#like what do you want him to say about what's going on through vale's head

[dellovestorant]

Do certain words motivate you to win again in Misano?

"I'm always motivated to the max, then you have to be realistic about what you can achieve. I will try to give 100 percent as always. I repeat, the last thing I am interested in is getting into these games with a rider who is no longer active"

Do you think this is an attempt at a psychological attack on you?

"I don't think so, also because it wouldn't achieve anything, as happened in 2016, in 2017, it's all in the past"

According to you what was his intent?

"Ask him"

Do you think he's obsessed with it?

"Ask him. I don't care, I don't want to get into wars that bring me nothing"

[softlymellow]

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 14

☆⁠ PAIRING : Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☆⁠ word count: 5.6k

☆⁠ story themes: lovers to enemies to eventually lovers

☆⁠ warnings: spoilers to SWTCW, some angst some fluff

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

"When someone like Anakin shows up in the empty spaces of your life…you start filling in the blanks yourself."

Padme said nothing as they moved through the polished corridors, her heels echoing softly. Anakin’s steps required more effort, his boots heavier, like he was still somewhere else. 

The walk was short but felt excruciatingly long.

They didn’t look at each other. But they moved in parallel. 

Anakin fought the urge from trying to explain himself to Padme. His throat bobbed and his head hung low. He didn’t owe Padme anything. But he felt like he needed to clear things up. 

“I wasn’t–”

“You don’t need to explain, Ani.” Padme cut him off gently, still not looking at him. 

“I wasn’t going to apologise,” he said in a much quieter tone. “But, I wasn’t hiding anything either.”

Padme’s eyes flickered to her side, studying his sunken expression. The tension in his jaw, the exhaustion lining his features. 

“I didn’t think you were,” she replied, “You’ve made it clear how you feel.” 

It sounded a lot harsher than she intended, but she didn’t take it back. They turned a corner, passing a pair of clones that were stationed near her transport. 

“You should know,” Anakin said, after a few paces. “She was worried.”

Padme lifted an eyebrow at this but allowed him to continue talking. 

“In the medbay. She said something about…you and me. About how close we looked since she left.” 

Padme’s head tilted. That caught her attention. 

“She did?” 

His voice dropped lower, less defensive, more raw. “She didn’t accuse me,” he added. “But she noticed. And I think it bothers her.” 

Padme’s lips parted again. 

“I…I didn’t realise she had seen it that way.”

Anakin gave her a slow nod, feeling something twist in his stomach. “Neither did I.” He rubbed his fingers absently.

He knew what came next. What should come next. The sensible thing. The right thing. 

Padme did too. She dreaded it. Afraid of the solution he would give her. One that would force herself away from him, for the sake of his relationship. She didn’t want to hear it. She needed a resolution herself. 

The words began to form, his throat felt like it was tightening. 

“What if—”

“I should go.” Padme interrupted abruptly, turning to look towards jer transport ahead. Anakin froze mid step, his mouth left hanging and his words abandoned in the air. 

Padme didn’t wait for him, her heels clicking and drowning out whatever he might say. 

Anakin stood there, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

But for Padme?

The thought stuck in her mind. Quiet and unresolved. 

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

The morning light bled through your thin blinds, turning your room into golds and shadows. 

Your body ached, your ribs were still wrapped around in both bandages and the ghosts of Vale’s fingerprints. You groaned. The memory of his hands around you didn’t disappear overnight. Not that you had expected it to. 

You sat up slowly, exhaling through clenched teeth as your body attempted to fight off your sleep. The bacta patches were warm and pulsing, still doing their job. 

You stretched your arms over your head and sighed as they fell down on your lap. Your datapad blinked on the nightstand with a single line notification. 

Picking it up, you thumbed it open out of habit and began to skim through your personal logs and assignments.

You scrolled through your tasks list but it was blanked. Furrowing your eyebrows, you switched between tabs trying to find it. 

That high-priority mission from two days ago, the Deep-space scouting operation was gone. Just disappeared. 

Not reassigned.

Not cancelled.

Erased.

You stared at the screen for a moment, frowning. There was no Council note or transfer of assignment. 

You dropped your datapad away to take with you. It didn’t feel important. Not now. Someone else can deal with the other minefields. 

You traded your clothes for some loose pants and a short sleeve grey compression shirt. 

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

The Temple was quieter than usual today. Not dead but as if it was in between a few things. 

Some soldiers laughed, their helmets under their arms. A few offered you a short “Commander,” as you passed, you nodded. You weren’t sure if they did it out of habit or genuine respect.

Once you reached the mess, it was mid cycle. There were rows of both Jedi but majority clones hunched over their ration trays. The hum of conversations and occasional clatter of utensils filled the space. 

You hesitated at the entrance, grabbing a tray and moved to the serving line. You exhaled, your anxiety meeting you at a place that you had never experienced before. Ever since you came back, you avoided places like these. Often opting out for some take out and eating alone, this was different. It was just before lunch, soldiers wanting to eat before the rush, yet early enough it could be considered late breakfast. 

“Been a while, Commander.” You looked up to the voice that belonged to the mess attendant, an older soldier. His armour was replaced with a simple kitchen tunic but his posture remained rigid. 

“You want the usual?”

You glanced down at what was offered. A nut paste. Ration bread. And something green you didn’t want to question. 

You nodded. “Yes, please.” The familiarity of his words settled strangely in your chest. 

He worked quickly and scooped your portions onto your tray. “Good to see you back,” he added, handing it over. “We’ve lost a few good people,” he glanced up at you. You stared back at him, unsure of what to say. Giving him a force tightlipped smile, you replied back.

“Thanks,” and you took your food and moved to the booths near the window, overlooking Coruscant’s skyline. The city was alive. Air traffic never stops.

You dropped your tray down and sat, your fingers twitching absently near your spoon. 

You would always spend your time eating here with Ahsoka. You were lighthearted, quick to speak with nearby soldiers, making jokes and such. But it seems the war killed that part of you. 

You were alone now. 

Holding the spoon in one hand, you scooped up the nut paste and brought it to your mouth. Your face instantly contoured in disgust. You had completely forgotten what it tasted like. Often just leaving it on your plate and eating the bread instead. 

You brought your datapad out. 

No messages. 

You weren’t expecting any, but still.

A few minutes passed in silence. You forced yourself to eat. There were a few glances. Some that were quick, others like they were measuring. 

It made sense, some have seen you since you came back. Others not. 

Then—

“You just gonna sit there looking miserable all day?”

You looked up.

Fives stood in front of your table, tray in his hand and his brow raised with amusement. Kix was behind him, taking a bite of something suspicious-looking into his mouth. 

“I’ve only been sitting for five minutes,” you muttered. 

Fives chuckled and slid into the booth without warning, both him and Kix sitting across from you. 

“How’s the shoulder?” Kix asked, eyeing you as you slowly took a bite out of the mystery green. Not bad. Warm.

You shrugged, swallowing the food down. “Not bad. Good enough to fake it.” You picked up another spoonful, “I get the feeling though the Temple medics care more about paperwork than pain thresholds.”

“They are,” Kix said flatly. “I helped train some. They log bruises like war crimes.”

You smirked a little, but didn’t reply back.

Fives tilted his head, “so? How’s it feel being back?”

You hesitated a little. It wasn’t all that great. Retrospectively there have been no positives since you came. A little fame? Maybe, yeah. 

You played with your food a little before answering, poking at the nut paste. “I don’t know,” you admitted. 

Five’s noticed the hesitation behind your voice. Your anxious fidgeting. He didn’t push any further. He nodded slowly and took a bite of his bread. “That’s fair.”

“And you guys?” You looked up at both of them. 

“Other than standard galactic chaos? The usual.” Kix deadpanned. 

“Oh and someone broke the showers on sublevel three,” Fives added. “Still an unsolved mystery.” 

You snorted and rolled your eyes. The tension on your shoulders eased. There was a pause, long enough for you all to settle into something more comfortable. You stared out the window to Coruscant’s air traffic. Somewhere someone was dying. Somewhere, the war kept spinning. 

Fives leaned back, watching you. Noticing the way your hair looked a different colour under the sun. He wasn’t trying to measure your recovery. Or your small scars that littered your skin. Something quieter. 

“They got you back on rotation yet?”

Turning your gaze back to Fives, you cleared your throat. “I think so,” you said. “Nothing’s been confirmed.”

As if on cue, your datapad buzzed softly next to your tray. 

You picked it up and swiped on the notification before you could think.                       

Kamino Medical Liaison Assignment – Commander L/n

Tipoca City, Kamino — Medical Level  Pending confirmation. 

Priority Tag: Observational Only

You stared at it. 

“You good?” Kix asked. 

You exhaled softly. “Yeah. Just got my assignment.”

“Kriff, that was fast,” Fives muttered. “Where to?” 

“Kamino.” 

Both their expressions shifted. And you knew what it meant. This isn't your field. Your role here was just to observe. Be on the sidelines. 

Kix took a sip of caf. “Medical support, I’m guessing?”

You nodded. “Feels like they don’t know what to do with me,” you replied. 

Kix’s tone softened, noticing your disheartened voice. “You’ll make a difference there. A real one.” 

Fives nodded in agreement. “Yeah. And honestly? They could use someone like you on Kamino. They listen more when it’s not a Kaminoan.” 

You looked down at your tray. It wasn’t what you wanted. But it was something. And maybe it was enough for now. 

The silence said enough. 

“For what it’s worth…I’m glad you’re back.” Fives added. 

You glanced up at his reassuring smile. 

Kix let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. And if you ever feel like stabbing someone, I can slip you a scalpel from the medbay.” 

You huffed out a laugh. “Comforting,” you said dryly, they both chuckled. 

The ache in your chest didn’t go away. But it did settle. 

Before Fives could make his own smart comment, Kix stood up, glancing at his chrono. “Alright, I got to head back. Nice to see you, Commander.” 

“Likewise,” you shot him a tight-lipped smile. 

Fives sat and watched you quietly as Kix walked away. 

There was a moment of silence as you accepted the mission and then picked up your spoon again, ready to absentmindedly nudge your food. 

“You don’t have to pretend,” Fives’ gruff voice made you look up at him. 

“Hm?” 

“To be okay. To be back.” 

You gave him a small smile. “I know..”

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

Anakin leaned against the wall, his arms crossed and his eyes fixated on a datapad he hadn’t actually processed in twenty minutes. He kept rereading the same sentence again. Again. And again. And still he wasn’t making sense of anything. 

It never stopped. 

“You’re brooding again,” Obi-wan’s voice came behind him. 

“I’m reading, Master.” Anakin shot back without looking up. 

“You’re rereading the same report you send me three days ago.”

Anakin signed and let the datapad drop against his thigh and he turned his head to look at Obi-wan. He was stood near the entrance of the war room, his arms around his back, and he looked tired. Everyone looked tired these days. 

“Didn’t realise I was being watched,” he shrugged. 

“You make it very easy,” Obi-wan replied, stepping beside him. 

“Good to know.” 

They stood for a few moments, watching a few younglings pass by the window, holding a stack of training manuls. 

“You could rest, you know,” Obi-wan said. “You’re not on rotation until tomorrow.” 

“Resting doesn’t fix anything.”

“It’s not meant to fix anything. It’s meant to keep you alive long enough for you to try.” 

He didn’t respond, but his jaw was tight and his eyes unfocused again. 

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

Another beat of silence. 

“Do you ever stop keeping track?” Anakin asked, his voice flat. 

“Excuse me?”

“Every death. Every mission that doesn’t go the way it was planned. Do you ever stop counting?  

Obi-wan doesn’t reply right away. “Not really,” he admitted. “But I try to remember why we’re fighting.”

Anakin let out a humourless laugh. “And what if you’re not sure anymore?” 

“You are sure,” He said firmly. “You just hate what it costs you.” 

Anakin looked down at his hands. Once that had a black glove. The other was rough and had scarred skin. 

Obi-wan stepped away, giving him space. 

“I have another Council meeting. Try not to lose your mind in the next hour.” 

“Sure. Put it on the pile.” Anakin muttered. 

Obi-wan gave him one last look before retreating back. 

Anakin stared out the window. It was only late afternoon but he hated this part of the day. The outside was harsh and golden but the sunlight pressed against the glass, warm and unrelenting. It caught on his face, the side of his neck and the strip of skin beneath his collar.

The Temple walls didn’t breathe much at this house. It was quiet and still. It had weight with things he didn’t want to remember. His skin felt itchy. 

It came around this time of day. Where he would remember sitting on the cracked sunbaked steps as a boy, sweat drying on his back. His house was too hot to enter but the air outside tasted like dust and waiting for something. Like hope. 

This tasted the same. 

He hated this part of the day. 

The sun shouldn’t make him feel like this. 

His thoughts spiraled too easily. 

His mother. Ahsoka. Y/n. 

Every name he couldn’t say out loud but every connection he wasn’t allowed to keep. Every person who slipped out of his reach.

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

After the mess hall you had showered off the Temple’s humidity and returned to your room. You were not curled on your sleep couch, datapad propped against your knee. Half reading through post-battle debriefs, politics and whatever piqued your interest at this hour. Which was nothing. Your eyes moved but your brain didn’t. 

Your mind couldn’t help but wander off to Anakin. What had happened that night. The way his head was so close to yours. His breath against yours. 

The ping of your datapad interrupted your thoughts. It wasn’t the usual Temple alert note but a softer one. 

You tapped the blinking corner and a new message slid across your screen. 

Secure Direct Comm Link

Sender: Senator Padme Amidala

  If you’re free tonight…I’d like to speak with you. Come to mine for dinner. Just us. No guards or formalities. Wear anything you’d like, please.

And then a second message appeared. 

I owe you clarity. 

You stared longer than you meant to. You weren’t sure how to feel about this. Before leaving, Padme and you weren’t exactly close. Yes, you would speak to her from time to time, but anything one on one was different. 

But you stood anyway. Something you’d like? You walked over to your closet and skimmed past your uniforms, temple issued gear. And settled on black. Something that was you. 

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

The corridors to the apartment were quiet in the evening. You smoothed your outfit again, even though you had checked it multiple times in the mirror. 

It was simple. A long sleeved black dress that hugged your thighs and then flared below your calves and had a square neckline that framed the top of your chest. 

The door slid open before you could buzz. 

“Y/n!” Padme said warmly, engulfing in your hug before letting you go equally as fast. “I’m glad you came.” 

“It’s lovely to see you,” you said politely, stepping into her dimly lit apartment. I twas curated so guests could come even when they didn’t company. 

The table was already set. Two plates and a few covered dishes still seaming. 

“You look beautiful,” she said. 

You softly smiled at her, “thank you. You look great as well.” Unsure of how to exactly compliment her. 

She was dressed more simply than usual. An elegant cream wrap around dress but she still managed to make it look expensive. Her hair was pinned back and she had a green jweled necklace on.

“I hope this isn’t too strange,” she said. She then motioned to the table. “Please, sit. It;s just roast and steamed greens. Nothing fancy.”

“No! It’s great. Beats anything in the mess hall.” You joked, taking a seat across from her in the small table.

She lifted the covers from the dish and began plating both your plates quietly. You sat, unsure where to put your hands. 

“How’s your side?”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

Padme gestured towards your ribs. “Is it healed yet?” 

You nodded slowly, sometimes forgetting you were injured yourself. “It’s just bruises now. The bacta helps but…yeah.” 

“Good.” She smiled softly, setting down your plate. “You didn’t show it that night.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Padme gave a quiet hum. “I wouldn’t have either.”

You picked up your fork and began pushing at pieces of green. 

“Monian seemed…captivated.” Your eyes flicked up at her, your jaw tightened slightly, but you didn’t respond. 

She didn’t push. Instead she leaned back and took a slow sip before glass before speaking again. “You’ve been through a lot since Dev. The temple. The injuries. Vale.” She began to pick up her fork and knife, gnawing at the piece of meat. “It’s a wonder how you’re still alive.”

“It doesn’t feel much of a comeback.” You muttered. 

“It does to the people watching.”

She softened again. “You don’t have to talk about him, if you don’t want to.”

“Dev?”

“No,” she hesitated. “Anakin.”

You swallowed and shut up immediately. This was what she wanted to talk to you about. Anakin. You knew this was coming. 

The silence stretched just a bit longer than usual. 

“I wanted to speak with you sooner,” Padme said carefully. “But it never felt like the right time.”

“There wasn’t a right time.”

She nodded in agreement. “No. There wasn’t.”

She inhaled deeply as you took a sip of your wine. “I spoke to Anakin briefly. He mentioned something.” She hesitated. “About you being in the medbay… That you brought me up.”

Your heart panged. 

“I think there may have been… some misunderstanding. Or at least it’s been weighing on you and I should have addressed it earlier.”

Her voice didn’t waver. 

“About me. And Anakin.” She looked at you directly, her fork hovering in the air before bringing it to her mouth. 

She chewed and swallowed, leaving you anxiously sitting there waiting for her to continue. 

“After you left the Order…he broke down. I don’t think anyone but Obi-wan and I noticed. He was…angry, reckless. Hurt in ways he couldn’t say.” 

You didn’t speak. Your food left abandoned on the plate. 

“I listened. I was there. We had met when we were both only children. It made sense for him to confide in me.”

“You say that like I should thank you.” 

Padme’s eyes flickered with something. “I’m not asking you to. I’m saying it because no one else will. And because you looked at me like I had taken something from you.”

“Why are you even telling me this?” You swallowed. 

Her tone shifted to something quieter. “Because it’s easier to hate someone when you only have half the truth.” She met your eyes. 

You stared for a long moment. “I’m a Jedi. Or…I was. We’re not even supposed to think about things like this. Relationships. Possession. Attachment. It’s forbidden.” 

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Padme defensively said. “And neither was he.”

“Then why bring it up?” You asked. 

She paused then took a slow breath. “I don’t want you to get this wrong idea. Obi-wan and I…We both tried. We weren’t trying to replace you.”

You stared at your plate again. It was going cold now. The roast untouched beside the greens. 

“Replace me?” you repeated. “Padme. I left. There was no replacing. I wasn’t there to be missed.”

“That’s not true.”

You looked at her, dropping your diplomatic mask. “I was hurt too, you know? My whole life changed that day…And when I came back…It didn’t get any easier.”

“I know,” she set down her utensils. The silence felt heavier than anything she could have said. 

“Anakin–he tried. Tried to reach you. He didn’t have many people he could trust, and after you left…”

Her words trailed off but you were still looking at her. Your eyes now burning. 

“I thought I knew him better than anyone else,” you let out a humourless laugh. “And then I came back and it was…it was like I was intruding on something.”

A pause. 

“I was always so careful,” she began. “Careful with everything. Until him.”

There it was.

You didn’t speak. Not yet. 

How could you respond to that? To someone else’s version of your person? To the realisation that while you were gone, the possibility of someone else falling for him wasn’t unexpected. 

“He came to me a lot. I thought…I thought I was helping.” She glanced down and swirled her wine in her glass without taking a sip. 

“Perhaps part of me misread that closeness for something else.”

You blinked. “Misread it how?”

She had a small, self-deprecating smile. A little ashamed. “I thought maybe he felt something more. I didn’t act on it. But I felt it. Or I thought I did.”

She wasn’t lying. She looked embarrassed to even tell you this. 

“Did he…”

Padme shook her head immediately. “He never crossed the lines between Jedi and Senator. Perhaps in friendship, yes. But he was there. All the time. When someone like Anakin shows up in the empty spaces of your life…you start filling in the blanks yourself.” 

Suddenly clearing her throat, she began to take her fork and eat food from her plate. “You don’t have to believe me.” She said in between bites. “But I think he felt more for you than he’s ever let himself say.” 

You didn’t move but something in your chest did. She must’ve noticed because she didn’t press you any further. Didn’t try to convince you. 

You glanced down at your plate and then at her cityscape window. Coruscant was always beautiful at night. 

“I didn’t know what to expect coming here,” you finally muttered. “Sitting down and talking to you.”

“I didn’t invite you to try and provoke you, honestly.” She said gently. “I just didn’t want you to believe I would do anything to hurt you.” 

You nodded and began to eat your own food, not wanting it to go to waste, 

“I honestly think he’s still trying to figure out if you’re real.” She said to which you snorted. 

“I think he resents me,” you murmured. 

“I think he resents himself.” 

You glanced up at her once and then continued eating. Not wanting that last comment to ruin your appetite. Anakin meant everything to you. Just the thought that maybe, maybe he hated himself, made you feel sick. 

After more eating and quiet talk, no longer about Anakin but rather how much or less the Order changed, she finally stood up. 

She took your plates and began to clear them, you moved to help but she stopped you gently. 

“I’ve got it. Thank you.” She said kindly. You watched her back. The posture of someone who felt things they should not, but working to amend them. 

You smoothed out your dress. 

“I never hated you, Padme.” You said honestly. “I’m glad that we had this talk, really.” 

She looked over at you and gave you a small smile, her eyes bright. “I feel the same way, Y/n.”

You held her gaze for a moment before walking to the door, Padme escorting you out. 

“Thank you for the dinner tonight. It was beautiful.” You stood out the corridor. 

She shook her head, “My pleasure. I hope you have a safe trip home.” 

You nodded and then bid your farewells. The city had begun to quieten down. By the time you reached your speeder, the night wind bit at your skin. You boarded the transport back to the Temple, the weight of the conversation still hanging in your chest. 

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

You finally turned into the final corridor towards your quarters, your footsteps soft against the polished hard floor. There was a deep blue that cast over the sleeping Temple. You were just as ready to fall asleep as everyone else. 

As you rounded the corridor, you paused immediately in place. 

Anakin. 

Sitting outside your door. 

His legs lie flat on the floor. Hands loose in his lap. His head leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting a while. 

Your heart dropped to your stomach. 

“What the hell,” you whispered harshly, walking over to him with a dumbfounded expression. “What are you doing here?” 

He blinked slowly and stood up, almost sheepish. His hair was messier than usual and his tunic was wrinkled. 

Stepping closer to him, your voice was hushed but sharp. “Are you out of your mind? If someone sees you—”

“No one’s going to see me,” he muttered. “Everyone’s asleep.”

“Yeah, well. We’re not.” You snapped back, glancing between both sides of the hallway. “You’re standing outside my room like a lunatic—what do you want?” 

He looked at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. 

“I needed to see you.”

You scoffed, “So you waited out here like a creep?”

“I tried knocking,” he shot you a small smirk, as if this was amusing. 

You rolled your eyes and key’d your door open, stepping inside and Anakin following in. This didn’t feel good. This didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like what it was before. When he would actually sneak into your room late at night. This felt blatantly wrong. 

“I didn’t know when you’d be back.” His eyes began to trail down your figure. Memorising every little detail of your dress. The way it hugged your body. Your lace sleeves. The way it was simple but you simply being in it was enough to leave Anakin longing for more. 

And then he snapped out of it. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked back up to your eyes. “Where were you? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Why do you care?” You tested. 

His jaw flexed, just once, but hard enough to say everything he wasn’t saying.

“I went to go see Padme,” you said. 

Anakin tilted his head, “Padme?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, stepping further back into your room while still facing him. But Anakin moved towards you at the same time. 

“You told her what I said in the medbay? Really, Anakin.” You scoffed looking away from him. 

He inhaled quietly. “I didn’t mean for her to bring it up to you.”

“But it still happened.” You looked back at him in disbelief. “Do you just talk about me to whoever’s around when I’m not there?”

His mouth opened slightly, and then closed again. He licked his lips. 

“I didn’t mean for it to be like that," he muttered in a low voice. 

“Totally, Anakin.” You bitterly laughed under your breath. “How embarrassing.”

“I was trying to explain. She could tell I was acting differently. I didn’t even say much.” 

You didn’t say anything. You just pressed your lips together and looked away. Trying to ignore the way the Force felt like it was pulling you both in together. How just being in the same room as Anakin Skywalker made everything feel sharper. 

“Whatever,” you muttered. “It’s done now.” 

“Y/n.”

You looked over at him. 

“I didn’t know you were going out tonight,” he said in a much softer tone. 

You rubbed your face with your palm, feeling the day weighing down on you. “It wasn’t a secret.” 

This made his jaw tick. He took one step closer, then another. You didn’t trust yourself to move. 

“I didn’t know where you went, or who you were with…” He trailed off. He was close now. “I hated it.”

You blinked. “You’re not entitled to know anymore.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I still hated it.” 

His voice was lower now, more rough. You smelt the slightest trace of his cologne. Your eyes dipped down to his mouth before catching yourself. 

He wouldn’t stop looking at you. You felt uneasy under his gaze. His dark eyes. 

“Why are you here, Anakin?” You asked in a voice that was barely a whisper. 

He hesitated. “I wanted to see you.”

Your chest burned.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

You didn’t move but neither did. Maybe if you stood long enough something would break. Like a crash. An attack. Someone walking in. 

But nothing. 

It was so quiet. 

You couldn’t distinguish the sound of your own breath between his. 

You felt your heartbeat against your chest. 

“Anakin…” you whispered, unsure if he heard you or not. 

But he did. 

His breath hitched and his eyes kept flickering between your mouth and above. 

Your mouth.

Your eyes. 

Your mouth.

Your eyes. 

The air between you had gone heavy, charged. Like the Force itself was holding its own breath.

He then stepped closer. Just once.

A single step that brought him too close. Close enough that his chest brushed against yours and it felt hot to the touch. 

His hand lifted slowly, cautiously. Like he was hesitating. Waiting for you to push him away like you always did. Waiting for you to yell at him again. But you didn’t. You couldn’t move, not with the way he was staring at you. 

His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up towards his. 

He leaned in. Closer. So slow it was unbearable. 

His jaw was tense. His lips parted slightly. His eyes, dark and unreadable. But they began to flutter shut. 

And then, finally. 

His lips brushed against yours. A ghost of a touch. Barely there. 

Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to pull back. To tell him this was wrong. But you didn’t. 

And then.

His mouth pressed against yours. 

It was soft. Softer than anything he’d ever done. Than any kiss you have shared in the past. 

And you kissed him back, the tension shattering. It was slow. Like neither of you trusted it to be real. 

His hand moved up to your cheek, his thumb skimming along your jawline. His other hand settled onto your waist, so carefully, so slowly. Terrified that you would disappear if he didn’t anchor himself onto you. 

He tilted his head, enough to deepen the kiss. Your mouths moved together like it was instinct. It was slow and aching. A kiss that whispered I missed you if he couldn’t say it in words. 

Your own hands moved too, fisting the fabric at his shoulders, pulling him in closer. 

He pulled back for just a breaths distance. 

Neither of you said a word. 

His chest moved up and down. Both of your eyes were closed and neither of you moved away. 

You didn’t say anything. 

So he kissed you again. 

Deeper this time. Still soft but hungrier. Like his restraint was slipping and he was starving. 

He leaned over you, more urgently. Like everytime he pulled back, everytime your lips parted by only an inch, he couldn’t stop himself from coming back in. Like he was afraid he would never have this chance again. 

His lips began to dip lower. Pressing another kiss just below your mouth. Then again, lower, at the curve of your jaw. And another at your neck. The sound of his lips on your skin was enough for you. 

“Ani…” you murmured without thinking. 

He paused for half a second but didn’t react, he just exhaled against your skin like he needed to hear it. 

He finally pulled back, but only by inches. His hands still on your waist and his brown drawn. His eyes still flickering between yours and your mouth like he hasn’t had enough.

“You can’t do this,” his voice hoarse. “You can’t come back, kiss me like that, and leave me again.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t plan this.”

“But it happened.” He said. “And I can’t stop thinking about you. I haven’t. Not for a second.”

You swallowed, your eyes searching his desperate ones. 

His voice dropped, “You can’t walk away from this again, not like nothing happened.”

His chest was rising like he was holding back everything else he wanted to say. 

“I’m not,” you whispered. “But you need to go.” You stepped back carefully. Your hands leaving his body and his to yours. It pained him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Anakin, please.”

He looked at you like you were killing him. 

But without a word, with hope in his heart, he stepped back towards the door. You didn’t move. You didn’t bid him goodnight. You couldn’t. You couldn’t when you still felt his touch on you. His lips against yours. 

And finally, he walked out, not with anger or regret. But with everything left unsaid.

A/n: guys... im so sorry istg like this took me agesss ive just been going through so much stuff rn im SRRY IF IT DIDNT MEET UR EXPECTATIONSSSS BUT IT HAPPENED i want to clarify series isnt over until rots until then more drama and stufff not done with the angst fully yet but guysssssss WAS THE KISS RUSHED PLZ SAY NO

also im going to respond to everyones comments on my last few posts thanks to literally everyone who was checking up on me its the sweetest thing ever and i never ever imagined people loved my writing to the point of waiting and thinking about it like daysss afterwars seriously its the sweetest

i really hope u guys liked this chapter, i have my final exam on monday so after that hopefully more regular posts!

Taglist: @endairachristensen26 @hayden-christensen-verse @ducks118 @seventeen-x @movingalongthekiwi @ssnapsaurus @caramelfondu @dayrin085 @devilslittlehelper @f1wh0recom @green-lxght @bettysgardenswift @heyitsbeeeb @user-3113s-blog @fandomhoe101 @veronaspencil @zudooms @hiphopdancer101universe @starfire21 @devotedlypaleluminary @miksxz @lacherrysouldy @lotushzl @biddycums @wandasblacknails @moonixlity @icanmeltanigloo @isntthatsweetiguessso @kiyotofish @balsalmic-vinegar @thereeallink @sylusisbae @queenanababy @ifonlyihadneverseenhim @lotushzl @guizhou09 @tvdelrey @lils-and-everything-else @gracielikegrapes @thatgoesinthere-misshapes @chris-continues

if u want to be added or removed lmk!

PLZ LMK WHAT U GUYS THINK this also wasnt proof read so like ignore the typos </3

[rememberwren]

A Girl (Not Mine) || 1

Ghost is a little obsessed with Soap and a lot obsessed with Soap's girlfriend--you.

About this: ghoap/fem!reader, suspension of disbelief regarding anything military related is actually necessary for enjoyment, canon-typical trauma for Simon, intrusive thoughts, slut shaming, voyeurism, fingering, accidentally seeing nudes not meant for you, poor writing unless you squint, try squinting. 4k

-

“I’m so glad I got a girl to think of, 

Even though she isn’t mine.”

-

The first time Johnny mentions you, the 141 is fresh from a month-long leave.

Ghost has a love-hate relationship with time spent off duty. He’d like to enjoy it—to do fuck all, to hike through Clayton Vale twice in a day if it suits him, to drink tea for every meal. But all leave does is remind him of the glaring emptiness in his life, the one he usually fills with violence. So he spent the month climbing up the walls and crawling out of his skin, waiting to be called back like a dog brought to heel. 

Here was his comeuppance for craving something to fucking do instead of relaxing the way Price had told him to do. Now they were on their way to San Lorenzo in Ecuador dealing with Ghost’s least favorite flavor of criminal: drug cartels. 

It’s too close to Mexico. Too close to that which he would forget gladly if it didn’t come with the loss of so many valuable skill sets. He’s crawling out of his skin for a whole new reason, watching the water fly by beneath them, deep in memories. 

Ghost takes all those feelings, fears, remembrances and swallows them whole. Lets them sink to a sour, dark place in his belly. He sits tense on the helo, still except for the rise and fall of his chest, his rifle a familiar weight across his knees. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes, swallowing against the rising nausea. 

He only has half an ear on Garrick and Johnny’s conversation beside him, but it is all he needs to follow along. 

“—lass of my own now,” Johnny is saying around a laugh, his accent thick enough to chafe at Ghost’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine, one that leaves him feeling raw but not necessarily hurt. “So no more picking up the barflies back in Hereford.”

“She making an honest man out of you, Tav?” 

“Aye, you could say that.” Johnny sounds proud of the fact. It all is so far from anything Simon has experienced in his life that he feels no distant stirring of empathy, not even a muted sense of familiarity in the words. Honest men do not exist. 

Not to mention, Simon’s never had a woman (willingly) and he never will. 

“You love her?” Garrick asks, earnestly interested to hear the answer. Ghost couldn’t care less.

“Aye. There’s something special about her.” 

“What, she’s cool with anal?”

Johnny crows with laughter, and now Ghost does feel something: annoyance, cloying, creeping up his spine like a spider in a web headed for the wiggling maggot of his brain. 

“Will you two ever shut up?” he snaps. “Not a moment’s fucking peace since we boarded.”

“Sorry LT,” Johnny says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Ghost cuts his eyes toward the other man, assessing for honesty. Johnny’s face is too expressive: brows lifted, eyes wide and earnest, mouth tipped into a tiny grimace, like the thought of irritating Ghost gives him real pain. Between the two of them, Ghost can’t help but think that it’s Johnny who needs a mask if he wants to survive in the world. 

Ghost doesn’t have the energy for this. He goes back to watching the scenery pass by. They are over trees now: thick lush jungle, the scent of which he associates with pain—plenty of which was his own. Plenty of which he caused to others. 

“What about you, LT?” Johnny asks, calling out over the sound of the helicopter blades. “Do you have a woman back home?”

Ghost lets his head turn, slow and dangerous. Johnny’s audacity never fails to surprise him. “What do you think, Johnny?”

“Honestly?” 

“Go on, then.”

“You look like if yeh’ve got a woman, she’s probably locked in yer basement.” 

(right where she’d belong.)

Garrick slaps Johnny’s thigh, his face mottled with panic. He hisses under his breath, something like, There are faster ways to die, Tav! Less painful ways, too, Ghost thinks. He fixes Johnny with a dead stare. The silence stretches, growing long and thin and dangerous, like the blade of a knife, until Johnny looks away. 

“Think less about my private life, Sergeant,” he warns him. 

“Not often you tell me to think less, LT.” 

Ghost just grunts, finished with the conversation, returning his unseeing eyes to the trees and slipping back into his own memories. 

-

That should be—well, not the end of it. He expects Johnny to become insufferable about it; that’s just the other man’s way. Still, Ghost had never expected to see you. 

He’s doing paperwork in the rec room, too stifled by the tiny, enclosed space of his office to remain there. Paperwork and debriefing are always his least favorite parts of an op. Give him a gun with which to kill and he will gladly kill; give him a pen with which to write and he spends half the time thinking about burying it in his own eye. Garrick and Johnny are there nearby fucking around on their phones having finished with their easy portion of the work ages ago. 

A phone is what Johnny thrusts beneath Ghost’s nose. It takes all of his mental fortitude not to flinch away from the unexpected action (or, more likely, not to rip Johnny’s arm off and beat him half to death with it). His eyes flicker down to the screen on instinct and—there you are. 

You have one eye squinted shut, your hand up to create a visor against the overbearing sun. The picture shows you from the bust upwards, and Simon sees it for approximately one full second before he grips Johnny’s wrist in a brutal hold and forces the hand and the phone away. 

It’s already too late. He’s committed you to memory. The way your hair sits, its color in the blistering sun. The curve of your lips (fuckable, he thinks against his will) as you give Johnny behind the camera an exasperated smile. The arch of your nose (images now—fingers pinching noses shut, forcing mouths further down his cock just to watch them choke and struggle)—

“Get that out of my face,” he grits out through his teeth. His thoughts won’t stop, not now that the floodgates have been opened, and it makes him feel like a dog backed into a corner, frightened-violence rising up in the back of his throat like bile. 

—the smooth line of your throat (and his hands around it, choking the light from your eyes just to fuck you when you’re soft and pliable and he doesn’t have to listen to you crying and begging)—shut UP!—

“It’s just my girl, sir,” Johnny laughs, his own eyes flickering back down to your image on the phone, like they are drawn to you. Like it is hard to look away. Ghost doesn’t have that problem—he has some  discipline left. “And it’s not as if she’s naked.” 

Ghost grips the pen in his hand so tightly that the plastic shell cracks. He’s barely keeping it together, sick and afraid and horrified and angry that Johnny has done this to him—has done this to his own girl—

His voice is rough when he croaks out: “What makes you think I care to see her, Sergeant?” 

“‘S it wrong to share the most important person in my life with the other most important people in my life?” Johnny says, eyes too guileless to be taken seriously. 

“Share less,” he snaps. 

“Been saying that to me an awful lot lately, sir.” 

“A good Sergeant would take my words to heart.” 

“A good lieutenant would know a futile lesson when it’s biting him in the arse.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Johnny. As much as I hate paperwork, I’d write you up—gladly.” 

Johnny gapes. “What for?”

Ghost grins without mirth, mask stretching around his features. Even grinning cruelly like this, his face feels unused to any expression that is adjacent to happiness. He swears darkly: “I’ll find a reason.”

It would send anyone else running. Even Garrick looks fearful, though fascinated: the same look a man wears when he’s watching a car crash in progress. But if sense were dynamite, Johnny wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose. Instead, he just flops down on the couch close enough to flutter the pages in Ghost’s lap. Close enough for their knees to brush. 

“Jesus, you’re a tadger today,” Johnny says quietly, boot knocking against Ghost’s, a touch he feels all the way up his leg. “Shove off some of that paperwork on us. What’s the use of being a lieutenant if you can’t lord it over your sergeants?”

“I’m sorry, us?” Garrick asks. 

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities, Johnny,” Ghost says coldly, gathering his papers. His elbow brushes against Johnny’s ribs, the firm, burning warmth of the other man’s body. He jerks away. He’ll take the stifling seclusion of his office, that makeshift coffin, before he subjects himself to any more of this. “You’d do well to follow my example.”

-

Ghost resolutely does not think of you. Not during quiet lazy moments on base, not during the frustration of training recruits, especially not during the eerie calm of missions. You do not cross his mind. 

His dreams are another thing altogether. 

There are the dreams where he hurts and the dreams where he is hurting, and he doesn’t know which are worse. He only knows that they are made worse by your strange presence: your body bent and being broken in by others; you, bent and being broken in by him. He wakes in cold sweats, jaw aching from gritting his teeth in his sleep. 

He hates himself for this last place where he cannot execute control: his subconscious. 

-

“Mail?” Johnny asks cheerfully at the sight of Garrick seated on the bench outside the DFAC, a stack of papers and letters laying on his lap. 

Johnny is sweaty, gray t-shirt clinging to his toned body as he (for once) keeps a companionable silence at Ghost’s side. They have been training recruits all day—work which Ghost considers far beneath his pay grade, but which he can’t refuse when ops are so slow to arrive and when he is so eager (desperate) to keep busy. Ghost lets himself sit heavily on the bench a safe distance away from Garrick, sweat cooling on his own body. 

He’s not ready to be alone yet. 

He’s allowed to do that. To want company. Of all the people on base, Garrick and Johnny (and Price) might be the most tolerable of the lot of them. During the rare moments when the pitiful piece of humanity left inside him craves companionship, this is the least painful method to mainline it. 

He ignores the lack of letters for him. There is no mail for Ghost—there never is. 

Garrick passes Johnny no less than four envelopes. Johnny’s soft smile as he flips through them speaks volumes. Ghost can guess who they’re from: his mother likely, who writes as often as she can. One of his various sisters, surely. Take your pick.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny flip through the letters and settle on one in particular, thicker than the others, tearing it open and tugging the letter out. 

The pictures slip from the folded piece of paper and fall to the ground. 

Johnny dives to grab them, but all it does is bring Garrick’s attention to them more. Even Ghost’s interest is piqued, his dark eyes giving up pretending to watch the recruits limp back to their barracks to shower before dinner and following Johnny’s hasty movements instead, watching the hot flush that crawls up the back of his Sergeant’s neck. 

“What are those?” Garrick asks. 

“No’ a thing.” 

Garrick lights up. He practically tosses his letter to the side. “She sent you pictures?” 

“Possibly,” Johnny says smuggly, the images—old fashioned Polaroids, a nice touch—pressed to his chest. His eyes narrow at the expression on Garrick’s face. “Don’t even think about it, Gaz—!”

Garrick pounces. The two begin grappling, both of their faces split into wide grins. Johnny can only defend himself with one arm, his other protectively clutching the photographs to his bosom. They take each other to the ground and Ghost watches, half interested and half irritated, wondering who will win. 

The pictures go flying—and fate’s invisible bitch of a hand causes them to land at Ghost’s feet. Garrick and Johnny freeze.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, the same way he knows that he’s going to. Ignoring their renewed struggles on the ground as they fight to untangle themselves and stand, he leans down and reaches for the photographs.

The white of the Polaroid’s edges contrast nicely with his dark gloves as he gathers the pictures together like a deck of scattered cards. 

“LT—“

They’re relatively tame. Perhaps you knew the high risk of sending them. In one you are kneeling on a bed amongst a sea of mussed, white sheets, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that you have tugged down between your parted thighs to offer yourself some modesty. It is painful to flip to the next one, but pain calls to Ghost, lures him in. In another you’re wearing some strappy lingerie but still covered artfully by the sheets, both hands covering your eyes, a grin on your face like you are mid laugh. Did Johnny take these photos of you himself? Did a stranger? A friend? Another shows your side profile, back arched, topless, every inch of you curved and poised. 

You’re (a filthy little slut) so fucking pretty. 

“Give ‘em back, LT, please,” Johnny asks gently, like he expects Ghost to tear them to shreds. Or confiscate them. 

Ghost drops the photographs to the bench, wishing he could scrub the images of you from his mind. He shouldn’t have picked them up in the first place. It’s adding fuel to the fire of his broken brain, and he knows that he will pay for it dearly. 

Johnny is talking. “—shy, she’d just die to know you saw.”

“She’ll only know if you tell her, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. His mouth feels numb, his brain the quiet granted by white noise, a conglomerate of screams. 

Johnny frowns. “Suppose so. You alright?” 

“Since Ghost saw—“ 

“No, Gaz.” 

Ghost watches the two of them enter the building. 

His hand burns, where he has palmed the picture of you topless. He stands and slips the Polaroid into his back pocket. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call out for Johnny and give him the picture back—he could find some excuse, and Johnny would believe him, he knows it—but he doesn’t. He makes for his room, feeling sick with himself. He isn’t hungry. Not for food. 

-

Ghost is compromised. 

The thought replays in his mind over and over again as he drives to Price’s house in Solihull. You and Johnny have crawled beneath his skin and infected him, dug your way into his DNA and are affecting everything from his decision making capabilities to his dreams. He knows that going anywhere where you both will be is a mistake, but it’s one he can’t seem to help hurdling himself toward at high speed. 

Nothing will happen, he tells himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He only does what he allows himself to do—no more. The others will be there at least, Garrick and Price and Johnny himself. Physical barriers between him and you. Human meat shields, if necessary. Ghost wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you. (But who would stop him if he tried? Who could?) You are safe, he tells himself. 

He is the last to arrive, dragging his feet up the concrete steps to the two story brick historical home that Price owns. He lets himself in the way that Price told him to and can tell by the eerie silence of the house that everyone is already outside enjoying the well-landscaped yard. Already he sees the evidence of you: a purse (go through it) laid neatly on the dining room table. He sets his keys beside it but does not touch it. 

Ghost doesn’t bother trying to delay the inevitable. Every part of him wants to run, but that’s all he’s ever wanted his whole life. He’s used to it by now, used to being forced to walk toward the thing which terrified him. He squares his shoulders and slides open the patio door, slipping back out into the muggy heat of the afternoon, face mask in place, hood up.  

The landscaping is one of the best features of Price’s house. The privacy fence is tall and appealing to Ghost’s seclusive nature, the lawn neatly clipped. There is a hedgerow running along the southern edge of the fence that is meticulously maintained. Flower beds lined with bricks rest along the house full of geraniums and phlox. The patio is smooth stone with an inlaid fire pit that would be crackling if the weather were any milder. An iron-wrought table sits nearby surrounded by chairs, and seated there are Garrick, Johnny, and Price. 

You are over by the flowers, kneeling in the soft grass, picking phlox just a few shades darker than the sundress you’re wearing, the one that skims your soft thighs. Ghost’s eyes roam over you and away all before your head even turns at the sound of the door opening. 

“LT,” Johnny calls, lighting up. “You made it!” 

“Didn’t think you’d show, Lieutenant,” Garrick says with a smile. 

“As if he’s got something better to be doing than spending time with us,” Johnny crows. 

“Jesus, will you two leave the man alone? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already regretting coming,” Price says. Ghost inclines his head, grateful for the backup. 

He hears your approach, the soft sound of your flats against the patio stone. You are small (weak) compared to him, craning your head up to look in his eyes. He hates the dark part of his brain that calls you easy prey as he watches you twist the phlox stems between anxious fingers. 

“You must be Simon—” Johnny shakes his head a little, subtle, visible only out of the corner of Ghost’s eye. “—ah—Ghost? I mean—” 

“I don’t care what you call me,” he admits.

“Ghost,” you settle where it is nice and safe. “It’s nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says flatly, hoping you will not mistake it for a compliment. 

Garrick snorts. “Never shuts up about you is more likely.”

There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so you sit on Johnny’s lap, legs crossed demurely, skirt riding up around your upper thighs. He wonders about the softness of your skin, wonders if his calloused touch would hurt you or if you’re used to Johnny’s by now. He could make it hurt. The thought doesn’t come with any zing of pleasure, just the cold apathy of fact. Has Johnny ever tried that? Has he ever—

Ghost’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, curling around the iron armrest of the chair. He takes a measured breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Those thoughts aren’t his own. They come from the dark part that Roba seeded inside him, that part with creeping vines too deep to root out. That part with thorns. 

He could hurt you, the same way he could hurt anyone, he tells himself. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. 

He does only what he allows himself to do. No more. No less. 

You and Johnny stand, heading into the house to retrieve a round of drinks for everyone. Ghost watches Johnny’s hand dip low on your back to the curve of your ass as he guides you through the open door, shutting it behind you. 

“Are you alright, Simon?” Price asks around a cigar. “I know meeting new people isn’t exactly in your repertoire.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t have to be your mother to care about you.”

“Garrick—get lost,” Ghost barks. 

The iron chair legs screech against the stone of the patio as Garrick stands hastily. “Had the same thought, sir. Hedges look lovely this time of year.”

When Garrick is properly out of earshot, pretending to find amusement in the neat hedgerows along the fence line, Ghost says: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I— can’t be left alone with her.” 

“With—? Soap’s gal?”

Ghost grits his teeth in shame and nods. 

“Do you know her?” 

Ghost shakes his head in the negative, but it’s not necessarily true. He knows a thousand women just like her, soft and unexpecting. The betrayal always cuts deeper than his cock could reach (estoy preso, somos lo mismo, por favor).

He stands, chair legs dragging against the stone. “This was a mistake. I need to leave.” 

“If you say so,” says Price, knowing better than to argue. “Go around the side. You won’t even have to see them.” 

“My keys are inside. I’ll be quick.” 

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” says Price, his eyes dark and lips downturned as he watches Ghost stalk to the patio door and slip inside. 

-

He braces himself to see you and Johnny in the kitchen, but when the door slides open near-silent, neither of you are anywhere to be seen. Like a fool, he considers himself lucky. Quiet as his namesake, Ghost goes to the table and picks up his keys, palming them. 

That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable muted slap of flesh on flesh. 

(Go look.)

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but that is his modus operandi these days: failing himself, doing what he isn’t meant to, seeing what is not for his eyes. His feet carry him silently to the door, which is cracked open just wide enough for him to see through into the room. It is a guest bedroom judging by the bland decor, the queen sized bed. Johnny has you sprawled on it, your sundress hitched up around your waist, his fingers buried to the final knuckle inside your cunt. Ghost can hear the way it squelches from all the way outside the door, knows that you must be dripping down Johnny’s wrist. 

“Keep quiet, love,” Johnny pants, one hand over your mouth (he’s not doing it right) to muffle the whines and groans trying to slip past your lips. “Needy little thing, aren’t yeh? Squirming in my lap, making my cock hard right there in front of my Captain, in front of my Lieutenant—“

You whine something back, but it is lost into his palm. 

“Don’t have time to get my cock in you,” Johnny sighs, twisting his fingers inside you, hooking them to press against that tender spot past your pubic bone that has your knees knocking together. He shifts his palm down to grip your neck, your panting breaths filling the room. “But you can bet this dress is coming off as soon as we’re home, do y’hear me?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, and it has Ghost’s cock throbbing. 

This is not for him. He thinks about Johnny’s words from months ago: that you are shy. There’s no chance you would ever want to be seen like this by him. Reaching out, he grips the doorknob and quietly tugs the door closed, til the sound of Johnny’s palm slapping against your clit is muffled behind the wood. 

He takes his keys and is gone before you ever know he was there. 

-

Johnny texts him later that night: 

Why’d you leave early, you numpty? We wanted more time with you. 

Ghost doesn’t respond. He’s too busy spiraling in his own flat, losing control every few minutes and slipping back into that place of pain and blood and dirt. 

An hour later, Johnny ends up adding, My girl wants me to say she was glad she got to meet you. Only Jesus knows why! Ghost definitely doesn’t respond to that. But he doesn’t delete the messages either.

[moonshynecybin]

bez trying not to smile about marc 🥴 it's all I want to think about

god i know !!!!!! sorry okay i wrote some fic about them in the spirit of motogp summer camp bc i want my new pairing badge lmao. and can i say thank you so much for organizing that bc it’s been such a fun and galvanizing force for the community like trulyyyy so fresh and lovely. yayyy okay here’s 2k marcbez omegaverse that still kinda ends up being about vale but i tried okay !!!

Marquez smells good.

And Marquez usually smells okay. Bez doesn’t get too close to him often, but when he does it creeps in on the edges of things: bright, a little bitter, a little chemical. Gas, rubber, tarmac. Like when you uncap a permanent marker and the smell punches you in the gut, goes to your head and makes you dizzy. Makes you blink hard.

He doesn’t smell it often— and when he does, it’s faint. Just a whiff like its coming from the next room. He always thought Marquez just might not have a scent that travels. Some people don’t really project like that. He also thought— yeah, he thought Marc might be a beta like his brother, the burning scent complimenting the peppery citrus wash of Alex that Bez can smell when his leathers are down.

He was probably wrong about that, though, because today it’s everywhere. Strong, heavy, crawling over the paddock like a dense, drugging fog, and Bez doesn’t know exactly why—but he has a few guesses.

Someone props open a door and it floats in with the breeze. Pecco wrinkles his nose. Bez takes in a big lungful—feels it drip, trickle down through his spine and buzz at the edge of his nerve endings like a shot of coffee. If before it was a gut-punch, now it’s a bullet— sharper and definitely more dangerous. Not something he can just go and walk off.

“Jesus— who is that?” Pecco asks.

Bez counts down the unmated alphas in the paddock— Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale. None of them really people Marc would go to, probably. Franky and Vale— definitely not, and a mechanic would be too weird.

“Marquez.” He answers Pecco after a thick second, slower than he should, his tongue heavy and clumsy in his mouth. He tries to breathe through his nose and escape the pressure of the smell pushing down on him. Instead— he can taste it.

He reaches down and adjusts his dick in his shorts. Marc in leathers. Marc pushing him on track. Bez’s last podium, a win, when Marc pushed at his shoulder, eyes sparking at the kid he trains with crossing over the finish line on the shitty conference room TV. Gas, diesel, rubber. No one in front of him but tarmac. Bez likes riding alone, does Marc? He’s alone right now, and he smells like that, and Bez doesn’t think anyone is doing anything about it.

When he was 16, Bez visited the paddock— he met Marc for the first time on the heels of that insane 2014 season. Bez had looked at the way he threw the bike into corners and around other riders, the sheer aggressive force of it, and thought, that’s the kind of competitor I want to be.

Now— he needs to figure out the time attack. Maybe Marc knows how to fix the Aprilia that Bez has been saddled with, all alone. Maybe he should go ask him. He exhales. Blinks hard.

But Bez doesn’t want to be friends with Marquez, so he makes a point not to think about stuff like that. And he wouldn’t be thinking about it, except—

“Alex?” Pecco wonders, back to the topic of the owner of the smell.

“What? No, it’s Marc. You’ve never smelt Marc before? You spend half your life in the box with him.”

Pecco’s also an omega— Marc’s an omega. Two of them on one team, that’s never happened before, as far as he knows. Omega noses— they’re usually not so good with each other, so Pecco wouldn’t have noticed the dulled version of his smell if Marc was on scent blockers. Which means that Marc must be off his scent blockers for some reason— an emergency heat, maybe? Bez can’t think of why.

He scrapes blunt nails over the side of his neck. Focuses on where all ten of his toes meet the floor, staples himself hard to the Earth so he doesn’t bolt. Jesus.

“He’s gotta be in heat.” He continues. He has to be alone, fucking himself on some toy and wishing it had a knot.

“The Marquezes smell the same to me.” Pecco rejoins, which is an insane thing to say that Bez ignores. Pecco raises one eyebrow and leans back, a little prim. He looks over Bez and then says, slowly, like he’s really thinking it over, “If his blockers failed— He should take care of that soon, that’s dangerous.”

“With who, though?” Bez asks. Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Did Vale ever laugh at Marc’s jokes, after all that mess? Should Bez, now? Bez should ask him, he’s in the paddock today. He should ask him about Marc, or about what it means when an omega goes into heat like this, when they don’t mean to be. Because there’s a race tomorrow, and there’s no way Marc means to be. Vale would know, if something needed to be done.

Franky would just smile at him, slow, and tell him that he should be able to figure it out.

Bez isn’t going to ask any mechanics.

Big breath in. Gasoline. Rubber. Two race weekends ago— a smile he couldn’t stop from coming to his own face. Marc tapping his leg, eyes black like polished stones. That dumb sunscreen ad that came up on his instagram explore page— Marquez in shorts, dick big and folded soft in the fabric of his swim trunks. Scars shiny in the sun like lighting over skin.

Bez decides not to ask Vale anything.

He stands up, thrumming. Balls his hoodie up in front of the crotch of his pants, embarrassed. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Him.

“Do you know where Mig is?”

Pecco looks up from his data sheet. Scans Bez with his steady eyes and says, “I haven’t seen him, why?”

“I have to ask him something,” Bez mumbles, an excuse neither of them believe, and pushes himself over the doorframe, led by his hard cock and his nose and the memory of meeting Marc when he was 16 and he doesn’t know what. A smile, maybe. His or Marc’s, he doesn’t know.

He staggers over to where the riders are staying. He always liked the smell of rubber.

XXXXX

The line of motorhomes doesn’t smell like rubber— it smells like it’s on fire.

Bez throbs, sweaty and achey. Feels filthy as he makes his way over to knock on the navy and red door. He doesn’t know if this is even going to work.

“Marc— do you need help?” He calls, and no one answers. He curses out loud when he remembers he said it in Italian. He tries, searching— clumsy Spanish.

There’s silence, then shuffling. A bang.

After a moment, Marc opens the door, shirtless and steaming, wisps of water evaporating off of him with the heat of his skin. He must have just gotten out of the shower. Dark hair curls just behind his ears. He’s holding his towel out awkwardly around his waist, like he’s hard and sensitive. Bez can see it poking against the fabric anyway. Another gut punch, another bullet.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see— do you need help?” Marc blinks and Bez shuffles. “Just, you know. There aren’t many alphas in the paddock. And you—”

He gestures at him with one hand. Regrets it kind of immediately.

Marc’s eyes, black with how wide his pupils have been blown to, drop to the bundle of his hoodie held over his cock. It twitches and Bez hunches forwards. “I mean, of course. Only if you want—“

Marc licks his lips. Sniffs at the air and probably tries to catch some of Bez on the wind.

“Is this a joke? Did anyone send you?”

“What?” Bez blinks. He cannot think right now, with this much skin in front of him, and he decides to talk instead. “No, the whole paddock can smell you. I mean fuck, Pecco noticed. I thought, I guess. You know.”

He trails off, then swallows. Comes down to the heart of it. “If you want to use me. I’m here.”

Marc looks around, weighing his options. He looks like he’s expecting something to to pop out behind Bez, eyes all flighty and all over the place. A reporter, maybe.

“Pecco noticed?”

Bez nods and Marc curses. He chews on his lip, then considers Bez. Looks him up and down like he’s a horse to be sold. “And what, you would—?”

“Yes, yes— really. No, no problem.” He throws him a weak smile, then tilts his head to the side so Marc can see some of his neck.

Marc snorts, then stares around another second. He pinches his brow. Bez notices— his hands are shaking a little. He must be pretty deep in.

He makes a decision.

“Fuck— alright, fine.”

He hauls Bez in and shuts the door.

There’s a second’s hesitation, and then Marc just drops the hand holding up his towel, and he’s naked and so fucking hot in front of him. He fits their mouths together, desperate just like Bez is, and Bez’s hips move like they’re on a string, pushing forwards and grinding against him before he can think.

Bez gasps, and Marc presses his advantage.

It’s quick, a blur, and then his clothes are tangling down around his ankles and he’s spread out on the couch. The feeling hits him hard, dizzying, like he can’t breathe and doesn’t want to, and then Marc is holding his dick in his big hand and sitting down on him, ass hot and soft and wet enough to drip, getting Bez’s balls slick. He swallows hard, thumbing hard at the bony hollow of Marc’s hip.

Marc’s bright eyes watch him.

“Okay,” He says, trying to keep it together— and his throat betrays him, makes a dry sort of aborted whine. It’s fine though, because Marc flashes him the hint of a smile, throat a deep warm gold, and Bez feels fucking stupid and doesn’t care, lets his head loll back against the ridge of the couch, mindless with the places Marc is touching him.

There’s a second— an adjustment, and then it’s slick and easy with his heat, and Marc starts to ride him fast and hard. He braces himself against Bez’s shoulders, pushes him down and keeps him there— and Bez had offered, but Marc has clearly listened, and he puts him where he wants him, his cock hard enough that it hurts, knot about ready to fucking pop just from the way this looks, Marc’s dick bobbing up and down as he works himself, his hands scorching hot as they dig into Bez’s collarbones. Silent concentration on the sharp planes of his face.

The world degrades into Marc, and into sensation: his tight ass dragging on Bez’s cock, his knees on the outside of Bez’s thighs, two devastating points of contact. The sound of them coming together. The punched out noises Marc is making. He closes his eyes, twitching, then opens them again, dazed, chasing the image.

The smell is everywhere. He feels like he’s been struck over the head. Bez is gonna come.

“Wait,” Marc pants a command, voice hard and cracking even as he bears down, a hot squeeze on Bez’s dick. Bez didn’t realize he spoke out loud, or maybe Marc can just tell from the way his breath has gone harsh and fast, bellowing like a horse. “Wait, not yet,”

Fuck, alright. He palms Marc’s waist, feels the way his hips flex as he rocks up and down. Bites down hard on his lip and tastes salty iron blood. His hips rabbit up once, twice. His knot pops.

“Shit,” He comes sticky hot up in him, panting like a kid who ran too hard and too long, damp against Marc’s neck. It burns through him, gas on wood, hot and fast. Face blotchy and breath wet.

“Goddamn it,” Marc says, broken and horrible.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bez cries, and tries to keep fucking him, but his knot has caught— he can’t.

“Stay fucking still,” Marc pants, and grabs himself, hand working over his stupid big dick, hips fucking back in tiny jerks on Bez’s knot. “Fuck, just don’t move,”

So Bez lays there, head digging into the edge of Marc’s couch, and stares at the shine on Marc’s forehead, his top lip, his abs. Tries to be still for him, shaking with the effort. Sun hits his skin through the gap in the curtains and lights him up— another scar for Bez to stare at, or think about touching. He groans, humiliated. The back of his neck burns. Marc needs more, and Bez can— he can try.

There’s another knock at the door— more sounds. A voice Bez recognizes. Italian. He freezes, ice shot through his veins. Marc’s hand speeds up, his mouth open and pretty and shocked.

“Marc!” Vale pounds on the door. “Open up! Fuck! Let me in, everyone can smell you from here to Jerez. Are you off your blockers?”

At the sound— Marc wails, and he locks up. Comes messily up on his chest in wet, dragging pulses.

The voice outside falls silent. He heard them.

Bez trembles.

He remembers his list.

Him. Some mechanics. Franky.

Vale.

When his knot goes down— Marc climbs off of him with shaky knees, and doesn’t say a word.

[fall0utmind]

thinking about marc never having had aftercare before pr maybe just never having it after valentino was angry with him that everything was always meaner after marc misstepped on track

pecco realizing that that little 22 year old with starstruck eyes was being treated like shit back then

marc being like uhm ill just head out and pecco going no??? sit down you can barely stand??? and marc just not understanding

OUGH

Yes!!!! Omg anon, yes!!!!

So this is 100% what I'm thinking. Marc never got aftercare with valentino. Back in 2013, their hooking up was never cruel. But after the ranch visit, it took a turn, bitterness seeping in. And marc knew no better, so he just took it, and it was HOT. But their was no aftercare, as things got worse, Valentino would just leave (or make Marc leave), or ignore marc. Would degrade him, but never follow it up with praise, would bruise him, but never soothe him after. It was cruel. Vale didn't even realise what he was doing was awful, but he was gradually getting worse - bitter and jealous about marc. Until, finally, it all came to head and sepang happened, and then nothing, no more hooking up, no conversations, no acknowledgement at all from Valentino.

So, Marc, poor, doe-eyed marc just thought it was all normal, didn't realise that he needed aftercare. He was just left floaty and adrift after sex- sore and slightly humiliated, even as he dragged himself back for more. (Valentino, as per usual, was completely insane about it all - didn't think about the consequences, too busy convincing himself that Marc was evil).

Now imagine, just like you said, pecco realising what happened. Maybe one of the first times he and Marc try that dynamic - pecco accidentally makes marc all spaced out; Marc underneath him babbling incoherently, his eyes glossed over.

Afterwards, not 5 minutes after Pecco has rolled off him, marc goes to get up, his eyes still glassy, legs unstable. Pecco watches as he stumbles to his feet, blinking rapidly as if trying to get himself to focus, reoreintaring himself in reality.

Pecco reaches out a hand automatically.

To reach out. To stop him.

"Hey, hey, where are you going?" He asks.

Marc wobbles, turning his wide eyes to pecco.

"Um, I'm going. Thats what you want right?"

Pecco gapes, unsure of what to say, what part of his behaviour had given marc that impression.

He properly reaches out, then, standing up only to tug marc back into his arm, pulling them both onto the bed.

"I can't let you go like this, angelo" he hums, the nickname slipping out. It only serves to drag marc back under, blinming slowly at Pecco.

The younger man sighs, running a hand through his hair and resisting the urge to press their lips together again. He doesn't want to overstep.

"Why not?" Marc slurs, even as he does, pecco notices the way his body relaxes subconsciously, sinking into Pecco's embrace.

"Because you're still completely out of it, it would be irresponsible, I need you to come back to me properly. Come on let me clean you up" he pauses,

"Let me take care of you," he whispers, holding his breath, waiting for the negative reaction he is sure will come.

Marc frowns, it's endearing when he's like this, still deep into subspace. Pecco is slightly shocked he can talk.

"But, what? Normally, I just left. You don't have to do this"

"Do what, marc? Because to me this is important."

Marc frowns harder, "be nice to me" he whispers.

Pecco's heart shattered. Then he registers marc's earlier statement.

"Hold on? You said that you used to leave. Leave who? Did someone let you go like this, with no aftercare?" He asks, trying to tamp down his rage.

Marc tilts his head, and yet again, it's incredibly endearing. Oh fuck, pecco thinks. He doesn't want to let Marc go. Like ever.

Before he can get too far down that habit hole, marc answers.

"Vale. Also, what's aftercare? And what do you mean you cant let me go, " He says softly.

Which firstly gross. Pecco does not want to think about Valentino right now. Expect, secondly, he kind of does because WHAT THE FUCK. Vale used to do this, let Marc go after and by the sounds of it never give Marc aftercare. Well suddenly a lot of things make sense. Anger bubbles inside of him, but he pushes it down.

Marc is staring at him, guileless and sweet. And pecco just can't, not right now.

"Don't worry about it, amore. Stay for me?" He begs.

And marc, he simplt agrees, content to be held for some tkme longer.

Pecco will deal with the other things later, for now, he has Marc In his arms, satiated and content. That's enough.

----

Well I just kinda wrote that???

So i hope you like it haha!!! Lmk

[kingofthecotas]

more like a relapse | ao3

aka the bmw sex fic (e) | 3.2k

inspired by this post and its tags everyone say thank u @certainstarfishllama

——

In Valentino’s defence, he’d told them it was too much. 

——

They unveil the car in Jerez with him there, and they’ve done a good job, he has to admit: deep midnight blue, and only the trim, the wheel spokes, the threads of the interior, carry his yellow. The art of subtlety seems to have been lost, however, when it came to stencilling his number over the rear doors. A horrible reminder of his age, more than his racing.

Whatever. It’s a good-looking car. 

They’d insisted, all of them, BMW and WRT and MotoGP, now that he’s as close to a BMW factory driver as he can get. They’d insisted, and he may be Valentino Rossi but even he is not always able to escape the demands on his time, attention, and commercial indulgence. 

He saves his gripes for Uccio, both of them hiding in the blessed privacy of his motorhome with cups of the only decent coffee to be found at the circuit.

“It’s, ah, ostentatious,” he says over his second espresso. It’s mostly a complaint. Partly a boast. 

“It could have been yellow,” Uccio retorts. “I suppose they have to make sure that whoever wins it actually wants it.”

“Yes, probably.” A sip. “Who do you think will?”

Uccio lets out a snort. “The way he is going? Márquez, probably.”

And—oh. Valentino hadn’t even—well, he’s considering it now: Marc settling into the leather seat, framed in yellow, Vale’s yellow, victorious and satisfied; his big hands curled around the wheel, yellow stitching beneath his palms—

Uccio snaps his fingers. Valentino blinks. 

“Don’t,” his friend warns. “He only ever wanted to fuck you, and then fuck you over. Both of which he managed, by the way.” 

“Mm.” And Marc had been very good at fucking him. Just a little too good at fucking him over, too. 

——

Marc doesn’t get pole in Jerez.

It’s a good lap by Fabio. Even Marc thinks so, from the crinkle in the corner of his eyes; he’s always known Fabio is better than what his bike allows him to be.

Marc doesn’t get pole in Le Mans, and it—Vale looks sideways at that one, but Fabio is at home, on form, on a bike that seems to be coming to him, and again, it was a good fucking lap. 

Silverstone makes it three, and Valentino shouldn’t care this much, he shouldn’t, and Pecco has been complaining constantly about the fucking front end, and he has to take it seriously now because Diggia is saying the same. He shouldn’t care this much, but it chafes.

He doesn’t mention it to Uccio. It wouldn’t be the first time he accused Marc of doing something on purpose.

——

They give him the keys in Mugello for a couple of media laps, and it’s too easy to slip them into his pocket afterwards, solid and warm through his shorts. Suzi is laughing—good, he likes Suzi—swiping hair away from her face and the cameras follow that instead of the quick movement of his hand. The producer has another set, will be able to drive it back to its spot in the paddock; he might even get away with it, which sends a mischievous thrill up his spine. If not—ah, well, an easy mistake to make. He’s sure he will be forgiven. 

——

Pecco gets pole on Saturday; his first of the year, impossibly, and not entirely unexpected, but it rubs something raw in Vale when Marc pulls in behind the second-place board. It’s ridiculous, this hurt that’s pistoning in his chest, but it’s there all the same, so. Nothing to do but muscle through it, Márquez-style, and pretend it isn’t entirely self-inflicted. 

Catching Marc in the midday light, between motorhome shadows, is a little too easy, and Marc waits for him. He waits, head tilted with that terrible arrogance as he waits for Valentino to speak.

There was a time Marc made him nothing but angry. Not so much, anymore: time and age and a different kind of heat that curls his chest into a breathless knot. 

“You are slipping, eh?” He tries for familiar, light, teasing. Familiarity breeds contempt, however, because Marc snorts, dangerous like a bull. 

“Perhaps you do not believe in Pecco as much as you pretend to.” Straight for the jugular, then. 

“Ah.” Vale manages to laugh. “It is the bike, we both know this. He likes it here. Maybe you will even let him win tomorrow.”

“Let,” Marc echoes, an old Spanish slant to the words that Vale had thought he’d lost. “I do not let anybody win.” And that really was the problem, in the end. 

“No,” Vale agrees. The car keys burn like a brand in his pocket. “You might let someone else get pole, though.” 

And Marc smiles, flat. Ivory blade on a knife edge. “Why would I do that?” 

He looks good in red; it deepens the tan in his skin, and teases his eyes into something a little less black. Es tu color, Valentino doesn’t say. He does shrug though, unbothered, and flash a lazy smile before turning his back. 

Marc’s gaze scorches into him every step he takes. 

——

Marc does not let Pecco win. It’s close, though, closer than Qatar, but that’s no consolation when second place is second place, and five points is five points. Perhaps it’s a good thing Vale won’t be in Assen, a country and a twenty-four-hour race away.

Just like Saturday, Vale has no trouble finding Marc, this time in the seldom-trespassed space between the garages and the service road that passes under the track on the run to Arrabbiata. The producer had left the car here on Thursday, on display, not far from the motorhomes.

“See, I said,” Marc says—initiating now, and Vale wonders when they got here, how they got here, “I said I do not let anybody win.”

“Just pole position, then.”

Marc shrugs, self-assured again and easy with it. “No points for pole.”

“Ah, but look.” Vale reaches into his pocket, finds what he’s been carrying since Thursday afternoon. “At the end of the year, you would get a car.” He dangles the keys between two fingers, noting the hypnotic way Marc’s gaze follows it.

“I have enough cars.”

“Maybe you would like a test drive?”

“No.” But Marc is closer than when they started talking, a step or so; Vale catalogues it greedily. That, and the most words they’ve exchanged in a decade. 

“I am a professional racing driver, you know. Might be fun.” 

Head angled, and another step forward. He has Marc on a string here, and Marc has him too. Neither of them could turn and leave if they tried. “What, you are giving me a sales pitch?”

“If you want.” And Vale wants. He wants.

“Show me, then.” Haughty, like he’s doing Valentino a favour. 

So Vale does, beckoning with a hand outstretched, letting Marc follow him around the corner to the car, already unlocked. The blue seems darker now, less vibrant next to Marc’s red as he opens the driver’s door and slips in, every movement a carefully calculated execution of muscle and sinew. Aim, set, fire. 

Marc traces a finger over the neon yellow stitching on the seat, the leather steering wheel. “Tasteful.”

“I didn’t design it.”

“No?” Marc says. “You would have had more yellow?”

“Maybe,” Vale says, horribly delighted at this strange game they’ve found themselves playing; Marc leans across the driver’s seat, one leg pulled up to his chest, to inspect the gearstick.  

Vale wants him so badly his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. Marc knows this, of course he does, so he lets his other leg hang out of the open door, smooth skin paler than usual in the dark, shorts riding up his thigh. 

Silence. Valentino waits. 

“How does it drive?” Marc says eventually, just a glance over his shoulder.  

Vale lets himself smile. 

——

Valentino knows Mugello well enough, a second, third, fourth home, and the roads around it are second nature. He’s a lazy driver too, left hand on the wheel, right elbow on the centre console, taking the curves in the road easy. 

“This is how you drive your racecars?” Marc asks, almost this side of mean, and Vale pushes down a gear just to make the engine growl, just so Marc’s sharp cut of teeth slides into something more satisfied. 

He had allowed himself to imagine, sometimes, Marc in a passenger seat beside him. If not for the gearstick being something for his right hand to hold—well, Marc looks at him with those almost-black eyes that shouldn’t carry as much feeling as they do—and normally they don’t, not if Marc doesn’t want them to. Vale’s fingers twitch. 

One swing of the wheel, and they’re on a dirt road that leads to nowhere, too fast, tyres crunching loose stone as he pulls to a sharp stop. 

Marc huffs out a sharp laugh. “I thought we were driving.” And before Valentino can fire back, he’s out of the door, cool air ballooning into the space where he had been. He’s getting better at doing that, taking Vale by surprise, as if he’s practised the willing twenty-one-year-old out of himself.

His lip curls, despite himself, and Vale can’t decide if it’s humour or scorn, so he presses the ignition into silence and opens his own door, praying that the evening breeze brings some sense with it.

It doesn’t. Marc has slipped into the backseat, door wide open, inspecting something that doesn’t seem as important as catching Valentino’s eye in the rearview mirror, and it hasn’t been so long spent apart that they don’t understand each other in their silences—no amount of time would be long enough, Vale thinks, for that—so he’s pulled on a string out of his seat, drifting, marionette, around the front of the car and to the open rear door, his own number a dull shadow. Marc shuffles further in; Vale braces himself on the doorframe, a familiar heat simmering low in his stomach. 

It’s been a long time, ten bloody years of dug-in trench warfare between now and the last time they meant this. Not so long that Vale isn’t already half-hard. Not so long that Marc has to do anything more than tilt his head in invitation, and Valentino crawls into the backseat.

“Very graceful,” he mutters, a protective wall of self-deprecation, but Marc’s answering laugh isn’t mean—or Vale doesn’t think so, at least. It’s been a long time.

One hand finds itself on Marc’s ankle, his leg crooked just so. The other lands on the inside of his smooth thigh, gentle thumb drawing a circle. 

Marc swallows; his throat clicks, loud in the silence. Those same dark eyes, now carefully shuttered, wait for Vale to make his next move, and at least if it’s away then his shields are up. No perceived sunk cost. 

How like Marc to shrink into his own defences now, like he can’t—like he doesn’t know—

“Yes?” Valentino asks, unable to get anything more coherent out, but Jesus Christ, it’s important.

“Yes,” Marc hisses, headstrong and demanding and everything Vale taught himself to hate. Wanting, too: a crack in the shield wall, so he presses his advantage, sliding one hand under Ducati-red armour just to feel Marc’s skin again. 

Trainers shaken off, rolled somewhere beneath the front seat, Vale tries to keep hold of Marc—a desperate greedy thing, really, and one he can’t explain to himself; his free hand struggles with the button on his shorts, and then pulling them down without bumping his head against the glass roof. Marc, leopard-lithe, has no such problems, his own shorts kicked free and discarded. Shirts, too, a black-and-red pool of them to be distilled apart later, a reversible reaction. 

Marc gets there first, counter-strike, and gets his whole hand around Valentino’s dick, hot through his boxers. He’s hard too, beneath his red underwear. Superstitious idiot. Vale makes a noise he hasn’t for years, arousal cut through with ungainly humour. 

As if that was a personal challenge—and it probably was—Marc slips the same hand, right hand, past Vale’s waistband, light enough to tease down the length of him but unbearably scorching, so it seems only fair to return the favour. Marc is heavy in his palm when Vale works it free, and he shudders, sliding further down until he’s beneath Vale’s chest.

It’s uncomfortable, even on the wide seats, and Vale has to readjust, then shift again, before realising, “I don’t have any—”

“Side door compartment,” Marc says, and smirks. Jesus. Vale had cameras in this car on Thursday. 

Valentino could decide he’s been engineered here, manoeuvred to Marc’s whims instead of the other way around. He decides he’s enjoying it. Decides that Marc wanted this too. 

He reaches past Marc’s head as directed, muscle-stretch burning his shoulders, and pinches a packet between two fingers, imagines Marc carrying them around with him, slipping them into the car when no one was looking. He nearly slices the pad of his thumb on the sharp foil edge trying to get the lube on his fingers. 

“Easier in a bed,” he says, mostly to see if Marc will laugh again, and he does, bright and loud, shifting so Vale can get between his legs.

He does, pushing a finger in, leaning down close to Marc as he does, feeling more than hearing the hitched breath, and presses in, reining himself back because—careful, careful. Marc is squirming now, demanding more, but Marc is never careful, not with himself. 

“Come on,” hissed somewhere in Vale’s neck, fang-sharp.

“So impatient,” Vale purrs, and it is a purr despite the desperate want clawing at his throat. 

“You have been—fuck.” Marc throws his head back, skin taut in his jaw. Still got it, then. “You have been staring at me since Jerez.”

Maybe. Maybe Vale had been staring for longer than that, and Jerez was when Marc began to look back. 

Second finger in, and gentle is an effort now, but age has taught Vale that some things are worth the wait. 

Another short breath. Marc tilts his head up, catching Vale’s earring with his teeth. Vale wonders for a moment if he might rip it out, but Marc moans hot against his earlobe instead. Ten minutes ago, Vale would have chalked that little victory towards his total. Now, the giddy triumph is a silver thread drawing him in closer, closer. Third finger. 

Marc whines this time, releasing the earring with a final tug, his hands reaching down until they find the back of Valentino’s bent legs—what are they doing, Vale wonders hysterically, crouched and tangled in the backseat of a car like a couple of teenagers. If teenagers’ knees protested when they did this, that is. 

“Please,” Marc pants when Vale twists his fingers, spreading just to be sure. “It’s—I can—”

“Yeah—yeah.” 

“Vale—”

“Yes,” Vale soothes, and pulls his hand away to wrap it around his dick. A long time, since Marc has said his name like that, since he’s been inside Marc like this. 

One smooth movement, and he groans through it, Marc’s satisfied noise catching behind his teeth. Then he twitches, a breath before Vale gets all the way in, and clenches—Vale has to throw one hand out to brace himself, hits the window with a dull thud that makes them both jump. His fingers leave an unmistakably sweaty mark.

“Ah—shit,” Marc says, and laughs without restraint. Vale watches, motionless, warmed to the very root of him. 

Then he moves. 

Marc gasps, his eyes going wide, mouth open in a way Valentino hasn’t seen in a long time—normally so tight, jaw set, cheeks stiff unless he has to smile, but this—

This is all Vale’s. 

One knee slips towards the edge of the seat when he tries to drive in further, a swoop that sends him closer to Marc’s slack mouth, only their breath between them. He finds purchase somewhere in the footwell and when he readjusts, slants his hips up, he swallows Marc’s filthy answering moan down his own throat. 

Hands clutch him, only hesitating for a second before settling just where Valentino likes them, back of his ribcage, big and warm against his skin. Tip of a nail pressed into the divot of his spine. 

Vale follows the pressure, curls his torso down, cobra-like, thrusts again. Marc pants scalding against him, and everything in Valentino’s awareness is Marc, Marc, Marc: skin, breath, their bodies. 

It’s easy to forget, like this. When they’re like this. 

Everything is hot with Marc, scorching, a cacophony of red and orange and the heat of him against Vale’s skin, around his cock. They’ll burn out, though, they always do, and not with a gentle fizzle, not in embers. Supernovas. Heat death.

Not for the first time, Vale wishes—

But they are. They are. They couldn’t be anybody else. 

Marc tilts his hips, breath coming ragged now, and Vale meets him there, their rhythm broken, frantic; white-knuckling, both of them searching for leverage to push impossibly closer. 

“Marc,” is all he can say, “Marc—” and he’s lost every other word in every language he knows. 

Marc gasps, forces out, “Fuck—Vale—” before he buries his face in the crook of Valentino’s elbow as he comes, and that’s all Vale needs to follow him, arms shaking, pelvis twitching. 

He pants hard and ugly through his mouth. Stares. Lucidity is an unwelcome companion, everything cool and sticky now, the breeze brushing his bare legs like gentle fingers. Marc turns his head, loose, sated, but closed away again, guarded, as Vale pulls out. 

The thing with Marc is—he’s excellent at evaluating the danger after the crash. It’s how he is, riding past the limit to find it, looking back to pinpoint where he could have avoided it all, if he’d been a little more careful. If he hadn’t charged headfirst towards the highside. 

“Sorry,” Marc says, then before Valentino’s stomach can truly start churning, “You will have to pay for someone to deep clean it, I think.”

The fucking car. “Or you could make sure that you win it.” 

“It is, ah, growing on me.” 

“Oh, yes?” Vale asks, light, as if it matters nothing. Inconsequential. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“It will remind you of me, a little bit.”

“Of this?” And Marc’s smile is impish; Vale can’t help but give him one back.

This—this is what he hates about Marc: how good they are together, and what a wrench it is when they inevitably end. Because they can’t—they don’t work. 

“We should…” Valentino sighs through his nose; reluctance tugs at his tongue. “We should get this back, I think.” He goes to reach for his shorts, the keys; stopped by a tentative hand on his wrist.

Marc’s eyes glint, sparks of the dashboard lights. “This is still your car, no? For now?

“It is,” Vale agrees, slow. Understanding is swift, when it’s Marc looking at him like that. “Ah, well, I suppose they will not miss it for a while longer.” 

A flash of teeth. In the dark, inching down his palm, Marc’s fingers lace with his.

[camilleisback]

The paradoxes of being Lucia Marini: the long hair paradox | 1998 words, fem!Luca

“I want to cut my hair.”

From the lounger where he’s been cooking in the sun like a lizard for the past thirty minutes, Valentino lifts his head up, sunglasses pushed back in his hair, and squints before chuckling mischievously, lips drawn in a huge grin.

“You know we’ll never hear the end of it, right?”

Lucia looks away, beach towel wrapped around her spindly legs, cheeks going ablaze as if Valentino has scolded her. But he hasn’t, not really. He said we. Like they’re both on board with it. As if they’re teaming up to do shady things behind their parents’ backs, like they could have done if Vale wasn’t eighteen years her senior.

“Yeah. But I can’t –” she trails off, knowing well enough that Valentino, for how loving and understanding, would never fully comprehend the struggles Lucia faces daily as a girl in a traditionally male only sport. Not only that: a girl in a traditionally male only sport who insists on looking girly – long, blonde hair she can’t tolerate anymore and keeps taking care of only because mom is super vocal about it, super proud of what little femininity she’s managed to instill in her daughter, a daughter that should have never been the way she is; tall, lanky and ungraceful, all knocking limbs and braces she’ll have to keep for another couple of years if she doesn't want her mouth to fold in on itself. A daughter that looks grotesque in a dress, but stunning and at ease in an elegant shirt and slacks combo – she’s been told she looks a little like Marlene Dietrich in Casablanca, and she had taken so much pride in it, while her mom had gone for a plastic smile that didn’t really reach her eyes. 

The tallest girl in her school, possibly in the whole town. Pretty, but with a cutting edge to it – no tits, no ass, and a way too sharp face.

She closes her eyes when Valentino walks up to her lounger, flopping down on it ungracefully, and his long fingers thread through her hair, drying fast and frizzy in the stifling july heat. She leans into the touch, a sigh on her parted, slightly sunburned lips. Vale is the only person that can make her feel like a little child and get away with it.

“Hard to keep this head tidy, I know. Are you going to show me some references?”

Lucia nods eagerly, heart pounding in her fingertips as she unlocks her phone and goes through the downloaded pictures folder. Between one movie quote pasted on an aesthetic wallpaper and a still from a gig she couldn’t attend because it was race day, she finds what she needs, and shows it to Valentino while trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Like…this,” she says, voice down to a self-conscious whisper.

Valentino stares at the picture for a beat too long not to make her feel like she’s about to give their mom a premature aneurysm. But then, Valentino smiles, scratching at her scalp like he used to when she was little and curled up against him to watch cartoons in the living room, and it doesn’t feel like he’s judging her, on the contrary.

“It’s a bit radical, but I think it would suit you. Do you need me to be there?”

Lucia can’t really help letting out an ugly, wrecked sound, not unlike that of a squished rat. It is, in fact, a very radical change of hairstyle. Her hair is now growing past her waist, blonde and straight like spaghetti. In her saved picture, instead, there’s a guy with a high undercut and hair that can’t be longer than ten, twelve centimeters, with pointy side bangs falling over his eye – old school shit, but she’s never been one for following the diktats of fashion. 

“Would you…really…?”

Her question hangs. Valentino scrunches his face, shakes his head, and leans in to kiss her temple, loud and playful.

“Of course. So that mom will yell at me when I take you home with all your hair in a sealed bag!”

The image is morbid enough to make her chuckle. She doesn’t tell Valentino mom would never yell at him, though, that she could never scold her golden child for catering to the wishes of an ungrateful little brat. 

She never called Lucia out like that, but sometimes she sees it in her eyes, that dark cloud passing over Stefania’s all too blue stare – she wanted a daughter invested in astrology and crystals and tarots, just like her, not a tomboy who dreams to make it to MotoGP and sometimes must be reminded she won’t drop off school, nu-uh, because Stefania still harbors the secret hope she’ll outgrow it and becomes a lawyer instead. Or an engineer, like her late stepdad. Or perhaps a psychologist. Everything, but not another child who wants to follow in her first husband’s footsteps.

“Do you think,” she finds the courage to ask only after a long while, “I’ll look pretty? Mom says I wouldn’t, with my hair cropped short. She says I’d look too much like a boy.”

Valentino’s hand is big around her nape, calloused fingers squeezing just so before letting go. His eyes, though, are unsettingly serious, and Lucia is sure she’s said something wrong – said too much, like she always does with Vale. He asks about how things are going at home, she tells him the honest truth, and the next day Stefania is giving her the cold shoulder.

“You know, mom says a lot of things. It doesn’t make what she says automatically right,  though.”

Lucia sighs, biting her lower lip. It stings, but she’ll probably forget about putting chapstick on later. At fifteen, her skincare only consists of slightly corrosive products that will keep her skin from breaking out, expensive pharmacy shit that smells like concrete because a dermatologist has told Stefania her skin is prone to acne and nobody wants a child with craters on her face, Lucia thinks. Another thing her mom hasn’t told her directly, but of course is pretty blatant if someone’s as observant as Lucia is.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Valentino doesn’t even check his calendar, he just nods, taking up space on the lounger, feet dangling from the edge, knocking into hers. For the first time since she’s decided to go on with her suicidal mission, Lucia feels like breathing comes a little easier.

She pulls her awkward knees to her flat chest and stares out towards the horizon, Valentino’s body a steady, warm presence next to her. Her hair feels a little itchy on her back. Good thing it will all be gone, tomorrow.

***

Stefania tells Valentino not to bring Lucia back too late, that her advanced english summer course is starting tomorrow, and something about the stars and the planets that Lucia doesn’t really want to hear. Instead of fading out of the conversation like she usually does, she sprints towards Vale’s car, gets comfortable in the passenger seat, and pretends she doesn’t notice the faint trace of smoke etched in the upholstery.

Valentino’s driving style is relaxed when he’s not racing, even if he’s often speeding, and Lucia likes when he’s driving her around, content with listening to him talk, or to the music blasting from the speakers. They’re driving to Pesaro, she’s found a cool hairstylist there, one who doesn’t fry your hair if you want to go purple - it happened to one of her classmates and it was…so fucking ugly - and, most importantly, who won’t call her mom as soon as Lucia will be seated at the shampoo bowl, determined to have most of her hair gone by the end of the service. She keeps thinking: I won’t look so pretty when I’m done, but Valentino’s enthusiastic reassurances are starting to grow on her, making her feel a little more confident about the whole ordeal. He tells her it’s just hair. That it’ll grow back soon if she doesn’t like her new haircut. That he’s done it a million times and rocked it even when he thought he looked hideous. Lucia nods, trying to look brave. It’s weird to think she never had short hair, now that she’s going to chop everything off. She doesn’t remember kindergarten, but from the photos Stefania keeps in her albums she’s learned she already had shoulder-length hair, and that Stefania used to braid it every morning. What she remembers with almost painful clarity, though, is the first time Vale let her sit on his Honda, in the brightly lit, colorful garage, way past her bedtime. She was three. And, apparently, she wore her hair shoulder-length, which feels unimportant compared to the feeling of the NSR 500 under her, the handles giant in her tiny fists.

Her dad would definitely say something wise about it, something about the complexity of growing up around boys and the feelings of inadequacy for failing to meet both her mother’s and her big brother’s standards. He would probably be right. It’s not easy being fifteen and Lucia Marini.

The traffic’s brutal today. It’s hot and stuffy, but Valentino has turned the A/C on and he’s singing along to an old song Lucia has heard a million times, comically off-tune, encouraging her to do the same. All in all, she’s having a great time. She’ll have to remember it when she’ll be home and her mom will give her hell for having butchered her hair. Until then, she can close her eyes and sing atop of her lungs. With Valentino by her side, Lucia feels invincible.

***

“You do, indeed, look pretty as fuck,” Valentino says, thinking about carding his fingers through her hair but stopping right on time, probably because he remembered how much hairspray the hairstylist used to give the cut some volume. Lucia has left the salon with a bag of new products to take care of it: round brushes, volumizing shampoo and conditioner, volumizing spray, volumizing everything. She said Lucia’s hair is kinda flat, because it’s too straight. Lucia hasn’t taken offense in that.

She flashes Valentino a big, toothy smile. In the windows of his car, she sees someone pretty, despite the lack of curves or makeup.

“Mom is going to get so mad,” she says, but it’s a lighthearted remark, nothing to do with the heavy boulder she’d been carrying for the past few days, the yawning pit opening in her stomach, making her sick. It’s okay if Stefania gets mad. It’s okay if her father is going to lecture her about the importance of sharing some thoughts before taking such a drastic decision. It’s okay, because Vale is smiling and telling her she’s pretty, and Vale never lies to her.

Only to her.

“Yeah. I think I do look pretty now,” she replies, ramming into him, shoulder knocking against shoulder.

Valentino shakes his head, tapping a beat on her back, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“You should stop growing now, though. Seriously. A few centimetres more, and you’ll tower over me!”

Lucia laughs. She won’t tell him that, unlike boys, girls reach their peak height early, because it’s linked to puberty and things Valentino doesn’t know shit about. She just keeps laughing, even when she climbs into Vale’s car and directions all the air vents towards herself.

Maybe, someday, she will tower over him, somehow. The first girl ever to make it to the premier class. How would that be for a legend?

“Hey, that’s not something I can control,” she playfully objects. “It’s not, say, hair!”

Valentino huffs dramatically. 

“Let’s go home,” he tells her, faking contrition. “Let’s go get yelled at by our mom.”

Lucia smiles, her hand, much smaller than Valentino’s and less ruined, wrapping briefly around his bony wrist, squeezing fondly. She will thank him, later. For now, though, she just wants to enjoy the feeling of freedom this new haircut is giving her – she does definitely deserve it.

[honeyvettel5]

60! pecco/bezz

60. truth serum | pecco/bezz, unrequited love, set in 2025; [1.1k]

(from this prompt list here)

"someone spiked my drink."

it’s two in the morning when the knock comes. pecco drags himself out of bed, still wearing nothing but boxers. his mouth tastes like sweat and cheap hotel linens. he opens the door with one eye barely open, the other squinting against the hallway light. marco stands there, shuffling from foot to foot, wringing his hands together. pecco blinks. “…what?” “i think someone spiked my drink at the club,” marco says again, words slightly slurred. his eyes are too bright, unfocused in that particular way that says something is off. “i feel— weird.” pecco straightens a little against the door, one hand gripping the edge of the handle. “do you need a hospital?” he asks, adrenaline starting to hum beneath his skin. marco doesn’t look drunk. he looks— fragile, rattled. he shakes his head, curls bouncing. “no, i— i don’t know. i didn’t want to be alone.” it comes out in a rush, and his eyes widen, like he can’t quite believe the words are coming out of his own mouth. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have come here.” “it’s fine, c’mon,” pecco mutters, stepping aside from the doorway and letting marco brush past him. he sinks onto the edge of the couch, spine stiff, knee bouncing like it’s trying to break free of his leg. pecco closes the door and stands there, observing him. “you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” “i’m fine. pecco, really. it’s just—” marco breaks off with a groan, both hands running through his curls in frustration. then, abruptly, he looks up, wild-eyed. “ask me if i jerked off before the race today.” pecco frowns, whole face tightening. “why the hell would i ask you that?”

“just—ask me, francesco.”

pecco’s heart ticks a little faster. for a moment, he thinks this is just some elaborate migno-fueled prank to rattle him before next weekend. he exhales through his nose. “fine. did you jerk off before the race today?” marco visibly stiffens, his hands fisting against his thighs. he looks like he’s trying to stop himself from speaking, but the words tumble out anyway, edged and tense. “yes,” he bites, eyes squeezed shut. “i was thinking about that guy vale introduced me to in imola.” he slaps both hands over his mouth, horrified. his ears go red. and well, pecco thinks. that’s… something. not that he hadn’t suspected. he had seen marco watching, sometimes. him, celestino. that’s not what surprises him. his brows knit. “so what? they drugged you with—i don’t know, a truth serum?” he lets out a half-laugh at how absurd it sounds, but marco doesn’t even crack a smile. his voice is dead serious when he replies. “migno thinks so. he asked me if i cheated at briscola the other night and i said yes. you know i would never admit that, pecco.” pecco lets out a low chuckle, the tightness in his stomach unclenching. “okay, okay, that’s fair.” 

he crosses the room and sinks down beside marco, fingers brushing his elbow before tugging him gently in. marco folds into the embrace with the same ease he always does at the ranch, late at night, when pecco is too tired to pretend he doesn’t crave touch. “you can always ask vale for the guy’s number, you know,” he murmurs, trying to ease the tension away. marco huffs, and presses closer. “i don’t want his number,” he says quietly. pecco's hand moves steady along his back, lulling. “someone else on your mind, then?” he teases, and that seems the wrong thing to say. marco suddenly stills against his arm; his breath gets laboured again, like he’s restraining himself. “i had a crush on you, for a while,” he then says, words stuffed into his mouth. pecco’s hand stills on his back; he registers the words little by little, like water dripping from a leaking faucet. “at the beginning,” marco adds. “you were so… sure of yourself. i used to watch you and think, fuck, i want to be like that, and then—” his throat clicks, dry. “—and then i realized i didn’t just want to be you.” pecco resumes his motions, kneading the tension pooling on marco’s lower back. “is this why you said you were busy with alessandro when domizia tried to set you up with her friend last month?” he asks, the episode now flashing to the front of his thoughts. marco huffs, hides against his neck. “ah, fuck. yes. and—yeah. i just don’t… want to go out with anyone right now.” pecco shifts, just enough to rest his chin lightly on the crown of marco’s head. “okay. that’s cool,” he says, low and even, trying not to sink into the guilt already curling at the pit of his stomach. he thinks of the nights at the ranch again. how they always seemed to end like this—shoulders brushing, marco leaning just a little too close, pecco never pulling away. he had grown used to it. to marco’s closeness, to his weight against his chest. “i didn’t know,” he says eventually, careful, because he needs marco to hear it. “and i’m sorry it had to come out like this. i didn’t want to take advantage of you. i didn’t think.” there’s a beat, and then marco’s voice, worn soft brushing against the corded muscle of his neck. “it’s fine, franci,” he murmurs. pecco can only but believe him, given the circumstance. “i’m a little embarrassed, to be honest,” he adds, quicker, like the words are tripping over themselves on their way out. pecco lets out a short, surprised breath; marco never admits to things like that. it’s almost—endearing. marco must sense the shift in his expression, because he groans and pulls back just enough to look up at him, his cheeks flushed, expression stuck somewhere between mortified and resigned. “please don’t ask me to reveal any of aprilia’s secrets. or what i saw in jorge’s phone last time in the box.” pecco snorts this time, a real laugh breaking through his teeth. “you can’t lead with that and then ask me not to ask.”

“pecco,” marco pleads, wide-eyed and dramatic now, voice edging into theatrical desperation. his face is ridiculous, and so completely, unmistakably him, that pecco feels something in his chest finally unspooling. “all right,” he says, smiling faintly. “fine. you’re safe. for now.” he tugs marco back in, and he sighs, almost relieved, the strain into his limbs finally beginning to ebb. pecco closes his eyes and lets himself stay there— to the steady breath against his neck, to the way marco’s heartbeat, faint and rhythmic, lines up against his own.

[butlervibesonly]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 |PART ONE| Wil Ohmsford

• Summary: While chasing freedom you get hurt and precious elf boy finds you. It turns out to be Wil Ohmsford and he is more than pleased to care about you.

• Pairing: Wil Ohmsford x human! reader

• Warnings: mentions of getting hurt, fluff, typos?

• I AM UNCONDITIONALLY OBSESSED WITH WIL OHMSFORD HAHAHAHAH 😽also this is just his song ngl

The sun shines high above, its warmth barely reaching you through the leaves of trees. Your legs ache with each step, exhaustion making its appearance more than visible. You don’t even know how many days you’ve been walking. Only thing you know is that you left to chase freedom, to escape the walls that felt more like a cage… But this kind of freedom is not what you expected. It’s hunger killing your stomach, sleepless nights on the hard earth, and the repeated ache in your bones.

You hear waterfall nearby, and as much as you’re trying to search for it you loose control over your legs. Your foot catches on a root, or maybe a sharp rock, and suddenly the world flips. The sky flashes above you before pain explodes through your leg as you crash to the ground helplessly. For a moment, you can’t even breathe. The sharp, sending agony drowns out every other thought. As much as you struggle to move, the pain gets worse. You ran away to be free. But now, you can’t run at all. “Damnit!” you hiss in pain, as you sit hopelessly on the ground. If you really didn't want something to happen, it's this.

“Are you okay?” you hear from the road. Looking up you see blonde and… indeed very cute boy. He is sitting on his horse but could be around 6 feet tall, his hair is blonde with dark shadows. Eyes blue, bluish than you ever seen. And his smile is more than charming. “I, uh… No…” is all that you can choke out after staring at him.

“I see.” he smiles softly as he jumps from his horse. “What happened to you?” the stranger says and approaches you. You hesitate to speak as you look at him. There is something so indescribable about him… “I… I was walking down this hill and tripped. Now I can barely move…”

“Ouch… Can I?” he crouches down beside you, gesturing at your leg. You nod shyly and let him do whatever he wants to do. He leans closer to your leg, and that’s when you notice it. His pointy ears. “You’re… an elf?” you ask. The elf boy chuckles and carefully lifts up the fabric of your leggings.

“Half elf,” he replies and carefully touches your leg. You respond with a hiss as the pain travels through your whole body. “Hm, it looks like it’s broken…” the elf replies, looking at you. Only thing you can do its that you look at him back. Stare maybe. “Oh, my name is Wil. Wil Ohmsford.” he gently hands out his hand. You take his hand and nod. “I am Y/n.”

Wil smiles and lets go of your hand. “Y/n, I live not so far away. And… you look like you need some place to stay-“ he glances at your broken leg. “and place to heal at.” You nod. What else can you do? You haven’t slept in days, eaten in days and not even spoken with anyone. “That would be nice…”

Wil nods and wants to scoop you up from the ground, but he asks for permission first. “May I?” he asks, his voice low but soft. You smile and nod. He scoops you gently from the ground easily like you weigh nothing. There must be strong arms under that jacket of his. He helps you sit on his horse and he walks beside you.

You keep looking down at him as he holds the leash and lead his horse towards his place. You then see a sign Shady Vale. “So, Y/n, where do you come from ?” Wil interrupts your thoughts. Should you tell him that you ran away? That you chased for freedom but ended up with broken leg?

“Uh… Thinking of how far I’ve come already - far away.” Wil glances at you with that playful smile again. “Far away? I don’t know a place like that.” he teases. You just chuckle and shake your head. “I tried to… escape. Wanted to have some freedom, you know…” you say honestly. Wil nods in understanding and stops the horse.

You look up and see a hut, a garden around it and trees surrounding it. “That’s my house,” Wil says. “More likely my kingdom.” Wil gently carries you in his arms. The world seems to fade as he carries you, his strong arms cradling your weary body. At some point, the scent of wood and earth shifts. Less wild, more controlled. The air is rich with herbs, dried flowers, and something faintly sweet. Just like Wil.

Familiar warmth surrounds you and you feel softness underneath you. A bed. Not the cold, hard ground you’ve grown used to, but something so comforting, something safe. As hard as you try not to fall asleep right away, you fail.

When you begin to stir, the light is dimmer, golden rays of the sunset slipping through wooden beams above. A blanket is pulled over you, and the steady crackle of a fire fills the space. And you smell herbs coming from the night stand.

“You’re awake.” The voice is calm, smooth — Will. He kneels beside the bed, setting something down on the small wooden table where steaming tea lays. “You were asleep for a while. Looks like you needed it.” he smiles warmly. You inhale sharply, fingers gripping the blanket as your broken leg reminds you its being. He notices.

“Here, drink this.” Wil lifts a small cup, steam curling from its surface. “It will help ease the pain.” You hesitate at first but take it. The scent of herbs and honey makes your heart flutter. When you take a sip, warmth spreads through your chest. The bitterness of the medicine lingers, but the honey dulls it.

Wil waits, watching as you drink. Only when the cup is empty does he move closer, carefully peeling back the blanket to check the splint on your leg. His touch is light, almost practiced. “You seem to be good at this.” you say, watching him work.

“Thanks. I am healer so… that’s maybe the reason.” he smiles warmly at you, before turning back to check on your fracture. “You’ll heal,” he says, adjusting the bindings with gentle precision. “But it will take time.”

You barely manage a nod, your limbs already growing heavy again. The exhaustion is too much, pulling you down despite your best efforts to fight it. As your eyes flutter closed, you feel the blanket being tucked more securely around you again “Rest,” Will murmurs. “You are safe here.” The last thing you see before sleep takes you is the him, watching over you, his expression soft and warm.

When you open your eyes the time passed. It looks like it’s night now. The fire has burned low, its embers casting a soft, flickering glow across the wooden walls. The scent of herbs still lingers in the air, comforting and familiar now.

And then you notice Wil. He sits by the window, his silhouette outlined in silver by the moonlight streaming through window. He is awake. His posture is still, almost too still, as if he got lost in thoughts. His gaze is distant, fixed somewhere beyond the trees outside.

For a moment, you simply watch him. You can’t tear your gaze from him, he looks so magical and precious. Almost as like he belongs to this place in a way you never have anywhere. You shifting in bed catches his attention and you take advantage of that. “Why aren’t you sleeping?��� you murmur.

Surprise flickers across his sharp features before smiling at you. “I don’t sleep well outside my own bed,” he says simply, rubbing his tights. It takes a moment for the meaning to settle. You glance down at the soft blankets wrapped around you. His bed.

“You could lay me somewhere else-” you say, guilt stirring in your chest. “You need it more.” he cuts your words. You smile, but the guilt is still there.

His voice is actually so calm. But there’s something in the way he says it that makes your throat tighten. He has helped you so much already—carried you, tended to your wounds, given you warmth and bed to sleep in. And now he’s giving up his own comfort for your sake.

There is painful silence between both of you. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you shift slightly to the side, ignoring the dull throb in your leg. You lift the blanket just enough. “ There is enough of space,” you say softly. “You should sleep too.”

Wil doesn’t move at first. In the low light, his expression is unreadable, but you can feel his hesitation. Then, finally, with a quiet sigh, he stands up and smiles. “You are so stubborn,” Wil murmurs, though there is no real frustration in his voice. Just softness and warmth. A smile tugs at your lips. “So I’ve been told.”

Wil removes his shirt, because he sleeps without it and moves carefully, as if uncertain. You can see his toned body and the strong arms that carried you. When he finally lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, a strange sense settles in the air. He keeps a careful distance, lying on his side to face you. But the warmth of his presence is there, steady and real, a quiet reassurance in the dark.

For the first time in more than couple of days, you feel truly safe. Your eyes roam over him and you can’t unsee how beautiful he is even in the darkness. “What is it?” he asks after you have been literally staring at him. Your words catch in your throat as you hesitate to say it. But eventually you do so.

“You are so beautiful, Wil…” The words slip from your lips faster than you could even think about. Wil chuckles and his cheeks flush. “I don’t think the tea I gave you should have hallucinating effects.” he whispers. “And now go to sleep, you deserve rest.”

Wil opens his eyes, blinking few times to adjust to the morning light. The first thing he notices when he wakes is unfamiliar warmth. For a moment, he doesn’t remember; why? Why there is a soft weight of another body against his, why is his arm draped around someone? Why is the steady rise and fall of the breath so close.

Wil glances down and sees you. You’re still asleep, your head resting lightly against his bare chest. At some point in the night you must have shifted closer, and without thinking about it he must have pulled you closer. Now, one of his arms is wrapped around your body, his hand resting at the curve of your waist beneath the blankets.

He should move. Wil knows this. He should shift away before you wake up, before you realize it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches you, listening to the steady rhythm of your soft breathing.

In sleep, you look much different… Softer, peaceful in a way Wil haven’t seen you yet. When he found you, you have been all weary and exhaustion all over your face, barely holding yourself together. Now, here in his hut, in his arms, you simply look… safe and comfortable .

And in this moment something deep in his chest tightens at the thought. It’s unfamiliar feeling, something he never felt before. It’s not just the healer in him recognizing someone needs care. It’s something more. Something so unspoken yet so obvious.

A realization hits him as he watches your sleeping and unconscious state. He wants to protect you. Not just because you are injured and have nowhere to go, not just because you are practically alone. He wants to be the one you can trust in.

His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against your waist. He could move away now, could put space between the both of you before you wake up and eventually see something in his eyes he is not ready to confess.

But then you murmur something in sleep, pressing closer against him. And just like that, any thought of moving from you disappears. Let her sleep, he thinks for himself. Just a little longer. And so, for the first time in longer than he can remember, he stays still. Holds you close to him. He feels the need to be there for you. To care about you.

[ashblooddragons]

The Red Queen (Chapter 1\?)

107 ac Kingslanding

Aemma’s pov

I sit in a rocking chair as I watch you stack blocks only to knock them over, and like always you turn to me for approval and when I clap you smile big showing your first tooth. I sigh once you gets back to playing, the lady Alicent has been coming to play with you since you were six moons stating she noticed Rhaenyra doesn’t play with you, but I know she was sent by her father to get in me and Viserys good graces. 

Today you’ve been quite pouty and upset, and I know exactly why. Daemon has been sent to the Vale to be with his wife for at least half moons turn. Viserys was lucky he got Daemon to agree to that much, as Daemon hardly leaves you as it is. It shocks the court how protective he is of you, he doesnt let anyone hold you in his presence besides me, Viserys, or himself. Because of this over protectiveness you’ve grown quite attached to him and his blasted dragon he demands you ride with him on. If the court thinks Daemon is over protective they havent watched that wyrm growl at me, your own mother, because I picked you up. Thankfully Daemon doesn't believe you should sit on the saddle yet, so he straps you to his chest via cloth wraps commeners use. I must admit my heart about jumps out of my chest everytime you fly with him, but when you come back down, and you have that smile on your face it all seems worth it.

As I’m musing someone knocks at the nursery door. “Alicent would you be a dear and see who that might be?” I ask as I stroke my stomach. Me and Viserys found out two moons ago that I’m with child…again. One of us was over joyed, the other wanted a long nap after finishing raspberry and ginger tea for my nausea and sore ankles. 

Alicent nods and gets up off the floor and goes to the door. “It's Princess Rhaenys and her daughter Laena, Your Grace.” she says looking at me to see if she should let them in. “yes please, and would you leave us darling? I need to have a talk with the princess.” I say to which Alicent nods and moves towards you to pick you up, but i stop her with a shake of my head.

Once Alicent has left and Rhaenys, and Laena are in the room I sigh. “The girl always with you?” Rhaenys asks in that cold tone she always has. 

“Yes, but I must admit she is quite helpful.” I respond through another sigh. This one is quite a mover cause I never can quite seem to chase the nausea away. “So I’m assuming you got my raven?” I ask once she sets Laena down on the ground next to you.

“Yes, I did.” Is the only answer I get, so I nod and watch as our daughters play together. We’ve sat in silence for quite a while, the only source of noise coming from you and Laena as you play and babble. This is why I about jump out of my skin when Rhaenys starts to talk again. “Has Rhaenyra truly not come around to her baby sister?” she asks with a amused smirk.

“No, nothing we do has helped as of yet. We’ve tries stories, games, walks, picnics, even going to the Dragon pit so Rhaenyra can show her Syrax, but that only ended in her throwing a tantrum and getting on Syrax, only coming down once we’ve left.” I say disappointedly, and I must sound truly pathetic, cause Rhaenys reaches over and holds my hand.

She hums in understanding and sympathy. Rhaenys has always been a woman of few words, never seeing the point in hiding ones true thoughts in words, preferring to speak plainly or not at all. I quite enjoy this as you always know what she’s saying is the truth, it’s the main reason she’s my favorite out of my cousins. 

“Well, I cannot say Laena will be here all the time, but I suppose the children and I would like to be closer to Corlys.” She says smiling as you and Laena chase each other, her running away laughing and you crawling after her giggling. “Besides a child needs a friend close in age to them.” she says as we both watch chuckling at you two. 

“I feel a life long friendship in their future, don’t you agree?” she says looking at me. All I can do is nod and smile. My little girl will have a friend for life in the little Velaryon.

109 ac Dragonstone

Your pov 

Me and Laena run out of the feast together, it’s my sisters nameday party and she demanded it be held at this place…Dragonpot? My sister doesn’t seem to like me very much, so me and Laena decided to look for dragons. We heard this place has LOTS of them, I mean it’s called Dragonpot for a reason, right?

“Laena it’s raining! Are you sure this is a good idea? I ask as she drags me out of the castle and into the rain. “Oh it’ll be fine! Stop being a worry wart! You want a dragon or not? This is our chance, might be the only we get!” Laena says back, to which I nod and follow after her towards the beach. The wind is so harsh we’re holding onto each other to stay standing, and our hair is perpetually in our faces. Because of these things we don’t notice the two dragons in front of us, well not until we hear the growls. We both push our hair back and look up at the two dragons, one white as snow and the other a slate grey. The white one is eating a pile of fish, while the other has two dead horses in front of it. 

“Um, maybe I was wrong, I don’t think this is a good idea anymore.” Laena says as we stand frozen in front of the dragons. “What are you on about, they won’t hurt us!” I say matter of factly. Caraxes never hurts me, in fact he doesn’t seem to like people around me not even my Kepus. “Watch Laena, you just walk up and pet them and then they make happy clicky sounds.” I say confidently as I walk forward smiling as I reach out to pet the white one. Laena keeps calling my name and the wind must be bad cause I hear other people calling for us too, but that can’t be true cause they’re all inside for my sisters nameday.

The white one growls abit but once i touch it, the growling stops and almost seems shocked. “Whoa that’s it? I’m gonna try.” Laena says as she runs over to the other dragon. Laena reaches out to touch the other one but it snaps at her, she frowns and yells at it. “Stop being a meanie! I will pet you!” which seems to surprise the dragon enough for her to touch it an start petting.

By this point there is no denying people are calling for us. I turn around and see mine and Laenas Mamas, Papas, Laena’s brother, my sister, Ali, and my Kepus. The Only ones who seem to be moving closer though is Laenas Mama and my Kepus. “Kepus I got a dragon!” I yell to him which catches Laenas attention and she yells to her Mama. “look Mommy, I got one too!” 

“Yes, yes we see now get over here right now!” Kepus yells at us which shocks me cause he’s never yelled at me, not once. We look at our dragons sadly before running over to them. “Dont ever scare me like that again! Do you understand!” Kepus yells and I nod trying not to cry.

Once we get in and they have us in our nightdresses and covered in furs our parents and my Kepus sit us by the fire and stare down at us. “What in the seven hells were you two thinking? Running out in a storm like this to hunt down dragons!” Laenas Papa yells as we hang our heads as we cry from their disappointment.

“You guys said this place has lots of dragons, we just wanted ones of our own. So I can be like Mama and she can be like her Kepus.” Laena sobs out and I nod my head in agreement. “Yes well did you two need to be stormchasers as well? Those damned dragons seem to agree with you on this being wonderful weather to be outside!” Laenas Papa keeps going. We hear a silent ‘my love.’ and he just sighs and sits in a chair hanging his head in his hands.    

“We understand you wanted dragons darling, but you scared us greatly running off like that in a storm. Let alone what those dragons are. Laena you claimed Mongrel and you claimed-” But I cut off Laenas Mama. “I claimed Stormchaser.” I say confidently as my Kepus bends down to wipe my tears away. 

“Is that what we’re calling him?” Kepus asks, to which I make a face. “It’s not a boy Kepus, it’s girl!” I say resolutely, which seems to have amused him as he chuckles and ruffles my hair. “How silly of me, sweetling. Of course it’s a girl.” 

That was the day Laena and I became dragon riders, and our friendship solidified.

Series Masterlist

Special thanks to @sugutoad for making the header!

[knightsickness]

Hi! I hope that I don't bother you with my question. I'm asking out of genuine interest for an analysis and also because it has been 5 years since I last read any asoiaf book.

Coming from you comparison of Cersei's and Tyrion's time as Hand, what obvious mistakes did Tyrion make? I was probably not paying too proper attention because Tyrion did a lot of sympathetic things like ending Jeoffrey's terror on Sansa, or came up with a great strategy to limit casualties during Stannis invasion. His downfall struck me as Cersei conspiring against him, and Tywin taking all the credit for the work his son did. But I feel like I missed something here, and don't have all the details. (Again genuine question, not a "how dare you imply that perfect innocent angel uwu did anything wrong" way!)

i originally wrote a much longer list for this but i think the myrcella episode sums up most of the problems w tyrions politicking in microcosm

the entire point of the scheme is to embarrass cersei and undermine her with the removal of one of her spies. a lot of tyrions moves in acok are ridiculously cersei-focused because it makes him feel good to get petty wins over her he enjoys doing kings landing spy vs spy antics. constantly asking ‘what is cersei doing? does cersei know what im doing?’ when the answer to both is invariably ‘spying on each other’. when theyre still actively fighting three major enemies all this effort to plot and spy feels like it could be focused elsewhere. the scene where they laugh at stannis and renly pettily stupidly fighting each other rather than them obviously an acknowledgment of this neither of them notice

the idea to tell all the small council members different plans and then identify whichever one he told the story cersei gets mad at him for as her spy is good on paper a lot of tyrions moves are motivated by what makes him feel clever. in practice its kind of a mess

the idea of littlefinger having harrenhal is initially proposed to him by tyrion (who notes littlefinger looks extremely excited) as a reward for him arranging a hypothetical myrcella arryn match and then snatched away annoying and alienating him. its then next raised when littlefinger has obviously requested it to kevan/the tyrells/etc as his prize after the battle of the blackwater and he gets it. this isn’t necessarily direct cause and effect littlefinger always wanted to be a big lord he could have wanted harrenhal on his own but it seems like he was told he would have it, formulated his affc taking-over-the-vale plan, and then found out tyrion was fucking with him. again getting one over littlefinger makes tyrion feel good its gratifying to have the biggest schemer at court going grr you used me as a pawn and lied to me do NOT do that shit again

one of the main strengths of the situation tyrion inherits is a hypercompetent small council he immediately sets to turning on him (petyr) and giving them dangerous personal secrets (varys) while fantasising about having all their heads on spikes over the city walls

the idea of an elaborate plan to prove pycelle of all people is an incompetent lannister toady is absurd. you can tell that by talking to pycelle once. worse this makes pycelle hatee tyrion when if tyrion hadnt noticed he is ALSO a lannister he could have benefited from this !!

the sending myrcella to dorne plot that tyrion commits to lest cersei thinks he wasn’t serious and this was a finding-the-mole ploy (in which he gave them plans so obviously shocking and upsetting to cersei that if theyre her allies theyd immediately tell her) is terrible on the face of it and in affc proves to also be terrible in practice. the two outcomes are she gets crowned or killed both explicitly to start a war with the lannisters + burning one of your two spare heirs on the outing pycelle as a fraud and annoying cersei and littlefinger plan is. misguided. its insane to me he goes through w it he could still say ohh i changed my mind + let cersei think she’s persuaded him out of it (giving her a false win) or even just say yeah i was fucking with you haha you fell into my trap and exposed your own spy but he doesnt do either

tyrion’s conclusion on the plan is ‘this doesnt actually prove i can trust varys and littlefinger. theyre just untrustworthy in a subtler way. nobody in the world is as smart as me nobody has ever been this good at politics’

[knight-dwx-09]

The Angel With Devil Wings

Oscar open the door with joyful expression.

Oscar: Hey guys! I am back from Vale!

However, instead of a happy greetings or group hugs, he was met with silence as team RWBY and (J)N(P)R sat on the bed with haunted look, as if they were about to go to war.

Oscar: uhh… guys? Is there something wrong? Did Salem announced that she will attack or is she coming to here at this moment?

Ruby: Jaune just message us just now…

Oscar: oh! What did he said? Did he want to watch a movie or play games together? It has been years since I last interact with him with how busy he is after he work with medical department. I really miss him

Ruby: He said that… that all of us should head to the combat arena in a hour…

Oscar: I… see?

Nora: *Clung desperately to Ren’s hand* Renny! I don’t want to train with scary fearless leader today!

Ren has a calm expression unlike anyone else, however, the young boy could see that his whole body was gray out completely. Even then, when Oscar focus just a bit more, the trembles in Ren’s hands was noticeable.

While Blake was the opposite, she was visibly scared while wrapping her hands around Yang’s waist and bury her head onto the shoulder, her cat ears were flat as she whispered something but he couldn’t made out what it was.

Yang had her eyes in two different color, one red and one purple. And only end of her hair was in ablaze. Oscar didn’t even know that was possible for her to do so but she give off a different vibes whenever she use her semblance. Instead of the fiery spirit, one that made her feel like undefeatable, she felt more like a small animal being backed into a conner and try its best to look big.

Weiss: *holding a small doll version of Jaune when he was still at Beacon with tiny version of Croceo Mors* I am sorry dad, I will be a nice girl for now on

Ruby hugs her legs and rocking back and forth.

Oscar: Come on guys, this is Jaune we are talking about. He is one of, if not, the nicest person we have ever met. What are you all so scared of?

Yang suddenly appeared in front of Oscar, scaring him a bit as he try to take a step back but was stopped when she grabbed him by the shoulder with a serious look. However, the slight tremble in her hands reveal her unease and fear.

Yang: Oscar, I know you haven’t see him for a while so I understand why you are confused, but believe me when I said this…

She leaned closer so they were inches away from each other as she whispered to his ear in a scared and timid voice.

Yang: He had change…

Last week

Yang: Tell me where did you hide the weapons?

Criminal: Up your ass!

Yang gritted her teeth at the another fail attempt of extracting information, he was very closed to give him a good knuckle sandwich between his eyes but that was stopped when a yellow haired man in a white coat, hands inside pocket, barged into the room.

Yang: *Scared* Oh, h-hey Jaune! I-it’s nice to see you here

Jaune: It’s nice to see you as well… But can you give us some alone time, firecracker?

Yang: Of course! I will be waiting outside whenever you need me *Hurriedly escaped*

Jaune: So you are one of the White Fang who stole the military’s weapons and mechs this morning?

Criminal: *smiled* So what? Are you gonna give me bitter medicine to ge-

Before he could finish, Jaune’s right leg struck him in the chest through the cuff, breaking it and sent him flying that cause him to bounce off the wall before landed on the ground on all four as the airs crawl out of his lungs.

Jaune: Well, I have been accumulating some stress lately and miss out on hours of my training thank to my dolts of a friend this morning, so…

He bring his hand and make a gesture that say bring it.

Jaune: Give your all and fight me. if you managed to shatter my aura or kill me, the polices will let you go and all of your criminal record get wipe clea-

But before he could even finished what he have to say, the man spring to action as he try to claw Jaune’s face. But it didn’t surprised the doctor as he nonchalantly dodged the strike, leaving a faint trails of energy in their wake, and before the criminal could react, Jaune’s hand were wrapped around his mouth as he were slam into the floor, causing all the air and spit wanting to escape but failed to as his mouth being blocked by a firm grip.

Jaune: You should at least let me finish before accepting my deal, oh well, your funeral, Russet

The criminal, named Russet, grab Jaune’s hand to hold him down while to twist his body enough to bring his leg for a kick that has a similar glow. However, Jaune counter by simply throwing him into the same wall he had kick him to a second ago, like what happened at that time, he bounces off and land on all four.

Jaune: I have read your documents and I know you have a semblance that allow you to produce claw made of Aura from your hands or foot that could cut through steels. Simple and pretty useful semblance that consume small amount of aura *Slowly walk closer, stretching his right arm for another strike* I guess that is fitting for you since you are a tiger Faunus

Russet: STOP! I’M IN RED! ONE HIT FROM YOU WILL SHATTER MY AURA AND SNAP MY HEAD OFF!

Jaune: *Frown* So that is your aura reserved? It’s not that large it seems *Raised his hand toward the man in front of him*

In instinct, he raise both hand to protect himself but his eyes widen from such power rushing through his vein, staring at his own hands glowing in green aura as the feeling of hundreds of drugs were just being injected into his body.

Russet: what the…

Jaune: There, I just recovered and amp your aura so you could continue to fight *Began to pop some bone in his neck*

Hearing this, Russet smiles sinisterly at the doctor as his semblance active, aura covering both hands and take shape of a sharp, long claws that accidentally sink into the ground with ease. Amazed by this turn of event and how powerful his power has become, he gazed at the doctor, thinking he was a fool and dead meat. In second, he leap forward with claw ready, aiming for the neck… Only to be stopped by using his left hand. No, Jaune did not grab his hand to stop the attack or strike him first… he simply bring the hand up and let it hit him as it stop dead in its track… it was as if it refused to slice or even dig into his flesh.

The smirk was instantly evaporated and was replaced with confusion.

But he froze immediately at the sight of Jaune, smiling and cracking the right hand.

Jaune: Now we can keep fighting until I feel satisfied

His whole body tense out of nowhere as his instincts told him to move his head at this instance and so he did. The moment he did so, Jaune’s right leg plummeted down and narrowly miss his head, letting out a gush of wind that come from his strike, that blown him away, and digs through the metal floor like it was butter.

The sense of dread suddenly invaded, a cold shiver run through his spines as sweat began form. In his mind, there were voices to tell him escape as he immediately face towards the door and run.

And Jaune, with a smirk, appeared in front of him with insane speed that was impossible for a huntsman and huntress to achieve without a speed related semblance. Then the blonde struck Russet at the stomach and cause him to spit saliva and get sent flying toward the wall, dented deeply into it.

The hit had made his vision becomes blurry, star appearing in front of him as he didn’t register what had just happened nor the pain. And this time, he feel something began to rise from within his stomach, something that was burning and stinging his throat.

His body slowly loosen from the grip of the wall and fall towards the ground knees first, hand on his stomach and mouth.

He try to hold it in but failed as he release his stomach contents all over the ground and his hands. At the same time, lungs trying to refill all the air that had been stolen from him. But this only cause some of the vomit to crawl back into his throat, causing the acrid burn of vomit flooded their nose and throat as the pain finally spread out like a wild fire.

It felt like a giant Goliath had step on his stomach all of its weight and refused to take another step away. The pain was too much for him that his mind swirl in dizziness and pain, body tremble like a leaf as he vomit more.

He could only cough and hold his stomach to try to minimize the agony he was in, tears began to emerged and slide down his face and to the ground. All he could do was to look up the Angel/Devil slowly walking closer with vomit in hand and in tears.

Russet: P-please! I WILL FUCKING DIED IF YOU CONTINUE TO HIT ME!

Jaune: What are you talking about? Your aura is still full.

The man’s eyes widened, feeling that his Aura were indeed still full.

Russet: W-wh-what? JUST FUCKING HOW!

Jaune: You won’t have to worry about your aura shattering, I will recover and amp each time I hit you so you won’t died or go to a coma on me. And I basically have bottomless Aura, mean that we could keep go at it for a long time. It doesn’t matter if your bones fracture, muscles and flesh torn, organs disfigure. Cause your Aura will protect you from any of those injuries and heal back any damage that has been inflicted. But of course, that won’t save you from the pain you are about to go through now.

Russet: How could you do something like this? Don’t you have a shred of humanity in you!

Jaune: Bastard, I am a doctor, keeping humanity together is my job. *Slowly walk towards Russet* And you should think the of the child you almost killed while stealing the weapons first before asking about my humanity. Cause trust me, this pain isn’t something you will forgot any time soon.

The scream of a man could hear throughout the building for 15 minutes until it becomes dead silent.

And where was Yang this whole time? She was waiting outside the room, sweating bullet after she listened to the scream, whole body shake like a pudding, eyes dilated while focusing on the door, waiting, waiting for the angel from hell to come out.

Every minutes felt like a hour, It was as if time had slow down and being stretch out. She didn’t realize that she was holding in a breath when the door finally opened with Jaune calmly walking out.

Jaune: I will write the coordinate of their base where they keep all of the stolen weapons

Yang: Wow… that man really is tough if he can stay quiet for this long

Jaune: Nah, he already give me the place after 5 minutes in of our session but I still have some stress to steam off so he continue to desperately attack me until he fall unconscious from the blow on the liver. I already call the police to pick him up… I should have informed them to bring cleaning kit with them though

Yang open her mouth but it becomes too dry to even speak. Or that she didn’t dare to ask.

A call then rang out as Jaune grab his scroll and answered it.

Jaune: Hello? What?! Those two idiot are injured because of Dust explode in their face? Fine, I will go there right now

He put away the communication device, grumbling with a deep frown, and takes a few steps, which cause Yang to sigh relief, before stopping to turn towards her with a dagger look.

Jaune: Don’t think I have forgotten of our spar this month, meet me in the arena at 11 after I am done healing Crater Face and your Kitty Cat

Jaune walk away once again, grumbling as usual, leaving Yang as she falls to her knees thank to her legs become really weak. Eyes then wandered back to the room for a split second and that was almost enough to cause her to faint.

Back to the present

Yang: And you don’t want to see the state of that man in. But after that, he was perfectly fine, no injuries, no lastly damage, no anything… However… when he woke up… he was a broke man of who he was before… he would always flinch at the sight of any doctor with white coat, breath hitched, eyes dilated, hearth beat spike to a dangerous level, most time he would scream and try to run away. At night, he would wake up, screaming “I AM SORRY!” or “GET AWAY FROM ME!” with tears in his eyes

Oscar: wow… that… doesn’t sound like him… and this is why you are afraid of sparring with him?

Yang: N-no… Jaune would never cross the line for us… it just… *Look Away*

Ruby: Jaune’s training are simply too intense…

Oscar: What?

Nora: Scary fearless leader would make us to run…

Oscar: That doesn’t sound too bad

Nora: 75 laps around the whole academy

Oscar: Oh…

Blake: He then made all of us to do some weight training to build some muscle… by placing 800 Kg vest and 125 Kg weighted on each of our limbs while running… we won’t even make it to halfway before most of us fall. The worst of it, he will give us time to rest so we could finish the laps and give us that damn encouragement smiles

Weiss: And that is just one of the training he thought of. Sometimes, each one of us would do different exercise to make up our weakness. And they are as intense as the first one

Ren: However, there’s one training we all would always do at the end, we were told to fight him all at once… and that usually end with all of us vomit our meal at least once… but he doesn’t hurt us that much or simply wanting to beat us up, he does help us to get stronger with Qrow telling our mistake and what we need to train

After all of it been said, Oscar stay quiet to finally digest the thing his brother from another family apparently had done while he was away.

Out of nowhere, a familiar voice boomed through out the academy that send dread in everyone, except Oscar, stomachs,

Jaune: REN, NORA, AND TEAM RWBY! YOU ARE 10 MINUTES LATE! IF I WAIT FOR ANOTHER 5 MINUTES, ANOTHER 50 LAPS WILL BE ADDED!

And not even a second when their name called that their eyes widen and run out of the room, leaving the farmer boy in the room alone.

Oscar: Ozpin… is this a normal thing that happened to everyone?

Ozpin: While it’s not common to develop such habit, some people need some way to cope with the stressful situation they are in. Whether it was to drink, have intercourse with someone, write a book, draw an art, or something else

They gazes at a table which has a mountain of books about medicine, the anatomy and physiology of the body of Faunus and humans, brain, disease, genetic, etc.

Ozpin: In Mr. Arc’s case, he use extreme training and sparing to used up the stress he collected during his work life

Oscar: That does not sound very healthy for the body…

Ozpin: No, it’s not. However, it seems like while we were at Vale to help Glynda on rebuild the whole kingdom and Beacon. Mr. Arc has a better understanding about his semblance and his body. Remember what we have heard, there was a doctor in Vacuo who always use his semblance to help huntsmen and huntress recover, even the civilians. And it seems like that man was Mr. Arc

Oscar: Wait, how can his semblance help the civilians when they haven’t unlock their Aura? Doesn’t his semblance only allow him to boost other people’s Aura

Ozpin: As for that, I’m afraid even I don’t have the answer. But we could ask Mr. Arc for it. But allow me to continue with my theory

Oscar: Okay, go on

Ozpin: There’s also some rumor spreading out that there was a doctor with yellow hair, which we can concluded to be Mr. Arc, and massive shield that always stay in front lines of a battle. While he does fight, but that wasn’t his main objective. Some huntsmen and huntress has say that they see him, always running around the battlefield, Killing a few Grimms so they won’t be overwhelmed. However, most of the time, he could be seen carried injuries one back to the back line to be heal before going to the battle to do it all over again, not even taking a single second for a rest or breather, saving many lives while doing so. because of that, he was given many nickname by others. “The Unbroken Aiges”, “White Flame Saint”, and “The Angel From Underworld”

Oscar: You know, after hearing Yang’s stories. I am afraid to ask as to how Jaune got that last nickname *Shudder from the imagine he had just imagined*

Ozpin: I believe all of this healing other, all of the battle, all of the training, had develop his semblance to the point all the negative side effects of such physical labor become null to him. I’m even fear his body and soul had become accustomed to such taxing environmental, giving him one of, if not, the strongest body in Remnant… and we do not know what’s his semblance could do now… or what it could not…

Oscar: I am not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. *Stares out of the window towards the sky*

Ozpin: So do I

————————

AN: Hello there, it has been a while since I last posted. But I am just writing this for those who like the AU I have written so far. I will mainly focus on the Wrath Of A Healer AU (This one), Wanderer Knight AU, Developer AU, and maybe Cat Arc AU for longer post like this. But of course, I will still write more short funny post on other stuff.

And the reference where I got this idea is called “The Wrong Way To Use Healing Magic”. It’s a hilarious manga I read a while ago but I haven’t catch to the recent chapter so I don’t know where the stories goes or would I recommend it so I just say the title and leave it to you all if you want to read it.

[moonshynecybin]

hiiiii i was gonna save this for their evil little joint bday week but i finished it and thought it would be fun to post... anyways around 2k of rosquez porn have fun i hope ya like it

“Are you Valentino Rossi?” Comes the question, sweet and eager, just to his right.

He looks over. The kid standing there is in a tight t-shirt and has a starstruck, too-big smile plastered across his handsome face. The kind of handsome Vale likes, dark hair, brown eyes, thick brows. It makes him shift on his stool, turning on the point of his elbow to face him, and open his legs a little. 

“Allora, that’s what they tell me,”

“Well,” The kid’s mouth stretches wider once he realizes he’s got Vale’s attention. He's thrilled. Perfect. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Vale ignores the question. This guy’s Italian is clumsy, thick in his mouth, and they’re at Mugello, so this is a bit strange. He raises an eyebrow and tugs on his earring, surveying him.

“You’re Spanish, no? You weren’t rooting for Lorenzo, maybe?”

The kid shakes his head, too confident. “No no, when I was young I liked Pedrosa, I wanted to be just like him.”

“Ah, Dani,” He says knowingly. This guy is short and Spanish, so that makes sense.

“Him, and you.” He adds on, and flushes prettily, pink on his cheeks, looking at Vale with a clean, incongruous sort of intensity. 

“Me, huh?” He stretches back and lets his eyes go half lidded, dragging up and down the kid’s body. “What's your name?”

“Marc,” he says, and brightens immediately, taking a seat next to Vale like he’s got permission, like he’s won something. He orders two shots of tequila without asking Vale what he likes. Jesus, he is young.

When he turns his pleased little face back to Vale, a curl of hair flops into his forehead, bolting dark and inky down his skin. Low light throws his cheekbones into sharp relief, and it’s striking. He's striking. Vale likes it. Marc licks his lips like it’s a habit. His hands are broad and his wrists are small, delicate, tapping jittery little patterns on the slab of the bar. His pinky is crooked, it matches Vale’s.

He takes him in.

“So, do you want to tell me why?” He asks.

“What?” Marc grins, surprised and confused and delighted.

“Tell me why.” Vale repeats, to watch the confusion deepen.

“Why, what?”

“Oh— why you like me, over Dani. And Jorge,” He adds like it’s an afterthought. It’s not.

“What, do you need an ego boost?” Marc replies, a burst of something behind his eyes, a little bit of a challenge. He laughs hard after he says it. Vale doubts he was fully joking. 

He finds himself wanting to know how many different emotions Marc’s smile can actually be a cover for, wants to examine and catalog them, find out what he can say to crack the mask, break the seal.

He smile even wider, like he thought it was just as funny as Marc did, and makes it sleazy. It's a game, now. He loves games. Maybe Marc will be able to play.

“Ah, an insider secret for you—riding is a game of confidence. You say you’re a fan?” Marc nods fast. He leans forwards and watches Marc’s pupils blow out, more ink spilling. He wants to write a letter with it, wants to draw something. “Then of course you should want me to be confident, so I can win. You know, that would make me very happy.”

Marc holds his eyes for a moment. They spark. He bites at his lip again.

“Really? You want to know what I like about you?”

“I do.”

“Can you do me a favor first?” Marc knocks back his tequila, then looks at Vale through his lashes. Coy. He can play.

“Hm,” Vale refuses to commit. He's curious, though, in more ways than one.

Marc could ask for anything, and Vale could decide whether or not to give it to him.

“I have something for you to sign.”

That’s easy—perfect, even. Vale looks around, Marc’s hands are empty, “Where is it?”

Marc grins suddenly, flavored with victory. Vale wonders how it tastes.

“Back at my hotel room.”

Once Vale has finished laughing, they go.

*

Still eager, still young, Marc kisses him before the door is even closed. Bites at his lips while Vale tries to talk, hands hungry on his body as if Vale’s going to take off and leave in the middle of the fucking hookup. He hears a door slam and smoothly suppresses a flinch. Marc doesn't see, which is good. He has a part to play here.

“Hey hey hey, you know, I know you are not famous,” Marc chuffs out a belly laugh, jajajas against Vale’s neck at the joke. “But paparazzi, they do follow me. I don’t want my picture in the paper next to my one night stand, it could ah,” Marc nips at his earring, plays with it with his tongue, lets Vale squeeze the muscle of his ass. “Ruin my reputation.”

“Is that what I am?” Marc breaks off of the hickey he was working onto the skin behind Vale’s ear and hooks two fingers into his belt, hauling him into the room. He kicks the door shut. “A one night stand?”

“I fly out tomorrow,” Vale lies regretfully, and Marc smirks at him a little too knowingly, then drops to his knees.

“You asked me what I liked about you,” He says, working at Vale’s belt, his fly. Vale flips off his shirt, toes off his shoes.

“I did,” He starts, and Marc leans in.

When he’s got him out, he takes the head into his mouth, throat working in slick sounds as he slides further down, starts to work the base in his hand. Vale works not to moan, biting the inside of his cheek, and he thinks Marc cant tell, because he looks up at him like he would smile, if not for Vale’s cock in his mouth.

“I like that,” Marc says once he pulls off, wiping a little at his face in a prissy sort of movement. His lips are shining, a bruised, swollen red color, and there’s still some spit sloppy on his chin. He leans forward and licks at the blunt head, one broad, flat, long stroke that makes Vale’s toes curl from the power of the sensation, the vulnerability of it, and then he stays close. Speaks with his lips against the delicate, overheated skin of Vale’s dick. “Will that help you win?”

Vale catches his breath, blows out some air from his cheeks, loosely curling a hand in the mess of Marc’s curls. He feels out of sorts, off balance. Thrilled.

“Well, you know it cannot hurt,” Masking how eager he is with a joke, to lance the sensation, make it a little less keen. How bad he wants it. it’s not even new, he’s been in this position hundreds of times— it shouldn’t feel like it is. He shouldn’t need it like this, like if Marc walks out of the room he’d be taking a chunk of Vale with him.

“So, ah.” He covers, remembers what he should say. “What was it that you wanted me to sign?”

Marc giggles and stands, shucking off his clothes as he does. Smooth skin, built thighs, compact body full of muscle and scar tissue. Vale looks hungrily. His cock is hard and big, hanging between his legs.

Oblivious to Vale's eyes or pretending to be, Marc sits on the bed and gestures to his body, twirls the marker between his fingers. “Could you?” He asks sweetly, and Vale realizes that what Marc wants him to sign is himself. 

His dick throbs. This kid.

“Where?” He asks, smoothing a smooth hand over Marc’s shoulder and gently pushing him back against the bed. Marc arranges himself against the pillows easily, boyish smile huge on his face.

“Wherever you want,” And Vale kneels over him, sits back on the solid shape of his torso so he can feel Marc’s big dick twitch against him, get that feedback. Vale settles, surveys, palms himself. Marc swallows.

“I think here,” He muses, splaying his fingers like a frame and holding them above Marc’s right nipple. 

“Does that look right to you?”

“Yeah,” Marc breathes. 

He plucks the marker from Marc’s fingers, asks, “Is there anyone I should make out the message too?”

His brown eyes are wide, bottom eyelashes spiky against his cheek. Butter wouldn’t melt. “No,”

“No one? No boyfriend? Girlfriend?” He's trailing his other hand over Marc’s pecs now, pinching at his nipple to see him squirm, tease him a little. Hips buck up, rubbing his erection against Vale’s ass and blurting a wet streak of pre-come there.

“There is someone— an older guy from around here, but we haven’t slept together yet so I don’t know if he’s, how do you say it in Italian— leading me on,” Marc says impatiently, still trying to fuck up against Vale, and Vale laughs, spits, and starts to work himself in his hand.

“Okay, okay,” He uncaps the marker with his mouth and positions his other hand over the smooth skin of Marc’s chest. He signs his name, Valentino Rossi, in silver against golden skin, and Marc shudders, a full body tremor, as the nib drags over his skin in a practiced stroke. His mouth drops open, still pink from Vale’s cock, and Vale presses his thumb hard against the nipple when he finishes, and throws the marker on the floor.

"God," is dragged out of Marc like he cant help it. Vale doesn't know if he's talking to him or not. He fists himself from tip to base.

His hand picks up its pace, fixes on the shine of his name on Marc, the way he’s whining now, small noises as his he moves in little abortive thrusts against Vale’s thigh. He grinds down, braces his free hand on Marc’s tit, framing it, and runs his mouth, mindless, says Marc’s name over and over until it's all he can think, all he can think.

“Marc, Marc,” He murmurs, and his dick kicks in his hand, and he comes, stunned, all over his name splashed across Marc’s chest. He makes a noise, one he can't help, and finds that he barely minds.

Marc doesn't let him recover, his hips still shoving upward, his hands an urgent grip on Vale’s thigh.

“Vale,” He whines, demanding, and without really thinking Vale scoots backward, bending down and sucking Marc into his mouth, working him over hard, until he can hear Marc make a noise and twist his fingers into the fabric of the sheets. He looks up at his face, at the color high on his face and the furrow of his brow as he pants. He wants to see it happen. Wants to make sure.

One suck, two sucks, and then a flood— Marc tensing and twisting, thighs coming up to Vale’s temples, and it’s over, Marc twitching and gasping through the aftershocks, the silver of the marker and Vale’s come shiny on his chest. 

“That was fun,” He says dreamily, and Vale hums, feels a little dizzy. He wants to bite at Marc’s thigh, so he does. He'd rather taste sweat than come. Rather mark him in more ways than one, than two. Wants it any way that he can have it.

Marc pets his head lazily, rucking up the sweaty curls in a familiar motion, and then reaches over to the nightstand and puts on his wedding ring, twisting it down his finger.

“We should do that again,” He sits up to grab his phone— probably checking messages from Álex. Vale crawls up to flop next to him, leaning over the bed and grabbing a t-shirt to mop up the mess on Marc’s chest. He doesn’t like to be sticky for too long.

“Yes, yes we should,” He agrees.

Marc hums.

“Next time, I get to be the rider, I think.”

“Really? Eight time champion Marc Marquez picking up fans in bars? I could tell the papers.” He tosses the shirt over his shoulder.

Marc shoots him a look over his phone, then reaches, hand catching at Vale’s wrist and hauling him back close.

“Oh, but I thought I was not famous.”

Vale grins, collapses in to hear Marc grunt at the crush of his weight, to press his face against the soft skin of Marc’s armpit. He traces his name, and then traces Marc's scar.

“Caught that, did you?”

Marc winds an arm around his back. Keeps him there.

“Hm, yeah I did.”

“I was getting into character.”

“The character is you.”

“Yes, and I am a funny guy.” Vale says, and then he reaches up to turn off the light.

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by: @theoneandonlysemla @skyrim-forever @sanzas-reverie @pocket-vvardvark and @yansurnummu thank you!! no pressure tagging: @hircines-hunter @truth-01001001-liar @dirty-bosmer @captain-of-silvenar @illumiera @scholarlyhermit @firefly-factory @pinessydr @flycasual @madam-whim @thescrolls-haveforetold

I've done another colored sketch of Calithil (one day i'll line and shade it) ☺️ Now onto the chapter wip (that's now at 29.7k *sweating*) Sorry this is long! I do so enjoy writing him and Lilliandra researching an incredibly weird corpse. >:3

As always, if you see a mistake, no you didn't.

The third day at Glister Vale has them taking a break from what was written on the ribs and focusing on the spine and mouth. That had its own complications ― starting with the full  two hours they took deliberating on how to tackle it. There was the idea of cutting the head off, but Calithil wanted to hold off on that. He felt similarly about the spine, especially when they weren’t sure if the skin or spine or both were the reason behind the raised markings. Each idea she gave, he found a problem with or had hesitation. Each idea he gave, she thought was too rigid. 

They were at a stalemate. 

“Is there a reason you’re being difficult today?” she asks from her seat by the corpse. She sits on stool, elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand. Her gaze stays on Korina, trying to think of other ideas. 

A sigh. “I could say the same of you. It is almost as if you wish to barrel through this as quickly as possible. Is there somewhere you need to be, or have you decided you suddenly do not enjoy my company?” She gives him a sidelong glance, where he sits at his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he watches her as always. 

Looking back to the pale eyes of Korina, she replies softly, “No.” 

“Then why is today difficult?”

She shrugs. Perhaps she was getting antsy about collecting that book finally. Two back to back failures was not something she was used to. Standing up, she opens the jaw of the girl again, taking a glimpse at the inky glyphs that made her eyes hurt if she stared for too long. She lets go, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. She waits for the pain to ease up ― it felt like a migraine that came about from a rainy day. 

“How bad?”

Another shrug from her. “Odd how it behaves,” she comments. Eyes opening and staring back to the corpse, she hums, thinking. “What if I were to look at it past the discomfort point?”

A snort, so soft she almost misses it from him. They watch the other. A subtle smirk on his lips. “Do you have a masochistic streak I was unaware of?” She considers it. Does she? She knew she had a sadistic one at times. It wasn’t as if she actively went out of her way to hurt herself, nor was there anyone that was brave enough to― Oh. Oh. Her mind thinks to hands on her throat. “You do, if that expression is―” 

She blinks at him. “What expression?” She shakes her head. “Never mind. I’m going to see if I can catch what the glyph in her mouth is.” 

Calithil stays quiet, a contemplative look on his face. After a moment, he gets up to join her side. Neither knew if there might be an unintended effect from her idea, but at the same time, neither trusted bringing in a subject to take her spot. “You understand the potential risk to this, yes?”

“Maybe. The risk could be even worse than what we could ever imagine,” she jokes, but they both know it’s the truth. Calithil hesitates when he raises his hands. For what, she doesn’t know. He drops them, a frown pulling at his lips. 

“I would prefer not to write you off as just an… unfortunate accident.” 

Gold meets with light green and Lilliandra smiles sarcastically. “How sweet.” Her hands cup the girl’s jaw and opens them once more. 

The pain builds slowly as she stares, the glyphs stubbornly staying hazy, blinking. But she’d like to think she’s far more stubborn than some magic. Headache turns to a tension behind her eyes, harsher, making her almost flinch. A hand gently settles on her back, just below her shoulder blades, keeping her steady. Tension pivots to one of the worst migraines she’s experienced ― an almost blinding pain in her left eye. The blinking glyph begins to slow, the haze lifting. She vaguely feels a wetness on her face as the pain and pull to stare turns near all-consuming. Calithil gently calls her name, but she persists. His hand grips her upper arm to pull her away, but she fights to stay ― just a bit more! The glyph blinks once more and suddenly it’s perfectly seen. She doesn’t fight when Caltihil grips onto her more tightly and yanks her away. 

She doesn’t expect a few things after that. One, as soon as her eyes were off the glyph, her body collapsed ― as if the strings keeping her up had suddenly been cut. If not for Calithil already having one hand on her, she’d likely have smashed her head onto the table with the way her legs gave out. He quickly eases her body down, laying it down as he sits by her. 

Two, the way he held her face in his hands, the way his eyes held the smallest sign of panic. One of his hands move to support her neck and the other pulls away and―

Three, blood on his hands from her face. She’s not exactly panicked like the mer before her, more so confused when she notices the deep red.

“Breath,” he tells her. Why? “Breath.” She tries to follow anyway and finds it hard. It’s painful. But it pales in comparison to what feels like a spike through her eye and behind it. Her breaths come labored and short. She closes her eyes, trying to― well, she doesn’t know. Her head is shifted into his lap. “Well, was it worth the suffering?” his voice is tight, but she can tell he’s trying to joke. 

She moves to give him a thumbs up, but realises she still can’t raise her hand. “Yes,” her voice barely sounds like her own, slurred under the weight of everything. 

Warmth and the light glow behind her closed eyelids tells her Calithil is trying to heal her. Was she really in that bad of shape? Yes, she realises, when it feels like the weight on her chest suddenly lifts and the pain in her skull ebbs. The needle feeling in her limbs tells her she’s regaining use of her body, but she isn’t ready for the pure exhaustion that follows. She groans, not caring to move from his hold just yet. 

A strained chuckle. “I suppose I will not be telling Psylia that you died.”

“Debatable.” She opens her eyes again. 

There’s a grimace on his face. “That was incredibly risky,” he tries to chide her. 

“Perhaps, but I saw the glyph,” she says rather pleased with herself. “Are you going to keep holding me like this?” 

A beat. “Perhaps.” His thumb swipes along her cheek, leaving a sticky sensation, and she glimpses more red. He must have caught the curious look she had, because he raises his hand slightly above her face, showing her a better look. “Whatever magic that was, it left your eye bleeding. Thankfully, restoration seems to be helping. Of course, you no longer looking at it also stopped it.” 

“Likely.”

Silence again. Then he asks, “Can you stand?”

Wiggling her toes in her boots, she feels a sense of deja-vu. “Most likely. Just―” Slowly she moves her feet, trying to judge her current strength. “―I might need some help.”

He stands first, then offers her his hands, then pauses. Looking at his bloodied hand, he wipes it against his leather apron and offers it back to her. Carefully, they pull her back to her feet. She goes for her forgotten stool, but he pulls her towards his desk. She follows wordlessly. Guided to his chair, she takes it in silent appreciation. Her tired body slumps into it, her head tilted back as she stares at the ceiling. 

“Can you draw the glyph?” 

“Yes.” She brings her head back down, looking to the desk for paper and― A silverpoint stylus is given to her as she collects a random sheet of parchment. A few quick scratches later and she leans back into the chair with a sigh. He reaches for the paper and walks away. She watches him, the way he looks between the written glyph and their work on the board. 

Quiet.

Quiet from him as he thinks. A tired quiet from her as her body aches. She yawns, then grimaces at the sensation of dried blood cracking on her skin. She would need to see to that. Looking around the laboratory, she finds the small basin in the corner of the room and the water carfare near it. She gets up to clean herself but―

Her body stumbles. 

Calithil helps steady her with a hand catching her upper arm. “You could have asked.” When she’s stable, he lets her go, but slowly. He follows her as she walks, a hand hovering at her back. 

“You can’t blame me for expecting to be able to at least walk on my own.” 

He thinly smiles. Together they get to the basin and in turns, they finally clean themselves of her blood. She walks more steadily back to his desk, but his hand still hovers behind her. With a huff, she sits back down. 

“I think we should take a break― Actually, you should.” She narrows her eyes at his insinuation ― that she was too weak to continue. “I’ll check on the other ongoing projects, give you some time.” 

Looking down at her hands that were in her lap, she frowns. She knows she’ll recoup easily. What would she do while she waits for his return? 

Wait―

She could see about sneaking into her mother’s office. The last two times were late evenings. Perhaps she was picking the wrong times? 

Calithil pulls her from her thoughts. “Will you be fine? Or should I expect you on the floor when I return because you chose to do something risky without me here?” She looks back to him and waves for him to go, trying not to scowl. “Will you mope because I’ve offended you?” 

“Hardly.” Maybe. If she didn’t have somewhere to sneak to. 

“Hmm.” He looks her over, and when he seems content about something, leaves.

[callsign-rogueone]

fireproof - b.s.

cadet!Brennan Sorrengail x cadet!reader (young Brennan and Duchess!) words: 1.4k 🏷: no book spoilers because this happens before the events of fourth wing hehe. more of bb bren and bb duchess. set soon after the events of allies, so read that first! near-death situation / mortal peril, but no actual injury happens. I promise these two will communicate their feelings soon lol

You come to a stop in front of Brennan’s door, heart pounding. You hadn’t thought about this part, and you’re not sure what to do; you don’t want to knock, don’t want to wake up any of the other cadets -- it’s still very much four in the morning, and you’re not supposed to be out of your room.

You’re not supposed to be talking to a second dragon, either, but here you are.

Brennan pulls the door open, sparing you the decision -- Marbh must have woken him up. He’s quick to usher you inside, scanning you for injury. 

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you breathe, “but Marbh is in my head right now.”

He blinks the sleep from his eyes, still not fully awake. “What?”

“Marbh is talking to me. I have no idea why or how, and for some reason, I can’t reach Ban to ask.”

You both hear the orange daggertail’s response at once. “She is otherwise occupied, so she sent me.”

“That’s not vague at all,” Brennan says aloud, exasperated.

“If you must know, she is defending herself to the Empyrean right now.”

Your eyes widen. “The dragon council? Why?”

“That is for her to explain to you.”

Brennan notices you’re fully dressed, your longsword sheathed across your back and a thick cloak covering your shoulders. “If you’re going to find her, I’m coming too.”

He turns to open the closet, digging through it for a clean pair of flight leathers.

Your eyes catch the dark orange of the relic spanning his back, your cheeks warming as you realize he isn’t wearing a shirt. You whirl around, averting your eyes, but the sight is already burned into your brain.

You’d never realized how toned he is.

Focus, you tell yourself, shaking the thought from your head. Ban could be in mortal danger right now. 

“Ready,” Brennan says, shouldering his sword.

It’s absolutely freezing out, still the thick of winter, though there’s been a break in the snow this week, so you don’t need to worry about leaving footprints as you cross the courtyard.

Brennan leads the way, taking a shortcut through a door you’ve never even noticed before. 

Making it out of the fortress is the easy part. You step into the wet grass, and you realize you have no idea where to go.

“Marbh?” 

Silence. Literal crickets. Great.

You gather the slack of the black string connecting you to Ban and pull gently, seeing where it leads. Northeast, to the flight field and the vale. You make the climb silently, worried that if you speak, you’ll somehow alert whoever is threatening Ban to your presence, or that you won’t hear them coming.

You’ve never been out here, never been allowed to -- you still aren’t, and you probably never will be, but you push the thought aside as you continue. It’s surprisingly deserted out here, which is as equally concerning as it is relieving.

It’s so dark out that you almost mistake the orange daggertail ahead of you for Marbh. Almost. 

Marbh isn’t missing an eye; this is Melgren’s dragon, Solas.

His jaws open, and you know there’s no time to run, to fight, to beg for your life.

You yank Brennan behind you, praying to whatever gods will answer that your body will be enough to shield him from the fire.

It is.

You hear the roar, feel the heat, see the grass on either side of you catch, but you’re protected by an invisible wall that extends from your outstretched hands, keeping back the flame.

You plant your feet, fighting to stay upright and to keep doing whatever this is. It feels like you’re pushing a thousand pounds uphill, but if you stop, if you falter for even a second, or it will cost both you and Brennan your lives.

The blast stops, leaving a wall of flickering orange fire in front of you that fades after a split second.

You nearly collapse as you step backward. You’re exhausted, soaked in sweat and overheated despite the chill of the night air, your heart pounding and lungs burning like you’ve been running for miles.

Brennan holds you up, undoing the clasp of your cloak to help cool you off.

The ground shakes with the landing of multiple dragons. If they’re as mad as Solas is, you’re absolutely cooked. You have no idea how to do that again, or if you even can.

You want to tell him how sorry you are that you’d dragged him into this, that you shouldn’t have knocked on his door to tell him, you should have just gone alone, that when you die together, you'll spend the rest of your afterlife making it up to him, that your biggest regret in life will be not telling him how you felt about him, that you--

“Sorry I’m late, noble one.”

You whip your head up to see a black leg next to you. Ban. She’s brought company — Marbh, and a giant brown swordtail that you’ve never seen before. Brennan’s eyes widen in shock, but he stays silent, his arms still wrapped around you.

Marbh does not greet you, instead stalking past you toward the other orange dragon and baring his teeth in warning.

Oh, gods, are they going to fight? If Solas kills Marbh, it’ll kill Brennan too.

The brown steps forward, cutting Marbh off and stepping dangerously close to Solas. They lock eyes for a moment, and Solas backs up, but the other takes a step forward, forcing him to retreat. Solas quits while he’s behind, taking flight and disappearing over the ridge.

The brown dragon looks back at you, satisfied with his work.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him, still terrified. If he could scare off Solas, he must be even nastier — or he must have said something to him that made a difference.

He nods his head at you in acknowledgment before he takes off.

The sun is starting to rise over the mountains, casting the scorched ground in gold. 

Brennan’s hands are on you instantly, checking you over for injury, but you’re more focused on the perfect half-circle of green grass beneath you that hadn’t been burned.

“You’re a fire wielder,” Ban answers, sensing your confusion. 

You breathe a sigh of relief. Finally.

It had taken Brennan just over two weeks to discover that he was a mender, the rest of your class following suit quickly. You're the only first-year who is yet to attend Professor Carr’s lectures. 

You were beginning to think you might not have been going to get a signet at all.

“We never doubted you for a second,” another voice purrs -- not Ban or Marbh.

You startle. “What?”

A different one replies, a gruff male who sounds absolutely terrifying. “We’ve been watching you with great interest. I now understand what she saw in you on conscription day.”

This has to be a dream. There’s no way that four dragons are in your head right now.

“You’ll get used to it,” yet another adds. Five? 

“How many of you are there?” you ask aloud, eyes widening.

Another answers. “A dozen, for now. I am sure that many others will come to accept you in time.”

“Accept me? What?”

“As a human ambassador,” Marbh replies, as if it’s obvious. “We haven’t had one in nearly a century. It was about time.”

You notice a new string now sits beside the one you share with Ban, multiple threads of different colors twisted together into a thick rope.

You laugh in shock, processing. “But why me?”

“Because of this,” Brennan says softly, touching your forehead, “and this,” he rests his fingertips against your chest, keeping them there.

Your eyes meet, and you feel that magnetism you’d felt the day he’d first spoken to you. Your heart races under his hand.

“The boy is correct. You are the first in two human generations with this deep of a respect for our kind.”

You’re still looking at Brennan. You bring a hand up to grasp his, completely forgetting about the soot coating your fingers. It smears against his skin, leaving streaks of black across his knuckles, but neither of you seem to mind.

“Now would be an excellent time,” Ban prods.

You part your lips, working up the courage, but someone else speaks first; a human, that Brennan hears too, and the both of you freeze, turning toward the voice.

“Of all the students that I’d think to find sneaking out, you two were certainly not on the list.”

Professor Kaori. He looks thoroughly unamused, eyeing the four of you and the burned patches on the ground with suspicion.

Brennan looks back to you, and you nod in permission — there’s no lying your way out of this, not when the whole riot will know of the night’s events in a matter of minutes.

“You’re gonna want to hear her out, Professor.”

[kingofthecotas]

Sci Fi AU RPF Summer Camp patch for this week naturally reminds me of my favourite idiots in space. 🌌🌌🌌

How are my favourite idiots in space, huh? Are all starships in one piece? Are Vale and Marc communicating (hah!)? Has anyone gotten sick of Vale complaining about he and Marc being sent to opposite sides of the universe yet? Are there any other sneaky shenanigans going on, maybe with the crew, or the long-suffering read admirals?

SPACE! SPACE! SPACE!

😘

what are these guys getting up to i wonder? let’s find out! 🌌

feet on the ground (ao3) | 2.4 k

Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth 

“Relax,” Marc says for what feels like the tenth time since they entered the Starfleet building. “There is nothing for you to do. Just stand behind my chair, look like you are paying attention—and for goodness’s sake, do not crack your knuckles.”

Fabio smiles, somewhat sheepishly, and ducks his head, locks his hands behind his back. In his defence, this is the first admiral’s briefing that he has been required to attend; every other occasion has found the USS Kairos on a mission, and Marc had only had to connect through the holocom. 

Marc tries to think back to his first in-person briefing. He can’t remember being so nervous, but he had been young, and Dani had probably been much more reassuring. He had also probably spent much of the meeting trying to avoid looking at Valentino, slumped irreverently in his chair like a teenager. 

“Just listen,” he tells Fabio, turning down yet another corridor on muscle memory alone. Everything is pristine white here, as clean as if they were on a starship. “More than anything, they are useful. Interesting. I may have to give a report. The First Officers being there is a formality, nothing more. Good for your development also.” Because he isn’t stupid, nor as wilfully ignorant as Vale had been with him; Fabio was top of his cohort in the Academy, he went through officer training, so there’s only one place he would want to end up. 

“Okay,” Fabio agrees, somewhat breathlessly, one hand adjusting his officer’s uniform, and then they are outside the conference room. Marc smiles at him once more before he ducks inside. 

His gaze finds Pecco first, leaning against the far wall speaking to Commander Martin—and then, then he spots Valentino, leaning over an empty chair to listen to Espargaró. Marc smiles again and gestures for Fabio to follow him around the table.

Valentino doesn’t see him at first, so Marc pulls out the chair between him and Aleix. “Room for a little one?”

Vale smiles, cheek-splitting, as he sits down. “Captain.”

“Captain,” Marc responds. They both ignore Aleix’s disgusted scoff; he adores Marc, and he doesn’t mind Vale, but he has never liked the two of them together. He is not as forgiving as Marc.

“It’s been a while, no?”

“Six earth weeks, I think.” They had watched the aurora on the moon of Ganymede, and then Valentino had fucked him against the wall of his apartment, the heat of Serrice ice brandy still caught in their throats. 

Vale smirks. “Too long, then.”

“You’re early,” Marc says, accusing, perhaps, because Vale hadn’t said he’d be back for this.

“Pecco sped.”

“You can’t speed through warp,” Pecco says; his tone suggests this isn’t the first time hearing this, and that it’s not getting any funnier. 

“He’s an annoying bastard,” Marc agrees with deep sympathy, and then cackles when Vale swipes his uniform hat from his head. 

At the head of the table, Fleet Admiral Doohan clears his throat. Marc’s smile drops.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” the admiral says, dry as anything. He stands tall, even though he still walks with a limp: the injury sustained guiding a malfunctioning Helios through the Kuiper Belt; the injury that meant Valentino had to assume a command he has never relinquished since. Doohan’s eyes are piercing; the last time Marc had seen him—shit, it had been the investigation meetings after he’d lost the Avalon. He sits a little straighter. 

Valentino’s hand finds his beneath the table, squeezes. 

“If we’re quite ready,” Doohan levels a glare at Vale, who smiles beatifically at his one-time captain. “Fleet update then: we’re hitting maintenance time for a lot of you, so enjoy some well-earned rest…”

Marc relaxes into his seat again as Doohan rattles through his updates and reminders: nothing unexpected, just a warning to make sure they register flights through non-Federation space ahead of time to avoid any incidents. 

“Finally, it’s with no small amount of sadness that I have to announce that the Andorra’s next voyage will be Captain Espargaró’s last.”

Marc whips his head around, finds Aleix wearing a rueful smile. 

“He is accepting the admiralty, so we can add his name to the long list of captains that Pirro has outlasted.” Some laughter; Marc doesn’t join in. Aleix is—he doesn’t have words for everything Aleix is. It will be lonelier in space without him. “He’s prepared his successor well, and I have every confidence that Commander Martin is more than ready to assume the chair when that time comes.”

Ah. Vale can’t see Pecco’s face, turned towards the front as he is, but Marc, from this angle, can. He can see the wide smile he flashes as he nudges Martin’s arm in congratulations. He can see the tight pull of Pecco’s mouth when he turns away.

“And before we finish, Personnel have suggested we add some positivity into these briefings, so.” Doohan clears his throat. “Firstly, Quartermaster Dovizioso would like to congratulate the crew of the Ulysses for eating through their stores in only a month. He notes that he has never had to send a supply shuttle to an outpost before.”

The table collapses in raucous laughter. Aleix’s big laugh rings in Marc’s ears and he grins.

“I have been asked to convey the excellent news that, as expected, Delta Pavonis is not going to obliterate Earth in the near future.”

A round of mocking applause. Marc snorts; that had been his observation mission. 

“An unprecedented number of samples have been received and examined from our probe on Comet West, the closest anyone in charted space has ever been—thank you, Captain Márquez, for being the only cunt in the Federation stupid enough to try and succeed.”

More laughter. A few impressed glances. 

“And finally, my personal congratulations to Captain Rossi, who is still neither dead nor an admiral, despite everybody’s efforts to the contrary.” 

Vale leans forward, a wide grin on his face—across the table, Dani is laughing so hard he seems to be on the verge of tears. “You know I’m a difficult bastard to get rid of, sir.” 

“More than anyone,” Doohan agrees, just a hint of a smile. “Dismissed.”

All the captains stand as one, and the admirals file out. Dani is still laughing. 

——

It’s dark outside when Marc finds himself on the steps of Starfleet headquarters; he inhales, deep, because even the air of a city like San Francisco is better than recycled starship oxygen, and casts his gaze around. 

There: bottom of the steps. Valentino is waiting.

“Captain?”

Shit. He’d all but forgotten about his first officer. 

“All good, Fabio,” he says. “Go home. Turn off your datapad. Enjoy your shore leave, yes? I don’t want to hear from you for the next four weeks.” 

“Are you sure?” Fabio says. Over his shoulder, Marc can see one of Aleix’s ensigns hovering, nervous.

“Commander,” he says firmly, “with all due respect, fuck off.”

Fabio grins. “Yes, Captain.” 

Marc shakes his head and descends the last of the steps, folding himself into Valentino’s arms. It had been no time at all, in the scheme of things, and entirely too long. 

“He’s cute,” Valentino says into his ear, “like a wompat,” then, “That wants to fuck you.”

“Don’t be mean,” Marc groans. “Just because he isn’t intimidated by you.”

“He knows me. I had him for a class. His third year, I think. He was very good. Besides.” Vale pulls away. “All the cadets now want to be like you.”

“Sure.”

“It’s true! The officer training classes—you are an exam question, I have seen it.” 

“Now my name is not a swear word to Starfleet High Command, you mean.”

“Ah, well, perhaps in Financials they do not like you so much. But people talk, and they talk because they are alive. Because you saved them.” Valentino’s hand traces up his right arm, gentle. “Money is never worth more than a life, hm?”

No life is worth a starship. Vale had all but whispered it to him over the commlink, begged. That, more than anything, had probably saved Marc’s life.

Vale blinks. Smiles something gentle. “Your place or mine?”

“It’s the same fucking apartment,” Marc says. He understands Pecco: not the first time he’s hearing it, and it’s getting no funnier. 

“Sounds like dinner and drinks, then.” 

“Well, if you insist.” Marc allows himself to be pulled along, falling into step as they leave the Starfleet campus and head towards the district full of restaurants and bars. “This is a maintenance cycle. Four weeks, at least.”

“Same for me.” 

“Good.” Marc has every intention of taking advantage of every second of those four weeks. “I have been missing, ah, pasta. Or seafood.”

“Pecco mentioned a seafood place,” Vale says, eyes thoughtful. “Not far from the shuttle bay, he said.”

“Ah…” Marc says carefully, because if Pecco is talking about restaurants, it is probably less of a recommendation and more of a slip of his plans for the evening. Plans that involve the Helios’ communications officer, no doubt. “It will be easier to find somewhere that does pasta. We can bring it back with us—I’m tired, Vale.” It’s not entirely a lie: it has been a long time away from Earth. 

“Okay,” Valentino says, easy. 

Pecco owes Marc. He owes him big time. 

——

The first thing Marc does when the door closes is flick on the audio machine that they keep by their bed; it echoes the familiar thrum of a warp core as closely as possible. 

The second thing he does is turn around and kiss Valentino before he’s even placed their takeaway bag on the spotless worktop. 

“Careful,” Vale laughs. “I have carried this a long way.”

“Fine,” Marc says, because he is hungry and it’s been a long time since he’s had anything that wasn’t starship rations. He finds a bottle of wine in the cupboard, real Earth wine, and rifles around for the automatic corkscrew as Vale opens containers, spoons pasta into bowls. 

“Have you, ah…?” Marc carefully pours them two glasses, eyes fixed on the slip of red through the stemless crystal. “Have you spoken to Pecco much? About what he wants to do?” 

“What do you mean?” And there it is, hackles up like a Targ with its spines bristling. Pride has always been Valentine’s problem, defensive when he feels caught out. 

“No, just—stars, will you listen to me?”

“Okay,” Vale says, careful, because they’ve been here before. That time, Marc had walked away. 

“Fabio was three years behind him in the Academy, and already he is a First Officer. Less than a year now, and Martin will be Captain. He will not—he won’t want to leave. But I am worried he might be—he might feel left behind.” Marc puts the bottle down. Purses his lips. “You are not handing over your seat anytime soon. He knows this.” 

Vale’s brow is furrowed, his mouth pinched in a way Marc finds a little too familiar. “If Pecco wants something, he can ask—”

Fuck’s sake. “He will not ask you. You chose him—you chose all of them. You trained them, found where they would fit best. They love you.”

“That doesn’t—”

“You are difficult to tell things to,” Marc snaps. “I know.” 

Silence.

“Okay,” Valentino says again. “Okay, just—what, then?”

Marc hesitates, suspicious of this Valentino who has rolled over so easily, lowered his shields and downed his weapons. “What?”

“If this was Fabio—no, if it was Álex, what would you do?”

“If he was ready?” Marc says quietly. “I’d be putting his name in every conversation. I’d be telling the admirals he needed his own ship. I’d be putting him in the chair every chance I got.” 

Vale twists his lips, almost rueful. “So—what I should have done with you, then.” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Valentino reaches for one of the wine glasses and takes a long sip. “I would be a pretty shit captain if I didn't learn from my mistakes.”

Marc doesn’t say anything, just waits, something warm bubbling in his chest. 

“Noted, Captain.” Valentino takes another sip, slim fingers wrapped around the glass, and then turns back to the takeaway containers. “Let’s have dinner, yes? This pasta will not be so good when it is cold.” 

“No.”

“Come here,” Vale murmurs, and he will not say sorry, but he will kiss the top of Marc’s head when he presses into Valentino’s side, so that will be close enough.

——

Gravity, he’s learning, makes his arm ache more—real gravity, at any rate. 

Marc wakes up early, too early, not even a hint of daylight behind their blackout blinds. For a moment, he clenches his jaw, flexes his right hand, before rolling away from Valentino and clambering out of bed.

He finds himself in the open-plan kitchen, rolling up the blind on the wall-height viewing window. In their bedroom, the white noise machine pulses like a heartbeat, warp-core constant. He stares at the city lights until his eyes blur and he can almost pretend they’re stars. 

Maybe if he didn’t fly, if it wasn’t him at the controls—but the Kairos is a small ship with a light crew, and there is no other pilot. No one but him to take the controls when they drop out of warp. 

He watches the city until dawn breaks and he can’t pretend he’s in space anymore, so he turns to the coffee machine—and fuck, it’s been a while since he had real coffee beans to grind. 

“Marc?” Valentino melts into the kitchen, all drowsy eyes and clumsy limbs.

“Sorry, the light,” Marc says, and pushes the cappuccino he’d made towards Valentino. “Sleep okay?”

“Until it got light.”

“Yeah.” They spend so much of their lives in the infinite blanket of the stars, a soft darkness that could swallow them whole. Sunrise is an unwelcome intrusion that no artificial daylight cycle can prepare them for. “We can go out for breakfast.”

“Well, there is no food, we will have to.”

“Okay.” 

“You look tired,” Vale says, and then yawns into his coffee. 

“Ah, I never sleep well the first day back. Difficult.”

“Yeah.” Valentino drifts around the kitchen island, mug in hand. “Breakfast, and then?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Tired.”

“Okay,” Vale says, obviously weary himself: unwilling to fight again. “Okay. Okay.” 

Marc turns back to make himself another coffee. Valentino kisses the back of his neck.

His arm throbs.