#+ what looks suspiciously like someone gettin scooped

[beardedhandstoadshark]

Well fellas, how are we feeling about the fnaf trailer?

[babbushka]

Biting Dust - Ch. 5

Life ain’t too easy for a woman, ‘specially not a woman on the run like you. With a bounty on your head and gunpowder in your nose, you’ve grown adjusted to a life of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of civilization. That is, until you meet one particular man who’s got a face you’d only ever seen in your dreams – or on wanted posters. And when he offers you a proposition that sounds too good to be true, well. You don’t think your life will ever be the same again…

Outlaw!Kylo Ren x Reader

Tumblr Masterlist | Available on AO3

6k; Warnings: Attempted assault, attempted murder

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Red clouds of earth kick up behind your horse’s hooves as they gallop far past the town line, hootin’ and hollerin’ all the while. The wind whips your hair around, your bonnet flung right off your head, held onto your person only by the wide ribbon that’s kept it tied ‘round your throat. Adrenaline pumps through your body, makes your vision spotty, makes your heart beat fast fast fast, ridin’ like lightning away from Ragrock.

Kylo’s right beside you, makin’ just as much damn noise as you, his crooked teeth gleamin’ gold in the blazin’ Arizona sun. You ain’t never see him grin this big, as he shouts and jeers too, challengin’ the canyons and the desert, darin’ them to take this moment away from the both of you.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe you!” You laugh, voice nearly gettin’ lost in the wind, cheeks hurtin’ from the way you’re smilin’ so much, “Goddamn you’re so -- so -- stupid!”

Kylo laughs at that too, a deep rumblin’ sound that feels so much like thunder that you’re sure it’s shakin’ the earth. Or maybe that’s Sam and Agnes, the way they’re throwin’ their heads back and whinnying and stampin’ their hooves into the caked dirt below. Either way, it’s a good sound, one of them sounds that makes you ache in your bones; you can’t remember the last time you heard someone else laugh so genuinely.

“Yeah?” He finally decides to slow Sam to a halt, and you do the same, tuggin’ on Aggie’s reigns to get her to calm just a little bit, the horses powerful legs comin’ to a gentle trot, both you and Kylo gulpin’ down air.

“Yeah. Why the hell did you bring us through there knowin’ there was bad blood?” You reach into the saddle bag and pull out a canteen, measurin’ a careful sip or two of the fresh river water, before decidin’ to pass the jug over to Kylo himself.

Gratefully, he takes the same size sip as you, and you think that’s mighty chivalrous of him once again, on account of he’s a much bigger person than you, and should clearly need more water. Still, you don’t protest when he hands the canteen back to you, the lid screwed on nice and tight to avoid spillin’.

“It was the only place I could think of that’s close enough.” He shrugs, and you frown ever so slightly at that, knowin’ that really, as long as you stay close to the Colorado River, you’ll have just about anything you need.

Well, almost, anyway.

“Close enough for what?” Your curiosity gets the better of you, especially when he starts rummagin’ around in his own saddle-bag for somethin’. You lean over, tryin’ to be nosy and get a peek inside, but he only clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and you duck your head, embarrassed at bein’ caught.

“For this,” Kylo doesn’t make you wait though, pullin’ out a couple boxes of bullets, but much more importantly, “And these.”

When Kylo pulls out the burlap sack filled with coins, your eyes widen. Right there in his fist has to be over five hundred dollars in gold and silver, more money than you’ve ever seen in one place save for the banks you burn. It makes your mouth go dry, and you wonder how he got a hold of it all, if he took it from the cash register by force, or if he stole it discreetly.

“Holy shit, no wonder you were takin’ so damn long.” You urge Aggie a little closer to get a better look, darin’ to stick your hand in the bag and scoop up a handful of the coins. They were heavy, heavy and real.

“I figured you wouldn’t be opposed.” Kylo speaks quietly as your hands let the coins fall between your fingers, clinking together back in the sack. He gives you the sack then, lets the weight of it rest in your hands, clearin’ his voice, “We’ll need it for Ruby City.”

Without a thought, you push it back into his hand. He was the one who had stolen it, it belonged to him. Yes you were out of money, your own coin purse completely empty, but...but you had more pride than that, to accept someone else’s hard earned coin. Even if he had earned it wrongly, it was still his.

Besides, you reckon as you shake your head when he tries to give it back once again, Kylo was right -- it’s less suspicious to travel with a man, and if you’re traveling together, he better be the one to handle the money.

Kylo seems to read your thoughts, and he just nods, before taking a couple coins out and handing them to you, fifty bucks weighin’ on your palm.

“Just take the fuckin’ money.” He says with a small smile. “I won’t hear any ‘no’, it’s yours too, for helpin’ me by distractin’ the townfolk.”

You sigh, and reluctantly put the coins in your own small purse. For the first time in a while, the fabric is bulged out and heavy. Kylo puts the burlap sack back in his saddle-bag, and you resolve to ignore its existence until you need him to pay for a room at an inn somewhere.

“Should’ve warned me that you knew the damn bartender.” You scold him then, a little disgruntled that he had kept that information from you. If you were going to be a distraction, you would’ve liked to know exactly who it was you’re distractin’. “Should’ve told me y’all hated each other.”

You don’t tell Kylo that you were flirtin’ with that Armitage, certain that he wouldn’t like it. He sure as hell didn’t like it when Amos was gettin’ a little too friendly with you, anyway, and he was just a stranger. To your surprise though, Kylo scoffs out a laugh, and fishes out his old cigarette from the inside of his boot, lightin’ it with a match and puffin’ smoke through his nose.

“Hate?” He’s got humor in his voice as he urges Sam forward, needin’ to get back towards the water’s edge before the sun sank too low in the sky, “Nah, Hux and I go way back. He’s a good friend.”

You level him a dirty glare at that, if only he had told you he coulda’ saved you a world of panic! You think about the way that Armitage shot out his own windows, the way that Kylo managed to murder Armitage’s brother without any guns of his own, and all the damn fallout that came from it.

“Didn’t seem to be actin’ like a good friend when he was aimin’ his shotgun at your face.” You point out, thinkin’ to yourself, men are so goddamn strange.

Kylo laughs again, and you find yourself growin’ dangerously used to the sound, so you just sigh and shake your head. He smokes and smokes, both of your horses leadin’ you closer to the water, havin’ galloped away from it ever so slightly.

“He likes when I come rollin’ through, trust me. He always complains about how quiet his lil’ town of Ragrock gets, likes to give the folks somethin’ to gossip about every now and again.” Kylo explains, patton’ Sam’s neck and flashin’ you a gold-tipped smile.

“So he really wasn’t going to kill us then?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Oh no he probably would’ve if I let him.” Kylo answers quickly, “‘Specially after what I did to Brian. But he’ll be fine with it in a couple weeks once folks tell him I wasn’t the one that started nothin’.”

You stare at him for a little while, and he can feel the weight of your gaze on him, but he only gives you a crooked smile and a wink. You weren’t so sure what that wink meant, but if you had to guess, it could really only mean trouble.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” You lick across your teeth to prevent yourself from smilin’ and givin’ him the satisfaction of knowing that he entertains you. The grin he gives you tells you he knows it anyway.

“Nothin’ that you can’t handle though, I reckon.” Counterin’ with a slight smile, Kylo ducks his head and blushes, and that alone is enough to make you tap your heels against Aggie’s hide, to get her to go gallopin’ down the canyons again.

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

Some hours later, when the world around you starts to cool off from the settin’ of the sun, you and Kylo set up camp near the river. He had gone ahead and scouted the spot out, made sure there weren’t any folks who had already laid claim to that particular stretch of the bend, no one that could go cousin’ any trouble.

There was more than enough money now, to buy new stocks of food whenever y’all got to the next stop along the route, but that didn’t mean that you were about to let Kylo blow through the supply. So instead, you ask he hunt you down another rabbit for dinner, which he does in less than a half hour, impressin’ you once again.

It’s quiet, out there by the river. The sky has faded to a gentle purple, the silvery moon high in the sky. You’ve got a fire made, nothin’ too big or roarin’, just tall enough to heat up the cast-iron pot that you’ve got hangin’ over it by an iron stake. That rabbit is stewin’ in the pot, along with some water, beans, cut up carrots and a little bit of rice. You stir the pot, listenin’ to the sound of the river as it trickles past.

The sweet sound of a harmonica sounds then, and your gaze snaps up to see Kylo with the instrument against his lips. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathin’ nice and even, the high tune of a melody makin’ your throat choke up. It was a tune you knew all too well, once upon a time, a long time ago.

You stir the stew, chewin’ on the side of your cheek, until somethin’ in you compels you to sing. Your voice is a little rusty, but it doesn’t deter Kylo one bit, in fact, when he catches wind of you singin’ along to his tune, he plays a little louder, a little clearer, switchin’ to the harmony as you take over the melody to the sad cowboy song that you once used to teach yourself,

"O bury me not on the lone prairie."

These words came low and mournfully

From the pallid lips of the youth who lay

On his dying bed at the close of day.

He had wasted and pined 'til o'er his brow

Death's shades were slowly gathering now

He thought of home and loved ones nigh,

As the cowboys gathered to see him die.

"O bury me not on the lone prairie

Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free

In a narrow grave just six by three—

O bury me not on the lone prairie"

"It matters not, I've been told,

Where the body lies when the heart grows cold

Yet grant, o grant, this wish to me

O bury me not on the lone prairie."

Kylo sets down his harmonica then, and you blink away a light mistiness in your eye. It ain’t good to dwell on the past, you know, but sometimes, times like these, you can’t help but think ‘bout it. Kylo’s blinkin’ away somethin’ too, you notice, so as you stir the stew and determine the rabbit and vegetable and rice are all as cooked as they need to be, you ladle a big bowl for you and for this man who has become the closest thing to a companion you’ve ever had in your life, and you take it over to him.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, not for a while. You simply sit down next to him, as close to him as you’ve gotten since that time in the river, and hand him the bowl and spoon. He accepts it gratefully, his own gaze cast into the fire, and not for the first time, you wonder what’s goin’ on in his head.

After a couple bites of the stew, you rest your head on his shoulder. It’s a tentative motion, a hesitant one. Kylo holds his breath, you can feel it in the way he tenses ever so slightly, but he doesn’t tell you to move, and that’s as good of an invitation to stay as any, you reckon.

“You can’t go lookin’ at me like that, by the by.” Breaking the silence, you slurp down a spoonful of stew yourself, lookin’ into the comforting vision of the flames which flicker and flare gently in front of you.

“Hm?”

“If we’re meant to be cousins,” You explain, voice soft and kind, knowin’ that you’ve been too hard on him these past couple days. “You can’t be givin’ me those eyes of yours. Folks might see through the ruse.”

Kylo surprises you by shruggin’ with his other shoulder, his cheeks crinklin’ into a smile. His dimples crease, and he chews on his lip a little, keepin’ his eyes down as he blushes.

“Folks marry their cousins all the time, it wouldn’t be so strange.” Kylo nearly whispers, almost like he’s afraid to speak the words, rushes quickly to try and change the subject as soon as he’s said it, “Hell, my mother almost married her own damn brother on accident -- but that’s a long and complicated story.”

“Oh so we’re married now.” You smile, feelin’ the heat rise to your own cheeks. It’s less of a question and more of a statement, the way you say it, and you find that against your own better judgement, you like the way it sounds. You like the idea of it, and that makes butterflies spark up in your stomach, a feelin’ you ain’t so used to.

“We could be.” Kylo doesn’t dare look at you, idly stirring his bowl, “We could pretend, anyway.”

You think for a second about what that might be like -- but then you shake your head a little and sigh, “I made a promise I’d never be a meek housewife.”

“Ain’t no one here callin’ you meek.” Kylo reassures you, and now it’s your turn to duck your head, to rest it against his shoulder a little more. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, you wonder if he can hear it out there in the quiet of night.

“Be my cousin, for just a little while longer.” You whisper, a silent plea to just give you some more time, “Until we make it to Ruby City.”

“I can’t get a good read on you.” Kylo hums, and you’re relieved to hear that he’s not got an angry or disappointed edge to his tone.

He really does respect you, you realize all of a sudden. Maybe it’s foolish to come to that conclusion so soon, so quickly after you’ve met him, but you can’t help but come to it nonetheless. He’s done nothin’ but respect you this whole time, and you don’t know what to do about that. It’s never happened before.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, a hint of a smile on your lips.

“It means that you’re the most mysterious damn woman I’ve ever met.” He replies easily, a smile on his own.

“I have to be.” Shrugging, you eat another bite of the stew, wishin’ you had some spices to throw in it. You hope Kylo doesn’t think it’s too bland -- before growin’ bashful again, at the thought that you want him to enjoy your cookin’.

“Why’s that?”

“Because the more people that know about me, the less safe I am.”

“I told you -- ”

“I know, you ain’t gonna hurt me, I know.” You interrupt him, before sighing, wondering if you were really going to do this, if you were really going to tell him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Kylo senses a shift in the air, a change in the atmosphere, and his teasing playful smile melts into something a little more somber, more serious. He watches you, and waits for what you have to say, and you decide that what the hell -- if you couldn’t tell Kylo, you couldn’t tell anyone at all.

“I didn’t always used to be an outlaw, you know.” Setting down your bowl of stew, you fidget with the hem of your blue dress’ skirt, and look into the fire, your memory transporting you to a place and time that felt like a million years ago. “There was a time, a long time ago, that I was a school teacher, in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere Utah...”

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You were young, when you started teachin’ at the school. It had always been your favorite place when you were growin’ up, and when the teacher herself got married and moved away, you jumped at the vacancy at once. This was the only way a young woman like yourself could earn a living with her clothes on, you knew that, and though you were barely older than the students that came to your classes, you took your job seriously.

It had been a bright sunny morning in Spring the day you turned sixteen, when the bells tolled for all the school children to come rushing to your door. Standing outside the single room schoolhouse, you had a cheerful smile on your face as you welcomed the students that you had come to love and care for, as they bounded up the few steps and into the wooden building. Ranging in age from as young as five, to as old as twelve, two dozen students took to their seats, fresh faced and recently washed, hair combed for their lessons.

“Good mornin’ class!” You walk to the front of the room once the bell finishes tolling, picking up a piece of chalk and writing out the first line to a popular sea shanty turned folk song, your delicate cursive spelling, ‘O Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie.’

“Good morning Miss (L/N)!” The class responds in happy unison. One of your students, a young girl named Wendy quickly gets out of her seat to place an apple on your desk before hurrying back.

You smile at her, at all of them, having grown so fond of this mis-matched group of kids that have been placed in your care for the weekdays.

“I trust y’all had a good weekend?” You ask them, met with a chorus of overlapping affirmations, and you chuckle at their response to immediately wantin’ to tell you all about everything they did on their days off. “Good, I’m glad. Now if you would buddy up and please take out your textbook, we’ll pick up where we left off on Friday.”

The McGuffey reader was your go-to book to teach the children with, it had everything you needed -- reading, writing, and arithmetic that was easy enough to understand by even the littlest of your students. It was broken down into repetition, phonetics, and even had lines to trace the letters and numbers, but more than that, it was the book you yourself had learned to read by, so you were familiar enough with it.

“Who would like to be the first to read what I’ve got written up on the board?” You ask, once they’ve all opened their books to the appropriate page, a handful of eager students at once clamoring to volunteer.

And so, like any other day, the morning turned to afternoon, and the afternoon turned to evening. When the bells rang to dismiss the class, the children groaned, knowing that meant they had to go home where their family would likely put them to work in the field or in the kitchen for an hour before supper.

“Thank you for another wonderful day children, y’all be good for your parents now, you hear?” You try to encourage them to cheer up, even if it did warm your heart that they liked learning from you so much. “Oh, Rickie? Could you come here for a minute? You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

Sitting at your desk for a moment, you saw the earring that you had stashed in your drawer from the evening prior, and you fish it out as the ten year old skips over to you, his mousy brown hair flopping around as he does. You smile, thinkin’ that he might do to ask for a trim when he gets home.

“Yes ma’am?” Rickie stands before the desk, and you hand him the earring, his eyes going wide as he recognizes it.

“Could you do me a big favor and deliver this to your Mama? She must’ve dropped it here last night and I’m sure she’s goin’ crazy lookin’ for it.” You smile, and he nods happily.

“She sure is! Earned myself a smack upside the head I did, when she thought I snatched it from her dresser!” Rickie laughs, clearly glad to have been vindicated.

“Well I’m sure she’ll be sorry when you bring it back to her, let her know I was the one who had it, not you.” You smile back warmly at him, but he’s already runnin’ out of the schoolhouse, callin’ another thanks and a goodbye behind him as he goes.

Only a moment or two before the last of your students are gone, is there a knock on the door.

He doesn’t wait for an answer before coming in anyway, and you look up with a frown to see who would be so rude as to invite themselves, until you recognize the sheriff and put a forced smile upon your face.

“Hello sheriff, how are you this fine evenin’?” You present yourself as politely as possible, as the man’s spurs clink while those heavy boots of his walk across your floors, trackin’ mud in from the outside with little care.

You didn’t like him, the sheriff. Didn’t like the way you caught him starin’ at you sometimes, didn’t like the way you caught him starin’ at the girls in your class. He was one of the oldest fellas in town, maybe three times your age. He’s starin’ at you now, eyein’ you up and down in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“I’m doin’ well honey, thank you.” The sheriff chews on some tobacco, a habit you can’t stand, before pointin’ out the door behind him and askin’ with a stern voice, “That boy wasn’t givin’ you any trouble, was he?”

“Rickie? No of course not, he’s a good kid.” You’re quick to reply, not wantin’ to cause any trouble for the young farmboy. You and the sheriff look at each other for a moment or two, before you grow more and more uncomfortable, busyin’ your hands with the worksheets that’ve been left on your desk to grade. You clear your throat, “Is -- has somethin’ happened?”

“Naw, I just wanted to come by and see ya before your night class starts.” The sheriff’s spurs clink clink clink over to the desk where he sits himself down, right on the wooden table-top.

“Well, here I am. Can I offer you somethin’ to drink? Coffee?” You try your best to be polite, hoping that one of your night students -- adults from the town who never got to go to school when they were young -- might show up and come to your rescue.

“Not tonight, thank you.” He replies, making you sigh out with relief against your better judgement. He doesn’t notice, instead you can feel his gaze on your chest, “But, if you’re free this friday evenin’, I’d love to take you up on that offer.”

“Oh...I see.” Bile rising up in the back of your throat, you shake your head and try to reject him as politely as possible, voice clipped yet firm as you move from around the desk to the chalk-board where you erase the children’s lesson and prepare for the adult’s. “Sheriff, I’m sorry but, I’m not quite interested in seein’ anyone at present.”

“And why’s that?” He doesn’t leave you alone, and you begin to panic with the way he’s steppin’ closer to you, knowin’ that if he traps you against the board, there won’t be a clear path to escape.

“Well it ain’t allowed for a woman to be datin’ while she’s a schoolteacher.” You explain, your voice starting to wobble.

Something about that makes him chuckle, somethin’ sinister, his blackened teeth from all that damn tobacco too close to your face when he grins.

“Must be awfully lonely,” Sheriff runs his hand up your arm, “Missin’ the comfort of a man at night.”

“It’s not.” Your body shudders in revolt, and you try to side step him, blood pounding in your ears, eyes wide in distress as you feel sweat bead up and trickle down the back of your thigh, “I appreciate your concern but -- ”

“Let me just get one kiss then.” He doesn’t let you go that easily, grabbing your arm harshly and dragging you over to one of the desks where he pushes you with a rough shove. His hand grips your cheek too hard, forcing your mouth to pucker as you fight him.

“Sheriff, I said no -- please get away from me -- I don’t -- don’t touch me!!” You knee him hard straight in the groin, your panicked scream alerting the adults who had thankfully, miraculously, decided to show up for evening class early.

“Miss (L/N)!” A couple of cattle ranchers kick the door open and run to your side, tugging you away from the sheriff who laughs loudly. You smell the stench of alcohol on him, realizing he’s drunk as all hell, and cling to the strong rancher, tears threatening to spill over your eyes.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch our teacher again!” One of the ranchers, a nice man named Francisco, holds you tightly, protectively. You always liked Francisco, he treated you like a daughter he never got to have. The other, Jedidiah, stands firmly next to you, so ready to lunge at the sheriff that you can’t help but feel immense gratitude towards them.

“Everythin’s just fine son, run along now.” The sheriff chuckles, but neither Francisco nor Jedidiah move a muscle.

“Sheriff I think you need to leave.” Mustering up as much of your courage as possible, you speak clearly, willing your voice not to shake as the safety of Francisco’s arms give you strength, “Class begins soon, I’m sorry.”

The ranchers stare the sheriff down, and he stares back, before noddin’ with a sick understandin’ that you reckon means this won’t be the last you see of him. Spittin’ his tobacco onto the floor, that same floor he sullied with the mud under his boots after the children had so lovingly cleaned it with you, the sheriff turned on his heel and left, pausin’ at the doorway for a moment to send you a dark, threatenin’ chuckle, “You will be.”

“Are you alright Miss (L/N)? Did he hurt you?” Jedidiah takes his cap off and kneels in front of you, tryin’ to appear as non-threatenin’ as possible. Francisco releases his hold on you, and checks you for any marks or signs of stress, but you just let out a shudderin’ breath and shake your head. You’re not sure which question that’s meant to answer, but they don’t press you.

“Who do we call when the sheriff’s the one acting out?” Francisco wonders aloud, and you feel like there’s lead in your belly, because he’s right.

The only way you’d likely be able to avoid the sheriff and his wrath would be to leave town altogether, and well, you couldn’t do that. Who would keep after the students then?

There wasn’t any trouble during the lesson that evening, much to your satisfaction. The later it got in the night, the more you felt relieved, surely if the sheriff was going to cause trouble, he would’ve done so by now. Your students can tell that there’s something off about you though, a few of them approachin’ you after the class was done, wonderin’ if there was anythin’ they could do.

In hindsight, you wonder how different your life would’ve been, had you asked to stay with one of them for the evening, or had you asked one of them to stay with you.

The chokin’ woke you up, before anythin’ else. Smoke, thick black plumes of it pouring out of the windows, the doors. Smoke in your lungs that had your body joltin’ up and out of the little bed up in the attic where you lived above the schoolhouse, had you rollin’ onto the floor in a panic.

“No!” You shout, as the heat of red orange yellow flames begins to lick up the walls, eatin’ away at the wood structure of the building, the whole thing two steps from bein’ a blazin’ bonfire out in the field, “Oh god, oh god no!”

Frantic, you run, mind going blank, trying to focus on grabbin’ the important things, only the important things; a photo of your family, the money out of the dresser, a copy of your favorite book. That was it, all you had that you could think to grab, before trying for the door.

The handle burns, and you scream, shaking the pain away from the blisteringly hot doorknob. You’re fucked, oh you’re so fucked, you think as you back up enough to barrel your way through the door, the wood shattering and splintering. The fire reached all the way up to the attic, there was nowhere you could escape. You could jump out the window, but you’d break your neck landin’ on the hard ground. Outside, someone yells, revelin’ in the way that you scream.

“If I can’t have you, ain’t nobody gets to have you, hear that? You hear that bitch?” The sheriff cackles tauntingly, and the fear of death drips icy cold down your back, compels you to run as fast as you can down the wooden rickety stairs, into the blaze.

If you can just get out, if only you can get out of this building, maybe you’ll survive, maybe you --“No!”

One of the stairs has shattered beneath your feet, your foot stomping straight through it, trapped. You cough and hack up the smoke, it’s stinging your eyes, it’s in your lungs, soot in your mouth, you can’t see, oh god it’s so hot, the flames are surrounding you, and your foot is stuck through the stairs.

“Please, please come on you’re strong enough for this, you have to be strong enough for this, come on.” You sob, willing yourself, yanking your foot out in harsh movements as the laughter screeches around you in a drunken stupor.

Eventually, in all your efforts, the structure of the stairs give away entirely, and you try to grab onto something as the floor falls beneath your feet, sending you crashing down into the classroom below. The fire’s taken everything here; the wallpaper, the tables and chairs, even the shiny apple that Wendy sat on your desk, all reduced to ash, cracking and spitting in the flames.

You’ve hit your head from the fall, you can’t move. Somethin’s pinned your legs, you can’t feel nothin’. At least there ain’t any smoke down here, all of it risin’ up up up through the building. The smoke pushes the bells, make them toll. You wonder if they’re callin’ the Reaper, tears slippin’ down your cheeks.

“All the books, oh the poor children.” You whisper, thinkin’ of them all, watchin’ as the textbooks singe to nothingness, knowin’ that soon your body will follow, “Who’s going to teach the children?”

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

Kylo’s arm is around you, you realize, out there in the present. He’s stock-still, face gone pale, somber. He’s crying, you realize, jaw clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek flexing from the force of it. You’re crying too, wetness on your face. You watch as a tear plips into the rabbit stew, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s one of yours, or Kylo’s.

“The rest of the town came to my rescue, once the flames got so bright you could see ‘em from across the fields. They thought I was dead, when they found me.” You clear your throat, rememberin’ the details of the story that you had only found out after the fact, “I was covered in soot, breathed too much of it in, I wasn’t wakin’ up. I later found out that the sheriff didn’t let them give me a funeral, just told them to stick me in a coffin and gave me a shallow grave.”

Kylo remains quiet, but the arm around you tightens. You’re reminded of Francisco then, how he had protected you. You wonder where he is, what he’s doing. If he ever got to have a daughter.

“I was glad for that part at least, it wasn’t too hard to dig my way back out when I woke up. I must’ve only been there for a couple hours, the dirt wasn’t packed tight or nothin’, thankfully.” You sigh, not knowing when to stop, now knowin’ how to do any of this, how to be vulnerable like this. You ain’t had to be vulnerable in a long, long time.

“Must’ve been out of my mind, I had never thought about killin’ anyone before, you know. I was more angry about the loss of the school than I was for my own life, if you can believe. I hunted him down, the sheriff. He thought I was a ghost, and he hid from me. I found him in the end, doused him in kerosene and lit the sonofabitch on fire right on his front porch.”

You lean your head on Kylo’s shoulder, and ever so gently, he rests his cheek against you back.

“I was sixteen then, and “I’ve been burnin’ shit down to the ground ever since.” You whisper, voice almost lost by the trickle of the river as it flows down to Colorado.

“I’m sorry.” Kylo says, snuffling into your hair a little bit, holdin’ you close, a silent promise.

“It ain’t your fault.” You reply, fightin’ that sour feelin’ in the back of your throat, nudging your face a little closer into his neck.

“If I had been there, I would’ve helped you.” He says, even though you both know that there ain’t no changin’ the past.

“You’re here now.” You pull back enough to look at him, really look at him right in the eyes.

“Yeah, I am.” He nods.

You wonder, sometimes how life might’ve been different, but after all is said and done, this is the life you’ve got.

Kylo lies down then, one arm extended out from his body, an offer.

You don’t think twice about it, when you lay down next to him, your head usin’ that arm as a pillow. It wraps around your shoulder, tuggin’ you to Kylo’s chest, and for the first time in a long time, when you sleep, you don’t dream.

"I've always wished to be laid when I died

In a little churchyard on the green hillside

By my father's grave, there let me be,

O bury me not on the lone prairie."

"I wish to lie where a mother's prayer

And a sister's tear will mingle there.

Where friends can come and weep o'er me.

O bury me not on the lone prairie."

"For there's another whose tears will shed.

For the one who lies in a prairie bed.

It breaks me heart to think of her now,

She has curled these locks, she has kissed this brow."

"O bury me not..." And his voice failed there.

But they took no heed to his dying prayer.

In a narrow grave, just six by three

They buried him there on the lone prairie.

And the cowboys now as they roam the plain,

For they marked the spot where his bones were lain,

Fling a handful o' roses o'er his grave

With a prayer to God his soul to save.

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

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Taggin' some Kylo lovin' friends!

@mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @schopenhauerdeathsquad @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars @kylo-ren-is-alive @caitlin-was-here @icarusinthesea @princessflip @goddessofsprings @mrs-gucci @baubub @bucky-j-barnes @mindyoshiii @beachwoodmonet @darkhairedmenrule @eagerforhoney @nekonaomitard @einmal-im-traum @justlenastuff @0nihiime

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Leave Your Boots By The Bed (SPN x BtVS)

Sam Winchester x Faith Lehane

Word Count: 7350

Warnings: It’s smutty! Samhandling, the jockey is MJ’s favorite sex position, lots of discussions of trust and consent, unprotected sex, rimming, spanking, hair pulling, and dom/sub themes. Wee bit o’ feelings but in a nice way with a happy ending. Mostly just a whole bunch of marathon, athletic, probably-not-OSHA-compliant banging. 

A/N: This is the Sam/Faith side-quest (idk what else to call it) to Big Damn Heroes, but you don’t really need to read that to understand this. You can also read just the scene where these two meet over here. 

This is my entry for @idabbleincrazy and her “What Do You Mean This Is Classic Rock?” Challenge! My prompt was “Girl All The Bad Guys Want,” by Bowling For Soup, which 100% gave me Faith vibes. It’s quoted/referenced a couple times in the story. 

It’s also my (second) entry for @stusbunker’s Jam Basket fic exchange. This one’s for @thoughtslikeaminefield​, who deserves the world on a silver platter. I cannot give her that, so instead I offer Faith smut. Thanks to @mskathywriteswords​ for prodding and lotion-related reality checks, and to @fangirlxwritesx67​ for the read-throughs and for reassuring me that if I ever write Sam smut without a little psychoanalysis thrown in, she will worry about me. 

Title from the Jason Isbell song “Cover Me Up,” which I listened to on repeat while writing certain chunks of this. 

“What’s so funny?” Faith asks, looking at him sideways as they walk. 

“I just told you I come from another universe and your response is ‘cool.’” 

“Am I supposed to be impressed? I like it this way. No chance of you gettin’ all clingy.” 

Sam laughs. “Fair enough.” 

“Monsters, huh? You ever staked a vamp before?” 

“Stakes don’t kill ‘em in my world. But… beheaded a few,” Sam says mildly. 

“Yeah?” Her eyes sparkle. “So if we take the shortcut through the graveyard, you’re not gonna slow me down or get yourself killed?” 

He gives her an unimpressed look. “What do you think?” 

“Let’s go, then,” she challenges, pointing to the cemetery gate up ahead. “Bet I can dust more before we get to the other side.” 

“You’re on.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

“Heads up,” Faith shouts, and tosses him a stake. Sam whirls and punches it through the thing’s ribcage, sending dust swirling just in time to turn and watch Faith launch herself at another vamp. 

“Is this where you take all your dates?” Sam wonders out loud, a little bit enthralled by the cocky grin on her face as she sends the vamp stumbling with one of those showy spin-kicks. 

“This is not a date,” she snaps, between solid punches. The last hit decks the vamp, and she stakes him before he can hit the ground. She struts toward Sam, brushing dust from her skintight jeans with a Cheshire cat smile. “I like my job. Fuckin’ sue me.” 

“Not complaining,” Sam says, sincerely. “Hottest thing I’ve seen in ages.” 

She looks up at him suspiciously, like she thinks he’s making fun of her, and Sam lets her see the heat in his eyes. The grin is back, and she’s grabbing him by the lapels and rocking onto her tiptoes, swaying into him with a little sigh and a lot of confidence. Sam slides both hands into her hair and ducks down to kiss her, sucking on her lower lip and tasting waxy red. 

Breathtakingly competent and moderately bitchy has always sorta been his type. 

“We had a bet,” he points out, before crushing his mouth to hers again. She makes a sound like a purr and wrenches herself away, grabbing him by the wrist and making a beeline for the path. 

“I’m gonna say we both won here,” she says decisively. “Let’s go.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

She grabs him the second the lock slides into place, backing him against the door, already tugging at his belt. He yanks her jacket off her shoulders and she lets it fall, and then he grabs her by the belt loops, reeling her in until she’s pressed against him, hips flush to his as he slouches against the door. He bends to mouth at the long smooth line of her throat. 

“Talk to me,” he says, nipping at her earlobe. She shivers. 

“Fuck that,” she says hoarsely. “Didn’t bring you here to talk.” 

“Don’t worry, I can multitask.” Sam nibbles at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, working delicate skin between his teeth, and pops the button of her jeans. He slides a hand down, teasing her clit with his fingertips, and repeats: “Tell me what you like.” 

“I like a lot less conversation and a whole lot more nudity,” Faith tosses back, but her voice is ragged, and she tilts her head to the side, baring her neck for his teeth. “I don’t fuckin’ know, dude, are we doing this or not?” 

He bends just enough to scoop her up, and she goes with it, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he cups her ass with both hands. When he turns them around, slamming her back against the door and rolling his hips, Faith lets out a breathy sound of surprise. 

He drags his open mouth up the side of her throat and repeats, “Talk to me.” 

She pulls him up by the hair, forcing his head back, rough and perfect, and Sam moans against her lips as she kisses him. It’s more like a bite, all teeth and heat. 

“Bedroom’s that way,” she says huskily. 

She’s so strong, rock-solid where she’s wrapped around him, that it’s barely an effort to carry her through the small, spare living space. She’s got her hands in his hair and her teeth scraping his collarbone, and Sam grits his teeth against the sting as he kicks the door shut behind them. 

“Get your fuckin’ clothes off already,” she rasps, tugging at his flannel, and he strips both his shirts off obligingly, leaning back against the wall to balance as he discards them without putting Faith down. 

She lets go of his neck to help him, holding herself up with no support other than her abs and her thighs. Sam’s just as turned on by that casual display of strength as by the sight of bare skin — no bra — when she peels her tank top off. He hoists her a little higher, until he can flick his tongue over one hard pink nipple. He blows a stream of cool air over the sensitive skin and she shivers, thighs squeezing his sides as she arches her back. 

“What do you want?” Sam whispers, and laves his tongue over the other nipple. 

“Fuck, anything, you’re killin’ me here.” 

“Anything?” He scrapes pebbled skin with his teeth, savoring the way she squirms. 

“Want you naked. Now.” She twists out of his grasp like a cat, sliding down his front and landing gracefully on her feet. Gracefully but loudly, that is; she crouches to deal with her big chunky boots, and Sam toes off his own. 

He grins down at her as she tugs on his belt, admiring the way her mouth looks: bright red from his teeth, now, with the last smudges of lipstick smeared down her chin. 

Sam bats her hands away from his zipper. He picks her up before she can argue and tosses her bodily onto the bed, and she bounces on the mattress, her hair spilling across the sheet like a dark glossy halo. She lifts her hips to get her jeans off, her torso bowing up in a long elegant curve. 

Neither of them hide the way they check each other out when the clothes are finally out of the way. Sam kneels on the bed, looking down at her, and she bites her lip, tracking the movement of his hand as he strokes himself lazily. 

“Is this what you want?” he asks. “Ask for it.” 

Her eyes sparkle, mischievous and defiant, and she moves so fast that Sam’s taken by surprise when she grabs him — he can’t remember the last time that happened to him, let alone in bed. She pulls him down on top of her and rolls them over, switching their positions, and Sam laughs breathlessly as she pins his wrists to the pillow on either side of his head. 

“I don’t like takin’ orders,” she says smugly.

“Is that true?” Sam counters. “Or have you just never met anybody who knows how to give orders?” 

She looks startled by that, but instead of responding, she straddles him — sinks down on him wet and tight and perfect — and Sam has to grit his teeth and close his eyes for a moment, adjusting to all that sudden slippery heat around him. 

There’s a gratifyingly breathless note in her voice when she says, “Does it matter? Point is, I can take care of myself.” 

She’s not fucking kidding about that part. 

She arches into a spectacular back-bend, supporting herself with one hand and zero visible effort. Her other hand is between her legs, rubbing her clit hard and fast as she bucks her hips up in little jerky rocking movements — and there’s an image that will (hopefully) be seared into Sam’s memory until the day he dies. For a moment all he can do is watch and try to memorize it. Then he presses the heel of his hand into her lower belly, grinding into her as best he can, and she clenches around him, soaking and squeezing in pulses so intense it almost hurts as she comes with a rough, husky moan. 

“This is gonna be fun,” Sam breathes, and he tugs her upright for one searing kiss before flipping her onto her stomach. 

* * * * * * * * * *  

When Sam offers to wash her hair, she reacts like he just proposed marriage, except instead of an engagement ring, he’d offered her a grenade pin — shock, disbelief, and more than a little fear. 

“Please tell me this is a kinky thing,” she says warily, and Sam laughs, tilting his head back in the spray and sluicing water from his face with both hands. When he looks down at her again, she’s still got her lip curled and her defenses up. 

“It’s not a kinky thing,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

She can’t get far in the shower stall, but she turns her back to him, and Sam’s forcibly reminded of a cat, licking her paws dry after accidentally stepping in a puddle. 

“I can wash my own damn hair. Shit, don’t get all touchy-feely on me.” 

Sam’s had a lifetime of practice at remaining earnest in the face of someone who’s determined to pretend they don’t want his kindness. He knows better than to give up that easily. 

“Come here,” he says, smoothing his hands up her sides. She doesn’t relax, exactly, but she doesn’t shy away. “Faith. Different universe, remember? Not a romantic thing. I just want to touch you.” 

She takes a reluctant half-step back, settling against him without a word. 

Sam squirts a dollop of shampoo into his palm, tilting her chin up so that her head falls back, and he massages her scalp with his fingertips, rubbing in firm circles. 

“Keep your eyes closed for me,” he tells her quietly, maneuvering her into the spray, but he shields her face carefully with one hand as he starts to rinse the lather out, making sure the bubbles don’t go anywhere near the fan of her spiky-wet lashes. “Is this okay?” 

“Yeah,” she croaks, barely audible under the sound of the water. “S’ not so bad.” 

“Speaking of kinky things,” he says casually. “We should talk about that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“What do you like? What’s your safeword?” 

“Safeword?” She snorts, dismissive. “What, you really think you could dish out somethin’ I couldn’t take?” 

Sam clenches his jaw. He’s glad her back is to him so she can’t see the expression on his face right now. 

There are no more bubbles in her hair, but he keeps running his hands through it, just to have something to do as he figures out how to say this. 

“I don’t think there’s much you couldn’t take,” he tells her softly. “I think you might be the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” 

“Damn straight,” she mutters, mollified.

Sam squeezes out some conditioner, finger-combing it through her hair. 

“You don’t trust me,” he says. It’s not a question. 

“Fuck no,” she replies promptly. “Why would I? Trust is something you gotta earn.” 

Sam’s mouth twists into a smile. “Fair enough. But… it’s not about seeing how much you can take. It’s about you trusting me to stop, no questions asked, if you say that word. You want me to take control, I’ll do it. Believe me, I’m down. But not until you trust me. If you think you can do that, all you gotta do is ask. Okay?” 

She takes a breath like she wants to say something, but she seems to think better of it. She lets out a sigh, looking at him — through him — and all he gets is a subdued, “Yeah, okay.” 

Sam tilts her head back gently again, working his fingers through her hair until the little crease of a frown fades from her forehead. He turns her in his arms, cradling her against his chest, and she lets him, resting her cheek over his heart. 

“Poughkeepsie.” 

“Gesundheit.” 

“Cute. It’s a city where I — I was in over my head, one time, and I needed help. That’s my safeword.” 

She pulls back, looking up at him, confusion written all over her face. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I trust you.” 

“Really?” 

Sam shrugs. “If somebody offered you a lot of money to kill me, I’d sure as fuck be watching my back. But… as far as respecting boundaries? Here and now, just you and me? Yeah, I trust you completely.” 

Faith stares, scanning his expression for a hint of a lie, but when she doesn’t find one, her eyes soften. Her lips curl briefly into a pleased little smile.   

“Didn’t really take you for the submissive type.”  

“I’m not.” 

She cocks her head thoughtfully, gaze calculating, and prods, “Go on, then. You’re the one who wants to talk about everything.”

“No bodily fluids.” 

“With you on that one. There’s good freaky fun and then there’s just freaky. What else? Bet you’d look real pretty tied to my bed.” 

“No chains. Ropes, cuffs, that’s fine — no chains. Um.. pain isn’t a big deal. I’d rather you didn’t draw blood, but… as far as pain goes, don’t worry about pushing too far.” 

“Tryna be a tough guy?” 

“No. Just telling you the facts. Temperature play is a hard limit. Ice, especially.” 

“Okay. So… if I wanted to blindfold you, tie you up, and ride your face for a while…” 

“Works for me.” She gets out of the shower without another word, grabbing a towel, all business, and he laughs. “Somebody’s in a hurry.” 

“You’ve got like sixty seconds before the hot water runs out and it gets all end-of-Titanic in there.” She flashes him a grin. “Also, yeah. Let’s go.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

She pretends she’s asleep, for a while, but then she slips out of bed, and her bare feet don’t make a sound as she navigates the apartment in the dark. He hears the toilet flush, water run, then the creak of… something. 

He gives her a minute to herself before he gets up, just as silent as she was, and follows the smell of smoke to the open window. She’s leaning on the sill, silhouetted by the filtered yellow light of street lamps, and when she takes a drag the orange ember flares in the dark. 

“Jesus, fuckin’ scared the shit outta me,” she snaps. The Boston in her voice comes out strong when she’s startled. When she offers him the last bit of the cigarette he takes it, grabbing her wrist with the other hand, and throws it out the window as he pulls her close. 

“Hey, I was smokin’ that,” she protests, voice crackly like there’s a popping fire down in her chest. 

Sam traces the curve of her cheek. He brushes one curled knuckle back and forth over her lower lip and then drags the pad of his thumb over the pillow of it, watching the soft give as he presses down. Her tongue darts out to flicker over his thumb, but otherwise, she’s motionless. 

Faith takes his wrist, holding his hand to her mouth, and swirls her tongue over the pad of his thumb. Then she slides his index and middle fingers into her mouth, sucking on them shamelessly. They slide from her lips with a wet pop. A bolt of heat thuds through Sam’s gut — he’s only human. 

“I like your hands,” she purrs, with one last suggestive lick. 

“Something in particular you want me to do with them?” he asks. 

She hesitates and presses a kiss to the center of his palm before answering: “I bet you have some ideas.” 

“Tell me what you want, Faith.” 

For a second there’s a deer-in-headlights vulnerability in her huge dark eyes, and she can’t hide the slight frown that flickers across her face. 

“Why do you keep asking me that?” she whispers. She’s still holding his wrist. Sam twists to lace his fingers through hers instead, letting their joined hands drop palm-to-palm. 

“Because sex isn’t fun for me unless everybody’s getting what they want. Call me crazy, but…” 

“I brought you here, didn’t I? You know I want it. That’d be good enough, for most guys. Believe me, if you do somethin’ I don’t like, I’ll tell you about it.”  

Sam closes his eyes, thinking of a half-dozen possible answers to that question. He considers telling her about Meg and Gadreel and all the other things that have slithered in over the years and used his body without his permission. He feels a phantom pain in his palm and remembers Lucifer’s taunt — you let me in — and he considers telling her about why he can’t stand the feel of ice or the rattle of chains. 

He settles for the most fundamental answer: “Because you deserve to get what you want. You deserve better than ‘good enough.’”

She digests that silently for a moment, and then she guides his hand firmly to her hip, before grabbing the other and placing it flat on her breastbone. 

“Just… touch me?” she asks, and Sam smiles, shifting closer, running his hands over her skin: fingertips in the dip of her throat, thumb stroking her collarbone, palm sweeping up and down her side, gentle and deliberately innocent. 

“Why does it bother you so much when I ask?” he says softly. 

She grimaces, and for a second it looks like she’ll brush it off, make a joke of it. 

“Not used to it, I guess. Most guys don’t ask. I think guys look at me, they make some assumptions, you know?” 

“Such as?”

She shrugs. “Guess they figure I’m down for anything.” 

“Faith.” 

“Don’t. Anyway, it’s more than that. Most people, they only offer to give you something if they want something in return.” 

“What do you think I want from you?” 

“That’s what’s got me spun out. Figured you just wanted a great lay, but… you’re still here.” She drops her gaze. “Bein’ all sweet and shit.”

Sam tries to hide his smile. “Should I not be?” 

“Can’t figure you out,” Faith mumbles. “You’re different.” 

Sam thinks about that for a moment as he folds to his knees in front of her. He drags his mouth down the center of her chest, tasting salt, and nips at the soft skin under her belly-button. 

“How do you mean?” He looks up at her again, holding eye contact as he traces her hipbone with his tongue. 

“I’m not the kinda chick that sweet guys usually go for, you know?” She slides her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, and Sam hums his approval. “The nice ones know better. I’m the girl all the bad guys want.”

“That seems a bit reductive, don’t you think?” 

“See, shit like that. Your mouth’s an inch away from my pussy and you’re using words like reductive.”

“I just want you. All of you, not just the ‘nice’ parts or the shit you show most guys.” 

“Might not be saying that if — oh. Do that again.” 

“Faith, trust me when I say that whatever you’ve done, I’ve done worse.”

“Jesus, can we talk about this later?” 

“What do you want?” 

“Want you to get your ass back in bed and quit teasing, for starters.” 

“I can do that.”

* * * * * * * * * *  

“The fuck did you find in the fridge?” Faith asks hoarsely. 

“Beer and pickles,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. 

She’s leaning against the frame of the bedroom door, wearing his flannel and nothing else. It’s open, baring a long slice of pale skin, from the dip between her breasts and down her stomach to a neat trail of dark hair. She looks like a centerfold, but rumpled and sleepy-eyed and real, human, in a way that makes it so much hotter. 

“You went out.” She frowns at the front door.

“Are you surprised I came back?” 

“Honestly? Not really.” Sam hides his smile at that answer. “Except that door’s supposed to lock automatically.” 

“It does. I picked the lock.” 

“Anything you can’t do?” Faith comes over and hoists herself up onto the counter next to him, eyeing the pan of bacon eagerly. 

“Never been good at walking in heels.” Sam passes her the extra large to-go cup of dark roast he’d gotten her from the local coffee place, and she grins. 

“Shit, you really know how to spoil a girl.” 

Sam puts a hand on her bare thigh, thumb running back and forth idly as he takes her in, tracing the shape of her body with his eyes. She gives him a raised eyebrow and sips her coffee quietly. There’s none of the wariness or put-on swagger from last night. She just seems comfortable. 

“No bruises,” he says, hand sliding up higher, finding nothing but unblemished skin where he knows he left marks. Every imprint of Sam’s teeth and hands and hipbones has melted away. 

“Slayer healing.” She leans back on her palms, inviting him to touch more. Sam pulls his hand away — pancakes to flip — but he smirks. 

“That’s a shame. They looked good on you.” 

Faith’s eyes go dark. “Yeah?” 

“I’ll just have to leave some more… later. Breakfast is ready.” 

Faith eats with an indecent enthusiasm that reminds him of Dean, but somehow that doesn’t surprise him. Which… speaking of Dean — Sam borrows her cell as they’re finishing breakfast, because apparently other universes aren’t included in his roaming service, and a sleepy female voice picks up. 

“Faith?” 

“Sam, actually. Is my brother around?” 

“Sam? Did you… you and Faith?” Buffy’s voice goes a little squeaky at the end. Then there’s indistinct scuffling. 

Faith swipes her index finger through the maple syrup that’s left on her plate, sucking it clean, hollowing her cheeks in a way that’s pretty fucking distracting. 

“Sammy?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Hey. You didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?”

“Where are you? Who’s Faith?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says. “Did Charlie fix the thing?”

“Uh, hang on.” There’s a muffled conversation on the other line. 

Faith gets up, walking around the table to pick up Sam’s plate, her movements slinky and deliberate, her hips swaying, showing off tantalizing glimpses of skin as his flannel skims the curves of her body. He twists around to watch her go. Faith sets both plates in the sink and stretches, and the flannel rides up her thighs. 

“Pretty sure Charlie’s not awake yet either,” Dean says. “Late nights all around. Go team. Should we save you some breakfast?” 

“No, I’m busy.” 

Dean is saying something, but Sam’s not really paying attention. Faith is leaning on the table, bent at the waist, the flannel riding up to expose the lower curve of her ass. Sam turns in his chair to raise an eyebrow at her, pointedly adjusting himself in his jeans. She smirks like the cat who got the cream. 

“Just call this number when you need me, Dean,” Sam says abruptly, cutting him off. “See you later.” He hangs up before Dean can get a protest in. 

She bats her eyelashes, sugary-sweet. “Sorry, did I distract you?” 

“Don’t lie. You’re not sorry at all.” Sam shakes his head, mock-scolding, and gives her a light tap, mostly to watch the way her flesh jiggles just right under his hand. 

She grins, wiggling her hips and spreading her legs a little wider. “If you’re gonna do it, do it like you mean it.” 

There’s a long, weighted pause. 

“Are you asking me for —”

“Fuck yes I am.” 

“Faith…” 

She’s quiet but sincere when she says, “I trust you.” 

Sam exhales sharply, and because she looks nervous, now, he quips, “Should’ve known bacon would do the trick.” She laughs at that and relaxes, so he stands up slowly and asks, “Safeword?” 

“Dorchester.” 

Sam smiles — equal parts amused by the word choice and touched by the trust. He runs a hand down her back and then up again, taking the soft fabric with him, rucking it up. He takes his time, drawing it out to watch the way she pouts, positioning himself behind her and flattening a palm between her shoulderblades to push her down. She braces herself on her forearms. 

“Good girl.” 

“Well?” 

“Be patient.” 

“Fucking hit me already,” she says sulkily. 

“You can have anything you want,” he promises her, and he grabs a handful of hair, yanking her head back. “You just have to ask for it. Politely.” 

He hears the way she sucks in a breath, ragged and desperate, and he smiles. 

“Please spank me. Hard.”

“Good girl,” he repeats. He steps back and squeezes before smacking her, nowhere near hard enough to hurt. 

“C’mon, is that the best you’ve got?” she teases, laughing. 

“You know it’s not.” He brings his hand down with a satisfying sound, and Faith groans. 

“Harder,” she grits out. 

The next one makes her cry out, ragged and ecstatic. He hits her again, hard enough that his palm smarts, wrist snapping precisely so that the blows are spaced just right across her ass and her upper thighs. 

By the time he pauses again she’s panting harshly. He takes a second to admire her, the pretty shade of red blossoming on her pale skin and the way she’s arching her back, putting herself on display for him. 

“Fuck, you look good like this.” He kicks her feet farther apart and traces up her center with two callused fingertips. “So wet already, aren’t you?” 

She tries to push back into it, to fuck herself on his fingers as she whimpers, “More?” 

He lets loose, brings his palm down with a vicious crack, and he can see the way her legs start to shake. 

“Shit, do you have any idea what you do to me?” He leans forward, grinding against her, letting her feel how hard he is through his jeans, and when he pulls back again she moans. Her skin is hot to the touch. He runs his fingers over it teasingly before sliding two fingers into her cunt, curling them, pumping and twisting as Faith curses and clenches around him. 

“Need you,” she pants. “More.” 

“Let me hear you,” he says. He pulls his fingers out and spanks her again, and she shudders, head bowed, pussy glistening wet. 

“Please fuck me,” she breathes. He’s reaching for his belt before she gets the word out. 

“Since you asked so nicely.” 

He rubs the head of his cock through her slickness, teasing, and when she tries to push back, his shaft slides between her lips, dragging along her clit. He bites back a groan and plants his left hand solidly at the base of her neck, forcing her to drop down with her cheek to the table, holding her in place. 

“Shit,” she snaps. “Fuckin’ give it to me.” 

“What did I say?” 

“Want to feel that big thick cock, please,” she says. He can hear the wicked edge in her voice. “Want to feel you fillin’ me up when I come. Just fucking wreck me, Sam. Hold me down and make me scream… please.” She pauses and then asks smugly, “Fuckin’ polite enough for you?”

She could recite a grocery list in that ragged, raspy voice and it’d probably turn him on, at this point; as it is, he feels dizzy from sudden lack of bloodflow to his brain. 

“We gotta work on those manners,” he says softly, and pushes into her, just a couple inches, before sliding out again. She whines.

He does it over and over again — one torturously shallow thrust after another — working her open with little rocking motions that are nowhere near enough. She whimpers, and he watches, clocking every shudder that runs up her spine, every involuntary quiver as he fucks into her a little deeper, slick spreading up the flushed-dark length of his cock with each stroke. 

It takes every last shred of his self-control, but he forces himself to move slowly, deliberately, until she’s dripping wet and slamming her fists into the table. 

Finally, she caves, sobbing two syllables like they’re the only words she remembers: “Please — Sam — please — Sam — please —” 

“That’s better,” he sighs, and grabs her by the hips, shifting until he finds the spot that makes her twitch and squirm. She quakes when he hits it dead-on, and he sets an unrelenting pace, fucking her so hard the table hammers against the wall, a rapid-fire counterpoint to her broken, drawn-out cries. 

Faith bucks helplessly as she comes, and Sam lets go a split-second later, half collapsing forward as he grinds into her one last time. He braces himself with both palms flat on the wood, and his knees threaten to give out. 

His first coherent thought is amazement that the table is still standing, and while he’s trying to remember how to speak, Faith mumbles, “Shit, can’t believe we haven’t broken any furniture yet.” Sam laughs so unexpectedly he almost chokes, and maybe it’s contagious, because Faith starts giggling too. 

Sam maneuvers them onto one of the chairs in a messy pretzel of sweat and skin and half-discarded clothes. A surge of pure giddy affection swells in his ribcage, and he wraps his arms around her, squeezing tight, tickling her with his stubble against her neck until she shrieks and twists. 

Faith turns her head at an awkward angle to kiss him. Then she mumbles, “Is there more bacon? I could go for more bacon.” 

“Anything you want.” 

* * * * * * * * * *  

Faith stretches extravagantly as she gets up from the opposite end of the couch, and his flannel slips off her shoulders. She lets it fall as she pads over to the fridge. 

“Have I mentioned today how good you look naked?” Sam asks. 

She pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge and strikes a goofy, mock-sexy pose. “No, but go right ahead.” 

“You look really fucking good naked.”

“Not so bad yourself.” She passes him a bottle and sprawls out with her legs draped across his lap. “Why’d you put your clothes back on, anyway?” 

“Hot bacon grease and nudity isn’t a good combo. Trust me.” 

“Sounds like the voice of experience talking there.” 

“Not personal experience,” Sam says with a smirk. “Dean, though…” 

She laughs. He tosses the last bite of bacon at her, and she catches it in her mouth. 

“Not cooking any more though, are you?” she asks archly. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He obliges, though, stripping unceremoniously, and Faith catcalls. She crawls into his lap when he sits back down, leaning in for a kiss that tastes like beer. 

“Much better,” she says quietly, pressing her forehead to his. 

“Really thought I might’ve tired you out there.” 

“Honestly? Yeah, I need a minute,” she confesses, with a laugh. “Just wanted some eye candy.” 

“At your service.” 

She settles a little more comfortably in his lap, straddling him, and they exchange slow, lazy kisses. Sam can’t bring himself to stop kissing her. Her lips are soft and plush, and every brush of her tongue and nip of her teeth feels like a luxury, like something he should treasure, because he knows this intimacy has an expiration date. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, sweet and almost shy. 

Sam offers, “Want to watch a soap opera on mute and make up our own dialogue?”

Her dimples really show when she’s surprised to find herself smiling. She grabs their beers and the remote from the milk crate that serves as her coffee table, raising her bottle in a toast, and then she curls up at Sam’s side, naked and soft and bruised. She fits under his arm like she was meant to be there. 

It’s the happiest Sam can remember being in a long time. 

Normal, he thinks. This is what normal people do — breakfast and kisses on the couch — tenderness and softness and quiet everyday vulnerability. 

Then again, neither of them are normal, not really. Maybe that’s why Sam feels so comfortable with her.

* * * * * * * * * *  

This time, she passes him the shampoo without a word, sighing as he cradles the back of her skull with one hand and smooths the hair back from her forehead with the other. When he’s finished, hazy honey-colored eyes blink up at him slowly, like she’s coming out of a trance. It’s a dizzying change from the last time they did this. 

They haven’t said goodbye yet and he already misses her — misses this — but he knows he’s lucky to have it for a moment, however brief. 

The scalding water feels like heaven on his sore muscles. Sam tilts his head to the side, trying to stretch, and his neck makes a series of popping noises. Faith winces in sympathy. 

“Shit, man,” she chuckles. “You sound like Rice Krispies.” She maneuvers around him in the narrow space, reaching up to dig her knuckles into one of his many knots. Sam groans, exaggeratedly pornographic. 

Her hands are small, but strong, and Sam’s melting under her palms, increasingly loose-limbed and pliant as she works her thumbs in circles down the muscles on either side of his spine. 

“We should get out of here before I forget how to stand up,” he mutters, and Faith laughs. “I think it’s your turn.” 

“I like the sound of that.” 

She lays herself out on the bed, stomach down, and Sam takes a moment to stare. The way she’s put together — sleek muscle and lush curves under creamy skin — is like art. If she was anyone else, Sam might call her delicate, but he knows better; he knows exactly what she can do. She’s a hurricane disguised as a porcelain doll. 

He looks down at his own rough fingers, thickly callused from pencils and triggers and punches, and grabs a bottle of lotion from the dresser before he settles on the bed, straddling her hips. His hands seem massive on her shoulders, and when he drags his palms down, wrapping his fingers around the slim curve of her waist, he marvels at the way she almost fits in the circle of his grasp. 

He loses himself in the pleasure of just touching her — in the glide of silky skin under his fingers — in the soft grunts and hums she lets out when he works his fingers into a particularly tight knot. He sweeps his thumbs down the pretty little dimples at the small of her back and then lower, caressing and kneading. He’s careful to avoid pressing on the dappled purple-red bruises from earlier, but he skims them appreciatively, feather-light.

“Do those hurt?” he whispers. 

“Little bit. I like it.” 

He was already half-hard, aroused in a distant, lazy sort of way, but his dick twitches at that. 

He brushes his fingertips down the outsides of her thighs, then up the insides, watching the way she spreads her legs wider for him, but he stops just short of the apex, tracing out along the creases where her ass meets her legs instead. 

This feels like a form of worship. 

Sam bends to press his mouth to the small of her back, kissing one dimple then the other. He trails sweet open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her ass, lips dragging reverently over velvety skin, licking and sucking along the tops of her thighs, drinking in the way she whimpers and shivers. 

“More?” she murmurs. 

Sam hooks an arm around her, sliding his forearm under her hips to cant them up so he can lick a thick stripe right up her center, swiping his tongue down and up again with a slick slurping noise. The angle isn’t comfortable but it’s fucking hot; it feels like he’s completely surrounded by her, like this, and when he licks deeper, fucks her shallowly with his tongue, the taste of her arousal floods his senses, until the soapy-clean smell of freshly-showered skin is lost under salty-sweet musk and Sam’s mouth and chin are a mess of slick and spit. 

She’s trembling as she repeats, “More.” 

He drags his tongue in one broad swipe from her clit up between her ass cheeks, and she curses, pressing back against his mouth. He twists two fingers into her cunt, feeling her clamp down around his scarred knuckles and shudder under his mouth, a frisson of pleasure that travels all the way up her spine. He curls his tongue against tight muscle and crooks his fingers, circles her swollen clit with his thumb, and she muffles a sharp cry into the pillow as she comes. 

“More — please — Sam?” she gasps, still clenching around him, so wet he can hear the sound of his fingers pumping into her one last time. 

He slides on top of her, blanketing her body with his, kissing the nape of her neck as he presses into her. She reaches back and fists a hand in his hair, making a rough wordless noise that sounds like a question, and her fingers twist until his scalp stings and Sam groans. He sits up, straddling her legs, and his entire body throbs with the pulse of blood in his cock as he fucks her. With her legs together like this, pinned under him, she feels so impossibly tight — velvety-soft and steely all at once — he can barely see straight. 

She’s crying out with every gasping breath: “More — please.” 

Sam wonders what he could do if he could learn her body, learn what she likes, learn how to take her apart in seconds or draw it out until she’s a writhing mess… if he had just a little more time with her. 

* * * * * * * * * *  

Faith is wrecked and gorgeous on top of him, not riding him so much as undulating: deep scooping twists of her hips, rising and falling syrupy-slow like she’s moving underwater. There’s dark sweat-soaked hair clinging to her temples and a hazy-eyed, rosy-cheeked expression of bliss on her face. Sam watches a droplet of sweat trickle down between her breasts.

He’s losing his grip on time and the boundaries that used to sit so decisively between them. They’re both exhausted to the point that everything seems a little surreal, dreamy, right in that sweet spot where they might be too tired to come again but languid, sensual sex still feels amazing. 

“So fucking perfect,” he whispers. “Just like that.” 

Faith tilts forward to kiss him, melting against his chest as she rolls her hips. He wraps her up in his arms and flips them, still inside her, still twined around her. He rocks into her, testing one angle and then another, hitching her leg up higher around his waist, grinding and swiveling until he finds the angle that makes her choke out a curse and clutch at his biceps.

“There,” she whimpers. 

Heat starts to pool low in his gut, building slowly but inevitably. He leans down to kiss her, tasting salt, mouths brushing clumsily between deep ragged breaths. 

“Gorgeous like this.” 

“Sam,” she says helplessly, in the shredded whisper that’s left of her voice. “This — you —“ 

“I’ve got you, it’s okay. I know.” 

Neither of them are particularly coherent, but he knows. 

Gold rays of sun slant through the blinds in stripes, illuminating the amber in her irises and the suspicious shine gathering in the corner of her eyes. She smiles up at him in a way that leaves him breathless. It takes him by surprise, the trust in her expression and the heaviness in the moment, and he knows she can feel it too. 

Sam wants to shy away from it, but he can’t take his eyes off her. 

“Where’s that Al Green soundtrack when you need it, huh?” she manages, and it shocks a breathless laugh out of Sam. Faith giggles too, choked-up and overtired and hoarse. Sam can feel her laugh, feels the rippling clench of wet-hot muscle around him; his body reacts with this gut-punch of arousal, and he snaps his hips, driving in deep. She lets out a rough moan and writhes under him, raking her nails down his back. 

From there it builds fast, wild and uncontrollable and blinding, both of them clawing at each other, moving on pure animalistic instinct, lost in each other — lost in the moment. It’s the sort of orgasm that hits like a blackout, like Sam’s out of his body for a few seconds that might as well be an eternity.

When he comes to, he’s whispering nonsense into the sweat-slick crook of her neck — babbling endearments, calling her baby — saying sweet stupid things she would never accept if she was in her right mind, but she doesn’t argue; he’s grateful. In return, Sam pretends not to notice the tears sparkling in her eyelashes.  

They’re not sad tears, he knows that much. She’s beaming up at him, all this messy pure human happiness shining in her eyes. She’s beautiful. 

Eventually they stop shaking, and Sam whispers, “Nap?” 

“Yeah.” 

She tucks herself under his chin, and he strokes her hair, counting the breaths before she drops off. She’s asleep in ten, and Sam loses count at eleven. 

* * * * * * * * * *  

They’re woken in disorienting darkness by a jangling ringtone, and Sam’s immediate instinct is to grab the gun he keeps under his pillow. There’s no gun, though — just a warm naked girl draped over him, cursing like a sailor as the phone continues to ring — because there’s no need for a gun here. 

Faith answers the phone by growling a suggestion that sounds anatomically improbable, and Sam hears Dean’s gruff baritone on the other end. He snatches the phone out of her hand. 

“S’the middle of the fucking night, Dean,” he grumbles. 

“Dude, it’s nine. When was the last time you were asleep by nine?” 

“Fuck.” He knuckles at his eyes and fights the urge to hang up, turn the phone off, and burrow under the sweat-soaked sheets to sleep until he actually feels rested for once. “Yeah, okay, be there soon.”

Sam is about to apologize for waking Faith, but she sits up too, switching on the lamp, looking around bleary-eyed. 

“Gonna walk with you as far as the graveyard,” she says, through a yawn. “Vamps don’t take a night off.” 

Sam feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck, sore and achy all over, but the exhaustion goes much deeper than that. In spite of it, he’s smiling as they dress. 

They’re quiet, nothing but a soft, “You see my other sock?” interrupting the heavy silence. They don’t touch as they leave the dark apartment and head down the dingy stairwell into the warm California night, and they don’t talk. They’re pulling themselves together — rebuilding the walls that separate them from normal people — putting on the emotional armor that allows them to fight the battles they have to fight.  

They don’t wander away from the path through the cemetery, this time, and the monsters don’t find them. When they reach the gate on the other side, Faith stops. 

“You know how to get back from here?” 

“Yeah.” He pulls her in by her jacket to kiss her, deep and bruising. 

She pulls away enough to mutter, “Fuckin’ figures you’re from another goddamn universe.” 

“If things were different —” 

“They’re not, though,” Faith says, smiling ruefully. “And that’s for the best.” 

“Probably wouldn’t end well, would it? ” 

“We’d never get outta bed, the monsters would take over. Every universe needs its heroes, right?” 

“Right.” Sam cradles her face in his hands to give her another soft kiss and says, “Take care of yourself.”  

Faith steps back. “Always do.”

She turns, pulling a stake out of her jacket as she stalks away, off the path toward the darker corners of the graveyard. Sam watches her go. 

She doesn’t look back, but before she’s out of earshot, she shouts, “Quit starin’ at my ass and go save the world already. You’ve got work to do.” 

Sam laughs, and then he rolls his eyes and starts walking, smiling to himself. She’s not wrong. 

.

.

.

[ziracona]

The second of my ready updates:

The Kid (pt: 1, … 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16 ?) [Fate Grand Order AU]

We don’t find Ritsuka where we left her. It’s easy to follow the trail of carnage back, but there’s nothing there when we arrive, and Robin curses and hits one of the walls, muttering something I can’t make out. I want to say something to help him, but I’m feeling too much the same way myself. At least she’s alive, but if they’ve caught her…

“I told her to call us! And if she used that much mana, she knew she was in trouble, and she tried to fight instead!” snaps Robin.

“It’s possible something else happened,” interjects King David, “Couldn’t she have found someone else?”

That’s true. That’s true, and that would explain a lot! God, I hope so. I really, really hope so. I try to sense for another connection to a new spirit, but again, I find nothing, just like I can’t find my master.

“Come on,” says Emiya, “We need her back either way, and there’s nothing to do but search. If she left, she’d have started from here and had to head r—”

He stops.

I turn and follow his gaze. A little ways down the hall in that direction, there’s a door whose entire lock panel is melted. Bingo.

“Come on!” I call, rushing towards it.

As soon as I get there, I start to push open the door, but Robin catches me by my shoulder, and when I look, he’s pointing down the hall. “That way.”

“You can sense her?” I ask, amazed.

“No, but there’s faint mana traces in the air, and I’m extremely attuned to my own signature,” he replies, “She was wearing my cloak when we left her, and I can sense it picking up here—the trail goes that way. This way!” he calls to the others, “I’ll trace it!”

We tear off after Robin, turning down halls and up an elevator shaft. Alarms are blaring, and I still hear shouts in the distance. We only hit one patch of guards though, on the floor we get off on. They’re kneeling beside the downed bodies of other guards, whose blood has begun to dry already on the floor, and we catch them by surprise, knocking them out easily. She wasn’t alone, then, I think as I hesitate once the guards are down before moving on, And whoever she was with, they’re violent. And she wasn’t in control of them.

Not Ur-shanabi is good. Violent and not in control is really, really bad.

We go faster. A blur of tense, desperate movement down halls and past empty rooms and faint traces.

“I sense her!” shouts Robin, skidding to a stop halfway down a hall and changing course, “This way!”

He’s right! I check and I can sense her again too—one floor above us now, and a few halls over. King David breaks a hole through the ceiling with his sling and we move up as fast as we can, following her signature. We’re getting close, and overcome with a surge of intent, I pull ahead as we’re right on top of her and round the last corner first, and she’s there! She's there! She’s alive! She’s alive, and then the relief is immediately replaced with fear, because there’s a tall man I’ve never seen before, a heroic spirit like us, with some very intimidating energy coming off him, and two unmoving bodies slung over his shoulder, one a second heroic spirit, and the other Ritsuka, both unconscious and limp.

I draw and let a flurry of bullets slam into the wall all around his head. “Drop her!” I shout, “Or I won’t miss the next one!”

The man spins on his heel to face me and takes a step back, and I see on his face he’s thinking fast as the rest of the group slides into the hall behind me.

Seeing so many of us, the man grits his teeth and summons a long, thin sword made out of something I’m having a hard time looking directly at for some reason, simultaneously tightening his grip on Ritsuka and the other body and turning to angle himself between us and them. “What do you want!” he shouts desperately, “Aren’t all of you spirits too? Why are you attacking! What, are you dogs for this place?”

“We’re attacking because that’s our master’s unconscious body you’ve got highly god damn suspiciously slung over your shoulder!” snaps back Robin, bow aimed and leveled.

Eerily calm, beside me, King David readies his slingshot with a kind of poise and concentration that is genuinely unnerving. I do not think he will miss.

“Your master?” says the man in disbelief, “Do you think I’m an idiot? Outside of a ritual, a human being can barely sustain one spirit alone, let alone a human child—and this girl is my master. –‘Our master’? You expect me to believe this young girl is sustaining not just two, but six heroic spirits at the same time, alone?”

Wait.

Ahhhhh shit. Shit! That makes so much sense. Whooo second time today I’m real glad my instinct is to threaten and not to shoot strangers that only might be a huge threat!

“I don’t know what you want her for, but you’re not getting her!” continues the man with a ferocious intensity that makes him feel daunting, even heavily burdened and so clearly outnumbered. There’s a surge of mana around him, and in one burst of energy the grey suit is gone, replaced by a black and red uniform with a cloak and a full face mask, and the pressure in the room itself has changed and I’m suddenly hearing unsettling whispers in the air, and ah shit shit he’s flinging both bodies he was carrying out behind him and going to move which can only mean heee—crap crap crap; he’s about to use a bigass area of effect noble phantasm, and everyone knows it, and it hits me I’ve got about a third of a second before somebody shoots somebody in here’n—

“Wait, wait, wait!” I call, spinning my gun into my holster and stepping into the line of fire for the first few people beside me, hands up and out, because I like to think we’ve all hit the conclusion I just did, but everyone in the group is exhausted and tense and I’m not takin’ chances, “This was a mistake! Nobody shoot!”

To my surprise, no one does—not even the new guy. He stands, so tense he’s almost shaking, sword still leveled, but whatever he was about to do, he doesn’t—the mana level in the hall holds, and he listens.

Behind him in the sudden silence, I hear Ritsuka and the other guy hit the floor and roll with little thuds, and wince internally. I keep my focus on the guy in front of me and my hands up. “Sorry—We jumped the gun on you there-outah concern for our master,” I say apologetically, “I know this is gonna be real hard for you to believe, but she really is our master too. –If you find that hard to believe, you can check for yourself!—'parrently if you’re co-contracted, you can sense the connection to each other a little—you should be able to sense it from every one of us. Sorry I didn’t notice yours sooner; with our Master right on top of you, I wasn’t picking up the weaker signal under such a strong one. I can find it now, though.”

Taken aback and mistrustful, the man hesitates, then very slowly lowers his sword just a few inches, and beside me I sense the others do the same with their weapons in response. Taking that as a good enough show of faith, the man turns his head towards each of us in turn to sense for connections, then cranes his masked head to look at Ritsuka’s limp form where she landed, and says, “But. That’s impossible.” The earlier viciousness is gone now, and the air pressure in the room returns to normal. Wheeew, thank God! I let myself relax.

“She’s an unusual person,” replies Emiya, “Usually, you’d be right.”

“No wonder she passed out after forming a contract with me, the poor girl,” says the man softly like he means it. I decide I really like this guy. Got less than no idea who he is, but he was gonna get himself killed just now trying to keep Ritsuka and whoever else he’s got there from gettin’ hurt, instead of droppin’ ‘em and savin’ himself, and he clearly already likes her, so what else do I gotta know?

Shit—speakin’ of—

“I’m uh—just gonna go pick her up off the floor then? If we’re all cool?” I declare just in case the guy hasn’t decided he’s on board completely yet.

“… Oh. Yes,” he says with a note of chagrin, turning himself to look at where they’ve landed.

I go to her as fast as I can, unsurprised to hear everyone else coming too. The new guy comes as well, but he goes to the other body.

When I reach Ritsuka, I’m relieved to see she doesn’t look injured anywhere, just a little bit pale. I take a knee and scoop her up gently, trying to make sure there’s no damage I don’t see.

“Well, you look like you’re in one piece at least.” Robin, speaking softly. I glance up and watch as he takes a knee too and looks her over too. She’s still wearing his cloak, and he touches the hood, which is hanging loose, then sighs and pats her on the head. “And you took it off, I see. But I guess your judgement was okay, since things turned out like this. I won’t give you the worst time when you wake up again. You damn fool.”

The others are above us too now, and I glance up at King David and Emiya. I stand up so they can see too without trouble. “She’s fine, right?” I ask, since they both do healing to some extent. She seems like it, but bein’ unconscious always means somethin’ ain’t quite right.

King David reaches over and places a hand on her face for a second, then smiles. “She’s alright—just exhausted. –Good throw!” he adds cheerily to the other heroic spirit, who glances over in surprise from where he’s just stood up again himself with the other body he threw in his arms, “I don’t think that even really bruised her!”

The man seems to consider responding, but have no idea what to say, and shuts his mouth and just kind of gives an awkward nod. He hesitates, then moves closer to get a look at how she’s doing himself.

I haven’t had a chance to get a good look at the second heroic spirit—the one he’s holding—before this, but I do now. And…it is grim.

Shit. Whatever they did to him, it was bad. Weird that after what most have been two months of absolute hell I ain’t comfortable enough with to look at, I still feel like I got comparatively lucky. Least I knew what was going on…

“If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly is a teenager like her doing here, and with six heroic spirits contracted to her?” asks the new man, glancing over at us.

“Uh, rescue mission,” says Robin, gesturing vaguely, “Happened to see that one in trouble,” he indicates me, “broke him out, summoned him for backup,” he indicates Emiya, “and they came back here to clean house. The rest of us were all in about the same position I expect you two were.”

“Ah, then is that why he’s…?” says the man, gesturing to our unconscious lancer.

Emiya gives a nod.

“What about yours?” I ask.

The unconscious spirit in his arms is in way worse condition than our lancer is—at least, he looks a lot worse. The guy’s body is covered in deep purple runes and markings I don’t recognize that glow and pulse faintly, carved into his skin, and his body is swollen horribly all over and covered in tiny red bumps. The bags under his eyes are deep and his face gaunt and hollow looking, even swollen, which is somehow worse than either would be on its own. His long blonde hair is lifeless, damp with sweat and caked to his body, and he’s breathing raggedly and weak. I have seen spirits in conditions as bad as this from wounds, in the heat of battle, but never…sick? I can’t think of any other way to describe this, but he looks sick, which we don’t get any more—and he looks terminal, at that.

“Yes. This is what they did to him. …I…haven’t been able to fix it all. I thought my master might be able to help me when she woke,” answers the man. He’s stayed in his armor and mask, so I can’t see expressions at all, but he’s got a trustworthy voice—real sad, though.

“Can I take a look?” asks King David, “I may be able to help.”

The man hesitates, then says, “Yes. Uhm. —alright. –Might I ask who the rest of you are?” like he knows it was stupid to still be untrusting at this point, but he can’t help it. I think he and the other spirit must be friends, because I can’t imagine him being this level of protective over a complete stranger, and it’s about how I expect I’d be with Robin or Geronimo.

“You first,” says Robin at the same time Emiya says, “After you,” and they both look incredibly pissed that the other had the exact same impulse.

“Right. My apologies,” says the man formally, and I buy that—he seems frazzled and stressed. “My true name is Antonio Salieri.”

God damn it. I try to smile and not let my absolute lack of knowledge show on my face. Now there’s two spirits in the party whose names I have never even heard—this sucks. It always feels low-key rude not to know. It looks like King David’s in the same boat as me, so I feel a little bit better, but Robin and Emiya I think recognize it.

“And him?” asks Robin. Emiya was definitely about to say almost the same thing, but he stops himself from overlapping this time and gets some kind of an expression on his face.

“—I’m Billy the Kid,” I interject as friendly as I can, because I feel like we’re pilin’ it on a little harsh here.

“Thank you,” he tells me, then turning to the others, “This is Mozart—Wolfgang Amadeus.”

Oooooh, the composer! That’s pretty cool. Robin and Emiya both get incredibly strange looks on their faces, though, and I know Robin well enough to tell he’s suddenly trying really hard not to laugh nervously. The heck’s that about?

“King David,” chimes in King David, oblivious to this and holding up a finger in greeting. Salieri turns to stare at him. Then he begins softly to laugh hysterically, and everyone gets real quiet.

He doesn’t seem to realize how weird that is, and just looks down at the body in his arms and says, “It appears once again God looks out for you only, and particularly.”

“Guys?” I prompt in the hopes of turning this conversation back to semi-normal, and because it’s kinda bad form not to exchange names once an ally tells you theirs.

“Robin Hood,” says Robin, punching his timecard back into the present.

“…Emiya,” says Emiya like he doesn’t want to answer.

Salieri glances back up, serious and normal again, and nods slowly.

“May I?” says King David again, and Salieri obliges. King David starts looking over Mozart thoughtfully, muttering to himself in what I’m pretty sure has gotta be Hebrew, and he flicks his wrist without looking and his kinnor appears by him. As I watch, he shuts his eyes and begins to play. It’s the longest and most intricate melody I’ve heard from him, and it’s fascinating to listen to. Beautiful. Nothing I’ve ever heard before either, and he sings softly with it in his own tongue. It’s…really incredible. I’ve heard some pretty good piano players and guitarists in my own day, but seeing somebody like this, you understand for the first time the concept of a genius on an instrument—it’s so unlike anything I’ve heard before, it’s like it’s a totally different thing than what I thought of as music. While he plays, the glowing purple markings start to twist and dissolve on Mozart’s skin, a piece and a few at a time from foot-to-head, and as they go, his body begins to repair itself. It’s a strange thing to watch, curses leaving a body, but it's pretty amazing too.

“Damn,” I whisper under my breath.

“You said it,” agrees Robin softly with a smile.

“So, uh?” I ask, focusing my attention back on Ritsuka and glancing over at Emiya, “Any way to wake her up?”

“You could smack her,” says Emiya offhand, and then there’s a half-second delay and he gets a look on his face that says very clearly he did not think before speaking and wishes greatly he had. He grimaces, and gives Ritsuka a glance, then reaches out with his free hand.

“—You ain’t gonna smack her, right?” I make sure—to bother him, not because I’m really worried he would.

Emiya sighs at me and I grin. He places a hand on her chest and I watch geometric patterns runs along her skin for a moment.

“She used too many circuits she wasn’t used to using,” he tells me, eyes still on Ritsuka, “Flooded them and burned herself out a little. –She’ll be fine, though—I’ve seen a lot worse of the same. I think it just tired her out, the same way an intense amount of physical exertion someone isn’t used to might after an adrenaline rush would. This should help her wake up.”

He removes his hand, and the patterns vanish. Ritsuka stays still for a few seconds, then groans and turns a little in my arms to snuggle against my shoulder, muttering incoherently, and I smile.

“Thanks,” I say to Emiya. He gives a nod. “How’s the lancer doing?” I add with a little concern. I really expected him to wake up again already. Emiya’s expression darkens and closes off.

“It’s complicated,” he answers after a moment, “But not well. …I can’t really fix what’s wrong with him; neither can David, and the problem’s not his mana supply from the kid. It’s what they did before, and don’t think any of us can fix it.”

“Not even with a command spell?” I ask, taken aback and feeling a chill settle on me. Thinking about him vanishing and getting dragged back here to…that shit again. We got to raze this place to a pile of ash. A part of me wonders if that’ll really be enough, though. We’re lucky in that mages tend to guard any breakthrough like hoard of gold, but at the same time, these mages are selling, and if they’re selling, god knows how much they were willing to part with for money.

Emiya shrugs. “A spell could forestall death a little, but they’re not really meant for repairing a spirit origin with a gaping hole in it. This is something that’d take time and experience to figure out, if it can be fixed. The good news is that he’s not going to die in the next few hours or anything, unless he takes a lot more damage—if there’s one thing he excels at, it’s being damn near impossible to put in the dirt quickly—so, we don’t have to rush for a solution while we’re here. If we stay focused and on task, we should have a chance after we deal with this place. And if not, so long as we bring this place down, he should at least be able to avoid being brought back here.”

He's really thought this through. I know he’s a tactical fighter anyway, even not having known him long, but something about the amount of detail makes me think despite the weird interaction they must be some kind of friends. I’m distracted from considering that any further though, because Ritsuka shifts a little again and opens her eyes about halfway. “Mnnn…” She blinks unevenly at my vest, then turns her head up and squints at me. “…Billy?”

“Heya,” I say with a smile, feeling immense relief seein’ her up, “Feelin’ better?”

“Oh?” says Emiya, moving in too, “You’re up faster than I expected.” I feel pretty sure that’s his version of saying he’s relieved to see her okay.

“I am?” asks Ritsuka, still a little foggy.

“Hey kid,” says Robin, leaning over from the other side, “I see you did the exact opposite of what I asked you to.”

“No I didn’t,” she mumbles, blinking and trying to focus, “I was gonna call. I almost did—when I thought I was in trouble. But it was okay. I met a new…Oh!” Her eyes get clearer, and she tries to sit up before realizing she is being held and can’t very much like this. “Antonio! I met this other spirit—did you find—“

“—Don’t worry,” says Emiya, “He’s safe and sound; we already met.” I move to accommodate her view. “He’s right over there with David and Mozart.”

Salieri and King David are both looking over already, and King David gives a grin in greeting but keeps playing. Salieri starts to say something, but Ritsuka does before he gets a chance.

“With—‘Mozart’?” she asks, face scrunched up, looking from him to the other three and staring with absolute blankness at them “—The…composer?? Where did he come from?”

Wait.

“Wait, you weren’t—you didn’t contract with that one?” asks Robin before I can.

“No—I never saw him before,” says Ritsuka, just as confused, “Do I need to?”

Ohhhhh—of course. Salieri didn’t think she could contract with more than one person, and he said she passed out soon as the two of them made a pact—we’re all idiots. I can’t believe I didn’t even think to check.

“Hey,” says Robin to Salieri, almost accusingly, “How’s your friend still solid?”

“I’m maintaining him,” answers Salieri, almost taken aback, “I can’t for long, but I can slow down his consumption. It’s a…” He glances back at Ritsuka and sees the same confused look on her face and his tone changes immediately, warmer. “class ability. Mana replenishment.”

“What class?” says Robin, in a tone that tracks, because I have never heard that one before either.

“…Avenger,” answers Salieri after a moment. ‘Avenger’? “You’re awake again,” he adds to Ritsuka in the most friendly tone I’ve heard from him, “Are you alright?”

“…Antonio?” asks Ritsuka, staring at him.

It takes him a second to realize why she looks that way, then he gives an, “Oh,” and flicks his wrist, and the helmet vanishes to reveal his face again.

“Oh—hi,” says Ritsuka, a little stunned still, “I’m sorry—I didn’t recognize you for a second—that’s really cool armor you have.”

He doesn’t look like he knows how to process or respond to that.

“I think I’m okay now. A little tired and sore, but pretty good actually—How about you? How are you feeling?” she adds. “Better? -I hope?”

Again, he seems taken off guard by the question, but he glances down at himself, then up at her. “I’m…alright. Certainly better than I was, at the least. Thank you.”

She smiles. “Good. Sorry I passed out before explaining anything.”

“Well, it’s no wonder,” he says, looking at the assembled people she’s keeping up, “And I think I’m fairly up to speed now.”

“Did you rescue him on your own?” asks Ritsuka, indicating Mozart. He nods. “And that’s Mozart? The composer?”

“Yes,” says Salieri with a very specific tone that I weirdly can’t place.

“Wow,” says Ritsuka. She hesitates and looks over the whole group before looking up and settling on me, “How long was I out?”

“I don’t think too long—maybe ten, fifteen minutes?” I suggest.

“You work fast,” she says to Salieri with a grin, “Thanks for saving him!”

Salieri, king of not knowing how to respond, looks back blankly for a moment then gives a hesitant nod.

“Uhm,” she continues, glancing up at me, “I think I can stand up now, if you put me down.”

“Oh! Sure thing,” I say, setting her down but keeping my hands up in case she isn’t as steady as she thinks. She’s not, but she catches herself just fine, then gives herself a second to get her sea legs back before trying to walk again.

“Sure you’re okay?” asks Robin.

She nods. “I’m just a little dizzy. I really do feel a lot better—I think I should be able to anchor another one of you just fine once he wakes up.”

“Are you sure though?” I ask, “You got six contracts runnin’ now, and the last one took you out for a little bit. –Don’t you think another one might knock you out even longer?”

“I don’t think so,” says Ritsuka, who in fairness is bouncing back wildly fast, “I know I passed out after making a contract, but I don’t really think that was why; I was already really faint before that—it happened during the fight with the gashadokuros—when that one popped out of the floor, and grabbed us? I think maybe it just hurt me a little or something, and I hadn’t recovered yet.”

“Oh,” I say, heart sinking a little.

“My ribs feel fine now though!” she assures me.

Yeah, I don’t really think it was the gashadokuro that did it. I feel kinda guilty, too, because I knew when I did it I was putting all of us at risk of vanishin’, but what else could I have done? …I mean, we were about to get smashed, and she’s supposed to be my top priority as a servant. Even though she said that ain’t what she wants, if I’m just pickin’ my own priorities for me, that’s still up top. Plus, we all made it, so it turned out okay.

“That was me, I think,” I admit.

She blinks at me and tilts her head.

“I used a noble phantasm,” I explain, “I’m sorry—I knew you were tapped out already, and we’d agreed we’d all have to not, because of about what happened when I did, but I didn’t see another sure way out of you and me gettin’ smashed—and it did work! And turned out fine—so.”

“But. I thought yours doesn’t take much mana?” she asks, confused.

“Well, Thunderer don’t,” I explain, “But I got more than one. Whole lot of us do. And they ain’t the same.”

Beside me, Robin gives a nod.

“Oh.” She thinks about that, then beams at me. “Well wait, that’s great then! If that’s all it was, I don’t have to worry about making contracts!”

I smile back.

“Oh—how’s the lancer doing?” asks Ritsuka, turning to Emiya, seeing for herself how he’s doing, and face falling a little, “He’s still not awake?”

“He was for a little, but he passed out again—probably when you did,” answers Emiya, “He’s weak, but he’s holding on. In his condition, it’s just going to take more of a mana flow to keep him awake than the rest of us.”

“Okay,” says Ritsuka thoughtfully, “Well. Since I’m awake, that means he’ll probably be feeling better again pretty soon too, right?”

Emiya gives a nod.

I wonder why he doesn’t tell her. I guess he doesn’t want her to worry about something she can’t fix, but I think she should know. I would tell her now, if Emiya and the lancer didn’t seem to be some kind of weird friends, because that means he might know and be doing what the lancer would want if he was up to pick for himself.

“Okay—can you let me know as soon as he wakes up?” she ask. He nods. “Did the plan go okay?”

I give a nod, and Robin says, “Sure thing—we left them on an upper level, made sure to give personnel a chance to flee, but scare them enough to motivate them. It’s gotten quiet too, so I expect they’ve un-summoned the things.”

“That’s amazing!,” she says, “Wow, everybody did a really good job on their own. Thank you—OH! Wait—Mozart—this means we’ve got all seven—six, I mean, right? –One for each catalyst?”

“Think so,” I agree.

“I haven’t sensed any more of us,” adds Emiya slowly, “Which should mean all that’s left is bringing the building down, and destroying research. Taking care of staff.”

Ritsuka looks worried by the last note there, but she nods seriously.

“So we go looking for heads of staff next?” I ask.

Emiya gives a nod.

“We should find the security office then—checking the tech will probably be the quickest way to find them,” says Robin, then with a sigh, “Damn shame we didn’t pick up an assassin. They’d have come in real handy right about now.”

Ritsuka turns to Salieri and David, I think because I’m gettin’ more used to her problem-solving style, to ask about Mozart’s class in case it’s Assassin, but when she gets a real look at Mozart with her full sense intact, what she was gonna say goes right out of her head and she freezes and just looks horrified instead. Then takes a little step closer and asks, “…What happened to him?”

“Some intricate curses,” answers King David, still playing his kinnor, “It’s a nasty bit of spell work, but I can undo it—I’m almost done. It’ll take a little for his vessel to repair itself after the curses are gone, especially with such a weak supply of magic, but it should work just fine.”

“We should get moving,” circles back Robin quietly to just Emiya and me, watching them, “The yokai scattered them pretty well for us, but that won’t last us forever. Don’t want to tempt fate here.”

“Which one was the kunai?” asks Emiya in the same tone.

“Huh?” I say, taking about five seconds to mentally shift subjects back to catalysts, “Oh. Uh.”

…Who was the kunai? I try to mentally figure this through. “Picture,” I say pointing to myself, then gesturing to Robin, “Coin.”

“Earring,” says Emiya, indicating the ones the lancer is wearing.

“Earring,” I echo in confirmation, then glance at King David and the other two. “…I…King David’s gotta be the pitcher, right? And one of them must be the letter, the other the knife—could Salieri be the kunai?”

“If it was a common dagger, maybe,” says Emiya, “But a kunai? For a classical Italian composer?”

He’s got a point.

“Let’s find out,” says Robin, then louder, to Salieri, King David, and Ritsuka, “—Hey—sorry, quick question. These people had six catalysts for sure, and we have found six of us now. But we’re not sure they match up. –Don’t want to leave someone behind, you know. So, aside from us, there was a pitcher, a kunai knife, and a letter. We’re assuming you weren’t the letter or the knife,” he adds to King David, who gives a nod.

“From that list, I would have to be the pitcher—it was probably an oil pitcher,” confirms King David.

“That leaves two, and two of you, but neither of you make sense for the kunai,” says Robin.

“No, we don’t,” agrees Salieri, glancing up from the body in his arms, “We were both the letter.”

“You were both the letter?” I ask.

“Yes. It was from him, about me,” says Salieri tiredly, “And it called us both.”

That’s the worst possible timing to get dual-summoned anywhere. Almost any other situation it would at least be nice to be in a foxhole with an old friend. Talk about grim luck, I think. “So we’re still one short?”

“…I guess,” says Emiya slowly, “Or they simply haven’t used it yet. It seems like most of you haven’t been here long yet, Lancer only a few days; we don’t really know what schedule they’re on. The research stations aren’t far from us or the security huh, though—If we go  there first, we can probably find the answer.”

“That sounds smart,” says Ritsuka hopefully, “Let’s do that—we can’t leave somebody.”

“So was that a success?” Robin asks King David, glancing over at Mozart. The composer looks a lot better now. The glowing curses are gone, and while his body still looks kind of messed up, it looks a lot less on the verge of death. I guess that’s in line with what King David said. Still, poor guy is still pale and breathing shallow and weak. Whatever the spells were, they must have been hell on him.

“Yes, his vessel is resetting itself,” says King David proudly. He lets go of his kinnor and it vanishes. “It was some intensely specific spell work, they have a gifted and dangerous mage on staff. The mental effects should be already gone as they were more curse alone than inflicted physical damage, but it’ll just take however long it takes for his mana supply to replenish him enough to heal the rest.” He absently pats Mozart’s head once which almost startles Salieri. “Poor man. They really did a number.”

“Will it be enough?” Ritsuka asks, glancing up at Salieri, “To heal him okay, if it’s just from you? –I’d form a contract with him if he was awake, but, I can’t—I could give you a command spell though, for the energy, if you need it!”

“That’s kind,” says Salieri, “but you should keep them for true emergencies.” He looks at the man in his arms fondly and a little sadly. “I can tell he’s bouncing back remarkably fast as well, for all the damage done, so I expect he’ll be alright in a short time if things continue the way they are. He won’t be in danger of vanishing before that happens.”

“That’s good,” says Ritsuka, clearly relieved.

“We should get moving, then,” Robin almost interrupts, “We’ve already been in one place too long, and we can’t afford to lose momentum—especially if they’ve got tricks like earlier at their disposal. They seem to have temporarily lost us, and I’d love to keep it that way.”

“Right,” says Ritsuka, straightening up, “Okay—if David’s done, then let’s go.”

David gives a nod.

“Could one of you carry him?” asks Salieri hurriedly, like he’s afraid we’ll take off first.

It takes me a second to get that he means Mozart despite how obvious that should be, just because it’s so totally out of left field as a thing I’d expect him to say.

“I can continue to sustain his mana if I’m fairly close, and I can trade—I’ll take that one,” he adds quickly, indicating the lancer Emiya has, which visibly throws Emiya more than anything I’ve seen since Ritsuka calling him ‘Dad’, “—I have no trouble fighting while holding someone, but if I keep Mozart with me much longer, I may kill him.”

…

“You’ll what?” says Ritsuka.

“I. May kill him,” Salieri echoes himself quietly, glancing down at the unconscious body in his arms.

“…But.” says Ritsuka helplessly. Yeah.

“I thought you were friends?” I ask, lost myself.

“We are,” agrees Salieri, “Or—I am. I. Was—it’s complicated. I, Salieri, was his friend—am, his friend, but, I, as I am now—as the thing that has been carved onto the throne, am also his sworn enemy.” He’s struggling a little. It’s strange. Aside from the one time he went into hysterics he’s seemed as normal as the rest of us, but it’s suddenly like he’s trying really hard not to completely fall apart—not in a crying way—like he’s frazzled and shaky mentally all of a sudden, and struggling to ground himself. It…makes me sad. Almost agonized, he turns to Emiya and Robin like some last-ditch hope. “Tell me—you recognized my name. What do you know it from?”

Robin doesn’t answer, but Emiya says, “Stories. About you killing Mozart.” There’s something about his tone. Low, and something else too. Between pity and understanding. I think he gets what’s going on, even though I don’t yet. Though. …I think I might be afraid I’m starting to…

“Yes,” says Salieri bitterly, “That’s what everyone remembers, true or not, and so it is what the Throne wanted, and what the throne got.”

Oh.

Oh God. … I—s-shit. That’s…I’ve heard of that happening before, sort of. I’ve met people, just a few, that were a little like this—people from stories so many folks believed were true, the throne grabbed someone as like them as possible, and twisted them—fucked with their personalities and memory and abilities, and threw them on the throne as only a little who they were before, and a lot who it wanted to force them to be, to try and make someone who never was. I hadn’t thought about that happening with personal rumor—public opinion versus the truth, but of course it must. Which is…awful. …

“But you didn’t,” says Ritsuka, a question, but not at all a ‘did you?’—it’s very much a ‘so it doesn’t make sense?’.

Salieri glances at her and smiles a little sadly, exhales slow. “No. I didn’t. But that doesn’t get to matter for me now. I’m an Avenger.”

“I.” Ritsuka looks at him, then us, settles on Emiya, “I don’t know what that means.”

“They’re…embodiments of resentment,” says Emiya in a level tone, “Unlike us, associated with a legacy of skills or feats, they’re tied to an injury or hatred from their life, and manifested as an embodiment of that rage and the desire to chase it—to avenge.”

“So…You’re. …trapped?” she asks slowly, eyes big with worry as she turns back to face Salieri. He watches her solemnly with a kind of resigned, quiet sadness I recognize very well. “As…the desire to. ...”

“Kill him,” finishes Salieri for her simply, “And a personification of hatred of him as well. Always.”

“That’s awful,” says Ritsuka.

He tries to smile at her. “Yes. But there’s no escaping it. I ask only that you take precautions, with both of us here. It will be difficult, perhaps impossible, for me to do so on my own.”

She looks at him, then down at the floor, fist clenched, thinking hard. “But,” she says desperately as she looks up at him again, “But you didn’t do it—you’re still you. From before. You remember everything, right? You said—And you think like you, and—and when I was unconscious, you went and rescued him all on your own; you didn’t kill him!”

“Yes, you could say that,” says Salieri quietly, looking at something far past all of us, and I think maybe long ago, before returning to the present, “But it would be as fair to say that I am only a small part of him—of who I was. And that I am also very much the fabricated Man in Grey whose purpose and desire is to kill him. As well as a manifestation of people’s lies, and their hatred, and my hatred of them for it. I am more than one thing; I am enough things now that I could not say with certainty which one I am even the most, or if I am one the most at all, or if I am truly any of them, but I can say with absolute certainty that I cannot be trusted to stay the one I or you would wish for an entire summons.” He looks at her sadly. “I told you when you offered me a contract that I am dangerous. Not to you, not if you’re careful. But I am afraid I will not be as useful as you would wish. Despite my best efforts…”

“But,” says Ritsuka again, “No—it’s not about that. It’s—"

“—Think of it as like a command spell,” offers Emiya gently, taking a step up to be beside her, “But woven into him on summon, instead of lasting a short time. Even if he’s still who he was, none of us can resist compulsion forever. That’s not his fault or something you can fix for him. It wasn’t added to his manifestation here—it’s an integral part of it. Let him be careful.”

There’s something he doesn’t say, but I hear it just the same, from his tone and his expression, and the one on Salieri’s face. That this is Salieri’s way of trying to be himself, by achieving the goal he’d have wanted, even if it can only be attained by keeping himself at arm’s length and gunpoint.

And I think he’s right.

Ritsuka I think gets it too, at least mostly. She looks from him to Salieri in distress, then lets out a breath and nods. “Okay. …I’m sorry,” she adds, looking up at Salieri with so much sorrow on her face.

He smiles weakly. “Thank you, Master.”

“Oh,” she says worriedly, “please don’t call me that—you can just call me Ritsuka.”

He cocks his head at her.

“Like I said before,” she continues hopefully, “I don’t want a servant—I just want to help.”

“Oh?” says King David, who I’m realizing didn’t get the pitch when we snagged him. He seems both amused and happy about this development.

“Very well, then,” says Salieri, with a little half-bow.

“Oh—and you—” she adds, “Do you prefer Antonio? Or Salieri? Or Mr. Salieri?-“

“Salieri is fine,” he responds.

“Salieri,” she echoes in confirmation.

“Alright then, let’s get moving—Like Robin said, we’ve already lingered here too long,” says Emiya, moving forward and offering an arm, “I can carry him.”

“Alright, I’ll take yours then,” says Salieri.

“I can take both,” replies Emiya.

“But then how will you fight?” asks Ritsuka.

“Oh for crying out loud,” exclaims Robin, cutting off whatever reply Emiya was about to give and shooting him a look, then turning to Salieri and holding out his own arms, “Here—I’ll take him.”

Salieri passes the body carefully to Robin, though he looks unhappy about doing it.

“Oh—your cloak,” says Ritsuka, taking it off and handing it to Robin.

He glances back and takes it with a wink, casually slinging it over his shoulder, “Next time I lend this, you might want to actually use the invisibility.”

“Well, I did as long as I could,” she tries, but he’s already grinning at her, and she gets she’s being teased and smiles back.

“Let’s move,” calls out Emiya, a little annoyed now, and he takes off. Robin follows, but Salieri and King David both hesitate and glance at Ritsuka.

“I got ‘er!” I call, snagging her with an arm and bolting off after the others. She makes a surprised sound between a laugh and a yelp and then grins at me. I think it must be fun, going this fast when you’re still a human. I woulda enjoyed it for sure. Really should bring her goggles though—what if we have to go really fast at some point? I file that away.

Behind me, Salieri follows close, King David taking up the rear. I’m very glad we got Emiya on the team, because he’s got a good sense of direction and an ability to channel his mana into physical objects to read layouts and mechanical workings. I mean, we’re all not bad at figuring the layout of anywhere as heroic spirits, but the level he’s on is truly impressive. Guess Ritsuka got the summon answer she really needed after all.

As one, we dart down halls and through an empty gallery. Instead of hitting the elevator shaft again, now that they know we’re here, Emiya snaps a hole through the floor above with his bow and just takes the fast route from point A to point B. I can sense people nearby and a lot of mana not far above us myself now. I take a corner right after Robin and by the time I’m in the next hall Emiya has already downed six of eight guards, and Robin is taking shots at the next two. They are quite a tag-team, but I have a strong feeling they would both hate being told that.

“They were surprised,” Emiya informs us mentally, “It appears the distraction with the gashadokuro worked better than expected—they seem scattered.”

We race through this floor, passing offices and closed doors. I sense a large amount of mana behind one, and Emiya must too because he stops to kick it down. There’s no one inside, but there’s an automated familiar defense system, and a bunch of little magecraft wasps fill the air in a swarm. My gut tells me they got some kind of poison, and I slide to the side to take Ritsuka out of the line of fire before taking some shots at the swarm from the cover of the doorway. I’m thinkin’ Emiya, Robin, and I can all easily deal with this, but it’s gonna be hard not to damage everything in the room doing so, when I suddenly hear the sound of a grand piano behind me and turn in I think the only emotion one can have hearing a grand piano where it shouldn’t be, to see Salieri with the faint glowing outline of a phantasmal instrument at his fingertips. His fingers flash across the keys with precision and incredible force, and myriad of little grey figures appear between us and the swarm and destroy them in a flash of light.

“Thanks,” I say, kinda stunned. He gives a nod.

Emiya has wasted no time and is already inside, searching.

“What? Why did we stop here?” Ritsuka asks me.

“Something with a lot of mana was inside—we couldn’t tell what,” I reply, then to Emiya, “What was it?”

“Yours,” says Emiya by way of answer, stepping back out and chucking Robin his coin, which he catches in surprise and then turns over in his fingers with a very hard to read expression on his face. “Yours,” he adds to King David, tossing a clay pitcher, “And yours,” he adds, handing Salieri a very old letter in a sealed package.

“Where’s mine?” I ask at the same time King David says, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I can carry it!” volunteers Ritsuka, “I brought a backpack!”

He can’t seem to think of a reason not to, and gives it to her.

“Yours wasn’t in there,” says Emiya, “Neither was the kunai, or the earring.”

Huh. I…guess maybe it means they were already setting up a circle somewhere, to try and drag me back. That’s a great feeling…

Nothing to do about it though, so I give a nod and let myself puzzle through that while we move towards our target. There are a lot of alarms going off throughout the building now, which isn’t good, but I am starting to notice as we go that the security cameras aren’t tracking our movement. Emiya was taking care of them earlier, but I haven’t seen him do that in a bit—I think we’re past caring. But…

We hit the end of this floor and move up again, right through the floor like before. I hear Emiya’s voice in my head say, “Focus up. We’re nearing the research stations.”

He’s right. The layout of this building has been fairly similar before now, long halls, large rooms, similar numbers of rooms per floor. Interspersed with open areas like walking intersections. This floor is different. We come up in an abandoned office room, but the second we exit it, I see a huge metal door blocking us. I can feel the enchantments on it too—and it’s not just blocking a room, it’s making the entire rest of this floor inaccessible. On top of that, the thing fuckin’ looks like the entrance to a bank vault.

“Talk about extra,” Robin says, thinkin’ the same thing I’m feelin’. He glances at Emiya. “Can you tell if there’s any weakest point to the bounded field?”

Emiya touches the field, and it seems to shock him. He snaps back his hand and shakes it, then reaches his hand up like he’s going to call one of his swords, stops, and grimaces. “…It’s strong, but it’s far from the best one of theirs I’ve seen. I could break it right here, but it might put too much strain on our master.”

“-Ritsuka,” corrects Ritsuka.

“Ritsuka,” he echoes in our heads. He studies the door, then places his hand on the wall beside it, just before where I can sense the bounded field begin, and I feel a surge of mana from him. “I can point you to the weakest spots in the walls, but you’ll have to break the outer seal with your phantasm,” he informs me, “The rest of us don’t have the firepower right now.”

“Let’s go,” I agree, setting Ritsuka down and drawing my gun.

Emiya summons his bow and blows through a wall on our left easily, then indicates a spot to me on the forward wall, about eleven feet beside the door, and 3/4th the way up the wall. “There’s humans past this. Be ready to fight,” he warns us mentally.

I step up. “Let’s do this here and now.” I feel mana from Ritsuka flood me and level my gun with a surge of energy, “Fire!” The bullets tear into the wall and there’s one moment where they’re there in the wall, stuck on the bounded field, still pushing forward but not moving, like watching a fish try and break free from a net, then the bullets win and the wall shatters in a mass of metal and magic shrapnel. Emiya throws up a shield that looks like flower petals to me between us and the debris, and the second the initial burst is over, he dives in through the haze of dust. We all go with him, weapons ready. And he was right—there are people. About six mages sit at workstations, two of them already on their feet, shouting warnings and sending spells our way. There are four guard on our right side, and I can hear more people in the next room too. The first mage up summons a line of long needles, and is tactical enough to send them flying not at Emiya, but at Ritsuka past all of us. I move to deflect them, but Robin does the same ahead of me, furious, knocking them out of the way with his bracer and drawing on the mage who sent them, sending a bolt from his crossbow into their shoulder. The next one is smarter, summoning two golems from the ground to buy time. Robin takes a shot at one just before Emiya physically collides with it, ripping it to shreds with his shortswords, then spinning on his heel and taking the head off the second one. Panicked, the mage starts to cast another spell, but I hit him in the side before he can, and he goes down. It is real hard hitting someone deep enough with a gun that they go down for good, but don’t die, but I am tryin’ my best here. For the little boss.

The other four mages are all up now, and the guards have drawn their guns. King David’s gone in a flash, reappears by the heavily armored group, and starts taking them down with a shepherd’s staff which has to be one of the most cool things I’ve ever witnessed. He’s so floaty. Keeps springboarding off their machine guns when they try to take a shot and kicking them in the head, spinning around in the air and bringing his staff down right on top of another’s helmet. Springboards off that one’s chest as they fall back, then off the first one he hit too to project himself towards the last two, ramming his staff into both their necks at once.

Pretty sure he’s got that covered, I turn my attention back to the remaining four mages. One of them has summoned an arc shield around herself and the woman next to her, while the other is firing bolts of energy at Emiya and Robin from inside, and the other two have split up, one using mana to accelerate their own movement and try to move to flank us, the other getting some distance and trying to coordinate with the others by firing off stuns at range. He actually gets a hit on Emiya’s sword when the guy goes to deflect it in the middle of bringing down a golem and dodging another bolt, not catching it’s a stun in time, but he shakes it off somehow almost instantaneously—That’s right. The bounded field didn’t do much to him before, did it? Or not for long. Maybe he did know what that was. He’s good at that kind of thing. I call behind me to Salieri to take care of the flanker, and take a shot at the guy firing stuns. He manages to summon a shield fast enough to deflect my first shot, but the second one shatters it, and the third slams him in the shoulder and knocks him hard against the far wall hard enough he goes down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Salieri pull what looks like violin strings made of blood from out of his own neck, and use his sword like a bow. Bursts of magic slam into the floor in front of the mage trying to flank us, and they fall partway through the floor and are left unable to dodge the last shot, which slams them squarely in the head and leaves them unconscious. I hope. Haha shit. We forgot to tell him Ritsuka pleaded with us to go non-lethal, huh? Whoops…

Ahead of me, the mage in the shield realizes that hitting Emiya isn’t going to work, and takes a shot at the unconscious lancer on his shoulder instead to throw him off. This has the opposite effect. Emiya barely rotates to keep the guy on his shoulder from being shot, then flings his shortswords at the barrier with so much force it shatters, and he’s in there almost as fast, catching the mage by the throat and flinging her into the far wall. Robin slides in and sweeps the feet out from the other, then knocks her unconscious with an elbow.

“Next room!” calls Emiya, indicating the same door I heard noise behind myself. The faster we go, the less chance they have to set up defenses. It occurs to me all of a sudden we have not assigned someone to bodyguard Ritsuka—a potentially fatal oversight—and slide back to stay with her as ahead of me, Emiya takes down the next door.

“Stay close, okay?” I ask her, trying to reassure her because she looks incredibly overwhelmed. Guess for your average teenager this is a whole lot of intense violence.

“Y-Yeah,” she manages, a little pale.

Shit.

“Hey, Salieri,” I call to him mentally, “Forgot to mention—Ritsuka bein’ a soft-hearted teenager, really wants us to kill as few folks as possible.”

“I’ve been informed,” he responds the same way, “She begged me to be merciful when I went to attack.”

I check with the senses I have as a servant to see if I can pick up the sound of the guy breathing from here. I can. Damn, I think, watching Salieri follow the others, And you held back. Guess you really like her too.

“Don’t worry—we’re doing what we promised,” I tell Ritsuka, “I can hear the heartbeats. –We’re holdin’ back.”

That seems to reassure her, and she gives me a nod. I pick her up and run after the others. They’re already breaking into a fight when I make the door. Less people here—just a couple security officers guarding the room, two people working tech diagnostics of some kind at terminals connected to a very large databank, plus one mage who seems to be overseeing things. The tech workers have taken one look at us and gone for the smartest human solution—an attempt to surrender—and curled up under one of the desks with their hands over their heads. The mage is shouting at them, and us, and security. One of the security members tries to shoot us, but King David lands a shot from his slingshot down the barrel faster than he can pull the trigger, and the weapon explodes on the guy. Emiya launches a couple swords at the other and pins him to a wall. The mage throws up a hand and starts to summon something, but I cap him in the knee and he falls to the ground cursing, then gets a kick to the head from Robin that lays him flat.

Beside us, Emiya flips the desk the tech workers are under and sends it skittering across the room and they both scream and try to crawl back. He’s way too fast to avoid, though, and darts past them, hitting them both behind the neck in passing, and they collapse, unconscious.

Emiya informs us mentally we’re almost to the core research station. That means probably a lot of people.

“When we get there, we’ll be able to find out if they summoned the last one?” checks Ritsuka.

“Probably,” comes Emiya’s reply, “Unless they’ve predicted us and flushed the system, we should be able to, so the faster we go in, the better.”

“Do you think they know where we are right now? The defenses have been surprisingly uncoordinated,” says Robin, flexing his fingers absently to keep them limber.

“There’s something wrong with security,” agrees Emiya, “Like we guessed before. Whatever is happening, it’s clearly deliberate, and I think it’s likely at this point we can agree it’s not a trap—it’s someone working towards their own goal.”

“Oh yeah! There definitely is! Someone was helping me earlier,” cuts in Ritsuka, “—I forgot-“

“-You forgot?” asks Robin.

“So much happened!” says Ritsuka, “But yeah, you were right,” she adds, turning to Emiya, “Someone is either helping us, or trying to hurt Ur-shanabi—or both—because they opened the door to Salieri’s cell for me, and sent me a message to go in.”

“Oh my god and she went,” says Robin so quiet only I can hear him. I feel him. You’re so nice but that sounds like such an obvious trap, I think, feeling the same distressed emotion I hear in Robin’s voice.

She reads the look on our faces. “Well, it worked! And they didn’t try and hurt me at all,” she pleads, “So my intuition was right!”

“I understand trusting your gut, and I respect that,” says Emiya very tiredly, “But please. Don’t do that in every suicidal situation that presents itself to you?”

“—Either way, that’s good, right?” says Ritsuka, “It helps us.”

“It does,” concedes Emiya in an exhausted done, “Probably, anyway. I wish you’d given us the full version earlier, because we really can’t postpone hitting the hub any longer without giving them way too much time to flush information or prepare. Once we’re out, please tell us everything.”

“Right,” says Ritsuka with a nod, serious now, “Sorry.”

He returns the nod. Then gets an annoyed  look on his face. “…Shit, if whoever is attacking Ur-shanabi is tapped in enough they’re communicating openly and controlling security feeds and doors for extended periods of time, we might run into trouble trying to hit the security station to find organization heads. We might not be able to access their information there at all.”

Oh. Shit… “What then?” I ask, “We still try and figure it out if that fails?”

“It’ll be dangerous to try and comb the whole building, if it comes that,” offers Salieri thoughtfully, “We should move preemptively if we can.”

“He has a point,” agrees Emiya. He considers. “Robin, you’re by far the best scout here. You should split off and try and find any head offices or command centers they have, or any leads on where leadership might be that you can find. If security is totally down, that’s the best shot we’ve got.”

Robin gives a nod and flips up his hood.

“Will you be okay alone?” Ritsuka asks worriedly.

“Sure he will,” I answer for him, “I never knew anybody better at keeping a low profile in a tight situation.”

Robin snorts and gives me a smile. “Something like that. –Who’s taking the composer?”

“I can,” says King David, happily taking Mozart from Robin and slinging him over both shoulders like he’s carrying a sheep. I feel like maybe I oughtta volunteer, since I ain’t at all so far, but I’m even shorter than King David…

“Alright. Best of luck,” says Robin with a two-fingered solute. He activates May King and vanishes.

“Okay!” Ritsuka calls after him, “But if you get into trouble, call to me, and I’ll use a spell!”

I hear him laugh quietly. “Well if that ain’t familiar,” he says, the sound of a smile in his voice, and he’s gone then.

“Okay—let’s be quick,” says Emiya, to the rest of us, “Last time they figured out where we were, they sent yokai after us.”

[hawksmagnolia]

In times of sickness we all need a hero.

Darcy is sick so Clint, Nat and Sam send her a hero to save the day. 

A/N: Based on the prompt: “What do you mean you’re sick? You’re my partner in crime!”

Warning: Fluff, bathtime snuggles, sweet Bucky

“What do you mean you’re sick?! You’re my partner in crime! Who else is going to encourage me to do dumb shit?”

Darcy sniffled through the phone. “Clint, you’re perfectly capable in doing dumb shit all on your own.”

Clint considered this. “Well, yeah. But it’s not as much fun without you. Plus who is going to warn me when Nat is coming? Wilson sucks at being the look out. He gets distracted.”

“Sam gets flirted with. You get distracted. You’re the walking, talking poster child for ADHD. You’re like one of those monkeys who ate all the cocaine at that drug lord’s house down in Miami. Although you’d probably be calmer on coke, pretty sure it’s just like super Adderall.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

She sniffed again. “I’m going back to laying on my couch in misery and watching Hallmark Christmas movies until I feel better. Stay out of Tony’s expensive espresso or you’ll die and we won’t know because you’ll be twitching for another 48 hours.”

“Spoilsport. Call me if you need anything.” Clint made kissy noises into the phone and hung up.

Clint looked over at Sam and Nat. Natasha looked bemused and Sam looked annoyed. Which was his normal state around Clint.

“I do NOT get distracted.” Sam grumbled.

“You do get flirted with a lot though.” Natasha pinched his cheek and he batted her hand away. 

“What about me?!” Cried Clint and Natasha kissed him on his pouting lips. “I threaten to kill people who flirt with you.” Clint smiled fondly at her.

“Now what?” Sam eyed Clint suspiciously. “I know you’re up to something but since we have Nat here I feel much safer.”

Clint cut his eyes at Sam. “You feel safer with her? She’s an assassin!”

Nat thumped Clint on the back of the head. “So are you. Give me your phone. He won’t expect you to be capable of this kind of manipulation.”

Clint looked hurt and Nat kissed him again as she took the phone from his hands. “We all know the stupid is an act.” She held the phone to his face to unlock it and then began to type on the screen. Clint leaned over to watch her and a smile blossomed on the archer’s face. 

“Oh Nat. When you’re good…you’re good.” He plucked the phone from her fingers and held the screen for Sam to read. 

“Damn girl. You almost sound like Clint in that text. Except it has proper spelling and grammar.”

“Not many schools in the carnival life.” Clint shrugged. “Doesn’t affect my aim. Find bad guy, shoot bad guy. The end.”

“Will you two idiots shut up? I’m setting the trap, let’s see if he takes the bait.” She pressed ‘send’ on the text and then spun around in her chair to watch the monitor screen of the gym where their mark, also known as James Buchanan Barnes, was working out.

Clint pulled out a box of caramel popcorn and kicked his feet up onto the desk where Natasha immediately shoved them off.

“Really Barton? Popcorn?”

He held out the box to Sam. “Want some?” 

“I’m not sure why I’m still surprised by anything you do.”

Natasha shushed them as she saw Bucky glance at his watch before re-stacking his weights and going to his bag to get his phone.

“Hook, line and sinker.”  Natasha smiled smugly as they watched Bucky pack up his bag and jog out of the gym.

——————————

Darcy laid on her couch in a pile of blankets as she wallowed in self pity. She felt awful, with a congested head and fever. Everything ached. Downfall of living with so many super people? None of them got sick but somehow they managed to bring home many, many germs to those of the non-super people variety. She coughed and considered calling Clint back so she could whine and then guilt him into bringing her food. She had food here but it was not food she wanted. 

She had just picked up her phone when there was a knock at her door. She looked back at it before pressing her phone screen to unlock the door. 

When the door opened Darcy desperately wished she had died and this was now heaven. Because that was preferable to the reality of the super hot super soldier actually seeing her looking like a hot mess. 

And, dear gods of thunder, he looked super hot. His hair was damp and loose around his face and he was dressed like he’d just left the gym. His tank top showed off every single defined muscle of his arms and was just clingy enough to give a hint of those abs while his shorts rode low on his hips. He was also looking at her oddly. Which is when she realized she was not only staring, but staring with her mouth wide open. She snapped her jaw shut and felt her face burn with something other than fever. 

“Darcy? You okay?”

“Um. Yeah. Peachy.” She tried to flash a smile but ended up coughing again. She heard a thump on her table and then a broad, warm hand was rubbing her back. 

“Jesus. You’re burning up.”

She waved a limp hand at him. “I’m not quite dead yet.”

“Clint said you were sick and asked me to check on you. So I brought that egg drop soup you like since you can’t get me sick.” He pointed to brown paper bag on her tiny kitchen table.

She peered up at him. “How do you know what soup I like?”

Bucky smiled at her. “You order it every single night we get Chinese.”

“Oh. Oh!” She yelped as Bucky reached over the back of the couch and scooped her into his arms. She hissed as his prosthetic pressed against her fevered skin. 

“We gotta get you cooled down Doll.” He carried her with ease into her bathroom. She was suddenly very, very grateful that she’d actually put her laundry down the chute earlier instead of leaving it in a pile on the floor. Keeping her cradled in his arms, he sat on the edge of the oversized tub and turned the tap on.

“What are you doing?” Darcy’s voice was a little muffled from being buried into his chest. She peeked up at his face.

“Told you. Getting you cooled down.” He kicked off his sneakers and reached down to peel off his socks. 

“But why are you getting…less clothing-ish?”

Bucky laughed as he checked the water. “I’m getting in with you. I can watch your temperature with my arm easier than any other way.”

Darcy squeaked. “In with me?!”

He laughed again and kissed the top of her head which sent little tingles all the way to her toes. “I promise your dignity is safe with me. I’ll keep my shorts on.”

“What if I don’t want my dignity to be safe?” Darcy mumbled and Bucky chuckled.

Bucky turned the water off and shifted her again as he yanked his tank top over his head. Darcy tried very hard not to stare but she was 1000% sure she failed. 

He stood, her still cradled in his arms and against that gloriously naked chest, and stepped into the tub. He sat, putting her between his legs with her back against his chest. She shivered a bit and he wrapped his arms around her.

“Sorry doll. But this-“ He plucked at her tank top. “has got to go.”

Darcy felt herself blush, she wore nothing under it, but Bucky leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re gorgeous and should know that.” His lips grazed her ear as he slid his prosthetic hand over her stomach and lifted her shirt with his other. Once the soaked fabric was tossed aside he settled her back against him. His thumb slowly traced a circle on her abdomen while he used the other to run through her hair. Darcy practically purred as his fingers slid across her scalp.

“How long have you been like this?” His voice rumbled against her back.

“Mmm…I don’t know. A couple days? What day is it?” 

“Have you been miserable the whole time? Why didn’t you call someone?”

“Clint and Nat have been checking on me. Steve came by too and dropped off some Gatorade and cold medicine. Sometimes you super people forget that not all of us have magic immune systems. Normally I’d have Thor bring me Asgardian medicine but he’s off in space doing space things.”

He pulled her a little closer and she snuggled into him. The water felt amazing on her skin and Bucky was warm enough to ward off the chill of the water and her fever finally breaking. 

“Next time call me. I’ll come stay with you.”

Darcy craned her neck to look up at him. “Don’t you have world saving to do though? I’m pretty sure that’s way more important than babysitting me.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll decide what’s important.”

“Does this mean I’m important?”

“I don’t go climbing in bathtubs with just anyone.”

She sighed dramatically. “Of course you pick now to do it.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at her. “You sayin’ you want to do it again?” His Brooklyn drawl crept into his voice.

“Only if you want to. But, I’d be either dead or a complete idiot to say no. Please know if I am asked about this later I will blame fever.”

“Then we will make a habit of this…especially when you’re better.” He flashed a wicked grin at her that made the heat she felt throughout her body have nothing to do with her illness. “But until then, out we go. I don’t want you gettin’ too cold.” He slipped from behind her and out of the tub, reaching to grab a towel. Darcy swallowed hard at the sight of his ass in water soaked clingy shorts. She crossed her arms over her chest self consciously.

“You done lookin’?”

“Um…no? I mean, I can lie and say yes but no. I’m not.” 

Bucky smiled and held out his hand and Darcy slowly stood on unsteady legs as she attempted to keep her chest covered. Gently he wrapped her in a towel and sat her on the side of the tub before wrapping one around his waist. Grabbing the wet fabric of his shorts, he pulled them down his legs and tossed them aside.

Darcy gaped at him. Her brain shorted out and the only noise to escape her mouth was a wheezy gasp. 

Bucky pretended not to notice as he grabbed another towel and tenderly began to dry the ends of her hair that had fallen into the water. She closed her eyes as he ran his fingers through her tangled curls until was able to braid it out of her face. 

“Where did you learn to braid?” 

Bucky was pulling a hair tie from around his wrist and he paused. “My sister. She was constantly running around with wild hair but she’d let me brush and braid it at night after her bath.” He secured her braid and stood. “Out of your wet stuff. I’ll be back in a minute, going to try and find you dry clothes.” He disappeared into her bedroom. 

She heard him moving around in her bedroom. The idea of James Buchanan Barnes going into her underwear drawer was enough to make her yelp. He stuck his head back into the bathroom. 

“You okay?”

“I..I can find dry clothes.”

He searched her face for a moment and then slowly nodded. “I’ll clean up in here.”

Darcy wobbled her way into her bedroom and stopped in surprise. Her bed had been carefully spread up with the quit and sheets pulled back so she could climb in. A bottle of Gatorade sat on her bedside- it wasn’t her normal flavor so she wondered if it was from him. She pulled on another tank top (this one with a built in bra) and dry boy shorts, kicking her wet ones aside. She was sitting on the edge of her bed attempting to get a pair of shorts up her legs when he came in still just wearing a towel around his waist. Without being asked, he knelt at her feet and slid them up for her. His fingers grazed over her bare flesh and it broke out into chill bumps.

“Into bed with you.” He gestured and she crawled up towards her pillows. He sat on the edge and pulled the blankets up. 

“Are you leaving?” She whispered.

“Do you want me to?”

She shook her head. 

“I’m going to put your soup up and grab dry stuff for me. I’ll be right back.” He kissed her forehead again and padded barefoot out of her room.

Darcy closed her eyes for just a second, she wasn’t asleep, just resting her eyes. She opened them again when her bed shifted. Bucky sat there in another tank top and shorts. His hair was scraped back from his face and the light from the bathroom cast shadows across his face. 

“Hey. You good?”

Darcy nodded sleepily and he went to stand up but she grabbed his hand. “Stay.”

“I ain’t leavin’ doll. Just going to lay on the couch.”

She shook her head. “No. Stay here.”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly. “In bed? With you?”

She nodded.

“You sure?”

She nodded again. He carefully went to the other side and slid under the covers behind her. Darcy sighed when she felt his body pressed against hers, her legs tangling with his. He tucked her head under his chin and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Not exactly how I expected our first time in bed to go.”

“What?!” 

Bucky laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ve wanted to do this for months.”

“I’m sorry. I must be delirious. I could have sworn you said you’ve been wanting to get into my bed for months.”

“Well, me into yours or you into mine. I ain’t picky.”

Darcy shifted and then rolled to face him. Her eyes roved over his face and she traced the angle of his jaw with her fingertips. “So, why the hell haven’t you done something before now?”

Bucky shrugged a little. “Figured you weren’t interested.”

“Are you high? How would I not be interested in you? Have you seen yourself?”

“I’ve got…baggage.”

“So does everyone. But you also have lots of muscles, pretty eyes and a great smile. And you’re a good person. You’re here, in my bed, making sure I don’t die.”

“You’re not going to die from a cold.”

“I might. This is why you have to stay. To protect my life. It’s very important to my health that you stay.”

“Well, if it’s that important then I’ll stay.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and left them there. His warm breath slid over her skin and she pressed a little closer. “You keep that up and I’m makin’ no promises about your dignity being safe with me.”

Darcy picked up his arm and draped it over her side where he curled his fingers against her skin.

“What if I say I’m feeling much better? Like I’m almost cured?”

“I’ll still be here when you’re actually well.”

“But..!”

Bucky cut her off by pressing his lips to hers and when she gasped and opened her mouth, his tongue slid over her lips deepening the kiss.

When he broke off from her, she looked a little dazed. “You’re really good at that.”

He gently kissed her again. “I’m really good at a lot of things. But for now, you need to rest.”

“Promise you’ll show me?”

“Hell yes.”

——————

“Told you it would work.” Clint tiled the box of popcorn to dump the crumbs into his mouth. “Wasn’t expecting him to go wandering the halls in a towel though.”

Sam nodded slowly. “I have to admit Barton, I’m actually kind of impressed.”

Natasha tapped her fingernail against her lips. “I think this is exactly the push they needed. Bravo Clint.”

Clint shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m a genius sometimes. Can we go eat now? I’m starving.”

“You just killed an entire box of Cracker Jacks. How the hell are you still hungry?”

“It takes a lot of food to power my big brain.”

“Come on Sam, let’s go feed him before he starts drinking coffee again on top of pre sugar. I don’t want to have to get him out of a tree again.”

“That was ONE TIME. And I could have gotten out. Eventually. I was almost out of my belt when Wanda got to me.”

“You were almost out of your pants and you damn near scandalized the poor girl.”

“Shut up Wilson. Food time. FEED ME SEYMOUR.”

Natasha, who had stood up, leaned over and kissed Clint. “If you shut up, I’ll buy a pizza just for you.”

“Deal.”

@the-ss-horniest-book-club @eurynome827 @cchellacat @daughterofsteven @sevans-is-my-weakness @sallycanwait68 @nano--raptor @buckys-broody-muffin @godofplumsandthunder​ @book-dragon-13​ @fuckyeahdarcylewis​ @fuckyeahwintershock​

[interrogatorshalashaska]

Blame The Philosophers

Death surrounds him, it is apart of his life since he learned to use a gun, violence before hand had been his as well. Teeth, nails, kicking, punching. Nothing was off the table and it never would be. He'd fight tooth and nail to survive another day so his plan would be successful.

And yet, being the son of a medium had never been a problem. The Philosophers had always kept him drugged up on something to quiet things, when the CIA, GRU, KGB or whatever ground he was working with couldn't or wouldn't provide he'd find his own source easily enough.

Then why are you neglecting it. Eli and George's instances; and maybe to show you're Father you can handle it. But can you? You've started carefully trying to gauge which ones would be most informative and helpful to you, and which ones to avoid for their wrath. The lack of your usual cocktails made everything buzz more, hit harder, George seemed more worried even.

You can handle it.

TW: Adamska is a shitty Medium; blame The Philosophers, Sensory overload, withdrawal, ghosts, hallucinations, Emotionally closing self off/barricading emotions inside because everythings fine, depersonalization, unspecified long term illness, That weird romance George and Adam(ska)/Ocelot have, Eli being Ocelot's brain cell sometimes. Murder, Character death, skipping meals / ignoring self care, puking

Left right, right left. The click of his spurs a calming sound compared to everything else, he'd told John- George, he'd join him for dinner but having gone near the cafe the noise of it, let alone the added noise of spirits mingling and talking to one another. Sweat dripped down his face and he wiped it away with his glove annoyed.

Eli was humming and walking alongside on his right, eyebrow raised, shirtless just like when he died.

“You promised him.”

“He'll understand... Its too noisy in there Eli I'd much sooner puke before I manage to eat anything if I went in there.”

“Who's fault is that hm?”

“You and George's actually-”

Eli gave him a glare darting out and grabbing up his right hand.

“Liquid.”

“Ocelot, listen to yourself for five seconds and go eat- what are you-”

He didn't even think, his hand impulsively flicked his gun into his hand and click click BANG.

It of course went straight through Eli, but the ringing the gun caused was nice, better then his annoying voice- wait.

He stares down at a limp body of one of their soldiers, he couldn't even recall the poor souls name.

“What the fuck was that did you mean to shoot him or what Old Man? Gettin' trigger happy hm?”

“Shut up brat, I've got to clean this up.”

“They're going to be suspicious- let alone the blood- and the LOUD GUN SHOT.”

“SHUT IT.”

He's moving quickly as usual scooping the body up and over his shoulder grunting at the weight and... where could he hide it? Vents are out, smell would be fast to notice, stairwell same reason plus someone might check there... Trash can maybe?

“Like someones not gonna notice it be extra heavy? Just toss it out in the sea?”

Ocelot nods in agreement moving quickly heading up the stairs and pushing open the door to the ship, grey eyes peering carefully out. Luckily most of the crew was enjoying dinner so he moves quickly and chucks him into the water, turning back around he's moving back down the steps towards the blood stain and cleaning it up with his trench coat.

“The blood on you?”

“Who's going to see- but just in case.”

He takes out his knife and slices into his skin a bit, just around the area the blood had stained him, just deep enough for any specific drip down would seem realistic.

Blue eyes stare at him unhappily as they continue their pace, much slower then before, letting out an unnecessary sigh. The man didn't even need to breath much less sigh.

“Adam.”

He span around without a thought gun slamming into the cheek of whoever had just touched his shoulder, their touch to heavy to be a ghost- to real to be allowed.

John- NO. NOT JOHN. George, who looked at him confusedly.

“Did I startled you?”

Grey eyes dart away as he sways, placing his revolver away and hugging himself tightly.

Hands grip around his throat, clawing at him. Digging their nails into his cuts.

“George I just hit you why are you asking- I... are you alright...?”

“why- why why- why me- is it because of that other ghost? YOU HADN'T MEANT IT RIGHT? But why me...!”

“Adam. I've been hit way worse then that in my time as a soldier, why are you cut up?”

He wouldn't let up, sobbing, screaming in his ear begging for some sort of response.

Ocelot's lip twitched, he hadn't quite gotten to planning an excuse yet and his stomach heaved as he breaths through his nose, focus. Think. Shove it away. But Adamska refuses it, and Adam is busy sobbing over the man they killed for no reason... Obviously hitting George would only make that worse- damn it.

“I... slipped.”

“LIAR!”

...God he felt like a child again lying through his teeth but not quite at the level he needed to be for it to be believable yet.

“...Adam I know knife wounds when I see them...”

Hands gently touch his shoulders and Ocelot struggles not to fall into his chest for support, reaching and wiping sweat off of his brow unsurely.

Nails dig into his cuts again desperate for some sort of response but Ocelot doesn't even flinch.

“...What of them?”

“Did someone hurt you?”

“No.”

“you're covering your tracks- and at worst they'll think it was self defense- YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“...Adamska. Did you...”

“GEORGE HE KILLED ME! GEORGE!”

Lie. Lie. Lie.

Liquid's eyes widen a bit as he watches Ocelot's face twist and eyes fog with tears- not just tears, his right eye drips blood, that he was struggle to hold back. Quickly Eli panics of all the time this had to happen now was not it, He was quick grabbing the soldier's ghost by the throat and dragging him to the side and through a door.

“I have to do everything god damn it Old Man!”

Ocelot doesn't even have time to react bending forward, dropping onto his knees and puking.

“GEORGE...!” A quiet choked voice cries out before he and Liquid vanish through the door completely.

Luckily puking his guts up was enough of a distraction that George hadn't heard the spirit's desperate cry.

“Hey- hey don't over do it now come here... We-... We should talk Adam.”

He's trying to pull Ocelot into his arms, he resists but is too tired to actually escape him with a conventional push, and CQC is to much of a bother... He'll take what's coming to him he supposed.

He hates how George's hands touch his cheek and try and turn him to face him, he weakly shakes his head.

“...george please don't...”

“Adam... please look at me.”

Ocelot couldn't think straight and it confused him, he BEGS Adam to take it but he's hyperventilating now from the attack from the ghost soldier and Adamska is denying it even happened! SOMEONE TAKE IT I CAN'T THINK PLEASE- he sobs and slams his face into George's chest shaking so hard and he can't get why this was happening. He wasn't cold and he wasn't upset! He was weapon, a tool. Logical. And these sorts of things do not have feelings.

He can't... his head hurt... everything hurt coughing sharply every breath a shutter for air, a soft touch rubbing his back in circles only making him feel worse. He tries pushing away but George holds him steady.

“Adam- please...”

“...g...george... I...”

George realized quickly what was wrong and gently assisted him to shuffle over so not to get puked into his lap as Ocelot bends down and gags, hacking with each cough as nothing but spit and bile once more drip onto the floor, he pants tongue looping and yet George gently grabs his chin and pulls him close again.

George has seen Ocelot look utterly tired before, has held him well he quietly sobbed into his shoulder but he's never seen his face during such moments. The utter broken exhaustion written on his face nearly took his words away.

“Adamska- oh Adam...”

Ocelot flinches trying to break eye contact, tears and the blood from his right eye so evident.

“You're eye its-”

“It's fine- it does t-that sometimes please... I don't want too...”

George grips him tightly forcing him to look at him again.

“Adam. Please talk to me.”

“I CAN'T!”

One blue eye narrows in a combination of frustration, pity and love, gently rubbing Adam's back again as the older man bends down a bit with a groan.

“...Why not, do you not trust me...?”

“N...no... I just... ican'tthinkplease...”

“You can't think...?”

George keeps his voice gentle as he lets Ocelot lean himself against his chest, his warm face pressing into George's neck.

“...hm... headhurts...tired...we...talk...when i...wake up???”

George shakes his head but starts to pick him up, scooping him into his arms easily.

Ocelot's head loops back, but George adjusts him a bit more to better support him.

“...j...john...”

His name slips past his lips and any dozed, dazed expression lost to one of horror.

“...George... george oh my god I'm so sorry I... I...”

But his voice starts to tamper off again like even the horrific realization of using the wrong name wasn't enough to keep him glued fully to consciousness, his eyebrows furrowed as he shut his eyes still struggling to stay awake mumbling.

“...george... sorry... geor...ge... srry...”

But George simply holds him tighter mumbling back as he starts to walk.

“shush, shh, it's alright. I promise it's ok, you're mine, and I won't leave your side, everything will go great and we'll be free. Adam. We will be free, finally free.”

Pushing the door to Ocelot's room open like this was becoming concerningly easier to do as time went on and that's exactly what George had wanted to talk about but he knew the older man was in absolutely no state for conversation considering he was still mumbling half worded apologizes.

Placing him onto his bed George sighs sitting down himself next to him, watching how Ocelot twists himself towards him and lightly hugs his wrist before finally that familiar light snore started to escape him. Carefully freeing his hand George hums as he takes off the other mans tie and vest, gently stroking his long silver hair, which was slick  and stuck to his face, off to the side. The relieved breath Ocelot huffs out made him smile a bit, taking his own black turtle neck off and gently nudging Ocelot to turn onto his other side for more space, he laid down beside him and wrapped his arms around him. Some sleep would do them both good he supposed. His hands gently hover over his companions chest, two beats slightly off beat of each other as usual. The doctors had mentioned this in the medical reports he'd read over for Adamska, who simply found all the fussing annoying, yet they could find no real explanation for it aside maybe his heart beating out of sync in places. Which was a dangerous thing but nothing really concrete came from that theory ether.

George sighs pressing his face into Adam's neck, his neck warm and a bit wet from sweat but he didn't care as he let himself relax. He can worry when he woke up.

Ocelot groans as he woke up, his stomach jumping up with a mixture of feeling like he hadn't eaten all day and like he couldn't eat if he wanted too. Annoying.

Cold nails dig into his skin. “YOU MURDERER!”

Ocelot groans quietly feeling George shift next to him loosing his grip on him allowing Ocelot to get to his feet, he swayed unsteadily he covers his mouth coughed harshly. Luckily the sound didn't wake George up- was... he used to him coughing in his sleep... Maybe he should be a bit more concerned with his own- no time. He was fine. He dragged himself into his rest room and turned the shower on, growling now.

“Get lost seriously, I did not mean to kill you, I had no idea you were there and OF COURSE I'm going to cover my tracks how am I supposed to explain I was just passive aggressively trying to shot my  step-son's ghost???”

“Step son???”

Shit Eli had heard that...

“Later conversation ok Eli.”

The blonde ghost seems annoyed but he glares threateningly at the soldier's ghost who moves back away from Ocelot who sighs in relief at nails no longer reopening his wounds.

“I don't want to be dead- Can't you do something?”

“Considering I chucked your body into the ocean I'm not sure what I can do... Not that I would ether way, look go talk to 'Death' or something?”

“Death...?”

“If it helps he kinda looks like me even, trust me you'll know him when ya see him, he'll help you or something...”

“I DON'T WANT TO BE DEAD- GIVE ME MY LIFE BACK!” Claws dig into him and he's knocked into the shower under the spray of to hot water, his head cracking onto the back wall and all he can do was sputter on water in shock.

“Enough of this foolishness, let's play a game of I choke you out until you fade out for awhile! You're really startin' to owe me one Ocelot!~”

Eli grips the soldier by the throat again slamming him into the shower wall and watching as the man squirms panicked but Eli's arm never let up no matter how he tried.

George must have been woken up by his nearly cracking his head open because next thing he knows the water is off, he's being scooped up into a towel and dried and looked over frantically. Was... George saying something his ears were still ringing. Ocelot blinks at him confusedly for a few moments as his words started to come in through the ringing as he focused on what was happening around him more on the physical world and not the spiritual one.

“...ou ok? Can you hear me, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Ocelot coughs but nods and mumbles out. “three?” As he wheezed to catch his breath having not realized he been getting more water then air before. Woops.

“Ok... ok, why did you get up without me?”

“...Believe me if I said I wanted to look handsome for you?”

George snorts smiling softly as he gently caresses his cheek.

“With how finicky you can be about your appearance I can.”

Though as Ocelot wheezes into another cough he frowns, gently carrying him back onto his bed even as he tries to fight him on that.

“I'm fine, I'm fine- I just slipped is all really- I have work to do!”

George gives him a look that silences his protests, he shifts pouting as he pulls his knees up to his chest leaning back into his pillows and headboard.

“I'm going to get the doctor to make sure you don't have a concussion or something but first. ...Adam... Are you sure you're up for all this?”

Grey eyes stare into one blue in confusion for a few moments, his head tilted to the side before a look of shock and horror cross his face.

“George- Sir, I swear I can handle this, I'll be careful, I won't even be in direct combat unless things go very south ether way- I can handle it.”

George doesn't seem as ready to believe this like he usually was, his hands gently tracing the cuts on his right shoulder and left hip, and a few other smaller cuts he had give himself.

Ocelot hisses he'd normally had the resolve to barely flinch but it slipped out, the blow to his head might be effecting him more then he'd like. He was fine though. Had to be.

“I... want to see you try and improve a bit or I will take you off this, understood. I'm saying this not as your Boss but... as you're partner, please Adam.”

Ocelot's heart pulled and he couldn't quite understand why, maybe its because his sad expression reminded him of one of the last ones he'd seen on John's- stop stop.

“I...I can do that. I promise, I'll even behave when you get that Doctor, go on, I'll be here relaxing.”

George nods, leaning forward and letting their noses touch and nuzzle before finally their lips meet for a few small moments and he pulls away heading for the door. When a blue eye peeks back Adam winks at him and sticks his tongue out teasingly.

“Go on, I won't die for the few minutes your gone for promise.”

And George steps out of the room.

[queen-scribbles]

The Weather Outside is Frightful

Some self-indulgent as all hell,‘because I can’ Ederity fluff, initially prompted by this, but it, uh, GREW. I regret nothing. Oh, and I sort of borrowed @risualto‘s OCs for a mention. Merry Christmas? :D

---

There were few things that could change your plans for the day quite like waking up to discover three foot deep snow drifts outside your window.

“Well,” Edér chuckled as he wiped a clear spot where his breath had fogged the glass, “guess I’m not makin’ it into town today...”

Charity tucked herself under his arm and whistled at the sheer white of the scene outside the window. “An’ I thought Peycg was jokin’ about her achy hip meanin’ this’d be a bad one.” She wrapped an arm around his waist. “Pretty sure Dyrford can get along without its mayor for one day.”

“Y’think?” he asked, pressing an amused kiss to the top of her head.

“Yeah. An’ all your paperwork will keep,” she said matter-of-factly. “You know a great way to spend snowy days?” Her fingers slipped under his shirt to trace light circles against his skin.

Edér’s breath caught even as he grinned. “Shovelin’ ?”

Charity rolled her eyes. “I mean, if you’d rather do that than cuddle your wife, sure.”

“Ah, well, if that’s an option on the table,”he kissed her temple, “it sounds much more fun.”

Even as she opened her mouth to reply with something flirty, a realization struck Charity and she instead buried her face in his chest with a groan. “Actually... that’ll hafta wait. I promised Bethyn I’d come check on Gjeorun today; his fever’s been stubborn-”

“Char, that snow’ll be hip deep on you,” Edér protested. “Higher where it’s drifts.”

“And? I’m not breakin’ a promise to check on a sick kid, Edér. Not for somethin’ that’s at most an inconvenience.”

“I’ll go,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose before he stepped away to start getting dressed. “Pretty sure I can at least tell a fever as well as you can.”

She thought about protesting, but it really would be an easier trek for him, and they weren’t yet to the point where treatment options would be complicated, and he had that look in his eye saying he was ready to be stubborn about this. “Ain’t gonna argue myself out of gettin’ to stay in the nice, warm house,” she said with a playful shrug.

Edér paused in pulling on his boots. “On second thought...” he teased.

“No, no, you volunteered already,” Charity laughed. She crossed her arms and pulled out her best look of mock-censure. “How will the  people of Dyrford trust you if you don’t keep your promises, Mayor Teylecg?”

“That’s fightin’ dirty, darlin’,” he complained, throwing a balled up sock at her.

She caught it and threw it back. “I think you’re gonna need that, don’t you?”

Edér shook his head before pulling on the sock and the boot that went with  it.  “Fightin’ real dirty, Char.”

“I learned from the best,” Charity said sweetly. She plunked down on the bed next to him. “In all seriousness, though, I do appreciate this.” She kissed his cheek. “An’ I know Bethyn will, too. Oh!” She pushed back to her feet. “If you’re goin’ I need to give this to you...” The small bottle was still sitting on the table from when she prepared it the day before. “It’s for if the fever’s not down,” she explained, pressing it into Edér’s hand. “Slightly stronger combination of herbs than what Bethyn’s been usin’ so far. Hopefully his fever broke on its on, but if she needs it...”

“Better I don’t need to make two trips,” Edér finished for her. He slipped the bottle in the pocket of his coat and kissed her on the nose again. “Stay warm.”

“I think that’s more of a concern for you,” Charity said wryly as she retrieved his hat and scarf from the mudroom. She made sure to tug the hat all the way down over his ears. “Given that you’re gonna be wadin’ through snow an’ all.”

His eyes twinkled as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. “I’ll just think of you, it’ll keep me plenty warm.”

She rolled her eyes and whacked his arm. “You better get goin’, who knows how long it’ll take you to get there in this.” The Spackholms didn’t live that far, but wading through three feet of snow was going to slow him down. 

“Alright, I’m goin’,” Edér chuckled, stealing one last kiss before he set off.

Charity shivered in the brief whirl of cold air when he opened the door, but still stood by the window to watch until he’d disappeared from view. She really should start at the very least clearing out a path to the chapel. But even that small taste of the weather inclined her toward finding more indoor methods of filling her time. She shuffled back toward the bedroom, smiled at the sight of Sunshine and Sparrow curled up atop the blankets she and Edér had pushed aside when they rose.

“You two look comfortable,” she chuckled. Sparrow yawned and Sunshine’s tail wagged against the covers. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you move. Or share. I love ya, but the one I really wanna snuggle just walked out the front door so I didn’t hafta.” She plunked on the edge of the bed and scratched Sunshine’s ears. “I should do somethin’ as a thank you, shouldn’t I?”

Sunshine let out a happy dog groan and leaned into her hand.

Charity laughed and scratched harder. “Is that a yes? Well, then, what should I do?”

He just wagged his tail again, letting his head sink to the covers, and Sparrow was so deep asleep her whiskers were twitching as she dreamed. Charity nibbled her lower lip in thought. It only took a moment to hit her. What would be a better reward for trudging through thigh-deep snow than to find hot cider and fresh-baked cookies when he got back? The weed in the flowerbed, of course,  was her utter inability to cook. But surely there was some cookie recipe in their possession easy enough even she couldn’t mess it up. She knew they had ingredients aplenty; Edér made sure they were well-stocked by midway through Early Autumn.

“Baking’s different than cookin’, right?” she asked the snoozing animals. There was no reaction from either; Sunshine had drifted back off with the head scratches.

Charity smiled and pushed off the bed, tying her hair up in a messy bun as she headed toward the kitchen. It couldn’t hurt to try. After all, what was life without a little risk? Edér would probably tease turning her loose in the kitchen was more than a little risk, but he wasn’t here to stop her. She started humming to herself and pulled the recipe box from the shelf, thumbing through in search of the desserts. Really, how hard could it be?

                                                      ---

An hour later, she was ready to eat those words, partially because she wasn’t sure if she or anyone else could eat the lump of dough sitting in front of her. It was supposed to turn into cinnamon-dusted cookies, but it didn’t taste quite right to her. 

Charity’s face screwed up in a frown and she tugged a lock of hair that had fallen loose during her travails. She wasn’t sure it was worth taking the time to bake these if it was only going to confirm her suspicions that she was no good at baking, either. On the other hand, if she wanted to have some done before Edér got back, she’d really need to get them in soon. Even as she stood there, torn, there was the dull thump of someone knocking snow off boots outside, which made Sunshine bark, and the door swung open.

“Started snowin’ again,” Edér called as he stepped inside and hastily shut the door behind him.

Charity leaned back around the doorframe and grinned. “I can see that. There’s snowflakes in your beard,” she informed him, “even if they weren’t all over your coat and such.” 

“Yeah, looks like it’s gonna be pretty decent, on top of what we already got.” He cocked his head as he stripped off his gloves. “Char, what’re you doin?”

She tried to look innocent, but was too close to laughing from his suspicious tone. “Baking. Or tryin’ to, I think I did it wrong...” On impulse, she scooped a fingerful of the questionable dough and crossed the living room. “Doesn’t taste quite right to me.”

Edér looked between her and the sample of cookie dough, clearly picking up the unspoken request. He smirked and leaned down to kiss her instead, fingertips briefly cold against the back of her neck, lips freezing against hers. “Perfect,” he chuckled, cleaning a smudge of something(probably flour) off her cheek with the side of his thumb. “An’ now if I die” --a nod toward the dough-- “least I got t’ kiss my wife one last time.”

“Too many of those jokes and maybe you will,” Charity grumped, but there was no real weight behind the threat.

Edér just grinned and took the dough. “You’re just a little shy on sugar, Char,” he informed her after tasting it. “These are th’ cinnamon dusted ones Gjyra makes?” When she nodded, he shrugged. “Just add some sugar in with the cinnamon when you’re dustin’ ‘em and it’ll be fine.”

She brightened. “Y’ mean I actually made somethin’ edible?”

He laughed as he tugged off his hat and unwound his scarf. “Only time--an’ the oven--will tell.”

“True,” she conceded with a wry laugh. “While I get the first batch in the oven, there’s cider warmin’ by the fire, an’ then I’ll join ya so we can get in some of that cuddlin’ we mentioned earlier while the cookies bake.”

“Sounds like a plan, darlin’,” Edér grinned, dropping his hat to slip his hands under the back of her shirt. “I need a lot of warmin’ up.”

Charity yelped at the shock of cold skin against hers and swatted his arm.  “Edér-!” But she couldn’t resist giggling all the same, as she tugged him closer by the uneven pale blue scarf draped around his neck. “You owe me for that,” she whispered, before pushing up on her toes to kiss him. His lips were still cold, and there was melting snow in his beard and all over his coat, but she didn’t care.

He was grinning when she finally stepped back. “Only fair when you put your cold feet on me every night,” he murmured playfully, “But that seems a pretty good start.”

“Yep. A start,” Charity emphasized, patting his cheek and not even dignifying the other part with a response before she disentangled herself and headed back toward the kitchen. “Get outta your wet stuff, get some cider, and I’ll join ya in just a couple minutes.”

“Yes, dear,” he said mischievously, and she rolled her eyes but kept walking. The faster she had the cookies in the over, the faster she could join him. And on a cold snowy day like this, few things sounded better than snuggling her human furnace of a husband. 

Bet he didn’t even get cold on the way to Bethyn’s, she thought as she started dropping cookie-sized lumps of dough on a baking sheet. Which brought another thought to mind. “How’s Gjeorun doing?” she called out as she worked.

Edér grunted, probably pulling off his boots, before he replied, “Fever broke last night just ‘fore he went t’ sleep. I left the medicine anyway; ‘case it comes back or one of the girls gets it.”

Charity winced. “Good idea, but hope not. They have a separate room, an’ Bethyn and Dannith have been good about keepin’ them away while Gjeorun’s been sick.”

“Yeah, but you know how Ilaine loves her brother...” Edér pointed out. There was the clink of ladle against mug, then the couch creaked.

“We’re gonna be optimists about this,” Charity retorted as she slid the cookies in the oven. “Or at least I am,” she said ruefully as she joined him. “Thank you for goin’.”

“You’re welcome,” Edér said easily, holding one arm out so she could join him.

Which Charity was all too happy to do. She snuggled in next to him. “Gods, Edér, how are you so blazin’ warm?!”

“Not all of me’s warm,” he countered mischievously, running chilly fingers down her arm and under the hem of her shirt(again).

Goosebumps prickled up her spine and she grabbed his hand to sandwich between her own. “I think this’ll work better.”

“Less fun, though,” he teased, brushing his lips against her temple.

She snorted. “For you, maybe. Don’t let me forget about the cookies. Wouldn’t wanna burn what might be my first success story where food’s concerned.”

“Cross m’ heart.” He went to kiss her temple again, but Charity tipped her chin up to catch it on the lips instead. Edér chuckled. “I was workin’ that direction, darlin’.”

“Not fast enough, you weren’t,” she mock-grumbled. 

He grinned. “I can fix that...” He tugged his hand free of hers and instead curved it along her jaw as he kissed her properly.

“Much better,” Charity murmured when they parted. She snuggled in closer against his chest, tucking her head under his chin.

Edér chuckled and pressed a kiss to her hair as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and settled in as well. “Glad you approve.”

She just hummed happily. This was the way to spend cold winter days, she mused. It could snow as deep as it liked outside; she was perfectly happy right where she was.

Even when they forgot about the cookies.

(The second batch turned out just fine.)

[baenxietydad]

16th Anniversary Of The Best Day Ever || The Baes

Summary: Nemo’s 16th birthday!!!

Dated: October 9th, 2019

@justkeepdancing-nemo​

MARLIN

Best day of the year, best day of the year! October 9th was Mu-yeol’s favorite holiday. Not because of Ecuadorian Independence Day, or Leif Erikson Day, but because it was the 16th Anniversary of the Best Day of His Life. Or, if you want to be boring, Nam-min’s 16th birthday. 

He didn’t care for his own birthday, but his son’s was special. On October 9th, 2003, Nam-min came into the world a little over a month early, giving his parents a scare, but they both immediately adored him. He was the child they tried for three years just to conceive, and from his first breath was their entire world. Now with just himself, Mu-yeol had to love him enough for two people. 

And he did. He sometimes got all choked up just thinking about how much he loved his son and how wonderful and beautiful his baby boy had become. 

He loved him so damn much. That’s why he treated his birthday like a national holiday. 

Like every year he got up early to make seaweed soup and to place his presents on the table. Once that was ready, he crept into Nemo’s room and slipped under his covers for the yearly birthday waking up ritual. 

“Nam-min ah. Nam-miiiin, wake up,” he said gently as he pulled Nemo in for snuggles. He played with his hair as he kept coaxing him awake. “Wake up, you know what day it is. It’s the best day! It’s your birthday! My baby is sixteen already.”

“Wake up,” Mu-yeol said, kissing his forehead and snuggling him closer. “So I can annoy you with my love.”

NEMO: 

Nemo had always loved his birthday. A whole day dedicated to him? Who wouldn’t love that? But he loved it not so much because he got presents, or because of yummy seaweed soup, or the nut-cake, or the fact he got to decide everything that happened on his birthday--

He loved it cuz Appa loved it. He loved it cuz Appa was always in such a good mood. No nightmares, no grouchiness, no extra paranoia. Just him, just Appa. 

And this year, his birthday meant the end of Nemo’s grounding. So it was the best day ever.

Despite that, Nemo was solid as a rock in bed that morning, his covers pulled over his head. It’d started gettin’ chilly like it always did, and a little chill always made it harder to get up in the mornings, even for someone like Nemo who was gogogo. His toes curled under his blankets and he fisted the blanket too, holding it tighter at the creaking of his door. Oooo, there’s Appa, he thought to himself, barely stifling a smile, as he pretended to still be sleeping deeply.

Part of that was cuz….well-- no sixteen-year-old should want cuddles from his Appa.

But Nemo still did. 

So he pretended. And when Appa dragged him close, he played at a groan and wiggled half-heartedly. “Appaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” he groaned with sleepiness. “Wahhhhh, gerroff!” he wiggled more.

MARLIN

“Nope, not allowed. It’s the sixteenth anniversary of the best day of my life, so that’s forbidden.” Mu-yeol said to letting go of Nemo. 

He carded his fingers through Nemo’s hair and smiled down at him all gross and affectionate as Nemo refused to open his eyes. Rude— how are they going to celebrate his birthday if he’s asleep? Ah, kids. Occasionally he’d press another soft kiss to the top of his head. 

“Do you want to skip school for your birthday?” He asked quietly as he continued to play with Nemo’s hair. “Or do you want to be stuck hanging out with your dumb embarrassing dad one of your weekend days instead?”

Playfully, he poked Nemo’s side where he was ticklish. 

NEMO: 

Skip school? He could do that?!

Nemo’s eyes finally opened, blinking all the tired outta them as he looked up at his dad incredulously, like he was waitin’ for him to change his mind. Plus, didn’t his Appa have to work? It was Grow-day, not to mention still a couple of days before the Full Moon Dance, which meant the Hollow fluttered, flittered, twittered, and buzzed with all sorts of activity. Though Nemo didn’t have talent class this week cuz all the fast-flying talents were getting ready for the Windy Day Race on October 13. 

So… he didn’t have talent class. And he didn’t have dance on Wednesdays either…

Unless!

“Wh-- this isn’t a test, is it?” he squinted at his Appa suspiciously. “I can actually skip school if I want?”

MARLIN

“아니 (ani). I wouldn’t set a trap. Mm, not on your birthday anyway. 그냥 (keunyang)...I just wanted to hangout with you on your birthday like we always do. And since you’re in school now that would take up your entire day.” And anyway, Mu-yeol knew he wouldn’t be in this good of a mood come the weekend. It was Nemo’s birthday not his birthweek that always (almost) restores him to him old self. 

He smiled down at Nemo in his arms as he narrowed his eyes at him. “You can skip school. Only when I offer it though; if I get a call you’re absent without my permission you’re gonna die.”

Mu-yeol punctuated the death threat with his warmest smile. 

“Aigoo, my baby’s growing up. You won’t need me anymore pretty soon.”

 It was a bittersweet thought. Nam-min not needing him anymore meant he wouldn’t have anything left to silence the worst thoughts in the back of his brain; live to take care of Nam-min didn’t apply once his baby boy became an adult, and it was the only thing keeping him breathing most days. It was the only thing that was enough and that terrified him. 

Most days, anyway, it terrified him. But on October 9th, nothing ever mattered but the fact that X number of years ago, his son was born on that day, and it was the one truly good day of the year. 

“You were so small.” He sighed, patting the space between his shoulder blades. “You came earlier than we thought, you dramatic jerk.”

NEMO: 

Wow, he really was gonna get to miss school. 

Which meant-- his friends.

Nemo hadn’t expected the sharp, quick stab of yearning, nor what followed after: guilt. Cuz he obviously couldn’t tell Appa that maybe he did wanna go to school after all. First of all, that was stupid. What kid wanted to go to school on his birthday? Sure, he’d get to see his mates and they’d all tell him happy birthday, but he’d only get a couple of minutes before class, and then lunch, and then that was really all…and in between, he’d sit through awful French and confusing History and didn’t he have a quiz in English which he didn’t study for? 

And wasn’t his birthday kinda his and Appa’s...thing? 

Yeah.

Nemo swallowed down that feeling then, cuz goin’ to school just wasn’t a real option, and did what he did every year as Marlin started in on his tirade. He grooooooooaned and wiggled some more, finally pushing Marlin off and sitting up. “Heeeeere we go again, next you’ll tell me about Eomma counting all my fingers and toes and fighting the healing-talents to hold me just five more minutes--” and though he was acting annoyed at the Same Old Story, the one Marlin told Every Single Year, he was grinning. 

Cuz he liked it. He wanted to hear it. 

MARLIN

“And if I do?” Mu-yeol challenged, reaching up to poke Nemo’s forehead. 

He hummed and sat up next to Nemo, wincing as sunlight got him right in the eyeballs. “She punched one of them, you know. Your mother was scary and always ready to...throw hands? Is that what it is? Especially when it was about you.”

He didn’t tell him how she had to take an exam at university the day after giving birth— and yes, she did go and ace that exam, and when her professor found out he scolded Mu-yeol for ‘letting your wife do that.’ But So-yeon did whatever the hell So-yeon wanted to do, Always. There was no allowing, forbidding, or talking her out of anything. She was determined to finish her masters’ on time to shut up all of the men in the program who talked about how STEM was no place for a wife and mother and said she should drop out and raise her child. 

Not for the first time, he wanted to tell him. 

“She always said having you was the best decision we ever made.” He said instead. “So the verdict on skipping school? If you really want to go we can do your birthday on Sunday.”

He hopped out of Nemo’s bed. “There’s seaweed soup ready, with pickled shriiiimps.”

NEMO: 

He only really had a couple of birthdays left before he really would be too old to celebrate with Appa and let him baby Nemo like this. This could even be the last one. Nemo would be well into his apprenticeship when next October swung around, after all. Who knew what his life was gonna be like then? What he’d be training in, what kinda time he’d have? 

Maybe he was already too old for this stuff now but… 

He wanted at least one more. 

So Nemo grinned. “Skipping, definitely!” he rolled out of bed too and then scampered past Appa. “SEAWEED SOOOOOOUP!” He called, giggling. 

MARLIN 

He felt tension he didn’t even know he was holding in his shoulders ease. What a relief it was that his baby hadn’t outgrown him just yet! Even if Nam-min was away from him more this year, he still wanted to hangout with his dad. That was enough. 

“Eat as much as you want,” Mu-yeol said as a laddled out a bowl for Nemo. “You have to eat a lot if you hope to grow any taller.”

NEMO:  Nemo plopped down in his chair, drawing up both his legs so he was criss-cross, then reached for his spoon. Course before he even got a spoonful, he shot a look at Appa, sour as elderberries. Because yeah, Nemo was small-- even for a pixie he was small, and especially for a fast-flying talent. Fast-flyers were usually some of the taller talents around actually, cept for maybe scout talents. Nemo was small the way a pollen-talent fairy was normally small-- or a bee-herding-talent was small. 

“Aish,” he sucked his teeth at his Appa and shook his head. “I’m not that small! I mean, I got long legs y’know,” he added hotly. And that was true. Nemo was nearly all legs, which helped with his lines in dance. (It didn’t do much for fast-flying though.) 

He scooped some soup into his mouth, and then grabbed the bowl and lifted the whole thing to his lips. “Here, I’ll eat the whole thing, so you can’t have any!” 

And he slurped half his bowl down to prove it. 

MARLIN

Mu-yeol playfully stuck his tongue out at Nam-min as he slid him a cup of elderflower juice. “It's not your fault, your mother’s human-size height was only 162 cm. She was the tiniest fast-flying fairy in both Hollows we’d lived in. Blame her for those genes.”

He barely stifled a snort as Nemo slurped his soup up like it was room temperature water and not hot soup.

“알았어, 알았어 (arasseo, arasseo). Go ahead, eo? I’m full watching you eat anyway.” He said, though he quickly ate a few spoonfuls himself in case Nemo swiped his bowl. Because he would. 

“What’s on the birthday festivities agenda?” Mu-yeol asked, spooning some kimchi onto some rice. “We can do whatever you want except hard drugs. Cocaine might be negotiable-- no, wait. That’s the last thing you need.”

NEMO: 

First, Nemo just gargled through his soup, still slurping it down. It really was kinda too hot to do so, but Nemo had already started so it meant he had to commit to it. And commit he did, until it was all done and he let out an “Ahhhhh,” plopping his bowl down and smirking at Appa. He said he’d do it. And Nemo could never resist a challenge. 

He rolled his eyes next though. “Appa, you’re really not funny,” he told him, shaking his head. Appa and his dad jokes. “Mmmm can we…. Oooooh, Appa, can we go dragonfly racing? Please. Pleeeeeeeeeeease, it’s my birthday! I’m 16, that’s plenty old enough!”  

Dragonfly racing was, of course, when fairies skittered across the Kohaku River on the back of dragonflies. Appa always forbid Nemo because dragonflies could be a bit, er, moody-- prone to 360-degree spins, or dipping real close to the water. He’d always been terrified Nemo would fall off and drown. 

Why was Nemo even asking? Well! He asked at least once a year, and a 16th birthday felt like a good time when Appa might not be able to say no. 

“We can go toooogetheer,” Nemo sing-songed. 

MARLIN

“Watch your mouth before I glue it shut, you little brat,” Mu-yeol said in response to being told he wasn’t a comedic genius, of course while pinching Nemo’s cheek while calling him a little brat. “What’s the number one lesson of life? Always laugh when your dad, your employer, or father-in-law makes a joke.”

Another spoonful of soup had almost made it to his mouth when Nemo made his birthday proposal, and the spoon fell from his hand, landing in the bowl with a plonk! Dragonfly racing!? Let him repeat, DRAGONFLY RACING!?!?

Was he trying to make sure this was his last birthday?

Mu-yeol clasped his hands in his lap to keep from wildly gesturing. In the spirit of Nemo’s birthday, he wasn’t going to give an immediate hard no. Today, and today only, he would hear him out about dragonfly racing. Maybe even say yes, and deal with the panic in his chest the entire time.

He taught Nemo to swim in Atlantis Lake in human size, without wings that couldn’t get wet, of course. Logically he knew that Nemo could probably tread water with wet wings long enough to drift toward an aquatic plant to hold onto until he could be pulled out of the river by a fairy with dry wings. It was still risky.

And yet, at Nemo’s age, Mu-yeol had been dragonfly racing for years. His dongsaeng-dul* would compete with him and the other fairies their age for prizes of anything from found objects teenage fairies used for bartering, to ₩5,000 notes the kids whose parents had human jobs would throw in the prize pot.

*reader’s note: dongsaeng = younger sibling; -dul is a particle to add to make any noun plural 

His last two logical brain cells reminded him that he was much more stupid than Nemo at his age, and that he survived. His father wasn’t half as protective as he was, so of course Nemo would be fine.

The other hundred billion weren’t half as reasonable.

“Nam-min…” before he could say no though, he cleared his throat to stop himself. He was gonna give him a chance, remember? “Only if you can tell me the procedure for if you fall off. Repeat it to me three times, then we will seriously consider it.”

NEMO: 

Appa didn’t say no right away. Whoa.

This was already a win. It was also not completely expected, and so Nemo found himself wide-eyed and leaning forward. “Really?” he responded at first. He had to absorb that Appa hadn’t immediately laughed off the idea like he had done all of Nemo’s life, before patting Nemo on the head and saying something about how hilarious Nemo was with that persistent death wish of his! And did he want to give his dear old Appa a heart attack?!

Maybe sixteen really did make the difference.

Maybe sixteen was going to be his year, after all. 

Nemo swallowed and leaned back, adjusting in his seat and then crackling his knuckles as he prepared to answer Appa’s test. He was pretty sure he knew about the procedures...even if he’d never really gotten to try them out. All the other fast-flying-talents though talked about dragonfly racing all the time (it’s why he wanted to do it so badly.) 

“Number 1--” he held up a finger, “--don’t panic. Number 2, get your head above water and your feet under you, so your wings don’t drag you down. Number 3, tread water in direction of the current toward the shore! Don’t fight the current, cuz you’ll get too tired too fast.” 

That was right...right? Right! 

MARLIN

Mu-yeol watched Nemo carefully as he ran through the DON'T DROWN protocols. Careful to eye him for any signs of bullshitting or hesitation, and satisfied when he found none that his son actually understood how to not drown, he supposed he now had to actually consider dragonfly racing. 

Maybe if he let Nemo do this once, let him have this one thing, he won’t do things like sneaking out with that awful kid Louie. This is exactly why he didn’t want to send Nemo to school, he knew he’d be too preoccupied with looking cool and being popular to actually care about school. He knew he wouldn’t understand that what mattered was finding your group of friends and being cool to them. It was the same for fairies in school, and fairies like Mu-yeol who didn’t go to school. Why couldn’t Nemo be like his mother was and only care what her friends thought of her?

Nemo was like him. Insecure and soft. 

Maybe dragonfly racing and the panic attack he’d be pushing down the entire time would be worth it. Maybe Nemo would take the victory and be satisfied. 

“Good. So...dragonfly racing. Are you sure there’s...nothing else?”

[kpopsinarios]

Seventeen greaser/prep!au

Intro | Jun | Vernon | Seungcheol | Joshua | Jihoon | Mingyu

buCKLE UP KIDDOS

there were two major groups in school: the preps and the greasers

Seungcheol, or Coups, as he was dubbed affectionately by his little gang, was the leader of a group of greasers

he could almost always be seen with his guys in tow

Vernon, Soonyoung, Mingyu, Jun, and Minghao were all a part of his gang, getting into all sorts of trouble at all hours of the day

on the opposite end of the spectrum were the preps

the only really close-knit group was Jihoon’s

he just kind of walked around and eventually somehow collected a little “posse of nerds” as he called them

despite the name, Jihoon loved them

and Jeonghan, Joshua, Seungkwan, Seokmin, Wonwoo, and Chan loved him right back

but while the two groups had plenty in common, they didn’t interact

not at first, at least

rule number one of school: stay with your group

rule number two: if you value your morals, stay away from the greasers

the whole school abided by those two rules, even the freshman had it drilled into their brains

but sometimes, you just have to ignore the rules…

Seungcheol was walking to his bike after class ended he got out a bit late cuz the teacher wanted to talk to him about being a troublemaker when he saw this kid getting picked on by some wannabe greasers

the poor thing looked like he was in distress, so Coups decided he should step in

all it took was him getting close and the guys instantly backed off

“What do you punks think you’re doing?”

the leader groaned and walked up to Seungcheol, putting his hands up in defense

“Aw, c'mon Coups, don’t be such a party pooper! We’re just messing around, ain’t we kid?”

the kid shot him a look of disgust before shaking his head no, and that was all the confirmation Seungcheol needed

just as he raised his fist, the guys all scattered, leaving their leader behind

“You’re gonna regret makin me look dumb Coups. I guarantee it.”

Seungcheol just crossed his arms and smiled. “How bout you put an egg in your shoe and beat it, punk.” DAMN

and just like that, the guy ran off, leaving Coups to deal with the kid

“Hey thanks! I’m Chan by the way and-”

“Forget it kid, just try to stay away from those guys. They ain’t nothin but trouble. Also, what’s with those threads? No wonder you’re gettin shoved around, with a loud sweater like that. Pink ain’t your color.”

“Actually it is, along with every other color.” GET IT BBY

Coups gives him the side eye before grinning and taking off his leather jacket

“Here, take this for a while. Wear it tomorrow and nobody will bother you again.”

“Gee thanks-” Chan started, but Coups just shook his head and walked away. After all, he had to keep at least a bit of his bad boy image, right?

lmao wrong

the next day, Chan came bouncing up to the gang, a big smile on his face and Seungcheol’s jacket bouncing along with him

Soonyoung and the others immediately stood up

“Who the hell are you?” “What do you think you’re doin?” “Hey, how’d you get that jacket?!”

Chan simply ignored them and walked up to Seungcheol

“Hey, ice cream scoops!”

jaws were dropped, everyone was in a frenzy. did the kid just try to go after coups?????

but Seungcheol just laughed and clapped him on the back, complimenting him on how he looked in the jacket and fussing over his hair

still smiling, he introduced Chan to the gang, and while some were suspicious, they figured if Coups liked him, he had to be okay

from then on, Chan would meet up with the greasers regularly after school, and sometimes even before, if he wasn’t busy with the preps

ah, the preps

see, Chan was kind of the link between the two groups at first

he would wear the leather jacket he got from Seungcheol with his school sweater though he often got weird looks

when he showed up with that jacket on his back, Jeonghan was immediately concerned

“What happened? Why were you with Coups? Did you get in a fight? Do I need to go sort some people out because you know I will-”

“Nah, me and Coups are pals!”

cue gasps from everyone and an immediate interrogation

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE PALS?????”

“He’s a nice guy, honest! He helped me out when some jerks were messing with me!”

oh… well if he was nice then….

and that was the day Coups lost his bad boy image, at least with that group

when Chan started bringing his friends with him to meet the greasers after school, Seungcheol was alarmed

more and more of them came, and surprisingly, the preps and the greasers got along amazingly and there wasn’t a single issue

at least until Jeonghan came

Chan had brought everyone that day, and Scoops was a bit overwhelmed

“Hey, when did I sign up to take care of 6 more children, huh?!”

*offended gasps from the greasers*

Jeonghan was having none of it lol “and when did I sign up to deal with you?”

they stared each other down before Seungcheol reached out to shake hands

“You, I like you.”

“Yeah I get that a lot.”

“Are you sure you’re a prep and not just a greaser pretending to be one?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

and with the mom of the preps satisfied, the groups finally mingled

wow if you thought the greasers were trouble before, you’d be amazed how much more trouble they could cause with 7 extra guys around

it was a mess

Soonyoung and Jun were the class clowns, and often would pull pranks on others in science class (like making their chemicals blow up or something)

and just as the teacher would get ready to yell, sweet, perfect angel Wonwoo would step up and ask a question and distract the teacher until they forgot

Jun and Soonyoung were confused at first, until they saw Wonwoo turn around and give them a sly wink, and they shot back devilish smiles

Jihoon often slept during class, but he could always count on Mingyu to wake him up just as the teacher was walking by

Coups loved his bike, and quickly found that Joshua loved it too

seeing Joshua, the most gentle boy on campus, riding around on a black motorcycle? half of the school died then and there

Seungkwan and Vernon became partners in crime

Seungkwan would smile and talk to the teacher about her day while Vernon would go take something completely random off the teacher’s desk

it was never anything major, just something important enough that it would get on their teacher’s nerves, like her favorite pen or the only piece of chalk she had

though one time, Vernon accidentally hit her coffee mug and spilt it all over the pile of turned in homework

that one took a lot of sweet talking to get out of, but Seungkwan somehow managed to convince her that she bumped the desk and caused it to spill

as soon as she turned her back, Vernon and Seungkwan high-fived

Seokmin, Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Minghao all had physical education together

they would often skip class to go sit under the bleachers and goof off

all it took was a few of Jeonghan’s words and Seokmin’s smile and the coach would be distracted enough for Minghao and Mingyu to sneak off

after that, Jeonghan and Seokmin would just claim to be going to the bathroom, and then join them under the bleachers, and that was that

and then there was Chan. everyone wondered how the hell he managed to become friends with the hottest most popular preps and greasers in school

honestly he had no idea, it just kind of happened

but the more the groups mingled, the more blurred the lines got between them

the preps taught the greasers self control and the greasers taught the preps how to loosen up

they were always together, even if it looked odd to see boys in leather with preps at the library to study or to see the sweaters of the preps with the greasers in back alleys at night

one day in particular, Jeonghan, Joshua, Seungkwan, and Seokmin were trying to convince everyone to go to the pep rally after school

the only issue was that they would all have to wear school sweaters

and give up the leather jackets?? please

one by one, they managed to convince everyone, minus Seungcheol

until he groaned and said “I guess I could try to show my face”

and that’s how this giant mis-matched (yet oddly compatible) group of boys ended up wearing their school sweaters while relaxing in front of a fire with fireworks shooting off overhead

but that was only the beginning

because you were there too, somewhere in the giant crowd of people only a small distance away, just waiting to be found, wishing you had someone with you

and little did you know, it wouldn’t take long until your wish would come true

A/N: Heeeyyy so that was fun!! Feel free to request a lil bullet point scenario for any of the boys in this au, I have reader inserts mapped out for all 13 of them :) just specify that it’s for this au if/when you ask! Thanks!!! wasn’t that end utter crap lmao

[fatalis-writes]

Cure For The Common Cold | Yondu/Reader Fluff

fluff one shot where Yondu's love interest gets super sick out of nowhere and he takes care of her? <3

You sneezed, for what had to be at least the eighth time in five minutes, and sniffled. This sucked. You were stuffy, your head hurt, and the fever took turns with the chills. On top of all that, you had the worst sore throat of your life, and when everything was put together, you were pretty much a useless lump of Terran. 

“This--” you paused to cough, “--blows.” You were saying it mostly to yourself, considering Yondu was nowhere in sight and he hadn’t been since you woke up with this nasty cold.

This was your first time sick in space, and honestly, it was way worse than being sick at home so far. You had no idea if the Ravagers had anything remotely resembling chicken soup, and the ship was always cold. There was no telling if you’d be able to whip up any home remedies here, and you really, really didn’t want to have to deal with the full force of this if you could avoid it. 

You curled up under the covers, trying to get as warm as possible until the fever started again. When was Yondu coming back? He had been gone for hours now, and he usually took a break by now. You’d sure as hell be happy for the company; you had never been the kind of person who dealt with being sick alone very well. You wanted someone to take care of you so that you didn’t have to, but with the way things were going, it looked like you might have to bite the bullet and spend the extra energy. 

“Darlin’?” 

Speak of the devil. 

“Darlin’, Kraglin said he ain’t seen you all--the hell you doin’?” Yondu stood in the doorway, staring as you peeked out from under the blankets. “You got work to do--”

“I’m sick,” you mumbled, sniffling and then coughing miserably. 

Yondu’s gaze softened at the sight of you and he walked towards the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” you moaned, rolling onto your back and immediately regretting the absolutely horrific feeling in your head. “I dunno what to do.”

The bed dipped slightly as Yondu sat down, smoothing your hair out of your face. “You lil Terrans always get sick, dontchu?” 

“No we don’t,” you grumbled. 

“Yes you do!” he grinned teasingly. “Quill was always catchin’ colds, an’ now here’s you, all curled up in here like a caterpillar.”

“Is there anything in the shitty med bay to fix this?” 

“Darlin’, there ain’t no medicine that can cure a cold.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned. “My first space cold and the aliens can’t even fix me.”

“Oh, darlin’, I can fix ya,” Yondu stood again, promptly heading towards the door. “You just gimme a minute an’ I’ll be right back with somethin’ that’ll kick that cold’s ass.”

You really hoped whatever he brought back would just be plain, nice, innocent chicken noodle soup. Being with Yondu had taught you that space was weird and the things in it were even weirder, and you really didn’t think you could handle any kind of down home centaurian cold remedies right now. You probably never could, but especially not when you were feeling like you should just melt straight through the bed or pass out for a couple days. 

The Ravager came back several minutes later with a bowl of something that looked suspicious. You wrinkled your nose preemptively, trying to get yourself ready to face whatever might be waiting. 

“Now, this,” Yondu said, ignoring your expression, “Is guaranteed to blast all the snot outta yer pretty little head.”

If you didn’t have such a pounding headache, you would have rolled your eyes. “What is it?”

He sat on the bed next to you again, lowering the bowl to show you. “It ain’t Terran, an’ that’s all I’m gonna say ‘til ya drink it.”

That sure was promising. 

Sitting up a little, you peered into the bowl to find it filled with a dark green goop that absolutely reeked. “There is no way I’m--”

“C’mon, now,” he picked the spoon up and shoved it towards your face. “Y’ain’t gettin’ better anytime soon unless ya try it.”

“Tell me what it is,” you said stubbornly. 

“Not ‘til ya have some.”

“...Fine.” you took the spoon from him and scooped up some of the gunk, grimacing at the pungent stench. Maybe it was just fragrant and it would go down easy. Maybe it would actually be okay. Maybe--

It was not okay, and it tasted exactly how it smelled. In fact, it was worse, burning the entire way down. It took all of your strength not to throw it back up again, and after you were finished with a coughing, spluttering fit, you glared at him. “What the hell, Yondu!”

“Good, ain’t it?” he laughed.

“No!”

“Yeah, pretty shitty, ain’t it?” he grinned. “Ancient recipe. Made outta Krylorian ratfish, Xandarian peppers, an’ a whooooole lotta whiskey.”

“Oh my god,” you would have screamed at him if you could. “Why the hell--” you stopped when you realized the headache was already going away. “How...?”

Yondu chuckled. “Them ratfish got somethin’ nice in ‘em that helps break fevers. Don’t ask me why. The peppers clear up yer head.”

“And the whiskey?”

“That’s just t’help it all go down.”

“Well it doesn’t!” your throat was still burning. “It--oh my god, it...it actually really helped...”

“An’ there ya go, yellin’ at me.” Yondu offered you the bowl and you sat up a little more to take it. “I’ll stay with ya the rest of the day, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help the little smile that wormed its way onto your lips. “Why? Aren’t you busy?”

Yondu leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Never too busy to take care’a my girl.”

[solrika]

Jesse and Genji for the daemon AU!

~

“So what’s your daemon supposed to be?” Dulce asks, the first time they meet Genji Shimada, and Jesse near-about dies on the spot.

The daemon in question bares its fangs, and even though neither it or Genji should have the strength to move, Jesse wastes no time in scooping up Dulce into the relative safety of his arms. “Shut up,” he hisses at her, and then to Genji, “I’m sorry, she ain’t got no manners.” 

“I’d say so,” Genji croaks, breath rasping out of his ruined throat. If looks could kill, Dulce’d be a little smear on the floor. 

“Sorry,” Jesse repeats, and beats a hasty retreat from the hospital room. 

A week later, Jesse returns with a peace offering.

Genji eyes him and Dulce suspiciously when they walk in the door, the daemon looped around his shoulders letting out a low hiss. “What do you want?”

“Thought we could try again,” Jesse says, setting the plastic takeout bag down on Genji’s bedside table. “I brought a gift.”

He opens the container inside, and Genji stiffens in surprise at the aroma. “Is that ramen?” his daemon demands, ears pricking. She–at least it sounds like a she–has a voice as ruined as her partner, but the eagerness in it delights Jesse anyway. Food is always the best way to someone’s heart.

“Sure is,” Jesse grins, pouring in the fixings and giving the soup a little stir. “Doctor told me you could do solids now, and I thought you’d like something better'n the hospital swill.”

“And I promise I won’t talk,” Dulce adds, and Genji’s daemon makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a muffled laugh.

“Alright,” Genji says, voice as haughty as if he’s bestowing a generous gift by gracing Jesse with his companionship. “I’ll give you a second chance.”

“Thank ya kindly,” Jesse says, and doesn’t mention that he can see right through the haughtiness. There’s something desperate in how Genji grabs for the ramen–homesickness, maybe–and Jesse can’t miss how quickly his daemon’s eyes warm towards Dulce when she hops up on the bed to deliver their ace: a whole box of mochi. Gabe’s been the only other operative to visit this pair on a non-professional basis, and they have to be starved for kind company.

It’s not polite to say it, though, so Jesse just settles at Genji’s side and digs into his own lunch.

~

Eight weeks later, Jesse catches Genji staring off into space, brows furrowed. It’s not the first time he's seen the Shimada brooding, but usually it’s sadness or anger hovering around his eyes, not worry. Jesse finishes his mouthful of tonkatsu before saying softly, “Somethin’ eatin’ at you?”

Genji doesn’t startle, but his hands do tighten on the sheets, joints whirring. “The Commander came to visit today.”

“Oh.” Jesse makes a face, Dulce pulls her lips back in distaste. “That bastard.”

“Disrespectful,” Genji’s daemon mutters.

“He don’t deserve my respect. Blackwatch commander's th' only one I gotta answer to, anyways,” Jesse answers, stabbing his food with a little more vehemence than it requires. “What’d he say?”

“I need to make up my mind soon.” Genji’s joints whirr again. “He wants to start getting me battle ready. I don’t–” He swallows.

Dulce and Jesse share a look. “Are you gonna be with Overwatch or Blackwatch?”

“Overwatch.” Shaking his head, Genji sags back against the pillows. “There’s no real choice to be made. I have a debt to repay.”

“That’s bullshit.” Jesse sets down his food, and dares to lean over and place a hand on Genji’s shoulder. “Listen. Dulce’s a coyote, ‘n’ y’know what that means? We’re tricky. We’re good at gettin’ outta jams. We can find you a way out.”

Genji stares at him. “You don’t need to risk yourself.”

“’s th’ right thing to do,” Jesse says, and holds the stare, trying to put every ounce of sincerity into it.

Genji is the one who breaks first, his daemon slithering under the covers. “I don’t need your help.”

“Alright. Still.” Jesse sits back, giving Genji’s shoulder one last squeeze before he lets go. “Just say the word.”

Genji’s daemon peeks her head out from under the covers, and even with the scars twisting her muzzle, Jesse can see her sad smile. “We don’t need it. But thank you.”

“Anytime.” Dulce steps delicately over Genji’s legs to nose at his daemon’s snout. “We mean it.”

“Thank you,” she repeats, pauses, says carefully, "My name is Aiko."

"Pretty name," says Dulce, and then, because she can't keep her fool mouth shut, adds, "for a pretty lady."

Both Aiko and Genji snort. To Jesse's relief, the sound is one more of amusement than anger. "We're ugly," Aiko scoffs, and gestures with one tiny, bird-boned paw at the scar tissue and bristles twisting over her skin.

"Pretty," Dulce repeats firmly, and it's worth the embarrassment Jesse feels to see Aiko grin.

~

The commanders are fighting again. You can hear Luce's screaming through the wall. Jesse leans against the wall to Gabriel's office and tries to decide if it's worth it to try and eavesdrop. Dulce, bound by no such compunctions, presses her ear to the door.

"It's about Genji," she mutters. "Sounds like a custody battle."

"Shit." Jesse taps at Peacekeeper's holster. He's seen Genji in his new body--all sleek armor and powerful muscle, and Aiko besides him with her bristles grown out into lustrous black feathers that glint green in the right light. He still doesn't have any idea of what she's supposed to be, but there's no denying they make an impressive pair.

"He's Overwatch's asset, though," Jesse says to Dulce, though the idea of Genji stuck with the bluecoats makes the words sour in his mouth. They're the type to do anything they want and think it's fine because it's for the greater good. At least Blackwatch doesn't lie to itself like that.

"That's what Gabriel's mad 'bout." Dulce swivels her ears, listening intently. "Says he'll be better with us." Her ears prick. "Oh! That's nice!"

"What's nice?"

"We're one'a Gabe's reasons." Dulce glances back over her shoulder at Jesse, eyes delighted. "We 'improve Genji's morale.'"

"That so," Jesse murmurs, and can't help his eyes from crinkling in a smile. Or his body from pumping a fist in the air. At least Dulce looks just as silly in her happiness, her whole ass wagging along with her tail. If Gabe's willing to use it in an argument, then Genji and Aiko really do like them.

That's worth dancing for.

~

It’s thousands of lunches and seven shared missions later that Genji says, “She used to be a crow.”

Jesse’s Blackwatch, so he doesn’t freeze with his mouth full of field rations, but it’s a close deal. “Suits you,” he says instead. “They’re clever birds.”

“Common birds. It made the elders angry.” Genji huffs out a humorless laugh, looking down at the tangle of scales and feathers and scars in his lap. “We’re not so common anymore.”

“Still clever,” Dulce says.

It must be the right thing, because Aiko uncurls a little to brush her snout against Dulce’s nose. Dulce licks her back, and Aiko’s ensuing sneeze makes Genji laugh out loud, shadows chased from his eyes. Jesse has to force himself to swallow.

~

Dulce’s fur is blood-matted under Jesse’s hand, and he gasps and tries to breathe past the absence tipping his balance sideways. Gabe shouts somewhere besides them, Luce’s scream of anger cutting through the noise of gunshots, and when Genji tightens the tourniquet Jesse doesn’t know whether it’s him or Dulce that yowls in pain.

“I’m taking you to the transport,” Genji says. Even with the mask on, Jesse can read the fear in his voice, see it in how Aiko bristles on his shoulders. “Hold on, okay?”

“’m arm’s off,” Jesse slurs.

“Yeah,” Genji says, and hauls him upright. There’s a brief pause, and then Genji reaches down with his other hand and scoops up Dulce, cradling her to his chest.

“Huh,” Jesse says, because no one’s ever dared to touch her like that before.

“You can kill me later,” Genji bites out, and Aiko tangles herself around Dulce’s ruined forelegs, holding them steady as they set off across the battlefield.

It seems terribly important to let Genji know that killing is the furthest thing from Jesse’s mind. Their points of contact are warm, keeping the pain in his arm at bay, and the slickness of Genji’s armor against Dulce’s fur feels right in a way that Jesse’s only experienced before when Luce lets him hide under her wing. He swallows, tries to work his voice out of his throat, and manages, “Rather kiss ya.”

“What?” Genji’s distracted, hauling Jesse’s ass to safety.

Jesse tries again anyways. This isn’t the time or place for declarations of love, but. Well. Blood loss does funny things to logic. “Rather’d kiss ya, sweetheart.”

“Then you’d better stay alive to do it,” Genji bites out, gripping him closer.

“Okay,” Jesse says, as much because the chance of kissing Genji sounds wonderful as to try and quell the fear in Genji’s voice. “I’ll stick ‘round.”

“Good,” Genji says, and hauls him inside the transport. Aiko presses her forehead against Dulce’s before the medics whisk her away. Something wet drips onto her fur.

Jesse’s legs are getting shaky (shakier) and his vision is going dark, but Dulce manages to croak out, “Hey now, don’ cry, darlin’.”

“Stickin’ ‘round,” Jesse adds, pitching into the waiting hands of the medics. His arm’s throbbing, the pain reaching out to drag him down.

“I’m holding you to that, cowboy,” Genji says, and before Jesse falls under, cool fingers give his remaining hand a squeeze.