fic-request-blog

[fic-request-blog]

Omg, didn’t know you wrote for Overwatch! Love reading fics about Shimada dragons and 5+1. Would you be willing to write something for everyone’s favorite cowboy and Genji? Doesn’t have to include his dragon or anything, but I was just mentioning it from your other one.

Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the 5+1 for Hanzo's dragons. It was a fun one to write. However, I'm afraid I'm only taking prompts for the Witcher fandom right now and am also on partial hiatus, so I won't be taking an Overwatch request. Sorry!

[fic-request-blog]

Hey there! Are you still taking prompts? Because I’ve been wanting to read some good HalBarry fics and was surprised that there aren’t as many works under their tag as I was expecting, especially very few of them on the longer side. When it comes to more mature tags, Bottom Barry is already criminally underdone, and I was shocked that nobody’s thought to use Hal’s constructs for other fun uses.

You are completely correct anon, HalBarry is criminally underdone. It's an excellent ship and the fact that very few fics go in for the constructs is absurd. Sadly, I'm not taking prompts for DC (let alone long fics), only the Witcher at the moment. (I'm on at least partial hiatus as well, but that's a different thing entirely.)

[fic-request-blog]

After only four years, this now has a short intermission and sequel! (I never intended to write a sequel, but even after four years people were still wondering if I would ever update, which is a level of enthusiasm and persistence I do admire.) 

//

Intermission: Kenobi’s Perspective

Sequel: The one where Kenobi is blind and no one “remembers” to tell Ahsoka. 

//

Read here on AO3 if you prefer.

Rating: T (for language and wrecking clankers). Word count: ~5.1K

Intermission – Kenobi’s Perspective

The force is a living thing, like an ocean. It flows from all beings, each creature, plant, and person. That they may not be force-sensitive themselves is of no consequence. The force is in all of them.

Obi-Wan reaches out, lets the familiar, vast presence of Anakin fill his senses as he tunes out Anakin and Rex’s bickering. He cannot see what the bridge’s holo-desk is projecting, but at some point, Anakin will deign to give him a very detailed, and likely skewed, interpretation and Rex will, undoubtedly, give a countering explanation that is also, but somewhat less, skewed. Obi-Wan will, of course, ask Cody for the most accurate version afterwards.

For now, he lets his mind wander.

If the forest floor of the planet drifting below them is a gentle wash, then Anakin is like a wave, loud, crashing through the force. The sensation drowns out the muted presence of the clones working on the bridge, soft ripples in his mind. If it weren’t for years of training and simply being in Anakin’s presence, Obi-Wan would never be able to track their movements with Anakin nearby. But Obi-Wan has practiced this since before he understood what the force was, since before he had ever heard of the Jedi. He sifts through Anakin’s presence, reaching out further, until he can feel even the clones sleeping in the barracks, their minds quiet with rest.

He could learn what Anakin and Rex are arguing about if he wanted. He could dip into their minds, pull the meaning from the swirling light and lines he would find there. It would take effort, but not so much to be any kind of strain.

Then again, he could let them continue to argue and take this time to find some peace in his own mind. Really, it’s not much of a choice.

He lets himself drift. As they wait for permission to land, the ship is mostly calm. There’s not a lot to do as they orbit and most of the clones are, as far as Obi-Wan can tell, soaking in the down time. They may have been born for war, but even soldiers need a moment’s respite.

Slowly, he turns his attention to finding Cody, out of lack of anything else occupying his time. His commander is somewhere aboard the ship, had muttered an excuse before leaving the bridge, a quick word about needing to get something. That had been suspiciously close to the time Anakin and Rex had started their current debate, but Obi-Wan cannot blame him. It’s not like he’s paying attention himself.

There, among his brothers, is Cody, far enough away that he may be in the cantina. With Anakin’s presence fluctuating wildly with his temper, it’s a little hard to tell. But Cody’s unmistakable calm is easy to identify, even in the sea of his relaxed brothers. Even angry, shouting into a comm in the middle of a battlefield, Cody remains a placid swell in the force.

In comparison, Rex is a splash, especially now, as he argues with Anakin, their presences stirring around them. All of them feel different, actually. He understands they look similar, has been told as much many times, but never has Obi-Wan had trouble telling the clones apart. They are all distinct in the force, all individual and unique, like all life.

“UGH! Alright, Obi-Wan, what do YOU think then?”

Sighing through his nose, Obi-Wan turns towards Anakin’s outburst. A pang of distinct jealousy runs through him as he feels Cody continuing to relax, even as he turns his mind to the task at hand. If Cody gets to sit out from these outbursts, it seems unfair that he does not.

“Anakin, why don’t you and Rex both calm down and explain to me what this is all about?”

//

//

//

// 

The Long-Awaited Sequel

Or

The one where Kenobi is blind and no one “remembers” to tell Ahsoka.

It wasn’t an official thing. Nothing was written and nothing was spoken . . . specifically. There was simply . . . an understanding. As the transport ship landed, the clones pointedly did not glance between themselves. Cody would be proud in any other situation. They were professionals after all, though this wasn’t the most professional tactic they had ever used.

They weren’t going to tell the padawan. It wasn’t . . . a lie. It wasn’t disobeying orders. They just . . . weren’t going to mention that General Kenobi was blind. To the padawan. In fact, this would be a good way to test the padawan. See if they were up to the task.

Yeah. Cody nodded slightly in his helmet. It would be a learning opportunity. A taste of the real world.

That he’d had to tell at least six of his brothers to not gamble on when the padawan would figure it out was beside the point. The troopers liked to gamble chores on everything. Why, Cody had heard Rex and Fives gambling on how many times General Skywalker would lose his lightsaber over on Bespin. Just a habit.

The door of the transport ship hissed open and out stepped a young Togruta. Cody felt a sudden pang of guilt. She looked so young and they were setting her up for at least a good bit of embarrassment, and at a time where they were in desperate need of assistance. Cody stood a little straighter. Could this be . . . dangerous?  

“Maybe you can relay a signal through the cruiser that just dropped me off.”

The Generals glanced between each other. Cody relaxed a little. Maybe she was young, but she was still going to be a jedi someday, and it seemed like she had a good head on her shoulders already. They hadn’t thought to send a signal through her ship, after all.

No, he’d stick to his resolve.

It would be a learning experience . . .

 //

//

It had been a week since the padawan had joined them, apparently as General Skywalker’s, not General Kenobi’s, which Cody had a sneaking suspicion General Kenobi had a hand in. He liked her. She had spirit and kept General Skywalker on his toes. He wasn’t above admitting that seeing General Skywalker get knocked off kilter a bit was amusing, especially considering General Skywalker tended to be the one knocking everyone else off kilter.

Rex had certainly taken a shine to her, answering her questions and keeping her out of the worst of General Skywalker’s antics. It was nice, and the other clones had taken up teaching her in their own ways, some with more . . . enthusiasm than Cody thought wise. He’d told Hardcase, more than once, that a live display of heavy weaponry might be a little advanced for the padawan.

That they hadn’t told her about General Kenobi almost slipped his mind. It wasn’t until they were standing on the bridge, Waxer handing Ahsoka their newest battle orders, that the thought was brought to the forefront of Cody’s mind again.

He tried to watch as inconspicuously as possible. Would she try to hand it to General Kenobi?

But no, as she turned from Waxer, she began to read aloud about where they were heading next, with far fewer personal interjections than General Skywalker. General Kenobi nodded along, thanking her.

Maybe she had noticed how they all read it aloud already? Had she been there when they’d read the reports aloud to General Kenobi? Cody frowned in the confines of his helmet, thinking. He couldn’t remember. It was routine at this point, and Ahsoka had integrated so seamlessly into the 501st, Cody didn’t notice her as much as he had when she’d arrived.

Well, it was good to see she was a quick study. One week and she was already following along. Good. She’d make a fine jedi when she finished her training, he was sure.

//

//

Watching the smooth way General Kenobi and General Skywalker cut through the rows of clankers before them would never grow old. Rex and Cody exchanged a look between the blaster fire, and though they couldn’t see each other’s faces, they both knew they were grinning. Years. They had served under the Generals for years now, but this always felt new.

In some ways, it really was. Rex watched as Ahsoka slid between two droids, slicing through them with ease. Her movements weren’t as smooth, but she never hesitated. Perhaps she was taking after General Skywalker, and Rex was sure Cody would choke at a thought like that, but she was sure-footed and headstrong on the battlefield. It was hard to believe she’d only been with them for a month.

She followed behind the Generals and Rex and his troopers followed just behind her. There were still too many droids on the battlefield to count it a victory, but things were going well. They’d be at the watch post in less time than they’d hoped and with fewer casualties than any of them had guessed. With any luck, they’d wrap this up in short order and be back on the Negotiator and the Resolute in no time.

“Hey,” Ahsoka called out, pulling a fancy looking flip and dropping to the ground in front of Rex, already running, “try to keep up slowpoke!”

She threw a grin over her should and launched herself into another group of clankers, green blades whirling.

Rex huffed, clearing a downed starfighter without any fancy flips, and grinned. Yeah, she was definitely taking after General Skywalker.

As he ducked for cover from a group of droids shooting wildly to try to hit the green blur, Rex wonders if General Kenobi was regretting pulling whatever he pulled to get the jedi to assign Ahsoka to Skywalker.

Probably.

 //

 // 

“Ugh, I hate swamps.”

Ahsoka laughed, swiping at the bugs buzzing around her, “I thought you hated deserts, Skyguy.”

With a distinct squelch, General Skywalker pulled his leg free from the deep mud, “I don’t hate deserts,” he growled, pushing through more of the local reeds stretching well above their heads, “I hate sand.”

Rolling her eyes, Ahsoka skiped onto a tiny patch of moss-covered ground above the water, “Yeah, yeah, same thing.”

“It is not!”

Cody sighed, trudging a few feet behind them. This swamp would be a lot better, he thought, if it wasn’t full of arguments.

“I agree with General Tano,” Rex piped up, “all deserts are just sand.”

If looks could kill, Cody would have pierced right through his own helmet and into Rex’s the instant he shot a look to his brother. Rex knew exactly what he was doing.

As General Skywalker launched into a long-winded explanation of all the different types of deserts, Cody looked up to check on General Kenobi. The man was usually quieter than the rest of them, but in places like this, he was even less likely to engage in the conversation. Cody wasn’t sure why, but it probably had something to do with the force.

Somehow, his General had managed to stay much drier than the rest of them, nearly always stepping on ground above the water. He picked his way across the swamp carefully, but with little pause. It was like he could see each little island in the muck.

And Ahsoka had clearly noticed it as well. She had been following in his footsteps almost since the beginning of the trek.

Cody had to smile a little. As far as he knew, she still didn’t know the General was blind. He wondered what she thought, how General Kenobi knew where to place each foot so surely. Maybe she thought he was just more observant than General Skywalker?

Swiveling to look at the other jedi as he continued to schlep through the water, Cody couldn’t blame her. The man was a genius in a cockpit and could work with anything mechanical in ways Cody never could get his mind around, but in places like this . . . he looked like a drowned womp rat. Then again, if it weren’t for the armor, so would Cody and the rest of the troopers.

From behind, Waxer gave a short whistle, “Six clicks to the target!”

Cody sighed again. This was going to be a long day.

//

//

Rex shifted minutely, doing his best not to fall asleep on his feet. These negotiations were dragging on way longer than they’d initially estimated and he was quickly losing interest. Well, had quickly lost interest. Cody, standing next to him, was, of course, as attentive as ever.

Even General Kenobi was looking a little tired as the Bothans brought up yet another minor, probably inconsequential point they wanted to negotiate. General Skywalker looked like he was being tortured.

Maybe the war would be over before they finished and nobody would even need this treaty.

The side door opened and a Bothan with a small cart rolled in, dishes clinking and bringing with him the distinct smell of tarine. General Kenobi sat up straighter and Rex suppressed a snort. There were few things that perked the Jedi up more than a hot cup of tea.

Placing a large pot at General Kenobi’s side, the Bothan distributed cups and small dishes of what Rex assumed were sweeteners before exiting out the same side door.

Rex frowned. Hopefully they didn’t expect the General to pour. It wasn’t usually a problem, but hot drinks were . . . tricky.

But, before the General could move, Ahsoka was already wrapping a small hand around the handle, pouring for General Kenobi and then herself. Rex watched with widening eyes as she passed the pot to General Skywalker before turning her attention back to the Bothans across the table.

Glancing as surreptitiously at Cody as possible, Rex found his brother similarly alert.

She hadn’t poured for General Skywalker, only General Kenobi.

//

//

It was another two weeks before they confirmed it.

They were called in to help a peaceful faction on Sepan 8 escape the system’s civil war, but absolutely everything had gone to shit the moment they landed. The Generals were crowded around a map of the region, trying to parse through the panicked explanation of the situation from the group’s would-be leader. Blood dripped sluggishly from a cut on her head as she leaned heavily on the overturned supply crates they were using for a make-shift table.

Cody surveyed the area around them, checking for any incoming hostiles, then turned back to Ahsoka’s careful description of the map. At least things were quiet here. For now.

The Ripoblus slammed one hand on the crates, worry etched deeply into the lines of her face, “Yes, yes, we can all see that, but what will we do? We cannot sit here and analyze the land around us any longer!”

Shooting her a deep glare, Ahsoka snapped back, “Actually, we can’t all see that, and besides, we won’t know the lay of the land well enough to just set out any which way until we really understand where everyone is!” Eyes back on the map, Ahsoka continued, “Taking time now might save our lives later, especially the lives of your people, who we are still trying to find!”

Cody missed the rest of the exchange, only registering General Kenobi’s soothing voice as noise. He was too preoccupied with staring at Rex, who stared right back.

She knew!

Either someone had told her, or she had figured it out. How? How had she known? General Kenobi had his tells, but the troopers hadn’t known if some of his habits were just jedi habits, just General Kenobi habits, or something else. Maybe Ahsoka had learned from watching, knowing which habits weren’t something all jedi did?

What if General Skywalker had told her? They had grown close. It wouldn’t surprise Cody. It wasn’t like the troopers had told the General of their . . . understanding not to tell her.

Cody burned to ask, but first, they needed to get these people off this planet.

//

//

“When did you figure it out?”

Rex asked it casually, or as casually as he could when he, Waxer, Kix, Fives, Jesse, Hardcase, and Cody all crowded around Ahsoka’s door.

With a confused head shake, Ahsoka waved them in, “Figure what out?” She plopped down onto her meditation mat, watching them each take seats around her room, Hardcase simply splaying out on the floor. She smiled.

“That General Kenobi is blind,” Cody answered, arms crossed over his chest in the most nonchalant pose he could manage while sitting crossed leg on her floor. He didn’t have any credits riding on this. He was just curious. It was only about half a year since Ahsoka had joined them. It had been almost a year when the troopers had learned. It wasn’t about . . . competitiveness.

It was just curiosity.

“Waxer told you,” Fives burst out, “didn’t he!”

Cody rolled his eyes.

“I did not!”

Clearly Fives and Waxer had credits on this.

“Oh, no one told me,” she laughed, watching Waxer dig something small out of a pocket and throw it at Fives, “but why would Waxer?”

Pointedly ignoring her question, Jesse cut in, “If no one told you, then how did you know?”

She shrugged, “I researched him at the Temple when I learned I’d be Anakin’s padawan. The Temple archives said he was blind.”

They fell silent.

She had known the whole time.

Kix dropped his head onto Ahsoka’s desk, groaning, “You knew before you even got here?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, looking between all of them, “why?”

As his face heated up, Rex wished he was wearing his helmet, “Er, no reason really. We were just curious.”

Cody put his head in his hands as the rest of them made affirmative noises.

They’d been outclassed and outsmarted this whole time. Not a single one of them had ever thought to check the Temple archives before.

Kriffing trooper instincts.

Misunderstandings are Born of Miscommunication

Or

The one where Kenobi is blind and no one remembers to tell the clones.

Keep reading

[fic-request-blog]

Five Times Hanzo's Dragons Protect McCree and One Time They Didn’t Have To

This is a request by an anon here on Tumblr for a “Five Times Hanzo's Dragons Protect McCree and One Time They Didn’t Have To.” It really is what’s on the lid. Oh, and they fall in love while we’re at it.

Fluff, angst, humor, rated T for non-explicit violence and mentions of sexual content, ~3K.

Read it here on AO3 instead.

Five Times Hanzo's Dragons Protect McCree and One Time They Didn’t Have To

  Chapter 1

Jesse places his hand on the payload, sighing in relief, “Alright folks, we’re at the-“

Something clicks on the payload, a trigger slipping into place as Jesse checks inside. It’s empty except for a small bundle in the center. A tiny, almost translucent wire settles against the inner side of the payload and Jesse closes his eyes. Maybe he can save them from some damage on the off chance he survives this.

He knows what comes next, of course. The whole mission had been suspiciously easy. He shoulda figured.

The blast is strong enough that he’s blown clear over the wall behind him and dropped thirty some feet into the roiling sea below. From there, Jesse loses track of what’s happening. It’s a damn shame his boots and gear are so heavy, he muses, or he’d maybe be able to float up, or even swim up.

But his head is fuzzy, his ears are ringing, and it’s not like he coulda figured out which way was up anyhow. The world turns to blue around him, deep and quiet. His mind swirls around in his head as much as the water around him.

Peaceful. The blue around him is nice, and he doesn’t feel cold or any of the pain that he’s sure he should. He’d always thought he’d go down fightin’ it to the end, but this…this ain’t a bad way to go.

The blue gets brighter and brighter as he continues to slide through the water, which don’t make much sense, but he ain’t really thinking well anyhow, so maybe that’s just how death works. He watches pretty, sparkling circles drift away in the light and finally closes his eyes.

Something wraps around him, warm and comfortable, and Jesse thinks death really ain’t as bad as people make it out to be. Feels a lot like flying.

  Chapter 2

There’s another roar of laughter from the bar and Hanzo rolls his eyes, safe in the darkness of his corner booth. The cowboy has certainly recovered well, as is evident by the amount of whiskey he has managed to drink this evening. There was…uncertainty for a short time. The near drowning had been a non-issue, but the burns and injuries to his face, torso, and arms had been far more critical, though Baptiste assured them all he would make a full recovery. Being blown over the wall and into the water had apparently been a far better outcome than being blown into the wall.

Frowning, Hanzo drops his gaze to the sake in his cup. He is perturbed by his own strong reaction to witnessing McCree in peril. They have only been on perhaps four missions together; they have not known one another for long. As another boisterous laugh erupts from the bar, he cannot resist watching McCree again. He is honest enough with himself to admit that the cowboy’s easy and honest personality appeals to him, and the man’s appearance, though crude, is…well-built. Hanzo knows what he likes, and McCree would be, as the American says, a cool drink of water. It does not hurt either that McCree seems to enjoy complementing Hanzo, especially regarding Hanzo’s skill with a bow. It takes more honesty with himself than he has while sober to admit that McCree is partially getting to him through his ego, but with a bottle of sake to nurse, Hanzo can swallow that truth this evening. There are few things he likes more than someone appreciating his skills.

Yet, it is rare for him to become so instantly attached, especially at work. He is usually firm about separating his professional and private lives. It seems McCree has wormed his way into Hanzo’s good graces.

Flexing his fingers, Hanzo sighs. It is not only Hanzo who is intrigued either; the dragons had reacted both swiftly and violently at the danger to the cowboy. If they intend to react like that again, Hanzo may need to be more careful in the future.

By the time the other Overwatch agents begin to trickle out of the bar, it is late, and Hanzo decides he too should find rest. That he leaves shortly after McCree is but a coincidence, he is sure.

There is a pleasant buzz under his skin and the night air is cool as he walks back to the compound. He does not rush, but it takes only a minute or so to catch sight of a familiar hat bobbing through the streets. McCree has one arm across Baptiste’s shoulders, but the other man must be drunk as well because they both weave haphazardly through the streets.

Smile quirking at his lips, Hanzo slows to maintain distance between them. While he did not mind McCree paying for his drinks this evening in thanks for saving his life, nor any of the other words of praise McCree lavished upon him, he does not intend to deal to with two drunks. He will simply follow to make sure they reach the compound.

Later, Hanzo will blame the noise McCree and Baptiste are making for his lapse of concentration, though the sake likely did not help either. He certainly will not admit to watching McCree too closely, the way his hips sway pleasingly as he tries to walk upright down the street.

The first bullet catches McCree in the shoulder, only missing the back of his head because Baptiste had stumbled, dragging the cowboy to the left at just the right moment. Even drunk, though, the two can react swiftly, and the second bullet finds only cobblestones.

Hanzo does not know if the shooter is aware of his position nor does he wait long enough to see if McCree or Baptiste are hit by the third shot. He simply pivots, leaping against the wall to his right and ricochets off to the left, onto the roof the shooter is likely using. Tracing the trajectory of the shots is child’s play.

He has no bow, no weapon at all in fact, but that will make little difference. The silence of the night is interrupted only by a fourth shot. Hanzo’s quiet footfalls as he flits across the roof and his tattoos flaring to life make no noise at all.

He cannot see precisely where the shooter is, but the dragons can taste the gunpowder on the air. They arc across the roof, blue light blinding in the still of the night.

There is not a fifth shot.

  Chapter 3

“Thanks Angel,” Jesse smiles as he dodges into an alcove, reloading, “glad ta have your eyes on me!”

Hanzo makes an affirmative noise over the comms and falls silent. Jesse’s not sure if the man minds him callin’ him angel. Hanzo’s hard to read. He’s more stoic than a brick wall. But the guy has saved Jesse’s life twice already, so he can’t hate Jesse too much. If Jesse thinks of Hanzo as his own personal guardian angel, well, Hanzo hasn’t stopped him callin’ him that yet. An’ Hanzo’s not exactly a shy guy. Jessie is sure he woulda spoken up if it bothered him.

So, the real question is, does Hanzo like him callin’ him angel? Because if he does… Jesse certainly would like to know about that.

It takes some focus to shift his attention from thinking about Hanzo’s form when the man is pulling back that bow of his to the battle at hand. The way those tattoos wrap around Hanzo’s biceps as he knocks an arrow, almost like they’re alive, is real…distracting.

The man’s prettier than just about anyone Jesse has ever seen.

Something explodes behind their position and Hanzo’s voice crackles over the line, even more terse than usual.

“Move! All of you!”

Jesse jumps from their position, breaking cover with the rest of the team as the building behind them rumbles ominously. 

“They’ve destroyed the building’s supports!”

Cursing, Jesse breaks into a full sprint, watching as the building’s shadow continues to lengthen in front of the team, the ground shuddering beneath them. Things have gone from not great to shit real fast and Jesse’s not sure which direction will stop them all from getting squashed like bugs. There’s a lot of buildings all around them and the one they’d been sheltering behind was tall.

Probably no direction except up is safe.

And then there’s a bright blue light behind them, throwing the shadow of the building back, and Jesse is picked right up off the ground, something big rushing above him.

Gasping, Jesse wriggles, arms pinned to his sides, “What-!”

Similar noises of surprise over the comms from the rest of the team are drowned out as the building crashes into the ground, dust and the accompanying shockwave deafening and blinding Jesse to the ensuing chaos. Air continues to rush past him. He coughs but can’t hear it, can only feel the rattle of his lungs as he tries to clear the dust.

Jesse’s not sure how long they’re in the air. It coulda been seconds or minutes, he wasn’t keeping track. At some point, whatever’s got ahold of him slows down. He cracks an eye open, squinting in the sun as he continues to hack up a lung.

He’s dropped gently onto a roof, and there is, and Jesse ain’t a liar, two dragons dropping the rest of the team onto the roof as well. They are long and blue.

Jesse is freaking out a bit, trying to get a better look from where he lays on his stomach, but the coughing isn’t helping. With wide eyes, he watches Hanzo hop off the back of one of them, graceful as ever. The dragons begin to shrink, smaller and smaller, until they wrap around Hanzo’s arm, stilling as they bleed into his skin.

There ain’t a speck of dust on Hanzo as he turns towards Jesse and, as he walks over, Jesse’s not sure if it’s the dust’s fault that he can’t breathe right. The man is a sight to behold.

Lips quirking in amusement, Hanzo raises a brow, “you dropped this, cowboy,” he says, Jesse’s hat gripped lightly in in his hand.

If Jesse weren’t still winded and coughing, he’d swoon.

  Chapter 4

Whatever Hanzo and he have between them is new but so sweet and it feels like it could be goin’ somewhere real good. His thoughts are a little muddy though, swinging from their current predicament to maudlin anger. Life ain’t fair, Jesse knows that. He’s lived a life most people would consider pretty shit, but he’s never begged like this.

“Dunno what I gotta say,” he rasps, arms tightening around Hanzo’s limp form draped across his chest and down his legs, “but please, ‘m beggin ya ta get him outta here.”

It’s only been a month since they started taking dinner together, sitting in quiet spots around base and drinking long into the night. Jesse’s never considered himself a gifted conversationalist, but with Hanzo, words just come easier.

The wall behind him is cold and the alcove he’s dragged them both into is barely big enough to cover them, but with a bust leg and Hanzo’s dead weight, he isn’t going to get anywhere else. Still, the tattoos on Hanzo’s arm remain just that, tattoos.

“Please, please, I know you’re in there, please.”

With one hand, he presses against the sticky mess of Hanzo’s temple, using his chest as a better headrest than the wall, while the other hand shakily holds his poncho to the wound seeping at Hanzo’s side. This thing they’ve got going between them is still so new and the bitter reality that he’s probably not going to see where it goes is pulling pleas from his lips better than any torture he’s faced.

“Please,” he whispers, breath puffing across the crown of Hanzo’s head, disturbing the hairs escaped from the man’s usually perfect bun, “please.”

Hell, they’ve only kissed a couple times. The first had been messy with nerves and drink, but the second. Oh, the second had been slow as molasses and curled his toes right in his boots. Hanzo had backed him up against a door with a hand gripping possessively along his jaw. Just the smolder Hanzo left him with as the man sauntered away, bidding him goodnight, had made Jesse so hot under the collar a cold shower hadn’t done much.

There’s no glow from Hanzo’ arm still, no shiver of electricity in the air, and Jesse starts to lose the little bit of hope still scrabbling at the back of his mind.

“C’mon, you can’t leave him to die like this, please,” his voice just loud enough to hear over the pounding of blood in his ears as the stomp of boots echo off the walls not too far down the corridor, “please, ‘m beggin’ ya, please.”

Tears well hot and heavy at the corner of his eyes as his pleas continue, quieter and quieter as whoever is drawing near gets closer and closer. Damn it all, he’d only gotten the balls to ask Hanzo out on a real date days ago. They’re not going to get a chance to see where this will go, and he’s never hated this shit hand in life more.

A gun cocks at the entrance to their little alcove. Jesse doesn’t look up. Not because he’s too chicken shit to stare down a barrel, god knows he’s done that enough in his life, but because there’s a familiar blue glow spilling from Hanzo’s arm and he can’t look away. Relief steals the very breath from his lungs.

Well, maybe that’s partly the rib giving him a nasty poke to the lung too.

  Chapter 5

Someone makes a sound somewhere to his left, a whimper, and Hanzo struggles towards consciousness. His mind swirls. Time seems to waver. Eventually, or perhaps mere moments later, he cracks his eyes open. For long seconds, he is unable to place where he is, but slowly the shadows skulking about form into the familiar interior of the infirmary. He relaxes slightly. At least it is unlikely he is in danger here.

Again, a soft whimper draws his attention to the left. It takes far more energy to turn his head than Hanzo thinks it should, but he manages to nonetheless.

Tucked into the bed beside his own is McCree, fast asleep. The cowboy’s face is tight with pain, though perhaps in his dreams it is worry or fear. Hanzo breathes deep. It is good to see that McCree has survived, a miracle that they have both survived through their last mission. From what he can remember, it had not gone well.

McCree makes another pained sound and there is a tug, a pull from the dragons, against the skin of his arm.

This again. Tiredly, he tries to calm them, “He is not in danger, hush.”

They pull anyways, worried. It takes more energy to keep them there against his skin than to allow their thrashing, and Hanzo has precious little energy to spare.

“Fine,” he releases them, “but do not wake him. He must sleep.”

In the gloom, Hanzo watches them curl tentatively into the nooks of McCree’s body, nuzzling anywhere their little snouts can reach. As one of them snuggles into the rough bristles of McCree’s beard, the pinched expression on his face begins to smooth out.

With a deep warmth spreading through his chest, Hanzo lets sleep take him.

  Chapter 6

Hanzo dispatches two more of the talon mercenaries in quick succession, using his momentum to vault to the top of the building. While there are far more talon members than their intel had suggested, the mission so far is going smoothly. Jesse, and now Hanzo, have already reached the objective with little trouble. The rest of their team is not far behind.

Cresting the final set of stairs brings Hanzo in line of sight with Jesse, and time seems to slow around him, his senses sharpening. He breathes in. The scent of smoke sits acrid on his tongue. The sunlight is harsh in his eyes.

Too close. The cowboy is too close to the edge of the building. He watches as though in slow motion, watches as Jesse struggles with a talon agent against the lip of the roof, watches as the ridge they fight against begins to give way, watches as they start to fall.

“Jesse!”

His heart stops within his chest, throat closing around the word.

He breaks into a sprint, calling out to the dragons, their anger singing in tune with his own. There is still a chance he may yet catch Jesse.

But as he reaches the edge, all but prepared to leap, he spots Jesse. The man is not freefalling, but instead has somehow managed to drop into one of the talon helicopters prowling the skies. The helicopter gains height swiftly, pulling up to hover over the roof. Hanzo cannot help the smile tugging at his lips. The talon agents on the roof have yet to realize the danger they are in.

Jesse opens fire, catching the talon agents entirely off guard, clearing the roof in seconds.

The rest of the team arrives as Jesse turns the helicopter, opening fire on the two other talon aircraft still nearby. Hanzo walks back to the stairs as Jesse comes in for a landing. He is…deeply impressed.

Lucio brings the package over, grinning at Jesse in the cockpit.

“Y’all need a ride?” Jesse greets them, the roll of the self-satisfied words around his already-lit cigar sending sparks down Hanzo’s spine. There are far too many of their teammates around them for the embers of arousal to be anything but inappropriate, but Hanzo cannot stop himself from meeting Jesse’s eyes. He knows Jesse can tell where his thoughts have shifted by the stutter in his breath, the clear surprise flitting across his handsome face, and the answering interest darkening his eyes.

If Jesse flies a little fast, Hanzo does not mind. Nor do their teammates question. They have all felt the adrenaline of victory.

If he and Jesse break from their team members at base slightly sooner than etiquette usually requires after such success, none of them question that either.

[fic-request-blog]

The Calm Before the Storm

This is an anon request for a fluffy, cute Wong/Shang-Chi fic. I’m a sucker for cuddling while the other is doing something mundane, so that’s where this went.

Gen, ~500 words.

Read on AO3 instead.

The Calm Before the Storm

 Shang-Chi sighs, relaxing further into the couch. He’s worried for the future, worried about what comes next. Everything has changed very quickly in his life. But…he can worry about that later.

For now, the sun filtering through the window is warm on his legs, the couch is comfortable, and the hand carding through his hair is gentle and grounding. Windchimes ring softly and the smell of jasmine drifts in from somewhere in the gardens outside. He feels like he’s floating; everything is just a little out of focus.

Wong shifts above him, settling a little deeper into the cushions. It jostles him a bit, a not much more than a bump, but in retaliation, Shang-Chi rubs his cheek against Wong’s thigh where he’s resting his head. He gets a gentle squeeze on the shoulder for his trouble. It’s nice.

Wong is reading something about the Rings, or something like that, Shang-Chi hadn’t really paid attention when he’d asked. It was more a prompt to hear Wong’s voice, to let the low rumble of the words wash over him, to drive away his own worries.

He’s never felt quite this safe. He knows Wong isn’t invincible, isn’t more powerful than a lot of the threats looming on the horizon, but… Wong is sure. He’s steadfast and confident in his place in the world in a way that Shang-Chi never has been.

And Wong is content. He’s content with where he is, the work he does to protect the sanctum, the work he does to protect others. That drew Shang-Chi to him like a boat adrift.

Shang-Chi wants that. He wants to feel content with what he is, what he does, and where he’s going. He thinks maybe he’ll get there if he survives what comes next. When. Wong tells him constantly to think when, not if.

For now, though, seeing Wong like this helps. Knowing Wong is here for him, that others like Carol and Bruce will be there to help, that’s enough. For now, it’s enough.

The hand in his hair tugs gently, paper rustling as Wong puts down the scroll, “What are you thinking about?”

Pressing his face into Wong’s thigh to hide his smile, Shang-Chi pauses for a moment before answering, “You.”

There’s a huff of laughter above him, the movement bumping his stomach against the side of Shang-Chi’s head pleasantly, “Better be something good.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”, Wong asks, and Shang-Chi can hear the smile in his voice, can feel the way Wong softens at his admission in the gentling of the fingers stroking his head.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Wong continues reading and Shang-Chi resettles a bit, turning his head back to face the room. He closes his eyes again and enjoys the quiet. He knows this will end soon, but this calm is worth it.

[fic-request-blog]

Edric x Boscha from The Owl House. Summer Romance.

Hello anon, terribly sorry, but one fandom I couldn't get into was the Owl House. It's an interesting show, fun all round, and I even watched the full first season for my sister, but it's just not my cup of tea.

[fic-request-blog]

Are you accepting prompts? Can I ask for a Wong/Shang-Chi fic? . Wong being cute to Shang, or being protective and affectionate. Bottom!Shang-Chi Top!Wong. Thanks.

You are in luck, I actually just saw the movie! I'll write a lil something for this by the end of next month at the latest!

[fic-request-blog]

The planning has begun anon! 

Here’s a pic of the doc in case any of you were wondering what the planning process looks like lol. 

Hi, would you be willing to write a 5 + 1 fic for McHanzo? 5 times Hanzo/Hanzo's dragons protect Jesse and +1 time they didn't have to. I'd love to see the different situations you create!

Yes absolutely! That'll be my first time getting the chance to wax on about the dragons, so expect some fluff, angst, and probably too many metaphors and too much color symbolism lol. I assume I'll have it done sometime around the end of October, so hang around anon!

[fic-request-blog]

Read All About It: Superman Connects with the Youth!

This is a request by @nahznalmao here on Tumblr. The request was basically for Superman to torment Batman with TikTok dances, and this thing wrote itself. Absolutely hilarious idea. Here’s a link to the Fortnite dances Superman is doing in case you’d like some cursed images rattling around in your brain as much as I do.

Gen, comedy, ~1K.

Read on AO3 instead.

Read All About It: Superman Connects with the Youth!

Sometimes, Bruce wonders if it’s worth it, being Batman. The never-ending fight, the lack of sleep, the injuries. It’s not easy, and some days he feels the strain more than others.

Like yesterday and today. Yesterday was shaping up to be a normal, average night, with normal, average villains causing normal, average trouble. Then, Robin sent him a video during patrol. He ignored it, because the caption was five laughing emojis and Bruce was dangling one of Penguin’s goons off a roof at the time to figure out what exactly the bird wanted with far too much plutonium.

And then he received, over the course of a few hours, videos from Barry, Hal, Diana, Oliver, and a few other JL members, all of which had similar captions. It is, at this point, now looking back on it, that Bruce realizes he should have known something was up. He should have known not to ignore the messages. But it was a long night, and Bruce Wayne had a long day coming up, and he just wanted some dinner, a shower, and his bed.

That morning he awoke to Alfred’s pancakes and a headache. The headache is normal. Pancakes are not. Pancakes herald bad news. He digs in with a sigh. There is no way he is asking what this omen is about until after he’s eaten at least one of them. And has his coffee.

“Good morning, Master Bruce.”

From his warm, comfortable bed, Bruce peers suspiciously at Alfred, “Is it?”

With his usual nonchalance, Alfred smiles blandly, “Yes.”

And then he leaves.

Bruce is left to contemplate his pancakes in growing confusion. The sun is warm on his bare legs. He doesn’t have a meeting for another hour. Alfred apparently thinks it’s a good morning.

The pancakes sit, unassumingly, along with a growing pit of concern. This can only mean two things: either one, the kids have done something Alfred finds amusing but that Bruce will hate, or two, someone has done something in the news that Bruce will hate and have to deal with.

Damn it, he thinks, mind already whirling as he flings his arm out for his phone, it’s the videos, it has to be.

It is indeed the videos.

Clark, as Superman, is on Tiktok, an app Damian has been banned from using while in costume, dancing. To Bruce’s rising horror, each video he opens is a different video. Clark has made at least ten of these catastrophes. The one named Breakin’ ends in a handstand that would be impressive if Clark weren’t literally Superman. He opens Disco Fever but closes out of the video as quickly as possible. Even Bruce, an actual billionaire, is not paid enough to watch Clark do that. At least the Electro Shuffle just looks like Clark is messing around with his feet. Watching Clark on the video called Fresh, Bruce wonders idly if this is worse than some of the Joker’s torture schemes. The Pop Lock video probably is, to be honest. Apparently, someone is helping Clark with these videos, because in the Rock Out video, Clark is pretending to strum an actual guitar, painted red and green. The last time Bruce checked Clark did not own a guitar.

His eyes narrow. Damian has a guitar. Damian has a very distinct paint job on his guitar as well.

Bruce refuses to reply to any of the messages and instead finishes his coffee.

It’s only been about twenty minutes from the time Alfred had opened his blinds. It feels like it’s been a small eternity. Frankly, Bruce is surprised Clark hasn’t contacted him. This seems like the kind of thing Clark would have tried to rope him into.

He sends Clark a text and then goes to get ready for another day as Bruce Wayne.

By the time Alfred has bundled him into the car, Clark has sent him something from the Daly Planet, written, unsurprisingly, by Clark Kent. The headline says, “Superman Connects with Youth” and Bruce doesn’t even bother to read the rest. He lets his phone drop to the seat and tilts his head back. It’s not even nine yet.

Hopefully, the Wayne Enterprises Board will just assume he’s hungover and not experiencing a stress-induced migraine. He puts on sunglasses to sell the look and restrains himself from sticking his tongue out at Alfred when he sees a smile flicker across the older man’s face. It’s going to be a long day.

**

When Batman drives into the cave, he notices lights first, and then, as he rounds the corner, the bright red of Superman’s cape. He’s dancing again, and for some reason in the cave.

Bruce doesn’t think he’s experienced a lot of road rage in his life, but the urge to hit Clark, and Robin, who is dancing right along with Superman, is almost impossible to resist. He breathes in and reminds himself he has enough willpower to take a ring from Green Lantern. He can resist wrecking the batmobile against Clark’s back even as the alien grips one ankle and seems to seize in midair.

He can resist.

“If you were the one that showed Superman that website,” Bruce starts, hopping out of the batmobile to check the monitors, “we are going to have a talk.”

Damien puts his hands up and shakes his head, grinning, “Nope! It was Superboy!”

Clark turns pleading eyes on him and begins to tell Bruce why it’s so important for them to connect with today’s generation and, as chair of the JL, Superman has this duty above all others, but Bruce cuts him off with “the last thing I want to hear is why you’re doing this. Just leave me out of it.”

They definitely high five when Bruce turns back to the monitors.

Something tells him this isn’t about connecting with the “youth” and is more about seeing what they can get away with while Bruce is on monitor duty.

Damien shouts excitedly and Bruce wonders if his headache will go away tomorrow.

“Supes! Your first video just hit fifty million views!”

There’s the distinct sound of a high five behind Batman.

He sighs quietly through his nose. The headache is definitely not going away any time soon.

[fic-request-blog]

I Have Buried My Love Deep; It Has Washed Away in the Rivers Beneath Us

Hello all, I heard it’s Trephacard week (or it was recently?) and so I’ve bumped this ask up in celebration. (Though, this is very much angst, so perhaps not celebration?)

This is a request by @vaxderogna here on Tumblr who sent in this fairly specific ask. During my research, I found that @vee-vee-writes here on Tumblr wrote a similar fic for a very similar request, which I would suggest if you like the premise for this one. I tried to make this one a slightly different emotional take so as not to overlap too much. Thank you @vee-vee-writes for the excellent inspiration and for allowing me to link your post!

Angst, G or T rating, ~800 words.

I Have Buried My Love Deep; It Has Washed Away in the Rivers Beneath Us

Alucard stares, eyes dark, near void of emotion.

The tentative smiles on Trevor and Sypha’s faces dry slowly, like water left spilled across a floor, neglected by all but the sun.

He looks away first, eyes drawn to the swirl of liquid in his glass. With simple twitches of his wrist, Alucard sends the wine round and round and round. His thoughts swirl similarly. There is not much his mind settles upon, his thoughts sluggish and fickle.

Months. The time between when they left him and now was mere months, a fraction of a blink in the time of an immortal. Yet…

Yet.

He is different now. In all his long life, he cannot think of a more painful time. He suffered more than he thought any one being could, at the hands of betrayal, hatred, his father…

They left him.

The single thought solidifies in the endless churning of his mind, then melts away just as swiftly. There is neither malice nor hatred left to burn inside him. Alone, there is emptiness. He feels hollow as they sit before him, hollow as they offer him, in the palms of their hands, all he had wished for but months ago, to be with them in all ways he would have them.

Months ago, there had been, of course. Hatred. Anger. He had raged for weeks, wept bitterly in their absence. They left him! How could they leave him? After everything he had suffered, after everything they had been through together, after everything else in his life had fallen to shambles, he had thought at the very least they would have been beside him to pick up the pieces.

But.

They had left, with little more than farewells. And here, they return, with little more than greetings.

He loves them still, in a way. He can feel it deep in his bones, as water surely feels the tides. Yet, it is a dull thing. Once, it had been bright, shined so strongly he was sure they could see it glowing from beneath his skin. For they had shared much, and their strength and kindness had drawn him to them with little resistance. His love for them had grown sharp with want, a pain and a pleasure at once, a knife he had all too gladly held the blade of. Then, they left him. This love had grown jagged with anger. Pain as startling as claws rending through flesh dug wounds into a heart he had once thought impenetrable.

Oh, how he had wanted them, in all ways they would have let him. Oh, how he would have done anything for just the chance at what they offer him this evening.

Yet.

Now, his love is dull, an ache, an echo in a hall padded with tapestries, near mute. There is no pull, no sway over him.

A smile tugs at his lips, a mere twitch. How far he has come, he thinks, to not even mourn losing that love. Perhaps he should. Perhaps he should feel something more than this apathy, but there is nothing left. That love is all but dead, ebbing away little by little.

These wounds have healed, scarred rough and uneven, but healed, nonetheless. Long, auburn hair and dark skin flicker across his mind’s eye. Healed indeed, he thinks, by the firm, careful hands of another.

He shakes his head, finally looking up from his glass. Trevor and Sypha… It is rare for them both to show their grief so openly. He may not mourn this lost love now, but it is only because he has already laid it to rest. They clearly did not expect his rejection when they sat before his hearth this evening.

Are mortals and immortals so different? Could they have shaken the woes he has endured easier than he? Could they have kept this love from fading in the dark?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

He drinks the rest of his wine. It matters not, not now, not anymore.

“You may stay, as long as you wish. You are welcome, as you have always been. You know the way to the guest rooms.”

He leaves, and he leaves a weight to rest upon their shoulders. He wishes them no pain, no harm, takes no pleasure in leaving them this burden. But he has buried this love where they had abandoned it, and he will bear his heart to the cold dirt no longer.

They may dig as they wish; there is nothing left for them to uncover.

[fic-request-blog]

Update September 2021 (Witcher Fandom Requests Open)

Hello all, if you have submitted an ask within the last few days, I plan to answer it hopefully by next month, but will only be writing shorts (~500-1K) except for specifically the Witcher fandom. I’d like to spend some time writing for that fandom while I’m still very enthusiastic about it.

So, with that, if anyone in the Witcher fandom would like to send in requests, I’ll be filling those as inspiration strikes!

I’m happy to write pretty much any situations and ratings for any of the witchers and bards (in most combos, if the request involves relationships/friendships/etc). If you’d like more info, my “What I Write” tag has a post for it. As per the usual, the best way to check if I'll write your request is to just ask.

Currently, I’ve only written one short fic for the fandom, which can be found here if you’d like some geraskier fluff.

[fic-request-blog]

Let’s Call it Fate* (*This Message Not Approved by Fate)

An anon here on Tumblr requested Jean-Ralphio Saperstein x Tom Haverford with “fluff”. As I’ve never watched Parks and Rec, I decided on a quick meet-cute AU. From my research, it seemed like the more ridiculous Jean-Ralphio was, the more on-brand this would be, so hope this is alright!

Gen, ~500 words, meet cute.

Let’s Call it Fate* (*This Message Not Approved by Fate)

Jean-Ralphio makes a sudden 360 and grins. Today is going to be a good day in a long line of good days.

He isn’t…stalking the cute guy in the park. It’s more like…prospecting? You never know when you might find a new business partner! And if they happen to be walking in the opposite direction in a park Jean-Ralphio will probably never go to again while it rains when he doesn’t have an umbrella? Well, you might as well just call it fate.

Yeah.

But, whatever, this guy is like the centerfold for a cute-guy-of-the-month calendar, okay? He’s literally tiny, barely even reaches above Jean-Ralphio’s shoulders, and has the effortlessly scruffy-hot look down to a T. Absolutely everything is right about this guy’s face too. Big, dark, expressive eyes dance as he animatedly talks into a cell and Jean-Ralphio keeps getting these flashes of perfect, pearly teeth when he smiles. And the way he smiles! Dude’s as adorable as a care bear with dimples.

And he’s wearing a full suit with matching dress shoes and has a big black umbrella! Clearly business partner material.

When they reach the edge of the park, cute guy puts away the cell and Jean-Ralphio knows now’s the time to make his move. Flicking his tongue over his lips, Jean-Ralphio slicks back his very wet hair, straightens his patterned silk scarf, probably ruined from this rain, but sacrifices have to be made in the name of good business, and puts on his most charming grin. Even sopping wet, Jean-Ralphio is stunning, he’s sure of it.

Game plan: First, compliment his snappy suit. Easy, he looks like a million bucks and his tie is the brightest shade of baby blue Jean-Ralphio has ever seen. Second, propose a business deal. He always has at least twelve on hand, so no problem there. Third, plan to meet for coffee. Simplest part, there’s a coffee shop literally anywhere he looks. Fourth and final, and most important, score cute guy’s number. Not even a question. It’ll be a cinch. He can already taste a hazelnut roast and the sweet, sweet flavor of business prospects.

“Excuse me, sir,” he starts off with, and smiles as the guy looks up, pretty eyes full of interest, “your suit is in excellent taste! The tie is better than ice cream.”

And there’s the dimples. Checking off number one!

“Oh,” he starts, glancing down at his own tie, “thanks man, it’s Bolvaint!” He looks up and grins.

Jean-Ralphio resists the urge to lick his lips and grins back, leaning in a little, “Bolvaint? Now that’s a fancy tie. I bet a businessman of such exceptional taste is probably looking for a deal to sink his teeth into right about now. Well, it’s your lucky day because we were fated to meet.”

Jean-Ralphio continues, gesturing smoothly towards the coffee shop down the road and the invitation is out of his mouth before the man can respond. Why wait for what could happen right now?

That’s two and three down, now for the most important!

“Or,” he cuts in, raising his hands and waiving them obligingly, because Jean-Ralphio is nothing if not the chivalrous knight this man must be looking for, “I can tell you’re a busy man; why don’t I take down your number and we can schedule our profitable first meeting?”

Cute guy’s mouth is open a little, caught in the fantastic whirlwind that is Jean-Ralphio in the flesh, and Jean-Ralphio finishes this all off with a literally award-winning smile (an award he’d made for himself in fact), arms held wide in invitation.

Clearly the man is in awe, because it takes him a few seconds to respond, “Oh, well, yeah, alright, sure! I am definitely a busy businessman. Coffee later then?”

With a short whoop, Jean-Ralphio nods vigorously, “Great, partner, let me walk you to your no doubt very important destination and we’ll keep talking right now!”

And, new cell number safely plugged into his phone, Jean-Ralphio checks off number four. Cute guy even offers to hold his umbrella over them both, which means next time Jean-Ralphio is inviting him back to his place.

He knew today was going to be good. Every day is good for the one and only Jean-Ralphio after all.

[fic-request-blog]

To Feel the Air in My Lungs; To Know You Feel it Too

This is a request by @writebecauseyoucannotbreathe here on tumblr. The request was for Aang x Azula and encouraged some self-indulgence, so this ficlet is just that.

 Rated gen, Aang is musing about power. 500 words.

To Feel the Air in My Lungs; To Know You Feel it Too

He breathes in and feels powerful.

The air in his lungs has always felt that way, seeping into him, spreading throughout. He feels light, like a feather, with every deep breath, but strong, like metal. It presses outwards, desperate for release, desperate for use. It is…

Many years ago, while he was still a child, before the war, before he was able to accept being avatar, it had made him uncomfortable. Unease crawled through his veins with each breath. He felt too full, too much. How could one child carry so much?

Could the others see how he felt? Could they feel the same power he felt? Did they know how… how dangerous he was? How the very air around them suffused him with the kind of power others would use for war? Did they know what he was capable of? Did they know he could-

They hadn’t known, of course. How could they?

But she knew. From the very moment he first saw her, he had felt understood.

She breathed in and fire leapt from her skin. She breathed in, and in her eyes, he found a reflection of himself, distorted by fury. There is no hesitation, no fear, no worry over what she is. There is pride. Pride in the way the very air itself ignites her strength, pride in her dangerousness, pride in the fear she stokes in others. She breathes in and the air burns at her command and she is nothing but pleased.

He had been afraid, afraid to witness another embracing the kind of power he so desperately wished to distance himself from. He had fled, as he had done many times as a child. That reflection, of one who accepted power and wielded it with confidence, with satisfaction, with delight, shocked him. He was appalled. Yet, at once, he felt understood, felt connected. She knew. She knows.

She knows the way the air bends to their will, the way the world slows as air spills into their lungs, the way others fall before them like leaves. She knows how it moves, how to breathe life into it, how to breathe death into it. She knows.

Now, he breathes in and feels at peace. The power flows through him, his own but also that of others before him, and he wonders if she saw the same in him, if she saw herself reflected too.

[fic-request-blog]

Jedi Need Protecting Too

This is a request by an anon here on Tumblr. They asked: “How about a fic where Rex is protective of Anakin?”

T for violence. Anakin is a little incompetent and Rex is very competent. 800 words.

Commander Skywalker is not a careful man. In fact, Rex would argue that he is deliberately reckless. And, as Rex dodges blaster bolts, sliding behind a mound of metal that was, at some point, probably a power droid, Rex thinks most of the 501st would agree with him. Something explodes off to his right, the direction Anakin had run, and Rex curses. He thinks most of the rest of the Republic would agree too.

 Blasting two incoming droids, Rex rolls to the right, flinging himself behind a stand of stumps as he scans the battlefield for any flashes of blue in his periphery. There. The general leaps from atop a boulder, lightsaber flashing through a group of droids faster than their programming can track him.

 It’d be impressive if it wasn’t obvious that Anakin was only using one hand, the other limp at his side.

 Rex curses again, with more feeling, and rolls out from cover. He heads straight for the general, blasters ablaze. If Anakin is already injured, Rex is pulling him. They’re close to victory as is; that idiot doesn’t need to be endangering himself any more than he already has.

 Ducking shrapnel, Rex breaks into a run. It’s easy to follow the path Anakin has wrought through the ranks of clankers. He takes the clear line of it at speed, closing in behind the general to shoot the few droids left functioning in his wake. Only when Rex climbs an overturned tank to smash through a battle droid’s faceplate with the butt of his blaster does Anakin notice him, grinning cheekily as he performs an impressive backflip, beheading a commando with an air of ease that forces a grin to Rex’s face. He knows Anakin can’t see it, but he fixes his face into a scowl as quickly as he can force it. If Anakin is showing off, he shouldn’t have gotten injured.

 Finally, there’s a lull in the battle and Rex catches up. He shoves Anakin into a bombed-out building, shoves him right up against an inside wall. “You’re injured,” he growls, one hand firmly against Anakin’s shoulder and the other wrapped steadily around the grip of his blaster.

 The jedi has the nerve to laugh, shrugging, “Yeah, but it’s not bad.” His eyes fall half-closed and a slow smirk spreads across his lips, “You gunna do something about it?”

 Gritting his teeth, Rex checks the hole they entered through. With any luck, none of the clankers saw them and they can lie low until the rest of the 501st, as well as the 212th, catch up. The battle really is nearly won; the droids all but in full retreat. He risks glancing back to Anakin, regretting it when he finds that smirk still firmly in place, “I’m keeping you here in cover until this battle finishes, General.”

 He emphasizes the rank in the hopes that it keeps Anakin from doing anything stupid on the field, like trying to rile Rex up any further. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

 Anakin squawks in indignation, pushing back against Rex’s hand, “We’ve nearly won! I should be out there! You can’t just keep me here to let Obi-Wan take all the glory!”

 Even with his helmet on, Rex is fairly sure Anakin can tell how hard he rolls his eyes. Shoving back against Anakin’s protests, Rex all but presses the entire line of his body against the man, words coming through his vocal filters in an angry hiss, “You’re injured. You’re. Staying. Here.”

 He can see the retort in the jedi’s eyes, but the distinct sound of metal on metal pulls Rex’s gaze to the hole in the building. A battle droid is looking into the gloom, scanning. Rex twists, facing the droid and placing himself in front of his general.

 The droid falls to his blaster fire before it even realizes they’re there. Another takes its place. Rex keeps shooting.

 When no more droids step into the shadow of the building and a neat little pile has begun to block the base of the hole, Rex glances at Anakin, making sure he hasn’t been hit in any of the crossfire. There are no injuries- no new injuries- and Rex relaxes a fraction.

 His blaster smokes and Anakin looks a little breathless.  It’s Rex’s turn to smirk. Anakin’s cheeks heat just the barest amount, probably guessing at how Rex is reacting, and he looks away to peer further into the gloom, frowning hard. He’s stubbornly silent.

 When the 501st finally locates them, Anakin doesn’t fuss as Kix treats his hand. Rex knows it’s only because he’s crouched beside the jedi, hand placed unassumingly on Anakin’s shoulder.

 If the grip is a little tight, if Rex still places himself between the door and Anakin, Kix doesn’t comment.

[fic-request-blog]

Making a Life Together (In More Ways Than One)

This was a request by an anonymous here on Tumblr, who has been incredibly patient! The request was essentially “a timeline of Justin and Clifford finding out that Justin is pregnant up to the birth but focusing on coming to terms with being parents.” It turned into a series of vignettes. I tried to make each vignette about the same length for consistency’s sake, but they vary a bit.  ~3K.

An up-front note, this is a gen fic that is almost entirely pure fluff with a sprinkle of angst, but heavily revolves around mpreg. Also, this is RPF of the actors for Bakugo and Deku from My Hero Academia. 

Making a Life Together (In More Ways Than One)

Week 3

Justin stares. He was having headaches and felt so tired all the time. So, he had… thought, just maybe… just to check…

He drops onto the closed toilet seat, silent. The two little lines stare back at him, just as silent.

The apartment is quiet. He’s woken up early to do this, and the surrounding city is only barely awake. He can hear the neighbor shuffling around her kitchen through the thin walls, can hear the pitter-patter of her cat following for breakfast. The sun is a soft yellow through the curtains, and everything feels a little unreal.

He’ll need to start getting ready for work soon. He should probably get some coffee brewing, so Clifford and he can get going.

Instead, Justin continues to sit quietly, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring into the middle distance. How does he tell Clifford? What if Clifford doesn’t want the baby? Does he even want the baby? What if he doesn’t want the baby? What if he does? He doesn’t have any answers yet. So much is going to change either way.

The sun continues to rise. He takes a deep breath and buries the test in the trashcan under the sink. He’ll tell Clifford once he’s made up his mind. He needs to figure this out, figure out what he wants.

God, they’re not even married yet. Should they get married first? Does he want to marry Clifford? Does Clifford want to marry him?

Placing both hands on either side of the sink, Justin closes his eyes and breathes. His thoughts are whirling too fast to keep up with and the knot of anxiety in his stomach only grows.

  Week 6

What is he going to do?

Shivering, Justin rests his head in his hands, closing his eyes against the roiling nausea. The bathroom tiles are cold through his boxers, and he wishes he’d grabbed a pair of sweats, or heck, even a towel, before he’d sunk to the floor. It’s the second morning he’s woken with the need to throw up and he feels terrible.

He needs to tell Clifford soon. He can blame the headaches and fatigue on their demanding recording schedule, but this?

He wants the baby. He’s decided. He’s going to keep the baby, even if Clifford doesn’t want to keep it. Them.

The nausea rises again, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this alone. He can’t do this alone. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Clifford doesn’t want the baby. Will Clifford leave him? Or would he stay at least to see this out? Clifford is a good man, but Justin wouldn’t blame him for leaving. A baby is a lot. They haven’t ever talked about the possibility yet.

Tears spill over as he tries to stay quiet. He’s not ready for this. He’s not ready for any of this.

A sleep muzzy “Babe?” drifts into the room as Justin hears the door creak all the way open and a sob breaks free from him before he can choke it back. It’s loud enough that there’s no way Clifford didn’t hear it, not while he’s standing in the doorway. He should have locked the door.

“Aw, shit, babe,” Clifford whispers, shuffling in to rub a hand over Justin’s back, “you don’t feel good? Why didn’t you get me up? Woulda gotten up with ya.”

The hand on his back is warm and the relief at Clifford’s words is so heavy that Justin curls into himself and weeps. Warm hands turn into warm arms and Justin can’t quite hear what Clifford is saying as he sits right on the floor next to him, pressing his chest to Justin’s back and leaning his head on Justin’s shoulder. Whatever he’s saying, it’s soft and soothing.

  Week 7

Justin cries there, on the bathroom floor, with Clifford wrapped around him, warm hands rubbing gently up and down his arms, for a long while.

Clifford opens the door with a sigh, hands going to Justin’s shoulders on autopilot, “You’re not sick, are you?”

Justin doesn’t move, only breathes in shakily as he lets his head hang, pressed against the cool wall beside the toilet, “No.”

It’s quiet. The day is still early. Over the past week, most of their days have started like this. It’s certainly given Justin time to think, to decide.

“I’m pregnant.”

He wants the baby, he’s certain now. He wants Clifford, the man who has woken up and draped blankets over him each morning, murmured soothing words and rubbed his back. There’s no one else. Justin can’t imagine anyone else, can’t imagine doing this with anyone else, can’t imagine growing old with anyone else. He wants to marry Clifford, wants this to be permanent.

One step at a time.

There’s no gasp behind him. No exclamation of surprise or worry. Just the reassuring hands rubbing circles over his shoulders, pressing gently into his back.

“Okay.”

Justin frowns, eyes closed against the wall, “That…that’s it?”

He could practically see the way Clifford shrugged, the familiar motion playing behind his eyelids, “I mean, it was a little obvious. What…what do you want to do?”

“I want to keep the baby.” I want to stay with you. I want you to stay with me. Marry me. The list goes on, but Justin keeps that to himself. Now…now’s not the time.

“Okay.”

Unable to stand the tension, Justin cracks his eyes open, peering at Clifford, “What do…what do you want?”

This time he watches the shrug in real time.

“I don’t know. I want to stay with you.”

For the first time in weeks, Justin feels light. He feels a smile spread across his face, eyes closing again against the nausea, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

  Week 12

“Okay.”

Morning sun streams through their window, warming Justin’s bare belly. He hums, still drifting between sleep and wakefulness. It’s a good morning.

“Oh my god Justin,” Clifford startles up, slapping a hand onto Justin’s arm, “oh my god, we should have taken you to a doctor by now. Oh my god, what are we doing?”

Pure terror rests on Clifford’s face and Justin can’t help but laugh, “I have no idea what we’re doing. But, yeah, we should probably start figuring things out soon.”

If Justin thinks things were busy before, things become absolutely insane over the next few weeks. There are doctor visits, planning for what they need for the baby, and shit, do they need to get a house? Is this apartment enough space for a baby? Can they even afford a house? What if their jobs require them to continue to move around? Should they just get a new apartment that’s bigger?

There are so many questions to answer and so many appointments, neither of them has the time to think much about anything but now and the immediate future.  

They make lists. They find lists online. They get lists assigned to them by doctors.

They tell their friends. They tell their families. There are a lot of tears, mostly happy, on the part of everyone involved. Clifford’s grin, his warm hand spread across the small of Justin’s back, his pride in their baby, get Justin teary-eyed faster than any of the warm wishes.

  Week 18

They’re definitely happy tears.

He’s been wearing baggy shirts for the past few weeks, but the bump is getting harder to hide. There’s a full-length mirror in their bedroom, a remnant of a past tenant, and Justin has never spent more time in front of it.

Happiness bubbles up, unbidden. Clifford is making pasta in the kitchen, singing along badly to the radio. Water drips from Justin’s hair, still wet from the shower, as he hikes his sweats up, eyes drawn yet again to the mirror. It won’t be that long before he’ll need new clothes.  He hopes the rest of the cast takes this as well as Clifford has.

He sees motion in the mirror, then hands circle around his waist and Justin leans back, threading his fingers through Clifford’s as they rest on his belly, “Hey babe, dinner?”

“Mmm, yeah, thanks.”

They don’t move immediately, standing together in their bedroom, the setting sun painting the room in orange and red. They sway a little.

“Hey.”

Justin hums, raising one of his brows in question, eyes closed as he relaxes more firmly against Clifford’s chest.

“Marry me.”

Justin gasps, eyes flying open to find Clifford’s in the mirror. He looks…serious. Determined in a way he rarely shows.

“What?”

The mouth pressed to his shoulder frowns, “Marry me?”

It’s clearly a question this time, and Justin realizes Clifford thinks he’s hesitating, not that he’s caught off guard, caught by surprise in his reflection. Tears pool at the edges of his vision and he watches Clifford’s face go tight with worry, feels the man start to pull away.

“Yes,” he nearly sobs, “yes.”

He twists in Clifford’s arms and kisses him until the tears stop coming. Clifford is going to stay. They’re going to do this together. He’s not sure why he ever doubted.

  Week 22

If dinner is cold when they get to it, neither of them notice.

Between planning for the baby, continuing work, and now deciding their wedding plans, Justin is exhausted. Resting on the couch, he sighs, pouting slightly at his phone. Clifford is running the last of the day’s errands, and Justin just wants him home to fall asleep on. He texts Clifford to buy ice cream and tosses his phone onto the couch, scrolling through movie options. Nothing much is on.

He wriggles to adjust the pillow behind him and sighs again, closing his eyes. Maybe he can nap until Clifford gets back…

Something…flutters? against his stomach, but from the inside. Like a tap. It happens again and Justin sits up fully, eyes wide, hands pressing to his stomach.

The baby. It’s the baby! He can feel his baby kicking!

Gently, Justin slides his hands across his belly, heart jumping each time he feels the fluttering. He’s never felt anything like it. Closing his eyes again, Justin sits back.

The doctors have assured him the baby is healthy, that there’s been no complications, but this… This proof that his baby is alive and well comforts him more than any words.

It hits home, how real this is. He’s going to have a baby; he’s going to be a father. Maybe he’s not sure if he’s ready yet, but here he sits, making a new life right inside him. There have been few moments in his life that have felt more awe-inspiring, more humbling.

When Clifford returns, kicking off his sneakers and dropping the groceries in the kitchen, Justin is smiling up from the couch, hands still holding his belly softly. Clifford kisses him quietly, frowning as he wipes at the tears at the corners of Justin’s eyes.

“You okay, babe?”

  Week 26

Justin reaches up to kiss him on the cheek, “Yeah.  Yeah, I think I am.”

Things are starting to fall together. Well, more like be carefully put together with a lot of sweat, tears, and even blood when Clifford managed to cut himself while putting together an IKEA crib. (Justin’s not sure he’s ever heard Clifford swear that much at once. The cut was so small, Justin laughed the whole time. He still held Clifford’s hand through the outburst though.) They’ve worked hard for this and as Justin snuggles into Clifford’s side a bit more, head pillowed on his chest, pride swells.

He didn’t think…he didn’t think Clifford would be like this. Clifford is a good man, a wonderful partner, a brilliant fiancé, but Justin couldn’t have hoped for how good of a father he seems like he’ll be.

Clifford is doting, kind and caring even if he wouldn’t admit it to anyone himself. He rubs Justin’s feet when they ache, holds Justin when everything feels like too much after a long day, and grows more and more boastful about their baby by the day. Trying not to wake Clifford, Justin stifles a giggle. The poor barista at the coffee shop down the road probably knows more about their baby than she wants. Just yesterday, Justin had overheard Clifford bragging to him mom, of all people, about all the good news from the doctors, about all the preparations to the apartment and the

Justin’s smitten.

His musings are interrupted by a warm hand clumsily stroking down his chest to rub soothingly at his belly, “M’rnin.”

Justin plants a kiss to Clifford’s shoulder, smile widening, “Morning.”

They lay there, basking in each other’s company, until Justin jolts. His hands fly to his belly as the baby kicks again, his smile turning into something a little more akin to a grimace. They certainly don’t have to worry about the health of their baby. The kicks have only grown stronger over the last few weeks and the doctor had assured them they’d get stronger still.

He huffs a laugh as the tantrum abates, twisting his neck to look up at Clifford, a funny remark about the baby already being more like Clifford poised on his lips. The thought dies at the look of awe in Clifford’s eyes, his open-mouthed shock.

“That’s the first time I’ve felt the baby move, Justin.”

He says it quietly, reverently, and Justin’s face crumbles into a fond smile.

Yes, he’s truly smitten.

  Week 30

He’s so smitten he doesn’t even mention the call Clifford makes to his mom later that day, or about how long it lasts.

Justin had always thought the idea of child birthing classes was strange, but he’s thankful for them now. There’s so much he didn’t know, so many questions he has. When another person in the class raises her hand to ask about something he had just experienced last week, he feels so much better. It’s reassuring.

Though, he’s pretty sure these classes aren’t just for the people who are actually giving birth. Most everyone’s partner attends as well, and at every opportunity, they’re comparing and boasting.

And to Justin’s mortification, Clifford is the worst of them. He tells the class all about the renovations to their apartment to make the best nursery possible, the good news from the doctor, the strong kicks they can feel from the baby, even the cravings Justin has been getting for tacos. Clifford describes it as a constant battle to show who are the best parents. Justin describes it as ridiculous.

If Justin weren’t so charmed, he’d melt into his chair out of embarrassment. Luckily, their instructor is good at getting them all back on track during class.

He can’t believe he’s already in the third trimester. It feels like all of this is flying by. The doctor said he only had ten more weeks before the baby, barely three months! He feels like all of this just started, like only yesterday he was sitting in the apartment bathroom hoping Clifford might at least stay with him for the pregnancy.

  Week 36

Now, watching idly as Clifford continues a story about how they got the best baby monitor on the market, all his fears seem so far away, almost silly.

They decide on a small officiation, just a few friends and their parents, for now. With the baby coming soon and still more planning to be done, the big wedding will have to wait. He’d like to invite far more people, to have as many flowers as Clifford will allow adorning the venue.

All of this has happened so fast. They both want it to be official though, before the baby arrives. It’s not like their families will care (it’s pretty clear neither he nor Clifford is going anywhere, after all), but it just feels…right. The permanence, the promise, is comforting.

On a Tuesday afternoon, they cram themselves into the local clerk’s office. The clerk is kind and makes the paperwork easy for them. Even though their vows are short versions of what they plan for the big wedding, Justin is crying by the time they exchange rings. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so happy, if Clifford wasn’t smiling at him like he hung the moon, if his parents weren’t crying just as much behind them.

It’s a sunny Tuesday afternoon and Justin is in love with his husband. And his husband loves him back!

It’s official. They’re married.

And in just a few weeks they’ll be parents.

  Week 39

He couldn’t imagine being here only a year ago. He thinks now, with Clifford’s hand in his, with the warmth of the ring on his finger, he might just be ready, too.

“Clifford! The baby is coming!”

There’s a clatter from the kitchen. Breathing slowly, Justin wraps a hand protectively over his belly as he stands from the couch. Clifford appears in the doorway only a second later, face a picture of shock, “But, the doctor said you still have another two weeks!”

Justin looks him dead in the eye, “Get in the car.”

Clifford doesn’t argue.

The drive to the hospital feels as though it happens in the blink of an eye and simultaneously like the longest ride Justin has ever taken. They arrive and Justin loses track of what the people bustling around him are doing. There are too many lights and too many people talking. The only constant is Clifford’s hand, big and warm, holding fast to his own.

They tell him to breathe. He breathes.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but the baby comes, and Justin is so tired he can’t protest when the doctor tells him to sleep.

It’s light out when Justin wakes, sluggishly sitting up in the hospital bed. Clifford sits beside him, tired but grinning. In his arms is a little bundle. He motions to hand Justin their baby without a word. Justin nods, too overcome to finds any himself.

The blanket wrapped around their baby is soft and warm. He stares down with wonder. Their baby. He looks up to find Clifford close, smiling softly at them. It’s a perfect moment and Justin lets himself cry into Clifford’s shoulder.

They’re going to be fine. All three of them. Everything is going to be fine. They’re together, they’ll do this together, and that’s what matters.

[fic-request-blog]

The Multiverse Is Infinite and Destiny Is Ours to Make

This is a request by @pornstarstheywerepornstarssam who created this prompt post. This story gave me the hardest time, because every time I thought I was done, there was something else I wanted to tweak. It’s such an interesting prompt and I wanted to explore so much of Tony’s relationship with Steve, but also both Steve and Tony’s relationships to Bucky. I’m afraid this maybe got a bit away from me. I certainly didn’t think this would be over 5K haha.

  The Multiverse Is Infinite and Destiny Is Ours to Make

Or: Steve and Tony are so wrapped up in longing that getting together required a second universe.

Story is mostly gen, though Chapter 5 is probably at least teen and up and the bonus chapter is explicit. ~7K.

Read it on AO3 instead.

Chapter 1

The machine whirs, louder and louder, then chimes and begins to power down. Steve stares at it. Tony stares at it. The machine, falling silent, fails to do anything remarkable in any way.

 Steve glances between the machine and Tony, who purses his lips, frowning. The machine remains, against all probability, entirely intact. Looking around, Steve finds a distinct lack of fire anywhere in the lab. He’s kind of impressed. Usually, something is blown up or Tony’s inventions work perfectly. The in-between is rare. Usually, by this point, Dummy would already have the fire extinguisher active. Strange that the little bot is nowhere to be seen now.

 “Well,” Tony claps his hands together, “that was anticlimactic.”

 Steve snorts, “Did it do anything?”

 Shrugging, Tony rubs his hands together, “Let’s find out. Jarvis, what day is it?”

 Everything is silent for a few beats too long, long enough that Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up. Then Jarvis answers, almost hesitantly, “It is Tuesday, Sir.”

 Tony sighs, “Well, that’s a bust.”

 Staring at the machine, Steve wonders how to help. He’s not exactly qualified to troubleshoot a time machine; he was mostly just here to make sure Tony got out alive if the thing exploded. He releases the tension from his shoulders, “Lunch?”

 Absently, Tony nods, “Yeah, might as well.”

 Jarvis, and Steve has no better way to describe it, makes a sound like clearing his throat, “Ah, Sir-“

 “Jarvis, pack this up for now,” Tony interrupts, grabbing one of the tablets in the lab and heading for the stairs, “I’ll come back down later.” Tony’s already halfway up the stairs to the Avenger’s common room, Steve trailing behind, when his frown deepens, “J, why’d you close down the files on the project? Pull them back up.”

 “Sir, I think there is something you should-“

 Whatever else Jarvis is about to say, Steve doesn’t hear, because there is a shocked sound of glee from the kitchen as they round the corner above the stairs, and Bucky is suddenly barreling into them both, pulling Steve and Tony into his chest as he laughs.

 Before Steve can even hug back, he’s grinning widely. Confusion is second to the joy of hearing Bucky laugh like this, seeing his eyes light up. Bucky’s been getting better, but this? Steve hasn’t seen him laugh like this since their trip to the Hamptons last month when Sam fell off a boat. Bucky had laughed until he cried. It had been a good day.

 “When did you two get back?” Bucky demands, slapping affectionately at Steve, “Can’t believe you, you big lug. You didn’t even tell your best friend you were headed this way?” Bucky’s still grinning at Steve when he extracts his metal arm from around Steve to place his hand on Tony’s waist. He turns soft eyes onto Tony, and lifts his other hand to cup Tony’s cheek, rubbing gently with his thumb, “Hey, missed you.”

 Tony, cradling the tablet safely against his chest with both arms, looks just as shocked as Steve feels when Bucky leans down, soft and sweet, to kiss him on the lips.

 The smile on Steve’s face slips. The questions on the tip of his tongue, like what Bucky was talking about when Steve and Tony have been in the tower all day, die swiftly, shriveling as insecurity blossoms in his chest. He…hadn’t realized Bucky and Tony were together like this. He’d known they were getting closer, and he was happy, happy to have his best friend get along with his…best friend from the future, but. But he’d thought-

 Well, Steve had thought he and Tony were getting closer too, and maybe a little closer than friends. Some of their late-night pizza had started to feel like dates. Some of the time he spent in the lab, Tony wasn’t even working on a project. They talked a lot more now, and he’d thought there was something meaningful happening when Tony set down his work to turn his attention to Steve. At least, he’d hoped.

 Apparently, that had been wrong, because Bucky is holding Tony to him, pressing the full line of his body firmly against Tony’s, almost tipping Tony back with the force. His hands have settled, one at the small of Tony’s back, and one still cradling Tony’s face. It is very clear this is not the first time he’s kissed Tony like this.

 Tony, for his part, is still stiff with surprise. He hasn’t kissed Bucky back. In one horrible moment of clarity, Steve realizes it’s because he’s there. It’s because Tony doesn’t want him to know about Tony and Bucky’s relationship. Why else would Tony not return the gesture?

 Tony doesn’t trust him to know about him and Bucky.

 That…that’s worse, somehow. Adrenaline kicks in. Steve shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be seeing this. He’s not sure what’s up with Bucky, or when this started, but Tony doesn’t want him here, and he’s not about to stay to watch. He’ll never voice another cheesy line to Tony. God, he’d been hitting on Tony in front of Bucky this whole time-

 He’s suddenly close to tears and he hates himself for it. He should be happy for them, happy for the joy so clear on Bucky’s face, happy for the way Bucky is so open to Tony. His hands curl into fists and Steve tears his gaze away from them.

 And his eyes land on Tony, a second Tony, standing in the doorway. There’s a mug in his hand and he’s wearing a rumpled suit, a headset, and a face so torn by shock and betrayal that Steve is certain that’s what his own face looks like right now.

 The mug slips from his fingers, falling slowly, like time is ticking by with each of Steve’s heartbeats, to shatter across the floor. Bucky and Tony jerk away from each other, finally noticing this new Tony.

 Steve has one precious moment where all his sadness falls away, replaced entirely with confusion. Everything devolves into shouting for a while after that.

  Chapter 2

All of them, Bucky, Steve, Tony, and the other Tony, who introduced himself as Anthony, are gathered around the machine still sitting in the lab. Tony finally shrugs, “So, that’s what happened.”  

 Sucking in a long breath through his teeth, Anthony lets it out in a drawn-out sigh, “Oookay, so we just need to figure out your dimension’s coordinates without any of your notes or why the date you put in corresponds to the coordinates for our universe?”

 That…doesn’t sound easy to Steve, but Tony smiles, “Yeah, pretty much.”

 Anthony leans over to peck Bucky’s cheek absently, then waves him and Steve off, “Alright, I can work with that. You two have fun elsewhere; we’re doing science!”

 Steve and Bucky dutifully head upstairs, out of the lab, but not before Bucky leans over to return the kiss. He still looks a little chagrinned by his earlier mistake, but it doesn’t stop him from being handsy with Anthony. And Anthony certainly isn’t stopping him.

 It’s…strange, seeing them be intimate. Their hands tangle for a moment and Steve’s attention is brought back to the ring on Anthony’s hand. It’s clearly an engagement ring, though it’s far less ostentatious than Steve would have expected for a Stark. The dark, smooth band complements his skin though. It’s probably easier for Anthony to wear it while he’s working in the lab or being Iron Man.

 Practical.

 Steve smiles at that. It appears that Tony Stark is practical in any universe.

 The thought gives him pause.

 What if this Tony is the same in other ways too? They look almost identical. There’s a little scar on his Tony’s left hand that Steve hadn’t seen on Anthony’s hand. Anthony is a little taller, too, though maybe that was just their shoes. They both are Iron Man, both have Avengers Tower, both are brilliant scientists from what Steve can tell.

 What if his Tony…What if every Tony is destined to be with every Bucky?

 It’s obvious how in love Bucky is with Anthony, and the other way round too. Once the yelling in the kitchen died down, they could barely keep their eyes off each other. Anthony had just returned from a business trip and Steve- Steve had to look away from their reunion.

 In his universe, Tony and Bucky get along. He was thrilled to see the way Tony treated Bucky just like anybody else. The blasé way Tony talked to Bucky, moved around him like he wasn’t dangerous, even when Bucky used to tense up, hands jerking towards a weapon that wasn’t on his belt anymore, had been one of the last keys to Steve’s heart.

 And Tony had picked up that key and slotted it in Steve’s heart with no effort at all.

 Now? Tony and Bucky snipped at one another, trading playful banter across the couch during movie nights, but was it more than that? Was it flirting? Steve furrows his brow. He can’t exactly remember the way Bucky had treated his ladies in the past, how he had flirted with them. He remembers that Bucky would puff out his chest, would take them anywhere he could afford. There hasn’t been anything like that, not that Steve’s noticed at least, but Sam said Bucky would be different. A different person than what Steve remembers.

 Maybe he flirts now by throwing popcorn during movie nights?

 And Tony…Steve thought he’d started to understand Tony. But maybe those looks Tony gave him, the soft ones when its just the two of them, when they’re overlooking the city, pressed together to stave off the chill from the wind atop the tower, weren’t as… Maybe they didn’t have the same meaning Steve was putting into his own looks when he stared into Tony’s pretty chocolate eyes. He remembers the first time he’d seen the city lights reflected in Tony’s eyes. At the time, he had thought Tony surely saw the same reflection in his blue eyes.

 Was he wrong?

 But it was always Steve in the lab with Tony, always Steve Tony came to first, always Steve able to coax Tony from his projects to eat with the team.

 That had to mean something…right?

 Bucky is talking, clattering plates onto the counters as he starts to make something, “-so I figured you still need a horrible number of calories a day, right?”

 Food. Bucky’s offering food. Steve kicks himself mentally, “Uh, yeah. I could eat.”

 The snort Bucky aims at him is so similar to his own Bucky’s that Steve smiles automatically, “Yeah bud, like you couldn’t always eat.”

 Shrugging, Steve settles on one of the stools in front of him, feigning nonchalance “Yeah, yeah, like you can’t too.”

 He and this Bucky get along just as though they were from the same universe. There are differences. Bucky has some sayings Steve doesn’t recognize and apparently Steve’s accent is more prominent here in this universe, but it’s just Buck and him, having sandwiches. It feels normal. It feels good.

 It feels good except for the voice in the back of his mind, whispering.

 Bucky is the same. Bucky is the same and so Tony is going to be the same. Tony and Bucky are the same here. When everything is the same, what would stop them from being together in his universe when they’re so in love here?

 Steve figures the only thing standing between them is probably himself. The lights in the kitchen are too bright, Buck’s voice too loud. The sandwich doesn’t taste good anymore.

 He’s too full of guilt.

 He chokes the sandwich down anyways and thanks Buck. His ma wouldn’t have let him live that kind of rudeness down if he hadn’t.

  Chapter 3

The first day’s experiments go poorly. Tony and Anthony trudge upstairs sometime late in the evening, matching eyes tired as they both collapse into chairs in the living room. Bucky kills the sound on the old western Steve and he are watching, turning sympathetic eyes to Anthony.

 “Not going great?”

 Sighing, Anthony waves his hand vaguely, “Eh, we might have been a optimistic. If the coordinates are eight digits, there are a lot of combinations to test, and we’re not even sure how to test them yet without possibly stranding ourselves in another universe.”

 Steve quirks a smile, “But at least there’s two Tony Starks to work on it.”

 Lifting his head from where it’s resting against the back of the couch, Tony gives him a cheeky grin, “The man has a point. Bet there’s never been a smarter team of scientists.”

 Bucky laughs at that.

 Steve relaxes. They’ll figure it out.

 However, by the third day, Tony is frustrated. He was originally trying to build a time machine. Now, he’s trying to work out how these coordinates match to specific universes and figure out which one is Steve and his and it’s- He’s frustrated. Wrapping his head around this is more difficult than he’d like to admit.

 And working with himself is…not always ideal. They’re trying to be on good behavior with one another, an unspoken truce, but it’s no secret he’s had a…rough…relationship with himself over the years. There are clear differences in the way they act, but they’re still so similar Tony has to remind himself there’s not a mirror in the middle of the lab.

 Tossing the tablet he’s using onto the table, Tony leans sideways and feels something pop. It’s been a long three days and nothing is pointing towards the next three being any easier.

 He should take a break.

 The thought flits across his mind and Tony smiles. Steve really is rubbing off on him. His cheeks heat and he ducks his head, hoping Anthony is too embroiled in their coordinates problem to notice. He wouldn’t mind Steve rubbing off on him in other ways, now that the thought is in his mind.

 Now that he thinks about it, Steve has been suspiciously absent from the lab over the last three days. Tony’s so used to him being in the lab with him that it’s started to bug him. He…spends a lot of time with Steve nowadays. Maybe Steve thinks he’ll get in the way? The guy’s only ever been helpful, so Tony’s not sure why he would think that. Maybe it’s Anthony? Maybe it’s…that there’s two of him. Maybe that’s…a little much.

 He can relate to that after all.

 He shakes his head, standing up. No use dwelling on it. Instead, he refocuses on Anthony, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

 Anthony grunts, and Tony is struck with de ja vu so strong he reels. Is this what other people see when he’s working? The concentration and grime aren’t a bad look, but he’s not exactly approachable. Then again, Tony shrugs mentally, he’d wouldn’t want to be when he’s working.

 Well, except for one person. At least Steve never seems too put off by the way he acts.

 Anthony finally tosses his own tablet, fixing tired eyes on him, “Shoot.”

 Tony idly wonders how similar this universe’s Steve is to his. Judging by how well he and Bucky seem to be getting along, probably pretty similar. He and Anthony are very similar after all. They can practically finish each other’s sentences. Tony frowns. He’d thought that would help with figuring out how to get home, but having two of him doesn’t seem to be speeding this along any more than if it were just one.

 “How’d you and Bucky get together?” Tony fidgets, hands tapping against his thigh. He’s not sure if Anthony will want to talk about this. If it were him, he’s sure he wouldn’t.

 But it’s like a light has been switched on. The smile spreading across his face takes Tony’s breath away. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a smile like that in the mirror. Anthony launches into a story that sounds similar to how Tony and Bucky first met. The way he talks pulls at Tony’s heart. He’s so in love with Bucky that Tony can barely stand it.

 What if…What if his universe’s Bucky is in love with him? They get along, sure, and Tony likes Bucky well enough, but he hadn’t ever considered...

 He and Anthony talk for a long time. Tony asks about everything he can think of, and Anthony only seems too happy to talk about his fiancé.

 “I can’t even imagine a universe where I wasn’t in love with Bucky,” he grins at one point, good humor dancing across his eyes, “And I definitely can’t imagine one where Bucky isn’t head over heels for me!”

 Their engagement sounds like a dream right out of Tony’s fantasies and it’s like- It’s like Tony is hearing a fairytale just for him. He’s been pining for Steve for so long that he hasn’t looked elsewhere. Maybe he’s missed the signs he should have picked up from Bucky?

 At some point Steve wanders down with lunch, dropping it off before retreating back up the stairs. Tony spares him a little smile, but he’s too entranced with the story Anthony is spinning. There’s romance in a way Tony’s only dreamed about and he wants that. Sue him for being a sap, but he wants that kind of love. He wants what Anthony and Bucky have here, this brilliant joy. He wants the spark that’s in Anthony’s eyes when he’s telling some ridiculous story about Bucky’s botched attempts to court him. He wants the same grin to stretch across his face.

 But, the more he hears, the more it reminds him of Steve, not his Bucky.

 The botched courtship attempts almost sound like that time Steve tried to take him to a baseball game during hurricane season. The charming gestures Bucky plied Anthony with sound like the times Steve has helped him in the lab or brought him any number of meals without Tony ever asking. Even the engagement almost sounds like the time Steve tossed him a motorcycle helmet and they rode across two states just to pick up burgers at a little mom and pop shop.

 More telling though, at least to Tony, is the way Anthony describes feeling about Bucky. There’s joy and love and trust, but there’s longing, passion, and devotion too. Tony is happy around his Bucky, trusts him, and hell, he probably loves the guy in a way. He’s good and self-sacrificing and one day might be an excellent Avenger.

 But longing? Passion? Tony’s dedicated to his friends, but devotion? That…is more than he’s ever felt about Bucky.

 Steve, though? Tony could check those boxes in his sleep.

 Tony lets Steve into his space, lets Steve set up an art station in the lab, lets Steve set up shop right in his heart. There’s not much more devotion in the world. He’d do whatever Steve asked of him, if he was perfectly honest with himself, which he rarely is.  

 Yet, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought of Bucky like that ever. Maybe…maybe he needs to think about that.

 He needs data.

 Tony tunes back into Anthony’s current story, something about Bucky taking cooking classes to impress him and still burning everything during their first “home-cooked” date. Luckily, Tony has the perfect chance to gather data right now.

 If, after talking to Anthony and this Bucky, Tony still feels the same for Steve, then when they get back, he’s going to tell him. He wants the kind of joy Anthony exudes every time Bucky walks into the room. He wants that for himself.

 If that turns out to be Steve, which he’s already fairly sure it will, then Tony resolves to make that happen, or break his heart trying at the very least. He tries not to think ‘more likely’ on top of that.

  Chapter 4

It’s been over two weeks and Steve is losing hope. Tony and Anthony are running some kind of algorithm to test coordinates and Jarvis seems to think it will work, but it’s already been so long…

 Shaking his head, he sighs, rolling out of bed for yet another day of not being able to do anything to help. He’s knows he’s only morose because there’s not much for him to do, he’s sure. They’re not letting him or Tony do any Avengers work because they’re not sure if it’ll do something to this universe or something or other. He hadn’t listened too hard to the explanation at the time, just took the no and trudged back to the training room, jittery with too much energy.

 As he pulls a running shirt over his head, Steve has to admit to himself something else is bothering him too. Tony…Tony has taken a hell of an interest in Bucky and Anthony’s relationship. Almost every day Steve has caught Tony questioning one or the other about how they met, how they got together, even how they got engaged. It’s-He’s not proud of it, but it scares him.

 What if Tony is thinking of starting a relationship with Bucky? What if Tony is looking back at all his and Bucky’s interactions the same way Steve is, puzzling over Bucky’s intent? What if Tony thinks he’s meant to be with Bucky? Steve’s certainly thinking it. Bitterness rears its ugly head in his heart and Steve all but rips his running shorts while putting them on.

 Then again, Steve can’t blame Tony. Pulling his running shoes on with more force than is probably necessary, Steve scowls. Looking at how in love Anthony and Bucky are, Tony must be thinking about how happy he could be with Bucky. Anthony and Bucky get along like a house on fire. If Steve wasn’t always stepping on their toes, could Tony and their Bucky get along the same?

 And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The Steve of this universe is working for Shield more often than working on Avengers missions. Apparently, he’s not in the tower much, or even around Bucky and Anthony most days.

 Jogging out of his room and on out of the tower, Steve feels guilt curl hot and painful in his heart. Is it his fault Tony and their Bucky aren’t happily engaged already? Is he the one pushing them apart?

 Who is he to force himself between the design of the universe?

 He reaches Central Park and pushes himself faster. He’d rather feel the familiar burn in his muscles, in his lungs, than this ache. It feels like needles, ice cold and stinging.

 He loves Bucky. He’s loved Bucky since the first time he pulled Steve out of trouble, and he’d burn the world for his best friend, his brother. If Buck could smile like he had in the kitchen when he mistook Tony for Anthony, Steve…

 If Steve was honest with himself, he could imagine giving up on Tony, letting Bucky have him. He’d move himself out of the picture, maybe take on more Shield missions like the Steve of this universe had done. He’d let them have space because it would mean Tony’s happiness too. Anthony lit up every time he saw Bucky. The only time Steve ever saw Tony like that was in the moment an experiment worked, the moment he invented something no one else had even dreamed of. He could imagine moving out of the tower, leaving the Avengers entirely, just to give Tony and Bucky that same chance.

 Abruptly, Steve stops, nearly tripping over his feet as his hands catch the rough bark of a tree. God, what if that was why this universe’s Steve wasn’t around as much? What if he had realized what Steve was realizing right now? What if he’d made the choice to let them have their happiness?

 Planting both hands firmly on the tree, Steve’s world spins. He gasps and for the second time since he was thrown into this universe Steve is nearly brought to tears. Indecisions roils through him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like throwing up, but Steve’s anxiety spikes with what this could mean for his life if they ever get back to their own universe.  

 Could he make that sacrifice play?

 He hates himself for hesitating, hates himself for wanting what Anthony and Bucky have.

 It’s plainly selfish, but the Avengers are his world! He’s not sure he could distance himself from Bucky while he’s still recovering, not sure he could ever distance himself from Tony. The man is like a magnet, pulling Steve in over and over, no matter how far Steve goes.

 Never before has it been so clear what Steve should do, and yet so difficult to do so.

 Rain starts to fall as Steve rights himself, guilt still heavy in his heart. He walks back to the tower, jabbing at the elevator buttons to his guest floor in an attempt to not see anyone, to not let them see him soaked through with rain and raw with emotion.

 The doors open to his room and he all but falls when he reaches the shower.

 What kind of life would he have if he gave up the Avengers, Tony, and Bucky?

 He hopes Anthony and Tony figure a way to send him and Tony back soon. He doesn’t think more time to chew on this will ever be enough to make it an easier decision and this indecision is going to eat him alive.

  Chapter 5

Jarvis “bings” and Anthony and Tony both stop, “Sirs, the multidimensional tracer has picked up a set of coordinates that are 99.85% likely to be the correct coordinates.”

 Tony whoops, face breaking into a grin, as Anthony hauls him into a congratulatory hug. Hugging what is essentially himself is a little weird, but he’s too elated to let that weird him out.

 Anthony and Bucky have been great, but he’s ready to go home.

 “Alright Jarvis,” Anthony smiles, “get Bucky and Steve, we’re sending Steve and Tony home!”

 From there it’s a flurry of checking and double-checking the coordinates, the machine, and the room. Steve seems just as excited, and Tony can’t stop looking at him. They’re heading back to their own universe and he… He thinks things might just change.

 He squares his shoulders. He’ll make sure of it, and hopefully it’ll be for the better. It’s been weeks and everything Bucky and Anthony have told him about their relationship pointed him more and more towards Steve.

 It might mean breaking his heart, but Tony wants Steve, and he’s going to try to have him.

 With final goodbyes, Bucky and Anthony leave the room. It’d be easy to get them back to their universe from Steve and Tony’s since they apparently have the coordinates, but none of them really want to repeat this headache anytime soon.

 Tony punches in the coordinates and Steve holds his breath. The machine whirs, louder and louder, then chimes and begins to power down. Steve stares at the machine. Tony stares at the machine. They both look around.

 “Sir,” Jarvis’ voice crackles to life almost instantly, relief clear over the speakers, “I have contacted the rest of the Avengers. You and Captain Rogers have been missing for twenty-three days. Initiating scans for injury.”

 Wincing a little, Tony gives Steve an apologetic smile, “Whoops?”

 But his chagrin lasts for only a moment, smile breaking out across his face. They did it; they made it back!

 And Steve…Steve stares. A delicate flush works its way over Tony’s cheeks, eyes bright with success. There are few sights more breathtaking than Tony Stark basking in his own triumph.

 He wants nothing more than to pull Tony into his arms. He wants to hold Tony close, to decorate his scarred hands with a ring, to tell Tony how much he loves him. Maybe what he wants isn’t right, but when has Steve ever made good choices?

 Steve wants.

 Tony is smiling right back at Steve, taking a deep breath, “Steve, I- I wanted-”

 He can’t take his eyes off Tony’s beautiful brown gaze. Tony’s started to stumble over some kind of statement, but Steve can’t think, can’t listen. He has to tell Tony how he feels. If it’s not to be, then he needs to know. He’ll leave, he’ll step aside, but he can’t make that play until Tony at least knows what Steve thinks of him. This will tear him apart, but he wants Tony more than he wants to feel whole.

 He wants.

 Steve closes the distance between them, not stopping when those brown eyes widen in surprise, not when Steve places a hand on the back of Tony’s neck and pulls, not even when he finally finally presses their lips together, soft but firm. Only when Tony’s eyes fall shut, only when he throws his arms around Steve’s shoulders, fingers grasping at whatever part of Steve they can, only when Steve feels a pleasant groan reverberate from Tony’s chest into his own does he close his eyes. Tony’s lips are plush and Steve places both his hands on either side of the man’s face, stepping forward until Tony’s hip hits one of the tables.

 Tony moans, right into Steve’s mouth, and Steve sees stars. He wants to hear that sound every moment they’re awake. The taste of him, coffee and something deeper, something indulgent, is driving Steve wild. They’re pressed flush already, but Steve presses harder, slots one of his thighs between Tony’s and, oh, the sounds Tony makes are going to light him on fire.

 There’s a clatter as the door bursts open, more than one set of feet coming to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the stairs, “Oh, thank fuck!”

 Steve tears himself away from Tony’s mouth, from Tony’s too warm body, to find Clint wearing a face that is at once relieved and disgusted. It’d be comical if Steve wasn’t half-hard in his pants. He can actually feel the blush prickling across his face as he tries to stop thinking about the feel of Tony’s beard on his fingertips.

 Bruce clears his throat, eyes on the floor, a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “Uh, glad you two made it back. Any injuries?”

 Tony hasn’t stopped looking at Steve, hasn’t even really acknowledged the others yet. He’s still leaned back against the table, knuckles white with how hard he’s gripping the edge. His pants are definitely tighter than the last time Steve looked. Steve’s voice sticks in his throat at the realization.

 “There are no injuries I can detect,” Jarvis answers for them, “nor do there appear to be any anomalies in their physiologies.”

 With a nod, Natasha grabs both Clint and Bruce and starts to haul them out of the room, “Boys.” Steve tries not to squirm at the way she raises a brow and smirks at them.

 The door falls shut.

 Steve is fairly sure he’s never felt quite this mortified. Or this elated. He turns back to Tony.

 Brown eyes gone nearly black stare back, “Tell me that wasn’t just because you’re happy to be back.”

 Light. Steve feels lighter than he has in a long time. Fondness blooms in his chest and he could probably fly if Tony asked him to, “Only if you promise you’re not thinking about kissing Bucky.”

 He’s clearly caught Tony off-guard, completely by surprise, because Tony’s eyes widen comically, and the man actually snorts before laughing, bent a little at the middle. Steve revels in the sound.

 With mirth dancing in his eyes, Tony closes the distance between them this time, palms gentle as they settle on Steve’s cheeks, “Yeah, you really don’t need to worry about that happening.”

 Tony tastes even better when he’s smiling, especially when Steve knows Tony is choosing him.

  Bonus Chapter (It’s porn, warning!)

Tony’s hands slide from Steve’s face, down the long line of his throat, over his shoulders, roughly across his chest, to finally land at Steve’s belt, wrapping around the leather to pull Steve up against him. The breath is punched out of Steve’s chest as Tony licks from the corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw, teeth sharp just below it, “Where were we?”

 The warm brush of Tony’s words across his throat sends a shiver down Steve’s spine and his hands reflexively grasp Tony’s hips. He sucks in air and tries to stop himself from making too much noise at the way Tony is sucking tiny kisses into the very base of his throat, tongue wet where he laves at Steve’s collarbone, “I- I think you were, ah, against that table.”

 At this rate he’s going to leave bruises on Tony’s hips. He thinks Tony might like that though, so he doesn’t worry too much about it, not when Tony leans back to grin up at him.

 “Hmmm, I think I remember that,” he murmurs, licking his lips with a look that forces Steve to shift his legs apart as the pressure in his slacks becomes a little too much, “you wanna put me on that table, soldier?”

 It’s not more than two paces to the table and the request should be ridiculous, but the smoke in Tony’s voice and the way he tightens his grip on Steve’s belt wipes any humor from it. It’s been a while since Tony has called him ‘soldier’, and he’s definitely never said it in a tone of voice like that, like he’s got all the time in the world and Steve exactly where he wants him. Steve goes hot all over.

 His hands spasm, a swift increase and decrease in pressure against Tony’s hips. It takes no effort at all to lift Tony just enough that Steve can walk the few paces back to the table, no effort at all to lean in again and lick Tony’s jaw, lick right into his open mouth as Tony moans, fingers scrabbling at the buckle of Steve’s belt. Tony’s shoes scrape across the floor, his ass hitting the edge of the table. Steve lifts further once he realizes he’s not quite on target, thoroughly distracted by mapping the roof of Tony’s mouth, to shove Tony up onto the table, fingers still grasping his hips. Strong thighs wrap around his waist and Tony mutters a quiet “fuck yes,” finally working Steve’s belt open, clever fingers dipping into his slacks, right into his boxers, to get a good grip on the heated flesh underneath.

 Tossing his head back, Steve shouts, mostly in surprise. Tony’s hand around him is warm, the callouses and scars scraping deliciously across his sensitive skin. He catches that warm brown gaze and groans, dropping his head to press their foreheads together, “Fuck, Tony.”

 Tony jolts, hips jerking up from the table against Steve’s grip, legs tightening even further, “Shit. Would have gotten a hand in your pants way sooner if I’d known you’d say fuck.”

 Steve can’t help but huff out a laugh, but it dies quickly as Tony finally gets Steve’s pants shoved down, leaning back a little so brown eyes can watch intently as he wraps both hands around Steve’s dick like he can’t get to it fast enough, like one handful isn’t enough. Tony’s mouth is still open, lips red, as he drags both hands up and down once. It’s too dry and it’s more of a pull than a slide, but Steve bucks into it, the table scraping back an inch or so before he can get ahold of himself.

 Tony looks up from his catch and grins, “Yeah?” He does it again and Steve’s eyes drop shut, a ragged breath juddering from his chest, “You going to cum in my hands, Steve? Going to get you off right here?”

 Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t know if he can. He kisses Tony, for lack of anything else, more teeth than tongue as he tries to pull air into his lungs at the same time. Finally, Steve wrenches his fingers from where they’ve left indents in Tony’s hips, fumbles his hands into Tony’s pants in an effort to get him off too. He’d rather not be the only one getting something out of this, though by the way Tony can’t stop pulling on his dick, Steve’s not the only one enjoying this.

 Once he manages to pull Tony into the cool air of the lab, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to last long enough that they can get off together. Groaning as Steve wraps one big hand around him, Tony bites Steve’s lower lip, leaning back before letting go, “Fuck, wait, hold on, lemme just-“

 He leans back, fingers only giving up their hold on Steve’s cock when Tony can no longer reach, to lie flat over the table, arms stretching above his head towards a drawer on the other side of the table. Steve doesn’t really care what he’s doing, too enraptured by the way this position stretches Tony’s body out before him, shirt rucking up enough that Steve can see the full trail of hairs running from his belly button to his cock. Steve sucks in a breath through his teeth.

 Tony makes a noise of triumph, but it stutters as Steve leans over him, hand still wrapped firmly around his dick, to bite at his side, just above the jut of his left hip. Strong fingers grab desperately at Steve’s hair, and Steve rumbles, licking into the crease of Tony’s hip. He has to press his free hand to Tony’s hip to hold him steady as the man all but writhes against the table. The thighs wrapped around his waist cinch even tighter, the side of one foot pressed firmly against Steve’s ass.

 “Oh fuck, Steve, fuck, move, need to get my hands on you, c’mon, fuck-“

 Steve leans up, dragging his eyes from the cock twitching in his hand, up Tony’s heaving chest, to his brown eyes. He knows he’s panting, mouth open, but he can’t help it, not when Tony tries to sit up, tries to wrap a slick hand around Steve’s dick. Steve narrows in on the bottle in Tony’s other hand and he moves faster than Tony can track, pouring some of the liquid over his own hand, not even bothering to take his hand off Tony first. He just pours it on, tosses the bottle down, swats Tony’s hand out of the way, and gets both of them lined up.

 Tony gives up trying to sit up once Steve wraps his hand around them both, eyes shutting and mouth opening on a shout, hands shaking as they clench against the table. They slide across the smooth surface as he bucks up, uses his legs to knock Steve into a stuttering rhythm.

 It’s hot and slick and Tony’s smooth skin feels so good. He’s so close already and with the beautiful line of Tony’s body laid out in front of him, Steve barely lasts half a minute. He shudders, groaning as he crests, cum making the slide of his hand even wetter. He thrusts unsteadily a few more times, chasing the high, and Tony moans, falling over with him.

 They stay like that for a while, breathing hard. Steve absently wipes his hand on the thigh of his pants. He watches Tony come back to himself, a lazy smile spreading across his kiss-bruised lips.

 “Steve.”

 Steve quirks a smile, nods and pats his hip, “Tony.”

 Tony finally unwraps his legs, stretching, “Well,” he opens his eyes, smiling wider as he looks Steve in the eyes before letting his gaze wander down, “that was-“ He pauses, brows going up. Steve frowns and looks down at himself.

 He’s still hard. Probably didn’t even go soft after he’d gotten off. He flushes.

 “Uh,” he swallows, eyes flicking back up to Tony’s face, “it’ll go down later. Sorry.”

 Tony’s mouth is open, but he seems to recover swiftly, “Fuck, get me upstairs and in a bed right now Steve. God, yes, super soldier serum is the best.”

 He’s sitting up and doing his best to get into Steve’s arms and Steve is laughing, a little breathless at what Tony’s is suggesting, as he tries to help.

 It’s been a while since he’s had such a hard time breathing. He can’t imagine falling in love with anyone but Tony, and he’s so glad Tony chose him.  

[fic-request-blog]

A Welcoming Sea

This is inspired by @srapsodia  ‘s art here. I am, of course, still behind on about six requests, but I saw Jaskier’s little smile and have had nothing but it rattling around in my brain since. (I have fallen into the Witcher fandom over the last few months, in large part because of @srapsodia  ‘s art, though plenty of authors have also contributed to this.) To those of you still waiting on requests, I am swiftly getting my writing feet back under me. 

This post finally ends my roughly three year hiatus, so thank you to everyone in the Witcher fandom, most especially @srapsodia

Gen fic, just Geralt realizing something. 

A Welcoming Sea

Geralt looks up, scanning the clearing for any last supplies, hands busy strapping their bags to Roach for the day. It's not long after dawn, but the day is bound to be hot and he wants to get a few hours of travel in before he needs to give her a rest from the incoming heat. Jaskier, thank the gods, is actually up, though he's still a while from coherency. He's of no help in the mornings, but at least he's dressed and Geralt doesn't have to drag him from his bedroll. 

Geralt nods, finding nothing missing. 'Time to go, bard' forms at the tip of his tongue, but it washes away in an instant, the rest of his thoughts dropping from his mind just as quickly. 

Jaskier stands in front of a break in the trees, hands wrapping loosely around the strap of his lute case, looking off to his right. He is quiet for once, utterly motionless, his hands idle as he drifts outside of true wakefulness. A little smile is playing over his soft features, blue eyes still fuzzy with sleep, but warm with fondness. Their blue is all the deeper from the doublet fitted across his shoulders, the rich fabric seemingly reflecting its matching color in Jaskier's eyes. Geralt's breath stutters. The rising sun halos Jaskier's head and shoulders, the golden rays almost appearing to spill forth from his chest where the doublet splits, a bright yellow chemise peaking from underneath. Yellow wildflowers caught in the same golden rays of the sun dance in the open fields behind him. Jaskier is a motionless sea, risen over an easel of blinding gold. 

In the backdrop of morning light, he looks brilliant, looks like the sun has risen with the sole purpose of filling him with its rays. Everything else in the little clearing they've camped in remains dull, muted by the long shadows stretching from the surrounding trees. It is as though the sun filters through Jaskier alone, as though Jaskier brings forth its light, holding it out to wash joy and color into Geralt's grey world. 

And then, slowly, those blue blue eyes sweep across the clearing, moving with the inevitability of the rising sun, to land on Geralt. Suddenly, Geralt is the subject of that little smile, the object of fondness so clearly reflected in those eyes. Time seems to grind to a halt. Geralt is transfixed. He feels as though he is drowning, dropping slowly, endlessly, into two warm pools, no seafloor to be found in their depths. His lungs expand, but can fill only with the sweet softness rolling over him from Jaskier's gaze. 

Geralt has never been caught so thoroughly. The crinkles at the very edges of Jaskier's eyes are there because it is Geralt they have anchored upon. He is bound, trussed and tied tightly, by the realization that the fondness in his bard's sleepy eyes is for him. 

Jaskier loves him. 

There are no other words for the emotion swimming across his face. Jaskier loves him, and the sun rises as it always does. Jaskier loves him, and the sun rises as though the foundation of Geralt's understanding of the world, of himself and his place here, has not gently crumbled into a welcoming sea. Jaskier loves him, and the day moves on.

Geralt finishes tightening the straps on Roach without looking and, even as the sun continues inexorably to rise, he meets Jaskier's gaze. He feels an answering swell of fondness, as natural and powerful as the tides, and decides. 

Jaskier loves him, and this will not just be another day on The Path.