon his bride to be, garbed in creamy white with her curls pulled back neatly to reveal her smooth skin which had suddenly lost all of its usual rosy color. When Loras heard people say that their face “fell”, he had no idea what that necessarily meant until he saw the look on Lillia’s face. It was like her body lost all point of life, her limbs hanging limp, the smile gone from her face but there was no frown there… but disbelief and her eyes no longer were crinkled in joy or pinched in anger… but lax in misery.

“Oh god, Lill…” the man started as he reached for his trousers.

Lillia swung on her heel and surprisingly for a girl in a floor length gown, she was running incredibly fast. When Loras finally managed to get his feet into his trousers and he rushed to the door, there was not a single sign of the girl anywhere. Instead of chasing after her like he knew he should, he went searching for the rest of his clothes and began to snap orders at Olyver to make the bed and make himself scarce.

Meanwhile Lillia tore down the hallway until she reached Margaery’s room and she flew through the door, closing it harshly behind her and leaning against it as her only life support. The three handmaidens and Margaery lifted their heads at the noise but the smiles on their faces melted when they saw the tears streaming down Lillia’s face.

“Oh Lils!” Margaery cried, rushing to the girl’s side and pulling her into a secure hug. “What on earth happened?”

Lillia shook her head and Margaery motioned to the maids to make their exit. Once they were alone, Margaery pulled away and looked Lillia in the eye.

“You need to tell me what happened! Who made you cry?” she insisted.

Lillia sighed shakily as she wiped her face with her bare hands. “If in the next couple of years, your father asks why Loras and I have not had children yet, you have my full permission to tell him that Loras will be banned from my bed chambers until I am 50!”

As Lillia pulled away from Margaery and went hunting in the wash room for some cool water to splash on her face, Margaery groaned. Of all days to mess up Loras, why today? The Tyrell girl stepped out of the bedroom and was just in time to see her beast of a brother running towards her.

“Where is she?” the boy demanded but Margaery crossed her arms over her chest and glared daggers at the lad.

“You’re lucky she didn’t rail you into the ground! You are not allowed to see her until the ceremony and I would not be surprised if she called off the wedding today!”

#got #game of thrones #Jaime Lannister #loras #Loras Tyrell x oc #Loras Tyrell x reader #Loras tyrell

3 notes · View notes

wondergal2001 · 4 years ago

Text

Little Lamb: Part Three

When the world finally stopped ringing and spinning, August finally understood what the hell just happened.

A bomb just went off. Two bombs to be exact. One at the front and back entrances. Bombs that were rigged to go off when the doors were opened.

Bombs that an experienced secret agent should have seen from a mile away.

Quickly stopping himself from feeling self-pity, August attempted to contact his team members, secretly hoping no one had died because of his carelessness.

"IS EVERYONE OKAY? Hello? Is anybody on comms?" August questioned his absent team, he was beginning to panic.

Not that he would ever tell anyone that.

As he got no response except the eerie silence of nothingness, August began to run across the sandy yard, up until he reached the front entrance where he could now see the damage the bomb had caused. The whole front entrance of the building had been destroyed, leaving a large gaping wound in the building wall. The bomb had left scorch marks across the sand, launching debris everywhere. August could see the bodies of his teammates sprawled all around the front entrance.

There were bodies 10 maybe 20 feet away from where the doors used to be, the closer he got to the building entrance the state of the bodies began to become increasingly more grotesque. As August was 10 feet away from entering the building he saw a body missing an arm, 5 feet away he saw just a torso, and just as he was entering the building there were no bodies.

Just blood and ash.

Holy shit. August could only assume that the back entrance looked the same. Like the trained agent he was, August strayed away from the fallen bodies of his teammates and carefully entered the building with caution.

If this place had hidden bombs who knows what other tricks they have hidden up their sleeves. August thought to himself as he walked into the building with his gun raised, making sure to look at every possible place an enemy target could be hiding waiting to finish him off.

From the inside, the bomb didn't seem to have been as effective. Everything seemed to be in relative order with only some broken glass and dust blanketing the ground.

August travelled about 15 feet into the building when he came upon a room that seemed to be a make-shift office. There was an old desk with files and loose papers sprawled across the top and 3 large filing cabinets behind it. As August approached the desk he began to notice what kinds of documents were on the table, they looked to be pictures and profiles. Just as he picked one up to take a closer look it started.

The screaming.

As August briskly walked through the long hallway following the sounds of women screaming, guns being fired, and what August could identify from experience, as bodies dropping to the floor.

As the screaming increased to wailing, August began to run down the long hall to where he heard the god-awful sounds coming from. What started as 10 maybe 20 screams when he first entered, was now only a singular voice when August finally reached his intended destination.

He was just on the edge of the doorway, leaning against the wall that kept him hidden. This allowed August a few seconds to pause and asses the situation and make a plan.

But as a small, fragile voice pleads for, who August could only assume was her attacker to stop and get away from her. August knew he had to act now or the only living people in the building would be him and this last living (well he won't be for long) dirtbag.

August spun into the room, gun raised pointed at the head of the target, his finger on the trigger of his gun, ready to pull the trigger and end a life in the blink of an eye.

"Stop, raise your hands above your head and slowly turn around," August commanded. His voice cold, commanding and unemotional, as if seeing the dead bodies of at least 30 women ages varying from, what he would guess to be, teenagers to middle-aged women didn't affect him in the slightest.

The rugged man in front of him tensed up at August's voice. He became frozen, paralyzed like a marble statue in a museum. The man's front was turned away from August, so he could not see his face, but from what August could see, the man appeared to be around 6 foot 2, with a wide frame that implied strength. While assessing the enemy in front of him, August spotted a pair of extremely thin, bruised, female legs further in front of the man.

Before August could get a good look at the last remaining victim, the man, with speed August did not expect him to have, swooped down and grabbed the woman's arms and hauled her up so she was now standing pressed up against him in a choke hold with a gun pressed tightly against her temple, facing August.

At the sight of the weapon and the hostage, August readjusted his aim so it was perfectly aligned right between his target's eyes.

As he was now facing August, he could now see that this man was around 35 years old, with tanned skin, a thin face, bushy eyebrows, and dirty skin. From the way this man was holding the gun August new he was not dealing with some low-life, criminal punk who had never shot a gun before. No, this man knew what he was doing.

August was so busy analyzing the man he completely forgot about the hostage he was threatening. Not to mention he completely blocked out the man screaming at him.

"Lower your weapon or I'll shoot her right now. Don't think I won't 'cause as you can see I will not hesitate to kill the little whore," the unidentified man said in an easily identifiable Spanish accent.

At the threat to her life, the girl began to whimper and shake in fear for her life. The small sound seemed to slap August in the face and he finally came back into the situation but by that time August's target had repositioned the trembling girl so that his forehead was just peaking out from behind the girls head, ruining August's chance of a clean, kill shot. It seemed August had to improvise.

"Listen here you fuckhole. You do not get to make any demands. You have zero leverage against me. I don't give a flying fuck about what happens to the little princess. All I care about is ending your pathetic, miserable existence. Kill her for all I care, in fact, do it. It'll make it that much easier to kill you." August spoke with a hard voice, completely void of any human emotion. He was lying of course, as much as he didn't seem to care at the beginning of this mission, he wasn't about to let a girl lose her life to this scumbag. His speech was all a rouse.

The girl's eyes seemed to widen almost comically, and all hope of being rescued and saved faded from her eyes as it appeared that her saviour wasn't going to be saving her at all. The girl wasn't the only one stunned by August's exclamation. The cruel man was completely dumbfounded that this agent could not care less about his hostage. He was so stunned that he let his guard down just for a split second.

But that split second was all August needed, as he pulled the trigger.

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

So any thoughts?

I'd love some feedback guys!

#august walker #mission impossible #henry cavill #littlelamb

15 notes · View notes

shedreamsofstars · 4 years ago

Text

the curse of oikawa

look, i fell deep into oikawa tik tok and there is no escape. this is just a random crackfic based on everybody's favourite oikawa meme. spoilers ahead <3

... xxx ...

When his son tells him about his day at school, Tōru Oikawa is hit with tormenting flashbacks to his high school days and wonders if his 'curse' has transferred over to his child.

... xxx ...

"Papa!"

Tōru Oikawa bent down, physically preparing himself as a little dark-haired monster stormed down the hallway towards him. His son's wild hair was so reminiscent of his own that sometimes he wondered if he was actually just staring directly into the past.

He let out a low sound of surprise as the little boy collided with him, wasting no time in hugging him tightly as a pair of tiny arms wrapped around his neck. He adjusted his posture, kneeling on his bad knee as the boy pulled away. It hurt a little, but for his son he would suffer any amount of pain.

"How's my favourite little monster?" he cooed, ruffling the messy hair on his head in a way he knew the boy absolutely hated.

"I'm fine," his son said with a giggle, squirming out of his grasp and setting his hair back to its usual state. With the boy distracted, Tōru took the chance to scoop him up into his arms -there was only so much time before he got too big for it after all.

"Just fine, huh," he said as he made his way into the living room and settled onto the sofa. "Because I heard from your mother that you had a really exciting day at school today." A warm feeling spread through Tōru's chest as the little boy's eyes went wide with delight.

Where everything else about his son screamed 'mini Tōru Oikawa' from his hair to his mannerisms, the boy had inherited his mother's eyes and Tōru loved that he could see his wife in their child.

"I met a really cool Volleyball player today!"

"I hate to break it to you kid, but you already met when you were born," Tōru scoffed lightly.

"Not you papa," the boy giggled, clearly used to his father's self-centred jokes. "One who played for Japan in the Olympics!"

"The Olympics, huh," Tōru said, his interest piqued. He knew some of the current members of the Japanese Olympic team, and Iwaizumi was coaching them, so he couldn't help but wonder who had come to his son's school.

He knew that both Hinata and Kageyama were playing for them now, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine Tobio giving a rousing speech to children that didn't end up with half of them in tears. And Shōyō would turn the entire school into a disaster zone worthy of the national news.

So who …?

"He was really cool, and I even got to play some volleyball with him."

"Oh, really. So what did this 'oh so cool Japanese volleyball player' think of the god tier skills you inherited from your Papa?" he asked, unable to mask the jealousy in his tone – not that his little boy noticed.

"He said I was amazing!"

"Too right you are. Didn't I tell you your pops was the best teacher around?!"

"Uhuh. He thinks I could be just as incredible as you are when I'm older."

"He said I was incredible?" Tōru said, slightly flattered at the compliment. Now he definitely knew it wasn't Kageyama.

"But to be the best, I have to make sure I keep practicing so I can go to Shiratorizawa just like he did."

"Shira … tori … zawa?"

Tōru's brain collapsed in on itself with that one name.

For a moment he completely forgot he was in the middle of a conversation with his son as a face that had tormented his waking days for years came to the forefront of his mind.

Wakatoshi Ushijima. One-time captain and ace for Shiratorizawa. All time nemesis of Tōru Oikawa.

Even now, Tōru could perfectly conjure up his haunting stoic face and that monotone voice, taunting him with back handed compliments.

'You should have come to Shiratorizawa…'

"Hey Papa, you should have gone to Shiratorizawa. Then you could have played for Japan in the Olympics too!" The little boy said, curling into him as he got distracted by the show he had been watching earlier on the television.

Tōru's blood was boiling. It wasn't enough for Ushijima to throw those words at him back in high school, now he was getting his own son to hit him with them. As if the fact that he had even spoken to the guy wasn't bad enough in itself, he now had to deal with second-hand taunts.

He needed to do something about this.

"Ya-ho, Iwa-chan!" Tōru called happily into his phone, voice too high for it to be anywhere close to genuine.

"No," Hajime responded instantly, his voice full of displeasure.

"What?" Tōru said innocently. "I missed you. You're not happy I called?"

"You didn't miss me Oikawa. You're calling to bitch about Ushijima."

"Damn, how did you know?" Tōru sighed, hoping his ruse would hold out longer than it did. To be honest, he should have expected as much with Iwaizumi.

"I saw him talking to your kid at school today. Figured I'd get a call from you at some point."

Tōru sat up straight, his son making a noise of protest at the sudden movement. "Sorry," he murmured to the child before returning to his phone call. "Wait, you saw him talking to my son and you didn't think to stop him?"

"No. Now go away, I'm busy."

"Ugh," he groaned. "Can't you at least give me the guys number."

Oikawa was met with an unending dial tone as Iwaizumi cut the call on him. Frustrated, he threw his phone carelessly on the couch beside him. His gaze drifted down to the mess of curls currently cozied up on his lap and his anger cooled almost instantly.

He thought he had escaped his old nemesis after high school, but it seemed his son was now destined to face the same onslaught from the guy as he did.

Curse that bastard Ushiwaka.

... xxx ...

i don't know what this was, but i had fun time. also, sorry if some of the stuff is inaccurate, i haven't finished the series yet but i also couldn't get this idea out of my head. hope you enjoyed regardless <3<3<3

#haikyuu #toru oikawa #oikawa #haikyuu fanfiction #iwaizumi #ushijima

8 notes · View notes

amillionsmiles · 5 years ago

Text

vieni a vivere (Steve/Natasha)

Title: vieni a vivere Summary: Sometimes Steve would choose to sit in the corner of a piazza and people-watch, sketching. Natasha would venture off on her own, ducking into colorful leather shops, chasing the dribble of her melting gelato with her tongue. Once, she stopped on the street for a caricature artist. It amused her, to be studied and then so deliberately exaggerated. / Natasha, Steve, and a whirlwind tour of Italy. A/N: This is an AU in which Clint sacrifices himself at Vormir instead and Steve doesn’t time jump at the end. It’s been languishing in my drafts for the better part of the past 8 months but here it is!

{Read and review here} or continue under the cut.

“Natasha,” said Clint, every syllable another twitch of his fingers, his hand working itself free from her grip. “I’m not saving you from dying. I’m asking you to live.”

There was no safehouse in which to disappear from grief.

So Natasha went to Missouri, where Laura Barton took one look at her and knew. A flock of birds carved through the clear blue sky. The tall, dry stalks of wheat stood at attention. Cooper, Lila, and Nate came running in from the fields to find their mother and their Auntie Nat collapsed on the porch, holding each other, rocking.

“I had a hunch,” Laura admitted later, after they had done their best to tuck the children into bed. “When he didn’t call.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha tried for the third, fourth, fifth time, the bile rising in her throat again. “We tried so hard. I wanted—”

“Five years.” Laura rest her head against the wall. She looked as young as the day Natasha had met her, except for her eyes. They fixated just over Natasha’s shoulder, on the family photo framed above the dresser. “It didn’t feel like that. You know I wouldn’t believe it, if not for… he finished the shed while we were gone.”

“Never could keep himself still,” said Natasha, thinking of Tokyo and the rain and the erratic dot she’d followed on the holo-map at her desk. The gentler things, too: bandaging her wounds that first time, when she’d been nothing but startled and feral. Rushing to hold a three-year-old Cooper as he climbed Clint like a tree. Dragging the couch one way, then another, then back again.

“Will you stay?” Laura’s voice broke her from the memory.

Every part of the house creaked with his presence. The bookshelves, the floorboards, the bottom drawer he’d stubbornly cleared out the very first time he’d brought her by because it’s you, Natasha, damnit, now hand me your things. It hurt, but it was a hurt she owed him gladly, and Natasha closed her eyes and let it seep into her bones.

“Yes.”

Lila had Clint’s steady hands, the same way of looking down her nose and tilting her chin back. Cooper had his squint and his hair. Nate had his smile.

For a time it was enough, being their aunt. Reading picture books. Cutting the crusts off sandwiches. Sometimes Nate woke up in the middle of the night crying for his dad and Natasha would lay there, listening as Laura tried to comfort him. It got better. It got worse.

“Nobody in this house blames you for what happened,” Laura said from the doorway, watching Natasha fold a shirt and tuck it away in her duffel.

“I know.” The arrow necklace at her throat burned.

“Will you come back?” Lila asked as they bid their goodbyes. She was getting tall, the top of her head nearly at Natasha’s collarbone. Natasha ran a hand down the braid she’d tied for Lila that morning and closed her eyes, squeezing the girl closer.

“Promise,” she said, because she’d helped bring this world back and she’d be damned if she let it do anything to stop her.

On the way to the airport, she called Sam.

“Journaling helps.”

They sat in Sam’s office. The oak furniture gleamed warm and familiar. He had a bruise on his right cheek, but other than that he looked healthy. Fulfilled, even. Natasha glanced at the shield propped behind his desk; Sam followed her gaze toward it and nodded, leaning forward.

“You know what he said when he gave it to me?”

“What?”

“‘We got the world back, but it’s a new one. Maybe I need something new, too.’” He tilted his head.

“I have a list,” Natasha said quietly. “Not of targets. Places.”

Sam smiled. “There you go. That’s a start.”

She found Steve at a sunny gym studio in Brooklyn teaching a class of 30-year-old women how to punch.

“Be honest, now,” she said as they entered the juice and salad bar right next door, “how many dates have you been asked on?”

“None,” Steve said, making it a point to study the menu even though Natasha’s reconnaissance had shown her that he came here every day after work. “I keep things strictly professional.”

They found a table by one of the windows. Natasha took a sip of her smoothie and wrinkled her nose—a bit heavy on the carrots, but it tasted healthy, at least.

“Does this new job of yours come with vacation?”

Steve set down his fork, lettuce and chicken drizzled with peanut sauce still stuck on its tines. The gray instructor’s V-neck looked good on him, the studio’s logo printed neatly in black.

“What’s this about, Nat?”

“I’m thinking of traveling for a while.” She focused on the straw in front of her, rolling it between index finger and thumb. “I’m trying to figure out who to be without… all of it.”

Steve leaned back in his chair. His finger tapped against the table once, twice.

He had a right to say no, Natasha told herself. When they’d told each other to get lives, neither had stipulated what that had to look like. Soul-searching was probably more effective when done alone, anyways.

But that didn’t stop the surge of relief when he said, “I’m in.”

The park swing squeaked under her weight.

“Sorry to take him from you.”

Bucky half-squinted at her, then swept his gaze farther out. They had come a long way since Soviet slugs and the freeway, Sam’s car.

“Nah, he needs this as much as you do. Just do me a favor and bring him back in one piece, will you?”

Natasha nudged him with her shoe. Bucky scuffed the gravel right back.

“Take care of yourself,” he added, a little softer. “Don’t let it chase you down.”

Natasha hadn’t flown internationally in a good, old-fashioned commercial airline for years, and she planned on enjoying every minute of the eight-hour journey. For the first hour and a half she busied herself finishing Ancillary Justice on her kindle, Dean Martin crooning Mambo Italiano in her ear through the in-flight music selection.

She’d chosen Italy because she liked the way the language burst free of your mouth. That, and she appreciated the scrappiness of the country: a patchwork history of kingdoms, duchies, and republics expanding and contracting, managing to unify; the fierce sense of local identity married with proud celebration of a Roman past. Natasha cared little for regimes, but she admired the people who lived through them.

“Last time I was in Italy was 1943,” Steve said on hour 3, peeling back the plastic wrap on the salmon and penne they’d be given for dinner. “I only really got to see the military camps, though.”

“Well, I promise not to make you deliver any rousing speeches,” said Natasha. “This trip is strictly pleasure. No business.”

“Not gonna argue with that.” He caught her reading the captions off his screen and took the earbud from his left ear, offering it to her. “You know you’ve got your own monitor, right?”

“Shut up, Rogers, I’m trying to watch this movie.”

Cinque Terre looked like someone had taken a grandmother’s box of buttons and threads and sent it tumbling into the sea. The houses sprawled on top of each other in an assortment of confectionary colors—pale blues and pinks, lemon yellow, deep red.

On the trail down from Vernazza to Corniglia, Natasha stopped to admire Monterossa in the distance, the sun beating down between her shoulder blades. Steve stood beside her, hands on his hips as he surveyed the landscape. He cut a striking figure with his CamelBak; more than one group of hikers passing them by craned their necks to spare a second glance. It wasn’t because of the Cap aura, though. He just looked—handsome. Nice. The kind of guy you’d stop at the side of the road for if he held his thumb out as a hitchhiker.

A mosquito landed on his bicep and Natasha reached over to smack it, flicking its remains off the palm of her hand.

“Can’t have any of these guys flying around with your super serum in their bodies,” she teased. “What do you think would happen?”

Steve cracked a grin. “They’d probably be even more stubborn and harder to kill.”

Loose gravel crunched on the path beside them. A group of elderly—Natasha guessed they must be in their early 80s—walked by. The man in the front wore a navy baseball cap and held a rust orange walking stick. He was telling a story about his trek along the Camino de Santiago but paused to appraise them.

“Stopped already?”

“We’re pacing ourselves,” Natasha said cheerfully.

“Don’t let us old geezers beat you!” he called over his shoulder, continuing on; one of the women in the group joked, “If I sat down to rest I think I’d throw out my hip getting back up,” and the rest of them laughed, the sound swallowed by the green trees and cliffside terraces as they rounded the bend. Natasha wondered, not for the first time, if this was what having parents and grandparents would have felt like.

“Should we catch up to them and tell them your actual age?”

In response, Steve hopped off the rock. “Come on, Romanoff,” he said, and for a moment they were the newly minted leaders of a ragtag team of superheroes again—the clipboard’s weight in her hand, their footsteps in sync as they went out to meet Wanda and Vision and the rest—then let’s whip them into shape. Who else could she have stood by all these years?

“I’m not getting any younger!” called Steve, already at the bottom of the hill, the asshole—rolling her eyes, Natasha followed.

The dream always started in the water.

The purple dunes around her brought her splashing to her feet. Above her, the eclipsed sun winked, and she was back on Vormir’s unforgiving peak, shoulder screaming in pain as she tried to reel Clint’s dead weight up.

Natasha—

No, no, no—you bastard, don’t let go, don’t you dare let go—

Like a fish, Clint’s hand wriggled out of hers. The cry tore free of her throat and she clawed at the air, fingernails digging into—

“Nat. Nat.”

An arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up. The rocking motion brought her to her senses and she turned, burrowing her nose into Steve’s shoulder, needing to be anywhere else. He smelled like cotton and lavender, courtesy of their Airbnb host’s shower gel, the fabric of his tank top well-worn and familiar, more gray than white in the darkness.

“Hey,” he murmured.

The last time he’d held her this close they’d been in a bunker in New Jersey, hoping to survive a missile. Somehow, it seemed like a simpler time.

Deep breaths, Natasha. Count to ten. She did it in Russian, then twice more in French and Italian. When it no longer felt as if her heart were plummeting through her stomach, she pulled back.

“You good?” Steve pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead, eyes searching hers.

“Yeah.” It came out strained—a sound that wanted to be a laugh but couldn’t. “It’s just—” She raised her hand and made a twisting motion with her fingers. “You know.”

Steve leaned back against the headboard to give her space. A small strip of carpet and a bedside table separated their beds, and Natasha noted the disarray of his sheets, the evidence of haste. None of it betrayed by his face, which adopted a careful expression as he studied her now.

“I have a question. You don’t have to answer it right this moment.”

“What is it.”

“This trip, Nat… is it for yourself? Or is it for Clint?”

I’m not saving you from dying, Natasha. I’m asking you to live.

Trick question, Rogers, Natasha wanted to say. There is no me—the way I am now—without Clint.

“I just need to know. We promised we’d always be honest with each other.”

He was hurting, too. When they’d first been partnered together all those long years ago, Natasha had been drawn to his loneliness; it had fascinated her, the idea of America’s golden boy left behind by everyone he’d known. Now she knew better, of course. The dry humor and the rule-breaking, the furrow between those blue eyes, the black and white photograph tucked away in a pocket watch, kept close to the heart.

“What about you?” she asked. “Who are you traveling to leave behind?”

Steve considered, looking to the side. She tried to follow his gaze but couldn’t make out what he was looking at in the dark, if maybe he was just admiring the paisley wallpaper instead.

“My old self,” he said, finally. “He’s a stubborn bastard, though. Keeps running to catch up.”

Natasha cracked a smile. “Mine likes waiting in the shadows.”

“Let’s make a deal, then,” said Steve, extending a hand. “Whichever of us gets to the other side of this first, we pull the other one along, okay?”

She took it and squeezed and thought: don’t let go.

“It’s not very high up,” Steve said, frowning at the balcony.

Natasha adjusted the braid over her left shoulder. “People were shorter back then. What, does the lack of height kill the romance for you?”

“Not exactly.”

He was right, though: Juliet’s balcony was little more than a pink stone box jutting out into the courtyard, ivy crawling up the wall next to it. They’d passed through a graffiti-covered and gum-strewn wall to get to it, a little tunnel off the wider, smoother street of Via Capello. Natasha liked that about Verona: the streets were clean and broad, yet the city was still small enough that you felt cradled by it. Charming.

In the interest of being less conspicuous, Steve had worn a baseball cap, but that didn’t stop a few people from sneaking photos. Sunnily, he overlooked them, choosing to focus on the bronze statue in the corner, polished golden by the touch of thousands of hands.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, reading the informational plaque nearby, “touching Juliet’s right breast is supposed to bring good luck?”

“In love, specifically,” Natasha clarified. “You should do it. When’s the last time you went on a date?”

“Not this again, Nat.”

“I’m just saying, we brought the other half of Earth’s population back. Your odds are no longer as shitty. Not that they were that bad to begin with.”

“Oh, yeah?” The smile he leveled at her was disarming. It took her by surprise—ten years by his side, yet the supersoldier still had a few new tricks.

Deflecting, Natasha said: “Speaking of breasts, you know you grab your left boob when you’re laughing.”

Steve looked scandalized. “I do not.”

She reached over and twisted.

“Natasha.”

“For good luck,” she cackled, merciless, and darted away.

After fighting aliens, traveling to other galaxies, and resurrecting half of existence, these were the things Natasha believed in: warm pelmeni, a good dye job, and the quiet grandeur of churches, even if she wasn’t so sure about God. Florence’s church to capita ratio kept her plenty busy. It wasn’t that she was chasing salvation or forgiveness, necessarily. Just that stained glass and measured arches gave her a certain peace of mind, one she still struggled to reclaim at night.

She hadn’t realized how deeply it had infiltrated her routine until she and Steve checked into their Airbnb.

“There’s a couch in the main room,” said Steve as they eyed the sole bed.

It had become a sort of symbiosis. Steve got in his head during the day, so Natasha planned itineraries to keep them busy. Natasha mourned at night, so Steve comforted her. It happened frequently and without much discussion. Sometimes he went back to his own mattress, but more often, they drifted back to sleep alongside each other—so often, apparently, that her subconscious had stopped looking for two separate beds when she made reservations.

“We can share,” Natasha decided, tossing her duffel at the base of the bed and moving to check out the bathroom. “We’re adults.”

The old Natasha would have thought things over a little more, perhaps. Weighed the merits and drawbacks of this arrangement, what it meant to sleep beside but not sleep with. Especially Steve, who had a funny way of looking at her sometimes as she argued with street vendors or pulled them into random courtyards—a weighted pause, filled with equal parts exasperation, amusement, and an affection that Natasha hesitated to name. The new Natasha went to bed with her hair wet and a towel on her pillow and woke up with her cheek pressed against his bicep, Steve already alert and scrolling through his phone with his free hand. Upon sensing her stir, he glanced over, eyebrows slightly raised. If she weren’t so good at feigning nonchalance, she’d have blushed.

Instead, she probed: “What are you thinking, Rogers?”

“I’m thinking,” he said, setting his phone down and shifting to prop himself up on an elbow, “that we should talk about this thing between us.”

She wrinkled her nose. “‘Thing?’”

“Unless you’ve got a better name for it.”

“Here in the 21st century, we don’t care much for labels.”

“So I’ve been reading. The Atlantic paints a kind of grim landscape for love. Did you know that we’re in the middle of a sex recession?”

Natasha rolled over so that she was on her stomach, cheek pillowed on the backs of her hands. “Are you propositioning me right now, Steve?”

“No, but.” He shrugged, considering. “I hear friends with benefits is all the rage.”

Natasha laughed. “The ‘benefits’ part of that isn’t talking about retirement.”

Slowly, Steve blinked at her, the picture of feigned innocence. “Isn’t it?”

Natasha wasn’t stupid. The five years post-Snap had wrung it out of her, but she remembered flirting. For her, it had been a game. When needed, a weapon or a wall.

Steve, though. He meant what he gave. Subtle but honest: an invitation, there for the taking, if she wanted it.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. When Natasha had been younger, her list of wants was small: bread, water, the light of another day. Then they’d grown loftier: acceptance, redemption.

Steve smiled, and she thought that perhaps there was room for something in between.

They didn’t spend all their time together. Sometimes Steve would choose to sit in the corner of a piazza and people-watch, sketching. Natasha would venture off on her own, ducking into colorful leather shops, chasing the dribble of her melting gelato with her tongue. Once, she stopped on the street for a caricature artist. It amused her, to be studied and then so deliberately exaggerated.

“Hmph,” Steve grumbled later, examining the picture. “I could have drawn you for free.”

The light through the curtains created a glare on his tablet, which was open to the day’s crossword. Steve had started them as part of his cultural catch-up. Natasha often helped due to her arsenal of disparate factoids and interests, courtesy of all the covers she’d shuffled through over the years.

“Work in Italy,” Steve read. “Five letters.”

“Opera,” Natasha said, not missing a beat as she stirred some honey into her tea. The under-the-breath hm of satisfaction told her that she’d guessed correctly.

“We should see one.”

“Not a bad plan,” said Natasha, finally joining him at the small, tiled table near the window. “Are you feeling more Puccini or Verdi?”

“Nobody likes a know-it-all,” Steve said, though the smile playing on his lips told her otherwise.

“Funny,” Natasha quipped. “I thought that was why you kept me around.”

She went in a floor-length black gown. The old training said it was because black hid most stains, and knife and gun were easily stowed in a garter. But the truth was that Natasha had chosen it because she liked the way Steve’s eyes lingered on her just a bit longer, and the low-cut back meant she felt every callus on his palm when he put a hand to support her as they climbed up the stairs to their seats.

“You know I’ve done this before.”

“It crossed my mind once or twice.” Gallantly, Steve offered an arm. “Do you object?”

Somewhere, there was a movie like this—a swell of string music, a camera rolling. Steve’s bowtie sat as a dark knot at the base of his neck. You clean up well, Natasha had said earlier that evening, but what she’d meant was: I’m glad it’s you.

They settled in, the stage gilded and opulent. When in Rome, Natasha thought, the velvet seats plush against her back. She tapped her heels against the floor once, testing the acoustics of what she could hear. Two rows over, a French couple murmured to each other.

Natasha had attended operas before, as covers. And so, when the first deep note was sung, she looked to Steve. Saw the way he straightened and leaned forward slightly, as if someone had extended a hook into his chest and tugged him forward. An intensity overtook her, because in that moment he wasn’t supersoldier or teammate or partner, just achingly unguarded, human in a way that hurt. Human in a way that she could have.

When intermission came, she excused herself to the balcony to get some air. Happiness winded her. For so long, all her contentment had been inextricable from relief—at having been accepted, at having survived. To have it stand on its own felt impossible; a gauntlet not meant for her to wear, a feeling she couldn’t possibly hold in this way.

“Nat.” Steve’s voice sounded from behind her. “Are you okay?”

Blinking through watery eyes, she turned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go all Pretty Woman on you.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth tightened and he took a step forward. He wore disappointment well. She could appreciate it even if she hated that it was being directed toward her.

“Don’t do that, Nat,” he said, quiet.

“Do what?”

“Play pretend. Wasn’t that the point of this trip? To find out who you were underneath it all? To just let yourself be?” And oh, hadn’t he said the same thing to Tony, when they were younger and snapping at each other’s throats, and how did she balance that against a world in which Tony was dead. What did it mean to want something for herself, after everything? To want this?

“What are you when you aren’t planning, or fighting?” pressed Steve, and he was too much bright and too much close but Natasha wanted, just once, to step into a blaze of her own making; not because her back was against a wall or because there were regimes to topple, but because she felt deserving of the life she’d live on the other side.

“I’m terrified,” she confessed.

“Me, too,” he said, and held her. And didn’t let go.

When the alarm went off, Steve mumbled against her shoulder: “I’m gonna be honest with you—I’m getting kinda sick of all these churches.”

The old adage was that in Italy, the farther south one traveled, the slower life became. Bright-colored Sicily coated Natasha’s edges like a candy drop, crystallizing her in its sparkling waters, the lush gooeyness of cheese spilling from fresh arancini.

Sated, still, from last night’s wine and seafood, Natasha turned in the circle of Steve’s arms, conjuring her most doe-eyed expression. “That’s not very schoolboy of you.”

An arched eyebrow. The ghost of a kiss on her collarbone. The stroke of his thumb over her forearm set the hairs there standing on end. “Maybe there’s something else I’d like to worship.”

The laugh pealed free from her chest before she could stop it. “Oh, no. How long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Since Florence, at least.” Steve grinned, unrepentant, and she could write paeans to those particular shades of blue, the sweet softness of a good night’s sleep hiding in the crinkles by his eyes. The clock by their bedside read 9:00 AM.

“Maybe we could sleep in,” Natasha agreed. If it meant more time with Steve’s bedhead, and this particular warmth. Natasha was finding that, given full license, she was a greedy person: about food, about hot water, about touch. And time. Time wasn’t something she’d given herself permission to hoard, before. So, too, with Steve. Selfishness—maybe that was part of living, too. They could both do with a little more of it.

“Right answer,” said Steve, tucking his face against her neck happily. He fell back asleep easily; Natasha followed soon after.

At night, jasmine in the garden. The moon, full and forgiving. Natasha, alone, on the balcony, listening to the waves lapping—proof of a planet in motion, orbiting around a burning star. Clint, adjusting the aid in his ear, cocking his head in the wind.

Hear that, Natasha?

A song for the living.

A song for you.

#romanogers #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #natasha romanov #avengers endgame #my writing #ff: mcu #fanfiction #otp: how about a friend

51 notes · View notes