#I look forward to collecting more water guns in the coming weeks

[highdensityrabbitsituation]

It's senior assassination at work and I've decided that I am going to win senior assassination by confiscating more water guns than any other teacher or staff member

[themarginalthinker]

Muzzle Flare

(These aren't a couple of comic-obsessed teenagers with garden stakes and water pistols. But then, these aren't vampires who are fucking around, either. Michael is put somewhere safe.)

(an: YCCM canon technically. tw: guns, past stalking, bodily harm)

-

Michael couldn't hear anything through the concrete walls, but he could feel it.

Every time a gun went off, it was like a concussive blast, right through him, through the walls of the cellar. The nest.

The safest place the pack knew to stash their most precious possession.

They'd been found. Dwayne had miscalculated how much information the hunter cell had, Paul's senses hadn't been keen enough to track the one stalking him in the crowd just the week prior, and David...David had tried to stay in the most stable nest they'd been able to build in a year.

Another shot. Across the bond, Dwayne's senses light with surprise and anger, and then it's just a blur of feelings and images, mashed together in a nauseating smear. Michael can't stay in it - he can't let himself. His own body feels like a string on a guitar, a snare wire.

Any more twisting, and he'll snap.

Marko slashes across the bond, intrusive in his sudden pain. One of the hunters, a bo-staff made of wood, wild ash, and Marko was in pain from a direct bash to his head-

Michael is frantic in his hiding spot. His hands claw at the walls, trying to keep still, trying to be quiet. Trying to be hidden and safe. The cellar was buried, only the old, beaten doors visible from the outside.

"They're just a bunch of humans with pea-shooters, stumbling around in the dark. This is our territory. It'll be fine."

Michael bit down on his lip and whimpered as another gunshot, though more distant, rocked across his ears. He wondered what the humans saw as they took those shots. Fangs, gleaming in the dark? Eyes catching green in the reflection of the pupils? Something old, something dangerous.

Something above bangs at the doors of the cellar.

Michael's breathing stops. Just like David taught him.

Another bang - and they're swinging down, swinging open. A body drops down the shaft with a plaintive cry.

Michael feels heat, hears the wild rabbit heartbeat.

A face he's seen before staggers upwards. Early middle aged, the black, unkempt beard shot through with frizzy silver, and the wide, washed-out green eyes behind dark glasses casting about, terrified.

The wire snaps.

"You!" Michael hisses, standing from his tense crouch.

He must have been well-hidden, behind the bikes they'd stashed here, the small collection of odds and ends and the nest itself the pack had been growing, because the human cries out. High and screaming and painful to even Michael's ears with how trained they'd been on picking up the sounds of his pack being fucking shot at.

He's done. He's not taking this anymore, sitting like a duck. He advances, face hard, hands curling-

The man's face changes as he sees Michael, though. Frightened shifts to shock, to something. Like relief.

"Oh thank God-" he huffs, stumbling forward. Towards. Michael.

All at once, Michael is unfooted again, hands going slack, and he's taking a step back as the man comes close.

He smells of grass crushed under heavy boots, like old gas-station food and stale, canned air, like what they had to help clean computers. It seeps into the space between them, around them. The familiar scents of the nest - of pack and blood and safety is suddenly overlayed with this. Human, and too-warm and sweat and unclean earth-

"I found you!" The human gasps. "I knew it, I knew I was right. Don't worry, son, we'll get you out!"

Out. Out there, out of the nest, where they were attempting to kill his pack-

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Michael growls, backing up another step, but this time the human comes with him. A step in stride, and it only makes Michael want to retreat more.

The man looks at him like he's crazy. "Away, boy! Away from them! They're plenty distracted, you can come with us! You'll be right as rain come morning."

He knew. He knew Michael was only a fledgling, and he knew how turning a fledgling back to human worked. There was...something in those eyes. Human though he may have been, the studious hunter's mind broiled with ideas Michael could only guess, and in the midst of all this, almost. Enjoyed seeing become reality. A man tossed into a lion's den, and finding only a maddened joy.

"No-!" Michael says, shaking his head, but the human's hand is already reaching out.

It grasps Michael's wrist, where he'd raised his hands to shove the man away, and as fingers close on it, Michael wants to vomit.

STOP OFF GO AWAY STOP STOP STOP STOP NOT PACK YOU'RE NOT PACK STOP DAVID DAVID DAVIDDAVIDDAVID-

Michael isn't sure what happens first.

He's not sure of a lot of things, really.

The human's hand is grabbing him, leaving his scent there, the touch of blood-warmed skin too hot and crawling against Michael's own.

Michael feels the feral snarl break across his face, lips pulling back to show his fledgling fangs, curls his hands so his small claws are still out and visible and ready to strike like a an angry rattler.

His bond is lashing out, panicked, screeching for his pack, that he's been found, that there is an intruder in their nest, and that he wants them, he wants his mate-

And though unimpressive to a vampire his small teeth may be, to a human, it's staring into the jaws of something perfectly willing to make an end of you.

Across the bond, David sings. He's coming.

He's coming.

Michael's arm whips out.

The human hunter screams, drawing back, hand reaching into his overcoat.

Michael follows him to the ground, ready. He's ready. He will protect his family, and finally join them.

Something is clawing through the busted cellar doors, wild and furious and blotting out the light of the moon as it stands before it, casting shadow across the pair on the ground. Michael feels like his fucking soul is singing as pale blue eyes find his in the night, the bond making it as though he's seeing himself through David's eyes as he takes in the scene of Michael having bested the hunter.

The night is split with gunfire.

Muzzle flare blinds Michael's eyes, red and white and searing into his skull.

The shot cracks across his ears, sending them ringing, reeling, dizzy and falling back as they pop and send waves of stabbing torture across his head.

The handgun bullet rips through the left side of Michael's ribs. Point blank range.

Hearing David's scream echoing silently in his heart hurts most.

-

@ria-coolgirl

[handysolution]

Undercover (18+)

Description: you go undercover with Spencer Reid when things go south and a truth is uncovered.

Content warnings: smut. Unprotected sex, creampie, hair pulling, rough.

This is my first smut with Spencer Reid. I hope you little sinners enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Thank you!

You put your hand on the man’s arm while you laughed. Your heels were uncomfortable and your smile was fake. Hotch put you undercover in this bar to catch a killer that was taking his victims home and killing them after they had sex. While you were talking to this man, Reid was watching from a barstool across the bar.

The dress you had on was low cut and short. The outline of your gun was evident through the tight dress so you couldn’t bring it. You felt almost naked without it, but Reid’s presence made you feel a little better. You had never gotten along very well; he stuck to mostly avoiding you and not holding conversation outside of work. But you knew that he was good at his job and wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” The man asked you, and you snapped back into reality.

“Why don’t we get to know each other a little better first and then we can go back to your place?” You countered, having no way of knowing if this was the unsub and definitely not wanting to leave the building where your team was waiting.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” the man said and he grabbed onto your wrist tightly. Your eyes darted to the spot where Reid was, only to find another man sitting there that you didn’t recognize. You scanned the room and didn’t see Reid anywhere. He began to drag you to the door and you yelled at him to stop.

“Come on, bitch,” he said darkly, and Morgan came in with his gun already pointed telling him to stop. You went to the bathroom while Morgan was getting him in cuffs and you were scared thinking about what could have happened had the man get you out of the door. You took a minute to splash some water on your face and collect yourself.

Spencer was outside of the bar when you walked out behind Morgan. You watched Morgan put him in the back of the car and you heard hotch tell the rest of the team to meet at his house with a search warrant. Spencer began to walk away and you pulled his arm to stop him.

“Spencer, what the fuck?” You shouted a little louder than you meant to. He looked taken aback.

“What?” He asked you, and your eyes bulged.

“You’re supposed to be my partner and you left me back there! He started dragging me out of the bar! And you weren’t there! What if something went wrong?” You asked him, baffled at the situation.

“You two. Stay here and empty the bar. We need to process the area,” Hotch cut you off with one eye brow raised in a warning. You backed down.

“Consider it done,” you said to him, and he turned away. You walked past Reid and shoulder checked him. He stumbled back a bit but you didn’t wait to talk to him. You told everyone, including the bartender to clear out. You needed to process the scene and get any evidence since this man had been hunting here for weeks.

“I’m sorry, (Y/n),” Reid said, and your back was to him. You rolled your eyes and continued with what you were doing.

“You have never liked me which is fine, believe me, but I would never expect you to let me be in danger,” you shot back.

“I didn’t think he was the guy! He was the fifth guy I watched hit on you. I just assumed it was another douche and that you were fine. I stepped out to get some air,” he countered.

“It doesn’t matter! I would never do that to you or anyone on the team, for that matter. If you don’t like me, that’s fine. But how can I trust to work with you if you’re just going to leave me in harms way?” You yelled back.

“I don’t not like you, it’s just-“

“Just what? I see how you avoid me. I’m sorry that I’m so hard to work with!” You cut him off. You both looked at each other with heated eyes. Suddenly, he rushed forward and kissed you. The heat of the moment took over and you kissed him back. He held your face in his hands, his tongue fighting, and ultimately winning, for dominance.

“I don’t hate you. I hated watching you get hit on by those men, men that could never give you what you need,” he said, and you were dazed. He was jealous. That’s why he stepped outside.

“Bathroom. Now,” you said back, and he led you there by the hand. He pushed you back into the doorway, kissing you the entire time. You kicked your heels off while never letting your lips leave his.

He picked you up and set you on the sink, his body filling in the space between your legs. He started kissing your neck, and then moving down. When he made it to your thighs, he saw the black, lacy thong and pulled it down your legs. He flung it somewhere over his shoulder carelessly. You saw his eyes deepen with lust as he took in the sight of you.

You felt his fingers enter you, and you let your head fall back, “oh? You’re this wet for me already?” He asked you with a chuckle.

“Fuck you,” you said in response, but you couldn’t hold back your moans when you felt his mouth on your clit. His fingers pumped methodically in you, his tongue flicking quickly against you. You put your hands in his hair, tangling it around your fingers. You began to grind your hips against his face, your body begging for release. He curled his fingers up inside you and you found it. Your eyes shut and your head fell back against the mirror as your hands pulled his face away, your body not being able to handle the overstimulation.

He laughed as he stood up, wiping his mouth with his hand. You laid limp against the mirror, your body tired.

“You’re so hot when you cum,” he told you. You didn’t say anything back, but thought about how hot he was between your legs.

“Fuck me please,” you said, and he smiled pridefully.

“I thought it was fuck you earlier. Now you want to beg for me?” He asked cockily. As much as you didn’t want to inflate his ego, you needed him. You felt yourself practically dripping with anticipation.

“Just shut up and fuck me already,” you said as you got down off the counter only to bend over the sink. You made eye contact with him the entire time he undid his belt. He pulled it out and you felt it hit your ass, but you couldn’t see it in the mirror.

He pulled your dress up onto your back, leaving your ass exposed to him. He grabbed it and you felt his tip rubbing against your entrance.

“Please put it in,” you sighed, and you saw his eyes go dark again in the mirror as he watched your face while he slipped it into you. He didn’t move at first. “Please, please move. I need it,” you whimpered.

“I love hearing you beg,” he said back. He began fucking you roughly, pulling it almost all the way out before burying himself all the way in you again.

“Tell me how it feels,” he said, and when you didn’t say anything back he continued, “do you like being full?”

“So fucking good. You’re so deep inside me,” you said back. You let your head fall forward with pleasure. He didn’t like that, so he grabbed a handful of your hair and forced your face back into the mirror.

“I want you to watch me ruin you. I want you to watch yourself come undone around me,” he said sternly. You felt your orgasm fast approaching. He took his other hand and began quickly rubbing your clit with it.

“Spencer, I’m so close. Please don’t stop. Harder,” you moaned out, and he complied. You loved the way he stretched you out and pounded you senseless.

“Then shut the fuck up and come,” he said, “such a good slut for me. You like being fucked hard like a whore, don’t you? You like me destroying your cunt.” With those words, you came. You watched as your face distorted, your mouth hanging open and your eyes rolling back. You felt yourself clench around him.

After your orgasm was over, he let your hair go and your head fell against the counter again. He stopped touching your clit and let his hands wrap around either side of your waist. He still fucked you rough and he grabbed onto you to force your body back while he moved forward. You felt his thrusts become unregulated and sloppy. You knew he was close.

“You’re doing such a good job taking it. So pretty when you cum. It’s so tight,” he praised you and your insides fluttered at his words.

“Please fill me up. I need it,” you said, and he sighed.

“Good little slut wants to feel me cum inside her? You’re such a whore around my cock. I bet you’ve gotten yourself off thinking about this, haven’t you?” He said, and you nodded. You had.

You felt his dick twitch inside of you before you felt the warm liquid coat your insides. He fell flush against your back for a second, collecting himself before he pulled out slowly.

“Let me get something to clean you up,” he said nonchalantly. He landed on a wet paper towel. He wrapped his hands around your waist and hoisted you back onto the counter, facing him. He began to wipe you up.

“Oh no, your shirt,” you said, slightly embarrassed. The light gray T-shirt he was wearing was coated in your wetness, “I’m so sorry.”

He glanced down and chuckled, “don’t worry about it. I’ll say I spilled something. Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He said and you shook your head, still reeling from the orgasms.

“Next time I’ll be more gentle,” he promised, and your stomach fluttered at the mention of a next time.

[agustdwrites]

It had been a week since they moved into the clinic. They spent the entire week search for materials and building up their defenses. It wasn’t without difficulty, of course. There were quite a few moments that required baiting the infected. When all was said and done, the gate was impenetrable, the windows covered and barred. Nothing was getting in unless they allowed it.

As they finished with the windows, Hoseok walked into the room. “We’ve got a problem.” Everyone turned to look at him. Namjoon stepped forward, “What’s going on?” Hoseok nodded towards the hall, leading them into one of the empty rooms. Laid out on the floor was all of their weapons and ammunition. “We’re incredibly low on ammo.”

Jin sighed. “We have to be really careful with how much we use and see if we can find more.” Taehyung frowned, “Where are we suppose to find some? I doubt there’s a weapons store around here and if there is, it’s going to be empty.”

Namjoon stood quietly, thinking up a plan. “Alright. Tomorrow we’re going to send two group to search for ammo a little further down the street in both directions. We haven’t been far in this area, there’s a lot left to explore. Another group will go back to the corner store and gather more food.” Everyone nodded in response, Namjoon’s plans always worked well.

The next morning, everyone gathered by the gate as Namjoon made the groups. “Jungkook and Yoongi, you’re going to head south to look for ammo. Taehyung, Hoseok, and I will go North. Jin and Jimin, you’ll gather food and anything else you can find in the area. Everyone, be smart, and be safe.”

As the groups split up they all headed in deprecate directions. Jin and Jimin heading quickly around the corner, guns in hand and heads low. Namjoon watched as they set off, having complete faith in their abilities as a team.

Taehyung and Hoseok followed closely behind Namjoon, looking closely for anything that could be helpful. They checked high and low, in every building they could find. The streets were quiet, no sign of any infected nearby. They’d managed to find a few bottles of water and a small amount of food, but they had no luck finding ammo, atleast not any that hadn’t been used. They collected what they found, however, as they were sure they could use it in some way.

Jungkook and Yoongi made their way through their end of the street very quickly. They had also managed to find a few provisions here and there, but nothing as far as weapons and ammo was concerned. Yoongi sighed, “We’re not going to find anything. Months of traveling and we barely found anything, I don’t think we’re going to find much on one street.” Jungkook chuckled at Yoongi’s negativity. “Hyung, you gotta be more positive than that. I’m sure we’ll find something, and if we don’t, we don’t know if anyone else has yet.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but ultimately agreed with Jungkook. “We don’t have much left to search, come on.” Jungkook waved Yoongi over in his direction, walking into a small shop. As they walked in, Yoongi immediately covered his nose and mouth in disgust. “What is that small?” Jungkook looked around, “It smells like a body, but a lot worse.”

They’d come across many bodies as they travelled, they knew the small all too well by now, but this was a lot worse. This wasn’t one body, this was, “Bodies.” Jungkook stopped in his tracks, Yoongi bumping into him before looking over his shoulder. “Fuck..” He whispered as he took in what he saw before him.

There was a pile of bodies in the shop next door, a large hole in the wall creating an opening between the two. “What do you think happened?” Yoongi asked as he slowly followed behind Jungkook who once again abruptly stopped causing Yoongi to walk into him. “Why do you keep doing that!” He hissed.

“Hyung..” Jungkook whispered. “What?” Asked Yoongi. Jungkook pointed at the bodies. “They’re military.” Yoongi walked around Jungkook to get a better look. He was right, they were clearly military, and where there was military, there was, “Guns!”

Yoongi and Jungkook spent the next few minutes collecting weapons and ammunition. “I can’t believe nobody took all this stuff.” Jungkook said. Yoongi hesitated, “It’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Guns, bullets, grenades, and it’s all left untouched..”

They both jumped as they heard rattling coming from behind a door. “We need to get out of here.” Yoongi said as he backed away, towards the exit. “Yeah, we know it’s here, we’ll bring the others back.” Before they had managed to turn around and leave, the door slammed open, an infected lunging at them.

“RUN!” Jungkook shouted as he grabbed Yoongi’s arm. They ran down the street as fast as they could, the infected catching up quickly. They hadn’t seen one like this before. It was big, so big it towered over them, and it was absolutely starving.

They continued running, the base right up ahead. They picked up their speed, Jin yelling at them to hurry as he held the gate open. Jungkook slid under, Yoongi pushing himself as fast as he could. His bag was heavy and he couldn’t breathe. The closer he got, the closer the infected got. There was no way he’d make it in time.

“CLOSE IT!” He shouted. “YOONGI HURRY!” Jungkook yelled from under the gate. “JUST CLOSE IT!” They were terrified. This was their best friend, their brother, they couldn’t just leave him. Namjoon hurried forwards and slammed the gate shut.

Yoongi kept running. He was cramping everywhere and growing dizzy from lack of oxygen. As he tried to reach the building in front of him, he tripped over a piece of an old metal sign and hit the ground hard. He quickly rolled over and pulled out his gun. He shot but the barrel was empty.

The infected was just feet away and he had nothing to protect himself, this was it. He crossed his arms in front of his face, bracing for the attack, when he heard it stop. He slowly lowered his arms, watching as the infected dropped, almost falling right on him before he backed away.

He was confused, and breathing heavily, pain all over his body. He glanced over at the body, an arrow straight through its brain. “W-who?” He tried to pull himself up, he needed to get back to the others but his vision blurred. He saw a dark figure running towards him, but he couldn’t focus his vision to get a good look at who it was. He was dizzy, so dizzy.

“Are you okay?”

The unknown figure sat him up and wrapped his arm around their shoulder, wrapping their own arm around his waist securely and lifting him to his feet. He could barely stand, let alone move.

“You need to help me here, one foot after the other.”

He looked over at the other person, but he still couldn’t focus his eyes enough to see who it was. All he could see was someone dressed in black and everything they said sounded dreamlike and echoey.

“We’re almost there, just a little further.”

He had been in and out of consciousness the entire walk. He didn’t know how long they’d been walking but it felt like forever in his current state and hard as he tried to stay awake, his body and mind could no longer fight the exhaustion. The next thing he knew, everything went black.

[strawbxrryneptune]

Level Two

Word count: 2.6K

Cw: pussyjob, exhibitionism, slight voyeurism, oral (fem!receiving), infidelity if you squint, unedited.

This fic and the fics following will contain monster fucking, cucking and threesomes!! If you are not comfortable, try out some of my other works, and Miggi's creations, but if you wish to proceed, remember, sharing is caring.

Prev~♡ Next ~♡

@miggiisdumb

From a young age you were taught to keep your emotions in check. Queens must never show weakness to enemies. Crying and screaming were to be left in private, so that you came off as cool and collected. The Mushroom kingdom needs someone level-headed. They need someone they know won't act rashly.

You came to a conclusion that you were the one they needed, the Queen that could handle herself in any situation. You could get a husband, rule a kingdom, maybe even raise some spawns of yourself. You were convinced you had the bag, but now, sitting on a boulder at the falls and watching two sweaty, bulky men wrestle and growl at each other, you weren't so sure.

You had been trying to keep your emotions in check the whole week. Kirishima was constantly inviting you to hang with him and Bakugou, and you didn't know how much you could take. Kirishima's kisses had you on fire,, his big hands grabbing at your ass and tongue sliding against yours, but Bakugou's heated stares and occasional touches had your head spinning in confusion and arousal. He had a weird thing for grabbing and kneading at your hips, and it was starting to get to you.

Kirishima had invited you to join him and Bakugou in a swim at the falls, the water there crisp and beautiful, said to bring years of youth to whoever was worthy. Of course, you agreed. Any princess would jump at the opportunity to swim in a magic body of water with her suitor and his dreamy friend. Kirishima had shown up in blue swim trunks, an extra change of clothes cradled in his strong arms and some sandwiches to munch on later. Bakugou wore a black loin cloth, bigger and a little longer than the one he usually wore. His choker and bracelets were laid out in the grass next to Kirishima's clothes and the food, but he didn't look any less intimidating. If anything, he looked even scarier, hair drenched and falling down around his eyes, glowing red as he growls and bares his fangs, pouncing on Kiri and snarling out threats.

"M'gonna destroy you, Red."

"You have to catch me first, Bro!"

Kirishima dives under the water, Bakugou following shortly after, and you chuckle to yourself. 

Soon, though, you start to get worried, cause it's been almost 2 minutes and they haven't come back up. 

Calling their names, you shrug your cover up off and get in the water, shivering slightly at the chill. As you get deeper and deeper, water up to your chest, you start to panic.

"Kiri? Bakugou? If this is a joke it's not-ah-!"

You scream in surprise and slight fear as you're suddenly lifted onto a broad, scarred chest. Your thighs are on either side of it, and  tense up when you feel the vibrations of a deep, raspy chuckle, and you fight the urge to thread your shaky fingers in ash blonde hair.

"Bakugou, put me down."

You try to keep your voice leveled but he picks up on the tremble, big, warm hands reaching up to grab at the fat of your hips, lifting you up further onto his chest.

"That wouldn't be fun now would it Princess?"

You gasp, glancing down at how your cunt is inches away from his mouth, drool spilling around the corners as he struggles to keep his eyes on yours.

“Seriously, y-you gotta…” your voice wavers as you meekly push at his drenched hair, momentarily losing your train of thought when he’s tongue lolls out, sticky with saliva and long. “What if Kiri sees us?”

“If ya keep quiet, he won’t.” The fleeting look of hunger and a nip on your thigh is all the warning you get. 

Bakugou guns for your cunt before you can answer and you act like he shocked you by the way you lurch forward, jaw slanted, clinging to his curved horns, entire body shivering from the firm laps on your mound. Even with the bottom half of the swimsuit on, you could still feel every lick in pin point detail, every nudge of his hot muscles between your folds, just barely pressing into your hole and tongue flicking over your clit. Bakugou can feel it too- the way you're throbbing on his tongue, can even taste the mix of his drool and your arousal seeping through quicker then he was lapping. It drove him wild.

He groans, eyes a little crossed to watch his handy work, hoists you higher and shakes his head further between your legs and your eyes roll back when he starts sucking on your entire pussy. Too hard for you to keep quiet. Too hard for the slurps not to sound exactly like what it looks like. 

“B-Bakugou, it’s too much!” You pant, quick and shallow, yet use your weak grip on his horns to hump his face desperately. “I think I’m g-gonna… gonna…!”

He growls, literally growls like the beast he is, and you almost do cum just by his fiery look up at you with a mouthful of your twitching cunny, unlatching with a wet pop that has sticky strings of your slick smacking on his chin. 

“Take it off.” He demands, words coming out muffled because he’s already back on your cunt. “Wanna taste you cummin’ in my mouth. C’mon, Princess. Lemme drink you up, baby.”

A shaky hand slips between the two of you, pulling your bathing suit to the side, and the next moment you’re squealing to the heavens above when Bakugou curled his tongue into you, spreading your walls apart on his tongue. His eyes flickered closed with a deep moan at the sensation of you spasming around him, juices nearly flooded into his mouth, but he gulps it down greedily, Adam’s apple bobbing and cheeks hollowing. 

You have no idea how long you stayed arched in his mouth riding out your orgasm, unable to tell if you were seeing clouds or if your vision really went that blurry. For one last time, Bakugou shook his head on your cunt and pulled back with a “puah!”, hot huffs of his breaths panting on your drenched up sex. God, you tasted better than you smelled. Bakugou would live between your thighs if he could, make you moan and squeal like you did, make you flush and look completely fucked out, so pretty as you stare down at him with lidded, hazy eyes, plump lips parted to catch your breath, gentle fingers raking his hair and the base of his horns that sent shivers down his spine. 

He’d have you forever if he could. If only you weren’t promised to-

“Bakugou, you drowned or something? Where are you, man?” Kirishima’s voice comes from behind some boulders a small distance away from where the two of you are and your heart skyrockets to your throat, the sudden tightness in your gut clenching all of you up in dread. Bakugou on the other hand just slid you down into the water, trying to keep any splashing sounds to a minimum, though both of you had to swallow back a sound when you brushed over his bulge on the way down. 

Bakugou swims by you in time to Kiri finally rounding the rocks, brows creased and a little pout on his lips, and you relaxed a bit when you realized he was upset over swimming alone all this time. His eyes flick from Bakugou to you, pout disappearing as he perked up a bit in surprise.

 “(Y/N), when did you get into the water?”

You open your mouth but don't get a word out. “Came in lookin’ f’us.” Bakugou says nonchalantly, glances over his shoulder to you and you don’t miss the heat of his stare bouncing up your form for a hot second. “Clearly worried over nothin’.”

Oh, this bastard…

Kirishima hums as he swims your way, gives you his million dollar sweet smile with a gentle cup of your cheeks. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Your bottom lip puckers in a pout even though you’re already long since mad, specially with his thumb brushing drawing circles on your cheek. “Just warm me next time. Thought you idiots drowned yourselves…”

“Sorry sorry.” He laughs and pecks you a few times all over your face, until he’s kissing you on the lips, a kiss that goes on longer than expected as he slots his mouth with yours and moves his lips with passion and adoration. Your mind gets fuzzy, consumed by Kiri’s kiss and body still reeling from your moment with Bakugou, your thighs clenching underwater because your insides craved for more. 

When Kirishima pulls away, you catch a fleeting glance over to Bakugou, a heavy and solemn look on his face, conflict in his eyes before he turns away too late once he caught you staring and it all comes rushing down on you- the clear weight of guilt on your shoulders. The worst part is that you don’t know what it’s aimed at- for going behind Kirishima’s back like this? Or for making Bakugou see you with someone else while he gets scraps of affection?

You tell Kirishima that you’re alright when he asks if something is wrong, then go back to growing when he turns to resume wrestling his friend. 

Way to keep your emotions in check, huh?

The rest of the morning goes by fast, the guys wolfing down their sandwiches and still being hungry, Kirishima offering to run into town quickly and grab some more food.

You agree, standing up to go with him but being surprised when he pushes you back down, a look you can't place in his eyes as his own flicker to Bakugou, who's uprooting weeds next to you.

"Stay here, 'kay?"

You nod, dazed, and watch him disappear into the bushes, stealing a glance to Bakugou. 

"Bakugou…"

"M'sorry."

You tilt your head at him, but he won't meet your eyes, a scowl on his face as heat creeps up his neck. 

"I said I'm fuckin' sorrry. I went too far. You belong to Kiri, it's not m'place to-mmpf!"

You cut him off with a searing kiss, sliding yourself in his lap and grabbing his hair, making him stutter out a moan into your mouth, big hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto his abs, grinding you against him. 

You furrow your brows, the feeling of his abs rubbing against your puffy clit feels heavenly but you wanna touch him. You felt him when you were in the water earlier, throbbing and pulsing against you. You wanted him in your mouth.

He snarls against you, demanding attention back on him as he nips at your bottom lip before sliding his tongue against yours, panting heavily as his hands flex against your hips. You try to slide down a little more, moving your hands to rest on his meaty pecs and getting distracted by his puffy nipples.

They were so plump and flushed, they looked so sensitive it probably fucking hurt. You pull away from his mouth with a whine, trying not to smile when he chases your lips.

"You sure about this, Princess? If Kiri finds out he'll be-fuck, baby, Whaddya'doin?"

You don't answer, just give him a look under your lashes as you suckle on his nipple, eyes closing in bliss as the smell of him envelops you, fresh and crisp from the water but still musky and smoky. 

You scrape your teeth against him gently, then lick over the reddened area and moan as you suck once again.

You notice he had gone almost deathly still, and you look up at him only to almost cream yourself at the sight.

His eyes were rolled back in his head, fist in his mouth and drool spilling around the corners, dribbling down his flushed face and neck. He was trying so hard not to moan, cause he knew if he made a sound it would be loud enough for the whole Mushroom kingdom to hear.

He fucking loved getting his nipples played with, but virtually no one knew and he tried to play it off but fuck, you had him melting. 

"Yhew don' like it?"

Your words are muffled around his tit, saliva slowly trailing down his chest and forming a puddle in the divets of his abs.

"I-fuck, cut it out brat."

He tries to sound authoritative, but his voice is whiny, and you can already feel the bruises he's pressing into your hips. You hum, leaning back to look at his flushed chest, earning yourself a sigh of relief-quickly turning into a choked whimper when you switch to the other nipple, using one of your hands to tweak and pinch one while the other hand threads into his hair, grazing the sensitive base of his horns and knocking his eyes back, mouth dropping open and hands coming up to silence himself, allowing you to try and shimmy your way down onto his lap.

His unoccupied hand grips your hip even tighter, trying to keep you up and away from his cock.

"Bakugou-! Wan' yer cock"

You slur, grinding your hips onto his stomach, covered clit rubbing against his bushy pubes.

"You couldn't handle it sweetheart. We shouldn't even be doing this."

You roll your eyes, popping off his nipple and withdrawing your hands from him, reaching down to pry his hand off of your hip.

"Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot handle? You don't know what-oh."

You're cut off when he drops you down, cock sliding through your folds even over the bathing suit, so big and veiny you could feel every pulse and twitch through your bottoms.

You immediately push your swimsuit to the side, rubbing your slit up and down his dick, clit getting caught on various ridges and occasionally twitching when a throbbing vein rubbed against it. You couldn't keep your sounds down even if you wanted to, leaning forward to moan into Bakugou's ear, feeling a shudder rip through his spine.

You were making his mind foggy, he couldn't stop his hips from rutting up, knot starting to swell even though he tried to hold it back. He couldn't do this right now, even getting this far dangerous, he was way too close to his rut and couldn't risk getting you pregnant, no matter how much that thought made his head spin. Fuck, he couldn't stop thinking of you slamming those perfect fucking hips down onto his knot as you begged him to give you his kids, pleaded with him to make you a mommy-shit

His head falls forward and sharp teeth dig into your shoulder, a snarl vibrating your body before your thighs, pussy and stomach are drenched with thick cum. He can't stop, hips jerking and thighs shaking as he roars into your skin, knot still swollen and sensitive but the burning need inside of him is satiated for now. 

Before he can even lift his head up to say something, he catches a whiff of arousal, and strangely enough it isn't yours. It smells more woodsy, intense with a sweet musk, somewhat...manly?

Oh fuck.

Kirishima.

Bakugou scrambles to get up, looking at you in horror and then looking over to the trees, catching a glimpse of dark red eyes before they disappear behind a nearby tree.

"Clean yourself off in the water, Kiri will be back soon."

You stare dreamily up at him, confused as to why he looks so uneasy all of a sudden but obeying nonetheless, standing on wobbly legs and feeling dense and gooey cum drip down your legs in long streaks, a nagging feeling in the back of your fuzzy mind telling you how much of a waste it was that none of it was inside you. You make your way back to the water, unaware of two sets of red locked onto you.

[pvrpleblccd]

Promise.

pairing : shuntaro chishiya x f reader

tw : angst, unresolved grief, death, mentions of death, blood, violence (beating up someone), chishiya being violent

a/n : this is my first post- cndovn- but i am currently having a massive crush on this man right here <3 ALSO CHISHIYA GIVES ME MASSIVE KENMA VIBES (im sorry for the typos, i wrote this at 4 am-)

-

There he was again, sitting at the edge of the rooftop of the Beach, hoods on and hands in his white Nike zip up sweater, well, it was given to him. He looked down to see all of the horny animals dancing and living their life as if it was their last day. Chishiya sighed, ‘Everyone looks like their all about to die, as always.’

It was a beautiful day in this cruel country. But it’s just like any other day, people will die tonight, either because their visa will expire or die during a game. Dying in a game, probably the worst death here. Chishiya sighed again and took a deep breath, trying to erase all negativity going through his head. Though, there’s one thing that he can’t get out of his head.

“Hey, Chishiya.”

Chihsiya whipped his head to where he heard the voice. He was about to call her name, but he only saw Kuina at the door of the rooftop entrance, looking at Chishiya with a confused look. ‘Ah... I’m still hearing her voice, I must be crazy.’

“An told me you guys had a meeting, I’m just here to rely the message to you.”

The blonde male nodded and stood up, making his way to where Kuina was. No words were exchanged between the both of them, though Kuina noticed the slight mood change the male had every now and then. There are times where he’s cocky, would always slide comment when he had the chance, had his guard up, and times where he just became more reserved than ever and was cold and gloomy.

Kuina noticed, but never dared prying on it, not wanting to get on the intelligent man bad side.

Chishiya on the other side, he zipped up the white hoodie he loved very much. He entered the meeting room and sat at his place, like always, though he kept a pokerface while hugging the hoodie he was wearing. He felt several pair of eyes on him, not on him, but the zip up he was wearing. No one dared to say anything, though Niragi wasn’t having it.

“Chishiya. Were you really obligated to wear that zip up when we’re in a meeting?!”

Niragi shouted from his place, gripping hard the rifle he had in his hand. No one budge or said anything, even Hatter looked at Chishiya, both with envy and anger in his eyes.

“It was given to me. Why whouldn’t I wear it? If you’re thinking that we should share it, you, out of everyone in this room, that I don’t share what I own. And plus, if we shared it, you’d only get blood on it and dirty it, y/n managed to keep it white and as clean as possible. I won’t let your stupidity ruin it.”

“You wouldn’t know what y/n would have wanted!” Niragi stood up and pointed his rifle at the blonde male.

“I knew y/n longer than you.”

“We were still close!”

“To someone like you? I don’t think so, you’re a complete psycho, Niragi.”

“Give it a break! We’re all mourning Chishiya, espicially An! So what the hell do you mean, y/n-”

“Y/n is dead.” Last Boss said while looking at the arguing males.

The room was even more quiet than it ever was, not only with the statement, but for the bald tattooed male to speak up and empathized the dead made them slightly uncomfortable. With no one saying a thing for a minute or two, Mira stood up and talked about the card they were able to collect and that they haven’t gotten news ones for a while. An talked about the medical supplies and that she was running out from it, Hatter asked Aguni and his Militants to accompany An for a short run to grab all supplies they can gather.

She was the first one to leave, the meeting room which was understandable. When no one said anything, Hatter talked about adding a new rule. Rule number three, death to traitors.

Soon after, the meeting was done.

The blonde male made his way to his room, opening the door he saw a familiar figure sitting on his bed, when he blinked the figure was gone. Chishiya closed his room door and laid on his bed, looking at the ceiling. He never felt so confused and empty in his entire life. He never wanted to deal with anyone’s emotions or feelings, let alone his. But upon on thinking and thinking, he came to a conclusion he now only realized.

How much he loved y/n.

“Damn it. This hurts... This sucks.”

Too tired and exhausted to think, Chishiya closed his eyes and embraced the darkness that surrounded him.

“Chishiya?” A voice called out.

The blonde male turned his head, seeing a petite figure looking at him as if he was a ghost. He looked at her from head to toe and his eyes grew wide, he instantly got up and hugged the petite figure.

“Y/n?” He said in a weak voice.

The petite figure sighed in relief and hugged the male back, while letting out a small sob. They were currently in an abandonned mall, gathering food and necessities to get through the night. Y/n came back with a ton of canned food and water, while Chishiya came back with the others things they needed, such as flashlights and batteries and other things.

The both of them were catching up upon missed times and Chishiya kept eyeing on how she was dressed, grey sweatpants with a nike zip up and what looked like a swimsuit top, and the pink locker bracelet around y/n wrist. The numbers 009 was on the bracelet and the girl knew he was looking at it.

“What’s the most recent game you completed?” The petite girl asked.

“Six of diamonds, how about you?” Chishiya said, eating the canned peach. He didn’t noticed the slight spark in y/n’s eyes, but she smiled.

“Nine of hearts.” Y/n said and took a bite of her food.

A comfortable and peaceful silence was set between the two until the girl broke it.

“I want to take you somewhere.”

~

“Hatter, I want him to be part of the executives.”

Y/n said right after they all welcomed her back. All of them looked at her with confused and looked at Chishiya then back at y/n. The girl only smiled and put all of cards she collected on the table. Chishiya couldn’t believe the amount of cards she had in her possession, there was 14 cards in total.

“Chishiya cleared a diamonds game and is the lone survivor, I highly believe that his skills can be very useful to us. Also, I have known him before entering the Borderland. He is like a precious gem, full of hidden talents!”

She said while putting her hands in her grey sweatpants.

The blonde male was taken aback by the sudden praise, but dind’t show it. The others turned their attention to Chishiya, hearing the praise from y/n made them have a base opinion on Chishiya, he was smart and must not be harmed. Hatter started to explain the two rules to Chishiya and handed him a blue locker bracelet with the number 011 on it.

“Enjoy the Beach!”

~

After Chishiya settled in the Beach for a couple of weeks, he and y/n grew closer than they ever were before. The two of them became inseparable.

During one night, Chishiya and y/n were hanging out in the lobby, they were part of the first teams that finished early. Chishiya lost his other hoodie, blood was splattered on it, due to a player clung onto him begging him to help him and his collar went off.

In short words, he was currently shirtless. Y/n trying her best not to look, couldn’t help, but take a peek, thought the blonde male caught her.

“Like what you see?”

He said with a grin plastered on his face. Out of embarrassment, she took off her white Nike zip up and handed it to Chishiya, who watched her with an amused expression.

“H-here...! It’s yours now..!” She said and sprinted to elsewhere.

Chishiya sat there smiling at himself and decied to put the zip up on. He got up from his place and went off to find y/n. A part of him starting to worry, since it’s been an hour and he hasn’t found the petite girl yet. He passed the lobby at least three or four times, that’s when he started asking around.

With no one knowing where the girl was, he even asked Niragi, he too was worried so they both went on their sides to find her. Chishiya went outside and started to walk around the perimeter until he heard an oh so familiar voice coming form the sketchy alleyway.

“Were you hiding the cards from Hatter?”

“So what if I was?! I had to watch my friends die in front of me to be able to get this card! I’m not giving it to some cult leader or whatever he is!”

Chishiya rushed to the voices and saw one of the new militants holding three cards in his left hands and a gun in this right. Y/n tried to reason with the boy, but it only seemed to boil his blood even more, to the point he raised his gun. Chishiya ran to y/n side and hid her behind him, y/n on the other side was surprised.

“Put the gun down... You’re pointing it at the most important person apart from Hatter.” Chishiya tried calm the boy down, but didn’t work.

“Y/n... You remember Kirika? She was close to you right? Did you know that she gave her life up so that I can survive the game? Her last words were, ‘Tell y/n, thank you... I love you Aki-kun.’ She gave her life for me because she loved me!”

Aki broke down crying, falling on his knees and letting out pained screams. Y/n came forward tears falling down her cheek and approached Aki and gave him a hug. She careful put the gun down and caressed the top of Aki’s head.

“Kirika was a wonderful person, Aki, she was-“

Y/n sentence was cut abruptly and Chishiya took a step wondering why y/n suddenly stopped talking, he took another stop forward, his eyes widening seeing Aki’s hands was covered in blood and held a knife. He dropped the knife and moved his hand to grab the gun next to him.

“You’re all Hatter’s soldier. We have to end this, I have to end it.”

Aki grabbed the gun and slowly got up, hair covering his eyes. While Chishiya looked at how y/n’s body fell to the side and seeing a dark substance staining her grey sweatpants. A small pool of her own blood was starting to form underneath her.

Chishiya looked at Aki who was still mumbling things, but he saw red. The blonde grabbed the closest thing to him, which was a metal pipe, and ran towards Aki, hitting him with it, unable to stop himself.

Chishiya’s blood was boiling, he never felt so angered in his entire life. He kept on swining the pipe, hitting a part of Aki’s body every time. His vision was red, he couldn’t even hear the screams of his victim. What brought him back was Aguni taking off the metal pipe off of his hands. Chishiya’s face was unrecognizable, it was full of hatred, sadness, anger and disgust. Aguni never saw such expression on the male’s face before, he always looked so calm and preserved.

Something caught Chishiya off guard when he looked at Aguni. His eyes were red, as if he was holding himself back not to cry, that’s when he remembered y/n. He turned around to see An trying to stop the bleeding from y/n’s wound, but the blood was coming out and went through all of the amount of cloth that was put on it.

The blonde male rushed towards y/n’s side caressed her face while shaking his head. Tears fell on the girl’s cheek while Chishiya was telling y/n to stay with him. He soon looked at An and she was trying everything she could, all of the sudden, a small and tired voice caught his attention.

“S...shuntaro...? Ri-chan..?”

The blonde male whipped his head to look at y/n. She was smiling. Why was she smiling? She was dying, but she was still smiling. Chishiya tried to understand her, but couldn’t.

“S-spending my... last moments.. with the ones I love.. Shun... taro... I’m sorry... but pro..mise me... you’ll live, okay?”

“W..why are you saying sorry.. No. We both survive okay? Look... An... An will take care of you okay?”

Y/n turned weakly looked over the forsenic, who was doing her best to keep the petite girl alive. They made an eye contact, y/n let out a pained sigh while An shook her head. Y/n was trying to stay strong until the very end.

“Ri..chan... Thank you for everything... Take care... Big sis...”

At this point, An was crying too and shouted for other people to come help them. Y/n placed her bloodied hand on Chishiya’s cheek, wiping his tears away, he held her hand as she caressed him. She was so warm, he never knew she was this warm before. He didn’t wanted her to leave.

Just not yet.

“No.. No, you can’t leave.. Hang on okay y/n..? Help is... help is on the way.”

Y/n shook her head and let all of her tears fall, managing to give Chishiya one final smile.

“Shuntaro... I love you.”

At her words, y/n’s eyes closed and her hand went limp, landing on her body. When the other arrived, all of the executives looked at the scene before them. They were too late. An was crying, still holding on her little sister dead body, telling her to wake up and not to leave her. Chishiya sat there unable to move or say anything.

A pang of guilt hit two executives in particular and they slightly looked at each other and sighed, tears slowly coming in their vision. Aguni was behind them and his fist turned white, knowing y/n was the most important person in the Beach. She was the only one who kept Hatter in the sane side.

Niragi pushed the people aside and dropped his rifle, analyzing the dead girl’s feature. Y/n died with a smile on her face.

“She looks so peaceful.”

Chishiya woke up at the sound of the bell, indicating to gather in the lobby and group up, since the games were about to start. He felt something wet on his side and he looked at his pillow, it was wet. He touched his face and he shook his head, laying on his bed once again.

He cried. He was crying.

He looked at the ceiling and smiled sadly, clutching on his chest at the amount of pain he felt. The memory of her smiling to him was engraved in his mind and he wasn’t going to let it go.

“I never had the chance to tell you that I loved you too... I’m sorry.. I only now realized it..”

He stood up, wiping the tears off of his face, putting his shoes on and went to the lobby. He put his hood on and tucked his hands in the pockets, he analyzed everyone and he nodded to himself.

‘I will keep my promise.’

[peachys-archived-posts]

Spooked

Summary: Injured, Jigen makes his escape to the readers apartment, little does the reader know, she's in for a scare.

Warning: Blood, gunshot wound, mentioned death, slight angst?

My AO3

One of your later nights, watching the news for any sign of your thieving gunman and his crew. Jigen could protect himself nonetheless, but you were still worried, with a world of possibilities out there, anything could have happened.

Your phone lights up on the cushion beside you, the caller ID on the screen making your heart stutter. Fumbling the phone at first, you steady your hand and pick up.

"I'm on my way, I'll be there shortly." Jigen's gruff voice barks at you. "Jigen, wait-"

The phone beeps in your ear, indicating that the call has ended. letting out a frustrated sigh, you drop your phone back down on the cushion.

Jigen would most likely be coming in with some sort of injury, saying that he's hurt. Jigen always did that. Standing, you collected all of the tools you may need and promptly plopped down on the futon. Anxiously your knee bounced, a number of things might have happened, you preferred not think about it though.

Snapped out of your daze, sirens wailed past, the screeching of tires braking hard on pavement moving you to throw open your window and peer out. Your heart thumped lowly in your ears, eyes searching for your boyfriend's hat among the sidewalk, stomach beginning to churn only moments before a door opened behind you.

"Jigen," you addressed him, closing the window and turning your attention to the lanky gunman, who stumbled towards your couch.

"Good to see you too," Jigen groaned. Sitting down finally, he takes his jacket off in the process. You grab it from his hands, resting it on the table beside your medical supplies.

"What happened?" You asked as you leaned down on your knees before him.

Jigen began to unbutton his shirt, the bright red against the baby blue fabric making you grimace.

"Bullet wound. I didn't move in time." Jigen answered bluntly. He laid his head back, mouth agape trying to catch his breath still.

"I'm getting too old for this." He mused. Looking up at him unamused, you spoke. "You're not even in your thirties."

Jigen didn't speak from there, allowing you to work as quickly as you could. You were all but okay during that time, the amount of blood that had to be cleaned up was almost sickening. It worried you that he was losing so much, it might cause him to be put in the hospital. As much as Jigen would have liked to say that he was okay, he knew he was far from, he would only be lying then. Having already lost so much blood, he was beginning to feel dizzy, his breathing becoming rapid.

"Jigen? Are you okay?" Your hand firmly shook his shoulder, snapping him from his daze. Surely he would have passed out if not for you, he didn't want to scare you anyways.

"I'll be fine." Jigen waved off your concern. Laying his head back once more, closing his eyes.

You watched him wearily, looking up as often as your steady working hands would allow, Jigen looked as though he had seen a ghost. He was so pale. You finally finished with everything, so focused on just getting his wound treated, that you never noticed him drift off to sleep. At first you nudged him lightly, calling his name with no response. You waited, allowing enough time for him to have responded.

"Jigen." You said sternly, nudging his shoulder. You waited again, your heart beginning to beat lowly in your ears. The thought of him having died in that time without you noticing, scared you to death. Grabbing his shoulders rather roughly, you shook him.

"Daisuke!" You yelled.

Jigen awoke with a start, his hat falling off, and his hand instinctively reaching for his gun. His eyes scanned the room before they landed on you, your eyes wide and just beginning to water. Confused, Jigen reached forward, grasping your hands and holding them gently.

"What's wrong?" He asked

You sat beside him, removing your hands from his, wiping the tears from your face. Reaching out, you slapped the gunman on the chest, the fear from before now turning into mild anger.

"What was that for?" Jigen whined. You crossed your arms.

"Asshole. I thought you died!" You fussed. Jigen paused, processing what you said, then leaned back against the couch. He flinched lightly, having moved roughly when he first awoke must've strained the wound. Heaving a sigh, he spoke. "Well, I'm okay."

Deciding not to say anything else, you huffed and leaned against his shoulder. After a few minutes he nudged you, asking you to lean forward; you complied. He draped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and laying his head atop of yours. You closed your eyes, from weeks of late nights spent worrying, and little to no sleep, it was starting to catch up to you; That or it was because Jigen was finally home, and okay. Nonetheless you were happy and content right where you were, close to falling asleep against him.

"Are you not going to clean up?" Jigen pondered.

Cracking open your eyes and shutting them again, you shifted against him. "I'll do it in the morning." You responded groggily.

Jigen hummed, knowing that he would have his clothes washed and your supplies cleaned before you woke, and then he would be gone again. As much as he hated to leave you waking up alone, he had a job to do. When the time would allow, he would stay for as long as possible, and maybe once you're ready he'll take you with him; But that was a lifetime away. He would just enjoy this while he could.

You woke the next morning in your bed, the sun shining through the curtains and the sound of shuffling outside your door. Sitting up with a yawn, you took the moment to gather your thoughts and get up. Moving towards your door and stepping out into the hallway, you were greeted by Jigen pulling his previously bloody clothes out of the dryer.

"You're up a bit early. Don't you think so?" He asked as he threw his jacket on the couch and began to pull on his shirt. You shook your head, stepping closer behind him, slipping your hands around his waist you nuzzled into his warm back.

Jigen glanced back at you, a small smile on his face.

"So Daisuke, huh?" He teased lovingly.

Letting go of his waist and moving to see his face clearly, you remembered the events from last night and the scare that followed.

"What? You like that or something?" You mused, settling down on the cushion beside his jacket. You snatched up his jacked and held it close.

He raised a brow at you, grasping at his jacket and trying to tug it away from you, only for you to roll away. "No, I just think it's cute." He admitted. Towering over you from behind in an attempt to grab his jacket, you giggled at his failed attempt.

"C'mon give it up." He urged, tickling at your sides. You wiggled and squirmed underneath Jigen, smiling up at him, your grasp on his jacket still strong.

"Stop!" You squeaked. He prevailed with a smile much like your own. "Not until you give me my jacket." He stated.

Seconds of tickling passed by before you gave up, claiming. "White flag, I give up!"

"Finally," Jigen smiled lightly, taking his jacket from your arms and pulling it on. "About time." He teased you. Sitting up and crossing your arms, you pouted.

"Please stay, just a few more minutes." You begged.

Jigen stopped what he was doing to look at you, his smile dropping and his eyes dimming. Sighing, he knelt down in front of you.

"Y/n, you know I have too. We both don't want me to leave, but I have no choice." He explained.

You avoided his gaze, your bright eyes saddening with the thought of him leaving, again.

"Here," Jigen suddenly said. "Keep this." Placing his hat over your face and pulling it down just below your eyes, he placed a chaste kiss against your lips. He didn't linger there for more than a few seconds, the barking of tires outside requesting his company.

As he pulled away, you lifted the hat from your gaze, stumbling to race him towards the window. Grasping his arm tightly just before he was about to jump onto the fire escape, you pulled him back in. Moving your hand to his cheek, you placed a quick kiss on his lips.

"For good luck." You said.

"C'mon Jigen! Hurry up!" Lupin shouted from the street below.

Jigen hastily turned his head to the window, "I'll be there in just a moment." He yelled. Once he had his attention back on you for the moment being, you gave him a hug.

"Please be safe." You said.

Hugging you back softly, he smiled. "Of course."

"Pops is on his way!" Lupin yelled again.

Letting him go, he slipped out onto the fire escape, jumping into the yellow car below. You leaned out the window, "I love you!" You shouted. You could see him look up at you with a bright smile on his face, and a small wave before they raced off around the corner.

You stepped back into your apartment, closing the window and pulling the hat from your head. It was special to him, it surprised you that he even handed it to you. Thankful, you were glad he trusted you with it. The weeks ahead would be boring, draining, and lonely, but soon enough he would be back; in which you would be able to take him up on the offer of joining him. Until then you would wait for him, like you always did.

The wind brushed through Jigen's hair, and he sank into the seat. It wouldn't be too much longer before he would be coming back for that hat, and hopefully if you agreed, he would be coming back for you too. Either way he would be happy to see you again.

Lupin glanced at his partner, a smile on his face.

"Down bad huh?" Lupin teased. Jigen's peace of mind was shattered, bringing on his usual scowl.

"Don't act like you're not down bad too you womanizer." He fussed.

[you-didnt-see-that-cuming]

Mirror’s Image | Javier Peña x Reader

Summary: Being with Javier feels like paradise. Being fucked against a mirror by Javier feels like euphoria.

Rated: E

Word Count: 2.7k

AO3 Link

Masterlist

A/N: I’ve been on my loving pedro bullshit again so here is some mirror sex with javier peña

When working as a DEA agent in Colombia, there were rarely ever moments that called for celebration. However, the raid based on information that Y/N had spent countless hours and sleepless nights collecting and deciphering was definitely one of those moments. Several tons of cocaine, crates of firearms, and multiple high-ranking and very wanted narcos had been seized with no casualties, along with new information about how Escobar was smuggling things in and out of Colombia. 

Even Carillo, who rarely ever smiled, had seen all the work Y/N had put into organizing the raid and was hiding a grin when he announced a celebratory dinner at a bar down the street from the embassy. Y/N was heading back to the police cruisers for a ride back to the embassy when Javier appeared suddenly at her side, his voice low and his hand sliding into her back pocket. 

“You have no idea how sexy you looked pointing a gun and shouting orders hermosa, I almost took you right then and there,” he whispered, leaning closer so that only she could hear him. Y/N could feel her cheeks heat and a spark tugging deep in her stomach. The two of them had been secretly seeing each other for over a year, not even clueing Murphy in on what they were behind closed doors. 

“Javier! What if someone sees us?” Y/N whispered harshly, although she wished she could lean into him and finally feel his hands on her properly after the long day they had had. His hands were always warm and soft against her skin, a juxtaposition from his perfectly calloused fingertips that would leave marks on her sides for weeks. The thought of him holding her up against the wall, bruising her thighs as he drew orgasm after orgasm from her was enough to make her feel an even more powerful surge of sparks in her abdomen. 

“Don’t worry hermosa, I’ll have you all to myself tonight,” Javier leaned into her neck and lightly bit down on the edge of her earlobe, sending shivers down her spine and intensifying the sparks in her core. Her eyes fluttered shut as Javier pulled away, walking in the opposite direction as if nothing had happened, a confident swagger in his gait. 

Y/N had to bite her lip to keep from moaning, now frustrated and wanting a certain someone between her legs, and it wasn’t until Carillo’s voice startled her out of her thoughts that Y/N took her eyes off of Javier and his immaculate frame. 

“You alright there Y/N? I thought you’d be heading back to get ready for tonight?” Carillo was an intimidating man, his shoulders and chest broad and a no-nonsense sort of look that was plastered on his face at all times. 

“Oh! Yes, um, I was just distracted for a moment, yes I’m heading back right now, I think I’m going to take a shower and get all of this grime off of me,” Y/N chuckled nervously before she rushed into one of the cruisers getting ready to leave for the embassy. She still had a couple hours before she had to arrive at the time Carillo had given everyone, and although Carillo was a stickler for punctuality, Y/N would still have time to unwind in the shower and prepare for the night. After all, if she wanted to spend the night with Javier like he had teased her earlier, she might as well make it worth her while. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N’s shower was the first time that she had been able to fully relax over the past few months. Almost all of her time had been spent pouring over evidence and tracking down witnesses and information, so the steam was a welcome treat for her aching muscles. Y/N stood beneath the rainfall setting of her shower, slowly kneading at the knots in her shoulders. She hadn’t realized just how long it had been since she had done something as indulgent as taking a hot shower for longer than 20 minutes. Her only true indulgence had been Javier’s company whenever they decided to spend the night together. After a long shower that was desperately needed, it didn’t take long to finish getting ready and begin the drive to the bar. 

It wasn’t a long drive, only about 10 minutes, but it gave Y/N the opportunity to listen to the radio and reflect. So much had happened within the two years that she had been working with the DEA in Colombia. The first 10 months or so had been filled with helping Javier and Murphy on cases, all while dealing with dangerous narcos and dodging the flirtatious advances of Javier. 

It wasn’t until Y/N had gotten shot in the stomach on one of their assignments that Javier had realized that the reason why he hadn’t been frequenting the best brothels of Bogota for the past couple months was because of Y/N. Only 4 weeks later, the two had begun secretly seeing each other after work, meeting up at restaurants where no one they knew could run into them. 

But Javier had promised that once Y/N had gotten her big break on a case, they would go together to HR and officially fill out the paperwork stating that they were a couple. Y/N had just gotten her big break on a case. She knew that the raid wouldn’t be the only thing that she would be celebrating that night.

~~~~~~~~~~

After a couple of drinks, everyone seemed to have loosened up and were engaged in loud conversation with one another. Y/N, however, kept glancing over to Javier, who was seated next to her. He always looked attractive, but Y/N could practically feel the sex appeal that was coming off of him in waves. He was wearing a button up with the top few buttons left open, revealing his smooth, tanned chest. She didn’t blame the lingering eyes of other women in the bar, after all, she had been one of them not too long ago. 

So far, they had been careful about any public displays of affection, but after the stunt that Javier had pulled back at the raid, Y/N decided to throw all caution to the wind. Carefully, she placed her hand on his knee under the table. She could feel how he tensed slightly under her touch before relaxing again. Y/N waited a few moments before she began slowly running her fingers up his thigh, taking her time to draw flowing patterns like vines.

It wasn’t until she was only a few inches away from his groin when his hand suddenly seized her wrist. He leaned in close, just as he had done at the raid, but this time there was an edge to his voice, like he was straining to get the words out. 

“What do you think you’re doing hermosa?” his words were almost like a growl with how deep his voice had gotten. 

Y/N blinked innocently at him, an expression that did not match what she was attempting to do with her hands. 

“What do you mean, Javi?” a smile was starting to spread across her face at Javier’s raised eyebrow. His grip tightened slightly around her wrist before he released her, standing up abruptly. Pulling an almost empty pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he stalked off towards the back door of the bar, presumably to smoke in the back alley. 

Y/N had certainly gotten a reaction from him, he was always so… responsive beneath her touch. She would pay for it later though, a thought that had her mouth watering and her thighs clenching together. Recalling the memory of his face between her thighs or her front pressed against the balcony window as he pounded into her from behind, teasing her and forcing her over the edge more times than she could count was enough to make her desperate for his touch. 

Y/N waited until the song that was playing over the speakers had begun transitioning into the next before she stood to follow him. Y/N knew where to go, the door to the back alley was in the service hallway next to the bathrooms, a trip she had taken multiple times before for various drunken smoke breaks.

She almost had no time to react when she was suddenly pulled into one of the bathrooms and pushed up against the door, forcing the air out of her lungs. Javier’s mouth was on her neck within seconds, tracing the line of her jaw and down to her shoulder.

“Querida, you have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he murmured, his lips still tracing her neck. 

“Mmm, why don’t you show me, mi amor?

Javier’s lips were on hers within seconds, his hands roaming across her body like he couldn’t get enough of her touch and the feeling of her skin beneath his fingertips. 

Y/N couldn’t help but moan, Javier tasted of his usual whiskey and cigarettes, a combination that was always intoxicating to her. He wasted no time in beginning to unbutton the buttons of her blouse, trying to rid her of as much clothing as possible so that he could touch more of her. 

Their kiss quickly became frenzied, both of them chasing a high that only the other could give. Within moments, Javier’s hands were on Y/N’s waist, turning her around and pressing her up against the mirror covered wall.

“Look at how perfect you look for me querida, looking like a fucking angel for me,” Javier’s voice was deep and raspy as he mouthed kisses over her neck, slowly and with purpose.

Y/N used her arms to brace herself against the mirror, looking at her reflection through her lashes. She looked absolutely wrecked, her hair was a mess, lips puffy, and the heaving of her chest from her panting was on full display. Javier stood behind her, giving open mouth kisses to her neck as his large hands traveled up her abdomen, squeezing one of her breasts in his hand. 

“Look at how beautiful you look for me, hermosa,” his voice now a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. 

“Javi, please! Do something, I- I need you to touch me,” Y/N was pliable beneath his touch, she could feel his cock gliding over her folds, teasing her as she arched her back. 

Without warning, Javier thrust forward, sheathing himself within her in one, swift movement, forcing a gasp from her lips. He stilled for only a moment before setting a punishing pace. Each thrust drove deeper and harder into Y/N, slowly pulling her apart and driving all rationale from her. 

Y/N moaned as she watched their reflection in the mirror, her breasts bouncing with every thrust, the glimpse of Javier’s curls from behind her shoulder, the indentations of her waist where his fingers held her, and the way his cock looked every time he entered her. All of it made her stomach spark in arousal. 

With one particularly hard thrust, Y/N let out a cry, her arms giving out and her body pressing up against the cold mirror. She could see the condensation building from their gasping moans and the heat of their bodies. 

“Oh my god, Javier, r-right there, fuck-” a broken moan escaped her lips as he continued fucking into her, his fingers coming to grasp her thigh roughly.

“You like that princess? You like how I fuck you?” Javier growled, his hand pressing even deeper into the flesh of her thighs and waist.

“Yes, oh my god, yes!” Y/N’s moans echoed slightly off of the tiled walls. “God you feel so good, don’t stop Javi,”

“Always look like a fucking vision on my cock, don’t you? Always feel so fucking good for me, because you are all mine,” he said, biting down on her shoulder. A thin sheen of sweat was layered over Javier’s beautiful, tanned, olive skin, emphasizing the flexing of his muscles with every movement.

With his right hand, Javier threaded his fingers through her hair, grasping it in a vice-like hold at the back of her head, and roughly pulled her up so that they made eye contact through the mirror, Y/N’s mouth falling open in arousal at his actions. 

“Look at how gorgeous you look for me, coming apart on my cock,” Javi had a smirk on his face, like he knew that she was completely at his mercy. “You like it when I fuck you like this? In the bathroom while everyone thinks you’re out smoking?”

Y/N couldn’t even attempt to answer properly, her mind too clouded with euphoria and the building of her orgasm, each rigorous thrust pushing her further over the edge. 

“Come on, answer me amado, you like being fucked like this?” Javier’s brought his hand down in a firm slap to Y/N’s ass, drawing a shocked yelp from her lips. 

“Yes! Yes, I love it Javi, please I- I’m going to cum, don’t stop!”

It only took a few more thrusts before Javier’s hips began stuttering and losing their steady rhythm.

“Where do you want me querida?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper in her ear.

“Inside, please I want you inside me Javi,” her voice was a breathy moan, a sound which always drove Javier over the edge. 

Y/N’s orgasm washed over her, her vision temporarily going white from the euphoria she was experiencing. Only moments later, Javier’s low moan registered next to her ear as he came, filling her up with his cum. 

Javier was still pressed to Y/N’s back, both of them panting as they tried to catch their breaths.

“You always look so beautiful after I fuck you, mi alma, I swear its like you were sculpted by the gods,” Javier mumbled as he pressed gentle kisses to her shoulder, just like he always did after he made her fall apart beneath his touch. Y/N loved this Javi, this was the Javi who woke up early on the weekends to go to the farmers market to get fresh fruit for her, the Javi who danced slowly with her in his living room to his old vinyls, the Javi who no one else but she got to see. 

“Mmm, you always take such good care of me, amado,” Y/N was met with a soft grunt as Javier wrapped his arms around her midsection, pulling her even closer to his body. 

“I’m going to show you just how well I can take care of you tonight, after all, you deserve to be worshipped,” he said as he continued pressing kisses to wherever he could reach. Javier had always been soft and gentle after sex, after years of meaningless sex with informants and prostitutes, he craved the caring touch he only got when he was with Y/N. 

A comfortable silence passed between them before Javier slowly pulled out, his cum slowly beginning to drip down Y/N’s thighs. Y/N barely registered that Javier had taken a damp paper towel and was cleaning up the mess he had left inside her. 

Y/N turned, leaning back against the mirror to watch Javier as he began getting redressed. Only a moment later, he began redressing Y/N, tenderly moving her body to put on her blouse and skirt. 

Y/N hummed, her hand coming up to caress Javier’s cheek lovingly.

“See? Like I said, always taking such good care of me,”

A longing look crossed over Javier’s eyes before he took her face in his hands, pulling her into a slow, passionate kiss. When they finally parted from their sweet embrace, Javier rested his forehead against hers, letting his eyes flutter closed in content and happiness.

“Te amo, mi alma,”

“Te amo, Javier,”

[amiedala]

Something More (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 1: INTO THE STARS

Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)

Warnings: light descriptions of violence

Summary: Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.

Or, a slow burn love story across the stars featuring you, Din, and your little green baby. With love, angst, lust, and everything in between following you across the galaxy.*this deviates from canon for the most part, the plot begins at the very end of season 1 and will deviate for about half of season 2! there is LOTS planned for this (i already have 19k words written & will be posting regularly) so i hope you all enjoy!! <3 muah*

this is 1000000% completely inspired by the incredible behemoth SUPREME Mandalorian fic Rough Day by our lord & savior @no-droids but it will have its entire own plot & more of a slowburn in both love & smut, specifically for suffering long haul romance lovers like myself!

i already have 19k words written & will be ATTEMPTING to post updates regularly (and if i get excited about getting new chapters up, they might come early. i'm gonna try to post Saturday evenings every week, extenuating circumstances notwithstanding <3

hope you enjoy!!! more to come VERY SOON!!!

Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.

You met him on Nevarro. You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were supposed to be back in the Mid Rim by that point, long gone from your last mission gone sour. Your ship had broken down and you narrowly escaped a crash landing, and you’d hiked for hours through the unyielding lava fields for the closest town, with nothing but a handful of credits and the clothes on your back. Somehow, miraculously, you were able to grab the last of your water and your mother’s necklace from where it was hanging on the dashboard before the magma had bubbled up and claimed the better half of the old X-wing before you could go back in for more.

“Dank ferrik,” you seethed, and the curse felt alien under your tongue. There was no one out here to hear it but yourself, the lava, and the sulfuric air, anyways, so you grumbled out a few more before the ship fully sank into the magma in front of you.

The ship itself wasn’t a big loss—you’d only gotten it because it was the cheapest after you lost your own to that smuggler, but being stranded on a planet that was so aggressive towards any sort of survival wasn’t the best circumstance in the galaxy. But here you were, stuck, unmoored, anchorless, on a planet not known for anything except its rivers of lava and a bounty hunters’ guild you’d heard about and tried your best to stay away from. That town was the only landmark you had, though, so you begrudgingly trekked across Nevarro’s molten surface in search for any form of civilization.

The sky had started to slip off into darkness, and the small flecks of the other Outer Rim planets glistened lightyears away from where you were hiking when you stumbled over something and nearly fell into what you assumed was a dormant vat of lava. It was only when you scrambled away from the hot pocket of ground that you realized it was a stormtrooper helmet. A stormtrooper helmet with a head still in it. You gasped and skittered away, pushing off the heels of your hands to get upward as fast as you can, not even registering the heat eating through the skin of your palms. You didn’t have a weapon—the old blaster you’d carried for the last few years had been eaten up with the X-Wing—and as your eyes adjusted to a collection of white armor and bodies on the ground, you kicked yourself from not prioritizing the gun over getting out unscathed.

You didn’t scare easy. You grew up on a slowly abandoned Rebel base back on Yavin, and even after your parents’ deaths, you were surrounded by a legion of people who took care of you and taught you how to fight. Really, you were good at getting out of sticky situations that looked too dire to survive—take the crash landing an hour back for example—but you had a giant blind spot of earnestness to believe the people you went into business with were being sincere. That’s how the ship had crashed in the first place, you exchanged a repair of your original starship with providing Alderaanian liquor to a smuggler and his droid back on Dantooine who had both cut and run with it before fully repairing the vitally broken control panel. It was a rookie mistake, which you definitely weren’t, but he had just seemed so earnest in his need for the alcohol, and your fatal flaw was that you always trusted people who needed help. Even to your own detriment.

It had been your downfall back home, and at least twice when you were adventuring through the Outer Rim, and when you narrowly escaped a Deveronian when you had first started out on your own, because you were too close to a scumbag in friend’s clothing who fumbled the bag and left you for dead. He even stole your ship, then, and you had to make a series of sordid deals to get off Polis Massa, let alone find a place where you could crash safely for weeks before you could work up enough credits to get the X-Wing, which was, quite ceremoniously, dead now.

You shivered with the realization that you might be in danger, too. There were so many bodies scattered across this ridge and the next, and a handful of crashed TIE fighters. The sight of them didn’t strike fear into you—they never really had, you were raised in the Alliance and you could outfly the Empire since you were six years old—but they made you feel uneasy. Nevarro didn’t have a Rebel base, and you had never met someone in the Alliance who was from the planet. With the obvious show of Imperial affiliation and the bounty hunters’ guild, Nevarro was seedy enough that it kept you on edge as you walked, hopefully towards a town with people who didn’t want anything more from you than an easy job.

It must have been near dawn when you finally made it to the edge of the town. It was at best shot to all hell and at worst absolutely obliterated. Your heart sank. There were more dead suits of white armor scattered across the dirt and sand. There were helmets on pikes that looked far too fresh. Your hand twitched near your thigh where your blaster was usually strapped. All of this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have left the blaster in the ship. If you were really playing the game of regrets, though, you never should have helped the smuggler. You should have paid the fifteen more credits to get the X-Wing fixed on Tatooine instead. You should have stayed on Yavin after your parents died and shouldn’t have been so earnest to make it on your own and—

“Hey.” The voice came from behind you, and you whipped around so fast your hair fell from where the clasp had been hanging on to nothing but a prayer since your crash landing. You shook it away from your face, eyes squinted at the figure that seemed to materialize behind you. “Where are you from, pretty thing?”

“Coruscant,” you lied through your teeth. The name of the planet you’ve been trying to avoid for years burns a hole through your belly.

“You don’t belong in a place like this.” He stepped into the light, and he wasn’t human. You didn’t know what he was, exactly, but his tone made your skin crawl. You held your ground.

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m looking for a mechanic.”

“I’m a mechanic.” Like hell he was. You clenched your jaw, trying to look menacing. The grease and sweat from the hike there was smeared on your face, your pants had gotten ripped while climbing out of the crash. You didn’t like how his eyes fixated hungrily on the flesh of your exposed thigh, and you had to shake the thought away while you walked into a voice much more brazen than your own.

“Do you know how to fix an X-Wing?” You stepped forward, and the Rebel insignia on your necklace glinted in the low light. Around these parts, after the fall of the Empire, you’ve heard Rebels strike fear into the local folk. Suddenly, the guy took a step backward, and you reveled in your menace for a split second before you realized someone was standing behind you.

He didn’t speak again before he took off. You stuttered, the sudden appearance of the figure behind you catching in your chest, and it rose to a cut off yelp when a red blast knocked the one who had hit on you off his feet, spiraling over a stormtrooper body, falling to the rocky floor. Dead. He was dead. You spun, praying that your heart hammering in your chest was just leftover adrenaline and not a signifier of a new threat.

Standing behind you, outfitted entirely in silver reflective armor, was a Mandalorian. “Nevarro doesn’t have mechanics.”

You squinted. You were completely taken aback by his presence, his hulking realness, but suddenly his statement overpowered your revelry. “I find that hard to believe.”

“That X-Wing crashed out there is yours.” It isn’t a question. His voice is deep, a baritone that spreads warmth even blocked by the modulator in his helmet. You���d only heard of Mandalorians in stories, legends, around the campfires growing up. You didn’t expect one to ever materialize in anything other than myth, let alone stand in front of you, electric.

You nod. Did he follow you all the way to town?

“You aren’t looking for a mechanic.” His voice is so sure, so big. Your world spins on its axis, the feeling foreign and familiar all at once. He had spoken three sentences to you, and already, you felt that dizzy, magnetic pull that you tried to convince yourself was there much more often than it was.

“I…” You trail off, staring up at his visor. He seems larger than life, much larger than you, at least, and for some reason, the hugeness is cutting off all of your words before they can fully form. “No. I need a way off this planet, though.”

“Can you fly?”

You balk at his question, annoyed—obviously, you could fly—and then remember the only track record you have in the Mandalorian’s eyes is your ship, crash landed and then immediately swallowed by lava. “I’m a pilot. A runner. I’ve been flying since I was six years old.”

He takes a minute, completely silent. The noise of the scattered stormtrooper bodies around you suddenly seems deafening. You aren’t scared of him. You think. Your heart is still hammering, but it’s nothing like the fear that rushed through you when the alien talked to you a few minutes ago. It’s different—not adrenaline, exactly, and not fear. You place the feeling when it washes over you again, warm and unexpected—Excitement.

“Okay.” He moves, and you startle. You didn’t realize the conversation was over.

“Uh,” you stammer, “Do you… do you need a pilot?”

“No,” he says, over his shoulder. His strides are long. You step forward, almost pulled after him, then stuttered to a stop. “But I might be your only ride out of here.”

“Oh,” you manage, and then follow him. The dim light spreads over the horizon as you walk, stunned into silence by his own, trying to mimic his step, his quiet. It doesn’t happen. You’re clunking along beside him, the noise made even louder by the silence in his gait. “I’m not picky, where we go, you know—I was heading away from the Outer Rim, so I’m in no rush to get back there, but—I mean, I’m thankful that you’re taking me anywhere—”

“I can’t pay you. But you don’t have to pay me, either.”

You blink, feet stuttering to a near stop, buffering before you remember to keep following him. “I’m sorry?”

“You can fly, right?”

You blink, eyes darting up to the back of his helmet. It might just be the modulator, but there’s no air in his voice, no struggle to cross the hard, hot terrain. It’s impressive. “I can, but you thought you didn’t need a pilot—?”

“You were a rebel.” His voice is curt. Quick.

Your eyebrows furrow, looking down at the insignia on your necklace and then back up at him. There’s a dry breeze over the molten moors, and his cape catches in the wind. It flutters. It’s the first sign of something gentle about him. It’s the memory you take with you for months later, savoring it for when he’s leaving you on the ship while he goes and catches his bounties, one by one. You cling to it in the long lapses of time where he doesn’t offer you anything but silence. You’ll hold onto it, a butterfly of a memory, for weeks—until he offers you something softer, something warmer. Something real.

You don’t know that in the moment, though. Right now, he’s asked a question, and you’re struggling to answer it honestly. “I was.”

“You don’t scare easily.”

It’s like he’s putting together these impossible puzzle pieces of your life. How is he guessing this? He’s known you for maybe ten whole minutes. It swells in your chest, a thunderbird of a thing, and you don’t know why.

“I’d like to think so,” you manage, as he tilts his helmet back to search you for your answer. Your breath hitches in your throat at the thought of his eyes on you, and you wonder what color they are. Maker. Where did that come from?

“Good.”

A ship seems to materialize out of nowhere, but it seems more likely that you were so caught up in the mystery of the Mandalorian and keeping your gaze locked on him that his ship was in the periphery of your vision. You follow him, still confused, up the descended gangplank. Sitting in the middle of the ship is a tiny green baby, with eyes ten times the size of its nose, with peach fuzz lazily dusting the top of its head. It’s holding a tiny silver ball in its three-fingered hands, looking up at the Mandalorian with outstretched arms.

You watch, in stunned silence, as the giant hulking silver figure crouches down to pick up the baby, meeting its little coos with soft words right back. It’s as soft as his cape fluttering in the wind, an unexpected, fleeting feeling of warmth. You don’t know what to do with yourself. The warm breeze buffets the small of your back, ruffles your loose hair. You just stand there, entirely enamored with this tiny green baby in the Mandalorian’s arms, speechless.

“You don’t scare easily,” the Mandalorian repeats.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

He holds the baby up to you. “How about now?”

You blink, confused. “Am I supposed to be scared of it?”

“Him.”

You take a tentative step forward, gaze flickering between the two of them, wondering what would have happened if you had crash landed literally anywhere else, at literally any other time. Something big and ceremonious swells somewhere deep in your chest.

“I’m not scared,” you finally say, and when your eyes find his visor again, you hope he knows you mean you’re not scared of either of them. You could be—most people with common sense are struck with fear at the sight of meeting a Mandalorian, especially one associated with such a widespread bounty hunters’ guild—but fear just keeps getting pushed away as the seconds pass. A small voice in the back of your head whispers that this is another mistake of being too trustful, but the larger half of you knows how to handle yourself if you find trouble. Besides, he has a tiny alien kid, and something tells you the Mandalorian wouldn’t put the baby in a situation that he deemed unsafe. As the door zips shut behind you, you step forward into the ship—into the place you’ll eventually make your home—heart still hammering on and on, thrumming as the three of you lift off of Nevarro’s surface and into the stars.

[marsbutterfly]

Skyfall

Summary: When you are hired to kill the most dangerous mafia boss, things get a little complicated.

Wattpad Version! | AO3 Version!

|◁ II ▷|

“This is the end

Hold your breath and count to ten

Feel the Earth move and then

Hear my heart burst again”

7:34pm

The clock on your wrist tics quietly but in the silent room, it nearly sounds like bombs being dropped from above. Not a word is exchanged between you and the man sitting across the room but you know exactly what he wants.

In his hand rests a dark colored suitcase, you can barely tell until the light hits his belt ever so gently but you finally see the gun he’s been carrying.

You take a deep breath, getting up for your seat. The sound of your heels clicking on the floor fills the atmosphere as you walk towards him, the smirk on his lips is undeniable and you don’t understand what he has to be smiling about.

He stands up a second after you and walks in your direction, bumping against you and dropping his suitcase and the papers in his hand. In response, you throw on the floor the suitcase you once held. 

The man apologizes profoundly as you help him collect the papers on the floor. You say over and over that it is ok, while all the curious eyes in the room land on you. As you stand up, you hand him the suitcase you once had in your hand and he nods, thanking you for the help and apologizing one last time.

You begin to make your way back to your car, the smirk on his lips still engraved in your brain as a chill travels down your spine. “Why was he smiling?” You ask yourself not wanting to admit it but you are a bit scared of knowing the answer.

Though once you open the suitcase, you understand why. Inside, rests the pictures and information of your next target, the millionaire leader of an enemy gang. Though you don’t enjoy taking sides, you’ve been paid a large amount of money to take her out, more than you have ever made.

The war between these two gangs has been going on for the longest time and you have killed enough people on both sides to earn a fair amount of enemies, but this time you couldn’t help but feel a sinking hole opening in your heart.

Hanji Zoe has always been the deadliest member of the underground group. Her kill count is even higher than yours, at least 500+ heads under her belt. They say her torture methods surpass even the ones they use in hell.

She’s known as the Devil herself.

“For this is the end

I've drowned and dreamt this moment

So overdue, I owe them

Swept away, I'm stolen”

8:15pm

Your keys unlock the heavy doors of your house and somehow the marble floors feel colder than ever. Your shoes rest in their designated spot by the coat holder and you throw the suitcase on the couch.

Two cups rest on the counter near the bar area inside your home. One of them contains what you assume is whisky, due to the color and the amount of ice in the cup, it has always been her favorite after a work day.

The lipstick marks are fresh meaning she has just now gotten home. Upon paying closer attention, you realize the shower is on and steam is coming out of the bathroom. You think about joining her but ultimately decide to have a drink first, trying to forget about your next target.

Gently, you take two rocks of ice and place them in the clean cup specifically placed out for you. Pouring yourself a single shot of whisky, you walk towards the balcony feeling as the cold air of the night hits your face.

You knew this day would come but you hoped it would take longer. 

Deep in your own thoughts, you don’t realize the water has been turned off in the bathroom and wet footsteps approach your body.

It’s not until her wet arms wrap around your black dress that you realize you are no longer alone. Her face is buried in your back and you can see steam leaving her arms as the hair on her skin stands up.

The tattoo of your initials on her hand still brings butterflies to your stomach. The memory of the night she got it is still one of your favorite moments you spent together, especially since it was after your first date and she told you she knew you were the one.

“I missed you.” She says, placing a kiss on your skin. You can feel as her breasts are pressed against you and a gasp leaves your body.

“I missed you too.” You reply, a disobedient tear rolling down your face as you chug the contents of the cup in your hand.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, placing her hand on your waist as she turns your body around so you can face her. She is a few inches taller, nothing too extreme but enough to make you look up at her gently.

Her thumb brushes the tear on your cheek before rubbing it above your lips. You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to tell her the news you just received.

“You are my next target.” You say and Hanji nods, a sad smirk on her lips.

“Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all together” 

9:00pm

The brush goes through her hair with ease for the first time, as if she took care of the tangles in the shower already knowing what the news you were bringing would be. After shower moments were the ones where Hanji was the most vulnerable.

She would simply close her eyes and appreciate the attention she’s been given as she fades in the echo of your voice. You hum a melody quietly, Hanji’s favorite song in the hopes to bring her any comfort at all.

Your tears drip down your nose onto her scalp as you put her hair in a ponytail, attempting to help her get ready for the party she will be attending in an hour. At the highest floor of the second tallest building in the entire city.

“How are you going to do it?” She asks, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke up in the air while trying to make rings out of it. You giggle, touching her shoulders before sliding your hands down her arms.

You notice the goosebumps rising on her skin and can’t help but smile at how she reacts to your touch. “Must we talk about it?”

“I need to know.” She replies and you nod, sighing heavily while finally agreeing to talk about the elephant in the room.

“I’ll be on the roof of the Paradise building. I am pretty sure they will send someone to watch me do it.” You begin, spraying the bottle of perfume around her and noticing as the drops of liquid fall on her tan skin, masking the smell of the cigarette.

“But they might not.” She says and you shrug your shoulders.

“They might not.” You say quietly.

“I wouldn’t expect any less from this city’s top 1 assassin.” She says, taking your hand in hers and planting a soft kiss on your palm, leaving behind the red mark of her deep colored lipstick.

She stands up, allowing the robe to fall to the floor and reveal her naked body. You can’t look away from the perfect shape of her breasts, the line that goes through her abdomen from a previous surgery and all of her battle scars.

“Make me yours one last time.” You say, pulling your shirt above her head as you expose yourself to her and she nods, a devious smile curling up on her lips.

You see a few old bullet wounds, some healed while others are still healing. Every single one of them tells a story about who she is and how she has lived her life but your favorite story has always been the one of how she lost her eye.

It was three years ago, the day you met. How could you ever forget?

“Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all together

At Skyfall”

Since you were a teenager, you’ve been good at killing. First your shitty parents and every family member who sided with them, including your own brother and sister. Finally being able to control your life, you decided to make a living out of it.

This career put you through college where you earned a chemistry degree, learning how to mix your personal kinds of poison, some of which no one has ever even heard of which makes it hard for the police to find who was responsible for it.

At first, you would go for basic targets: rapists, animal abusers, anyone who dared hurt another soul but word got out of how excellent and quick you were at your job and your number of clients tripled and your name was in everyone’s mouth.

One day, you got a call from a blocked russian number. A smile creeped on your lips as you heard a familiar voice over the phone, Erwin Smith. The man who gave you a chance to grow in this life and made you who you are today, your mentor.

“Y/N, I’m dying.” He says, his voice is faint and you notice his life force is fading away. 

“I can tell.” You reply trying to lighten the mood and he laughs.

“Will you still work for the next boss?” He asks, coughing out a liquid which you could only assume was blood. 

“If that is your dying wish.” You respond and he hums in agreement over the phone, “Then yes.”

Later that week, two men showed up to your house to escort you to Erwin’s funeral. The rain poured over his coffin, hiding away the tears of those who loved him.

Surrounded by at least five men sat a woman in a black coat, her eyes looking in your direction as she took the cigarette to her lips. The tattoos on her leg on display for anyone to see, you could’ve sworn she was silently flirting with you.

And in a moment of weakness, a car drove by shooting up the place completely. Of course they were received with a buffet of bullets as well, but nearly a third of the people around the casket were now dead.

As a bullet makes its way towards you, the brunette with danger in her eyes rushes forward to protect you only to receive the bullet with a glass platter. Needless to say, an uncountable amount of shards found their way into her eyeball.

While she bled in your arms, you tried to make sure she remained awake.

“What’s your name?” You ask and she smiles, bringing your hand towards her lips and licking your thumb with a palpable sexual energy.

“Hanji. Hanji Zoe.” She replied, “The new boss.”

“Skyfall is where we start

A thousand miles and poles apart

Where worlds collide and days are dark

You may have my number, you can take my name

But you'll never have my heart”

10:05pm

Once you are finished redoing Hanji’s hair, she stares at the closet before finally picking out a blood colored suit. No shirt underneath, she places the blazer right above her nipples, only enough to cover them while allowing the rest of her breasts to be exposed.

You on the other hand plan to dress yourself in a completely black outfit hoping to blend into the darkness of the night. Luck was on your side for there were no stars to brighten the sky, allowing you to take complete cover.

As far as you know, nobody is aware of your relationship with Hanji, not even her subordinates. Keeping business away from your private life has always been a priority, even before you committed your first paid killing.

She places a final kiss on your hands and one of your lips, though it does not feel like a goodbye and you sadly accept any kind of comfort you can find.

When her car is out of view, you decide to go up and take a shower by yourself. You wanted to decline this job, to throw everything away: your reputation, the money and simply run away with Hanji to a place where you could live your lives.

But you can’t. Before even knowing who your targets are, you are always made to sign a consent form and if broken, it would cost you your life.

The warm water hits your face and you can still smell Hanji’s strawberry shampoo in the air mixed with the fading smoke of her cigarettes. You begin to remember every shower you spent together, every kiss you shared at the most exquisite places around the world.

Hanji always knew how to make you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Eventually, you can no longer if the water streaming down your face comes from the shower or your tears.

As you finish your shower, you begin to get ready. The black outfit had never been colder and the unsettling feeling at the pit of your stomach still remains. While putting a mask above your face, you look at your rifle.

It has your initials and Hanji’s secretly carved on the side and on the other it has the date you started dating. A good luck charm, as she liked to call it.

Tonight will be a fucking awful night.

“Let the sky fall (let the sky fall)

When it crumbles (when it crumbles)

We will stand tall (we will stand tall)

Face it all together

At Skyfall”

1:53am

Hours have passed since you've been sitting at the top of this building by yourself, looking through the binoculars at the party happening not too far away.  In the end, they decided not to send anyone to watch over your shoulder as you do your job.

The richest and most powerful people in town were all attending and, even though they wore masks, you could still tell exactly who they were. The years of analyzing and recognizing targets from afar has given you the extraordinary ability to identify covered faces.

By the bar, you see her as she rests her arm on the glass top. She looks beautiful. Her whiskey brown eyes match the liquid in her cup as the black mask covers her features. For a second, you could’ve sworn she looked directly at you.

The instructions were clear: at 2am, a single bullet should be shot directly to her head, killing her instantly. So you position your gun, looking through the lense as Hanji disappears in the crowd for a bit before returning to her usual spot.

You sigh, stopping the tears that attempt to cloud your vision. Your finger slowly moves towards the trigger, as if time itself is desperately trying to stop you from killing your loved one, but it doesn’t matter. No one could stop you now.

Counting the seconds, you make sure the shot to her head is clear and you pray she won’t suffer at all. “Goodbye, my love.”

Time nearly stops once you pull the trigger. You watch closely as the bullet goes through her brain and blood splatters across the clear counter causing every person in the room to desperately run for their lives, not knowing they are all safe.

Only one man stands in the room and he raises his glass at you for he is the only one who knows no more shots will be fired. The asshole who hired you to kill the love of your life. Fucking Zeke Yeager.

With every ounce of your body, you decide that killing him isn’t worth it. He deserves to live to suffer in the future.

You bring your body back up, beginning to disassemble your rifle. It takes you less than a minute to be on your way and you can hear as police sirens approach the building in front of you.

“Where you go, I go

What you see, I see

I know I'd never be me

Without the security

Of your loving arms

Keeping me from harm

Put your hand in my hand

And we'll stand”

Finally getting back to your house, you throw the bag containing the gun on the couch before plopping your body right beside it, a long sigh escaping your lips.

Your eyes then notice the packed bags, all ready to leave as soon as possible. The clicking of heels comes from the other side of the house and you smirk, rushing your thumb through your lips.

“I feel bad for the lady you hired to die in your place.” You say, turning around and propping your chin on the back of the couch.

“Would you prefer if I had died in her place?” Hanji asks, rushing her hand through her freshly shaved head in an attempt to get rid of any hairs that still remain attached to her.

“Of course not, love.” You reply, walking towards her before taking the glass of wine from her free hand.

“Hanji Zoe is dead and the witness to it is Zeke Yeager himself.” She says, a devious smile on her lips.

You can’t help but link your mouth with hers, tasting the delightful mixture of alcohols she has had tonight. Her hands travel through your body, exploring every inch of your skin before gently brushing against your inner thigh.

You gasp gently, nearly melting in response to her actions. God knows you want to melt but you don’t have time.

“It’s 4:25am, the plane leaves in 35 minutes so we should go.” She says and you nod.

You grab one of the packed bags plus your rifle and she grabs the rest before extending her hand to you, hoping to walk away from this life with you by her side but not before staging your own kidnapping and death, everything so no one would ever look for either of you.

Once done with arrangements, she smiles. 

“So where are we going to make our new home?” You ask.

“My home is wherever you are.” She replies and you feel your cheeks getting warm before she continues, “But I was planning the Carribeans.” 

“Fuck yes.” Is all you say and she laughs, squeezing your hand as you both say goodbye to the apartment you’ve shared for years. Leaving behind a life of danger to live together in the house of your dreams, far away from all the negativity.

Just you and Hanji. And maybe a few cats and dogs along the way.

“Let the sky fall (let the sky fall)

When it crumbles (when it crumbles)

We will stand tall (we will stand tall)

Face it all together

At Skyfall”

[fullconstellationalt]

You Weren’t My Mission: Ch. 1

Chapter One – A Second Encounter

TW: alcohol, implied violence

Note: Hello! All chapters will have warnings at the beginning of their content and possible triggers. If you find that I miss any triggers, please let me know and I will add them to the chapter warnings as soon as possible. Thank you! <3

Series masterpost

Also available on Wattpad and AO3

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

His eyes were fixed on yours, gaze intense despite the physical distance between you. If the sight of his metal hand hadn’t confirmed that it was him, then his face solidified it. You’d seen this exact glare in your nightmares for years now. Although nearly a decade had passed since the last time you saw him, you had never been able to shake the memory. It was him, and you were sure of it. ･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your thumb swept around the surface your glass, collecting the droplets of condensation that had begun building up. With one final swig you downed the remainder of your gin and tonic, eyeing the entryway on the lookout for any newcomers.

“You all done for the night, y/n?” Vincent wandered over, dish towel in hand, to collect your glass that was now only filled with ice and a slice of lime. He knew your routine by now — you only ever came by for a single drink after work, people-watching as you unwound before heading home to your quiet apartment. While you hadn’t ever told him that last part, he figured that if you had somewhere urgent to be that you wouldn’t be here every night, although he’d never ask.

“I’ll have another, actually,” you declared, voice unsteady as you weren’t sure in your choice. Typically you’d have one drink and leave, occasionally staying around a bit longer to sip on some water if you really didn’t want to go home that night. But the week had been long and it was only Wednesday; you wanted — no, needed that second drink.

“Sure ‘bout that?”

“Yea, I’m gonna hang around a bit longer tonight.” Vincent’s eyebrows raised as he did a slight nod, reaching below the counter for a new glass, to which you let out a playful scoff. “Don’t act so surprised,” you teased, “I mix it up sometimes.” While you rarely talked, you and Vincent had become more comfortable with your banter over the past year or so. Even the most guarded of patrons like you couldn’t avoid small talk with the bartender — especially not if you were a regular.

As you waited for your drink you scanned your surroundings, looking to see if anybody new had come in for a drink. Weeknights tended to be slower, but there were a few couples and groups of friends scattered throughout the room. You and a man no younger than 50 were the only ones seated at the bar, him closer to the entrance while you sat furthest away at the seat you knew had the best view of the place. Almost every night you were in this exact spot, sipping slowly on whatever drink you’d ordered, checking your phone for the occasional text message or work email, and people-watching. It was pretty rare for you to spend more than an hour there in one evening, but tonight it had been nearly an hour and here you were ordering a second drink.

You jumped when Vincent placed the new glass in front of you, your mind focused on the other people scattered throughout the room. He let out a light chuckle as he turned around, walking towards the other side of the bar; he was pretty used to your skittishness by now. Hand wrapped around your new drink, you brought your focus back to your surroundings. A couple seated at a small table to your right engaged in small talk, exchanging pleasantries in-between awkward sips of their drinks. Definitely a first date, you thought. A burst of laughter from a booth further away caught your attention, where a group of men in suits sat meeting for a drink after work. Aside from that, there was little commotion in the bar tonight. While commotion made for fun people-watching, you preferred the gentle hum of casual conversations on slower nights, the occasional clinking of glasses from Vincent’s cleaning or a new table being served.

Realizing a few minutes had passed, you grabbed for your drink and took a sip, eyes skirting over the rim of the glass as you spotted movement in the entryway.

Suddenly, you wished you hadn’t ordered that second drink.

A tall figure entered the bar, shoulders swaying with each step. When he came to a stop you finally took him in, eyes scanning over the black leather jacket that spanned his broad frame and running down to his hands. Dressed in all black, the flesh tone of his hand stood out. Which made the metallic black of his left hand all the more apparent, confirming what you had hoped was just another instance of unnecessary panic.

The brooding figure wasn’t foreign to you.

Your eyes glossed over as you remembered the last time you’d seen him all those years ago. While the nightmares weren’t as frequent and you were able to go days at a time without thinking about it, you were still able to vividly remember the moment. The way his eyes had met yours, menacing and unforgiving as you held back a wail of pain from the pressure of debris pressing on, or into, your torso. The fear that ripped through you when you registered the M4A1 in his tight grip, barrel pointed in your direction. The way you laid there, shaking and ears ringing, wishing that he, whoever he was, would keep moving past you, that he would leave you be. He had done just that, only pausing for a moment to assess your helpless position before lowering the barrel of his gun and trudging onward in his search for his true target.

So many times since then you thought you’d seen him again, only to sigh with relief when you saw the two flesh hands of whoever had startled you.

But this wasn’t one of those moments, and the sight of his metal hand confirmed it. It wasn’t silver like the one in your memory, but there were only so many guys out there with bionic left arms.

You came out of your trance to find that his eyes were fixed on yours, gaze intense despite the physical distance between you. If the sight of his metal hand hadn’t confirmed that it was him, then his face solidified it. You’d seen this exact glare in your nightmares for years now. Although nearly a decade had passed since the last time you saw him, you had never been able to shake the memory. It was him, and you were sure of it.

With a slight roll of his shoulders and a subtle nod, he dropped his gaze to the floor and began his slow descent towards the bar.

The sip of gin and tonic you had taken still sat on your tongue as you finally lowered the glass, letting the liquid slide down your throat and feeling the tingling sensation travel down to your chest. Your breath was shallow as your hands started to shake, to which you began fidgeting with the closest thing in front of you — the paper napkin that had been under your glass. As you ran your fingers along its corners and kept your eyes glued to the bar top, you felt his presence near yours, confirmed by the sound of heavy footsteps that approached.

The scent of fresh balsam and a bit of mint flooded your senses as you noticed him standing to your side, giving you a moment to take in his presence before sliding into the seat to your right. Having kept your eyes trained on the napkin at your fingertips, you subtly glanced over, noting the metal arm that was closest to you. It’s really him, you confirmed. Instead of a reflective silver like the arm you remembered, this one was much darker, a black metal with hints of gold in between the plates. You couldn’t see further up than his wrist, the rest of his arm concealed by the jacket.

It took everything in you to refrain from bouncing your leg against your barstool. Maybe if I stay as still as possible, you thought to yourself, I’ll make it out of here alive. You had no clue what he wanted and it terrified you.

The desire to fidget became all the more intense as you felt him shifting his upper body to face you while in his seat. Your breath hitched when his flesh hand came into view, extended for a greeting in your direction. He let out a low sigh as you shifted your gaze slightly, glancing at his hand before sheepishly making eye contact with the man who had once both threatened and spared your life. You watched as he slightly parted his lips, allowing for a gentle smile to form at the corner of his lips.

“Long time, no see, Miss y/n. I’m James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, and you’re a part of my efforts to make amends.”

Next Chapter (Chapter 2 – Making Amends)

A/N: Thank you for reading the first chapter of this story! I'm currently drafting up what will come next, but am in the end of a semester so it may be a few days until I have something ready to publish. This is my first longer work and I'm looking forward to the journey. Stay tuned for updates, and please let me know if you have any comments or questions!

[gophergal]

So this is the third oneshot I've finished this week (second I've posted here. The other that isn't posted here is already up on Ao3.) Don't expect this often, I just wanted to get some WIPs off my plate and I still have many to finish. This is just a short, sweet ficlet, but may have a companion or sequel later on. Who fucking knows. This is a sort of a collection of short moments with the two of them. No real plot, just fluff.

Home On The Range

Word Count: 2,000+ | Rating: T+ | Michael Myers x Jason Voorhees (Western AU) | M/M

Warnings: Implied Murder, Description of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Failed Hanging Mention, Rushed Ending, Fluff

Samhain plodded along wearily, his rider slumped forward in the saddle as he made his way toward safety. The shootout in town, when the Shape had been driven from its prey, had resulted in Michael being shot thrice, twice in the shoulder, once center mass. He'd fled in a haze of pain and blood loss, mounted his horse, and eventually passed out.

And so that led Samhain to his current situation, following instinct to get he and his master somewhere safe, preferably somewhere with abundant food and water. The stallion stopped for a moment, ears perking up as he caught the sound of whistling coming from the valley below. A tall man, his head covered in a feed sack, was the source. The horse tentatively descended from the hilltop towards the strange man, focused on his joyful whistling.

Hearing the careful clop of hooves behind him, the large man turned, ready to strike with the ax in his hands, which he quickly lowered. Samhain snorted weakly where he stood, far away enough that the man couldn't grab him. Instead, the bag-headed man reached into a pocket on his tattered jacket, and pulled out a half eaten stick of peppermint, holding it out to the stallion who took it, eating greedily. His rough hand pet the horse's black, velvety nose and he hummed reassuringly. The horse's rider did not move, even as the tall man took the reins from his hands and led the horse away from the area.

Trees became more dense as they walked until they came upon a small cabin. Samhain's head perked up as his rider was removed from his back, and he let out a piercing whinny. The man hummed again, reassuring the distressed animal, who slowly returned to a relaxed state. Michael was taken from the horse's back, draped limply in the big man's arms like a doll. He groaned, still unconscious, but alive. After taking the smaller man into the tiny log cabin, the large man returned and removed the tack from the black stallion, running his hand along the sweaty, matted coat that had been beneath, then led the horse to a small stream by the halter, leaving him there to graze and drink the fresh cool water that flowed so freely.

Back in the cabin, Jason studied the man he'd sat on his bed, scratching his beard through the rough burlap of his hood. The dark haired man was covered with a layer of cold sweat, his face twisted in pain, even while asleep. Grabbing a basin of clean water and a rag, Jason set to work undressing the man's torso, looking at the bullet wounds that littered his flesh, nestled alongside other pale scars, some fresher than others. While dabbing the blood crusted injuries, he examined them, determining that the shoulders had been entered and exited cleanly. They would only need liquor poured on them to fight infection. The shot in the abdomen, however, looked more serious, and had no exit wound, all but guaranteeing that the offending lead was lodged within. Jason debated whether he should remove the bullet while the man was unconscious or not, deciding to finish dressing the other two wounds beforehand.

When the alcohol was administered, the man roused with a shout of pain, startling Jason, who in turn fell backward. The man looked around in panic, wearily reaching for his gun, which was no longer on his hip. There was a fire in his eyes, which Jason could now see were mismatched, one black as the horse he rode in on and the other milky white. Rolling off the bed, the man struggled to get to his feet, groaning quietly in agony. Jason approached slowly, as one would a wild animal, which earned him a glare. Disregarding this, he grabbed the man's good arm, careful to help him get seated on the mattress. He did not fight back, but kept scowling weakly, allowing his saviour to do as he pleased. With little fuss, his wounds were bandaged, the pressure of it relieving some of the aching.

Michael fell back onto the cushion, flinching in pain that radiated from his midsection. He inhaled sharply, looking over at the bag headed man who gestured to the leaking wound. He mimed pulling something out, which Michael nodded in response to. Steeling himself in preparation of the pain and biting down on the rolled cloth which was put in his mouth. His eyes screwed shut at the first penetration of the hole, burning pain blinding all his senses as the man's fingers searched for the bullet. It seemed to last forever, and Michael threatened to black out.

His stomach turned as the white hot agony coursed through him, reaching every point on his body. Finally, the man extracted his fingers, and he relaxed slightly, breathing heavily around the fabric gripped tightly in his mouth. When he looked up, the man held the bullet in his bloodied hand. Which he set down beside the basin of water. The pain had subsided enough that Michael could feel the touch of water on his abdomen as the man cleaned his wound again, and finally wrapped it.

“Michael,” he rasped, exhaling sharply and extending a hand to the other man, who said nothing in reply, instead holding his hand after shaking it, and drawing wobbly letters into his palm with a finger. He did this twice, then again, writing on his palm until Michael picked it up: J-A-S-O-N. Michael nodded in recognition, leaning back into the mattress and shutting his eyes. He let out a shaky breath, recalling what had happened in the past week. Then shoving it aside. Yet again, the Shape had led him into danger, just as it always had in search of feeding its insatiable hunger.

A few days passed with Michael resting up and Jason keeping his wounds clean. The two would sit in each other's presence, drinking in the peace. Samhain was well, happy to munch on the green grass of the field nearby. It was nice, but Michael was growing restless. His wounds were beginning to close and hurt far less than they had at first. As soon as he was well enough to ride out again, he'd go after that damned Marshall's head. The thought was delightful and served as his sole motivator for remaining at the cabin. So he told himself, that is.

The other big reason was standing out in the clearing around the back, the muscles of his arms shifting as he chopped firewood. Jason had the strength and stature of no one Michael had ever seen. Even the big bastards he'd get in fights with while swacked on whiskey were puny in comparison, though Jason didn't seem the type to fight drunkards in run down dead-fall saloons. No, he seemed like a good enough man that Michael felt no worry around him. Even if he hadn't seen the man's face, which Michael figured was his right to hide anyway, he could tell in his gut that Jason could be trusted. Michael stirred the pot of stew on the stove as he tried to figure out his plan for when he'd head out.

The more he thought about it, he began to realize that he had no idea where to start looking for Marshall Loomis. In theory, he could just go to the nearest town and start shit, then wait while word spread of his whereabouts, but that just wasn't the way Michael liked to do things. He'd much rather be the hunter, waiting in the shadows for his prey.

Jason walked in, skin still glistening from his hard work outside. It should be time for supper soon, he figured. After all, the sun was hanging low in the sky, ready to set within a couple hours. Jason stopped in the doorway, watching as Michael stood at the stove. Something was nice about watching the smaller man (and that's smaller, mind you, not small. Michael was a large fellow in his own right) tend to their supper.

It was very thoughtful of him, despite how Jason tried to keep him off his feet, lest his wounds reopen. There was also something about the scene that caused warmth to bloom in his chest. He pushed it down. Michael would leave at some point. Jason would be on his own again. He didn't even know why he'd helped the younger man.

A month later, December brought cold, dry weather and Michael sitting in front of the fireplace with Jason, whittling away at a chunk of wood. As he whittled, he made excuses for why he should stay now that his wounds had fully healed, now just marks on his skin where the skin dipped low. He owed it to Jason to repay him for all he'd done in nursing him back to health. Samhain needed time to recuperate. Things to justify his extended stay.

With a glance to his side, he stopped carving for a moment, taking in the picture of Jason, his burlap hood nowhere to be seen. His red hair burned vibrant in the firelight as he mended the hole in a shirt. Michael stopped lying to himself, knowing in his heart that he stayed for his own selfish reasons. Jason was a warm presence. Comforting in a way Michael had never felt.

It was contentment, he supposed it would be called. The closest he'd ever gotten was the come down off an adrenaline high of fighting or the fuzzy, numb stupor he would often find at the bottom of a bottle, but neither of those quite fit the word. It just felt good to be around the red haired man. Michael was good at reading people, a trait that came from many years of playing poker to pay for his needs, but he didn't need any of that to know that Jason felt the same. Michael just couldn't leave him now, he simply had no desire to.

Jason had once showed his face freely to those around him. Back when his mama was alive. He remembers the name calling, the tears Mama wiped away, the accusations after her death, the first bit of darkness when his head covered when he was to be hanged, all of the things that led to his hiding. He'd been nervous when Michael saw his face that first time. Washing his burlap hood in the stream, he'd been suddenly confronted by the brunet. His good eye scanned Jason's face with curiosity. He didn't say anything, just looked. There was no laughter or disgust, just the fire of interest, then of concern when they dropped to the faint ring of scarring around his neck. The two sat there quietly, a silent understanding forming.

That had been within the first couple weeks of Michael's stay. Now, Jason kept the hood off. Only putting it back on when trespassers came to their land, in need of disposal. Michael showed no hatred of that horrible face, but often looked at him, focused as though he were looking at the brightest star in the heavens. Jason allowed himself to hold onto the warmth it brought this time, savoring the way Michael brought him comfort.

Michael rode off to take his vengeance on the Marshall in mid spring. He'd put it off long enough, for as much as he wished to stay with Jason, true peace would not come to him until Marshall Loomis was dead and buried. There was a kiss goodbye, a lingering farewell and promise of return, then suddenly the red haired man was left alone once again. The land was emptier now without Michael. Jason busied himself with protecting their home (for now it was just as much Michael's as it was Jason's before) in the meantime.

It was incredibly lonesome, more than he'd expected. It's not as though Michael left without warning, he'd mentioned he would, and yet Jason was worried. Worried that he'd never see the dark haired man again. Had those silent confessions of adoration been lies? They never were on Jason's part, but Michael's face held no clues to the truth. He supposed Michael would been great at bluffing. It reminded him of something Mama once said: You ought not trust a poker player, Jason, they'll steal everything from you, and they'll make you feel special when it happens. He didn't want to think about that, and held on to the memory of the last time he held the black eyed man.

Days began to blend together before Michael returned on his black stallion. He'd been injured again, but nowhere near as badly. He fell into Jason's arms two months after he'd first left. He was weaker now, a husk of who he'd been. Anger no longer held him together. Jason could tell that he'd ate little and slept less since he'd been gone. His heart was simultaneously broken at the sight of his frail state and filled with his presence. He didn't want to ever let him go again. After a few days rest and many good meals, Michael looked much better physically, but something was different still.

Touching was more common than it had been before. When they sat in front of the fireplace of an evening, Jason would often find Michael reaching out for his own calloused hand, weaving their fingers together and scooting closer. Once, he pushed a curly, red lock of hair behind his ear, the corners of his mouth quirked up in an unpracticed smile. Jason melted at that first smile and every smile after. The weight that had been lifted from Michael's shoulders would never be commented on by either of them. They were simply too wrapped up in the pleasure of one other's presence and comfort to bring up that pain.

There was no pain or unhappiness in their little home that they built, not anymore. Not so long as they had each other to look out for them.

[detective-giggles]

Flufftober Day 1

Prompt: Winning a Teddy for the Other (Tarlos)

WC: 832

Warnings: None, except for a couple bad puns!

It’s a little early in my timezone but the collection is open and I’m excited! Sarah, thanks for the beta!

***

TK groaned as he hiked his little brother further up on his hip. “Are two-year-olds supposed to be this heavy?” he wondered out loud.

Carlos let out a tiny snort. “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure two-year-olds can walk.”

TK looked around the little carnival and the throngs of people pushing past them and shook his head. “Nah. We’re good.”

Carlos rolled his eyes fondly. “I’m not going to give you a massage tonight if you hurt your back carrying him all day,” he warned.

TK flashed him a shit-eating grin. “Sure you will.” TK turned to his brother. “So, EJ, what should we do first?”

“Also, I’m pretty sure that is not his name, Tyler Kennedy.” Carlos pointed out.

TK shrugged, “He doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Fishie! Fishie!” Elijah lurched forward, interrupting their banter and nearly dislodging himself from TK’s grasp, making grabby hands.

“What’s up, Buddy?”

“I think he wants you to win him a fish.” Carlos pointed across the way to a game booth lined with goldfish in plastic bags.

“Fishie!”

“Ohhh, my mom would kill us if we came home with a fish.” TK muttered. He paused, looking thoughtful. “Then again…” TK smiled mischievously. “She never let me have a pet.”

“TK, no, babe. I think you winning him a fish just sounds like a bad idea.”

TK shrugged again. “Besides, you’re gonna win him the fish.” TK stepped up behind Carlos, patting him on the shoulder.

“Why me?”

“It’s a shooting game!”

Carlos snorted, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re a cop.” TK pointed out needlessly.  “It’s much more your specialty than mine.  But don’t worry, if there’s a game where you shoot the water into the clown’s mouth, I’m there for ya, babe.” TK gave him a playful wink.

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Strand. You know these games are all scams anyway. I’m sure we could go buy him a fish for much cheaper than we can win one.” He protested.

“It’s fun, Carlos! Please!” He turned to Elijah, “Tell Carlos please.”

“Pwease!”

Carlos laughed and ruffled Elijah’s hair before planting a kiss on TK’s temple. “You two are adorable. And impossible to say no to.” He rolled his eyes playfully. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let’s spend ten bucks to win a fish that’s gonna die in a week.”

TK followed Carlos across the aisle and watched while Carlos dug his wallet out of his pocket, handing a few bills to the bored-looking teenager working the booth. He raised the rifle and TK took a moment to admire his stance. “I’m gonna need a few practice shots.” He muttered, handing over another couple wrinkled bills. “How many do I have to hit to win the kid a fish?” Carlos’ attention was directed to a sign directly below the row of fish, indicating he needed to hit six targets for the coveted goldfish.

Carlos raised the rifle once more and fired off three quick shots. The first two were close but only the third one hit the mark.

“I think someone needs to spend a little more time at the practice range, what do you think?” TK asked, shifting his brother to his other hip.

“Really? You wanna hit the other five?” Carlos huffed. TK shook his head and Carlos turned back to the game again. Three more hits, a miss, and two hits later, Carlos was trading the rifle for a little bagged fish.

“YAY! Fishie!” Elijah clapped and reached for the prize.

“Yeah, why don’t I carry him while you two think of a name?” Carlos turned and headed down the midway.

“Gil?” TK suggested, “Fin?” he chuckled at his own lame suggestion, nearly bumping into Carlos who had stopped suddenly.  “What?”

“You’re up.” Carlos gestured to a nearby booth.  TK followed his gaze and locked eyes with a creepy plastic clown.

“Ohhh, I promised, didn’t I?”

“You did.” TK led the way to the game and Carlos followed closely behind. TK gave his brother to Carlos before taking a seat at the last available water gun and handing over a dollar.

A bell rang, signaling the beginning of the round and TK pressed the button, aiming the stream of water directly at the clown’s head.  His balloon inflated quickly, getting larger than any balloon should, before it finally popped, followed closely by half a dozen others.  He stood, choosing his prize and made his way back over to where Carlos was standing with Elijah.

“So you’ll think of me whenever you see it.” TK held out his offering, a small stuffed bear wearing a red firefighter helmet and a little turnout coat.

“He’s un-bear-ably cute. Just like you.”

TK pulled the toy from Carlos’ grasp. “Leave the puns to me.”

“Deal.” Carlos laughed and snatched the bear back. “He’d make a pretty crappy firefighter though. He doesn’t even have the right koala-fications.”

“It’s not even a koala!” He protested before turning to Elijah. “It’s not even a koala!”

Tags: @flufftober2021

[katyamorrigan]

‘A Hotel on the Board is Worth Two on the Geldstraat’ - Chp. 1!

Gang banner by @verdiris​

A Hotel on the Board is Worth Two on the Geldstraat

A trunk of contraband items ends up in the hands of the Crows, but the item that piques their curiosity most is the large box labelled “MONOPOLY”. Kaz is out of the Slat for the time being, so of course they decide to play it. Was there ever a mission more likely to fail than six criminals with lethal skills and undeniable emotional ties all trying to build a make-believe empire without killing each other in the process? Answer: yes - all of the above while attempting to pull off a heist at the same time.

Turns out board games weren’t the only interesting items shipped into Fifth Harbour that afternoon, and now the Razorgulls are interested. It will take all of the gang’s effort to break into two buildings full of rival gang members, regain possession of the contraband, and make it back to the Slat in one piece. And that’s without the inherent strains of playing at business negotiations with a group of decidedly underhand friends.

Join the Crows as they cheat, steal, lie, and bribe each other, all before the heist has even begun.

I am so excited to finally get to share the fic that I have been working on for the @grishaversebigbang​ over the last few months - A Hotel on the Board is Worth Two on the Geldstraat! Getting to take part in the Grishaverse Big Bang 2021 has been so much fun, and I have had the honour of working with an absolutely incredible gang of artists and the loveliest beta reader. It’s been an absolute blast, and this is one of my favourite things that I’ve written. Thank you so much to everyone that I’ve worked with, and I hope that you enjoy reading and admiring the story and art that we’ve created!

Here is everyone in my gang, with links to the work that they’ve created (some art may relate to chapters of the fic that haven’t been posted yet - the fic will be posted in its entirety within the next 3 weeks and the art will be linked within the fic on the relevant lines, but also there’s nothing that will spoil the story for you, so don’t worry!):

Corporalki: @davonysus​ (who is the most wonderful beta reader, thank you for everything that you contributed to this story!)

Materialki: 

@ciph3rrr​ with hilarious Crows-minus-Kaz Monopoly shenanigans from Chapter 1

@j-wirth​ ​with this brilliant Inej and Wesper moment inspired by Chapters 2 and 7

@bloodysusher​ with a gorgeous group moment in Chapter 7

@verdiris​ with some amusing Kaz geniusness from Chapter 7

@maximumbluebirdpatrol​ (link still to come)

@emmaxtw​ (link still to come)

There are 7 chapters in total, so I shall be uploading a new one every Tuesday and Saturday until 25th September. Look below the cut for an excerpt from Chapter 1, and if you want to read the full thing (and check out the collection of all the other incredible pieces created for the GVBB) then click either of the links. I hope that you enjoy!

AHOTBIWTOTG Chapter 1 Excerpt:

The front door of the Slat opened with a loud clatter, and slammed shut on itself seconds later. It made Inej jump in her seat as she sat going over ship documentation - which, as it turned out, there was a lot of - in the front room. Nina gave her a look, and Inej wrinkled her nose back at her; the Wraith didn’t startle easily, but equally, there was usually less banging of doors while she tried to organise her finances.

“Honeys, I’m home!” Came Jesper’s voice. “And I brought treats!”

“It had better be more exciting than that time you came back from Cilla’s Fry with meat pies,” Inej called back. “That was underwhelming.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nina chimed in. “I was more than happy to finish up those.”

“We know.” Matthias gave her a knowing look, and Wylan sniggered as she raised a single finger at him in response. 

The bickering that came from everyone trying to work on separate projects at the same time was one of the many reasons that Inej hadn’t made it past the first page of her sailing license. That being said, she joined in the chuckling at Nina’s expense.

“Oh, it’s definitely better than Cilla’s pies, but you’ll have to take a look for yourself.”

Jesper rounded the corner, a large trunk tucked under one slim arm. His face was bright from the brisk, cold air of the streets, and a bead of sweat dropped from his chin as he deposited the luggage on the table beside Inej. She sighed heavily as the wad of pages in front of her jumped with the sudden extra weight.

“Sorry,” Jesper grinned. She just rolled her eyes fondly in response.“Come on, who wants to see what I’ve got?”

Nina, Matthias and Wylan all got up from the neighbouring table and crowded around Inej and Jesper. It was uncomfortable having so many significantly taller people stood behind her while she was sitting, so Inej scooped up her papers and deposited them on the floor, taking their place on the table so that she could get a good look at the trunk.

“Where did you get that?” Matthias asked.

“Well, our dearest Kaz decided to put me on shipment duty and I had to wait around at the Exchange for a boat full of contraband to come in. It took hours, so as soon as I saw something that looked interesting, I used my innumerable skills to swipe it so that we could take a look inside.”

““Innumerable” is a long word for you,” Nina quipped. 

A bubble of laughter rose up amongst the group, and Jesper stuck his tongue out childishly. “Fine, no contraband for you.”

“No, I want to look!”

“Be nice, then. I get first dibs on anything cool because I found it.”

Matthias snorted. “What happened to the ancient rule of “finder’s keepers”?”

“I found the trunk, therefore I found anything that’s inside it by proxy.”

“Can we just open it up?” Wylan said impatiently. “I feel like we’re building expectations by arguing like this – it’s probably smuggled whiskey or something.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Kaz?” Inej asked. The others gave her a look of incredulity. “Where is he, anyway?”

There was a brief moment of looking at each other for answers, before Jesper answered decisively. “If he was so worried about what came in on the boat, he would’ve gone himself. And if he isn’t here now, then he’ll just have to accept whatever is left over from the spoils.”

“We aren’t actually pirates, you know,” Inej said.

“Not yet,” Jesper stage-whispered in reply, and Inej found herself grinning, pleased. “Gather around, then.” He beckoned everyone closer like a ringmaster at the centre of a performance. 

Inej was surprised to find that her heart was actually beating faster with the thought of what might be inside. Wylan was probably right that they were getting themselves worked up over nothing, but all the same, she couldn’t help hoping that they found something rare or exciting. Perhaps it was gold? Guns? Something dangerous? You could never know when it came to the imports of Ketterdam, and for once Inej was glad for the intensity of life in the city. It could very well be something extraordinary.

The catches on the front of the trunk lifted easily, but there was a thick knot of string around the middle as well. Jesper struggled to untie it, so Inej slipped a knife from her sleeve and cut it off with one flick of her wrist. Giving her a mischievous look, Jesper dug his fingernails under the lid and with a crackle of flaking rust, the trunk opened.

On top there was a loose gauzy scarf clearly intended to keep moisture out of the trunk on the long sea voyage, which had definitely served its purpose; the red print had blotted itself onto the inside of the lid, and there were water stains on it where it had protected the rest of the cargo. Matthias and Nina went to grab it at the same time, but it ended up in Nina’s hands regardless as he passed it to her with a shy smile.

“I thought you would want it, so I was making sure no-one else got there first.”

Wylan made an exaggerated gagging noise, and Matthias’ expression quickly reverted to his familiar scowl.

“Aha!”

Jesper reached forward and pulled out two pistols, both only a little rusty and with a single blue gem stamped into the body of each. With impressive speed he turned around and mimed firing two shots at the wall before holstering them beside his favoured revolvers.

As Matthias pulled out a slim soft-covered book, Inej realised that she was far too focused on the discoveries of her friends and was going to miss out on finding her own treasures otherwise. Lifting up two more scarves – this time green and blue – she found another couple of books which she handed to Nina. Her friend’s focus was pulled away from adjusting her hair under her newly matching scarf to flicking through the pages and wrinkling her nose hard.

“I don’t recognise the language, but I can understand it well enough,” Nina mused.

“Where did the boat come in from, Jesper?” Wylan asked as he opened a small wooden keepsake box full of golden rings in varying levels of ornate decoration.

“Kaz didn’t say, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t pay much attention.”

Nina tutted and continued her reading with Matthias peering over her shoulder. With fingers now covered in rings, Wylan pulled out a long fur coat that smelt of mould. Removing its furry cuffs from the case, Inej reached into the trunk for what seemed to be the last item: a big box made of thick card, with a green cover and the word MONOPOLY emblazoned on the top. The lettering was incredibly clear, but it didn’t look as though it had been done by hand or with a printing press. It had an odd shiny feel to the outside as well, like it had been coated in order to keep out the damp.

Inej sat it on the table and lifted the lid. It came off easily, and revealed a large square of that same thick card in bright red that unfolded into a larger board with regular markings on it.

“What in the Saints’ names is that?” Nina remarked, putting down her reading material.

“I have no idea. It was at the bottom of the trunk.”

“Is it a map?” Wylan suggested.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Inej murmured as she put the board down and looked at what was left in the box. 

Underneath that map-like object was a tray divided into several compartments, with little silver tokens collected in one, some colourful playing cards of an unknown variety in another, and some appealing little houses done in an unusual material in both green and red. Beside those lay a rack of what looked like currency, in the same shape and thickness as notes of kruge. Jesper immediately started rifling through it all, mixing up the various collections and inspecting them all with irregular attention. Although Wylan slapped his hand away with a tut, it clearly wasn’t out of lack of interest.

“What is it?” Nina asked again. Taking the board in her hands, she began to stumble through the words written on it.

“Collect 200… something, looks like it could be a currency symbol because it says “salary” after that, as you pass GO... Old Kent Road, another amount of money… sixty? Community chest, Whitechapel Road, same amount of money as the other square…”

As she turned it over in her hands, a slim white booklet fell out onto the table. Inej started forward and managed to snatch it up before anyone else did, although the gesture was useless as she immediately handed it to Nina, who skimmed over the first few lines and let out a delighted noise.

“It’s a game! A board game! Seems like you play by going around the board which has place names marked out on it, and you buy up the land so that you can build houses on it. And you compete to earn the most money.”

“Who’s sending weird foreign board games to Ketterdam?” Wylan said incredulously. “Are you sure it’s not got something contraband hidden in there somehow?”

Inej laughed. “Does a game based on financial gain not strike you as the most Kerch thing in the world? I can well believe a mercher bought this to educate their children on the fun of working under Ghezen.”

Wylan cracked a grin at that, and Nina snorted. She pushed the box towards him.

“Take a look if you want.”

He lifted up the tray of items and ran his fingers along the underside, then looked inside each of the little model houses as if there might be gemstones wedged in the base like on Jesper’s guns. Wylan tapped along the top of the board, but there were no hidden compartments or secret openings. It seemed as though they had genuinely come across some kind of entertainment from another country.

“Shall we play it?” Jesper said with a broad grin at everyone. “We’ve got nothing else on, have we?”

“I’m meant to have applied for my sailing license by the end of next week,” Inej said weakly, but she wasn’t much interested in her own excuse. This bizarre-looking game they had stolen by chance had already caught her attention far more than boat permits and crew-hiring documents.

“I’m happy to,” Matthias said, and Nina and Wylan nodded fervently as well.

“Perfect! Let’s not disturb everyone’s things down here, we can take it into another room.”

“Nobody’s bedrooms are big enough,” Nina complained. “Kaz is too cheap to give us enough space to actually enjoy our stay at The House of Brekker.”

“His bedroom is, though.”

Read more here!

[larkace]

Robber Claws

hi guys! i've read a bunch of your fics and got inspired so i wrote a thing! enjoy ;) also, it's pretty long so...buckle up! love yall <3

The criminals lurk in the mist, invisible, but Sofiya Pavlichenkov knows they’re there.

She’s perched in the Lookout’s nest of her Warship in Fourth Harbour, pretending to read the documents her first mate, Kastor, has just handed to her. But her blue coat is flapping in the wind and her papers keep jostling and she’s being watched, all of which is rather uncomfortable.

Idly, Sofiya wonders what the criminals might want. A smuggling, perhaps? Out and away from stinking, crawling, loathsome Ketterdam?

Sofiya hates this city. His city. She misses Ravka, her homeland- the Little Palace.

I miss my bloody Kefta, Sofiya thinks darkly as another bought of wind spirals harshly through the Harbour. The blue coat she wears is a subtle nod to her Tidemaker status, but it’s a sad, thin piece of cloth compared to the grandeur of the Fabrikator-made Keftas. But Sofiya can’t wear her Kefta, not if she wants to blend in in Kerch- a lesson she learned long ago…

Old enemies, Sofiya. Old enemies, but not withered grudges.

Huffing out a sigh that would make Zoya Nazyalensky proud, Sofiya rises gracefully to her feet.

They’re coming. She can feel it; they’re making their way towards the ship. They don’t have to be rowdy to intimidate, that’s for sure - or to make a crowd of Merchants and Thieves part like the sea almost immediately.

Sofiya reaches up behind her head and loops her hand around a piece of knotted rope; takes a deep, steadying breath.

And she steps off the platform into the open air.

For a moment, she catches on the air as if a Squaller has caught her on a buffering breeze, but sure enough, gravity kicks in.

Sofiya welcomes the feeling of her stomach in her throat as the fall takes hold, zipping her past the sails. It's good preparation, anyway, for the three dark figures moving up the docks towards her.

As they near and Sofiya lands lightly on the deck, she confirms what she already knew: these were criminals. Her criminals.

The trio stops in front of her. They're all wearing black and gold - not a uniform exactly, but it’s a solid way to show your allegiance. None of their hands were visible, but if they were, Sofiya would find the Robber Claws emblem branded cleanly onto the backs of their knuckles. Their hoods are drawn up over their faces, but Sofiya can tell from their posture who she’s dealing with.

"Ah, Iseut," Sofiya says serenely, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The girl in the middle pulls down her hood, revealing shining blond hair, dark eyes, full lips. She doesn’t smile.

"Where have you been, Sofiya?" Iseut asks coolly.

"The Wandering Isle," Sofiya answers immediately, "I stopped at Os Kervo on my return to pick up some supplies. I'm only three days late, Is. Cut me some slack."

Iseut sighs, and suddenly looks less the badass, fake-waitress man-killer, and more the tired mother of a delinquent child. Sofiya feels a flicker of guilt.

She had stopped at Os Kervo for more than one reason. The "supplies" were crates upon crates of commandeered Fjerdan weapons and traps, intercepted by the First Army on their way to the Front Line. Sofiya had paid nothing to take them off the hands of the Ravkan soldiers, who honestly had no clue where to send them. What good were jerky Fjerdan guns to a sophisticated, well-oiled Second Army legion?

Sofiya could picture Zoya's face at the sight of the sad little weapons. Disgust and disdain, unshakable beauty - and perhaps just a little bit of pride that her friend had been the one to collect the Fjerdan cargo. Sofiya would work on selling it all later. She'd dump the Grisha traps in the ocean, though. Drown them like they deserved to be drowned.

"I am sorry, Iseut," Sofiya says, and her words aren’t mistruths.

"Don't apologise to me," Iseut says dismissively, "It’s your friends that were barely able to sleep the past few nights. You should talk to -"

"Destry," Sofiya's words mist the air like a fine rain, "I know."

One of the tall figures stood behind Iseut lowers her own hood. Lyra. Ly.

It made sense that the Robber Claws would send their best Bruisers to Fourth Harbour. Sofiya knew by the other Robber's posture that beneath the hood, she would find the face of Winter. But Winter wouldn't lower her hood in front of so many people, so Sofiya was content with what she could get.

"You really had Destry worried, Sof," Ly says, chastising.

"Destry can handle me being gone for weeks on end," Sofiya crosses her arms. She will not be guilt-tripped, "This job was half a week, and I was only a few days off schedule. I did tell Cherry that I'd be late." The words come out as a question.

None of them say anything.

Another flash of worry courses through Sofiya. Cherry Vlasova is a Heartrender, and one of Sofiya's closest friends. The message that Sofiya had forwarded was simple and concise: I'll be a few days late. Stopping at Os Kervo. Don't worry, no Fjerdans. Tell Destry -S.P

Had something happened to Cherry? She was an avid gossiper; her post box was always full of tip-offs (a useful source of information for the Robber Claws) but Sofiya was reliably informed that her letters were always placed on the top of the pile. Marked "URGENT."

"What happened? Is Cherry alright?" Sofiya demands.

Iseut holds up her palms, and they are callused and grease-marked. Sometimes Iseut is so well put together that Sofiya forgets she's a barmaid.

"Cherry is fine. But all our Grisha are shaken. Whilst you were away, there was an attack on the East Stave."

Sofiya's heart stops and restarts and stops again.

An attack. On the Grisha. And she wasn’t there to - to help, to defend-

"Destry," Sofiya breathes, "And Cherry - and Adali, Roza, Linnea, Yan, Anya- oh, Saints, was it the Fjerdans?"

There are many Grisha members of the Robber Claws. It was one of the reasons that Sofiya wanted to join them in the first place. If the Fjerdans had attacked -

"Everybody is fine," Ly says lowly, "We had Freya and May fixing people up as soon as we heard- and Lita, of course, but behind the scenes."

Freya and May- and even Lita, whose powers most of the gang didn't even know of. Grisha Healers. So people had been hurt.

"What. Happened." Sofiya growls, and Ly glares at her challengingly, fists clenching. The water beneath the decking froths and bubbles as Sofiya brings her own fists together, power surging pleasantly up her arms. If Ly wants a fight, she can have one.

"Calm down, both of you," Winter's smooth voice projects from under her hood. Despite the heavy fabric, her voice is clear and commanding. Sofiya takes a breath to compose herself.

"To answer your previous question: no. It wasn't the Fjerdans." Iseut says, "We don’t know what they were."

Sofiya's brow creases at the chime of fear in Iseut's voice. She's never seen the golden-haired barmaid afraid before.

It begins to rain softly, the pattering of droplets quiet against the wooden decking of the docks.

"We should go back to the Queen’s Head, Iseut," Ly suggests, referencing Iseut’s place of work. Iseut nods once, swiftly, and glances over Sofiya's shoulder at her warship.

"Do you need to...?"

"Yes."

"Go on, then."

"KASTOR! IM GOING FOR A ROUND OF DAY-DRINKING!" Sofiya yells over the shoulder of her rain-splattered coat. She hears Ly chuckle as Kastor's scruffy head pokes out from a window.

He nods at Sofiya when he spots her, and she waves, assenting. Kastor would keep everything safe whilst she was gone. It was their unspoken agreement, unchanging and unwavering since the day they'd become crewmates.

Sofiya turns back to Iseut, Ly and Winter.

"Let's be on our way," she says, and lets her fellow criminals lead the way along the Harbour, her warship disappearing into the mist behind her.

~~~~

The mid-day slump of customers meant that the Robber Claws had the Queen’s Head pub all to themselves.

Iseut- who did not own the pub, but had put more work into it than the real owners ever did- had immediately trekked behind the bar and poured herself a whisky.

"Want anything?" She asks, directing the question directly at Sofiya despite the equal presence of Ly- and Winter (who had lowered her hood slightly now that she was back on familiar ground, with familiar faces.) Bruisers didn’t drink on the job. It slowed reflexes.

"The story," says Sofiya firmly, "It a joke about the day-drinking. What happened?"

Iseut pours herself another whiskey and the quartet take a seat at a shady little circular table in a quiet corner. The murmurs of other Robber Claws members is enough to shelter their conversation from the group- despite Sofiya being sure she was the only one unaware of what had transpired the days she’d been gone.

As Iseut begins her story, with Winter and Ly regularly interjecting with additions, Sofiya feels horror and fear clamp down on her heart like a Fjerdan Grisha trap.

Iseut’s alluring voice weaves a tale of Komedie Brute actors in bloody masks, rose-painted rubble from an impossible explosion, and worst of all: Grisha. Dead Grisha, killed by creatures with screeching metal wings.

“Only a few of our Grisha were hurt,” Iseut sips her drink solemnly, “We took your advice of keeping them anonymous and undercover. We have Erin and our other spies out searching for answers at the embassies. I’m sure you’re just as eager to find out about the winged creatures as we are.”

Sofiya nods, “I am. Thank you for filling me in, Is, really. And to you, Ly, Winter. I know you don’t like going to far from the West Stave.”

The last comment was directed purely at Winter. It’s not a lie. Winter runs a dojo for training Kerch’s women to protect themselves from Barrel bosses and scum alike; she didn’t want her clients finding out about her… Robber side. Being a criminal wasn’t the most unintimidating, friendly persona to have when speaking with vulnerable women.

Sofiya respected Winter and her clean profession. It was hard to be so kind in the Barrel. And men were rarely kind to women at all.

Sofiya knew that first hand.

Shoving away the memories- blue eyes, dark hair, gorgeous smile, charming words and sharper wounds- Sofiya stands in one fluid movement.

“I’m going to find Destry,” she says. Iseut stands, Ly and Winter falling back to flank her again, and smiles. She’s beautiful, that is undoubtful, but the attacks- the sleazy men at the Queen’s Head, the strain of the city- it’s all gotten to her. Sofiya can see it.

This city is poison, thinks Sofiya as Iseut takes her hand and shakes it. Poison and rot.

“Destry will be in her rooms,” Ly supplies, and Sofiya nods at her once.

Sofiya grins brightly, hoping it covers her own weariness, and recites, “Fair winds.”

“Bright stars,” chorus her friends. Sofiya waves over her shoulder as she slips out of the bar and down an alley. Above her, a storm brews in the clouds.

Perhaps the stars would be out that night. It didn’t matter. Nobody in Kerch saw the stars anymore.

~~~~

On her way to Destry’s apartments, Sofiya ran into more members of the Robber Claws.

Malcolm and Firefly, who lived together in shared housing in the Anvil, were shopping for new blacksmiths’ equipment. They each provided invaluable services to the Robber Claws, crafting flawless weapons second only to that of Fabrikators. They greeted her with a wink each. Sofiya moved on swiftly after trading them a Wandering Isle-crafted staff for twenty Kruge.

She picked up some baked goods on the way. She would need them. Destry- who had been her closest friend since she arrived in Kerch- was an Inferni. Fire-bringer; with an even fierier temperament. Rumour had it- and Sofiya knew the rumours were true- that Destry had been attending the University of Ketterdam when she’d heard a boy make a lude comment during an exam and lit the paper on fire with her mind. And that paper had been thrown. At the boy’s face. Ouch.

Sofiya had been nursing a whiskey in a tavern when she’d first heard the story recounted. She’d leapt up from her seat, slithered into an alley and held the recounter at knifepoint until he’d told her Destry’s name.

They’d become fast friends upon meeting. Sofiya had been in awe of someone so rebellious, so brave as to set fire to an exam paper, and Destry- well. Destry had laughed for hours when Sofiya had told her how she’d first come across her name.

But now, staring up at the ornate windows of Destry’s apartment, Sofiya feels unsure. She didn’t mean to worry her friend. Iseut had explained that her letter must have gotten lost during the riots. Sofiya cursed the post offices. So there was a deadly storm- your motto is still “We always deliver.”

Despite her trepidation, Sofiya’s feet were swift on the stairs. She had a key to the apartment, and didn’t hesitate to unlock the door and slip inside without a sound, content to watch Destry whilst she worked; even if only for a moment.

Leaning against the wall, Sofiya’s brow creases as she surveys her friend. Destry’s hair is plaited carefully into two loops at the nape of her neck, hazel strands freeing themselves gently against her light brown skin. She’s stood facing away from Sofiya, arms circled in rings of fire. The shirt she wears is Fabrikator-made; the flames don’t take to the papery material.

Sofiya takes a step forward, and pointedly drops her bag of confectionary on the floor. It lands with an audible thump.

Destry whirls, the fire at her wrists whirling into an inferno ready to strike- until Destry sees who is at her door.

“Shouldn’t have hesitated, Des,” Sofiya said weakly, “I could have put a knife in your back.”

The shock on Destry’s face dissolves. Her face splinters down the middle. Licks of fire at her fingertips wilt into ash in a pile at her boot-clad feet.

“You would have put out the flames with your water, I’m sure,” Destry says, and then flies across the room towards Sofiya, wrapping her in a tight, smoke-smelling embrace.

Sofiya would normally pull back. “Don’t be too open with your heart, Des,” she’d say, “People use your loves against you here.” But Sofiya couldn’t bring herself to say those things. The weight of the week comes crashing down on her head like a tsunami.

Fjerdan traps on my boat, attacks on my gang, tensions in Ravka boiling over… where’s safe anymore, except here?

Destry pulls back slightly to scan Sofiya’s face. She has a smear of oil on her cheek. Destry’s eyes are filled with fire, burning like an ember beneath onyx waters.

“Where. Have. You. Been.”

“Destry-”

“Don’t you make excuses with me, Pavlichenkov,” Destry snarls, “You didn’t warn us you were late! I couldn’t sleep- neither could Cherry!”

“I-”

“We thought you’d been caught, Sofi,” Destry cries, “We thought the Fjerdans had got you! I thought you died.”

The word is ugly and big in the room, choking Sofiya’s response. Death. Dying. Dead. And by Fjerdan hands. It wasn’t so rare for travelling Grisha to be caught and sent to the pyres.

“I’m sorry,” Sofiya says, because it’s the only thing there is, “I wrote- I really did, don’t look at me like that- according to Lyra, there was a storm in the True Sea. The letter sunk with the ship.”

“You’re a Tidemaker,” Destry huffs.

“Yes, which means I manipulate water,” Sofiya says, “Not stop it from overturning ships with important letters on them. Destry, I’m sorry. I brought waffles.” She offers the last sentence like a defendant on trial with the Stadwatch; one final piece of evidence to prove her innocence.

Destry brightens immediately, “Well, in that case.”

The pair of them set to work, shoulders just brushing in the cramped kitchenette. Sofiya’s array of pasties are laid out over two plates, which they lay on their laps. Destry’s job for the Robber Claws is, in few words, that of the logician. Papers are scattered all over her apartment, covered in detailed blueprints and scale drawings of buildings all over Ketterdam, Fjerda and even- rarely- Shu Han. There were no drawings of Ravka.

If Iseut had ever commissioned a robbery in Ravka, Sofiya didn’t know about it. It would be…unwise to hit out at the Ravkans, with so many Grisha in the gang.

But Destry’s job was essential, so Sofiya couldn’t complain about the lack of trays to put their plates on. Such things were useless for such an incredible mind as Destry’s.

“So,” says Destry conversationally as she lights the fireplace with a casual flick of her wrist, “How were the Wandering Isles?”

Sofiya says nothing, massaging her temples lightly. Destry manages a laugh.

“Your silence is telling, Sofi,” she warns.

Sighing quietly, suddenly feeling very tired, Sofiya says, “It was crawling with our Fjerdan friends from the North. ‘Peaceful’ Fjerdans.”

Destry spins, and she is outlined with the fire. We’re opposites, Sofiya thinks. Fire and Water.

“You didn’t-” Destry begins, horrified.

Silently, solemnly, Sofiya raised her palms to face the ceiling. Destry reaches out.

Her gentle fingers trace the scars there. Deep and painful and barely healed, the scars run red against Sofiya’s pale flesh.

“Sofiya…” Destry breathes.

“It was the only way to push my power down,” Sofiya whispers. She’s rarely so emotive, but Destry is someone she trusts with everything. It was a weakness, some would say, but they were each powerful Grisha. They were Gods in a world of men. And they would not kneel “If I hadn’t, I would’ve been caught. It was a price to pay.”

Grisha shone like lighthouses around people. In Kerch, in Ketterdam, it was safer for them- especially ones loyal to a gang, as Destry and Sofiya were. But in the Wandering Isles; where Fjerdans passed through on their way to Novyi Zem, where gang affiliations mattered less than the colour of your eyes… Sofiya tells herself she had no choice.

“Sofiya, you’ve opened up old wounds here,” Destry says, tracing the marred skin of her palms again, “You need a healer. Freya, Lita, May-”

“Wouldn’t understand,” Sofiya finished, pulling her hands out of Destry’s and placing them carefully in her lap, obscuring them with her coat, “They’re healers, Des, not warriors- they’d go to Iseut.”

Iseut. Their unofficial leader, the founder, the lighthouse in raging seas. All of the Robber Claws seemed to be caught in her gravity. She was their sun. And Sofiya… well, Sofiya was the moon. Iseut would send her to a healer, one who would stop her travels. One who would commandeer her Warship, and Kastor… health of the mind was important to Iseut.

But Sofiya was not damaged, as they would tell her. She was not broken. Her mind was sound.

I did what I had to do, to survive.

But Destry can see through it all. Through the mask, through her eyes, right to her bones. Through to her lying, treacherous heart. We’re all broken in the end.

But.

Oh, Destry, Destry, please…

“I won’t tell her,” Destry promises, “But I’d like you to know that I think you should. Tell her, that is- Iseut. She might help.”

“She might ship me back to Ravka,” Sofiya grumbles, biting into a toasty croissant.

“Oh, she wouldn’t.”

“You never know.”

“She’ll want you to heal, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Sofiya rolls her eyes, “But these wounds are of the flesh. The scars on my heart will never heal, not in this life Perhaps there will be mercy in the next, even for my rotten soul.”

“You sound like you’re auditioning for the Komedie Brute,” Destry laughs.

“Mother, Father, pay the rent!” Sofiya crows.

“I can’t my dear, the money’s spent,” Destry choruses instinctively.

Sofiya wipes away an invisible tear, “Gorgeous! We’ll make an actress out of you, yet, Destry Clements.”

“Oh, you most certainly will not,” Destry huffs.

Their laughter fills the air, and Sofiya thinks that maybe there is hope for her rotten soul, after all.

~~~~

The man returns late from the pub wearing only one shoe.

A bottle drained halfway of mauve liquid dangles limply from his pale fingers. The veins in his foot are blue in the half-moon’s light.

He slurs a broken melody. She catches a few words as he passes below her on the street.

“Hmm… perish… light… air… fire… hell… hmmm…”

The man’s name is Danyl Harrop. And he is going to die tonight.

“Hmm… shadow… devil… rot… earth… sun… burn… lose….”

Harrop continues down the road, heedless of the mud on his bare foot. He'd be blackout drunk in the morning if he survived.

He wouldn’t.

Silent as a breeze, steps as soft as downy feathers, she leaps from the streetlight where she was perched.

She strikes.

She is ash and shadow. She is a storm of fire. She is vengeance.

She is death.

Harrop yelps as she pins him against the tree. His face is as white as the moon, with eyes like black craters.

“What’re you doi-” he slurs dazedly, but she silences him with a wave of her hand. He blubbers like a fish on land as he tries to shout for help.

“For King and Country,” says the girl. Stepping away from Harrop, she lets her power hold him against the tree, keeping his muscles upright. She surveys him like an artist would their unfinished masterpiece.

The girl whispers, “Sleep tight, Danyl.”

Flicking her wrist, she snaps his neck. He’s still alive, barely, so she latches on to what little of his mind there is left and strips it like an onion. For a man who is out so late, so drunk, on what the girl remembers as a work-day, he knows too much.

Secrets. They feed this girl, nourish her. There is a skip in her step as she turns away from Harrop; without her supporting his muscles, he collapses against the tree. She leaves his mind just as it goes dark.

There is no need to hide in the treetops upon her return to the city. It gleams just half a mile away, most of which is roiling seawater. As the girl wanders along the road back to Ketterdam, she finds Danyl Harrop’s shoe in a puddle of mud. The girl laughs at the sky. She flips a coin into the shoe, whispers a heartless prayer to her Saints, and moves on.

Back to Ketterdam. Back home.

~~~~

Ok, so that's that! I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger... I may have created a whole plot... so there might be some more coming soon!

all these excellent characters (save Sofiya, Danyl, Kastor and the girl at the end who kills Danyl- who has no name... yet *wink*) belong to the following:

Iseut is @littlegirldorothea's

Destry is @finnick-annie's (I may have made them besties👀👀)

Cherry is @brekkercookie's (they are ALSO besties👀👀 we have a trio omg)

Winter is @cressjacquine's

Lyra is @no-mourners-at-my-funeral's

Malcom is @blackpheonix’s

Firefly is @ask-shadowbon’s

Erin is @lightningboytytonjesper’s

Adali is @apple-bottom-jeansx’s

Roza is @vampire-rights’s

Linnea is @alonlyfangirl's

Yan is @lucentcorrigan’s

Anya is @queenlilith43’s

Freya is @smol-evil-gremlin’s

Lita is @the-whispers-of-moonlight’s

May is @saltyfortunes

and the "Fair winds, bright stars" motto as created by @spicy-tomato-sauce's

oh and the whole Grishaverse is the wonderful @lbardugo's <3

if I missed anyone or you want to tag anyone go ahead!

[bluejayblueskies]

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Four: unsweet dreams Words: 4.3k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Nightmares

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Daisy lets out a little huff of air through her nose and says, “Do you still have the same dreams? Or did the Eye take those with it when it left?”

They’re not the same, Jon writes. Then, hesitantly and with a lump in the back of his throat: I can’t decide if they’re better or worse.

“Yeah, me either.” Daisy looks at a point just over one of Jon’s shoulders and says, “My dreams are memories, I think.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five| Chapter Six| Chapter Seven

Or read below:

(cw for mentions of knife and gun violence, mentions of blood)

Jon isn’t used to his nightmares being his own. He’d spent so long closing his eyes only to open new ones, ones that had no eyelids and did not look away and knew nothing but watching and knowing, never enough space in his own head for the things that haunted him and him alone. (Those nightmares restricted themselves to the daytime, striking him at odd moments and leaving him shaking and breathless, his chest tight and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs as he tried to remember how to breathe.) Then, the world had ended and he hadn’t needed to sleep at all, save for the period with Salesa that he’s told was nice, really nice and the time spent in the tunnels beneath what used to be the Institute. By then, he hadn’t needed to dream. Maybe he wasn’t capable of it anymore; maybe he’d forgotten how.

Then, he’d awoken in the middle of the first night of what he and Martin have started to simply call after, a shout stuck at the back of his throat with no way to release it and his hand pressed against his chest, directly above the ragged scar that’s made its home upon his skin. Martin had woken too—he’d always been a light sleeper, even before, and it appeared that he’d only grown lighter during the in-between—and had reached out for him, concern etched across his face.

Jon hadn’t meant to flinch away. But the afterimage of the nightmare was still vibrant in his mind, the phantom pain in his chest still acute, and his body had reacted without giving his mind time to think. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on Martin’s face, horrified and devastated and broken. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for it, either.

He’d had the same nightmare the next night, awakening with a soundless gasp with his hand pressed over his chest. But he’d remembered the previous night and had moved slowly and carefully so as not to wake Martin as he slipped out of bed and out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he’d sat at the table with a glass of water in his hands and had stared blankly at the wall in front of him. He hadn’t slept any further that night, and when Martin had come out of the bedroom in the morning to find him curled up on the couch, book in hand, he’d looked hurt, then worried, then blank. Jon isn’t sure which expression he felt more guilty for causing, but he knew any of them were better than what he’d seen the first night.

So, when Jon wakes up tonight with his heart in his throat and an ache in his chest, he waits for his heart rate to slow before once again sliding out from underneath the duvet and glancing briefly at Martin’s face—still slack with sleep—before he exits the bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen.

His pulse accelerates once again as he spots a shadowy figure sitting on the couch, barely outlined by the moonlight filtering in through the window, before he remembers that it’s not just him and Martin in the safehouse anymore. He’s not quite sure how to announce himself in a way that won’t startle Daisy, but he must have made some sort of sound despite trying to avoid the noisy floorboards because her head turns towards him, her expression lost in shadow, and she says quietly, “Can’t sleep?”

Jon lets out a long, heavy breath and nods. After a moment, he makes his way over to the couch, hesitating before sitting on the opposite end of it as Daisy.

She’d had nightmares back in the Archives sometimes—ones where she woke up suddenly with a sharp intake of breath, her hands scrabbling at her throat for a brief moment before dropping away once she realized where she was. The first time Jon had asked, she’d snapped that it was none of his business, her shoulders still tight with fear and stress. The second time he’d asked—because he never was good at keeping his curiosity in check—she’d glared at him for a moment before saying, clipped and weary, “The dirt never filled my lungs, but sometimes, it felt like it had.”

He didn’t ask again. And she’d never wanted him close in the minutes after she awoke, shying away from a hand on her shoulder or against her wrist or his occasional clumsy attempts at a hug. Some weeks after they’d crawled out of the coffin hand in hand, she’d turned away from him and mumbled something about claustrophobia and things touching her skin, and though he hadn’t entirely understood, he thought he understood enough.

Jon doesn’t know if Daisy’s had another one of those nightmares now, and if that’s why she’s awake, or if she just hadn’t gone to sleep at all. So he keeps his distance as he sits just in case, folding his legs underneath him and covering his hands with the too-long sleeves of his jumper to fight off the chill, and she doesn’t move to close it. Instead, she looks at him; at this distance, he’s able to pick out the angled slant of her nose and the way her lips are flat and pinched. It’s quiet for a long moment. Then, Daisy lets out a little huff of air through her nose and says, “Do you still have the same dreams? Or did the Eye take those with it when it left?”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it, fluttering his hands in frustration. He shakes his head, huffs in annoyance, then stands and makes his way to the kitchen, picking through drawers and cabinets until he locates a few pieces of scrap paper and a nearly-blunt pencil that he looks at with distaste before deciding that it’ll be good enough for now. He collects the book sitting on the table next to the couch as he returns so that he has something hard to write on, tucks himself in the opposite corner of the couch as Daisy again, and—with a sigh as he stares down at the darkened paper in front of him—reaches behind him and turns on the lamp.

The room fills with a warm golden glow not dissimilar to that of firelight, and with slightly more force than is probably necessary, Jon writes, They’re not the same. Then, hesitantly and with a lump in the back of his throat: I can’t decide if they’re better or worse.

He holds the paper up for Daisy to see, resisting the urge to tear it away before she has the chance to read the words. Although it’s still hard sometimes, it’s… it’s easier to be vulnerable like this. There had been times before, when he’d been dating Georgie or when he used to spend evenings with Tim and Sasha or when he and Martin first moved into the safehouse, where he’d found himself overwhelmed and unable to vocalize what he felt sitting at the back of his tongue no matter how hard he tried. Georgie had grown frustrated once, telling him to just spit it out and that she couldn’t help if he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. He’d snapped that he couldn’t, mortified to find his voice slightly choked as he did so. He’d pressed his fist to his mouth for a long moment, trying to force himself to just spit it out, before accepting that it simply wasn’t going to happen and mumbling that he had to use the restroom before leaving the room quicker than was strictly necessary. He’d sat on the cool tile floor, arms wrapped around his knees and back knocking gently against the wall as he rocked forward and back, trying to whisper the words to himself now that he was alone and finding that he still couldn’t force them past his lips.

When he finally left the restroom, Georgie intercepted him on the way to the front door, gently guided him to the couch in the living room, and handed him a pen and paper. He stared at and stared at it and stared at it as she said, in a voice more controlled and level than it had been however many minutes prior, that she’d googled some things and she thought this might help. And that she was sorry for pushing. He looked at her after a moment, twisting the cap of the pen back and forth between his fingers, and she gave him what he thought was meant to be an encouraging smile.

So he wrote down what he could. And it was easier, even if it was hard to hand her the paper afterward and to sit there as she read it silently to herself, dreading whatever she would say to him once she was done (or worse—that she would ask him to say more, to explain himself further).

Daisy doesn’t ask him to say more now. She reads the words and nods, says, “Yeah, me either,” and lets out a long breath before sitting back more heavily on the arm of the couch she’s leaning against. They sit there in silence for what must be minutes. It should probably be uncomfortable, but it’s not. Jon closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the couch, the faint light from the lamp bleeding in through his eyelids and his breathing slowing into something relaxed as he slowly lets the tension of the nightmare drain out of him. He only opens his eyes again when he feels the faint brush of something against his foot, and when he looks down, he sees that Daisy has uncurled her legs and has stretched them out slightly, knees still bent but one foot resting just beside Jon’s. Jon doesn’t move, and after a moment, Daisy looks at a point just over one of Jon’s shoulders and says, “My dreams are memories, I think.”

Jon moves so his ankle brushes up against hers, and when she shifts her gaze so it meets his, he nods once, tilting his chin slightly forward in a go-on, I’m-listening gesture. He knows she dislikes vulnerability as well—she’d said once that it makes her feel unguarded, open, as if inviting herself to be hurt—but he thinks they’d almost gotten to the point, before everything had gone wrong, where they’d been able to deconstruct all of their walls around each other. Jon’s were already cracked, and they crumbled at the slightest of touches. Daisy’s were thicker, well-fortified, and though they had fractured slightly under the pressure of miles of dirt and sand, they stood solid. Jon shared, and Daisy listened, and it was rarely the other way around. Still, near the end, it felt like it was becoming more balanced, like the bricks were coming loose and holes were beginning to appear through which Jon could look and see the other side clearly.

Jon sees the wall, just for a moment, as Daisy hesitates, her eyes sliding away from his and landing on an indeterminate point behind him. Then, Daisy takes a breath, lets it out, and says, “I close my eyes, and I… I see Basira.” The words clearly upset her, though the only real indication Jon gets is the slightest twitch of her jaw, a small sign of discomfort that he’s come to recognize. “It’s strange, because the way I feel when I look at her… I know it’s me, and it feels like me, but it’s also… not. I look at her, and I want her to come with me, and… and that feels like me. But I also want her to be like me, to… to chase like me, and that feels different. It feels like the part of me that was only Hunt, but it’s still me, just… a different version of me.” She pauses, her throat moving as she swallows sharply. “I like it, in the dreams. I’m happy. I chase, and I kill, and it feels right. And then I wake up, and it feels… wrong. Like I’m existing as two people at once, and they’re both me, but they’re not both me right now.” She takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “I don’t like it.”

Jon presses his ankle against Daisy’s again, then reaches forward tentatively and places a hand atop hers. She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t flip her hand to allow Jon to hold it properly, which is all right. He maintains the two points of contact as Daisy continues, “And then Basira’s holding a gun, and it’s hard, but I can still smell her above the- the blood.” Your blood, she doesn’t say, but Jon can tell she’s thinking it anyway by the way her eyes find his only briefly before glancing away once again. The bite mark scars are just a few inches above where his ankle makes contact with hers. “I say her name, and she looks… sad. Scared. I don’t understand, and I tell her to come. That just makes her look sadder, and there’s so much blood. I can hear it rushing in my ears, can feel it coating my mouth.” Daisy’s fingers twitch beneath his, and her free hand curls into a loose fist atop her knee. “And then she fires the gun. And I know it hurts, but I can’t feel it over the anger. She fires twice more, and…”

Daisy falls silent. Jon curls his fingers loosely around her hand, trying to provide what comfort he can. “And then I wake up,” Daisy says at length. She looks at Jon, and her eyes are heavy. Sad. “The person I was then is still angry at her. Doesn’t understand why she abandoned me, why she didn’t have my back. But who I am now, without the blood… I understand. If she had made a different choice, things would have been worse. Probably would have ended badly.” Daisy pauses, then shrugs—a small motion that’s anything but casual. “She kept her promise. Even though it hurt.”

Jon’s eyes are pulled, almost instinctively, in the direction of the bedroom, where Martin still sleeps soundly. He hesitates a moment before taking his hand away from Daisy’s and shifting so he can grip the hem of his jumper in his hands. He takes a breath to steady himself, then lifts the fabric up to his chin to reveal the jagged scar that cuts across his chest, just beneath his heart in the space where once there had been ribs but now is left empty and unprotected. He brushes a finger against it unthinkingly, feeling the raised texture beneath his fingertip, and then looks back at Daisy, who is staring at his chest with a small furrow in her brow. Jon drops the jumper, letting it settle back over his stomach, picks up the paper and pencil, and writes, in clear, blocky letters, Martin kept his promise, too. Then, he hesitates and scratches the words out, replacing them with, It can hurt to break them, too. He pauses, then scratches those out too. Finally, he settles on, Martin made a similar choice, and then amends it with a quick, Though choice is perhaps a stretch, before holding the paper up for Daisy to see.

Daisy reads the words, one eyebrow arcing into her hairline. “He gave you that?”

Jon nods.

“Hm. Looks an awful lot like a stab wound.”

Jon bites his lip and nods again, slower. Then, hastily, he scribbles, I asked him to, and holds up the paper, because it’s important that she knows. That she knows it wasn’t Martin’s fault.

“You asked him to stab you,” Daisy says. It’s not a question, and it almost sounds incredulous, but there’s also a note of sympathy behind the words. An I understand.

Jon nods, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and writes, It’s a long story.

Daisy hums. “And you feel guilty for it,” she says. Also not a question. Jon looks at her, surprised, and Daisy sighs. “You’re an easy person to read. Terrible poker face.”

Jon scowls, but it softens almost immediately, and he looks away. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Do you feel guilty because you asked him, or because you had to ask him?”

Jon frowns at her. He’s pretty sure those are the same thing—or at least for the circumstances, they’re indistinguishable. For all of it is probably the most accurate answer he can give. He feels guilty for leaving Martin behind and he feels guilty for putting Martin in the position he did and he feels guilty for pressing the knife into Martin’s hand, but it’s complicated because if he had to go back and make the choice all over again, he… he doesn’t know if he would make a different one. He’s guilty, but he’s not sorry. Maybe he’s guilty because he’s not sorry.

“Jon,” Daisy says, and Jon blinks at her. He’s not sure how long he’s been just sitting there, unmoving, but by the expression on her face, it has to have been long enough to be bothersome. He reaches for the paper and, after a moment, writes, Both. Then: Do you feel guilty about Basira?

It’s not a deflection. It’s not. Jon just… he doesn’t know what to think. What to feel. He’s afraid that if he thinks too much about it, he might feel angry, or frustrated, or… worse. And he doesn’t want that. Daisy gives him a considering look, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to let him turn the conversation back on her, before shaking her head. “No. I don’t.”

Jon frowns and tilts his head slightly to the side in a questioning gesture. His knees are starting to cramp where they’re folded up underneath him, so he shifts so his legs are slightly outstretched, the tips of his toes brushing against the sides of Daisy’s thighs. Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, she says, “She understood why I asked her to do what she did. She knew that I didn’t want to be… what I was. Not anymore. I asked her to kill me for my benefit, but also for hers. I… I didn’t want her to see me like that.”

Like a monster? Jon thinks, looking down at where his hands are resting on his lap. He… he thinks he understands the feeling.

“We both did what we had to,” Daisy says, an undercurrent of resignation in her voice. “There’s no use in feeling guilty for something like that. I… I know she won’t feel guilty for doing what she did. Hurt, probably. Sad. Angry. But not guilty.”

Jon curls his hands into loose fists and nods, still looking down at his lap. He knows Martin feels guilty. He can see it on Martin’s face when Jon pulls his jumper over his head to change, Martin’s eyes glancing off the scar on his chest like he can’t stand to look at it. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

He doesn’t know if he can.

Before he can obsess over it more, Jon picks up the pencil and writes, in too-big letters, We should call her. Let her know that you’re alive. It’s even more obviously a deflection than the last, but still, he holds the words up and waits expectantly for Daisy to answer them, trying to ignore the tight curling of anxiety and tension in the pit of his stomach.

The line between Daisy’s eyebrows deepens, and she looks away. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says softly, and Jon frowns. He reaches forward and brushes his hand against hers, and she doesn’t move away, though she also doesn’t look back at him—just keeps her eyes fixated on the kitchen table. The daisies are barely visible, hidden mostly in shadow. “I don’t…” Daisy says, then stops. Her fingers twitch. “I don’t know if she’ll want to see me,” she says finally. Then, quickly after: “I don’t know if I want to see her either.”

Jon’s frown deepens, and he squeezes Daisy’s hand. Daisy must be able to see his expression out of the corner of her eye because she sighs heavily and says, “It’s—complicated, okay? Like I said, the anger is… it’s a part of me. It might still be a part of her. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see her, and it… scares me.” She says the last part like an admission of a crime, like she’s ashamed of it. Jon squeezes Daisy’s hand again, firmer this time, and presses their legs together. She sighs again wearily and says, “Suppose I should let her know that I’m alive, though. Scared or not, she… she deserves that.” She looks at Jon out of the corner of her eye. “Hm.” At Jon’s raised eyebrow, she continues, “Does Basira know that you’re alive?”

Ah. Hm indeed. Jon pinches his lips together and shakes his head. After a moment, he picks up the paper and pencil, though he’s reluctant to let go of Daisy’s hand to do so, and writes, I don’t know if she’ll want to see me either. If that makes you feel any better.

Daisy looks at the paper and lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Not really. I appreciate the effort, though. Is it about the…” Daisy gestures in his general direction. “Archivist-ness?”

Jon grimaces and wobbles his hand from side to side in a kind-of gesture. More about the fact that I ended the world, actually, he writes.

They’d filled Daisy in as best they could when Martin had gotten back from the store, fresh cups of tea held in their hands and Jon trying not to feel frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t easily chime in as Martin told a version of events that Jon very much had opinions on. Martin had repeated the words it wasn’t Jon’s fault about a dozen or so times throughout, while Jon had sat there and tried very hard not to write any form of well, actually on the notebook in front of him. It had been exceedingly difficult.

So he supposes it’s expected that Daisy frowns and says, “Thought that wasn’t your fault,” but he still can’t help the exasperated sigh that escapes him at the words.

It’s complicated, he writes. And it doesn’t matter. Basira thought it was, at least at first, and I

He stops, pencil still resting against the paper, and after a moment, Daisy says, “Going to finish your sentence?”

Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth and continues, I don’t know, then stops again. Another moment passes; he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him like paperweights, a gentle pressure that settles in his chest like an anchor. He forces himself to finish, and once the sentence is complete, he pushes the paper towards Daisy with a displeased expression on his face.

I don’t know if she would be glad to find out I survived.

Daisy stares at the paper for a long moment before holding it back out towards him. “You’re right. You don’t know. Maybe she won’t be, maybe she will be.” Quieter: “Maybe she’ll be angry with you too.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. You don’t know that she’ll be angry with you, he writes, a bit cheekily. Maybe she won’t be, maybe she will be.

“Bastard,” Daisy mutters, and Jon laughs, the exhalation sending the top of the page in front of him aflutter. “Fine. We can tell her we’re both alive together, then. Two birds, one stone.”

Jon nods. There’ll be no way to avoid alerting Basira to the fact that he and Martin are alive once she finds out about Daisy anyway, given that Martin will probably be the one to call her. It’s nice to have solidarity all the same.

They sit and talk about meaningless things then, until Jon runs out of paper space and Daisy’s eyelids begin to droop with exhaustion. Jon doesn’t know if sleep is in the cards for him for the rest of the night, but he feels more boneless and relaxed after spending time with Daisy, so he thinks it might be more in reach than it had been the previous nights. He should go back to the bedroom, he thinks. The bed will be better for his back, and the couch is just barely big enough for two, and he knows it would be nice to press himself to Martin’s side and feel his heartbeat against his cheek, warm and comfortable and safe. But he knows if he returns that Martin will wake, and then Martin will worry, and Jon will feel guilty all over again. So instead, Jon gives Daisy a pointed, questioning look, placing a hand on the space on the couch next to her where he knows he’ll fit if he squeezes in close.

Daisy, to her credit, doesn’t mention Martin. He thinks she understands that desire not to bother the ones you love more than is necessary, given how often she’d spent sleepless nights with him rather than waking Basira. Instead, she presses herself into the back of the couch and allows Jon to wriggle in next to her, pressing his back to her chest and allowing his head to fall underneath her chin in a familiar, practiced motion. She slings an arm over his side, and he breathes out as the weight settles a last lingering bit of unrest within him, exhaustion finally pulling at the edges of his mind as Daisy begins to snore, her chest rumbling against his spine.

He still dreams, and they’re still horrible. But when he wakes with a start however many hours later, the room still dark, Daisy doesn’t even stir, just tightens her grip on him in her sleep. He focuses on the pressure of her arm around him, tries to force his breathing into something even, and when he manages to slip into sleep a third time, he stays there until morning.