#under the camouflage and the sand covering him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunriseverse · 6 months ago

Note

If you're still looking for prompts, how about this: either shape-shifter AU, or someone getting cursed and turning into an animal?

so uh. this is. six months late. sorry. and also not the fluff you were probably expecting. but! please enjoy this offering, because i had a lot of fun writing it :)

The kid is gone when the morning dawns.

Wu Xie is new to this; all of this, any of this. That he had overlooked something this simple is both unsurprising, and horrifically, teeth-baringly infuriating. He should have known better. He should have known better. It’s not like shifters are rare; they’re half the population. Hell, out of the Iron Triangle, the only one of them who doesn’t have the blood in them is—

He cuts that thought off there. It’s too painful; better to not think about it; better to focus on his own stupid, stupid fuck-ups: namely, the fact that he’d not thought to check if the kid they’d taken had the blood, and now—well. Wu Xie just hopes he’s not gone and gotten himself killed of thirst trying to run away. It’s a nasty way to go; he’s seen men turn insensate and pathetic from the dehydration that warps their minds and the world before their very eyes, makes them beg even as their lungs dry and their faces go sallow, until their lips start to bleed.

“Laoban,” Wang Meng says, frowning as he approaches Wu Xie. “None of the others have seen him.”

Wu Xie bites back a scoff. Of course they hadn’t; no one expects to see an animal out here, besides camels. Maybe if the kid’s lucky, he’s got some desert-adapted traits; if not, then—well. It won’t be the first time all he’s had to show for his efforts is a dead body, but it doesn’t please him, even if he’s working on stripping most emotions besides a single-minded focus from the viscera of him. “I’ll go find him,” he says. “The scent tracks shouldn’t be too disturbed—it’s been a calm few days; the sands haven’t shifted much. He can’t have gone far.”

Wang Meng’s expression wars between concern and disbelief. “Wouldn’t it be better to go out with the Jeeps?” he asks.

Wu Xie huffs. “And let him hear us from fifty kilometres away?” he says, raising a brow, and itches for a smoke. Wang Meng always makes disapproving sounds when he sees them; Wu Xie wonders how long it’ll take for him to stop. The nicotine always mellows out the worst edges of anger, draws his focus back to where it needs to be. But, no. Not right now. Even he knows that putting that shit in his lungs right before he shifts is a bad idea. He doesn’t really want to pass out from smoke inhalation. “No,” he says, “I’ll go. Don’t let anyone in camp know I’m gone. And if I’m not back by nightfall—”

“I know,” Wang Meng says, lips pressed thin. Wu Xie’s own twitch. If nothing else, Wang Meng is learning the very same valuable skills he himself is.

They head back for the tent to keep up appearances. Wu Xie downs a full bottle of water, and strips out of his jacket, sets it aside carefully, a photo worn by the number of times he’s turned it over in his hands hidden in the pocket that lays over his heart. He’s a coward; he doesn’t want them to see him like this, what he’s about to do. But cowards are the ones who live the longest, so a coward he’ll be.

Shifting is—

It’s been a long time. His mind associates it too much with looping around Pangzi’s shoulders, warm puddles of sunlight, the gentle brush of a finger against the flat of his head. He’d avoided it, selfish, in an attempt to preserve that connection. Now, he’s using his skills for exactly what they’d been meant for: hunting. The sands are distantly warm against his belly, protected by scales; he slips between shadows, camouflaged by the dusty colour of his body; flicks a tongue out to scent the air. Already, he can catch the faint scent of another animal—something small, covered in fur. He’s lucky the kid isn’t a flier; they tend to have better stamina.

He’s not quite sure how long he goes for; the sands blend together under the high noon sun, his only sense of direction the scents of the group back at the camp and the scent of the kid’s form. When he finally catches sight of a small, unmoving body. Dusty fur, small. The scent of him is still warm, so he’s not dead—yet. Wu Xie draws closer, raises his body to get a better view, tongue flickering out, and then shifts back to human form. The kid’s body, a rodent of some sort, is dwarfed by the palm of his hand. Wu Xie, who doesn’t have anything to put him in, sighs and resigns himself to carrying him.

The good news is that he can see the camp in the distance; he hasn’t gone that far—the kid had mostly been hidden by the colour of his fur blending into the sand and his small size. He makes the trek back in good time, arrives just as his throat is beginning to rub against itself as he swallows from the aridity. Most of the camp is hiding in their tents, away from the beating sun, and so he can slip back into theirs without being noticed.

Wang Meng is sitting at the portable desk, playing something on his phone. When Wu Xie enters, he scrambles to his feet. “Laoban,” he says.

“Water,” Wu Xie orders, without preamble. “And a pipet.” It’s fortuitous they’d brought some along in case Wu Xie were to grow too dehydrated in his animal form and be unable to shift back. Wu Xie sits down on one of the bedrolls and draws up water from the bottle that Wang Meng opens for him and carefully feeds it into the kid’s mouth, carefully held upright so he doesn’t choke.

For a long while, he’s half afraid it’s a bust, that the kid’s died on the way back. He’s too small to feel his heartbeat properly or see his chest rise and fall, and half the water just spills out the corners of his mouth. But then, after an eternity, the kid’s tiny body jolts and he comes back to consciousness. Wu Xie has just enough forewarning to drop him to the ground before he shifts back to human, heaving gasping, ragged breaths, and scrambling for the tent flap, zipped shut. Wu Xie rises to his feet and easily halts him with a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he says, softly. “You almost died out there; do you really want to tempt fate again?”

Weak with dehydration still, the kid squirms under his grasp until he finally gives up and turns his face to glare at Wu Xie. “Better dead than with you,” he tries to say, but the words come out hoarse.

Wu Xie sighs. The analysis isn’t wrong, but then again, he’s known for a long time now that he’s willing to be anyone’s worst nightmare to get what needs to be done done. “Drink,” he says, instead, and holds the bottle of water to the kid’s lips.

For a long moment, the kid glares at him, lips pressed firmly shut, and then, finally, the thirst gets the better of him, and he drinks. Wu Xie lets the ghost of a smile cross his face. “Good,” he says, patting the kid’s shoulder. “You won’t die today.”

#dmbj #daomu biji #wu xie #wang meng #fanfic #spinecorset writes #c.txt

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quietwingsinthesky · 8 months ago

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38 for the Master and/or 39 for Even? Up to u what qualifies as disturbing :3

what the fuck lee. (<- appreciative)

so here is. 4000 words. of that. unedited, right now, because it is nearly midnight and i've been writing for. well, let's see, you sent this six hours ago so. let's say four-ish hours? and with any luck. this thing that i have created is 👍. that's all i want. i need it to be 👍. anyway. pokes him.

Even has decided they don't like deserts.

It isn't a hard decision. No matter how well they believe they've covered every inch of skin while they trudge through the sand after the Master, Gallifrey's twin suns still find the gaps and cook them to a deep, stinging red. The goggles meant to protect their eyes are too tight, digging into their sunburnt cheeks, but they're still a better option than having to wipe the grit out to see every five minutes. They're soaked in sweat under their clothes, sore from head to toe, and the only thing they can be glad of, if anything, is that the Master is just as miserable as they are.

They don't know why he wanted to come here. He'd dragged them all the way out to that abandoned shack, as though he was expecting something. Whatever it was didn't come to him. They'd at least had some shade under the rotting wooden roof, watching him with their head against the wall and their watch between their fingers. It had been very warm, but that wasn't surprising, given the climate. (Though they'd kept it beneath their robes, lest they risk accidentally burning their fingertips on hot metal when they went to play with it.) Now, he's dragging them back out to their TARDIS—too paranoid about a completely empty stretch of sand to park closer to their destination. Even can make out her shape. The goggles are tinted darker than Even would have liked, but the rise of bone from the sand is impossible to miss, some long-decayed Gallifreyan megafauna for them to crawl inside of.

He's too quiet. It puts them on edge. Out here, it might be understandable, but he'd snapped at and shut down any attempt at finding out what they were doing out here before they'd set out, been almost completely silent at that old building, and they doubted he'd be any more talkative once he was back inside their TARDIS.

And there's tension in his neck. A twitch that won't go away in his arm. However quick his feet fall, they hit the sand too hard, a constant, rhythmic thud that's only aggravating him more.

They look out across the desert and see nothing. They don't know what he's seen out here.

They can guess hazard a guess as to what he hears, though.

They tuck their head down and focus on setting their feet down in the footsteps he leaves behind. It passes the time better than watching the slow approach of the carcass that camouflages their vehicle.

That's why they notice the patch of sand that doesn't match the others. It's dark. The grains don't flow with the wind the way everything around it does. Too much of it is moving.

"Stop." He doesn't, and they can barely hear themselves through the fabric keeping the lower half of their face out of the sun. They yank it down. "Stop!"

That time, at least, they know he just isn't listening.

His foot goes down into the sand, sinks as he tries to recoil from the instability, and then the sand starts moving up his leg.

It's not a Dalek, which is good, and it's not something worse than a Dalek, which is better. Their minuscule bodies glitter in the harsh sunlight brightly enough that Even can see each one easily through their goggles. There are dozens of them digging themselves out of the sand, scurrying up towards the Master's leg. A few of them cling onto the outside of his clothing, and he's able to shake those off. Others go beneath. Even loses track of them.

The Master lifts his arm. Even's not sure what he's about to do, but they take the opportunity he's given them to duck and slip underneath it, grabbing his hand so that he'll hold onto them. They have two feet to brace compared to his one. His fingers dig into their shoulder harshly, and they grip his hand tighter in return as they pull, once, twice—he hisses between his teeth like they're threatening to yank his arm out of its socket—and with one final lurch, he comes free. The sudden momentum sends them both spinning, and though Even lets him go to try and catch their own balance, he doesn't, pulling them down the dune with him.

Each tumble leaves their sides aching. They spit sand dry from their uncovered mouth, enough that they regret bothering to warn the Master at all. It gets under their lips, against their gums, and there's nothing they can do about that but shove it to the side to deal with later. They get traction, turning as they roll to grasp out at the shifting dune and drag themself to a halt. They don't roll as far as he does. Even gets their knees under them. The sand is so hot that they can feel it beneath their palms, through their gloves. They suck in a breath, only to choke on it, hot grains flying freely down their airway. By the time they've managed to gag up a pitiful amount of saliva from the back of their throat, they look up to see the tiny, shining things moving together like a snake through the sand towards them.

Even carries the weapons, as they carry the water. To reach for their gun is almost comforting in how familiar it is, from the weight to the notches their fingers find to grip it to the way it wakes up in their hands as they aim.

The sound it makes when they fire is just as familiar, though it lingers in their ears with different ghosts. Exterminate, their mind echoes when nothing else supplies the sound. (Certainly not the long-destroyed owner they'd peeled the foundation of their weapon off of.) Their lips part slightly, the first syllable curling their tongue- And then the shot lands with a burning crackle at the head of the illusory snake. It breaks apart, scattering bodies across the sand, some burrowing immediately to get away from the fire that catches briefly against the sand. The blast area is charred black. They can't tell if that's the sand or the tiny…

"What were those?" they ask the Master, tipping their head back towards him. The calm feeling that follows a successful shot shrinks away. At first, they think he's seizing, but his movements are too coordinated. He's trying to strip his clothes away from his leg, and the skin he reveals is crawling with the things.

Or bleeding. Why is he bleeding?

Even shakes their head before they skid down the rest of the dune towards him. When they touch him, he snaps his head in their direction, teeth bared and eyes wild with as much fear and anger that can fit in them. Even freezes like prey should.

The Master squeezes his eyes shut. He gropes for their hand, haphazardly slapping their weapon from it. It lands in the sand, forgotten as he drags them in closer. "Kill them," he coughs. There's sand sticking to every bit of his face that's exposed. "The ones that haven't burrowed-"

They hate that word, suddenly. "Hold still!" they snap back, pulling their hand out of his grip. He tenses up. Their heart pounds hard in their skull, right at their temple. The things are wriggling across his skin, and they see one- The tint of the goggles makes it hard to tell when they're in the shadow cast by Even's own body, but it stops moving, squirms, and then the Master's skin breaks around it as they realize too late where it's going. Even's stomach clenches. The Master makes a painful whine in the back of his throat, leg convulsing.

They don't know what else to do. They slap one of the things. There's a crunch underneath their palm. They draw it back, and that one isn't moving.

They hit another one, and the Master bites down on a scream. It's his skin they're striking to get at the creatures.

Are they alive? Their bodies don't come apart when they cease to move, no matter how hard Even hits them. A leg breaks off of one of them, but they don't burst like a body that small should. They don't leak any fluid onto their gloves or the Master's skin.

Even kills them, one by one, not nearly fast enough to stop more from digging into him. He can feel where the things are crawling and can direct Even's hands, but the Master can't catch any of them fast enough without seeing them, without being distracted by the rest making their way deeper into his flesh.

The sand is littered with tiny broken bodies. Even doesn't have time to examine them. "Get up," they tell him. His head rolls back against the sand, expression contorted with pain. Even doesn't wait for him to listen. They pick up their gun and stow it. They get on one knee, their heel sinking slightly into the sand as they get ready. They haul him up into a sitting position. He protests that with a hiss between his teeth, which they ignore. "Get! Up! I need to fix you!" They're grateful that of the two of them, they weigh more. It's still a struggle to pull him up to his feet. They don't think they could carry him outright, but if he can do even a little of the work, they can stumble the rest of the way to their TARDIS.

The Master tries to take too much of his own weight. He screams.

Even winces. They adjust their grip on him until he's slumped against them, his head knocking theirs as his heavy inhales ring in their ear.

"I said to stop," they whisper, very quietly. They're pretty sure he doesn't hear them. That he can't hear anything but his own breathing.

They lumber the final stretch to the TARDIS like a three-legged beast. The Master staggers more than he steps, and Even shoulders the unsteady burden of him as best they can.

They between two ribs, and their foot hits the floor of their TARDIS rather than more sand. They drag the Master forward a few more feet before they finally let him slip away from them. He doesn't scream this time, but they still hear the sound that could have been one as its strangled to death in his throat.

They can't move. They have to, but they can't look away from his collapsed body, shaking with pain. Not until the Master's voice scrapes out of his raw throat and breaks whatever was holding them in place. "Tweezers." Even nods. "Keep one alive. I want to see it. Kill the rest, and don't let them touch you."

Even wants badly to discard the outer layers they're wearing, but they don't. They'll take whatever protection they can get.

The Doctor's TARDIS had a very well-stocked medical chamber. Theirs is not, but it keeps them alive. (And they have the feeling it still would have been thousands of years more advanced than anything Earth had access to, at the least. Some medical technology doesn't change, however. Like tweezers.) Even will probably help him into it later, once the active threat is gone and he still needs patching up.

They bring a box with them. It did have something else in it, but they turned it upside down and dumped its contents on the floor. It's a box for specimens now.

The Master is not dead when they get back. They let out a breath. He's propped himself against a wall, working to expose each of the bleeding intrusions. Even counts thirteen of them.

They sit in front of him. He's knocking his head back against the wall. They try not to count out the beats, head down to work.

There are three in his torso, and they hope those are the most shallow. They had to crawl further than the others to get there. Even swallows back nausea imagining the tiny bodies clawing and digging deeper into him. They rest a hand against his sternum to keep him still, the beat of his skull against the wall the only thing they can hear as they concentrate. The tweezers widen the hole the thing had made slightly. The Master's mouth twists. Even wants to drag their hand through their hair, but both are too busy to allow it. The tweezers slide deeper, grasping at nothing at first. Deeper, deeper, and Even thinks they have something. It's bumping the end of the tweezers, something they hope means that whatever is at the end is moving on its own. They squeeze the tweezers a few times until they catch hold. Even drags it back out gingerly.

They pause to look at the thing. It's sort of like a bug, with a fat, bullet body cased in black and flailing legs, covered in slick blood. It looks vaguely familiar to them, but they can't place it. Then again, most bugs look the same to them. They put the first one they retrieve in the box and shut it in.

Again, they delve inside him. The Master begins to whine again, but this time, the noise doesn't stop, just rises and falls as they dig around for the bug.

"Distract yourself," Even urges. "Talk at me." The Master pushes a breath out between his teeth.

He shoots a hand out. The movement jars Even's arm and jabs the tweezers into something inside him that makes him squirm. They manage to get a hold on the next bug. It struggles against them as they pull it free from his belly and slap it against the ground, crushing it under their foot for good measure. The metallic crunch they heard before is even louder that time.

The Master curls his fingers twice, jerking his hand towards the box. Even pauses to give it to him. He can see the bug safely through the translucent sides.

His brow furrows, this time in more concentration than pain as they go digging for the third bug.

"I don't know what that is," he finally says. "It's not organic?"

"Not organic. Doesn't bleed," they answer.

"It's almost shaped like a sand beetle." He tilts the box. "Too short, I think. The coloring is wrong. It might be enough to fool someone else. Not anyone who spends their free time in the drylands, but who would ever go there voluntarily?"

We did, Even doesn't say. They're too focused now, and they don't want to break his train of thought and risk him dropping away from speech into more awful noises. He's stopped beating his head so hard against the wall.

"I don't think they were meant to be there, or we would have seen more of them." He shuts his eyes briefly. "Or not now. Not yet. Not anymore." He squeezes them shut tighter, his whole face wrinkling around the force of it. "You have no idea what it feels like when time is breaking and reforming around us!" he snaps at them, volume rising out of nowhere. Even shrinks back, eyes narrowed at him, but they don't stop digging for the bug. "It's all deteriorating, with us inside! I don't-" He cuts himself off, sucking in breaths hard and fast as Even grabs for the bug, hits something, and then only pulls free one broken leg of it.

"No. Talk." He's shaking again. "Talk!" They force the tweezers back into the same hole. They get the body of the bug this time. they pull it out.

"I don't know what it is," he says, quiet again. "I left. I left before it got worse. So I don't know what it is, or who made it." Even straightens his leg out to dig in his thigh for more bugs. "Or maybe it isn't from the war. Maybe someone's science fair project got out."

"Science fair projects don't kill people," Even says. "They're… bananas. I think." They try to cast their mind back to when they heard about that, and they think that's what the Doctor said they were. "You plug batteries into them." The Master's leg twitches as they pull another bloody hunk of bug out of him.

"Not at the Academy." Their eyes flick up to his face, but his are closed, his hand resting over them. The box with their living specimen rests on his stomach, the thing inside angrily twisting and clicking away to no avail. "Well, xenobiology, maybe, but you would never win anything if you were playing with something from Earth."

"Don't all the children win at a science fair?"

"Not," the Master repeats, "at the Academy." (Even mouths the phrase themself, very quietly, because it feels wrong for it to only be repeated once.) He pauses. "I'm sure wherever taught you gave you plenty of little fake metals so that you felt like you were worth something."

Even crushes another bug. Only a few more. The Master looks slightly dazed when he opens his eyes, staring up at nothing.

They stare down at the bloody tweezers for a moment, considering their words.

"I didn't go to school," they offer.

"I'm not surprised. The Doctor enjoys when you're all so easily impressed."

Even was going to tell him more.

They glare at him instead before shoving the tweezers in again. The Master jerks hard enough that his head cracks back against the wall.

Soon, they're surrounded by tiny broken bugs. Even has to help him back into the guts of their TARDIS, to the medical chamber where he'll be able to heal the rest of the damage or tell them how to. Only once as they make their way down does Even turn their head and shove their nose against his neck. They breathe in deep. He just smells like blood and sand and sweat. His cells are staying exactly the way they are. Nothing burns. They did a good job. They relax.

They aren't sure what he does with the specimen they pulled out of him.

~~~~~

He only thinks of sending them something after he gets 'fired.'

The problem being, of course, that at that exact point in time, he's not sure where Even would be. He considers investigating St. Paul's Cathedral, but however small the chance is, the idea of running into herself-

He thinks about it one last time: walking up to them, perhaps as they're peering through the water like they could see the cybermen inside, watching the refracted light play off the 'uniform' she'd picked out for them to wear, and he would say…

He would say...

In the end, there's an easier time, an easier place. One of the benefits of time travel: he never pays for postage, and his presents always arrive when he means them to.

-----

"You're thinking about it," Even says, kneeling down in front of the coffee table to do the puzzle they laid out on it. Rose had told them to do it on the kitchen table instead, but they hadn't wanted to use up the space. Their legs feel numb now. They keep delaying the painful restart of pins and needles. "Torchwood?" they look up at Rose. She's sprawled over the couch, chewing on her nails, brow furrowed. Even wonders if that's because of the conversation or because she's starting to taste the nail polish she's chipped off. Even hates how nail polish tastes more than they hate how it smells.

"It's not the same, I know that," Rose says. Even tilts their head. "This universe, I'd have Jack watching my back, and I think I'd take that over anything." She pauses for a moment. "It's weird, though. It's almost like he doesn't want me there."

"…He asked," Even says, slowly, unsure what she means. If Jack didn't want her, he wouldn't offer at all, right?

They turn the puzzle piece in their hands over and over. They don't like the texture of it. They drop it, and their hands inevitably fall back to the watch, still strange in its warmth, its various edges not fully memorized by their fingers. They play with it absently.

"I think he felt bad for me." There's a tone of voice Rose uses when things hurt, and Even isn't supposed to poke at them. Or, not Even specifically, but they think other people recognize the tone better and they were the one who had ended up poking too much before they started listening for it.

They still want to ask, but they keep their mouth shut instead.

"There's UNIT," they say. "…Martha works with UNIT." Rose smiles at Martha's name.

"Or I could go back to school," she says. "Get myself a degree in…" She trails off, then shakes her head. "Anything I want."

Even frowns. They squeeze the watch. They thought this was a choice they were both making. They hadn't considered Rose might want to go somewhere they couldn't follow.

"I don't want to lie to him," Rose says.

"But we are."

"Then I'm not adding more on top of it." Rose sits up. "Maybe. I don't know." She squishes the side of her face against her hand and then lets it slide down, turning her head to look at Even over the tips of her fingers. Her eyes flick down at the puzzle, back to the piece Even is stuck on, and after a few moments, she says, "Pretty sure it goes on the top right." Even looks right. "Other right." Oh. There it goes. "Yeah."

"You love him. It's okay." They aren't sure if that's the right thing to say. Rose's small smile wavers for a moment, her eyes cast down.

"I do." Even opens their mouth to find something better to say, something right that'll help Rose. The Doctor would know. He'd have the right words. Even never does. Instead, they can both hear a door open and close, the flash of the sound of the rain outside, shuffling footsteps, and Rose says, "Can't miss a chance to be part of a conversation about him, can he?"

"You're talking about me?" The Doctor-

John, Even corrects, loudly, inside their own head. John. John.

Too loud. It slips out. "John." He grins at them. They say his name twice more. Rose starts to give them an odd look before it smooths out like she's remembered something, and he doesn't react at all. He's too busy running a hand through his hair like he can get the water out of it that way.

"Told you to bring an umbrella," Rose says. She looks at John the way she looks at no one else, Even thinks, save the Doctor, who isn't here to be looked at.

"I know, and you're always right." Rose sticks her tongue between her teeth when she smiles at that. John holds something up. "You've got mail, Even," John says. The package is small and slightly soggy. "Who do you know from… Australia? There's no name on it." He sounds perplexed, but Even's heart skips a beat.

"No one," they answer truthfully, because that means there's only one person it can be. Rose knows the moment they say it.

"Open it," she says, quick, as excited as Even feels. Even tries to get up, but their legs don't work. They flop to the side, kicking them out and scrunching their face up as their legs wake up. Luckily, John takes pity on them, bringing the package over to the coffee table and placing it in the middle of their unfinished puzzle. It doesn't touch any of the pieces.

Even tears it open with the two of them watching.

There are two things inside.

There's a very small card. Even turns it over, squinting. They always have trouble with handwriting. "'Thinking of you,'" they read, slowly.

"Is it signed?" Rose asks.

Even's frown deepens. "Maybe?" They hand the card over to Rose. She peers at it for a minute. John does, too, leaning against her and laying his chin over her shoulder.

"That could be a D," Rose says, hopefully, at the same time that John says,

"That's definitely an O."

Even is already pulling the other object out. It's a small… rock. It's beautiful, orange and shiny. They turn it, and with a slightly better view, they can see something inside it. They tilt it another way for a better look. "It's a bug."

"A bug?"

"A bug." They trade again, and when Even looks at the card a second time… Rose is right. It could be a D.

Why not Doctor, though? Why not… more? Something aches in Even's chest, and they curl up slightly. They wish he'd said anything else. Why is he thinking of them? What's the rock? Or the bug? Where'd he get them? Is he coming to visit? Will he ever come to visit?

He promised he'd visit.

"You alright?" Rose says. Even looks up, ready to tell her they're okay. She's not looking at them, though. She's looking at John. He's gone still and pale staring at the bug trapped inside its rock. Rose holds it back out to Even, and they take it, unsure of what to do with something that scares the- That scares John. Who may not remember why he's scared of it, but if he is… Even looks down at the bug again. It's trapped. It looks harmless. Whatever it is would have suffocated a long time ago. It can't hurt them.

They don't even know why they're thinking about that. The Doctor would never send them something dangerous.

John swallows. He inhales shakily.

"Fine," he manages. "I don't know why I- Sorry." He shakes himself. "Sorry. It's nice. Very… very pretty."

He doesn't like it, so Even doesn't like it.

They can't get rid of it, though. The Doctor did send it. The card, eventually, gets lost, much easier than the amber does. They just tuck it away somewhere they don't have to look at it. It's still there the day they leave home and don't come back.

They don't have much time to ask the Doctor why he sent it the next time they see him.

And by the time after that, they barely remember it at all.

Which is probably for the best. It isn't like he could have answered with anything but, "I never sent you a package."

#this is. the most substantial thing i've ever written for Even. holy shit.#this baby's got everything we got actual stomping around on gallifrey in the time hell bubble. we got even cohabitating with rose and tento #we got timey-wimey fun and codependent bullshit. everything anyone could want.#<3 thank you dearly for the opportunity to ramble on like this #but also oh dear lord. wh y.#dw oc #ask #fanfiction #doctor who

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stormxpadme · 25 days ago

Text

Whumptober 2024 Alternative prompt - Secrets Revealed

06/2017

Of all the shitholes on this planet, why Egypt?

Pyro pulled the dark, camouflaging cloth of his turban down his face just long enough to spit a combination of dry saliva and sand onto the scorching ground; his very personal declaration of love for this pile of dirt and slums. Three hours of dully standing around in the godforsaken middle of nowhere, and he was already desperate to get back home.

Mystique's ideas were becoming more and more absurd. While her timeless blue and red skin didn't look her impressive retirement age, all the more senility seemed to have taken hold of her mind in the last few months. Not that Pyro had ever suspected the bitch to have lots of sanity in the first place, especially not since she had been forced to take over the Brotherhood. But this ... was perverse.

“Fucking finally.” He made no effort to hide his bad mood when his leader finally approached this ruin of a camp again on her stolen horse, several miles from at least the saving grace of a glass of gin in some dump in Alexandria, where he'd been forced to sit out Mystique's latest madness. Hopefully, she had at least found whatever it was she was looking for, while Pyro had been guarding a piece of parched land without even the slightest clue as to what they were actually doing here. “You done?”

Mystique didn't even dignify him with an answer. The two of them had rarely ever engaged in extensive communication. She nimbly jumped from her mount and carelessly released the reins, sending the horse out into the open desert with a sharp slap on its white rear, where it probably wouldn't survive for more than half a day. A much slower, more torturous death than its owner had suffered this morning. The shape of a hooded junk dealer dissolved before Pyro's eyes, revealing Mystique's slender, bare silhouette as she leaned over a rotten wooden table, one of three pieces of furniture in this barely ten-square-meter shelter with only a very holey roof left. With two aggressive thick lines, she crossed out the picture of a house on the map she'd brought with her. “Destroyed,” she finally deigned to explain after all. “She's probably already back out on the streets alone.”

“Who?” Even though he should be used to not always being immediately informed of all the details after all these years, Pyro was slowly reaching his limit.

Mystique had been neglecting her duties in the White House for months. Pyro had had to put out fires for her more than once already to keep her cover from being blown.

And now this fruitless treasure hunt in this shitty environment, from which Pyro would take home nothing but severe sunburn and sand in all possible or impossible orifices ... He'd fucking had it. “Can you maybe finally be so kind ...”

“I don't know the name she went under with after her father's death, but I have photos,” Mystique spoke up unexpectedly, absent-mindedly, monotonously, while she drew abstract patterns on the map with her marker. ”I'll recognize her as soon as I see her. Without her, all this is pointless. I've already positioned scouts in all major cities. Until they are successful, we have to guard this site. Any incidents? Horsemen in the area? Tuareg? Military?”

“Not even scorpions.” Pyro rolled his eyes impatiently. First, they didn't tell him anything, and now he was supposed to be content with cryptic statements again. This day just got better and better.

“Good.” Mystique watched with an amused little twitch around her eye as Pyro repeatedly wrung out his soaked shirt. Thanks to her powers, she didn't mind the unpleasant ambiance half as much, a fact that only made Pyro more irritated. ”Apparently, we are indeed the only ones who know about this place so far. Install a camera on that beam over there. 24/7 surveillance, weekly report. If there's trouble here someday, after all, we'll have to station people at the dig until we find this girl. For now, we'll fly back and keep an eye on New York. The girl has been in the local media a few times too many because of her powers and her knowledge of historical facts that she actually can't even have. We need to make sure we don't lose her to Westchester."

“Why? What do you need her for? What the hell are we even looking for?” Pyro grabbed Mystique's arm before she could impatiently trigger the signal on her watch that would start the autopilot of the helicopter in the distance. At that moment, he didn't even care about sand, crawling nuisances, or sunstrokes. He finally wanted to know what was going on here. “Raven!”

There were certain surefire ways to throw the Brotherhood leader off course. Calling her by her slave name was one of them. Sometimes she was ridiculously predictable.

Pyro had anticipated the brutal attack maneuver and reacted instantly, spinning around Mystique and bringing her down with a strong kick to the back of the knee, holding her arms together behind her back at the elbows. Her rude curse had him grin broadly. She shouldn't have trained him so extensively if she hadn't wanted him to become just as good as she was. “Cut the crap. I'm one of your most important warlords. You can't treat me like a primitive henchman all my life. What are you looking for?” It happened faster than he realized that she had already freed herself, her limbs thinning out under his grasp, her powers melting her cells into a flexible mass slipping out from under him. One moment he was kneeling over her naked form in the sand, burning hot even in the shadow – a quite suggestive situation if it hadn't been so damn warm and Mystique hadn't always awoken about as much horniness as a freezer could in Pyro ever since he'd left puberty behind. The next, his eyes were staring up at the bright blue, cloudless sky, and a painful burning sensation spread through his stomach. “Okay, okay!” he managed to get out, panting for air, struggling in vain against the pressure of a muscular leg resting heavily on his solar plexus. ‘I'm just kidding, okay?”

“Finally grow up, Pyro, if you ever want me to take you seriously as a partner." Mystique was surprisingly generous today; she released him without another painful kick. “I didn't talk about it yet because I never knew for sure. But this ...” She gestured vaguely at the remains of the camp. ”This is exactly how it was described in the book that Erik left me. I've been searching for this place for years. It marks the entrance to an underground temple from the time of the Old Egyptian Middle Kingdom, protected by several deadly traps. We need someone who can make contact with those who have been there before, when it was still in use, before we can dig. Someone who knows their way around down there.”

Pyro spat out sand again, laughing and coughing at the same time. His leader was really losing it. “Where's the problem? Then all we have to do is find someone who can talk to the dead. Are you fucking with me?”

“This is exactly why I only need you for backup, not for strategy,” Mystique replied harshly. The faint sound of rotor blades in the distance revealed that she had already summoned her preferred mode of transport during their little scuffle. Time to go home. ”You never had any respect for things much bigger than yourself. Cameras. Now. I have a few phone calls to make.” With that, she took a few steps aside and dug out the cell phone from her belt pouch that was reserved for White House matters. The argument seemed already to be settled for her.

Pyro gritted his teeth and leaned over the bag of equipment that Toad had prepared for him yesterday, so foolproof that hopefully, he would be able to handle all this complicated technical stuff that had never really interested him much. He obviously wouldn't learn much more today, and Mystique had once again made it very clear to him how she viewed his role at her side. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be enough for her. It wasn't the first time he wondered why he put up with all this crap in the first place. Unfortunately, there were no other options. “Fine, you need a tour guide, gotcha. At least tell me what we're looking for down there. Do you want to fill our treasure troves with rusted gold and clay bowls?”

“That, my dear St. John ...” Mystique looked back over her shoulder at him with a pitiful smile, “… you won't believe anyway until you see it with your own eyes, thanks to your pitifully limited horizon. Now get to work. We have other things to do.”

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2024 #no.18 #Secrets Revealed #altprompt #x men #fic #everything after x2 didn't happen sue me #x men original timeline movies #x men movies #mystique #raven darkholme #john allerdyce #pyro #fanfiction #stormys fanfics

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drchenquill · 7 months ago

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The soldier and the horseman ~ part of Chapter 1

Three of my colleagues were waiting outside. I'd been working with them for years, but I didn't know any of their names, just as they didn't know mine. We were blank pieces of paper, we didn't exist as our existence could be over in the blink of an eye. "What did the old fart say?" asked one of my colleagues. He had blond, short-cropped hair. His watery blue eyes stood out against his tanned skin. He was muscular and could, had, smashed heads with sheer force. He was known among us as a "berserker". That was the name given to people who fought in a frenzy and felt no pain or wounds. That's how he was. And he was proud of it. You could tell by his uniform. It was often damaged in battle, but he decided not to replace it with a new one. He wanted his camouflage uniform to show the small tears of his victims and his combat boots to show bloodstains. "Transport." I explained simply. He grimaced. "How boring." He took the folder from my hand and flipped through it, at the same time the other two stepped forward. "Did he mention what we're transporting?" another man asked me, whom we all referred to as a sundew, like the fly-eating plants. He was gentle with everyone, but before you knew it, you had his dagger in your throat, I once witnessed it. He was a head shorter than me and the other two. His emotionless dark eyes were covered by dark curls. His skin was white and flawless as porcelain, with a small beauty mark under his left eye. "No, the goods were not described to me," I explained to him. He took the folder from Berserker's hand and said: "It says here that we'll divide them up." "Really?" came another man. Bobcat. He had auburn hair and sand-coloured skin. His big brown eyes were always alert yet cheeky. He was, despite his profession, always with a pointed smile on his lips. He was always smiling, even when he put a bullet through his target's skull. "Oh dear, and I thought we could finally do something together again," he said miserably. "And here I thought we were going to do something exciting," Berserker grumbled. Four pairs of eyes were now looking at me. "What's the plan, Enigma?" Sundew asked me. No need to explain why I was given that name. I never revealed anything about myself. My thoughts were mine, my feelings were mine. I didn't share anything and didn't want to know anything about the others. Feelings and thoughts were personal and that would never change. "I will tell you our destination tonight. We will accept the goods as they have been distributed to us and set off. Come armed as always, as the safety of the goods is our top priority." They nodded their heads at me, no questions asked. I didn't know why, but they were always willing to listen to me, no matter the situation. "What do you think it is we're transporting?" bobcat asked, leaning his chin on sundew's shoulder. "Maybe it's the severed heads of powerful men," Berserker joked, but you could see in his expression that the idea excited him. "Maybe they're artefacts that need to be taken to a safe place," said Sundew as he gently pushed bobcat's head off his shoulder. "Maybe it's none of our business," I countered coldly and took the folder again. "Make sure you turn up on time," I said at last. They saluted silently and we went our separate ways.

(written and translated into English by me~)

#writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writers #writerscommunity #wip

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quietwings-fics · 5 months ago

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Self-Fulfilling

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Gen (Simm!Master & OC, Rose & OC, Tentoo & OC) Additional Tags: Whump, Codependency, Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Bugs & Insects, Timey-Wimey, Complicated Relationships, Minor Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Major Original Character(s), Post-Season/Series 04, Nonbinary Character, Autism Wordcount: 4611 Part 13 of 11089/Even Fics Summary:

Sometimes, the consequence comes before the action. That's how it is with time travelers.

Even has decided they don't like deserts.

It isn’t a hard decision. No matter how well they believe they've covered every inch of skin before trudging through the sand after the Master, Gallifrey's twin suns still find the gaps in-between and cook them to a deep, stinging red. The goggles meant to protect their eyes are too tight, digging into their sunburnt cheeks, but they're still a better option than having to wipe the grit out to see every five minutes. They're soaked in sweat under their clothes, sore from head to toe, and the only thing they can be glad of, if anything, is that the Master is just as miserable as they are.

They don't know why he wanted to come here. He'd dragged them all the way out to that abandoned shack, as though he was expecting something. Whatever it was didn't come to him. They'd at least had some shade under the rotting wooden roof, watching him with their head against the wall and their watch between their fingers. It had been very warm, but that wasn't surprising, given the climate. (Though they'd kept it beneath their robes, lest they risk accidentally burning their fingertips on hot metal when they went to play with it.) Now, he's dragging them back out to their TARDIS—too paranoid about a completely empty stretch of sand to park closer to their destination. Even can make out her illusory shape. The goggles are tinted darker than Even would have liked, but the rise of bone from the sand is impossible to miss, the remains of a long-decayed Gallifreyan megafauna for them to hide inside of.

The Master is too quiet. It puts them on edge. He’d snapped at and shut down any attempt at finding out what they were doing out here before they'd left, been almost completely silent at that old building, and they doubted he'd be any more talkative once he was back inside their TARDIS.

And there's tension in his neck. A twitch that won't go away in his fingers. However quick his feet fall, they hit the sand too hard, a constant, rhythmic thud that's only aggravating him more.

They look out across the desert and see nothing. They don't know what he's seen out here.

But they can guess.

They tuck their head and focus on stepping into the tracks he leaves behind in the sand. It passes the time better than watching the slow approach of the carcass that camouflages their vehicle.

That's why they notice the patch of sand that doesn't match the rest. It's dark. The grains don't flow with the wind the way everything around it does. Too much of it is moving.

"Stop." He doesn't, and they can barely hear themselves through the fabric keeping the lower half of their face out of the sun. They yank it down."Stop!"

That time, at least, they know he just isn't listening.

His foot goes down into the sand, sinks as he tries to recoil from the instability, and then the sand starts moving up his leg.

It's not a Dalek, which is good, and it's not something worse than a Dalek, which is better. Minuscule bodies glitter in the harsh sunlight brightly enough that Even can see each one clearly through their goggles. There are dozens of them digging themselves out of the sand, scurrying up towards the Master's leg. A few of them cling onto the outside of his clothing, and he's able to shake those off. Others go beneath. Even loses track of them.

Each tumble leaves their sides aching. They spit sand dry from their uncovered mouth, enough that they regret bothering to warn the Master at all. It gets under their lips, against their gums, and there's nothing they can do about that but shove it to the side to deal with later. They scrabble for traction, turning as they roll to grasp out at the shifting dune and drag themself to a halt. They don't roll as far as he does. Even gets their knees under them. The sand is so hot that they can feel it beneath their palms, through their gloves. They suck in a breath, only to choke on it, scorching grains flying down their airway. By the time they've managed to gag up a pitiful amount of saliva from the back of their throat, they look up to see the tiny, shining things moving together like a snake through the sand towards them.

Or bleeding. Why is he bleeding?

The Master squeezes his eyes shut. He gropes for their hand until he haphazardly slaps their weapon from it. It lands in the sand, forgotten as he drags them in closer. "Kill them," he coughs. There's sand sticking to every bit of his face that's exposed. "The ones that haven't burrowed-"

They don't know what else to do. They slap one of the things. There's a crunch underneath their palm. They draw it back. That one isn't moving.

They hit another, and the Master bites down on a scream. It's his skin they're striking to get at the creatures.

Are they alive? A leg breaks off of one of them, but they don't burst like a body that small should, no matter how hard Even hits them. They don't leak any fluid onto their gloves or the Master's skin.

The sand is littered with the debris of them. Even doesn't have time to examine it. "Get up," they tell him. His head rolls back against the sand, expression contorted with pain. Even doesn't wait for him to listen. They pick up their gun and stow it. They get on one knee, their heel sinking slightly into the sand as they get ready. They haul him up into a sitting position. He protests that with a hiss between his teeth, which they ignore. "Get! Up! I need to fix you!" They're grateful that, of the two of them, they weigh more. It's still a struggle to pull him up to his feet. They don't think they can carry him outright, but if he can do a little of the work, they can help him the rest of the way to their TARDIS.

The Master tries to take too much of his own weight onto his injured leg. He screams.

Even winces. They adjust their grip until he's slumped further against them, his head knocking theirs as his heavy gasps ring in their ear.

"I said to stop," they whisper, very quietly. They're pretty sure he doesn't hear them. That he can't hear anything but his own breathing.

They lumber the final stretch to the TARDIS like a three-legged beast. The Master staggers more than he steps, and Even shoulders the unsteady burden of him as best they can.

They enter between two ribs, and their foot hits the floor of their TARDIS rather than more sand. They drag the Master forward a few more steps before they finally let him slip away from them. He slides down their body, grasping at their clothes to slow his own fall. He doesn't scream this time, but they still hear the sound that could have been one as its strangled to death in his throat.

Even wants badly to discard the outer layers they're wearing, but they don't. They'll take whatever protection they can get.

They bring a box with them. It did have something else in it, but they turned it upside down and dumped its contents on the floor. It's a box for specimens now.

The Master is not dead when they get back. They let out a breath. He's propped himself against a wall, working to expose each of the bleeding intrusions. Even counts thirteen of them.

They sit in front of him. He's knocking his head back against the wall. They try not to count out the beats, head down to work.

There are three in his torso, and they hope those are the most shallow. They had to crawl further than the others to get there. Even swallows back nausea imagining the tiny bodies clawing and digging deeper into him. They rest a hand against his sternum to keep him still, the beat of his skull against the wall the only thing they can hear as they concentrate. The tweezers widen the hole one of the things has made to enter it. The Master's mouth twists. Even wants to drag a hand through their hair, but both are too busy to allow it. Their fingers flex on his sternum. The tweezers slide deeper, grasping at nothing at first. Deeper, deeper, and Even thinks they have something. It's bumping the end of the tweezers. They hope that means whatever is at the end is moving on its own. They squeeze the tweezers a few times until they catch hold of it. Even drags it back out gingerly.

They pause to look at the thing. It looks sort of like a bug, with a fat, bullet body cased in black and flailing legs, covered in slick blood. It feels vaguely familiar to them, but they can't place it. Then again, most bugs look the same, even the alien ones. They put the first one they retrieve in the box and trap it.

Again, they delve inside him. The Master begins to whine, but this time, the awful noise doesn't stop, just rises and falls as they dig around for the bug.

"Distract yourself," Even urges when they can’t take it anymore. Their eyes stings. They're too dehydrated to cry, but the burning urge is there. "Talk at me." The Master pushes a breath out between his teeth.

He shoots a hand out. The movement jars Even's arm and jabs the tweezers into something inside him that makes him grunt. They manage to get a hold on the next bug. It struggles against them as they pull it free from his belly and slap it against the ground, crushing it under their foot for good measure. The metallic crunch they heard before is even louder this time.

The Master curls his fingers twice, jerking his hand towards the box. Even pauses to give it to him. He can see the bug safely through the translucent sides.

His brow furrows, this time in more concentration than pain as they go digging for the third bug.

"I don't know what that is," he finally says. "It's not organic?"

"Not organic. Doesn't bleed," they answer.

"It's almost shaped like a sand beetle." He tilts the box. "Too short, I think. The coloring is wrong. It might be enough to fool someone else. No one who spends their free time in the drylands, but who would ever go there voluntarily?"

We did, Even doesn't say. They're too focused now, and they don't want to break his train of thought and risk him dropping away from speech into more painful wailing. He's stopped beating his head so hard against the wall.

"I don't think they were meant to be there, or we would have seen more of them." He shuts his eyes briefly. "Or not now. Not yet. Not anymore." He squeezes them shut tighter, his whole face wrinkling around the force of it. "You have no idea what it feels like when time is breaking and reforming around us!" he snaps at them, volume rising out of nowhere. Even shrinks back, eyes narrowed at him, but they don't stop digging for the bug. "It's deteriorating with us inside! I don't-" He cuts himself off, sucking in breaths hard and fast as Even grabs for the bug, hits something, and then only pulls free one broken leg of it.

"No. Talk." He's shaking again. They hit his chest. "Talk!" They force the tweezers back into the same hole. They get the body of the bug this time. They pull it out wriggling.

"I don't know what it is," he says, voice strained and quiet again. "I left. I left before it got worse. So, I don't know what it is or who made it." Even straightens his leg out to dig in his thigh for more bugs. "Or maybe it isn't from the war. Maybe someone's science fair project got out."

"Science fair projects don't kill people," Even says. "They're... bananas. I think." They try to cast their mind back to when they’d heard about that, and they think that's what the Doctor said was involved. "You plug batteries into them." The Master's leg twitches as they pull another bloody hunk of bug out of him.

"Not at the Academy." Their eyes flick up to his face, but his are closed, his hand resting over them. The box with their living specimen sits on his stomach, the thing inside angrily twisting and clicking away to no avail. "Well, xenobiology, maybe, but you would never win anything if you were playing with something from Earth."

"Don't all the children win at a science fair?"

Even crushes another bug. Only a few more. The Master looks slightly dazed when he opens his eyes, staring up at nothing.

They blink down at the bloody tweezers for a moment, considering their words.

"I didn't go to school," they offer.

"I'm not surprised. The Doctor enjoys when you're all so easily impressed."

Even was going to tell him more.

They glare at him instead before shoving the tweezers in again. The Master jerks hard enough that his head cracks back against the wall.

Soon, tiny broken bugs litter the floor, harmless. Even has to help him back into the guts of their TARDIS, to the medical chamber where he'll be able to heal the rest of the damage or tell them how to. Only once as they make their way down does Even turn their head and shove their nose against his neck. They breathe in deep. He just smells like blood and sand and sweat. His cells are staying exactly the way they are. Nothing burns. They did a good job. They relax.

They aren't sure what he does with the specimen they pulled out of him.

They suppose it isn’t that important.

----

He only thinks of sending them something after he gets 'fired.'

The problem being, of course, that at that exact point in time, he's not sure where Even would be, let alone where his Even is. He considers investigating St. Paul's Cathedral, but however small the chance is, the idea of running into herself-

He thinks about it one last time: walking up to them, perhaps as they were peering through the water like they could see the cybermen inside, watching the refracted light play off the 'uniform' she'd picked out for them to wear.

And he’d say…

He wonders if he could get them to follow him just by telling them how poorly the plan would go. How useless it was to make overtures to the Doctor. How they would never listen, never stop, never consider either Even or the Master as anything worthy of-

Which Even wasn’t. Isn’t. If he’d- If Missy had never forgotten that, they wouldn’t have left- No, wouldn’t have been able to leave, and then if he wanted them, they’d be standing at the other side of the TARDIS console.

In the end, there's an easier time, an easier place. One of the benefits of time travel: he never pays for postage, and his presents always arrive when he means them to.

----

"...He asked," Even says, slowly, unsure what she means. If Jack didn't want her, he wouldn't offer at all, right?

"I think he felt bad for me." There's a tone of voice Rose uses when things hurt, and Even isn't supposed to poke at them. Or, not Even specifically, but they think other people recognized the tone better and they were the one who had ended up poking too much before they started listening for it.

They still want to ask, but they keep their mouth shut instead.

"There's UNIT," they say. "...Martha works with UNIT." Rose smiles at Martha's name.

"Or I could go back to school," she says. "Get myself a degree in..." She trails off, then shakes her head. "Anything I want."

Even frowns. They squeeze the watch. They thought this was a choice they were both making. They hadn't considered Rose might want to go somewhere they couldn't follow.

"I don't want to lie to him," Rose says.

"But we are."

"You love him. It's okay." They aren't sure if that's the right thing to say. Rose's small smile wavers for a moment, her eyes cast down.

"I do." Even opens their mouth to find better words, something right that'll help Rose. The Doctor would know. He'd have a dozen ready that Rose would need to hear, and he’d fix this. Even never does. Instead, before they can speak and make the situation worse, they both hear the front door open and close, a flash of the torrent of rain outside, shuffling footsteps, and Rose says, "Can't miss a chance to be part of a conversation about him, can he?"

"You're talking about me?" The Doctor-

John, Even corrects, loudly, inside their own head as he appears around the corner and turns into the kitchen, dripping wet all over the floor. John. John.

"I told you to bring an umbrella," Rose says. She looks at John the way she looks at no one else, Even thinks, save the Doctor, who isn't here to be looked at with so much love.

"I know, and you're always right." Rose sticks her tongue between her teeth when she smiles at that. John holds something up. "You've got mail, Even," John says. The package is small and slightly soggy. "Who do you know from... Australia? There's no name on it." He sounds perplexed, but Even's heart skips a beat.

"No one," they answer truthfully, because that means there's only one person it can be. Rose knows the moment they say it.

"Open it," she says, quick, as excited as Even feels. Even tries to get up, but their legs don't work. They flop to the side, kicking them out and scrunching their face up as their limbs wake up with painful protest. Luckily, John takes pity on them, bringing the package over to the coffee table and placing it in the middle of their unfinished puzzle. It doesn't touch any of the pieces.

Even tears it open with the two of them watching.

There are two things inside.

There's a very small card, the first thing Even reaches for. They want the Doctor’s words more than anything else. They turn it over, squinting. They always have trouble with handwriting. "'Thinking of you,'" they read, slowly.

"Is it signed?" Rose asks.

Even's frown deepens. "Maybe?" They hand the card over to Rose. She peers at it for a minute. John does, too, leaning against her and laying his chin over her shoulder.

"That could be a D," Rose says, hopefully, at the same time that John says,

"That's definitely an O."

Even is already pulling the other object out. It's a small... rock. It's beautiful, dark orange and shiny. They turn it, and with a slightly better view, they can see something inside it. They tilt it another way for a better look. "It's a bug."

"A bug?"

"A bug." They trade again, and when Even looks at the card a second time... Rose is right. It could be a D.

Why not Doctor, though? Why not... more? Something aches in Even's chest, and they curl up slightly. Why is he thinking of them? What's the rock? Or the bug? Where'd he get either? What time, what planet? Does he miss them? Is he coming to visit? Will he ever come to visit?

He promised he'd visit.

"You alright?" Rose says. Even looks up, ready to lie to her that they're okay. She's not looking at them, though. She's looking at John. He's gone still and pale staring at the bug trapped inside its rock. Rose holds it back out to Even, and they take it, unsure of what to do with something that scares the- That scares John. Who may not remember why he's scared of it, but if he is... Even looks down at the bug again. It's trapped. It looks harmless. Whatever it is would have suffocated a long time ago. It can't hurt them.

They don't even know why they're thinking about that. The Doctor would never send them something dangerous.

John swallows. He inhales shakily.

"Fine," he manages. "I don't know why I- Sorry." He shakes himself. "Sorry. It's nice. Very... very pretty."

He doesn't like it, so Even doesn't like it.

They can't get rid of it, though. The Doctor did send it. The card, eventually, gets lost, much easier than the amber does. They just tuck that away somewhere they don't have to see it and try not to think about it. It's still there the day they leave home and don't come back.

They don't have much time to ask the Doctor why he sent it the next time they see him.

And by the time after that, they barely remember it at all.

Which is probably for the best. It isn't like he could have answered with anything but, "I never sent you a package."

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

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seabreeze2022 · 2 years ago

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Bahama Cruise 2022, Part 14, April 12, White Point, Oven Rock Cave.

Just picking up some lunch of Queen Conch before we head south.

This is a small Crawfish hiding under a coral head. He is to small to catch and it is out of season, so we let him be.

This is the north side of White Point, which is 3.5 miles south of Black Point. Black point has a settlement, White Point does not. Contrary to what you might think, Black Point has nothing to do with the skin color of the locals. The rocky shoreline there is a dark iron shore of solid rock. White Point is very obvious from a distance with its high white sandy cliffs.

The shoreline in between the two points has several different types of rock. Most is a limestone with large under cuts. There are exposed pockets of red Sahara dust in the limestone. Then there are flat smooth rocks on shore. Plus the sand on White point.

Nancy is the Dinghy Commander today. Notice the red color in the rocks to the top right. From what I understand, Sahara dust collects over decades and washes down into pockets. Which eventually get covered by other sediments.

Cruisers love building cairns. I prefer to leave nature in its natural state. On the north west side of White Point are these smooth stones some are almost black.

Just a photo showing how the grass rakes back and forth making a design in the sand. Plus a hermit crab has walked through the scene at some point.

I would like to say we were the only ones at White Point, but there was a mega yacht parked on the other side with its beach party going on.

View from the top of White Point.

The holding here is not great so we picked up our anchor and headed south along Great Guana Cay. Welcome to “Oven Rock”. A very unique geological formation attached to shore with a opening in the very middle facing west.

There is a cave nearby called “Oven Rock Cave”, we just needed to find the path. We talked to a fellow cruiser on the beach. He said go to the very north end of the beach and look for the trail. So we did. There were a couple of fire pits on shore. Then we found the markers.

We followed a winding trail through the scrub brush and over tippy slabs of pinnacle rock. Beware of what nearby tree you may want to brace yourself. Poison wood abounds on these islands. Descriptions said the opening was hard to find and very camouflaged. After 15 minutes of hiking there was a fork in the trail.

Turning 90 degrees to the right and a short hike brings you to the end of the trail. A huge buttonwood limb lays across the mouth of the Cave entrance. You could easily sit on the limb and not know the cave was behind you. We were prepared with spot lights.

This cave was found by a young boy from Farmers Cay playing in the hills, while his mom tended the family plot of vegetables. What a cool cave. A Stalactite married up to a stalagmite near the cave entrance. Crystal clear water. A very enterprising cave diver explored this in 1995.

What is a dark spooky cave without bats? There are 8 bats hanging from the ceiling of the cave where the spotlight is shining.

Beware of dipping your hand in the cave water and rubbing your face. I am now scarred for life!

Just kidding. But I do feel like a crew beamed down from the Starship Enterprise to a new planet. What is going to sting, burn, poison or harm me while I am innocently looking at it. Maybe I need to get a name tag on my shirt. Those guys usually made it back to the ship.

After leaving the cave we explored the rest of the trail heading east. Where we broke out on to this deserted beach. Surf rolling in on the right, and sea oats in the foreground.

A deserted beach without a beautiful woman is just another pile of sand. Lucky for me I had Nancy to brighten up the picture.

This was one of several Sahara dust collections points we hiked over in the Exumas.

Cinnamon raisin rolls being prepared for tomorrows breakfast.

To be continued,

S/V Sea Breeze, Oven Rock, Great Guana, Exuma, Bahamas.

#SeaBreeze2022 #conch shell #exuma #exumabahamas

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suranet · 6 years ago

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MerNavis AU

mers aren’t the only creatures swimming in the ocean and not all of said creatures are friendly.

(octopus-based sea monster desertman! yes, he can talk.)

#and yes he's got mechanical robot parts just like the mers #they're just completely hidden #under the camouflage and the sand covering him #his species is much rarer than humans or mers #sura scribbles #my art #megaman battle network #desertman.exe #MerNavis AU

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better-name-for-rp-blog · 3 years ago

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+ @little-yugi-muto-rp (continuing from here)

The skies were still dark even after the huge storm had passed through, as the sun had just gone beneath the horizon. But there was still enough light to make out a small form laying on the beach where the sea had washed it up.

Closer inspection revealed that the form was actually a small human boy.

Atem rarely ventured up close to the surface, but he found that after a storm was the perfect time to check out some of the uninhabited islands nearby. Sometimes he found some interesting things washed up on the shore, or some animals that were injured by the storm that made for easy prey. Either way, he felt safest in the cover of darkness or under thick clouds.

He had been scanning the shoreline of one of the tiny islands when something far larger than usual caught his eye. Even with his improved vision, he couldn’t tell what it was from far away. It looked like some kind of animal. Maybe a meal?

His tentacles pulled him up onto the sand to get a better look at the strange, motionless lump. His heart jumped into his throat. A human! What was a human doing all the way out here? Was it even still alive? He didn’t really want to touch it for fear of it waking up and panicking at the sight of him, so he came up with a plan. Wedging himself between two large rocks nearby, his bottom half camouflaged to match the surface while his upper half vanished through the use of a spell. Then, he used a bit more energy to conjure a simple healing spell to test if the human was alive.

#( The Pharaoh - Atem El-Sayed )#( seafolk verse )#// yesss undersea aus my beloved #little-yugi-muto-rp

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theyungihven · 2 years ago

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The emerald price and his ruby princess 🧜🏽‍♀️🐠

pairing : fisherman yunho x mermaid mingi word count: 0.9k+ genre: fluff, mystery warnings : none? mentions of death synopsis : "there has been a mermaid sighting by the southern shore" Even when the elders called it off as the fishermen mistaking a whale for a mermaid, deep down in yunho's heart he knew it was true.

previous chapter | next chapter

The cold breeze of the ocean grazes against the emerald prince's cheek as it caresses his soft skin, reminding him of his father's loving touch. Yunho’s memory is quite profound and remarkable indeed as he even remembers his mother's strange emerald eyes which gazed at him, reflecting the immense pain of giving birth to a fragile soul.

Yet, there was a strange emotion hidden behind the frail layer of pain, which he guessed to be the overwhelming guilt of knowing that her heart will give into the peculiar urge of hopelessness and stop pumping the very essence of life throughout her body.

The boy wishes to haved saved her that full moon night, holding onto her existence as he gazes solemnly at the full moon shining down its bright light onto him. Tears slide down his eyes reflecting the subsided sorrow of his parent's death, who left him in this world with few memories of them.As every kid hoped for a beautiful and joyful childhood, Yunho did too, but the fates were too harsh on the young boy to take away his precious mother the moment he first breathed in their world.

Today is 'the day', Yunho’s beloved mother's birthday as he and his father have celebrated all these years until he decided to join her in the heavens above. That evening had been another devastating event of his life as he and his grandparents mourned beside his father's lifeless body for hours with only hope in their hearts; for him to join them on earth again.

Breathing in as much air as he could, the boy gathers his courage and sings his mother's favourite lullaby to the moon while his voice fails him, breaking every second as he cries uncontrollably, grieving his long forgotten mother. His voice wavers against the tide washing up along the shore, sweet and serene like a siren's call to the tired and greedy soldiers searching for the treasure in the wild waters. Unaware of the wonders of his voice and its repercussions, he calls upon his lover in the lonely night whose cold embrace sends chills up his spine.

In the distance, as the emerald-haired continues singing his heart out, breathing under the moonlight and seeking protection in the camouflage of the dark sea, a creature swims closer to the coast. It has awakened from its slumber due to the boy's alluring voice loading into the waters as into the creature's ears, stealing his peace away.

It swims out of the shelter of his cave and into the waters of its new territory. Its golden scales glimmer as if carved out of diamonds. The scales cover its tail which is as long as the emerald-haired's long limbs, as it helps the creature propagate through the waters and closer to the coast. Its hind fins surfacing above water are similar to one of a shark but softer and appealing enough to get the urge to glide your fingers across it.

It takes cover behind a rock tall enough to cover his body as he eagerly listens to the boy singing to the moon from the bottom of his heart. The creature, who looks similar to a human with pisces features, perhaps one of merfolk, gets entranced by the human's voice, who sits by the sea shore, on the cold sand as his fingers strum a melody against the metal chords. The mermaid has seen the instrument in his previous home, the Spanish countryside, where people often sang their heart out like the boy across from him. It yearns to swim closer to him, touch those soft cheeks of his and maybe bathe in his warm embrace under the moonlight.

The mermaid doesn't even realise how brightly her body shone. As strong as a diamond, its scales flicker under the full moon light. The bright glimmering in the silent, dark waters draws Yunho attention towards the creature. Drawing out his binoculars, he searches for a closer look of the object but the only detail he makes out is a mop of red hair and the creature's glimmering golden scaled tail that flutters against the water, as it swims away from the coast and towards the giants rocks.

The creature had been taking refuge behind the rock to listen to his mourning, metres away from him. The sighting had just made his belief in the merfolk stronger.

His mother has been rumoured to be one of the sea folk, who had his father fall for her and a year later, he found himself breathing on this island. Her immediate and unexplainable death puzzled his mind for years to come but not anymore. He is determined to grab a hold of that creature and perhaps solve everything related to his existence.

The emerald prince leaves the shore, gathering his belongings and heading home in hopes of catching a glimpse of the creature or even encountering it in a closer range. He doesn't even care to look back at the silent sea, as his mind fogs up with numerous questions and theories about the mermaid. Thus, he misses the emerald eyes staring back at him from a distance as they observe his every moment and perhaps hear his murmurs too.

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luvvewan · 3 years ago

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promptsssssss!!!

13: “Just listen to the sound of my voice.” 🥺🙏❤️

Thank you for the prompt, @sanerontheinside ! I went full Obi-whump, so I hope you like it.

—

The healer crouched at the edge of the bunk and took Obi-Wan’s bare feet in his hands.

Obi-Wan cried out, trying to pull away from the touch, twisting in the blankets.

“Caht, nah.” The elderly man, Hagit, said softly. He glanced up at Qui-Gon. “Numo.”

Qui-Gon had garnered only a handful of words in the native tongue, but he didn’t need to know what the healer said; he could see it in his eyes. Pity. For Obi-Wan, yes. But also for him? Fear lodged in his throat.

“Evvi, eh. Uh…here. Boy…numo.” Hagit motioned to Obi-Wan’s foot.

“Keep him still, Master Jedi, please.” Evvi, their young interpreter and Hagit’s grand-niece, translated. “He sees the spine in the left heel.”

Qui-Gon suppressed a shudder and turned away, leaning over his insensate student. Obi-Wan’s face was covered in sweat, eyes half-lidded, lips cracked and quivering. His Learner’s braid had plastered itself to Obi-Wan’s pale neck and chest. Qui-Gon smoothed it carefully between his fingers. “You are doing very well, Padawan. Just stay still. I know it’s difficult but you must not move,” he used a gentle voice better suited for younglings, despite the fact Obi-Wan was twenty three years old and a newly senior apprentice.

He watched Obi-Wan try to look at him, but another wave of pain erupted through their connection in the Force, and his eyes rolled back. Qui-Gon absorbed what he could, wanting to take it all, though even the echoes of Obi-Wan’s agony were enough to make him briefly light-headed.

He noticed Hagit was speaking again, a distant noise. Evvi said something back to him, then Qui-Gon heard several small, hesitant steps. A hand touched his arm.

“I’m sorry, Master Jedi. Removal is very painful and delicate. He does not want the spine to break apart while still in the foot. It will release more poison.” Evvi explained. “Can you hold him down?”

Obi-Wan was more powerful than his small frame would suggest. The pain and delirium made him combative, and when Qui-Gon gripped his arms he thrashed and snarled. He had never seen Obi-Wan, obedient and self-possessed Obi-Wan, untethered this way. Fingernails raked down his forearm, tore at his robe sleeves.

Sedation was not possible. The medical supplies were limited anyway. They were lucky to have Hagit, who was old enough to remember when the stone-fish were plentiful, before a plague wiped them out. Now it was exceedingly rare to catch a stone-fish on the shore, due to both its near-extinction and impressive camouflage. Obi-Wan had accompanied some of the village’s children to the water, or really they had accompanied him, starry-eyed at the presence of an offworlder, a Jedi. He had been stepping along a path of craggy rocks leading to the ocean when his foot landed on a stone-fish, its spiny, algae-crusted body hidden amongst the rocks and sand.

The pain had been immediate. The children had run, screaming, for help. By the time Qui-Gon found him, Obi-Wan was screaming too.

Other villagers had come. Among them was Hagit, helped along by Evvi at his elbow, his grey eyes milky and grave. Obi-Wan was administered a general anti-venom there on the beach, already overwhelmed by the agony that radiated from his foot through his entire body.

Evvi had told Qui-Gon the poison was brutal and quick. It was not always fatal, but it triggered something nearly as cruel: most victims were gripped by an unbearable sense of dread, demanding to be killed before the poison could fully take them.

From his admittedly foggy calculations, it had been close to an hour since Obi-Wan was attacked. Qui-Gon’s stomach lurched. He did not look behind him, where he knew Hagit was hovering at the wound site, arthritic hands shaking, preparing to perform a task of great precision.

“Still, Master Jedi. He must be still.”

He brought the Force to bear down on his Padawan while using his own brute strength to pin Obi-Wan’s wrists back onto the bunk. Obi-Wan whimpered and moaned, whipping his head to the side. Tears streamed freely down his face, snot and sweat dripping from his nose.

“Help!” He kicked his legs, trying to free himself from the healer’s grasp.

Hagit made a sharp noise under his breath, likely a swear.

“Obi-Wan, listen to me! We’re trying to help you!” He barked hoarsely, wiping sweat from his own brow before straddling his Padawan and laying over top of him, using his weight to hold him down. Their heads were pressed together and Obi-Wan wept and keened in his ear.

Qui-Gon’s heart found new ways to break. The Force was overrun with panic and hopelessness. Obi-Wan twitched and fought under him, desperate to get freed. Qui-Gon tried to use a sleep suggestion but his Padawan’s aura was clouded, elusive.

And time was draining away. He imagined the spine lodged in Obi-Wan’s tender heel, the poison seeping into his blood and causing more damage. “Just…breathe with me, Padawan, alright? There is no pain, there is the Force.”

“I can’t.” Obi-Wan whimpered.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Obi-Wan’s temple. “Leave it to me, then. Trust in me, young one. Whatever else is happening…it doesn’t matter. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

He knew it was a risk, to appeal to the dutiful instinct in Obi-Wan that very well might be overridden by poison-fueled anxiety. But what else could he do? Hold his delirious student down with every last bit of strength he possessed, and possibly break his bones in the process?

Obi-Wan bucked against him, sniffling and gasping. “It won’t stop it won’t stop oh gods…”

“Shhh,” Qui-Gon smoothed his damp hair. “You are so far away from that, aren’t you? Safe with me. Safe and very tired. Only you and only me, far away.”

Nerveless fingers clutched at him. “M-Make it stop make it stop I can’t—“

“Of course I will. Hold onto me and keep your legs very still. You can do that, I know you can. Put your arms around me and hold on, as tight as you can.” Qui-Gon blinked back the sweat pouring into his eyes, body vibrating with hope and dread as Obi-Wan slowly obeyed. “That’s it. Now I want you to keep the rest of your body very, very still, Padawan. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan heaved an exhausted sob, but nodded. His arms gripped around Qui-Gon’s back while his legs gradually relaxed on the bunk.

Hagit murmured to himself. Evvi touched Qui-Gon’s leg.

In the stuffy little room, everyone tacitly understood what would happen next.

Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan begin to tense. “Far away,” he continued, as if there had been no interruption. “We can go anywhere, can’t we? We’ve been to so many places together.”

“Nuh, Evvi.”

“Uncle says now, Master Jedi.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and released his fear to the Force. “Where do you want to go, Obi-Wan? I remember you enjoying Alderaan, with all the beautiful trees. The people there were so kind, weren’t they?” He did his best not to think of the fragile procedure happening inches away. His muscles shook, ready to react if necessary. He knew once Hagit began removing the spine it could not be halted. “I can’t remember…did we visit in the summer or winter?”

Obi-Wan was holding onto him for dear life, strangled moans catching in his throat.

My brave boy, Qui-Gon thought to himself. The pain was unreal. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it felt like for Obi-Wan.

“Kill me Master Master oh Force I can’t…”

Qui-Gon squeezed him close. He thought of what Evvi had said--the poor victims who begged for death. He had not thought Obi-Wan would reach that point. But even the Force could not insulate the young man from such all-encompassing agony.

Obi-Wan wept openly against Qui-Gon’s neck. “Master, Qui-Gon...it’s moving..what….what is it doing..?”

“Don’t move,” Qui-Gon warned. “Do you want to go to Alderaan? Or someplace else? Someplace warm?”

They had just finished an extended mission on a frigid planet, yet Obi-Wan shook his head. “N-No deserts.”

Qui-Gon chuckled. Obi-Wan sunburned easily, returning from desert assignments with pink cheeks and ears. “Of course not. No, someplace cool enough to sleep out under the stars. Kodasta, perhaps? Remember how the stars seemed so close, as if we could nearly touch them?”

Obi-Wan clutched at the robe on Qui-Gon’s back. “Y-Yes…ahhh…”

“What was the constellation you saw? I can’t remember. It was quite rare, wasn’t it? I’m never any good at that but you spotted it right away. What was it called?”

“…Th-The El…usive Mage.”

“Oh yes. That was it.”

Obi-Wan moaned into Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

Qui-Gon held him steady. The pain was beyond excruciating and Qui-Gon could only feel the edge of it; Obi-Wan had long since given up any attempts at shielding from him. It was a testament to Obi-Wan’s endurance that he had not passed out.

“Nearly done,” Evvi said.

Thank the Force. “You’re doing so well, Padawan,” Qui-Gon praised him quietly. “Keep right here with me, can you see the Mage? Close your eyes and see if it’s there.”

“M-Master…”

“I know. But we are so far away from that, aren’t we? Among the stars on Kodasta. I see them when I close my eyes. Close your eyes and you’ll see them too. No, no, you can’t twitch like that. Squeeze me instead. That’s better. Now look for the Mage with me. Help me see it.”

“Ugh…” Obi-Wan groaned and panted. “Mmmmph…”

Qui-Gon could not let their progress unravel, not now. “Is it there, towards the left?”

For several strained seconds, Obi-Wan made harsh, pained sounds and struggled for breath. Then, finally: “Y-Yes. You have to…un…ah…unfocus your eyes to see. Look for the hat f-first.”

Qui-Gon smiled, blinking back the tears gathering in his eyes. “Ah, of course.”

“It’s out, Master Jedi.”

“I see it now, Obi-Wan. It’s beautiful.”

His Padawan sagged under him, unconscious.

—

Qui-Gon went to the shore and walked along the rock paths, fingers hooked in his belt. The stone-fish had been immediately killed, its remaining spines safely collected and the rest of it burned by a few of the villagers. Evvi told him some of the men searched the beach until dawn, out of caution.

They had not come across a single other stone-fish. Obi-Wan’s foot had apparently found the only specimen on the entire beach.

But then, Obi-Wan had always been blessed with a particular sort of luck.

He came to the place where Obi-Wan was stung. Specks of blood stained the rocks there. His instinct was to throw them into the ocean.

Instead, Qui-Gon left everything as it was, sea spray misting his cheeks as he turned back towards the village.

—

When he returned to the little cottage, Hagit was sitting at a sun-bleached wooden table in the kitchen. The red-tinged spine, still full of venom, was sealed in a plastibag and held loosely in his liver-spotted hands.

Hagit looked up at Qui-Gon. He was quite old, skin sagging and eyes permanently wet.

“Boy…yes.” Hagit nodded firmly at him.

Qui-Gon found it difficult to swallow. He bowed before the healer. “Graz-ta,” he said. Thank you.

—

Obi-Wan was curled up on the bunk. A heavy blanket was wrapped around him, his bandaged foot sticking out from the bottom. Though he had improved since the day before, his face still looked drained of its color.

Qui-Gon glanced around the quiet, dark room. He noticed Obi-Wan’s clothes and boots tucked under a chair. Evvi had done it, probably, but it was still a familiar sight, reminding him of how Obi-Wan tended to neatly fold his tunics, no matter where they found themselves. His heart tightened; he let it pass. He knew he would feel this way after such a close call. Small, tender things about Obi-Wan were going to strike him at odd times—he knew that, unfortunately, from experience.

Like the way he would hold his braid between his fingers when he slept. Qui-Gon could not recall Feemor or Xanatos ever doing that.

He sat on the bunk beside Obi-Wan and listened to the quaint sounds of life beyond the door. He appreciated the borrowed sense of domesticity that came with staying in family houses: home cooking, careworn sheets, a calmness and mildness in the Force. He wished they could stay here until Obi-Wan fully recovered from his ordeal, but the Council had already sent them their next assignment.

Qui-Gon brushed his fingers against Obi-Wan’s forehead. Glassy grey eyes fluttered open.

“Only a slight fever now,” Qui-Gon told him.

Obi-Wan kept his braid laced between his fingers. He looked swallowed up by the thick weave of the blanket and the night shirt that was several sizes too big. Or was it simply the absence of Jedi trappings that made it more obvious that he was young, human and fragile? “Well,” he croaked, voice ruined from prolonged screaming followed by prolonged silence, “I didn’t die.”

Qui-Gon tried to laugh, but it came out as an awkward huff. He touched Obi-Wan’s cheek. “No. You seem very much alive to me.”

Obi-Wan smiled, his eyes already drifting closed. “I didn’t sense it. The…ah…thing.”

“Neither did I,” Qui-Gon admitted, gazing out the window above Obi-Wan’s head. The villagers had searched the beach, but who could search all of the sea? He began to think of other dangers on other worlds, the unnamed masses of threats that awaited Obi-Wan in his life, on their next mission, even tomorrow. “If we could sense everything, our lives would be much easier.”

“Mmmhmmm. Less interesting?”

“I’m slipping. You’re guessing my lessons before I can give them.”

“Mm, but I can…always sense you, Master.” Obi-Wan mumbled. He would be asleep soon.

Qui-Gon leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “May the Force be with you, my Padawan.”

—

They rarely dreamed together, but that night they did, climbing through constellations in the dark sky, safely above the sea.

#star wars #obi-wan kenobi #qui-gon jinn #obi-wan #qui-gon #writing prompts #obi wan and qui gon #obi wan whump #luvewan fanfic

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bluemoonbabes · 3 years ago

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Casino Royale: Part 1

A Debris fic where Tom is undercover with Finola as his pretty girl and Bryan is not happy™️. Inspired by 007: Casino Royal and this and this kind of.

As for when it takes place, I have no idea.

Montenegro was a country of ease, people strolling about the streets, chasing murmurs of gossip and the smell of fragrant foods. The town they were in felt quaint, the gentle wind before the billowing storm, a pause in pandemonium. At the night, the storm finally broke as Montenegro molted into something glittering, a sense of opulence befalling the streets as the rich distinguishably clambered to their coteries and consortiums, dripping in polished pearls and glimmering golds.

Bryan had never felt so ornate in his entire life, though as he swam through the faceless crowds of the masqueraded poker game, his puff of glamour melted into a feeling of orthodox. Back home, among the seaweed and salty sands of Galveston Island, he would’ve been the first picked out of a crowd, a foreigner in the bevy of Texans. But here, in the depths of the Casino Royale, Bryan felt uneasily ordinary, his golden suit like camouflage against the plaiting in the walls and the black undershirt synonymous with the shadows lingering about the corners of the room.

Had he come underdressed?

Along with several other agents, including Finola Jones and Tom Gordon, Bryan had been sent out to Montenegro on the suspicion of Debris lingering in the circles of the rich. Though he thought of himself as an un-spiteful man, Bryan couldn’t abate the sense of jealousy that had bubbled in his chest when Maddox had revealed that it would be Finola and Tom playing the couple. The Orbital director had determined it too risky to send in Bryan as the central attention, suspecting that any Influx operatives there would recognize his voice or even manner of person. Bryan knew it was reasonable, though that didn’t mean his internal instincts had to agree.

Now, he sat along the bar, carefully placed into a corner that gave him scope of the entire casino room. It was a private gathering hall, small and inlaid with pure gold, furnished by crimson velvet, and lit by crystal. It was a hall of royalty, every patron dressed as though you had a chance at meeting a Windsor or an Alawi with each person you spoke to. The poker table was sat in the center of the floor, no less extravagant than the room it was in, and risen a meter by a podium as if was a literal throne. Ten people sat around the table, each under a glittering light that seemed to make them the focal of the night. An eleventh seat was taken by the croupier.

Bryan had to admit that Tom looked kingly, sat at the right hand of the croupier and dressed in a three-piece, black satine suit. Beneath the light, the minute sheen of a matte gold danced with his every movement, twined in floral designs around the tight fit of his jacket. His mask was black as well, covering nose to forehead, and surmounted with golden laurels that reminded Bryan of the Greek crown-wreaths.

The game began effortlessly after quiet approval from the guests encircling the table. It was difficult to tell who was who, faces kept secret by the masks, but Bryan could guess by gut feeling that the man across from Tom was Anson Ash. His face was entirely covered by a porcelain mask, paired against a smoky silver suit and slicked-back hair that was steadily graying. By the way he seemed to hover, elevated by an aura of arrogance, Bryan knew it had to be Ash. No man’s presence was so equally cocky and silently patient like his.

Near an hour into the game, the doors of the room opened quietly, few paying mind to the newcomer until she wound her way through the crowd. Bryan didn’t see her until she was atop the poker table’s podium, swaying towards Tom with a liquid gracefulness. He went breathless as his eyes fell to Finola, draped in a black dress that pooled into slits over her hips, long sleeves that bent exactly with her arm, and a cut in the chest that dipped in a ‘v’ to just above her navel. It was dripping fabric, held together by a thin golden band at her waist, and flattered by her own mask of a golden laurel wreath.

Bryan would say that Finola looked like a queen, but that would imply her to be equal to the men at the poker table. No, she was far above them, every movement echoing with fluid elegance and quietly assured confidence. She knew exactly who she was, what she was doing, and what she had come here to get. Not meddling and fiddling and marinating in anticipation like the poppers sat at the table before her. She was an empress, the one person who unquestionably held the power in this temporary kingdom.

However, Bryan’s awe soon soured into bitter jealousy as he watched Finola slide to Tom’s side, draping over him like new silk curtains. She kissed at his neck, lingering every time, lips deliberately hovering above his heartbeat.

“Sorry I’m late,” Finola purred, voice smooth and silky.

A smirk curled onto Tom’s face. Bryan’s jaw clenched subconsciously.

“No grand entrance this time?” Tom quipped.

“Oh, no, though I don’t doubt that I’ve got some people’s attentions.” Finola’s eyes found Bryan’s with her last few word, but their glance was only a heartbeat long, cut off by the duty of espionage. “I’ll do better next time. I promise.”

Finola gave one last kiss, placed just at the junction below Tom’s jaw, then rose upward. Her hand ran gently across Tom’s cheek, a soft, painted smile on her face.

“Good luck, darling.”

Finola left it at that, sweeping away from the table as she stepped down from the podium, moving with an accent on her hips and head held high. Several gazes from the poker table lingered on her retreating form, ogling the effortless sway of her steps and the curl of fabric against her body, until she disappeared from the crowd and the croupier stole back the attention.

The last gaze Bryan had seen was Tom’s, distracted eyes following even the smallest traces of Finola’s form until it was impractical to keep looking. A disquieted heat rose to Bryan’s cheeks at that notion, a fierce desire to grab Finola by the hips and stick his nose up at the other man. However, Tom was one of his best allies within Orbital and this jealousy was only brought on by the heat of the moment. Bryan could recognize that. He could also recognize that Finola would most certainly brake him if he tried to grab for her without her approval, and that terrified him more than a debacle with Tom. He had meant it when he had said that Finola held the power in the room.

Bryan’s gaze followed Finola, like a magnet to metal, as she sauntered to the bar. Her form slowly eased, gait melting into something normal and shoulder lowering, however her head was still head high. As she returned to her common habits, the enchanted gazes that followed her gradually dropped alongside her aura of regality, Finola quietly disappearing back into the crowd.

However, Bryan couldn’t look away, not even if he tried. It took everything in him not to walk over and kiss her hand, to not divulge in her beauty. It wasn’t just physical beauty either, but beauty of the soul as well. The compassion in her heart, the surefire in her words, the glimmer of determination in her twilight eyes. Bryan was addicted, a love that surpassed infatuation - an addiction he didn’t want the cure for.

“Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, a half measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it over ice and add a thin slice of lemon peel.”

Finola’s voice cut through his thoughts of admiration, her particular drink order snapping him back into focus. As the bartender went about to make her drink, Bryan decided it was his time to strike, slipping past the few people between them. He approached causally, like an old friend forgotten or a fling of the night, not like man who had come to realize how deeply in love he was with his partner.

“That’s a interesting drink order,” Bryan commented, drawing Finola’s eyes to him.

He leaned against the bar top with one arm, the hand of the other in his pocket, front of his body to Finola who had both her arms rested on the bar top. Her eyes met his, then flickered downward and then back up again to return to his. A flare appeared in Finola’s eyes, something that Bryan could imagine to be attraction. Or maybe desire. Or maybe that was just him.

“Got it from a friend,” Finola replied, “What’s your name?”

Dismay tugged at Bryan, the irrational part of him upset with them playing pretend, but their roles at the poker game had to look seamless. However, as Bryan glanced at the crowd around them, no one seemed to throw even a pebble of attention their way. He sauntered a little closer, hand leaving his pocket to rest at the small of Finola’s back. A part of his subconscious found pleasure in the way she swayed naturally towards him, unbothered by his touch. It settled the sour edge of jealous lingering in his stomach.

Riding that small wave of abated jealousy, Bryan hesitated as the bartender set down Finola’s drink, then moved closer the moment he disappeared. His hand shifted from her back to her right hip, chest brushing against her left arm, head curled in close to hers.

“I know that we’re supposed to be undercover, but I don’t think anyone’s gonna mind us back here,” Bryan murmured, breath tickling her ear.

A flush deepened the color of Finola’s cheeks, which she smoothly hid by taking a drink of her martini. The martini was set back onto the bar top with a delicate ‘clink’, which was followed by Finola rising from her bend position, subtly pushing herself back against Bryan’s body. He straightened with her, hand still on her hip.

She turned her head, glossy lips brushing against the heartbeat in his neck, leading to the soft breath against the shell of his ear.

“Just because they won’t mind doesn’t mean I wouldn’t prefer us to be alone,” Finola whispered.

The use of ‘us’ stuck in Bryan’s head like a bell tolling at noon. ‘Us’. Him and her. Alone. Yes, he quite liked that idea. Then again, it was always best to follow Finola’s lead.

However, their moment was sliced short as the call for a break echoed across the room, both the tension of the crowd and the tension between the two of them deflating the moment the croupier’s voice sounded. And just like that, Finola was back on duty, pretending to be an empress among a crowd of poppers and sashaying away from Bryan with a soft whisper;

“Meet me at the hall to Anson Ash’s room.”

Jealousy bit the back of Bryan’s throat, a new, hotter wave arising as he watched Finola sway back into Tom’s arms. Bryan’s own grasp suddenly felt cold, jaw once again clenching and fingers curling into fists, puppets of unbridled resentment. Part of him, the dickish part of him, wanted to stomp right up and start a fight. But Bryan wasn’t a dick, so he forced himself to ease and slipped away from the crowd.

#bryan’s a goddamn simp #we all know it #this ended up longer that i originally intended so it’s getting split up #don’t know how many parts yet bc I have finished it yet 🤪#might post this and the other fic to ao3 #debris nbc #finola jones #bryan beneventi #brinola #anson ash #tom gordon #tempted to draw them in their smexy suits but I always overestimate my abilities #blue’s smexy writing

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freebooter4ever · 3 years ago

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A fic inspired by @kanhatomame 's Lovely Drawing of Eugene dreaming about Snafu ^_^ Set in Mobile after the war, Eugene deals with pining and memories, and that wordless connection to another person that never really leaves you. (angst ish with happy ending)

__________

There are so many ghosts in Eugene's head it's quite crowded there. But the only one he clings to is Snafu's. Naturally, this also means it's the one that feels most nebulous and impossible to chase down. Sometimes, when Eugene sees other couples together, touching each other, looking at each other, the connections to his own vivid memories feel stronger.

But he and Snafu were never a couple, should never have been a couple. Their few kisses were stolen behind doors and in the shadows. They could never have danced hand in hand like the boys and girls are doing now at the OMM ball.

Eugene stares at the dancers, himself half hidden behind a potted plant. A silly form of camouflage, and one that wouldn't even work if someone looked his way. It certainly fails to hide him from his brother. He can see Edward eyeing him disapprovingly from across the room. Edward's arm is wrapped lovingly around his wife's waist. She leans into his shoulder slightly - Martha is small and petite and fits perfectly.

Eugene takes a deep breath and refocuses his eyes to the center of the dance floor. He slowly allows himself to relax, concentrating on one memory of a touch. Snafu was never one to lovingly cradle Eugene, but whenever they would sit down around camp - at the slop shoot, or the movies, or when naked on the beach after a swim - Snafu would sling his arm behind Gene's back and angle his whole body in Gene's direction. He kept it casual, usually joking and laughing as if using humor to distract the rest of the guys from this habit of his. Except there were always times when Snaf would make a particularly ridiculous wisecrack and Eugene would feel compelled to turn his neck to roll his eyes at Snafu, and the minute his eyes would meet Snafu's, the other guy's face would be glowing with joy. Joy reserved only for one person - Eugene.

There's a specific shine in Snafu's eyes that he saves solely for Gene. And those delicate bits of eye contact were more intimate than all the loving touches in the world. And often they preceded Snafu pulling Eugene into some dark hideaway, and pressing his full body up against Gene, still teasing him, tempting him with no kisses, no gentle lover's touch until Eugene finally got fed up and molded their mouths together.

Eugene will never forget the shape of Snafu's hands.

"Eugene? Baby brother?" Edward is snapping his fingers in front of Eugene's face.

Eugene blinks rapidly, comes back to himself, completely loses the relaxation in his body, and glares at Edward.

"Thought you were in a trance or something," Edward grins lopsided.

"I was thinking," Eugene sighs.

"No duh," Edward says, "You do too much of that, little brother."

"What else is there to do?" Eugene sighs continuously. He shouldn't have opened his mouth because the next thing he knows Edward tells him 'don't move' and disappears further into the house to find some poor victim to foist awkwardly on Gene.

It's been like this all evening. Eugene's talked to more girls in the past hour than he ever has in his life. All of them brought to him by Edward, eagerly introducing the girls to his younger, naive brother.

This latest one is named Victoria, and she's got long curly brown hair that looks soft to touch, and a porcelain face like a doll.

"She's very pretty," Eugene says truthfully when Edward corners him and demands to know what he thought after Victoria is called away by friends.

"Gene, I don't understand you," Edward shakes his head, "You're the son of the city's best doctor, you've got all your limbs intact, you're a war hero… why I'll bet you're the most eligible bachelor here. If you just learn to play it up a little bit…"

"I'm going outside to smoke," Eugene interrupts flatly, "Come get me when it's time to leave."

His voice brooks no argument, and he promptly ducks out of the house with only one direction in mind. He fills his pipe, lights it, and slowly lets the smoke start to relax him again. His lips suck on the wood between them, and the ghost of Snafu seeps in with the nicotine. The memory of the first time when Eugene sucked Snafu's finger clean (of mashed potatoes) - after Snafu tried (and failed) to start a food fight. It pairs well with the memory of sucking off other parts of Snafu too… certain parts he doesn't have a clear picture of in his mind. He sort of blurred the image as it happened, out of embarrassment or sheer awkwardness. If he ever got the chance to do it again, he'd memorize every square inch.

"Eugene, your brother asked me to come find you," his mother breaks his reverie, "Your father is having the car brought around."

Eugene nods, his shame from his thoughts bright red on his face, but luckily hidden in the dark. He follows his mother to the driveway and wordlessly climbs into the backseat. Martha and Edward are taking their own car. So Eugene has plenty of room to forego seatbelts and lie down across the back. His head is swimming a little bit, from that punch he kept drinking. He couldn't taste it, but he suspects it was spiked.

The car starts up, and starts rumbling, shaking his entire body. The seat is warm - the heat from the engine flows through the entire undercarriage. Eugene closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of the road under the wheels, a smooth wash like constantly crashing waves.

Waves lapping at the toes of his feet, and bathing half of Snafu's entire leg in water up to his knees. Snafu lying naked on his back in the sand, with Eugene straddled on top of him bouncing vigorously. All Eugene remembers is the intensity, the sounds, and the feeling. Half weird gritty discomfort, half absolute pleasure.

The car turns and rolls Eugene against the back of the car. He turns his face to the smooth leather, seeking that pressure of something - anything - against his skin.

Eugene recognizes when they reach their house's street because he can feel the jittering rumble as the car crosses the wooden bridge. The jitter shakes him to his bones, and he shivers although the night is hot and sticky. He closes his eyes and counts the streetlights behind his eyelids until they reach the driveway.

Had Eugene been paying attention at all, looking out the window of the car instead of losing himself to ghosts, he might have noticed the beat-up rusted brown truck parked just outside his family's gate at the end of Georgia House's long private drive. Though truthfully, even if Eugene had been looking he might not have seen it. The cloud cover darkens the sky until the only light source is the single lamp marking the start of the Sledge's driveway. And the truck is parked under a tree, throwing even more shadow over it. The only hint that someone is there is the soft glow of a cigarette luminating a haunted face and skinny legs dangling over the truck bed where he sits.

Snafu arrived in town hours ago - just in time to watch Eugene leave. He's been sitting on top his parked truck ever since. Judging from their fancy clothes, Snafu knew they'd likely return that night from an outing and sure enough. Here they are. He wedges the cigarette tighter in his mouth and jumps down from the truck bed.

Eugene's window is on the first floor, so it shouldn't be hard to reach except for the damn kudzu covering a mass of bushes and thorny plants underneath. Snafu suspects they might have been roses at one point. They're dead now. There's live ones elsewhere in the garden, but the ones under Eugene's window are long gone.

Fucking symbolic maybe.

Snafu shoves the window open unceremoniously and throws his leg in. He sits on the sil and stares down at Gene in the bed. Eugene didn't bother to change, he's still in that same expensive looking suit, his tie askew and his shoes kicked off with one sock missing. Snafu settles himself comfortably against the window frame, puffs on his cigarette, and watches Eugene sleep.

He doesn't get to watch for long - Eugene sleeps fitfully, just as Snafu remembers, and ends up kicking and thrashing in his bed. Snafu watches him with intense regret. When Eugene fell asleep peacefully on the train, for the first time since that initial week on Pavuvu, Snafu thought maybe civilization had kicked Eugene's nightmares. That maybe Eugene was gonna be able to go back to 'normal'. Clearly Snafu was wrong.

He waits a few more seconds, till Eugene's fit is at its peak, and whispers sharply, "Sledgehammer."

Gene sits bolt upright immediately and silently. He stares blankly for a split second, till his eyes snap to Snafu's. Then he stares silently at Snafu.

Snafu takes his half finished cigarette and grinds it into the wood of Eugene's window. It leaves a mark. Eugene watches this without expression.

"You're real," Eugene whispers.

Snafu shrugs.

"I mean you're not a dream… for once," Eugene says.

"You've been dreaming about me?" Snafu grins.

Eugene lunges forward, grabs Snafu's forearms and drags him onto the bed. Snafu falls awkwardly on top of Eugene, but it's easy to shift their positions and overpower Eugene to pin him to the bed. "I really hope those nightmares of yours wasn't you dreaming of me, cause if they were we might have to figure out a way to give you better ones."

"My dreams of you only come during the day," Eugene says, much more serious in tone than Snafu.

"Good ones?"

Eugene nods.

"It isn't enough… is it?" Snafu asks. He already knows the correct answer. That's why he's here.

In response Eugene pulls him down into a kiss.

#Sledgefu #Bad germs

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sunshinesukuna · 4 years ago

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just right

pairing: miya osamu x reader

tws: body insecurity, catcalling, self-starving

wc: 5.1k

prompt: Person A and B aren’t a couple, but A is crushing massively on B. A decides to change to get B’s attention, and while B doesn’t know about this crush, B starts to notice that A is starting to look and act differently... But B doesn’t like it and decides to confront A. What is the confrontation like? How does A react?

summary: the 6 things you want to avoid for him, and the 1 thing he wants you to avoid for him.

insp: GOT7′s Just Right, lovely - millz

special thanks to the betas that read over this @haikyuu-ink @fukuronani and @ardorwrites-hq-mha <33

this is a special love poem for all y’all that are going through something like this. psa: it gets better <3333

The lunch ladies were all flabbergasted when you skipped your usual side dishes and asked them to give you a piece smaller than your usual.

“But you’ll go hungry!” one of them said. You shrugged and gave them an apologetic smile. You turned your head to the side to avoid smelling even more of the scrumptious food in front of you. Instead, you focus your eyes on the small bowl in front of you. There’s some rice the size of a child’s fist coupled with a piece of fish smaller than an iPod shuffle.

Osamu pulls out his regular bento that he made himself after complaining that the ones you make weren’t enough to keep him fed throughout the day. There are three onigiris per usual. All three of them were meant to be for him, but you started nicking so much of them for yourself that he let you have one eventually.

So when you didn’t creep your hand from under his larger elbow to swipe at the snack, he stopped eating all at once. The onigiri hung suspended inches away from his ready mouth, locked in their place by your out of place habits.

He holds it out so tantalizingly in front of you, the human personification of the devil on your left shoulder egging you to take the snack from the plastic bag in front of you. Osamu doesn’t say anything, but the nudge on your arm and the small raise of his chin asks you soundlessly: “You’re not going to eat it?”

You shake your head and continue nibbling on the fish to savor the flavor for longer. Osamu tilts his head.

“You’re not going to eat it?” Osamu says out loud. Atsumu stops his blabbering from across the table and puts his chopsticks down.

“Oh? What’s this? Our gluttonous (Y/N) isn’t eating that much anymore?” Atsumu asks. You wrinkle your nose at the other twin. Osamu’s still holding the onigiri. He makes it look like an object worthy of being your Holy Grail, perhaps even better than that. It takes all your resolve to hold back from running to the lunch ladies and demanding seconds.

“I figured that you would be tired of me stealing your food all this time, so,” you pushed his outstretched hand away from you, “you can have it this time.”

“But I don’t want it,” Osamu says. He slides the unwrapped onigiri back to you and opens another one.

“You can give it to Atsumu,” you say, sliding the snack to the other side of the table.

“Yeah, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says, using your nickname for his twin. It drips in mock sweetness that would make anyone grimace. Atsumu mockingly opens and closes his hand, even though there’s a mountain of rice and enough vegetables to feed an unwasteful family for a month on his own plate. “Give it to Atsumu.”

Osamu rolls his eyes at his twin and looks back at you. Like he’s going to give the fruits of his hard work to his no-good twin. His eyes widen again as he taps your elbow with the onigiri like you’re a stray cat deprived of warmth.

“You don’t have to give it to me, ‘Samu. I’m fine.” The groaning of your stomach says otherwise. Osamu looks at you with his ‘I-told-you-so’ eyes. You bat your eyes and open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He holds out the piece of onigiri again.

You chew on the last mouthful of rice, sucking out all the flavor from the grains before swallowing it and putting down your chopsticks. Osamu keeps eye contact with you as you rise from the lunch table, looking like a puppy that had been kicked to the streets by its beloved owner.

“I’m on a diet,” you mutter, as you make your way back to class alone. “See you at practice later.”

Osamu stares at your retreating back, before finishing the onigiri that was meant to be yours.

Osamu forgot the name of the female idol a minute into the interview. The other boys in his class had been raving about her since class began. The minute the teacher left to go to the office, it was phones out and social norms out the window apparently, as they ogled the beauty giving the interviewer a way too good view of her legs.

He balances the pencil between his lips and nose as he eavesdrops on the conversation. He catches glimpses here and there of who they’re talking to, but they’re not enough to pique his interest. Truth be told, Osamu would much rather like it if the ones talking to each other in close proximity on a loveseat were you and him.

“Yo Osamu!” one of his classmates, Osamu has better things to know than his name, calls out with a slap on his back.

“Are you a fan of her too?” the classmates asks. Osamu twirls the pen around his fingers silently, not feeding into the question.

“There must have been something you liked about her,” one of the boys says, leaning on Osamu’s desk. Osamu has half the mind to tell him to move his arse to the dumpster where it belongs.

“She…” Osamu shrugs saying the first things that come to mind, “has a cute laugh, I guess. Doesn’t snort like those comedians on game shows,” he says. Of course, he doesn’t mean it, he just hopes that the boys will go away if he makes a dry comment.

The boys thought that Osamu couldn’t even digest the basic mechanisms of a laugh at the end of the day anyway, so they rolled their eyes and went back to happily watching.

You stare at your hands as you listen to his words on the other side of the class.

“And then she slams into the wall, face first. When I saw her through the window, I thought she was Peppa Pig reincarnated as a human, without the pig,” Atsumu jokes later at practice.

A smile breaks out onto your lips, widening into a hearty laugh. You’re about to slap your thigh in mirth, but are suddenly jolted back to reality when you catch a glimpse of Osamu.

You laugh, but your signature snorts and chortles are gone, replaced with a tinkly giggle that makes Osamu want to punch people who laugh like that. And the wide smile on your face is hidden behind your hands, what’s up with that? But since you’re the one that’s laughing, he clenches his fist and squeezes his knee to redirect his excess tension.

You keep it up for the rest of practice as you continue with your duties as manager. The first-years that see you as their friendly senpai chat you up as usual. Osamu has more pressing appointments, like the ball hurtling towards his face at 75 miles per hour, so the face of the fella that’s making you cover up your pretty little laugh automatically stamped onto the ball in Osamu’s mind, as he spikes the ball back with a deathly force.

Osamu’s always been content with the circumstances he was born in, but right now, he wished that he was born with a superpower. Telekinesis, more specifically, so he can ward off the hands that cover your mouth and the vocal cords that constrict the laughter that is so uniquely you.

Maybe that’s why he’s thinking about you much more than he usually does.

He doesn’t pay much attention to how much of it he’s giving you until Atsumu brings it up later on the way back home.

“Ya’ was staring at her so hard I thought your eyes were ‘bout to pop outta your ugly face,” Atsumu says. Osamu isn’t fazed, having faced almost 17 years of the same insults over and over again from his twin that just never seems to learn any new ones. He keeps walking.

“We have the same face, Einstein,” he retorts. There are a few minutes of silence between the twins as they pass the scenery of Hyogo. But curiosity gets the best of Osamu.

“Staring at who?” Osamu asks, finally getting his twin’s insult.

“Ya got the nerve to call me Einstein but can’t figure out something like that, eh?”

Osamu stops right in his tracks. Atsumu keeps on walking but stops as well when he realizes he’s left behind his twin. Osamu gives Atsumu a blank look.

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “(Y/N), ya’ dummy. From the way you were lookin’ at her, I thought she ate one of your snacks or something.” Atsumu rests his head between his hands.

“Not like ya’ would ever let anyone hurt her.”

You had anticipated what was going to come ever since the bus had dropped the team off at the beach. The boys of the volleyball team were overall respectful men, but they were teenage boys, at best. You caught their lingering stares and the way they would fight for the court nearest to the biggest gaggle of girls on the beach.

Which is why you had come prepared.

The boys rush into the sea one by one as they strip off their jerseys into the sand. You shake your head as you pick them up one by one. You roll up the sleeves of the crewneck to make it easier to reach below, but the sheer insulation it’s giving you is making it hard to take a step.

“Come on out (Y/N)! We’ll feed ya to the sharks!” Atsumu shouts from where he’s paddling in the surf.

“How about I feed you sand and rocks in your rice later tonight?” you holler back. Atsumu instantly goes slack-jawed and camouflages himself amongst the sea foam and other beach-goers.

There’s exactly one jersey missing from the bundle you have in your hand. Huh. All the boys should have finished practice by now. You scanned the beach line, looking for any black shirts in the distance. All of them were swimming in the ocean shirtless by now.

Except the one looming over your shoulder right now. You jump back at the sight of his shadow standing intimidatingly above you, but you reel back once you get a peep of his ash hair.

“Aren’t you going in the water, (Y/N)?” he asks. There’s a stick of fried squid in his hand. “You worked really hard back there, you know.” The combination of sudden confrontation and the crewneck’s heat-trapping material has you sweating a flood.

“I’m fine just sitting here, Osamu. You can go play with the boys if you want to,” you say. Osamu gazes at the water that reflects the sunlight so perfectly it mimics freshly polished diamonds. He rubs his chin in thought, before turning back to you.

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

You settle back on the chair you had put in a shady spot before everyone else was even up. It took a little pocket money and some convincing, but the guy that owned the shaved ice stand right in front of the chair had saved it especially for you. You hold up the book on the table.

“Calculus.”

“In this heat?”

“Just because we’re at the beach doesn’t mean I can slack off on my studies.” You flip open the book. “You can just leave me here. I’ll be alright.”

Osamu looks at the sea, then back at you. You’re praying to the heavens above that he’ll just go play, so you can get this damn thing off without having to worry about any of them— especially the twins— seeing. It’s the first time you would be exposed this much around them anyways. You really should have brought a lighter and looser shirt along with you.

“Then I’ll stay here with you,” Osamu says. Shoot.

“Y-you will?” He nods. “Sure you don’t want to go cool off in the sea? Or get some food? You should really go out in the sun, you know. Everyone’s been asking me if you’re alright because you’re so pale.”

“Do they?” You curse at yourself as he pulls over an unused chair from an unoccupied table. Osamu sets it in the sun, inches away from where you’re sitting in the shade. He props up his leg. “This counts as tanning, right?”

“I guess,” you mutter.

Osamu puts his sunglasses on and goes back to eating the stick of fried squid. From time to time, he glances at your sweaty body. It was 30 degrees outside and you insisted on wearing the team’s winter crewneck? Some heat tolerance you had. Or probably it wasn’t your heat tolerance. Osamu wouldn’t know, seeing as he was interrupted by loud hooting.

“Nice bikini, sweetheart! Sure you don’t wanna share some of that with me?”

“I would tap that!”

“Major babe at 10 o’clock!”

Surely that couldn’t be the team. They had been raised better than that after a whole school year spent drilling the Peeping Toms of the team harder than ever, courtesy of their kickass manager: you.

Thank goodness it wasn’t. A group of boys around your age paraded around just a few meters from where you sat on the beach. Their noisy brags sent a young toddler screaming back to his mother and a poor dog back to the ocean. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for them as they made their way down.

“What about her, bro?” a scrawny one asked the tallest, most likely the leader of the group. They stopped just in front of the shaved ice stand you were lounging at, waiting at their friends to finish their transactions.

“Which one?” the leader asked.

“The one near the table.” You looked up. The boy was pointing a long, thin finger your way. There was no one around where you were sitting except for Osamu.

“Nah. Bet she’s not worth it. I wouldn’t go for her, and I feel sorry for the bros that do.”

They were talking about you.

You fished around in your bag for your sunglasses. Shoot, you had left them at the inn this morning. You settled for putting a hand on your temple in hopes that they wouldn’t see your eyes.

But you would be lying to say that it didn’t hurt. The one thing you were trying so hard to avoid during your stay at the beach now thrust on you when you didn’t even ask for it? After all you had taken to avoid it?

The lump in your throat was getting bigger and bigger by the moment. Maybe you should remove yourself from the situation. The boys already knew what time their curfews were and they were in good hands. You shut the book and put it back in your bag. Osamu pulls down his glasses to see you getting ready to go somewhere.

“Where are you going?” he asks. Osamu stands up again. Please don’t follow me, please don’t follow me.

“I’ll be—” your voice cracks. Shoot. “I’ll be back at the inn if you need me.” Before he can ask you any more questions, you turn on your heel and make your way back.

“Hey, say that again,” a voice says. It’s soft, but pillows used to suffocate people to death are also soft. It’s Osamu.

“Say what?” the leader asks. “You her boyfriend?”

You freeze in your tracks and take a peep behind you. The boys are chest to chest, Osamu having the advantage of height by only a few inches. The boy isn’t fazed at all. He smiles at Osamu,but it’s poison honey that would make anyone want to slap him across the face.

“I can hook you up with some chicks way out of her league. You could do it, man. Come on,” the boy says.

“Shut your trap,” Osamu retorts.

“You’re just salty ‘cause you couldn’t find a chick hotter than her.”

Things are going to get worse. Without looking back, you make your way back to the safety of the inn.

Maybe Osamu was lying about the scars on his knuckles.

Osamu loses his sanity at the same pace the clock ticks. A few more minutes left. Maybe he should go get some fresh air out in the hallways. The hallways are almost empty, save for a few last-minute stragglers that rush to get to their classes on time. With everyone that passes, the feeling of dread eats him up as he worries that you’re not going to make it.

“Morning, ‘Samu!” someone greets from behind him. The early morning sunlight on your face made it look like you had a rosy tint on your cheeks. As you stepped closer, Osamu realized that if he stroked a finger across your cheek, it would definitely come back absolutely stained with blush.

There was also a light sheen of pigment on your lips. Not like the normal shade of your lips weren’t perfectly kissable. But Osamu would digress.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Osamu asks. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You just…” Osamu gestures at your face, now caked on with makeup that you usually wouldn’t wear. “This is why you were late?”

“No! I actually—” But then there’s a knocking on the table at the front, and everyone is back in their seats in an instant. The bespectacled teacher surveys the room. His eyes linger a bit longer on your bedazzled look, but they flit away just as quickly to the open book in hand.

“Today, we’re going to talk about ideal types,” the teacher says. A few people in the back snigger, but the teacher pays them no mind.

“Miya Osamu! What are you looking for when it comes to a partner?” You roll your eyes at the classes jeering, but find yourself leaning back to hear Osamu’s answer. Osamu looks up at the ceiling.

“Someone… quiet? Maybe so I don’t have to deal with all their bull—” Osamu’s just bs-ing it of course, but there are people in the class that hand onto his every word like it’s the actual truth. Yourself included.

“Language!” the teacher snaps.

“In accordance with the reading material, does anyone know the reason why we have ideal types?”

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“We have ideal partners whose natural defenses contradict with our own. If we’re shy and quiet, we tend to pursue people who are aggressive and pursuing, for example.”

“Good. Can anyone tell me how this would have protected us in the past?”

“Yes, (Y/N)?” the teacher asks again. The teacher sighs, even though you see no one behind you raising their hands. From your peripheral vision, you catch Osamu laying his head on his hands. He stares out the window like he’s bored with class… or perhaps bored with you?

“I... was just stretching, sorry.”

“Very well then.”

The second you put your hand down, Osamu looks back at the teacher. Did he not want to hear you yammer on again? He did say that he liked quiet girls.

All the more reason for you to turn it down a notch.

So you do, during math, when you clearly have a final result of 25 written clearly on your paper. Yet when the teacher asks for answers, you fumble with the pencil on your desk to make it seem like you’re working.

And again, during science, when your group in lab has finished the experiment yards above everyone else. But you stall and crumple up the paper near your chest, and only hand in the result once another group has gone and given the teacher theirs.

And again during History, when you give another lame excuse that your report on Date Masamune isn’t finished, just so you wouldn’t be the only one presenting in class that day. Osamu clearly sees the papers with “One-Eyed Dragon of Oshu, Date Masamune,” on the title page, but says nothing.

He doesn’t really do anything. It’s your life after all, why should he tell you how to live it? But he would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss your quick answers to the teacher’s questions, always summing up the points better than the teachers.

In the end, he leaves you be and ignores the feeling in his gut he gets whenever he sees you wearing more makeup than you usually do. That is until he’s passing by the teacher’s office on his way to practice and happens to spot you. It’s unlike him to care about other people’s business, much less snoop into them, but Osamu finds himself stalling at the water fountain next to the door even when his own bottle is still full.

“I just think I ought to hold back a bit. Everyone probably thinks I’m a bit overbearing, so i’ll just… tone it down a bit,” you say. Tone what down?

“You don’t need to, (Y/N),” someone, probably your science teacher, replied.

“It’s alright, sir, I promise.”

“Really? You seem to have changed a little this past month.” Pure facts. Even though he never said it out loud, anyone would have noticed the way you put on more makeup and started to become quieter and quieter.

“I haven’t, really.”

“You’re also starting to become more tardy, (Y/N). Is everything alright back home?” You chuckled.

“Everything’s fine, sir, it really is.”

How believable.

The final straw that breaks the camel’s back comes a few weeks after that. Coach looks over at the boys that aren’t playing on water-refilling duty, their manager absent and nowhere to be found.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” the coach barks at the second years. Aran shrugs and looks expectantly over to Atsumu and Osamu.

“Sick. Stomach flu,” Atsumu says in the middle of his set.

“And no one’s gone and checked up on her?”

“Her mom said that (Y/N)’s “not in the mood for entertaining guests,” or whatever excuse she has for missing that killer math test yesterday.” Atsumu puts in air quotes for emphasis.

It’s Osamu’s turn to serve, but his legs don’t seem to want to move anywhere. They’re anchored down to the floor by the thought of none other than you. You were generally healthy, with no other severe conditions that would knock you out for a long time. And Osamu was with you for the past few days. You hadn’t eaten anything sketchy, albeit you did eat a lot less than your usual portions.

He shrugs it off and slams the ball to the other side of the net.

The bell screeches from up above, the savior melody of bored students who are aching to eat and spend some time away from the teachers.

“Hey, (Y/N), wanna go get some…” You heed him no mind, the only acknowledgment of his presence a slight bump on his shoulder as you walk out into the hall. That’s odd. Osamu steps out of the classroom to call your name out into the hallways, but you’ve disappeared under the wave of students heading for lunch. Rather than embarrass himself, Osamu decides to go eat.

He has half a mind to go get you from your other friends to go home when the sun starts to dip against the Hyogo sky. A raised eyebrow graces his face as he is told that neither your friends can be able to locate you, what with your bag and other possessions gone from your lockers.

Practice is another pain in the back to deal with, harshened by a new realization. It’s been dawning on him for a long time now, but he’s hesitant to take any action without further proof.

Osamu lays a hand on the doorknob of the locker rooms. There are whispers outside the door. Normally, he couldn’t care less for other people’s business—tea was where Atsumu truly shined— but of course, it just had to be your voice on the other side of the door.

“Why can’t you just give it to ‘em yourself?” Atsumu asks. If this was going to be a scene straight out of a cliche teen romance, Osamu would make a run for it. You click your tongue.

“Just because, Atsumu. Give it to him or I’m not leaking the answers to tomorrow’s chemistry quiz to you,” you reply back.

“If this wasn’t my twin, I wouldda cast you out to the streets already, (Y/N).”

“He’s better off not seeing me, okay?”

Oh. Well, now all the puzzle pieces have fallen into place.

You’re cornered. Why does coach have to have this day of all days to direct his frustration at Osamu. Maybe coach’s anger wasn’t really that baseless though— Osamu constantly missing his serves and crooked spikes would be enough to irk any volleyball player enough to make him run laps around the gym. And since it was getting late and everyone wanted to go home, who else to better oversee Osamu’s punishment other than their sweet manager?

“And… 100,” you call from across the hall. Osamu crouches on his knees and pants. With heavy, laboured steps, Osamu trudges all the way to the wall next to the bench where you’re sitting. And promptly makes himself comfortable just a meter a way from you on the wooden tiles. You furrow your eyebrows at him from on the bench.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he asks almost lazily. You grip the bench seats. Please don’t drag this out, please don’t drag this out. Osamu turns his head slowly to fix his eyes on your shaking figure. You spy the door over at the edge of the gym, wondering if you can make it before Osamu’s athlete reflexes can catch up to you.

But your neck moves on its own, turning your head around to make direct eye contact with your former best friend.

“Take ‘yer makeup off.” Osamu says it like a command, the tone of his voice alone enough to make you reach for your eyebrows that you had so painstakingly labored over this past morning to look presentable… for Osamu.

“What?” you ask. With a click of his tongue, Osamu rises up from his position laying down on the floor and moves to where you’re sitting. He doesn’t break eye contact as he puts either hand on the sides of your hips, effectively caging you inside his arms. You can feel his heavy breaths on your forehead.

Osamu looks up at you. For someone like him, he looks disoriented as can be. Pupils widened, breath turning shallower, and sweating even heavier.

“Why’re you doing this, (Y/N)?” he mumbles. “You’re clearly uncomfortable under all that makeup, and I can tell you wanna punch the daylights out of that girl for making fun of Isaac Newton’s wig.”

He catches himself, realizing that the volume of his voice is growing steadily louder and louder, and that you’re shrinking in your seat. Osamu sighs and takes his hand off the bench. The air is now fresh, but Osamu’s musk is still enough to make you dizzy with images of his face only a hair’s width away from you.

You’re not sure if you hate it.

“I-I’m sorry?” you ask Osamu, who has now taken a seat on the bench right next to you. He leans on the wall, only eyes moving to look at you. Osamu shrugs and takes a swig of the water bottle on the bench before dropping his head in between his legs.

You scoff. Osamu, being the one to say all this? The nerve this boy has. The mental wall that is the dam to your emotions breaks.

“You really are dumber than Atsumu, eh?” Osamu perks up at the sound of your voice. “You know why I didn’t go to school for those two days? I burned myself on my hair straightener, because I didn’t want to take a chance to let you see me like that!”

You let the neckline of your sweater fall, the purple, rectangle burn still as clear as day on the skin of your neck. Osamu’s eyes widened. He raises a hand to touch it, but the likes of an invisible lasso hold him back from getting anywhere near you.

There’s a burning behind your eyes. The ground under you felt like a waterbed, wobbling with each step you take. This was not how you planned your first confession would go, but here you were.

“It’s because I like you, you dummy!” you cry, standing up.

Your words echo throughout the empty gym. If it didn’t echo through Osamu’s mind, then you were—

“I’m the dummy here? Tch, yeah right.”

Osamu looks to the sides of the hall like he’s planning an escape route. Well, no way to escape this situation now. You’re both mice in a trap, lured by the cheese that is your feelings, and pinned down by the current circumstances. He locks eyes with you for a second, before his eyes find something more interesting to look at— your lips.

“Only an airhead like you would go on to change themselves just so I would like them,” Osamu rises up to his full height, “when I already do in the first place.”

“You… what?” you ask.

“I like you.” Osamu can’t seem to make a decision on wether to look at your eyes or not. “But fuck that, if ya think ya gotta change yourself for me, then I’d rather not date at all.”

You scoff. So all your efforts had been for nothing?

“But you said you liked quiet girls! And—” Osamu raises an eyebrow.

“You believed that?”

“What else was I supposed to believe?” you screech.

There’s a large hand that’s harsh enough to send the hardest spikes across the net, yet gentle enough to toss the most careful sets and decorate the most delicate pieces of food in his bento. It’s on your cheek, wiping away tears that you didn’t know were there.

Hands lead up to muscular arms that greet you as you step inside his comforting embrace. There’s nothing except the sound of muffled crying through the halls. He does what he can, patting your back and offering his sweaty jersey as your handkerchief. If anyone walked in the gym right now, he would have given them a glare to send them running away for as long as they could run.

“That I like you just the way you are.”

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letitrainathousandflames · 4 years ago

Text

Badass Tup Week

Prompt I - Swordfighting Tup

Sword-yielding Jedi. As if this war couldn’t get any weirder.

In this strange planet where the 501st had been laying siege for nearly a month now, nothing powered by laser or kyber could function. That had forced both clones and Jedi to change their fighting styles. A lot.

Rex had given them a quick course on how to use the newly provided weapons – fire-powered weapons. Actual slugthrowers, in this case modified cycle rifles. The entire troop was having issues with the weapons, too difficult to reload between rounds and their recoil about five times heavier than a blaster’s. Two of the men had nearly dislocated their shoulders by now, and the men’s hits were far outnumbered by their missed shots.

The atmosphere, too, couldn’t be cycled through the filters, so they were all fighting without their helmets, which made them easy targets for headshots from the enemies’ side.

“-sick of this kriffing thing!” Fives cursed between gritted teeth as the enemy soldiers advanced, not droids but human soldiers clearly used to using swords for close combat and slugthrowers for shooting; the ARC trooper shoved a new magazine into the empty weapon, failing twice before managing to pull the safety to keep firing “Tup, they’re closing in on Rex and the General, we need to cover them!”

“On it!” Tup nodded, following Fives towards their commanding officers

It all happened so fast. A round, silver ball fell right in front of them glistening under the sun as a red light on it blinked faster and faster, and Tup only had time to grab Fives by the neck of his back plate, pulling him away from the blast.

Despite the spongy earplugs shoved in his ears, they deafening blast echoed like thunder, Tup’s ears still ringing as he shoved Fives on his back on the sand, assessing the damage. The armor was slightly blackened wish ash, but didn’t seem cracked at any vital point. Fives’ face, too, was only darkened, reddened by the heat, but unharmed.

“Sir, are you-”

“I’m fine!” Fives gritted out, shoving Tup at his chest “Go get the General!” and upon his hesitation he repeated himself “Go! Kix will come for us with reinforcement, I’ll be fine! Get the General!”

With one last tense look at Fives, Tup turned back and continued to run. His best friend had nearly died right in front of him… What if the next bomb gets him instead?... No, focus! Keep your head in the battle!

He hears the dry noise of another bomb being shot out of a launcher. And then, a couple of clicks right in front of him he sees the charge land right next to Rex and Skywalker. Rex screams something Tup can’t quite make in the loud gunfire – so much louder than blasters – and Skywalker tries to push the bomb away with the Force…

The thing goes off long before he can manage to get them both in the clear, and Tup curls himself into a ball to make himself a smaller target while trying to make anything out of the sudden wall of sand that the blast had sent flying up in the air. Squinting and blinking away at the sand, he can make out two shadows: Skywalker, lying still on the ground and Rex kneeling close to him, ready to shoot any approaching enemies.

As the sand slowly settles down, he hears a voice booming close to them from the enemy lines.

“There’s only one clone guarding the general, hold your fire for your repetition slugthrowers to cool down and kill them before their reinforcements arrive!”

The joy of knowing they wouldn’t be shot at for a while was quickly deflated as Tup heard the noise of swords being drawn from their hilts. The sand had settled and Rex is facing the enemies that drew a semicircle around them; there was ferocity in the captain’s eyes as he cocked the slughthrower in his hand, shooting the nearest one which collapsed lifeless on the ground.

“If you think I’ll go down without a fight, you got another thing coming, separatist!” he barked, aiming at another soldier

“You don’t have enough slugs for all of us, clone!” the soldier sneered, still advancing

Tup stayed completely still, partially covered in the sand and perfectly disguised with the light brown camouflage of his armor. They had only counted one clone. They had no idea he was right next to them. A soldier approached Rex still, sword pointed forward and slightly low. His boot dragged along the sand with his steps until it bumped against Tup’s shin.

“What the…?”

Tup knew he had to be fast. Good thing he had always enjoyed sparring back in the academy. He quickly sprung to action, raising a leg and kicking the soldier as hard as he could right at the side of his knee from the inside. There was little the other’s armor could do against an attack from that angle, and Tup heard the distinct noise of something breaking before the soldier tumbled down with a scream.

“Rex, I’m here!” Tup bellowed, jumping to his feet to then grab at the soldier wrist, to try and wrench the sword out of his grip

The soldier sneered, reaching up to grab at Tup’s hair, the hair tie snapping in the struggle and Tup’s long hair cascading down in a mess of dark coils. Once Tup managed to take the sword, he hit the soldier’s face with the grip, drawing blood out of his nose and ceasing his struggle.

Rex took the sudden confusion of the enemy soldiers to fire another shot, then another, taking more and more of them down. Meanwhile, Tup got a good grip on the sword and pierced it down on the soldier’s back at his heart’s height. The man let out a garbled noise, going limp, and Tup pulled the blood-stained blade back, parrying the nearest enemy’s attack just in time.

“How’s the general?!” Tup screamed, shoving the enemy away with a kick to his stomach, taking a few cautious steps back closer to Rex as he hastily combed his hair back with his fingers, sword still at the ready

“Unconscious!” Rex replied, getting up to his feet and continuing to fire, every shot punctuated with a pained grunt at the weapon’s recoil “We need to stand our ground before reinforcements arrive! How’s Fives?!”

“Nearly got blasted but he is angrier than he is injured.” Rex’s laugh at Tup’s response was cut by a curse at the weapon. The kriffing thing was jammed. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover you. Their firearms are overheated.”

Rex gritted his thanks, quickly pulling the magazine out and jamming it back in, trying to get the damn thing to slide all the way in. The wind shifted the sand, Tup’s hair swaying lightly with it. Tup slid a foot forward, eyes fixated at every enemy in front of him as he held up his sword in a defensive stance, baring his teeth and letting out a low growl.

“Let me show you what ‘only one clone’ can do, you separatist scum.”

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