#Occasionally I want to take posts by the shoulders and shout ‘YOURE IN THE WAR CRIME SIMULATOR’ because it’s clearly an opinion grounded

[detectiveneve]

accidentally clicked on the for you page and got hit with the most annoying video game opinions. that was so scary.

[charmandabear]

Yule

Summary:

While snuggling by the Yule fire, you forget just how sensitive elf ears can be.

Pairing: Astarion/f!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 2.2k Tags/Warnings: post-game spoilers, cunnilingus, blood drinking, p in v sex, spawn!Astarion, soft!Astarion, fluff and smut, Astarion deserves to be bitten too

Read it on AO3.

Enough people said they'd still be interested in reading holiday-related fics even after the holidays, so here you go! Huge shout-outs to Idylla for their incredible art used in the banner. Their modern!Astarion absolutely ruins me.

Midwinter Nights: Yule | Christmas | New Year's Eve

Astarion curled against you as the Yule fire burned low in the hearth. You knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake all night, despite his insistence to the contrary. It amused you even more because, as an elf, he didn’t really need to sleep. But he had grown so accustomed to it at this point, snuggling up with you each night as you got your mandatory eight hours, it was a harder habit to break. 

You had only just put the most recent batch of cookies in the oven, but you were a little concerned for what would happen when you needed to take them out. Astarion was much like a cat in that way; if he climbed on top of you, it was a crime to disturb him. You could lay there forever, pinned beneath his weight, and you’d thank the gods for it. 

You peered down at him, sleeping so peacefully. He almost looked like a cat, pointy ears occasionally flicking at the warm air that emanated from the fire. You could practically see his tail swishing contentedly. Ever since killing Cazador and reclaiming his freedom, he’d been so drawn to creature comforts, looking for softness and indulgence in all he could find. 

You ran your fingers through his white curls, scratching his scalp absentmindedly. He shifted in his sleep, subconscious nudging him into your touch. You would sit here all night if you could, nails dancing over his pale skin while he slept soundly. You knew that eventually your timer would go off and you would need to take this latest batch of cookies out. But for now, at least, you could just enjoy having him pressed up against your side.

You stared into the fire as your hand wandered, gently stroking his back, his shoulders, his neck. You marveled at how much had changed in these past few months. Karlach and Wyll ventured to Avernus to fight on the front lines of the Blood War, and while you missed them, you knew you were only a ritual away from seeing them at the House of Hope. Gale had gone back to continue his studies in Waterdeep, and Lae’zel found herself living a surprising life of domestic bliss with Shadowheart, newly reunited with her parents. You haven’t heard much from Halsin, Jaheira, or Minsc, but you were certain that they were finding respite wherever they were. 

As you’re getting lost in your thoughts, you stopped paying attention to where your hand flitted across Astarion’s skin; that is, until you heard a breathy moan escape his lips. You looked down and realized that you were running the tip of your pointer around the shell of his ear. You pulled away suddenly, embarrassed as you realized you were basically doing the elf equivalent of teasing his nipples. He whined at the sudden loss of contact, and you sat frozen, unsure if he was awake or not. 

He stirred, legs squirming against a definitive bulge growing in his loose pants. He sat up and blinked sleepily, gears turning as he put together where he was. He turned to you and suddenly his eyes focused, pupils wide like a cat focused on its prey. 

“If you wanted something, you could’ve just asked, you know,” he said in a low purr, and you could feel yourself clench in response to the fire his words stoked deep in your core. 

“Sorry love, it was an accident,” you whispered, trying to sound cool but the crack in your voice gave you away. 

“Accident or no, you’ve made your bed, so I hope you’re ready to lie in it,” he said with a grin, fangs glinting in the firelight. He launched himself onto you, kissing you roughly as he tangled his hands in your hair. You tried to regain your breath as you kissed him back, your hands scrambling for purchase on his clean linen shirt. Your body bent back with the weight of his as he shifted on top of you, prying your legs open with his knee. An unseemly moan escaped your lips as he pressed his hardness right up to the apex of your thighs. You ran your fingers through his hair, though whether it was to regain control or just hang on for dear life, you couldn’t tell. 

Between the heat radiating from the fire, the slight delirium from staying up all night, and the way that your arousal for this man made your head swim, you could barely think straight. He continued to roll his hips into you obscenely, and you could feel the telltale dampness seeping into your small clothes. You spread your legs a little wider, trying to feel that delicious friction through the several layers of fabric that separated you. 

You broke the kiss to take in a gulp of air, beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. His lips migrated to your neck, flicking the tip of his tongue along the puncture wound that had only recently closed up. A shudder surged through your body at the sensation and you squirmed involuntarily, your body urging you closer to his. You rolled your head away from him, presenting your neck as a silent offering as you had so many times before. He needed no further invitation and sunk his teeth into the sensitive flesh, your simultaneous groans of pleasure mingling together in your ears. You knew you were courting danger by letting him bite when you were already woozy, but it was worth the risk for the good it did you both. He always became a little more powerful, a little more dominant right after drinking your blood; for you, the feeling of him siphoning just a little of your life force away gave you an unmatched feeling of ecstasy.

He detached himself from your neck and looked down at you, panting. The sight of him post-feeding always sent you into a frenzy. His cheeks and ears uncharacteristically flushed, his bloody lips in a sedate half-smile, hair a tousled mess, and a wild look in his eyes like he was ready to devour you. You could only imagine what he saw in return; your hair splayed out beneath you, eyes glassy, mouth open in a suspended moan as blood trickled down your neck.

He ran a hand down the front of your blouse and you arched your back to meet his touch. He was still pressed between your legs, your knees hooked around his waist. He ran a finger along the waistband of your pants, causing you to whine needily.

“Tell me what it is you want, pet,” he purred, the predatory cat out in full force. Your hips bucked up against him as you grasped at the rug beneath you. He looked so gorgeous in the orangey firelight, his skin soft and glowy. You pawed wantonly at the hem of his shirt, any semblance of speech leaving your body. He grabbed your flailing wrists and pinned them above your head, bringing his lips within an inch of yours.

“Your words, love. Tell me what you want,” he growled, a little more forcefully than before, eliciting another desperate mewl. 

“Ah- I.. Astarion,” you pled with him and he grinned, fangs pressing into your lips.

“Yes?” The word was a breathless whisper. He looked down the length of his nose at you, crimson eyes piercing into you.

“I want you to taste me,” you squeaked out, writhing beneath the hard length of his body. He pressed his lips to your ear just as he pressed his erection into your mound.

“Good girl,” he hissed, and pushed off your chest to slink downward to your hips. He grabbed your waistband and slid your pants down over your ass, dragging his cool hands across your heated skin. He pressed his lips into your hip and you arched into him, yearning to feel him on every inch of you. Your skin prickled from the heat of the fire, his contrasting touch making you shiver. 

He traveled downward, each kiss pulling a new and more debaucherous sound from your throat. His lips hovered above yours and he relished in making you twitch with need. After a second of teasing that felt like an eternity, he swiped his tongue along your slit and you groaned in relief. He dug his fingers into your thighs as he gently lapped at your folds, making you feel more heated with each pass. He spread your lips apart with his dexterous fingers, tracing lazy shapes with the tip of his tongue.

Your fingers curled into his hair once more, hoping to regain control of your cantering hips. He pushed his tongue deeper into you and your breath grew ragged, your hips begging to fully fuck his face. He relented to your control, letting you grind on his lips and tongue to chase your own satisfaction. Your cries grew in tandem with the pressure that mounted in your core, and this time when your hands wandered to stroke his ears, it was intentional. He moaned into your cunt, a deep, primal sound that sent vibrations directly to your clit, sending you over the edge. He buried his face into you as you rode out the waves of your orgasm, thighs squeezing around his head.

He pulled away once the pulses had subsided and you delighted to see his disheveled face, your juices reflecting in the firelight. He roughly pulled you up onto his lap, pulling your still sensitive swell down hard onto his erection. You moaned into his lips, sharing the taste of you with him.

“You saucy little minx,” he growled even as you could feel his smile through the kiss. Your fingers fumbled at his waistband, desperate to free him and feel him inside you. He peeled your blouse over the top of his head just as you released his cock from his trousers, tip already glistening with precum. Your breath hitched at the sight of it, your pussy already aching to be filled.

The length of his cock teased your folds, and he cupped one of your breasts in his hand, the pad of his thumb skating over the pert nipple. You threw your head back, raising your tits up with a heaving breath just so he could latch on with his mouth, suckling gently. Your arms around his neck, you danced your fingers close to his ear, teasing him as much as you were asking him for more. He pulled off your nipple with a pop and stared red hot daggers into you.

“Careful love. Mess with the cat and get the claws,” he warned in a low and dangerous whisper. He raised your hips up and pulled you down in one fell stroke onto his stiffened cock. The cry he tore out of you was your most obscene yet, but you were already so wet and hungry for him that you slid down to his base without resistance.

You began to ride his dick, your knees pressing against the floor as he stretched you out with every thrust. Now it was his turn to toss his head back, leaving his pale throat open and vulnerable. You sunk your teeth into the cold flesh, your dull human incisors not actually piercing skin, but eliciting a delicious groan from him nonetheless. He kept his hands squarely on your hips as you bounced up and down, relishing the slide of him along your inner walls.

You wanted to see him lose himself in you. You wanted him to come undone like you were. You needed more of those breathy moans in your ear as he unleashed the predator within.

You nipped at his earlobe.

Almost as though an external force possessed his body, he slammed you down onto your back without pulling out of you. He pushed your knees up to your ears and pounded into you forcefully, the edge of your second orgasm rapidly approaching. Your tits bounced with the force of his thrusts, and it took everything in your power to keep your eyes open so you could watch him unravel above you. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his red eyes looked down on you, positively feral. You could see his fangs through the soft o-shape his mouth formed as he came, his orgasm sending you crashing into yours. You could still feel his cock throbbing inside you with each burst of his seed even as your vision slowly faded into black.

You awoke a few moments later curled up on some pillows and a cool washcloth laid across your forehead. Next to you was a glass of water which you gulped down eagerly.

Astarion came back into the room, face still looking deliciously flushed and bitten, with a small plate of cookies. He kneeled down next to you and held one up to your lips, and you accepted the snack without hesitation. He pulled the washcloth from your forehead and kissed your cool damp skin, his lips almost warm in comparison.

“Love, you can't scare me like that. I thought I fucked you into a coma. If you're feeling unwell, say something,” he said, red eyes full of concern. You wave it off with a shrug.

“What can I say? Maybe I like messing with the cat,” you respond with a giggle as you bite down on your cookie, teeth bared playfully.

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 20: Dust on the Wind

The spoilers have nearly claimed that poor horse! Will those of you who haven't finished reading the entire series be next? Only way to be safe is to go somewhere else! This is your one and only warning for this post. There'll be more for later posts though, just to be safe.

This chapter has the Trolloc triptych again, which is a reference to their being hunted by them in Shadar Logoth. You almost feel bad for the hideous abominations again, since they definitely don't want to be here. Go ahead, give one a pet. Just be advised: it won't purr, it'll eat you. I'm not in charge of them.

Rand looked up warily at the buildings they passed, looming now in the night with their empty windows like eye sockets. Shadows seemed to move. Occasionally there was a clatter—rubble toppled by the wind. At least the eyes are gone. His relief was momentary. Why are they gone?

It's totally not the wind, and the eyes are probably no longer staring at you in particular because they're staring at the Trollocs. I suggested last chapter that Mashadar might be the result of AoL ter'angreal, and I really do think that some kind of surveillance mechanism from that era - presumably designed during the War - has been put to an incredibly twisted use as part of whatever's happening here.

Lan and Moiraine rode slowly toward the fog, grown to as big around as a leg, stopping on the other side, well back. The Aes Sedai studied the branch of mist that separated them. Rand shrugged at a sudden itch of fear between his shoulder blades. A faint light accompanied the fog, growing as the foggy tentacle became fatter, but still only a little more than the moonlight.

That said, Mashadar proper can't be connected to the surveillance directly, or if it is the surveillance isn't visual but pings solely to the corruption of the Shadow. Moiraine calls it unseeing and aimless, though as we'll see this is only partly true. This again feels like it could well be based on some device from the Age of Legends, quite possibly a hideous creation built by someone working for the Shadow or just too ethically awful to be a good guy. A kill cloud like this would be a terrific weapon of war in the etymological sense of the word. Of course, it's certainly something more now.

Keep on toward that star, and it will bring you to the river. Whatever happens, keep moving toward the river.

But it's in the eastern sky and this story takes place on Earth, which spins in that direction! In just a couple hours it'll be overhead and by the end of the night it'll be in the west or even set! Moiraine, did you fail your astronomy class in the Tower? Is this why everyone stays separated this chapter?

(Also, if it's Mars that she's pointing at, which it well might be if the star is just generally east and not precisely due east at that very moment, then the astrological implications of telling the Dragon Reborn to go to war are absolutely fascinating.)

When Rand looked up from the thick trunk of opaque mist, the Warder and the Aes Sedai were gone. He licked his lips and met his companions’ eyes. They were as nervous as he was. And something worse: they all seemed to be waiting for someone else to move first. 

Note that Thom is just as much out of his comfort zone as the rest of the gang is. Sure he's an assassin and a queen's fuckboi and all sorts of other things, but this is way more metaphysical evil than he's ever had to deal with.

Two Trollocs stepped into the street before them, not ten spans away. For an instant the humans and the Trollocs just stared at one another, each more surprised than the other.

You might think this is the most comical thing on this page, but you'd be wrong.

Another pair of Trollocs appeared, and another, and another, colliding with the ones in front, folding into a shocked mass at the sight of the humans. 

Another contender, just the next sentence even, but nope.

“This way!” he shouted, but he heard the same cry from five throats. A hasty glance over his shoulder showed him his companions disappearing in as many directions, Trollocs pursuing them all.

This is just absolutely perfect. Literally each and every one of these idiots thinks they're a leader and somehow manages to pick a different direction. In an orderly, well-planned city like this one you wouldn't even think it's possible to pick more than four directions, one of which should be blocked off by the Trollocs, but these idiots put their collective brain cell to use and find a way.

The thickening tentacles of fog swung uncertainly for a moment, then struck like vipers. At least two latched to each Trolloc, bathing them in gray light; muzzled heads went back to scream, but fog rolled over open mouths, and in, eating the howls. Four leg-thick tentacles whipped around the Fade, and the Halfman and its black horse twitched as if dancing, till the cowl fell back, baring that pale, eyeless face. The Fade shrieked.

Yeah, Mashadar is not entirely unaware, it just has preferred prey and incidental prey.

Mat swallowed hard before pulling himself awkwardly back into his saddle. “I . . . I. . . . Just Trollocs.” He put a hand to his throat, and licked his lips. “Just Trollocs. You?”

What aren't you telling us, Mat? Was the Trolloc encounter just that terrifying? Did the city show you more of its ghosts? Is the dagger already corrupting your mind?

Listening for the slightest sound, Rand kept the red star dead ahead. Suddenly Thom galloped by from behind, slowing only long enough to shout, “Ride, you fools!” A moment later hunting cries and crashes in the brush behind him announced the presence of Trollocs on his trail.

I feel like Rand wasn't listening very well based on how Thom and the Trollocs all sneak up on him. Just saying.

Perrin sat his horse in the shadows, watching the open gateway, some little distance off yet, and absently ran his thumb along the blade of his axe. It seemed to be a clear way out of the ruined city, but he had sat there for five minutes studying it.

Well look at that, folks. For the first time since the Prologue we're getting a non-Rand POV. This book series ends up with way too many POVs, but at the moment it almost feels like we're overdue.

On the downside, it's Perrin, who apparently doesn't know how to use a gate without someone helping him. It won't get better either. Not only will he be assigned a helper for such tasks, but he'll still spend all of book 13 struggling with them.

“Rand?” came a soft, hesitant call.

Aw, she really does love him best. We're only allowed to know this when we aren't Rand though, because it's Perrin who's good with girls. ;)

A Trolloc horn sounded somewhere behind them, quick, wailing blasts, urging the hunters to hurry, hurry. Then thick, half-human howls rose on their trail, spurred on by the horn. Howls that grew sharper as they caught the human scent.

I'm going to guess that this is the horn Rand heard that was outside Shadar Logoth, and that its proximity to the horn inside the city was a lucky coincidence to keep him on his toes. If so, the first one was for Thom.

Doggedly, he set out swimming for the far bank.

Geddit?

At least, he tried to keep his head out of the water; it was not easy. Even without the cloak, his coat and boots each seemed to weigh as much as he did. And the axe dragged at his waist, threatening to roll him over if it did not pull him under.

I think that is to some degree based on Jordan's real experiences. Obviously he wouldn't have Perrin's style of clothing or weaponry though.

When he had his breath again, he called their names again and again. Faint shouts from the far side answered him; even at that distance he could make out the harsh voices of Trollocs. His friends did not answer, though.

Perrin, you are even worse at this than Rand! Let's blame the hypothermia that should be setting in after you swam across a river in supernatural winter and are still running around in your soaked clothing. So yeah, Perrin dies in the night, we never see him again, back to Rand.

“I still say it’s over there,” Mat said, gesturing off to his right. “We were going north at the end, and that means east is that way.” “There it is,” Thom said abruptly. He pointed through the tangled branches to their left, straight at the red star. Mat mumbled something under his breath.

Don't feel bad, Mat. At this point, the star is no longer low in the sky and Thom is actually pointing at a different star altogether, because that's how the night sky works and you all should know that because light pollution hasn't existed for thousands of years and none of you had anything else to do at night but watch the sky!

Suddenly Thom’s gelding galloped out of the night, hard behind the Trollocs. The Trollocs had only time enough to look back in surprise before the gleeman’s hands whipped back and then forward. Moonlight flashed off steel. One Trolloc tumbled forward, rolling over and over before landing in a heap, while a second dropped to its knees with a scream, clawing at its back with both hands. The third snarled, baring a muzzleful of sharp teeth, but as its companions toppled it whirled away into the darkness. Thom’s hand made the whip-like motion again, and the Trolloc shrieked, but the shrieks faded into the distance as it ran.

It's been years since Thom's been a killer of royals, but he's still really good at it!

Somewhere away from the river a Trolloc horn brayed, sharp, quick, and urgent in the darkness. It was the first sound from the horns since they had left the ruins. Rand wondered if it meant some of the others had been captured.

Hmm, maybe this is the horn for chasing Perrin and Egwene. Hard to say.

“But Moiraine and the others could be anywhere,” Mat protested. “Any way we choose could just take us further away.” “So it could.” Clucking to his gelding, Thom turned downriver, heading along the bank. “So it could.” Rand looked at Mat, who shrugged, and they turned after him.

Silly Mat, if you picked the direction, you'd find them immediately. That said, Thom is determined to lose Moiraine at this point. Frankly, he gets them to the boat so quickly you'd think he'd been reading the shipping forecasts in Baerlon.

The man Rand had stepped on scrabbled away from him on hands and knees, then flung up his hands when he saw Rand looking at him. “Spare me!” he cried. “Take whatever you want, take the boat, take everything, but spare me!”

I forgot just how much of a coward that Gelb is.

Suddenly the ship lurched, and a boom swung out of the shadows to catch the Trolloc across the chest with a crunch of breaking bones, sweeping it over the side.

Rand's second channeling attempt, triggered only when he's seconds from death. He assumes it's luck, which is silly because I've already mentioned that's Mat's thing.

“Gelb!” he bellowed. “Fortune! Where do you be, Gelb?” He spoke so fast, with all the words running together, that Rand could barely understand him. “You can no hide from me on my own ship! Get Floran Gelb out here!”

Lots of people complain about Jordan's world only having a single language, but considering what the Illianers have for an accent, I invite you all to instead be grateful we never had to hear a foreigner struggle with the modern tongue or Rand struggle with Aiel or whatever.

Also, Bayle Domon! <3

“These Trollocs do be following me. Why will they no leave me be? Why?”

Rand is too busy being exhausted from channeling to notice this comment, but you should! Bayle is being followed by the Shadow and its spawn because he has one of the seven seals on his ship.

“And then where the wind takes us,” Thom interrupted smoothly. “That’s how gleemen travel, like dust on the wind. I am a gleeman, you understand, Thom Merrilin by name.” He shifted his cloak so the multihued patches stirred, as if the captain could have missed them. “These two country louts want to become my apprentices, though I am not yet sure I want them.” Rand looked at Mat, who grinned.

Good to know that some twisted memory of Kansas survives after all this time! Also thanks Thom, this is twice you've saved Rand and Mat's asses this chapter.

“Alas, what little we managed to carry away was with our horses, which bolted when those last Trollocs appeared. All I have left are my flute and my harp, a few coppers, and the clothes on my back. But believe me, you want no part of that treasure. It has the taint of the Dark One. Best to leave it to the ruins and the Trollocs.”

Oh yeah, RIP Cloud. The Wiki says the horse is alive but let's be real: those Trollocs were hungry and winter sucked. Their horses are fucking dead.

Reluctantly Rand emptied his pocket. There was not much, a few coppers and the silver coin Moiraine had given him. He held it out to the captain. After a second, Mat sighed and did the same. Thom glared, but a smile replaced it so quickly that Rand was not sure it had been there at all.

Thom is smart enough to realize that the only reason these two hicks have silver coins is Moiraine, and educated enough to know how awesome it is they're getting rid of her influence over them. Well, that's how he'd put it, roughly. This is really only going to cause no end of grief.

This winter past, though, there be farms burning every night. Aye, and whole villages, too, betimes. They even came right up to the city walls. And if that no be bad enough, the people be all saying it meant the Dark One be stirring, that the Last Days be come.

One of the reasons Tenobia has so much free time to go gallavanting after Rand's attention in the later books is of course that she doesn't need to rule anyone anymore. They clearly all died in these attacks, so she's not a bad ruler at all!

No wait that doesn't make sense and neither does the Borderland nonsense. Frankly this kind of stuff should be making it all the more important that they stay at home and reinforce their borders.

Once they were on deck Thom looked around quickly to make sure he would not be overheard, then growled, “I could have gotten us passage for a few songs and stories if you two hadn’t been so quick to show silver.”

Sorry Thom, I think you're wrong here. Maybe most voyages you coulda pulled this off, but not this one. Even if Domon weren't ferrying around one of the cosmic keystones, even if he weren't justifiably suspicious as all hell, Rand had to lose his coin to make the Pattern happy.

“I told her I’d take care of her. I should have tried harder.” The creak of the sweeps and the hum of the rigging in the wind made a mournful tune. “I should have tried harder,” he whispered.

Egwene's death was not planned at this point, but you have to admit Rand's worry over her right now makes good bookends with it. Shame it takes him so long to be okay with everyone else having agency.

Next time: More wind references! A new POV! Another example of why you never split the party!

[rcubens]

TASK ONE ✉ —

A courier arrives with a letter marked with Mrs. Tristan’s elegant cursive. With a sense of foreboding, you open the letter and read the devastating news: Richard has passed away, leaving behind Woodrow House and its vast estate.

Adams Morgan was an interesting neighbourhood. A sort of party spot— or as lively as Washington, D.C. could muster. He was used to sidestepping the contents of someone’s stomach and abandoned pizza boxes as tired eyes trailed a copy of the morning paper and tired limbs dragged him to the local coffee shop with the cute barista that looked a bit like Kirsten Dunst. A door jingles as he enters and a few bleary eyes look up from iBooks before returning to their screens. Today she smiles, beams at him actually, and is chatty and cracks jokes with her male coworker— today is going to be a good day.

The purple Sharpie smiley face on his coffee cup makes him stand a little taller on the walk down Columbia Road. He skips up the steps of his pre-war building and comes face to face with his doorman.

“Morning Alphonso—”

“Mr Sharpe this came for you this morning, said it was important I see that it got to you directly,”

The older man looks nervous as he hands Reuben an important looking cream coloured envelope. Reuben’s job occasionally (very occasionally) had important elements that required his attention. Concierge Alphonso didn’t want the fall of the country to fall so squarely on his shoulders so he made sure Reuben’s important mail was delivered personally.

“Oh cool, thanks,” Reuben takes it without much of a glance, tucking it under his arm with the post. Waving nonchalantly at Alphonso as the elevator doors shutter closed. He drops his things at the little table in his doorway, maybe if it’s an invite to the Hill he’ll be able to brag about it in the office.

His lobbying firm was in an old limestone building. A place that commanded a presence, it felt like the kind of place you’d conduct backroom shady deals that doomed your constituents. Though inside, it was renovated into a sleek, modern, amalgamation of glass, leather and light Scandinavian wood. It commanded a presence in a different way, a way that said they were ready to lead the charge into the new political landscape.

As he drops into the chair, a secretary sets a stack of papers on his desk and rattles off things he should be paying attention to but all he can see is the brown strand framing her face that bounces as she speaks. He thanks her with a smile and sends her on her way.

He opened it in the office. What stupid fucking idea that was. A paper cup of coffee hits the sleek glass desk and a sweet espresso-y stain blooms onto documents that definitely shouldn’t be covered in coffee. “Fuck,” he says quietly at first. The heavyweight card stock feels like it might fall through the floor. He’s blinking back tears. Richard Woodrow was a sick old man for doing this. Of course weeks after Reuben saw him and yelled and ranted and raved and behaved like he was thirteen again. “Fuck,” He says a little louder this time. Throwing the letter down on his desk. He would leave them all. The 16 of them all messed up in their own unique ways, in his stupidly massive house, acting like some sort of real world version of the X-Men. Hopefully Reuben was Scott Summers. They didn’t deserve this, they’d already lost so much already. “Fuck!” This time he’s shouting. The secretary pokes her head in and Reuben snaps at her to shut his door. This was all his fault. If he didn’t go this never would’ve happened. He upset the 70 year old to death. Well if there was anyone to ever do it, of course it’d be Reuben.

The wet and sticky paper is squished between his forehead and the desk as he quietly weeps. He doesn’t know if he spends an hour like that or ten minutes. He turns his head to the side before reaching out for his office phone and dialling Angus’ number.

[yourmcu]

Forgotten [DISCONTINUED]

Pairings: Tony Stark x daughter!reader, Peter Parker x Stark!reader (platonic)

Request: 

Hello i love your story could you do angsty tony x daughter reader. Wherein the reader has a twin brother and Tony and the avengers prefer the twin brother and becaus of that, the reader became rebel and badass. She always getting trouble and almost drop out student. The avengers and her father were seem disappointed and dont know what to do. Not until the reader involve into car accident and she's critical injured. The reader also slipped to coma. Everyone is devastated about the reader conditione. And they realized that the reader only rebel because she wants to get attention from them. It depends to you what the end come, I just want a full angst this week and I hope you dont mind my English. Anyway I hope your alright.

Word count: 1,627

A/n: (to anon: I’d like to apologize for not finishing this) I don’t think I have any intention to anymore tbh so- I’m just posting this for fun now lmaolmao

hella big update: the continued version is here!

Warnings: bad angst and writing hee hee. no I’m serious this is bad

gif not mine! credits to the owner^^

Being a genius/billionaire/superhero’s kid doesn’t always sound nice like it usually does.

You were one of the Stark twins, the other half being your brother, Ethan.

The both of you showed signs that you inherited the commonly known Stark trait (intelligence) at a young age. But Tony mostly focused on his son, showing him all his inventions and gadgets, teaching him everything he knew while you on the other hand, were being babysat by Happy or Pepper, sometimes Rhodey.

You tried so hard to get your father’s attention but he always had his excuses:

“I don’t have time for that.”

“I’m busy with Ethan right now.”

“Maybe later.”

At first you didn’t mind if your brother got all the praise and attention. It wasn’t until your mid-teens that you really started to feel left out and ignored.

You were left to frown when the other Avengers never found anything interesting about you, just like Tony did. They all liked Ethan better. The topic of him being the next Iron Man when Tony retires is getting exhausting.

There was this one time when Tony announced that they were all going out to dinner since Ethan got, yet again, a full set of A’s on his report card.

“Did you get my card?” You tapped on Tony’s shoulder lightly.

He gave you a side glance, “ah shoot, I forgot. I’ll go get it tomorrow.” Then returned his attention to your brother.

But he ended up forgetting again the next day and you had to convince your teacher to give it to you instead. Your marks had A’s, but littered with B’s as well, of course that was no match for your brother’s perfect marks.

And that sort of scenario wasn’t just a one time thing, Tony forgets to pick up your report card every. single. time. The messed up part was you and Ethan literally attended the same school, he was just in a more advanced class than you.

As time passed, Tony went from ignoring you to getting annoyed and pissed at you for everything you did. In his eyes, you were always in the wrong. And the reason? You didn’t know.

“Dad? Can I borrow Bruce for a minute?” You knocked on the glass door of his lab to get him to look up.

He didn’t, but responded, “kinda busy with him right now.”

You looked at your fractured arm, regretting your decisions. “W-well, Ethan was training with Nat, and... and he wanted to try the new moves he learned on me. He went a little hard and - I think my arm’s broken, I just wanted Bruce to check it out-”

“Goddammit!” He shouted after you heard a glass shatter. Bruce covered his face with palms, muttering an ‘oh no’.

Tony glared at you, striding to where you were standing. All that was left for you to do was to brace yourself for what was about to come. “See, this is why we never let you do anything with the team,” he spat. “That right there?”-he pointed to your arm-“that’s on you. Things go wrong because you’re in the way!”

“I’m... I’m sorry-”

“Just get out of here.”

Your arm remained untreated after that.

Then Peter Parker came into the picture. Friendly guy, he was actually nice to you. Him and Ethan got along right away when Tony first recruited him. The fact that he treated Peter better than you made you even more miserable. It made you think he never wanted a daughter in the first place.

You first met Peter when he accidentally entered your room without warning, thinking it was the bathroom. Cliche, but that’s what happened.

“It’s on the first door to your other left,” you stated.

“Yeah, yeah okay, thanks,” he turned around to leave but stopped to look at you again. “I’m Peter Parker, by the way.”

“Y/N Stark.”

Peter’s eyes lit up at your last name. “I... I didn’t know Mr. Stark had a daughter - no offense! It’s just-”

You sighed and waved him off. He didn’t even notice the similarities you had with your twin. “It’s fine. I get that a lot.”

After many events of being, to be blunt, treated like shit, you finally had enough. You neglected your studies, only went to school when you felt like it (which was rare). No one cared your grades anyway, so what’s the point? You became a whole new person, you surrounded yourself with the wrong sort of people, causing you to dabble into smoking and alcohol.

Since you were always in trouble, you could recite Cap’s detention speech at school by heart now.

The principal of your school wanted to see Tony to talk about your behavior. Normally he’d make an excuse not to go if it wasn’t that important but he got flooded with messages from the school, so he couldn’t say no.

You had your legs crossed, sitting across from Tony who had his eyebrows furrowed as he listened to the principal. For some reason you didn’t feel nervous. “Y/N barely attends her classes. I’ve seen every attendance. Are you aware of this, Mr. Stark?”

Tony only maintained his usual relaxed posture and avoided your gaze.

“Some students have also seen her smoke in school grounds. We gave her a few weeks suspension for it, but it doesn’t look like she’s learned her lesson.” They pulled out a couple boxes of cigarettes from the desk drawer. “We found these in her locker.”

“You went into my locker?” You shot up from your seat. “You can’t just do that!”

Tony cleared his throat and got up, gripping your wrist. “I’ll take it from here - will that be all?”

On the way out he doesn’t say a word to you, only that his grip on your wrist got tight as you near the car.

“So,” he started the car. His voice was calm, but it screamed that you were in deep trouble. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

You sighed and slouched in the passenger’s seat, crossing your arms. “I’m... sorry you had to know...?”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna be honest with you here,” Tony still doesn’t look at you. “When I found out I had two kids, I got worried about Ethan.”

You let out a snort. Of course he would.

“I didn’t want him ending up like me. But surprise surprise, my daughter did instead.”

“I’m not ‘ending up’ like you, Dad-”

“Then what do you call - this,” he referred to you. “What, you’re just gonna waste your life, drop out of school? You’re a fucking mess, Y/N, and here I thought I raised you right. Sometimes I think: why can’t you just be like your brother?” He had a hard grip on the steering wheel as he drove, the way he spoke affected the speed of the car greatly.

You opened your mouth to speak but you couldn’t fine the exact words you wanted to say. “I... well, I’m sorry I’m not a goody two shoes like him!”

“That’s not what I-”

“Please, that’s exactly what you meant.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Look, I’m grounding you until you pull yourself together, understand?” And he did. He gave new orders to Friday when the both of you got home. You weren’t allowed to leave the compound without Tony’s permission.

Were you giving up that easily? Of course not.

You were on your laptop for the rest of the day, hacking into Friday’s system, the security to the elevator and the entrance. That night, your executed your plan and everything went smoothly.

“This is why you never underestimate me,” you sighed, deactivating the hack once you were out of the building. 

Your friend who was picking you up was already waiting a few blocks away from the compound. “I hope you’re cool with me staying over for a couple days.”

“If a bunch of Avengers come and destroy my place to look for you, I’m not going to be friends with you anymore.”

You laughed at out, “oh trust me, they don’t care.”

----

The next day no one noticed your absence, nobody did for another two days. Tony just assumed you were mad about your punishment, so he didn’t think of it much.

Not until Peter came to the compound on the third day, wanting to hang out with you.

“Whatcha got there, Pete?” Ethan asked.

“Star Wars movies. I wanna watch them with Y/N - she could use some company, don’t you think?”

The older Stark twin shrugged, “yeah, I guess she could.”

Peter then headed to the elevator and stopped at the floor where your room was. He knocked on your door and waited a bit, after a few minutes of silence he knocked again, still nothing.

“Y/N? Is it okay if I come in?” He called out. No response. He hesitated a bit, for all he knew you were probably changing or something, or you could be in danger. He went to open the door anyway. “I’m coming in, I’ll close my eyes just to be-”

To Peter’s surprise, your room was empty.

----

You were at a 711 parking lot, waiting for your friends who were buying supplies for a house party. You gave them your wallet, not really caring about anything anymore. Your phone was starting to pile up with messages and missed calls from Tony, Edward and Peter, occasionally from the others as you scrolled pass more.

Without thinking you threw your phone to the ground, cracking the screen, breaking it completely. They’d be able to track you through it now that they know you ran away. You really had no intention of coming back. You weren’t wanted, what’s the point of going back?

[noroger]

Traumatic

Tommy Shelby x Sister Shelby reader

Summary: Sister Shelby and the Shelby have a traumatic experience one night.

A/N: This is part 1 since i’m getting the hang of writing again, people who have requested they are drafted and are waiting to be posted :) i want to see the response before i post.

Everyone was tucked away in their beds at Waterly Lane after an eventful night at the Garrison. Due to the whole Shelby family being drunk they decided it was best to stay there and not travel until the morning. They had been celebrating a friend’s wedding and it had all gotten a little too out of hand once John announced that drinks were on the house.

It was nearing 3am when Y/N Shelby, the youngest Shelby sister at the age of 14 felt as though her conciounes was telling her to wake up, however she ignored it thinking it was the buzz from Arthur allowing her to take occasional sips from his whiskey at the Garrison.

The breeze from her open window had become stronger than she had felt when she first had opened it. Sighting she decided it was best to go close it before she regretted it and woke up to a freezing cold room i’m the morning.

She froze as soon as she heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor in the very same room she was in. Who was in this room with her? Was she just hearing things?

Peering around slowly she saw the eyes of a man she did not know looking straight back at her. He smiled and put his finger up to his lips in attempt to tell her to be quiet. Y/N was not stupid.

“TOMMY!” She yelled knowing his room was right beside hers as the kidnapper dragged her from her bed and she landed with a strong thud or the floor.

“LEAVE ME ALONE! HELP!” She cried, praying her family weren’t too out of it from the alcohol they had consumed just hours before.

“Shut up” the attacker hist at her as they tried to pick her kicking form off the floor.

Tommy woke up with a jolt from a nightmare of the war, he dreamt of his youngest sister screaming out to him from no mans land, he ran a hand over his face as he realised it was just a dream and that his sister would be sleeping.

“TOMMY!” He felt his heart sink into his stomach when he realised her screams for him had been real.

Sprinting out of bed he started yelling at his brothers to wake up. “Y/N?” he called as he heard commotion in her bedroom?. He tried to open the door and had no luck, he knew there was no lock so whoever was in that room had thought strategacly about this whole thing.

John and Arthur came barrelling out their rooms at the same time in shock at what was even happening.

“SOMETHING IS UP AGAINST THE DOOR” He shouted at his oldest sibling as he tried to use his shoulder to knock whatever it was over.

The attacker quickly grabbed her as he saw the chair was beginning to fall down, making his way to the window he knew he would never be able to get down with her in his arms without the Shelbys grabbing them back in.

“What on earth is happening!” Aunt Polly shouted at her nephews for making such a ruckus.

“Someone’s in that room with Y/N” John rushed out shakily as he tried to think of what to do.

All Shelbys we’re now up from their slumber and now aware of the stranger they had in their house. They would not lose her, they could not let his man take her away from them.

“You have to catch her?!” the man shouted at his accomplice who was standing at the bottom of her window with the car ready to go.

“I-i can’t, what if i drop her?” he man bellow panicked.

Arthur and Tommy both slambed their shoulders into the door whilst John ran downstairs to see if there was anymore outside. The screaming of their sister motivated them to ram through the door faster. That was the only thing they could focus on.

“Whoever is in there i’m gonna fooking kill ya” Arthur yelled.

Bursting through the door they saw a man throwing her out his arms and trying to scurry away however Arthur was fast enough and dragged him back in with his hair and threw him to the ground.

Tommy looked out the window to see John wrestling a 2nd man down on the ground however he also saw the car speed around the corner and out of their street. His heart fell even further as he knew they had succeeded in what they had come here to do. They had taken the youngest Shelby to probably use against them.

Y/N cried out in fear as the man driving the car also held a gun to her head. “Stay where you are and i won’t need to use this thing !”

“They’ve fucking took her!” Tommy grabbed his hair and he paced around. “FUCK!” he kicked the chair that was now broken and lying on the floor.

Arthur had dragged the man out of the room and all the way into the betting shop so they could properly interrogate him. John stormed in with a panicked look on his face a he has just killed the man who dared to try take her . All Shelbys were now up and ready to find their darling girl.

“I’ve called the blinders, everyone is out looking” Polly hurried out as she walked into the room.

“She asked to stay in my room when we got back” Finn tried to hold back his tears. “I should have let her! she would have been safe!” he cried out.

Tommy was by the phone making calls to other people to notify them about what had happened. They hoped your kidnapper would hurry up and inform them what they needed to do to get her back. Tommy knew whatever they wanted he would give to them in a heartbeat, just to have her back in his arms is all he wanted. Y/N Shelby was still the innocent one in the family, she was the light of their life’s. They all needed her to survive.

“It’s alright Finn” Polly brought him into a hug as the tears from her eyes were also threatening to fall. “It’s alright”.

Hours had passed but there was no news as to where and who had taken you.

Would they back unharmed? That’s all the hoped of.

Meanwhile the youngest Shelby had been dragged out of the car and into a building she did not recognise one bit. She heard a laugh that made shivers go down her spine as she knew she recognised it.

“You got her!” The voice cheered out, “Good lad”.

The figure came closer and she felt her heart drop into her feet.

“Hello girl” The man came up to them, “Sorry to take you at such a time in the morning, we just needed you here quicker then we thought” the man chucked.

She knew he was an awful man but she did not know he could go this low. She knew from her brothers, sister and her aunt of how horrible this man was.

In front of her very own eyes was the man who had planned to ruin the Shelbys life once again.

This man was Sir. Arthur Shelby. Their own dad.

[lin-nin]

Tribulation & Tenderness - Chapter 5

Ship: Main Technoblade x Reader, some Dream x Reader

Plot: You're a princess in a Kingdom suffering a years long famine. In a desperate attempt to help your people, you accept one simple offer: Marriage to the crown prince of a neighboring kingdom. Anything to help your people survive. Surely it can't be too bad, can it?

Chapter List: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Disclaimer:   Cross-posted on Wattpad (discontinued) and Ao3. This is based off of everyone's CHARACTERS. I do not write fanfic based off the actual people.

-- Chapter 5: Confrontation < | Previous Chapter Technoblade Focal Point The two of them had sat in the library for a while after that, talking about only a few topics in between long spaces of silence. Techno had used that time to observe the princess. He noted the way her hair fell, the nervous shifting of her weight in the chair. She even would chew her lip in thought. Whatever she was thinking about was horribly hard to discern, though it was easy enough to see she was worried. Not that she could be entirely blamed.

She had looked worried and stressed this entire time. From the moment he had walked into the throne room and made eye contact with her. She was intimidated. He imagined he wasn't exactly the norm to what she often saw here. Her kingdom was known for its softness. Its inclination to avoid conflict. It was a point of confusion for why he was being made to marry her. His father had said that there were powerful allies in peace just as there often was in war. It was true, yet it was boring, in a way.

He was pulled from his reverie as she stood, glancing to the window. "It's nearing dinner time," A wistful sigh escaped her after the statement, "Do you want to take your books up to your room first? You didn't touch them, I assume you'd want to read them eventually." She had turned back towards him, gesturing to the few books he had picked out. That was his initial plan, in truth. Yet she was sitting there with that worried look on her face. It would have seemed wrong to not at least speak to her.

Slowly, Techno rose to his feet as well, pausing to get his books. "Yeah, I'll bring them back come morning." He turned, waiting for her as she came to his side. Once she had, he started walking, occasionally glancing at her from his peripheral.

"Great! I mean, ah, obviously you can keep them longer if needed. I don't expect you to read them all tonight." She stammered over her words again, looking away. Techno laughed quietly in response. Seemed like the brief comfort didn't last. It was definitely amusing to watch, though. She had a habit of stumbling over her words.

"Depends how well I'm able to sleep. Either way I won't hold onto them for long." Reassuring her seemed to ease her some, her shoulders relaxing. She was certainly a character. She simply walked with him then, staring ahead of them. She stood and waited outside his room, letting him take the few moments he needed to set the books down. He set them down atop the trunk sitting at the foot of his bed, pausing for a few seconds. Hopefully their parents had worked out their problems. He warned his father long ahead of time that this arrangement wouldn’t be received well.

His fingers brushed the book and he sighed, head shaking. If they hadn’t, he just wouldn’t deal with it. It wasn’t worth it. He had little to gain from this. He had his doubts the marriage would be jeopardized under any circumstance. There would be too much worry about upsetting his kingdom. They also had the food that was desperately needed here. Even if they were unsettled about his presence as opposed to Wilbur’s, they would deal with it.

He blew out a small puff of air, leaving the room once more. He glanced at the princess again, and she offered up a smile. Did she know of the unrest among her parents? Perhaps she did, but she didn’t show it. That, or she didn’t know enough to give her reason to be afraid of him. Ignorance of some form, then. That or a good actress, but she didn’t exactly give off that vibe.

“You’ll have to forgive our dinner. As you know we’ve been rather tight of food lately. Of course, you’re helping with that and it means… a lot. To both me and my citizens, I imagine.” Moments like this, it shone that she was a princess raised with diplomacy and respect. When she had to be this way, she would be. Even though she seemed to be so bumbling and awkward outside of diplomacy.

“It was in our best interest. We aren’t exactly hurting for food ourselves,” He explained. They had quite a surplus, in truth. Their lands had been generous for a few years. It made sense to give extra to a neighboring kingdom. It wouldn’t do if someone took advantage of their weakened state for an invasion.

“All the same, you have our eternal thanks.” She smiled softly, wandering along towards the dining hall with him. The silence wasn’t entirely awkward like the past ones. This one was a touch more comfortable, even as they walked into the dining hall, which was filled with soft chatter. Almost immediately, he felt a gaze on him. His head turned, seeking out the holder.

At the same time he spotted the blonde-headed man, the girl beside him bounded forward with a shout of, “Dream!” She settled into the spot beside him, having left Techno as if he wasn’t there in the first place. Dream, as she had called him, offered her a smile. His green eye never left him, though. It bore into him almost resentfully. In a way, it was unnerving. In the same way it was familiar in a way he couldn’t name. His other eye was hidden beneath an eyepatch of gold fabric, the gold filigree lace covering some of the scar that tried to peak out from the bottom.

Other than that he was almost plain. His clothes were dark green and simple, fairly understated for someone sitting beside a princess. Techno pursed his lips, but moved into the seat across from his fiancee. She seemed fairly content with the set up, though the other did not.

“Right! Dream, this is Prince Technoblade. Techno, this is Dream. My best friend,” She introduced with a grin, reaching for a cup nearby to sip from. The two looked at each other for a long moment. Waiting for the other to say something first.

“Your reputation precedes you, Technoblade.” Dream spoke in a calculated tone, causing Techno to narrow his eyes. The princess nudged him, shooting him a look. Like she could tell he was not happy.

“I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. Everyone seems surprised by my arrival,” He mused. Prodding, almost. He could already tell Dream did not like him. He didn’t even care that much.

“We weren’t expecting you. I trust you’ll take care of her all the same.” An embarrassed expression crossed the princess’s face, nose scrunching a little. Like she looked dissatisfied with the implication she needed taking care of.

“I think I’m capable of taking care of her. I don’t let harm befall my family,” He fired back. A smug smirk curled his lips as Dream huffed. The girl across from him looked to the side with her own little huff, though they seemed to mean different things.

“I can take care of myself, thank you,” she grumbled, crossing her arms.

“You can’t even hold a sword.” Dream was quick to retort, causing an almost frustrated pout to cover her face.

“I can very well teach her, even if she doesn’t know. It’s good knowledge to have, regardless of status and who she’s with.” The look Dream sent Techno at this was dirty, clearly unhappy with the words. The princess, however, looked a little more interested. A light sparkled in her eyes, and Techno had a feeling she just hadn’t been allowed to learn. As expected from a soft kingdom like this.

Dinner proceeded a little more calmly, with the princess and Dream firing back and forth to each other multiple times. Techno only chimed in when he saw fit, otherwise resigning himself to his meal. As the meal closed, both he and Dream stood. He leveled Dream with a stare, resisting the urge to grab onto one of his swords.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” He finally broke the silence. Mainly just to irritate the man, and see the look on his face. She, however, smiled up at Techno, and gently patted Dream’s arm. This barely seemed to placate him as he huffed, turning to leave the dining hall.

“Thank you, Techno,” She hummed, waiting for him near the door. He nodded, walking with her outside of the hall. Habitually he put a hand on the pommel of one of his swords, well aware of the dangers that came with it being night. She led him towards the other side of the castle, seeming rather content with the silence for a few moments.

“Did you mean it?” She finally asked, looking up at him. He turned his head just slightly, looking at her curiously.

“Mean what?”

“That you’d teach me to hold a sword. Or fight with it,” She explained quietly, looking away. Like she was unsure about the whole idea.

“I’m willing to teach you to fight with something. It doesn’t make sense for you to not be able to defend yourself should you need to.” They rounded a corner, and she seemed extremely content with the answer.

“My parents wouldn’t teach me, and neither would Dream.” She hardly seemed happy at that, but the contentment she expressed at being able to learn at some point was rather nice. An eager student was a good one, truthfully.

“We’ll have to figure out what will fit you best when we get to my kingdom. Maybe after the wedding.” He tried to ignore how awkward it felt to say that, and she seemed equally flustered. She hesitated outside her door, as if contemplating if there were anything else she needed to say.

“That sounds good to me. Thank you, Techno. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” She smiled up at him, and he nodded. Once she was safe inside her room, he turned to head towards his room. Silence fell around him, beyond the soft tapping of his boots. That, and a second, quieter pair trailing him. He wasn’t an idiot.

“You can quit trailing me and just talk to me,” He finally called out after a few seconds. He came to a stop in the hall, turning towards the sound. He didn’t technically need to look, either. He knew who it was. Dream slipped from the shadows, eye narrowed at him suspiciously. He eyes the hand Techno was resting on his pommel, almost warily. Like he would draw it at any second. Not that he planned to, unless provoked into doing such.

“Why get engaged to her?” He said bitterly, causing Techno to quirk his lips. Was that jealousy? Of course, he should have seen that coming. How cliche.

“What’s it matter to you? You clearly weren’t going to do it.” It was a cruel taunt, but deserved in a way. He wasn’t fond of Dream already, and he wasn’t sure if it was the possessiveness he expressed over his now fiancee.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Dream practically bristled defensively. He looked ready to attack, and in truth it was amusing.

“I have no reason to answer. Besides, you won’t even teach her to defend herself. You want her dependent on you, don’t you?” His head tilted, a grin on his face. It was too easy to read him from an outside view.

“No. She’s just clumsy. If you so much as hurt her, I swear I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Kill me. Good luck. I told you I wouldn’t harm her and I have no intention to. She is my fiancee, not yours, Dream. Let me worry about her.” He spun on his heel, the movement almost militaristic. He didn’t care to listen to Dream’s possessive and jealous ramblings. Whatever chances he had had at one point, he had very clearly lost somewhere before Techno came along. Next Chapter | >

[paper-n-ashes]

sparks and embers - chapter 1

Characters: Poe Dameron x Original Female Character, Kylo Ren x Original Female Character

Story Tags: Explicit (18+), Canon Compliant/Divergent (Set after TLJ), First Person POV, Love Triangle, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Porn with Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren hates Poe Dameron

Summary: Alexys is a doctor living a life of exclusivity on Raxus, hoping to survive through a peaceful existence, concealing herself from those she believes would use her, or kill her. When fate intervenes and instigates a perilous journey she'd been desperately trying to avoid, Alex finds herself caught in the middle of two sides in both war and love.

Preface: Let me say, I am immensely nervous about this. After months of back and forth inside my mind, I’ve decided to go for it and begin the long process of moving my long running series to Tumblr, along with changing the name (something I’ve wanted to do for a long time). I hit a big emotional road block after over a year of writing and posting, so I’m hoping this move will eventually get me back into the swing. But for now, I’m looking forward to revisiting the beginning of this space love triangle.

If you’ve already read the saga, absolutely NO pressure to read again. Each chapter will be edited a little, but no major plot points will change. To any newcomers who find themselves interested, the story is already posted on AO3 if you are desperate to continue. Otherwise if you prefer reading on Tumblr, or simply like the forced breaks between chapters, I’ll be posting a new chapter every couple of days. I know it’s not written as reader insert, but I just couldn’t make the story work out in any other fashion. I poured a lot of love and heart into Alexys so I hope you’ll give her a chance.

Chapter 1 - Crash Landing

Words: 3.4k

Chapter Tags/Warnings: descriptions of severe injury including blood and bone, medical procedures 

Read on AO3

~

I felt it before I heard it.

A booming crash of metal and glass, sending a shattering vibration through the walls and furniture around me. After the years of mostly silence I’d become accustomed to, the noise that came pummelling into my ears almost made me shriek in surprise. It was short lived, coming and going in a flicker so quick I had to wonder if it was real at all.

Lights began to flash, blinking rapidly in uneven time. The mixture of harsh beeps indicated something was faulting my electricity circuits, plunging me into the darkness of night over and over.

I could only question myself again at the plausibility of this being a dream, but the slow, increasing creak emanating from beyond the walls of this building brought me to a certainty.

Something had crashed outside.

Fear radiated through my limbs, leaving me stuck where I was standing for a few moments, before an uncontrollable urge of selflessness and honestly, curiosity, forced me to move and exit the safety of my clinic.

There wasn’t really a way to prepare for what I saw not metres away from my front entrance. A ship, an X-wing of some variety, was wrecked into itself, varying metals twisted and curled over each other, flames beginning to billow out from the creases. I could feel the heat of them rise as I cautiously stepped forward, taking in the scene with wide eyes. Only seconds had passed when I saw it – the movement of something – no, a person, demanding my attention. The pilot of this battered machine had been thrown just beyond the edge of its hull, broken transparisteel smattering the ground around them.

Hm, the Resistance should probably investigate their flight safety measures.

That thought quickly flittered away when the pilot moved again, this time with a painful moan echoing into the atmosphere. The switch inside quickly flipped, and an all too familiar feeling of conviction flooded through.

This is your cue Alexys.

I raced quickly to the pilot and knelt on the ground before them, fingers carefully removing the black and red helmet with both urgency and restraint as to not cause any more possible damage to their head or neck. The moan I'd heard just moments before let me know this person had some kind of airway, but it was pertinent I assess further. With the helmet gone I noticed the short, lightly waved black hair of a man, his eyes pulled closed, a few bruises and smudges of grey soot smattered over his face. His chest was moving, laboured breathing with the occasional heave on inhale.

At least he’s breathing.

“It’s alright,” I insisted. “I’m here to help you.”

There wasn’t any discernible response from the pilot other than a groan that withered away slowly, and that in itself was worrying. Kneeling over his body, I placed two fingers under the line of his jaw, halfway down, trying to feel for a pulse. I could sense the thump of blood under my fingertips, but it was too slow, too faint, too uneven.

Not great, but it was enough for now.

I began to scan over his body, knowing it was time to assess what was giving him reason to cry out in pain. There were severe burns on his left arm which had caused some of his flight suit to stick to the skin, with more scalds reaching down to his torso and abdomen. His right arm was almost definitely broken with the limb morphed into an irregular angle almost halfway along.

Without being able to look at them directly to ascertain whether I was going to be able to move him, I pressed on his hips gently, silently praying he hadn’t broken his pelvis. He muffled softly, but anyone who had actually shattered the bone would have screamed. As my eyes continued to scan down, it became obvious all too suddenly the shattered edge of his right femur bone poking out of the orange flight suit.

Kriff, this is not ideal.

I wanted to kick myself for not noticing it before, but there was no time, not with the very real possibility of him bleeding out in front of my eyes. My feet moved under me, racing back to the clinic room, knowing where the bandage and splint lay waiting, along with the anaesthetic injections I had stocked in the pharmacy cupboard.

He was certainly going to need them.

Within minutes I was back to the ground with the pilot, clicking together the injector handle and vial, piercing the needle straight into his thigh above the fracture site. I wouldn’t be able to wait for it to dull most of the pain, so internally, I braced myself for the scream I was about to elicit from this poor human's chest. The second I started to wrap the bandage around the splint, a piercing wail echoed through the air, almost causing me to hesitate. Still, my hands continued to haphazardly wrap the white material around his leg, pushing through the guilt it ignited. 

Suddenly, the noise stopped.

My eyes darted to his face as his head slumped over on its side. “Hey!” I shouted into his face as I scrambled back to the top end of his limp body. “Hey can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me!”

There was no response.

I pinched at the muscle on his shoulder, harder and harder to elicit any kind of reaction. Nothing. My hand pulled into a closed fist and grinded against his sternum. “Come on, open those eyes if you can feel this!”

Still nothing.

Again I took check of his breathing, chest still rising and falling, yet shallow and with little power. His heartbeat had begun to race, but through my fingertips I could feel the strain in the muscle. Something was seriously wrong, even more so than his other injuries. Something internally. If I didn’t get him into the clinic, he was going to die.

In a snap decision, I chose to forgo an attempt to run back and locate the hover-stretcher. It would take too much time to set up and power on, time this man didn’t have. I would have to move him myself.

How the hell am I going to do this?

With my arms hooked and locked under his armpits I began to drag the pilots hefty body backwards towards the clinic behind me, thankfully only a few meters away, barely making it past the entryway when a roar of flames overtook the X-wing. I looked up to see the blaze almost completely engulfing the ship, a ferocious heat searing into my eyes and face. With even more urgency I heaved the body into the large clinic room, getting up and slamming the door just in time. Just before a house rattling explosion sent shockwaves into the atmosphere.

Lucky didn’t seem to be an appropriate feeling considering the situation I was in, but at least no one had died. Yet. With my last bit of brute strength, I hoisted the pilots limp body onto the closest hospital bed, noticing then the trail of red liquid I’d brought along with me.

Oh no no no.

With him still lifeless, I tugged at his body and limbs to lie flat on the bed, scurrying to my medical trolley and hauling it back to where the pilot laid, ragged breaths still thankfully escaping into the air. Snatching the heavy shears from the top drawer, I began to tear through the thick fabric of the flight suit, unclipping and removing as much of the life support vest and belt as I could. I had to be careful not to rip away the fabric that melted into the burns scattered all over his body, the number of them increasing as I peeled away the suit, starting from his legs, up to his abdomen and chest over to his upper arms. His torso was in full view now, a smattering of dark hair over his pectorals, underneath which showed the bruises of his crash’s impact.

Oh he’s definitely got some broken ribs.

As my gaze scanned over his skin, I could finally isolate where all that blood had escaped from. A deep penetrating wound just below the last rib on his left flank. As I registered his quick shallow breaths and the uneven rise in his chest, it became obvious.

Collapsed lung.

Whatever had pierced through his chest had poked an extremely damaging hole in his lung, the pleural space now filling with air, leaving no room for his lung to expand. My following movements were swift and calculated, almost automatic. A pointed scalpel was soon in my hand, poised to cut. But I couldn’t help but hesitate. It had been so long since I’d had to do this. And yet, somehow, concern for this stranger’s life was quick to weave it’s way through, dissolving my fear into pure resolve.

I made my incision in between the 4th and 5th ribs, using a clamp to push into the underlying tissue and past the pleural cavity, a gloved hand then entering to check I’d made it through. With an instinctive confidence, I guided the chest tube between the layers of tissue, undoing the ratchet of the clamp to an immediate rush of air. The pilot’s chest heaved in relief, along with my own.

One crisis averted.

But there was more to do. Connecting a drain to the tube, I haphazardly sutured it in place, before flying to the pharmacy cupboard. My stock of bacta was limited, returning with an already prepared vial into the pressurised injector, reminding myself I would need to use it sparingly if this stranger was going to make it through the full extend of his injuries. I had cursed at myself only a few times in the years past at being so far removed from a higher level medical centre that would be overflowing with bacta and medical droids that could help in exactly this kind of situation, but the thought had never burned me so badly. There was no way to know if I could keep this man alive with the resources that yesterday I had been more than comfortable with. I would just have to try.

I injected some of the bacta solution throughout the surrounding area of the wound and covered it with heavy dressing, knowing the bleeding would quickly be curbed. Unfortunately, the wound itself would take a few days to fully close, only ever being able to afford lower quality bacta. Before moving on to the burns, I placed some basic monitoring, lines extending from electrical dots over his chest, wrist and neck to the data monitor above the bed. As the numbers lit up on the holo screen, I felt myself breathe a small sigh of relief, having prepared for a much worse result. His heart rate was better, oxygen levels returning to normal, blood pressure not optimal by any means but high enough to sustain his life, for now.

After securing an oxygen filter over his battered face, I continued to inspect and clean as many of the small and more sizeable burns dotting his body. Even with the many I had uncovered, the one extending from his shoulder past his elbow was the one of most concern. Third degree and extremely unhappy looking. If I wasn’t quick to treat this, it could leak even more fluid from his already compromised circulatory system. I was thankful he still remained unconscious when I began to slowly shed the charred material melted into the skin layer. I couldn’t help but shudder as I remembered the initial scream this man had let out, knowing I would be hearing it now if not for his comatose state.

Covering the immense scald in as much salve as I could spare, I began to wrap it in protective antibacterial bandage, soon moving on to protect his many blisters and deeper burns with dressings. Glancing at the monitor screen, he was still stable, and swallowed hard. Now it was time to attempt possibly the most daunting part of this patient’s treatment.

His femur was still sticking through the tissue of his thigh, slightly dried dark red blood creating lightning strike looking lines extending from the wound.

I need to get some blood into him before moving this.

I quickly got to work on an IV cannula, his poor blood pressure making it significantly more difficult than it should have been. Two bags of O- blood were all I had, and a wave of dread coursed through me with the thought of that not being enough if this all went wrong. My fist squeezed the fast flow pump of the IV line, pushing fresh blood urgently into his system, making his blood pressure rise only slightly. With the last of the red liquid trickling through the line I wheeled over the portable X-Ray. It was so old the mechanical arm screeched at me as I positioned it into place over the pilot’s leg. The bone had to be at least somewhat in place before getting the bacta to work its magic or this guy might walk with two uneven legs for the rest of his life.

If he actually made it through the rest of his injuries, that is.

Shaking my arms out at my side, I sucked in a few deep breaths to build my stamina. Unfortunately, this stranger was stuck with a small framed female to attempt reducing his severe fracture. With one last inhale, I drew the courage to pull as hard as I could horizontally at the knee joint, digging my fingers into a vice grip around the limb and yanking it towards me. To my relief, the fractured edge of the femur to slipped back into the hole it was peeking out from, settling back under the skin.

Thank all the stars in the galaxy he’s not awake for this.

I quickly pressed the image button on the X-ray to assess the progress I’d made. The faint white lines of bone edges were stark enough on the grey background of the image. The fracture wasn’t reduced even nearly enough. I prepared myself again, with another deep breath I pulled hard. This time my efforts were forced into angling the lower portion of bone to try and lock it back into place. The grinding of bone edges could be felt through my fingers, pushing myself to pull even harder, creating more space between the fracture in the hope of giving a fighting chance of lining up the splintered edges. My muscles were whining, begging for this to be over, tears of exhaustion soon stinging at the edges of my eyes.

With one final twisting motion there was a sudden click.

Finally.

My relief was short lived.

It was slow at first, before racing faster. A stream of dark red blood pooling at the wound the broken bone had made.

Oh maker no.

Within moments the pace of the blood quickened. I shot my hands to the open flesh site, pressing down hard in an attempt to disturb the flow. The liquid quickly covered my gloved hands, already sure I’d sliced into the femoral artery. The pressure of my hands into the area made the blood spurt out onto my arms, my clothes, my face, everywhere. The monitor was screaming, blood pressure falling quickly. Wiping some of the hot coppery fluid away from my left eye, I slid my fingers back into the gash, moving desperately to stop the overflow before the man lying in front of me bled out, knowing it would all be my fault.  

You have to do it Alexys. He will die if you don’t.

The voice nagged at me, pleading to do what it wanted.

He’s with the Resistance! If he survives, if he contacts them, they’ll find me. And they’ll know.

It is time to decide. His life. Or yours.

Seconds ticked by fleetingly, numbers flashing on the monitor trickling down, the speed of blood flow from the pilot’s leg stubbornly keeping it’s intensity.

Everything I’d done to get here, to isolate myself so no one could find me. It would all amount to nothing. My easy, albeit lonely life, would be gone. All because of this stranger.

But I couldn’t let him die. Not like this.

In one flash, I removed my hands from inside the wound, ripping off my gloves and placing two palms at either side of the leg. With closed eyes, I willed the energy out of the depths of its slumber. From the darkened corner of my mind I pulled it back into existence, opening the gate I’d locked it inside for so long, letting it finally burst through and fill up my brain. From there it down through my neck, through my chest and down my arms, right to the end of my fingertips. Its warming glow was almost comforting, friendly. I would have basked in it for a while if not for the life that hung in the balance before me.

Through the pads of my fingerprints I pushed the stream outwards, connecting past the skin of this innocent human being, and felt the overwhelming heat of pain and dimming of energy.

Hurry, he’s dying.

I began to map out the tissue of his leg, frustratingly slowly, starting at the smallest of capillaries, weaving and winding through the flesh, connecting them through the maze of fat and muscle. I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead, my breathing forced and harsh. The vessels grew bigger as I pushed the energy through, skipping past broken points of other smaller injuries. I could fix them later.

Finally, I felt a molten warmth radiating close to where the maze had guided me. Racing to it, I sensed something pushing me back, the pressure of escaping fluid holding my efforts. I’d found the cut, but now I had to somehow knit it back together.

You’re taking too long.

The alarms of the monitor started to echo with a hollow ring inside my ear, fading until I could hear almost nothing. The world around me was blurry, only the image of vessel tissue and all-consuming redness visible in my minds eye. The energy I was expending began to burn me - I wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer. I reached out with it, what felt like many hands grasping desperately at the severed edge of the vessel, frantic yet delicate, pulling whatever tissue I could hold back into place.

Several fringes connected, the pressure pushing forcefully against me, making it harder to hold. I couldn’t help but begin to shake at the strain, the sound of my own heart pounding over the slowing heartbeat of the pilot. My grip was already beginning to fade before I started to sew the pieces of artery back together, an ache growing behind my eyes as I pierced an invisible needle through the tissue, over and over, still clawing at the unsewn edges as I made my way around the tube.

I was so close, the tension of the fluid still being driven out of the broken seal almost overcoming me. The unseen thread had almost made its way full circle. I was almost there.

My entire body rattled with exhaustion and pain. One final thread wove itself around the artery, its abrupt closure alleviating the strain on invisible fingers that had been clutching it all together.

You did it.

The energy dissipated quickly in a rolling wave, letting it retreat back into my mind, scampering to the secluded area of my brain, hidden once more. I felt light suddenly, dizzy, the world coming back into focus, screaming alarms growing louder. It was too much, all at once.

A sharp pang of fatigue enveloped every part of my senses and I faltered back, knees giving way, slumping to the floor.

Then, there was only darkness.

~

Next Chapter

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[flightfoot]

Greeting the New Dawn

Set post-Reveal in @buggachat Bakery Enemies AU, whenever that ends up being.

Thanks to Queenie for betaing!

AO3 ---------

“If you want me to leave, I will.”

Adrien looked off to the side, as if he thought that he wasn’t even worthy of meeting her gaze. As if already looking elsewhere, trying to impose on her as little as possible. “I can put in my resignation and tell your parents I found a different opportunity elsewhere.”

Marinette’s mouth went dry, her stomach dropping into a cavern. He- he couldn’t- not again- he couldn’t leave her- she’d only just got him back!

She willed desperately to say something, to stop him. 

Nothing happened.

Instead, she felt her mouth move, saying words she didn’t want to say. “I think that would be for the best.”

Adrien’s face fell further, his breath hitching slightly.

He didn’t say anything. Marinette suspected that if he tried, that hitch would devolve into full-on sobbing.

He turned around, heading for the door. 

Marinette regained control of her limbs. She reached out to grab him, to stop him from disappearing-

Her vision turned black.

-----

Marinette happily hummed as she kneaded some dough, her father joining her song. She’d missed spending time with her parents while she was in New York. 

*ding ding*

A customer?

Moments later, Sabine walked through the entryway to the kitchen. Marinette relaxed.

Until she got a closer look and noticed her eyes glistening.

“Maman?” 

“A-Adrien- he- he-!”

She burst into tears.

Marinette saw it then. Adrien desperately scrounging out of garbage bins to survive, getting thinner and thinner, having been unable to find another job. Losing his apartment, being forced out onto the streets.

Until finally someone had caught him going through their dumpster, recognized him, and decided that trash like him was unworthy of even having those rancid scraps. 

Adrien leaning against the dumpster, beaten and bloody as the rain came pouring down. Slowly closing his eyes.

He didn’t open them again.

-----

Marinette looked out the window at the rain. She’d given him her umbrella, he’d be fine. He said so himself. She didn’t need to do anything more, right? He could walk straight, he hadn’t even been slurring his words, he was coherent. Everything would be fine.

------

“Don’t be bemused, it’s just the news! Today, Adrien Agreste, son of the infamous supervillain, Hawkmoth, was found bludgeoned to death in an alley. The weapon of choice? An umbrella given to him by my favorite babysitter, Marinette Dupain-Cheng! Let’s give her a round of applause for helping set up the circumstances that allowed Paris to get rid of that loose end, once and for all.”

-----

Faceless masses quietly muttered all around Adrien.

A person would occasionally glance at him. Their face would twist up, fear and anger warring over their features.

Until they’d just walk away.

Leaving him alone, crying, desperately trying to reach someone, anyone.

They all slipped through his fingers like water, leaving nothing behind.

A flash of yellow. A defined figure. The last friend Adrien had.

“CHLOE!”

She turned around, gave him a glance.

Her hair swished as she turned back.

She didn’t look back a second time.

------

“Don’t be bemused, it’s just the news! Today Adrien Agreste was found dead in his apartment. Police are currently treating the case as a suicide-”

Marinette turned off the TV, getting back to designing her new outfit. It was sad what happened, but right now she wanted to concentrate on something more hopeful. 

She smiled as she looked at the red dress she’d just finished, its black accents making the bright red pop that much more.

Her Kitty was out there. She just needed to find him.

------

Marinette jolted awake, panting heavily. She threw off the covers, shakily getting to her feet. Stumbling forward, she reached out for the light switch.

It took her several tries to hit it. Her arm was shaking so badly she just kept on missing. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, she rocketed down. She really missed being Ladybug right about now; she could’ve just swung down to the first story.

A seeming eternity later (36 seconds later, to be exact), she rounded the corner into the kitchen.

The light was on, the sound of dough being rolled out punctuating the quiet of the early morning. 

Please let him be there please let him be there please please PLEASE-!

A blond-haired man turned around. “Mari-?”

She hit him like a freight train.

Instinctively Adrien wrapped his arms around her as they rolled to the side, dough spraying everywhere. 

She couldn’t bring herself to care.

“MARINETTE!” Adrien shouted, anxiety tinging his voice. “What’s wrong? Is someone hurt? Did anything get on you? I’m so, so sor-”

She just pulled him even tighter against her, muffling his voice with her shoulder. 

*thump thump thump*

Adrien was alive. He was here. He wasn’t in an alley or a grave or… or ALONE.

Not anymore.

“Ni-nightmare,” she choked out, trying not to cry. 

The blood drained from Adrien’s face. “It was him, wasn’t it?” He asked quietly, his voice quavering slightly. “I- I should’ve known, I wish I’d-”

“NO!”

She was NOT letting him take the blame for this. 

“It wasn’t your fault kitty, NONE of it was your fault. It was his, ONLY his, you did everything you could to stop him.”

Adrien frowned. For a minute she thought he was going to argue, but he seemed to think better of it. 

“And- and it wasn’t him anyway. Not really. It- it was you.”

“I- I’d never try to hurt anyone here, I’d never try to hurt you, regardless of what happened with Mother I-”

Marinette winced. Foot, meet mouth. Again.

“It wasn’t the Peacock nightmare. It- it was-”

She took a deep breath, pressing her head into his neck, feeling his pulse. “There were so many times when things could have gone worse than they did. Where you could’ve gotten hurt or killed. And- and I would never even have known I lost you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, My Lady,” he murmured into her ear. “Not unless you want me to.”

“If you want me to leave, I will.”

“NO!” She shook her head violently. “Never. I- I couldn’t stand it if-”

If I never saw you again. If you killed yourself because you thought no one wanted you around. Because you thought you deserved it. Or that you deserved to be out on the streets, struggling to survive, because of who your father is and how people see you because of it.

“I want you here,” she told him more calmly. She needed him to know that. To internalize it. “You deserve to be here. You deserve happiness and safety and people who love you and- and just every good thing in the world!” 

She’d tell him this every day if she needed to, until he believed it.

“I- I dreamed that you’d died those times. Like- like when you asked if I wanted you to leave. Or- or thinking back on what could’ve happened if you’d walked home while drunk. But the worst one? Was where you committed suicide before I ever ran into you as a civilian.”

She needed to bake Chloe some cookies. ALL the cookies. She’d probably comment about how she was only tolerating Marinette’s cooking in order to seem nicer to Adrien or something, but she didn’t care. If it weren’t for Chloe, then Marinette’s best friend, the love of her life, would probably be dead.

“In that nightmare, it barely even registered that you’d died. Just- you were just some stranger. Some stranger who was dead now. That- that was most horrifying of all.”

Her hearing about him dying and barely even caring because she didn’t know him - it terrified her more than anything else. Logically she’d known that was a possibility before she’d found out Adrien was Chat Noir, but- well she’d never really seriously thought about him dying. And- and part of her thought that because of how close they were, she’d just know if he was hurt, if something had happened to him. Would recognize him on sight if the worst happened.

But neither of them had known the other when they ran into each other at the bakery. And she’d never had a clue that the boy on the billboards was the same boy running alongside her on rooftops. 

Adrien held her tighter. Something wet dripped onto her neck.

She didn’t comment. His shoulder was damp from her own tears.

“It didn’t happen.” He told her. “It could have, but it didn’t. I- I know what it’s like to have those ‘what ifs?’ running through your head. Sometimes, the best you can do is tell yourself that everything did work out. That it’s okay. I- I tell myself that all the time. Every time I think about what could’ve happened if I never met your parents- if I’d never started working here. If I’d never seen you again. Never met Nino or Alya.”

“Adrien…” 

“It doesn’t help. There’s nothing that can be done about ‘what ifs’. It may not make those thoughts go away, but- but at least it doesn’t matter what could’ve happened, because it didn’t. And thinking about it in circles won’t help.”

He grinned at her. “You know what will?”

She blinked at him, lost for words.

Until she felt something sticky on her forehead.

Reaching her hand up, she got the substance off. 

Dough coated her fingers.

Her partner gave her a shit-eating grin. “Ooops.”

“Oh you are ON.”

As she chased her kitty around the kitchen, trying to tag him with bits of the fallen dough, she smiled.

He was alive. 

Maybe he wasn’t okay yet, but he would be.

And so would she.

[emilia3546]

Shadowsinger Part 21 - Gwynriel

ACOSF Spoilers! Do Not read this unless you have finished ACOSF and the Azriel bonus chapter*

Masterlist with all previous chapters

*****

Gwyn shuffled on her feet, readjusting her skirt, and silently cursed it for being in the way, she could still fight, but not as well as usual, and she'd lose precious seconds reaching for the dagger sheathed at her thigh. Azriel stood beside her, his shadows nowhere to be seen, either spread out around them to be unnoticeable, or hidden in the cloak around Gwyn's shoulders, her protests that she didn't need them having fallen on deaf ears.

"You okay?" He murmured, and she nodded,

"Just a bit nervous, I'll be alright once this first contact is over," because she could still fall at the first hurdle, Evanna had warned them that they would be scrutinized before being allowed in, even if they claimed to support the Illyrian rebellion. She stifled a smile when Azriel squeezed her fingers, their joined hands hidden beneath her cloak, but it was still a risk, they weren't supposed to be in love, she was supposed to be what the Illyrian would expect of a traditional warrior's wife, and a traditional warrior would never display affection so casually, possession yes, but not affection. If he were in love with his wife, which was rare, he'd still only display affection in private, just to maintain his image, it was one of the more ridiculous customs, Gwyn never thought more of someone than when they allowed others to see their heart. The palace doors opened and Gwyn squeezed Azriel's hand back before letting go and reluctantly dropping her gaze to the floor.

"Gavin was it, of the Skybreath Illyrian camp?" A rather young-looking man shouted from the open door,

"Indeed," Azriel replied, not shouting, but clearly making himself heard, "And my wife, Amirah," Gwyn suppressed a smile at the sound of the name that Azriel's mother had chosen, what she would have named him had he been a girl.

"We have no records of others from your supposed camp," the man's tone was low, dangerous,

"That's probably because they're all pathetic cowards who fear the repercussions of standing up for our people, ask anyone you want, I can wait, I've waited long enough for this chance, don't be the reason I lose it," Azriel matched the man's tone, but without shouting, he sounded altogether more dangerous, and Gwyn almost looked up at the feel of the man's gaze on her, fighting to keep her eyes lowered, her attention on observing the guards, the way their protocols were carried out.

"Fine. If we find out that you're lying, you're dead,"

"Good luck with that," Azriel's hand warmed her lower back, "Come on, I'll see who's made it here, then I want to find a bedchamber readied for us," Gwyn forced herself to start forwards, her bones screaming out at her for pretending to be afraid of him when she nodded, but stayed beside him when a guard moved towards them, pressing into his side at the first attempt to grab at her, "What?" Gwyn kept her frightened gaze on the guard, "Get your filthy hands off my wife," he snarled, an arm wrapping around her waist, reassuring for Gwyn, she was doing well, but to anyone else it was a display of possessiveness at a threat. "She stays with me until we reach our bedchamber, I like to know where she is, who she's with." He didn't even bother to veil the threat in his eyes when Gwyn looked up, keeping the guise of fear as she pressed against him, shying away from the guards, and allowed her gaze to dart around, marking who they were, how many of them there were, where they were posted, how alert they were. She ducked her head, following Azriel as they were led through the palace. It was just as they'd expected, with no-one taking notice of Gwyn, except to occasionally ask Azriel who she was, and then to ignore her and speak only to him, allowing her to memorize the palace, its routes, its staff, all while pretending to be quiet and unassuming.

She didn't want to watch Azriel walk away once they'd reached an empty bedchamber, didn't want to see him walking towards the enemy, all it took was one Illyrian who was high enough rank to have seen him, all it took was one recognition, and they'd try and kill him. Still, she couldn't tear her gaze away, only just remembering to make it appear that she was scared for herself, and wanted his protection, not that she was worried for him. Once he'd vanished from sight, Gwyn shot one more frightened look at the guards in the corridor and bolted herself inside the room.

Right, she did have to get the room set up, no-one was coming to do that for her, but that would take maximum half an hour, it wasn't like they exactly had luggage to unload, and then, it was a little after midday now, she'd have a few hours before dinner could be expected. Still, she was stuck in this room for now at least, she could make the most of it.

The notebook tucked into her gown wasn't big enough for every detail, not if she wanted it to last long enough, but she noted down all she'd picked up on guard movements, positions, who was alert, who was bored. It wasn't enough, she'd make a point to have Azriel find some other females to 'keep her from boredom' who she could help with palace tasks, laundry, cleaning, the Illyrians made their females do the chores at home, why not here? She'd be all over the palace that way, easily able to pick up information, it'd hopefully make their stay shorter, hopefully help with preventing a full-on civil war.

*****

Azriel couldn't dare glance over his shoulder to Gwyn, where she was undoubtedly waiting by the door to their bedchamber, even with every part of him screaming not to leave her with those people, to go back to her. He listened to what the male beside him was saying, he'd seen him before at Ironcrest, from a distance, and he was probably the highest-ranking males here, being involved in training and organisation of Ironcrest's warriors, he could be a headache later.

"Where did you find her?"

"Find who?"

"That pretty little wife of yours, I must say you're a lucky male with that one, I'd love to know what she'd feel like on my-" the male didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, breaking off with a choked gasp as Azriel slammed him against the wall, a hand curling around his throat, pure death shining in his eyes. "Whoa, calm down, I'm sorry, I wasn't gonna do anything,"

"I sure as fuck hope not," Azriel snarled, still not releasing him, fighting the urge to end him then and there, unable to shake the image of the last male who'd thought such things about Gwyn. "Touch her and it'll be last thing you ever do," the smaller male paled at the threat,

"I swear, I won't, I was saying she's beautiful," she was beautiful, but the way he'd said it, it wasn't a compliment, if Azriel hadn't reacted, maybe he would have tried something, gods, maybe someone else would. He wasn't supposed to care to like that,

"She's mine, understand?" He added, covering his tracks, the reaction was supposed to just be possessiveness, not him actually caring for her wellbeing, he wasn't supposed to be worried about that.

"Yeah, I got it," the other male was still panting when Azriel released him, "Sorry, dude, I didn't mean it like that,"

"Yes, you did, but I'm a merciful male, if you never speak of her like that again, I'll let it slide, she is beautiful, but she's mine." The male nodded,

"Noted," and took a deep breath before continuing to explain the set-up, "You're the only one from Skybreath, bunch of cowards, so we'll probably attach you to another camp, for numbers' sake, those bastards do have the advantage in that department, and they have the High Lord, and 'High Lady'," he snorted at the mention of Feyre, "But we can trust the humans to help with that,"

"How? They're fucking powerful,"

"Yeah, but they're just as susceptible to ash and faebane as the rest of us, I'd wager that they're not still taking that damned antidote. Then again, the higher-ups think we could simply kidnap their son and use him to get them to give in, but I'd like a good fight anyway, and y'know someone might end up just killing the brat, then we'd be in deep shit." Oh yes, if they harmed one hair on Nyx's head, Rhys alone was likely to simply mist the entirety of their armies before any battle, and that was if he were safety returned, at the latest, the day after he was taken, if it were longer, or if Nyx were harmed, there would be no safe place in this world for those responsible.

"Probably a bad idea that," Azriel mused,

"I'd reckon you're right, the bleeding hearts want to regain our loyalty, they'll just try and obliterate us if we hurt the boy," Azriel grunted in agreement, dropping the conversation when they turned a corner, the corridor opening into a wide chamber, filled with brawling Illyrians, a temporary training ring, not bad. He ran his gaze across the crowd, there was no-one likely to recognize him, but he still wouldn't draw attention to himself, even if wearing two siphons might do just that, but he couldn't risk it with only one, not with Gwyn here as well. He nodded a quick greeting to anyone who bothered to acknowledge him, his mind still racing. He'd have to find a way to make sure that Gwyn wasn't ever left completely on her own, if just one other male had a similar thought to the one beside him, and if he wasn't there, if she couldn't get her dagger drawn in time, he didn't want to finish that thought.

The Illyrians were well organised, not to the same degree as the loyal armies back home, but they could present a threat, especially if it was true that they were to be armed with ash and faebane. The leaders eventually decided to attach 'Gavin' to one of the smaller camps, where he'd be able to adjust more easily, where, Azriel noted with a hint of satisfaction, it would be easy to gain their trust. He made his way across the room to where his new 'comrades' were taking a break,

"Hey look, looks like they've given us the latecomer," Azriel's attention snapped to the male who'd spoken, dark hair cropped close to his skull, blue eyes, that was rare for an Illyrian, he smiled and offered his hand, "Nathan," Azriel took the proffered hand,

"Gavin, from Skybreath,"

"Oh, I was wondering if anyone would bother coming from Skybreath," Nathan chuckled, "Braver than the rest then?"

"Or more stupid," Azriel chuckled, "I've been waiting a long time for this,"

"As have we all, brother," Azriel resisted the urge to snap at him not to call him that, but forced himself to smile, to join in the conversation, and to not beat the shit out of all of them when they reclaimed a spot in the training ring. "How the fuck did you get your hands on a second siphon?" Nathan's observational skills left much to be desired, but it was wishful thinking to hope that he wouldn't notice at all, especially when Azriel had just pinned him to the mats.

"I needed it,"

"Fuck. We got a powerful one here, boys," chuckles surrounded them, and Nathan rolled his eyes as one of the others drawled,

"We know, idiot! That's why you're the only one stupid enough to fight him," another male laughed,

"He's probably some high born lord, or something,"

"Are you?" Nathan's eyes were shining with curiosity, something fairly rare for Illyrians, but he did seem young, untested, perhaps he had no idea what he was getting into, but Azriel had learned the hard way not to bother with the benefit of the doubt,

"Not really, my mother died a while back, and my father was your bog-standard warrior, nothing special really, he got killed in a border dispute a few decades ago, guess I just got lucky, the Mother likes me maybe," he shrugged, "It certainly helped on the way over here, since no one else came with us, it was just me and my wife, and she's not much help with fighting, y'know," chuckled from everyone, including Nathan,

"She clipped?"

"Who do you think I am? Of course," Azriel's temper flared up again at the approving nods from around him, only Nathan looked uncomfortable,

"You did it?"

"What? No, when she was young, like everyone else, but it did mean that I had to carry her here, which was a pain,"

"Still, bet you found a good one, being all powerful and shit,"

"Yeah, I'll have to go fetch her before we leave for dinner, I left her in our bedchamber, she'll want food," each word hit him in the core, even if none of it was true, the idea that this was normal to these people made him want to scream, but he guided the conversation back to the war, to what he needed to hear, even with his mind continually drifting back to Gwyn.

*****

Footsteps outside had Gwyn shoving the notebook back into her dress,

"Amirah!" She rushed to the door, keeping her eyes down in case Azriel wasn't alone, he wasn't, and someone let out a huff,

"Shit, how the fuck did you leave her all day?" One of the males beside him chuckled, "We'll see you in a bit," Azriel nodded and stepped past Gwyn into the room,

"You okay?" She mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear, and he nodded,

"I hate this, I have to pretend that I'm not hopelessly in love with you," Gwyn's stupid, faithless heart fluttered in her chest at those words, ignoring the way Azriel's eyes were dark, tired,

"Hey," she muttered, "It's okay, I know it's not true," Azriel's head snapped towards the door,

"Shit," he muttered, "They're still there, they're listening in, they won't have heard, but," Gwyn narrowed her eyes, and her eyes widened at the realization,

"They want to listen?"

"Moan, now, or they'll think something's up," he was right,

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, a feeling of true fear descending upon her, they'd gotten in, gotten embedded and he stupid, foolish fears were going to get them discovered, gods she was really useless,

"Hey, Gwyn," Azriel tipped her chin upwards, swiping his thumb across her cheek, "Just make any sound, you can't do it wrong, we don't actually need to do anything, just make them think we are,"

"But why? I don't get it,"

"They're all horny shits, and they've seen how fucking gorgeous you are. I've been away from you all day, they'll expect me to want certain things upon reuniting with you," oh, she knew what he meant, but just one day? That was surely excessive, but she nodded, and kissed him gently,

"I don't think I can just do it on command, kiss me, and then we'll see," she looped her arms around his neck, and did moan at the first brush of his lips against her neck, her head falling backwards so that Azriel had to hold her up, she moaned again, and he groaned at the feel of her lips against his, deliberately chucking his jacket aside so it made a loud thunk on the floor. Gwyn pressed her fingers against Azriel's lips, waiting, footsteps, they were really alone now,

"I'm sorry about that," Azriel muttered,

"What are you talking about? Kissing you is wonderful,"

"But I don't want you to think that you have to, even if it's for keeping our cover,"

"I didn't, it was just a chance to kiss you, and it was helpful to convince those others, but if I didn't want to I wouldn't have," she chuckled, "Are you sure you're okay?" Azriel collapsed onto the bed, dragging her with him with a yelp,

"I'm okay, just worried,"

"Worried?"

"About you. One of the males who showed me around made a comment that I didn't appreciate, and I doubt you would have done,"

"Did he seem like he wanted to act on that comment?" Gwyn stomach churned, and she glanced around the room, marking the locked door and windows. Azriel stiffened, realizing that she immediately knew what he was referring to,

"Not once I'd dealt with him, but all takes is one, I don't want you to have to deal with that, especially when I can't be with you, you might be on your own and," he took in a deep breath, "I just worry about what could happen if someone tries somehting,"

"I'm never on my own, Az," a shadow danced around her, "If I need to, I can fight with or without my dagger, and I want to find out what the other Illyrian females are doing here, there must be others,"

"There are," Azriel admitted, "They do the chores and stuff, help making and adjusting leathers and armor,"

"I can do that," Gwyn said, "It'll give me a chance to speak to them, to learn things that the males might overlook, and to simply be in the palace, invisible. I can 'get lost' and find my way to restricted areas, the queens' offices perhaps," Azriel pursed his lips together, but she was right, she knew he was, and no matter how much he wanted her to be safe, he knew that too,

"You're right, I know that, I just wish you didn't have to do it by yourself,"

"I know, but that's going to be how we have to work here, now," she twisted in his lap, "Tell me everything you found out today."

[mandos-lightningbeforethunder]

Start Again - Chapter One (Din Djarin x Reader)

SUMMARY: Luke Skywalker wasn't the only one searching the galaxy for force-sensitive beings. And he was a hell of a lot nicer. You were sure of these visions. They told of a forgotten life and explained the cracks in your memories. Perhaps employing the lone Mandalorian may help you put the pieces together.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: brief mention of torture, discussion of memory loss

Author’s Note: First time posting on both tumblr and AO3 (fic is cross-posted). Feel free to reblog! Other chapters will be linked as the story progresses. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE - THE MEMORY

“Castin!”

A boy, no more than ten, turned at the voice of his mother calling him. He was jovial, playing in the riverbed. His clothes will be soaked if I don’t stop him, you thought.

“These men want to speak to you!” Perhaps that would get his attention.

Behind you, three men stood, watching the child as he bound toward his mother. The boy quickly hid behind your skirts, suddenly shy. Castin was almost to your chest now, yet in the presence of strangers, he still acted like a toddler. One of the men crouched to his level, offering a rock.

“Your mother tells me of your abilities,” one of the men hums out.

Castin nods. You watch as the man reaches into his pocket, pulling out a simple stone.

“Show me,” he requests. Castin looks to you, unsure. You nod, offering him a smile to encourage him. You had heard whispers around the galaxy, the Empire defeated and a young Jedi searching for more like him.

Holding the stone between his pointer finger and thumb, the man waits for Castin. His face contorted in concentration, Castin pulls the stone towards him into the palm of his outstretched hand.

The three men hum in admonishment. At such a young age and already showing promise, you hear one murmur. Castin smiles at you, practically beaming from excitement.

“We would like to speak to you about possible schooling if you wouldn’t mind?” The man rises from the ground, offering you a smile.

“Yes, of course. Castin can go back to playing, yes?” You ask, not wanting to bore your son. The man simply nods, turning to walk to your village. You walk just behind the man, passing his two colleagues before you hear the ignition of a saber.

The nightmare has been longer than others. However, the faces remain blank to you. The reminder of what was lost, just in front of you, and yet you hardly remember it. There are whispers about it, about your survival and broken memories.

Staring up at the ceiling of your hut, you closed your eyes to try and engrain the nightmare. Fold it into other nightmares and visions, hoping to fill in the blank spaces in your mind. It did little to help what was left of your memory, however. All you knew, is you had a lost life somewhere out there. The voice in that nightmare was your own.

Someone calls your name. Opening your eyes, you again see the ceiling of your hut and rise from your cot. The twin suns leak sunlight into your hut to signify that it was time for morning chores.

Another shout of your name.

“Just a moment!” You shout back, turning to the bowl next to your cot. You splash the water onto your face, rousing yourself. The creak of your door startles you from drying your face.

“Valara! What have I told you about sneaking up on her?” an elder woman, standing just outside your door, chastises.

“Sorry grandmother,” Valara says, before turning to you. She sees the look on your face and calmly shuts the door behind her. “Did you have another nightmare?”

You only nod, drying your hands before placing the cloth next to the bowl.

“You know there are remedies for that,” Valara suggests.

“I know,” you murmur, “but I’m not ready.”

“You choose to suffer?” She asks. You know she means well. She has been there through your worse ones.

“I had a son,” you turn to her, your eyes meeting hers for the first time this morning. “In this nightmare. I had a son. He couldn’t have been older than ten, I think. His face was a blur, but he was mine. I know that.”

Valara stares at you, her mouth slightly slack in shock. She blinks and is quickly set back in reality. She moves closer to you, placing her hands on your biceps as a means of comfort.

“Are you sure? Wait, no, I mean, I believe you. Your memory has been returning and it looks promising. I just,” she pauses, looking away from you before her eyes meet yours again, “I don’t want your conscious to confuse you with false memories. My grandmother told me your brain uses it to protect you.”

“I know what I saw, Valara,” you state in a firm tone. “It was me, my voice in that nightmare. Not something my conscious could just conjure up.”

Valara’s hands fall to her side, nodding at your words. You can see the gears turning in her head, she’s unsure of what to say.

“There are chores to do. Maybe that will take your mind off things before you have another session with my grandmother,” Valara states, turning away from you. She walks toward the door, before turning to look over her shoulder. She then leaves without another word.

You ponder her words. There were chores to complete. The same chores you had been doing since you first arrived in Valara’s village. You needed change. Something different than this village and its secrets. The constant sessions with Valara’s grandmother were only taking a toll on you. Your memory was improving and yet you felt as zero progress had been made.

Opening the door to your hut the twin suns quickly beat down on you. The winter season, a mere two weeks, had come and gone on Puvo. The grassland planet’s ecosystem only called for summer and spring seasons, with the occasional winter season that came every once in a millennium.

Valara was just ahead of you. Kneeling over the riverbed, she washed the dirt off the leaves of Puvo’s native plant. Known for its healing properties, villages like Valara’s sold the leaves in droves. It was shipped across the galaxy, reaching the far ends of the universe. Valara’s grandmother had used it when you had first arrived, bleeding with a shattered mind. Although the leaves healed the physical wounds, your mind remained in the state you had first arrived in.

You knew only your name and parts of your life before. You didn’t even remember the victory of the Rebels. Valara had to catch you up on the last six months, easing you into the current state of the universe. There was no war, none at Puvo at least, and the galaxy remained peaceful.

You kneel beside Valara, scooping a couple of leaves from her pile, and begin washing them in the flowing water.

“I want to leave,” you whisper to her. Her head jerks to look at yours.

“Leave?” she asks. “You know you can’t do that, not without my grandmother’s permission. Your head…it’s not in the right place for you to go out on your own.”

“I know. That’s why you’re going to help me,” You say, looking at her. Her face is contorted in confusion before the realization hits her.

“No,” she states, shaking her head. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Valara,” you start, “I can’t be here any longer. I know my mind isn’t where it needs to be but being stuck on this planet—” Valara splashes you, stopping your words.

“You’re asking me to sneak you off Puvo,” she reminds you. You nod and she sighs, looking away from you.

“I need change. Puvo and its people, you and your grandmother have treated me with nothing but kindness since I first arrived. Your grandmother helped me piece parts of my mind back together. But staying here could mean years before we make any more progress.” At this point, your tone comes off as pleading.

“Why so sudden? What did you see in that nightmare?” Valara asks, “You’ve been here for nearly a year now and we’ve just put together your earliest memories. Leaving Puvo could mean never recovering other memories. You know, pre-Empire memories.”

Right. The Empire no longer existed and instead, the New Republic stood in its place. A new era of peace.

“Valara. That nightmare…that’s more than I’ve ever seen before. The faces may have been a blur, but I know in my heart that I have a son out there. I don’t even know if he remembers me at this point, but I need to try and at least find him.”

Valara murmurs your name, placing a hand on yours. You take a deep breath.

“You came to us a year ago. Broken, bloody, babbling incoherent things. Grandmother didn’t think you’d survive the night. Stars, whoever or wherever you came from, they tortured you. Don’t you understand?  You’re safer here. There’s a possibility if you have a son out there, the people that did those things to you…they don’t want you finding him.”

“Valara,” you say.

“Don’t, don’t ‘Valara’ me. You say it in that stupid voice of yours and suddenly I melt. Stop it.” She demands, glaring at you. You can see the conflict in her eyes. She means well, she wants to protect you and keep you safe from the people that harmed you.

“What if you came with me?” you offered, taking another leaf from her pile. She shakes her head, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“What if I took a communicator with me? Check-in with you every week or so?” This time, Valara pauses in her work. She looks at you again, placing the leaves down in the basket next to her.

“Those communicators are for transport crews only. They’ll notice when one is missing. And how do you expect to get out of here? The only ships that regularly arrive and depart are those janky old transport ships and they can barely fit a load of Puvion leaves.”

A bag of credits lands next to her basket and she looks up at you.

“Where did you get those?” She demands, snatching the bag and peering inside. You can see her counting the amount.

“I’ve earned them,” you say, taking the bag from her with gentle hands. “Turns out loading those janky old transport ships earn quite a bit of them.”

“Damn it,” Valara curses, but she smiles. She seems proud. “What are you planning on doing with those credits? Bribing your trip to another planet?”

“No. There’s an old watering hole a couple of kilometers from here. From what I’ve read, there’s a couple of travelers who come through and pick up any stragglers in exchange for information or…credits.”

“So, bribery,” Valara deduces. You give a sheepish smile as she rolls her eyes. “Where will you get the communicator?”

“You know that one transport crew? The one with that pilot who thinks he’s the shit?” Her eyes widening is a signal that she knows exactly who you’re talking about.

“Nope. I’ve heard enough. I’m not becoming an accessory to your crimes. You’re crazy.” Valara rises from the riverbed, brushing her hands on her pants. You quickly set aside your leaves and pocket the credits, rising to follow her.

“It’s not becoming an accessory. I just need a favor. His crew arrives tomorrow at the same time as the last. He won’t even notice it’s gone.”

Valara stops, pinching her nose in frustration. She seems to be going over your words, processing them and what they could mean.

“My grandmother is going to kill me…” she sighs. You grin, ready to celebrate but she stops you with her hand. “No, no, you’re getting the communicator yourself. I’m stalling for you, so my grandmother doesn’t wonder why you missed a session.”

You hug her and her surprise is visible. Affection is not lost of the native Puvion, but it’s rare coming from you.

“Thank you,” you say, and she rolls her eyes, returning the hug in a begrudging manner.

Read Chapter Two - The Journey here!

[theweasleysredhair]

Someday [S.B.]

Character: Sirius Black

Word Count: 953

Requested?: Yes/No

Summary: Lazy mornings, soft kisses and plans for the future... what could be better?

Disclaimer: Gif isn't mine, credit to whoever made it

A/n: this is the Sirius version of the lazy morning with Remus fic I posted yesterday xx

+ + + + +

You woke up slowly, your eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, letting you know morning had arrived. Attempting to turn around, you realised quickly that you were entangled with someone, so much so that you didn’t know where his body ended and yours began.

Your face snuggled into the side of his chest, arms wrapped around you protectively. The shirt you were wearing - owned by the man underneath you - creeped up to your rib cage, showing your bare stomach.

Sirius stirred, his grip tightening on you momentarily before his eyes opened, letting out a small yawn as he glanced down at you.

"Morning, gorgeous,” Sirius mumbled as he pulled you further onto his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to your hairline and you felt him smile into your hair. “Morning,” you replied, sighing happily as you felt Sirius push his lips against yours, slowly moving you even closer to him as one hand reached up to cup your cheek.

Your legs tangled together and you nuzzled closer into his neck when you pulled away, Sirius’ hand tracing shapes across your hip, featherlight touches that made you shiver.

"I really love you, hope you know that,” you heard him whisper. “You know I love you too,” you kissed along his neck softly, leading up to his jaw as the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a smile.

“You know... it’s pretty well known I'm crap with feelings and shit... I don't always know what to say, and-and,” Sirius took a deep breath and gently squeezed your hip, “It’s hard for me to express my emotions but fuck Y/n, the one thing I'm really sure about is that I do love you so much.”

You smiled lovingly down at him as you kissed him again, your lips parting easily as his tongue entered your mouth, him nipping at your bottom lip, causing you to moan softly. As you pulled away, he pulled you back, kissing you once more.

“I need to get up,” you said reluctantly, though you made no move to get out of the bed.

“Nah, just stay here with me,” Sirius replied, pushing his forehead against yours before you settled back down onto his chest.

You were silent for a while, listening to the sounds of birds chirping outside and the occasional car driving past.

“We're lucky we get to enjoy these quiet mornings, Lily and Prongs get woken up by Harry crying so early it's still dark out,” Sirius thought aloud with a smile.

You grinned, “We should enjoy it whilst we can then.”

He hummed, pausing for a moment before speaking up again, “Do you ever think about having kids?”

You looked up at him, finding his stormy grey eyes already locked on yours.

“Yeah, sometimes. I mean I never really gave it any serious thought until Harry came along. I thought a mini James would be a nightmare, but luckily he seems to take after Lily,” you joked, making Sirius chuckle. There was another pause as his hand moved from your hip to rest against your stomach.

“Have you ever thought about having... my baby?”

Your eyes widened slightly as you glanced over at him, before answering carefully, “Oh well, I mean I-I guess I never... I... I never thought of you as someone who wanted to settle down properly, let alone do the whole family or kids thing.”

He nodded, locks of his dark hair falling over his shoulder, “Yeah but, have you thought about it?”

You pressed your lips together into a straight line as you thought for a moment, “Of course, I-I love you, Sirius, why wouldn't I think about it? Why... do you think about it?”

“Well... yeah, yeah,” he got this look on his face, staring at the other side of the room in thought with a small smile on his face, the pads of his thumbs stroking circles on your stomach, “I mean, imagine it, a little boy running around like crazy, wanting to follow Harry around, looking up to him like a brother, and a little girl, my little princess, takes after her mother - beautiful but damn if she doesn't get her own way.

And maybe baby number three on the way... us painting up the nursery again whilst the other two shout excitedly about the new arrival and... I don't know. I mean, I haven't thought about it that much, just odd little scenarios here and there. It's just... I never had much of a proper family growing up, and I probably wouldn't be great at the whole dad thing, but if it was with you, I'd try my damn best because I love you.”

A warm feeling grew through your chest and you looked at Sirius in awe, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, him reacting immediately.

“That sounds wonderful,” you mumbled against his lips, one of your hands slowly running through his hair. The hand that was cupping your cheek moved to rest on your own one in his hair, intertwining his fingers with yours as he pulled your hand to his lips to kiss the back.

“Seeing how happy Harry makes Prongs... man, it makes me want the same things, and I could only imagine doing all the domestic crap with you. I mean, we don't have to rush it or anything, what with the war and stuff. But I know that someday, yeah, I want all of that, as long as it’s with you,” Sirius said, smiling cutely as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear. You smiled back at him, squeezing his hand,

“I hope someday comes soon.”

[antebunny]

Hi! Saw your post asking for prompts about mdzs, so wanted to leave my suggestion, hope you like it :) What about a canon-divergence (based on the live action) where, after having cast out Meng Yao from QuingheNie, Nie Mingjue finds out (that is to say Nie Huaisang finds out and tells him) that the captain killed by MY was actually a spy for the Wens and had hurt MY in the past (like sexual harassment or something). So, Nie Mingjue tracks MY down and finds him with Xichen and apologises.

Not exactly what @brazilianstudygram asked, but it’s the story I wanted to write...

“Da-ge will kill you when he finds out!”

Nie Mingjue stops in his tracks in the middle of the hallway when he hears his little brother’s voice. He’s coming back from a meeting that he can’t send Meng Yao to attend, because Meng Yao wanted to join the Jin sect, and Nie Mingjue respects that, even if he doesn’t respect the Jin sect. He’s also more than a little tired because of the meeting, which is why he stands still for twenty seconds trying to figure out what his brother is talking about.

“Then we don’t tell anyone.”

Nie Mingjue is bad at recognizing voices. It’s a low, male voice, one that Nie Mingjue is fairly sure belongs to one of his generals. But he isn’t entirely sure who it is, and he isn’t entirely sure where it’s coming from, either. His cultivation is high enough that he has outrageous hearing, and the Nie fortresses are built complex enough that Nie Mingjue could wander around for ten minutes without finding them. 

He’s drawing in breath to bellow NIE HUAISANG at the top of his lungs when Huaisang speaks again.

“Wh–why would I not tell?!” Nie Huaisang’s voice warbles through layers of solid stone. “You–I said no! Get away from me!”

Immediately, Nie Mingjue’s hand flies to Baxia’s hilt, and the breath he released is promptly drawn again. He takes two swift steps forward and then stops, spinning wildly in a circle, trying to determine through sound alone where Nie Huaisang and this mystery man are. 

“Ah, but Young Master Nie is already so much trouble for Sect Leader Nie,” the man says. Nie Mingjue still doesn’t know who it is, but he hates his voice.  “Surely the young master wouldn’t want Sect Leader Nie to know how you’ve dishonored yourself? And you wouldn’t dare make him choose between you and one of his generals, would you?”

Nie Mingjue finds himself running without his body’s knowledge, boots pounding heavily on the stone floors. He throws open one door, then another, all the while hearing that man’s poisonous words. 

“Then he’ll never know,” Nie Huaisang says firmly.

Nie Mingjue rips doors out of their frames in his haste. He hears the sound of wood cracking, and it isn’t the door he’s just kicked to the floor. 

“Get out,” Huaisang says. Someone steps on a stick. Porcelain shatters on stone. “Get out!” 

When Nie Mingjue finally breaks down the right door, it’s to find Nie Huaisang alone in the room, standing on the splintered remains of one of his fans, while the nearby table has been upended, spilling its contents all across the floor. Huaisang is shaking, disheveled, and he jumps when Nie Mingjue slams the door open. His face is blanched white, but the instant he sees Nie Mingjue, he starts crying.

Nie Mingjue is forced to awkwardly sheathe Baxia while Nie Huaisang flings himself into his arms, and starts sobbing into his chest. 

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue says, tone deathly calm, “who was that?”

Nie Huaisang doesn’t answer; he just shakes his head and keeps his face buried in Nie Mingjue’s robes. His slim shoulders shake.

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue tries again. “I heard what he said. I don’t care who it is, tell me and I’ll kill him.”

Nie Huaisang only shakes his head again. “You can’t,” he says. “You can’t, da-ge.”

Nie Mingjue has always been bad at voices, but he’s never considered that a problem until now. “Am I the sect leader, or am I not?” Nie Mingjue is one wrong word away from shouting when a horrible thought occurs to him. “Has this…happened before?”

Nie Huaisang keeps shaking his head. “They know better with you here,” he says, which is just not the answer Nie Mingjue was hoping for.

“You should’ve killed him,” Nie Mingjue says instead. “I would’ve believed you.”

“You know I’m no good with my saber,” Nie Huaisang protests, and he finally releases Nie Mingjue from his hug to turn his wide, wet eyes on him. “I did what I could, da-ge!”

“Then tell me who it was,” Nie Mingjue demands, but his brother is pulling back emotionally, tears drying up, robes fixed, new fan acquired.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nie Huaisang insists. He wipes his eyes with his hands, and flicks open his new fan, fluttering it over his mouth nervously. “It doesn’t matter.”

-

Nie Mingjue stares at the dead body of his general, and then at Meng Yao. He doesn’t know which of them looks more shocked.

It isn’t that Nie Mingjue missed the fact that his most competent, cunning deputy had the capability to be ruthless as well as cunning. It isn’t like Nie Mingjue doesn’t occasionally fantasize about killing a certain annoying sect leader or two. But he doesn’t. 

“Meng Yao,” he begins. Baxia is in his hand, almost without him realizing it. 

Meng Yao shrinks before him, but he doesn’t know if it’s an act. He just witnessed Meng Yao’s smile drop like lead, watched the snarl on his pretty face as he stabbed his commander in the back. The smile is still missing; only bone-white fear is left. 

“You killed one of my generals,” Nie Mingjue says, voice slowly gathering volume like an avalanche, thunderous and rumbling.

Meng Yao is a murderer. Meng Yao turned his blade against one of Nie Mingjue’s best generals–

One of his generals.

“Why?” Nie Mingjue demands. 

Meng Yao looks vulnerable and exposed without his smile. His clever eyes flicker down to Baxia and up to Nie Mingjue’s stormy face. He stands up slowly, fear still blanched in the pale complexion of his face. Meng Yao licks his lips, opens his mouth in a twisted expression of woe.

Before Nie Mingjue even realizes what he’s doing, Baxia is sheathed. “Don’t lie,” he demands, forestalling Meng Yao’s words. “Tell me why.” 

He’s striding forwards, until he’s almost within reach of Meng Yao. Nie Mingjue wishes the general had lived for just a second longer, only so that Nie Mingjue could hear his voice. He’s sure he could recognize it.

“Did he attack you?” Nie Mingjue asks. “Did he assault you?”

Blank surprise filters through Meng Yao’s hastily constructed mask. “Does it matter?” The retort slips out before Meng Yao can stop it. His mouth develops a bitter twist. “Sect Leader Nie saw this one stab him in the back.”

A cowardly attack. A dishonorable one. Calculated, spite-driven murder. 

Meng Yao is no good with the sword, or the saber. He could’ve never beaten the general in a fair fight. Nie Mingjue didn’t hear what the general said to Meng Yao before he was killed; he only saw the way Meng Yao’s dimpled smile wiped clean off like makeup.

“It does matter,” Nie Mingjue surprises himself by saying.

Nie Huaisang grew up knowing that his brother would come running to defend him. Nie Huaisang was the son of a sect leader, and now the brother of one. And still he refused to tell Nie Mingjue who the general was, despite Nie Mingjue’s best efforts to change his mind; so insistent was he that the general was necessary for the war effort.

(You should’ve killed him, he’d said, but what if Huaisang hadn’t had Nie Mingjue? What if he’d instead waited a week, or a month, or a year, or thirteen–)

Meng Yao stares at him like he’s talking to a different person. The bitterness doesn’t leave. “And if I say he did,” he says, voice paper-thin. “Will Sect Leader Nie believe me?”

He could be lying. Nie Mingjue doesn’t know what deceptions Meng Yao is capable of, or how good he is at recognizing him. Meng Yao could be lying, Nie Mingjue tells himself. And yet:

“Yes,” Nie Mingjue says. He takes another step forward, coming within reach of Meng Yao’s bloodied sword. “Did he?”

Meng Yao raises his sword. 

Nie Mingjue just looks at him. Even with Baxia sheathed and Meng Yao’s sword at the ready, he poses no threat. Not to Chifeng-zun. 

(To what lengths to the powerless go to protect themselves? To what lengths do they go for revenge?)

“Meng Yao,” Nie Mingjue says, simply and truthfully. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Meng Yao trembles, as if he’s the rabbit spotted by the fox, and not the fox himself. He lowers his shaking sword, lowers his head too. He trembles when Nie Mingjue steps forward again, arms outstretched; trembles when Nie Mingjue carefully wraps his arms around him the way he once comforted Huaisang.

He could stab Nie Mingjue in the back, now, if he wants. He could employ half a dozen tricks to run Sect Leader Nie through with his sword. 

He doesn’t.

Instead, Meng Yao lifts his head, eyes suspiciously bright, and tells his story.

[gohyuck]

concept: vietnam veteran!jeno lee x bartender!reader

warning: if i ever write this you can bet it will be pretty critical of the war, and will likely include mentions of ptsd, alcoholism, maybe smut? but maybe not, etc.

note: jeno being korean is definitely capitalized upon here for story-related reasons, but this does not mean anything about the reader’s race or ethnicity or anything. if i end up writing this fic it’ll take a ton of research, too (source: i read like 5 articles alone for this short blurb, from korean immigration to the u.s. to popular vodka in the 70s)

the year is 1973. it is january 27th, 1973, and you’re in southern texas bartending when president nixon announces that he has signed the paris peace accords. the u.s. is pretty much officially out of the war. you throw a washcloth over your shoulder and put away newly scrubbed out shot-glasses as the elated disk jockey stumbles over his words while speaking. he’s old. there are few young men on the radio. there are few young men anywhere. the boys are coming home, the aged voice crackles over the radio.

the shot glass in your hand slips, centimeters away from the shelf. it shatters. you’ll have to get the dustpan. there’s a new gash across your big toe, bleeding bright red. you need to start wearing tennis shoes on the job. you reach over and turn off the radio. the boys never should have had to leave. 

that night, you serve more cheering, excited, hopeful people than you have served in a long, long time. shouts of ‘more’, cries of ‘he’s coming back, he’s coming home!’ permeate the air around you. it’s nauseating. it’s so nauseating. you spend the next morning mopping up other people’s puke from the establishment corners. you spend the next night bent over the toilet in your cramped apartment yourself. 

the year is 1975. it is april 23rd, 1975, and you’re still in southern texas bartending, mostly because you have no way to leave the state. if you have to be in texas, it’ll always be austin. besides, you’ve gotten used to the steady stream of regulars that pass through, with the occasional new face that never returns. tourists. you love and hate them. some have stories to tell, and those are the good ones. some expect stories from you, and you can’t stand people like that. it’s no matter, though, not on april 23rd, 1975. you don’t meet any tourists then.

you meet him. and he’s peculiar, right off the bat. 

you know he isn’t new in town - that much is obvious - but he isn’t quite used to what austin is becoming, either. a vet. has to be. you’ve served vets before, of course you have, but something about this one... 

he’s so damn young. can’t be over a few years older than you are, if that. you shouldn’t be surprised, of course you shouldn’t: you’d done your fair share of protesting back in ‘68, tagging alongside your older cousins as they’d marched, screaming at the top of their lungs about being old enough to die but not old enough to vote. you must have been in middle school, then. they sent the boys off to die anyways.

he comes in midday, right after the lunch break locals have left. the place is almost empty, and your feet are absolutely aching from the recent rush, but he looks just a little lost (and you’d be one hell of a liar if you don’t admit that you quite like the way he looks) and, before you know it, you’re calling him over from the front door.

“sit up here at the bar, sir,” you give him the best customer service smile you can muster. “it’s the best way to experience good old southern hospitality.”

he says nothing, only lets his eyes bore into yours. after a moment too long, he nods slowly, shucking his light jacket off and leaving it on the coat rack at the entrance. his black hair is getting just a little long, covering his eyes almost entirely, and you realize that he probably hasn’t had a haircut in a while. his steps to the bar are slow, deliberate, but you don’t mind waiting for him.

“just vodka,” he says, voice soft and lilting and very, very slightly accented. it’s low, deep and likely once full of life, but he’s reserved now. subdued. it might be because of the fact that, by now, it’s only the two of you left in the joint. “two shots.”

“a name? for the tab or for payment.” you ask, though you really don’t need to. not now, anyways. he’s just gotten here. still, you don’t know how drunk he’s going to get, so maybe it’s best that you ask now, and not later. you ignore the fact that you’re only asking simply because you want to know. 

“jeno lee.” his response is curt, emotionless. his dark eyes meet yours again. he’s korean, and you have to admit that you don’t meet very many korean people in your part of the world. the immigration act had only been enacted back in ‘65, and, even then, most people traveling in ended up in california or new york. not texas. never texas. explains the accent, too. not a hint of texan in it.

you grab two shot glasses from behind you with one hand, procuring a bottle of wolfschmidt in the other. mr. jeno lee offers you the tiniest hint of a smile once you’re done pouring, and that’s that. before you can ask him anything else - though you don’t know if he even wants you to do so - a regular walks in through the door, and you busy yourself with finding the whiskey she likes. 

once you’ve served her, you turn around to ask your intriguing new customer if he’d like anything else, water perhaps, only to find two empty glasses and a few crumpled up dollar bills on the counter. there’s a nickel in the otherwise empty tip jar. there are no other traces of the quiet, handsome stranger, and you can’t help but feel as if you’ll never see him again. you aren’t quite sure why the thought fills you with an unexplainable sadness.

it’s no matter. you push it aside. you don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. hell, he doesn’t even know your name. by the time the after dinner rush hits and all the men come in from the nearby strip clubs, you’re already over jeno lee and the great big nothing you know of him. you wipe down the counters, mop and dust the floors as needed, clean the glasses, greet the bartender who has the shift after yours, and finally get off your goddamn feet once you get home. you don’t think of him once.  out of sight, out of mind.

that’s why it’s so much more shocking when he comes in at the exact same time on april 24th, 1975, and orders the exact same thing. 

explaining the concepts tag: these are ideas i’ve had that i’m considering turning into fics! i post them under concepts to get y’alls opinions. let me know if you want to see this as a fic someday!

[myundeadgayson]

Ahoy, We are Castaways AU, but not really because Gunk and Ishmael find Pirates:

@bluwards So.... I mayhaps wrote an entire thing for your idea?

For anyone wondering, here’s the link to the OG au idea post: https://bluwards.tumblr.com/post/661885099380506624/au-where-tommy-and-wilbur-were-part-of-a-pirate

This might not be exactly what you were hoping for of this, but I had an image in my mind and just went HAM on it. Like, I mean that as in I started this at like... 1am last night and I finished at like 4pm today??? I’m not saying I wrote that entire time, but I am saying that I literally just NEEDED to finish this because it’s SUCH A FUN IDEA. (I’m sorry for writing so much by the way! I got excited.)

Notes: None of this is historically accurate to literally anything, especially history and pirates. Instead, we’re gonna image this is some fun fantasy world where like. Pirates are out chilling in the world stealing shit and royalty exists somewhere enough you can be like “yeah, i’m royal. try to prove i’m not bitch.” (Also, I’ll post this on Ao3 later and edit with the link after I sleep. For now, please enjoy!) Words: 5160 Characters: Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit, Philza Minecraft, and Technoblade

The heat must be getting to him.  It must be because there’s no way that’s a ship he’s seeing out on the horizon. It seems to be drawing closer, but it’s not near enough to tell, not that it would matter anyway. It’s not real.  It’s not real, he tells himself. It has to be a mirage. As if their luck would ever be that good.

 Wilbur rests his head back down into Tommy’s mess of curls. The two of them are curled together underneath the shade of the treeline. His back is pressed against the rough, uneven bark of a palm tree with his bare feet digging into the sand. Tommy’s eyes are closed. His little brother is tucked tight against his side, dozing softly as the slight breeze ruffles his dirty hair.

 If Wilbur tried, he could pretend Tommy was just resting. He could pretend this was the two of them relaxing on some beach that they’ve gotten all to themselves. He could imagine that Tommy tuckered himself out, now the two of them were peacefully dozing off in the shade on a lovely Summer day as the gentle sea wind blew.

 In that fantasy, they would have chosen to be here on this beach. A beach would make for a good day trip, he thinks. He imagines that it would be a beach off the coast of a small town. He’d take Tommy early in the morning down past the docks and watch Tommy hop along stones down a path leading towards the sand. Wilbur would make him carry a basket of bread and other treats that they might have gotten from a kind baker that didn’t mind that their pockets were a little low. Wilbur would smile and promise to repay them, and it’d be a real promise instead of a sharp-toothed lie.

 He’d bring a threadbare sheet because they’d have one to spare for it. He’d spread it along the sand and bask in the sun’s rays. He’d open his eyes occasionally to Tommy’s excited shouts as his brother pulled odd shells and tiny hermit crabs from the ocean, then laugh as Tommy shouted obscenities when they inevitably fell from his hands because Tommy was anything but careful. A few shells would be saved though, and Tommy would make a small pile of them on the corner of the sheet for them to keep.

 Tommy would eventually tug Wilbur up to join him. Wilbur would laugh and pretend to be reluctant as his brother guided him down towards the water until the warm waves lapped at their feet. Tommy would grin at him, bright as the sun overhead and his hair sparkling like strands of gold. He’d look so proud of himself as he showed Wilbur more shells and other interesting things he found.

 Along the way, one of them would splash the other whether it be accidentally or not, and it’d start a war. Wilbur would laugh until his ribs were sore as he smacked water Tommy’s way and listened to the younger shout insults back at him. It’d all be in good fun and it’d show in Tommy’s toothy grin as the blond would get some harebrained idea of how to “win” their little game and it’d end with them both falling into the water. They’d be soaked to the bone and Wilbur would playfully smack water at Tommy’s face for getting them both wet, but it’d be fine in the end because they would sit out in the sun until their clothes dried. In this fantasy, Wilbur could imagine it wouldn’t matter anyway because once they went home, they’d have more clothes to change into and one pair wouldn’t be missed for a day.

 When the sun started to set over the horizon, Wilbur would gather them up to leave. He’d gather up their food and make Tommy carefully fold up the sheet. It’d end up balled up instead and Wilbur would tease Tommy for his shit folding skills. They’d stay an extra few minutes to stare off at the sunset as it glistened over the calm waters. All would feel peaceful until Tommy ruined the moment with some joke that’d make Wilbur smack him upside the head, even though he’d laugh all the same.

 They’d walk home with Tommy’s shells tucked safely into their pockets under the soft pink skies. A perfect background to a perfect day.

 It would be nice, lovely even, because in that world they’d go home to some nice place Wilbur managed to keep for them in some nice town. It’d be real and theirs, and they’d each have a warm bed to sleep in and food in their stomachs. It might be small, but small was okay because they’d both be happy and they’d have nothing to fear.

 If only life were ever so kind.

 It was a nice daydream, but if Wilbur were to look down, it’d shatter. It’d shatter if he listened at all to the way Tommy’s breathing sounded off. With every low breath, his brother’s chest would shutter. Wilbur could feel it every time.

 Tommy’s nose was red and peeling, as were his cheeks and shoulders. His freckles were hidden beneath the furious scarlet and white flecks. His skin had gotten tanner, but the dark rings under his eyes made him look ghastly. Wilbur was sure that he looked about the same himself, but seeing it on Tommy was different.

 The boy was thin enough before they’d gotten stranded, but now his limbs looked just too small. Wilbur could practically see the bones poking through. If it weren’t for the blaring sun overhead tanning their skin, Wilbur was sure that Tommy would look more like a walking skeleton than a teenager.

 They’d got thrown overboard days ago. Wilbur lost track of how many. He stopped really caring when he realized there were other things to care about, like keeping them alive.

 Luck had never been on their side. Wilbur had known that since they were little and a twelve-year-old found himself in charge of a five-year-old.

 The world’s always been against them. It started early with a mother too young to be on her own with a child. She was struggling enough as it was to keep them fed that when that one child turned to two, the odds for any of them getting by turned minimal. Even with Wilbur doing his best to help, swindling and snatching up food and loose change off of oblivious folk in the city, hope was running thin.

 It was amazing she’d ever gotten so far. Wilbur hated to see it that way now, but it was the truth. The fact she’d ever made it to Tommy’s fifth birthday was incredible. When the sickness set in though, no amount of Wilbur’s efforts could seem to help her. Eventually, she’d stopped waking up entirely and Wilbur was left on his own to care for his little brother.

 Luck ran out, but they made their own with time.

 After losing their mother, Wilbur packed them up and they were off. He taught Tommy every trick he knew. They traveled endlessly, hopping from place to place just to keep moving whenever it seemed like any townsfolk around started catching onto their games. Wilbur tried a few odd jobs every time for money in places, and Tommy was tiny enough that he could sneak bread and other foods off vendors to bring back to whatever tiny hole they’d called home at that moment.

 As they both got older, the tricks got better. Their stories were perfected and their act was flawless if ever they needed to talk someone into lending them a place out of pity, or a new job.

 When Wilbur caught sight of a ship though, he’d thought they were golden. Sure, he only knew vaguely about working them. He’d taken on a few jobs on some docks before, but he’d never been on a ship himself. The thought was meant to be that if he could get on that ship for a job, he could bring Tommy along with him. They’d stay there and hop off at the first chance they could once they’d landed in a new country, then they’d start over for real. They’d start over fresh in a new place entirely and everything might be okay! They could make life whatever they wanted because no one would be able to know otherwise!

 And everything did feel okay for a while. Turns out the ship Wilbur found was a crew of pirates, but like always, Wilbur managed to talk his way through. Tommy played along perfectly, and before they knew it, they became crew. Perhaps they were there for nothing more than playing clean-up, but they would take what they could get.

 Their luck was turning up. As Wilbur started working his way through making connections with the crew, he was starting to think maybe he’d found a place for them. They wouldn’t stay, of course, but it made sense, didn’t it?

 The constant traveling and plundering— that kind of life was meant for them. However, there were also rules to follow and heavy risks in not doing so. Neither of them were good at following rules, but they were good actors all the same that could fake it until their last breath. But for a short time, it felt like a good fit and Wilbur remembered telling Tommy as such.

 Tommy was much more reluctant. He was getting by, but he didn’t like it there. Maybe Wilbur was succeeding, but Tommy was younger. His limbs were all thin and gangly, and it made him look weaker than he was. The crew would shove him around and they’d always be too loud in his ears. Tommy was rather loud himself, but when you’re trying to hold your tongue to survive, it wasn’t like he could exactly defend himself.

 So maybe they didn’t see eye to eye about it, but that was fine. Wilbur agreed they’d only be there a little longer because the moment they docked somewhere new, they’d be off and onto wherever life would take them next.

 Unfortunately, their luck ran out.

 It all happened in a blur. Wilbur remembered when the storm hit. It was rougher than normal. He remembered fighting with the rest of the crew to take care of the ship. They were fighting hard to stay afloat as the waves rocked the ship from side to side so hard that Wilbur feared they would tip.

 The ship didn’t tip, but Tommy did.

 He could still vividly remember Tommy slipping. He’d watched in horror the way his brother scrambled for purchase on something, anything. He’s just barely caught the side of the ship.

 Wilbur went after him, not caring in the slightest for whatever task he’d abandoned. He’d tried to help yank Tommy back aboard. Tommy, who held on with white knuckles and fingernails digging into the wood with fear in his eyes. Wilbur tried to reassure him, but he was sure his words got lost in the raging winds. He’d tried to pull Tommy back onto the deck, and for a moment, he was succeeding. He almost managed to pull Tommy back on board.

 Right as he thought he’d gotten Tommy back though, the ship hit another furious set of waves. The brothers got thrown hard, and suddenly they were both going down.

 It was a miracle they didn’t drown.

 Wilbur sighed, closing his eyes once again. He tried to block out the memories of rushing water and Tommy’s screams of his name. He could still taste the seawater on his tongue as it tried to flood his lungs.

 They’d gotten tossed endlessly in the waves. The ship was forgotten in the battle to just hold on to each other.

 He combed his fingers through Tommy’s hair. The boy didn’t even respond. He must have finally fallen asleep, Wilbur thought to himself. Sleep hadn’t been easy to find since they’d woken up ashore. Though the island seemed abandoned, neither of them could be sure there wasn’t some hidden danger lurking somewhere. Their sunburns didn’t make it easy either with the way their skin would ache. Even in the shade or the dark of the night, they’d struggle to find enough comfort to rest at all.

 He was glad Tommy was getting some sleep now. He was getting rather tired himself. As much as he’d like to give in, one of them needed to stay awake just in case.

 Wilbur groaned as he forced his eyes to peel open once more. As his vision started to clear, he noticed the mirage was getting closer. The blurry shape of the ship was getting bigger. It was looking like it was getting ready to dock at the edge of the island at any minute. Or at least it would if it were actually real.

 Wilbur huffed, resting his cheek on Tommy’s head. He watched idly as the ship grew closer and closer to the edge of the shore. It wasn’t coming straight towards them. It was heading more towards the left edge of the island where the trees were a bit more scattered, but the shoreline was still mostly clear of rocks.

 It wasn’t until it was starting to look suspiciously more and more lifelike that Wilbur started to get more intrigued.

 Furrowing his brows, he lifted his head. He pulled away from Tommy some to sit up further. Tommy groaned in protest. The motion caused the boy to slide down, his head resting more on Wilbur’s chest than shoulder. Wilbur wanted to hush him and whisper soft apologies for disturbing him at all. Unfortunately, the ship’s drawing nearer by the second and Wilbur could feel something akin to hope bubbling up in his throat.

 He frantically nudged at Tommy’s side, “Tommy. Tommy, wake up.”

 “Augh…” Tommy rolled his head, burying his face further into Wilbur’s shirt with an annoyed whine. He weakly smacked at Wilbur’s arm, “Fuck off, Wilbur… M’tryin’ to sleep, asshole…”

 As much as Wilbur wished he could agree, he needed Tommy’s eyes. “Get up! I think I see something,” Wilbur urged. He shoved Tommy off him until the boy got the hint to sit up on his own.

 The blond looked absolutely pitiful. Tommy rubbed at his tired eyes with his fists. Wilbur’s chest ached with remorse for having bothered him, but he told himself that again, it could be for good reason.

 “What the fuck’re you on about?” Tommy mumbled irritably.

 “Look! Look there,” Wilbur hissed, pointing out at the ship. It seemed to be getting ready to dock. Tiny figures could be seen moving along the deck, grabbing at ropes and such. “Do you see that?”

 It took a moment for Tommy to follow where he was pointing. The boy was still getting his bearings on being awake again. Wilbur almost turned Tommy’s head himself to see though. Patience was growing thin as their potential hope of being able to escape was growing stronger, but he needed to be sure. It could be his mind playing cruel tricks on him. The exhaustion could finally be taking its toll, and maybe Tommy would be of no help because he could be seeing nothing as well, but the chances of them imagining the same ship with the same little people had to be high.

 “See wha’?” Tommy’s voice was still groggy from sleep. The boy’s eyes slowly followed Wilbur’s finger towards the ship. Wilbur watched as the recognition clicked into place and all at once their hope seemed more plausible. Tommy’s eyes widened, “T-That’s— Wilbur, that’s a ship!” His head whipped around to look up at Wilbur. “That’s a real ship, innit?! Please tell me that’s real!”

 The brunette was already grinning and nodding along with that same spark in his eye. “Oh, thank fuck! You see it too then! I thought maybe I was just imagining it.”

 For the first time in days, Tommy looked excited. “Holy shit, Wilbur, we might be saved!”

 He tried to stagger to his feet. Wilbur had to rush to catch him before he stumbled to the ground, “Tommy, careful!”

 He caught the boy before he could fall. Tommy winced, teeth gritting to bite back a cry. Wilbur noticed it instantly. He dropped Tommy’s arms at once, moving to take the other’s wrists where the burns were less present. The younger steadied himself on his feet with Wilbur’s cautious guidance. Once he was stable, he passed Wilbur a sheepish grin, “Heh, oops?”

 Wilbur heaved out a sigh. There was no way he could be mad at that, not that he ever planned to. He shook his head, letting go of Tommy completely now that it seemed his brother could stand on his own. He straightened up, looking out towards where the head of the ship was disappearing behind the treeline. Taking a deep breath, Wilbur ruffled a hand through his hair before looking back to Tommy, “I think they’re planning to dock on that side. If we go now, we might be able to get on.”

 “Then what are we waiting for?! Let’s go!” Tommy shouted excitedly. With that, he turned to march ahead.

 He barely got a step before Wilbur was catching him by the wrist to stop him, “Wait a second! I wasn’t done yet!”

 Tommy practically whined as he was stopped for the second time. He turned back on his heel with a loud groan, “What? The ship’s right there, Wilbur! We need to go!”

 Wilbur could understand his enthusiasm. He wanted off this island as much as Tommy did, but if they were going to get onto that ship, they needed a plan.

 “Listen to me. I’m not sure we’ll be able to sneak on without getting found out and I don’t know about you, but I really don’t feel like getting tossed off another ship,” Wilbur told him honestly.

 Tommy’s nose wrinkled at the reminder. Sniffing, the boy turned to face him better, “Then what? You want us to go and just ask them? Like ‘hi, Mister Captain, sir! Could we please jump on this here ship you got? I know you don’t know us and it’d be really to leave us for dead, but I think if you’d really just considered it for a second deep in your heart’— honestly, that’s sounds really stupid, Wilbur. No one’s going to fall for that!”

 Wilbur sputtered, trying not to choke on a laugh. “No, no! As if that’d ever work.” He cleared his throat, pulling himself back together quickly. “We don’t know what kind of ship we’re dealing with yet. I say we go stake out the ship first and plan from there. But if we get caught, I think I already have a few ideas in mind. But whatever we do, we just have to stick to it well enough to get to their next stop.”

 Tommy rolled his eyes, “Sounds easy enough. Now can we just go already? I’m so tired of all this stupid sand.” ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******

 “So…” Phil dragged out the word. Techno remained tense behind him, leaning against the side of the ship. Phil didn’t need to look behind him to know the man was glaring at the pair of boys in front of them, searching for some sign to not trust the two. Phil held up a hand as if to silently gesture his first mate to settle down. He could handle this. “How about we start with your names, alright, boys?”

 The two young men before him traded a look. Whatever mental conversation the two had ended in the span of seconds before the older of the pair was clearing his throat. The brunette was suddenly holding out a hand, “Captain Ishmael. Honor to meet another Captain”

 “Ishmael?…” Phil slowly repeated, taking the man’s hand. He’d give it to the kid. For someone that was clearly on the verge of exhaustion, he had a good grip. “Really?”

 “Uh huh!” Ishmael took his hand back with a rather proud grin, “It’s a family name. Passed down from generation to generation! I’m Ishmael the 3rd actually, in case you wanted to know.”

 Phil did not. He couldn’t care less about this man’s history, but he did care about the fact that he could have sworn the man didn’t have as much of an accent before. And it seemed to be growing thicker with every word (as if “Ishmael” was getting his bearings on his new voice).

 “As you can probably guess, we’re a very long way from home, you know?” Ishmael went on without missing a beat. “We had a ship of our own, but huge storm took it out with the rest of our crew and, well, you can see how things turned out.”

 Phil only arched a brow further. He was sure the disbelief was heavy on his expression, “Right…” He turned his attention to the young boy beside the self-proclaimed captain. He’d been mostly quiet since boarding. “And what about you, mate?”

 “Gunk,” the boy croaked up after a moment. His voice was incredibly hoarse. He had the same accent as Ishmael, lending slight credit to their tale, not that Phil believed either of them in the slightest.

 “Gunk.”

 The boy hummed, leaning heavily on the young Captain’s shoulder. “Yep. And that’s Gunk Gorbachev to you,” the kid added, weakly lifting his head enough to shoot Phil a glare, pointing a finger as well in a way the older blond assumed was meant to look threatening. “Heir to the Gorbachev throne, I’ll have you know.”

 Phil only stared blankly at the kid. Blinking slowly, he settled on a simple,  “Okay… So, we have Captain Ishmael and Gunk…”

 “Gorbachev,” the kid corrected.

 Phil nodded, “Gorbachev. So tell me why exactly should I let you on my ship?”

 Ishmael cleared his throat first, “Well, as I mentioned before, our ship got destroyed in the storm. I know you’ve got no reason to believe us, but I assure you when we get back to the nearest mainland, I can find you all the proof I can to prove Gunk’s father is a highly influential man. He would waste no time to give you as much money as you wish for his son’s safe return.”

 Before Phil could answer, Techno was doing so for him. “If he’d only send an amount for the kid, then why should we bother to keep you?”

 To Ishmael's credit, he held his own well. Phil knew exactly how intimidating Techno could be, especially when he was trying. The man could make most men cower with a single look. Ishmael, however, held Techno’s look head-on, lips stretched into a firm line, “Well I’ll have you know, I’m one of King Gorbachev’s most trusted Captains. I’m now Gunk’s primary caretaker as well, seeing as the rest of our people were taken down in the waves. The bounty for my safe return will be high. Not as high as Gunk’s, but it’s still more bounty for you, isn’t it?”

 “But you still crashed his ship,” Techno bluntly pointed out, much to Ishmael’s disliking. “Someone who can’t take care of their own ship and out of their crew, only manages to keep themselves and some kid alive doesn’t sound very worthy to me. At least, that’s not someone I’d wanna take back.”

 Ishmael narrowed his eyes sharply, “I think as someone who lives their life on the water, you would know how unpredictable the sea can be, Sir…”

 “Technoblade,” the said man gruffly answered.

 “Technoblade,” the name almost sounded cruel on Ishmael’s tongue, “I’m sure you know exactly how unfair the tides are. You can’t always predict the storms when they come, neither can you always get away from them in time. I’ll have you know, Technoblade, I did my damned hardest to save my crew, but the waves separated us and took my ship down with it. You don’t think I haven’t spent days searching the shores for signs of my crew? Because I have.” Ishmael’s voice was getting louder and more emotional with every word. “The best I could do was to do my sworn task, which was keep Gunk here safe…”

 Phil could see the sheen of tears behind the young captain's eyes as he choked on those last few words, and if he was lying, Phil had to admit the kid was a pretty damn good actor.

 Ishmael’s arm was wrapped protectively around the Gunk’s shoulders, keeping the boy close to his chest as if it really were his sworn duty and he couldn’t handle the thought of failing another task, especially one so crucial.

 Gunk was in on it as well. The boy played a pretty convincing part of the sad child that’s lost his people. Phil might feel bad if it turned out to be true because he did look awfully pitiful. He had his head tucked against Ishmael’s chest. His eyes weren’t closed, but they stared ahead, unblinking yet filled with sadness as if he were reliving the painful memories.

 “Now I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about my loss,” Ishmael finished, squaring his shoulders once more. The man’s dark eyes were hardened over in a way that almost made Phil believe his story. That was a soldier’s look if he knew one. “It isn’t as if I haven’t been thinking about them enough for the past few days… How would you like it if the seas turned on you and took your crew?”

 Techno seemed to have nothing more to say to that. This talk seemed to have turned much more emotional than he planned. He crossed his arms with a grunt, breaking Ishmael's gaze to glower at the deck instead.

 Ishmael broke the gaze as well, huffing loudly before turning his attention back on Philza. “Now as I was saying, you can offer me up as well. If the king offers you nothing, you can kill me, that’s fine. But I think you’d be wasting your effort if you did so now and lost even more bounty. You seem like two very smart men, so I don’t think you’d want to pass up on a good deal for nothing, would you?”

 “I suppose not…” Phil hummed, leaning back in his seat. “But how do you know we won’t kill you after the payment?”

 Ishmael shrugged, “Then that’s the risk we’ll have to take, isn’t it? It’s sure better than dying alone on an island, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Fair enough,” Phil decided. He pushed himself to stand and motioned to a nearby crew member towards the boys, “They can stay. We’re keeping the same route as we were without them.”

 “You can’t be serious,” Techno spoke up, standing up to follow after him. A few crewmen were already passing them by to start prepping the ship for departure once more. Techno dodged between them, growling as he hurried to catch up to Phil’s side, “Please, Phil, you can’t really believe any of that, can you? That was the fakest story I’ve ever heard! C’mon! I mean, did you even hear that sob story?! The kid’s claiming to be a prince?!”

Phil only hummed noncommittally, “Now, Techno, I don’t think I ever said I believed them. I said I’d let them stay.”

 “Phil, that’s two extra mouths to feed,” Techno sneered back. Phil didn’t need to spare him a glance to know how disgruntled his companion looked. “That’s two extra people wasting space that we don’t need! We could have just left them there! No one would notice! We probably won’t even get any bounty from this! It’ll just be a waste of time!”

 “Then I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Phil answered, patience holding strong as ever. He’d already prepared himself for Techno’s barrage of questions. He had a feeling his first mate wouldn’t be thrilled about keeping a new pair of strays, especially ones that tried to lie their way into staying. “They’re only a couple of kids, mate. They’ll only be here a few weeks at most, then we’ll be rid of them for good. It won’t hurt us to babysit for a while.”

 “I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter, Phil! I don’t even like kids!” Technoblade was starting to sound more exasperated by the second. It took everything for Phil not to smile. His normally composed partner was throwing a fit over a couple of stowaways, as if their crew wasn’t built off similar strays. Though Phil supposed the difference was those strays were a little more honest. Phil couldn’t tell if that was the problem, or if Techno was taking difficulty sharing space with more newcomers. Apparently he wasn’t done, so Phil would soon find out.

 “I mean, really, Phil. We could take in so many other things. But you choose a couple kids lying that one of them’s some fake king’s heir and the other’s a— a fake captain? Who fakes being a captain! You’ve gotta agree with me here, Phil. ‘Cause I’m sure lying about being a captain is normal,” Techno snarked, “totally normal kid things.”

 Phil sighed, and paused in his step. Techno paused with him, just a step behind. Phil turned to face his partner. Techno only stares back at him, expression stoic as ever, but Phil could see the heavy annoyance in his eyes. If Phil hadn’t known him for all the years he had, he would never guess the man was only about as old as the self-proclaimed captain. He’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t starting to show currently, which Phil deemed for better or worse. For as old as he tried to seem, Techno was still quite young.

 Phil placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “You worry too much, mate. Yes, it is probably a lie. Honestly, I can’t say I ever believed even a second of any of it, but you saw how they looked. They were sunburnt and thirsty, and likely going to be stranded for the gods only know how long. Do you really think if you were stuck in their situation, you wouldn’t try to say anything you could to make sure you stay alive? Even if it sounded absolutely ridiculous?”

 Techno went silent for a moment. Phil watched him mull over his answer. Finally, his partner averted his gaze towards the horizon. “Well I wouldn’t be as obvious about it…”

 Phil cracked a laugh, “Oh, I wouldn’t either. It was really obvious, wasn’t it?” He chuckled, and gave Techno’s shoulder a soft squeeze before pulling away to continue walking, “We’ll keep a close eye on them. You can watch them as closely as you want, if that makes you feel any better. If anything seems too suspicious, then we’ll handle it. For now, let them recover. Let them rehydrate and eat, and we’ll just listen to see how their story changes. Maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll be worth their weight after all. It’s just a few weeks.” (Spoiler: it was more than a few weeks and Dadza Phil did the Dadza attachment thing as always.)

[waatermelon-sugaar]

Under My Skin: Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Words = 4.3k

Chapter warnings = swearing, bad words, let me know if I missed anything!

Summary = Despite the explosive argument that resulted on your last mission with Poe, Leia decides another is in order

A/N = I made up the planet that they go to, as far as I’m aware it doesn’t exist in the Star Wars canon, but when I wrote the first draft I had no wifi to research a planet and then I couldn’t be bothered to change it. Also I know nothing about flying, nor about physics, I have based this on my (limited) experience of driving and therefore taken a lot of artistic license - I am sure what I have made these characters do is not actually possible. 

Edit = Cross posted to AO3

Chapter 1

***

Poe Dameron was irritating on a normal day. A grounded Poe Dameron was worse. Like a caged fathier with no outlet for his excessive levels of energy it felt like he was pacing the length of the base multiple times a day, making it almost impossible to avoid him.

Not that that stopped you from trying. To complicate matters, you were doing your best to not think about him at all. So far, it was going well. You hadn’t even talked to him since the debrief, making a special effort to not even look at him when he was in the same room as you.

The debrief had taken place a couple of days after you’d shouted at Dameron, and had been unbelievably awkward. Leia and General Holden had been polite, running through any spare details of information gathered in the compound, what type of books there were, what they were about, what languages they’d been in.

After you’d talked, it was Dameron’s turn, answering questions about the objects in their cases, what planets they were from, how old they were, if they formed a collection. It felt like it went on forever, finally making it onto questions about your shooter, was it the suspected owner, how many droids appeared, was the security system as expected?

You were sure Dameron would be sneering at you, so you avoided looking at him, and didn’t dare directly address him. Keeping your hands clasped in your lap had helped prevent visible shaking.

Saying as little as possible, you’d escaped at the first opportunity, ignoring how Poe stood up, and desperately pretending that you couldn’t hear how he immediately started to talk, more animated than he’d been the entire time you’d been there.  

Both of you had been in trouble; Dameron for hiding his injuries, and you for shouting at him. And while he’d been the one officially grounded, it was of little comfort, knowing that it was no doubt due to him failing his physical. And now Dameron had been able to defend himself and probably slag you off in the same sentence while you had left, feeling like a child sent to their room.  

But unable to fly it felt like he was all over base, just where and when you didn’t want him to be.

Like now. You were working on a mission report with a bar of chocolate to keep you going, lying nearly horizontal on a couch. Background music was playing in your headphones and your datapad was open with a number of tabs and the mission report was there, right in front of you, half written - and yet your eyes kept flicking over to Dameron sat by the center table.

You weren’t sure he’d seen you when he walked in, hidden as you were behind the shelves in the corner. You liked this nook, it always made you feel protected and the idea of Dameron finding this corner and no doubt ruining your sense of security vaguely irritated you. Looking through the gaps you could see his legs resting on the chair opposite him, and if you sat up a bit, you saw that his back was to you, facing the door, his shoulders tight.

Ignoring him, you tried to get back to work, and you would never have admitted it, but the noises as he worked was...nice enough, in it’s own way. Little growls of frustration that you could barely hear over your music, the occasional sentence read aloud, BB-8’s reassuring little beeps. They made you feel less alone.

Finally, finally, you finished. Dameron didn’t look like he was any closer to getting up and leaving, and you took your time shutting down your pad. You’d have to pass him. It had to be done, you wanted to have a shower and go to bed, but...still.

You intended on ignoring him, but it felt excessive to leave without even a - “Goodnight, Dameron.” It was short as you passed and you resisted the weird urges inside of you that wanted to insult him and make sure he was ok at the same time.

He didn’t say anything at first, and you exhaled heavily in relief, and...something else which you didn’t want to unpack.

Until he said your name. Your first name.

You stopped walking, jaw clicking in annoyance as your back tensed. “I’m sorry.” His voice floated from out behind you, strong but quiet. You looked at the door in front of you. It was probably about 4 steps away - you couldn’t have walked a little faster?

“In the medbay, what I said… it was out of order. It was too harsh and I’m sorry.” He paused and you still didn’t move, frozen to the spot. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it, sweetheart. I-” he paused again and changed his mind. “I’m sorry.”

Finally you turned around, a strange trembling rising from your stomach to your chest. Your eyes narrowed, mouth turning up in distaste.

“You’re sorry?” you spat, taking care not to look at his face. “You were only too happy to badmouth me to Leia and General Holden afterwards though!” You took a step backwards, conscious of how far the door was. Your eyes rose from the floor to his face, ignoring the slight signs of tiredness around his eyes, the first time you’d looked directly at him since the medbay.

Shaking your head, you glanced away, the reminder sending hot embarrassment through you, still.

Dameron’s head has dropped into his hands and he’s pulling slightly at his curls. Your breath quickens in annoyance as you start talking again. “Whatever, I-” The slamming of his hands on the table interrupts what you’d been about to say. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white, and the look on his face scares you.

“You don’t have a clue! You’re determined to think badly of me aren’t you?”

For the first time, words escape you. Dameron walks towards you, quick paced and you back away until you reach the wall. There’s something poking into the small of your back, but the physical discomfort is less than the discomfort you feel radiating off Dameron.

He’s close to you now, close enough that you can smell him, a deep rich smell, one that smells like a man, and why do you like it? His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides, like he wants to reach forwards and shake you.

You match his glare, finally finding your words, “I’m determined to think of you based on your actions, Commander.” He stiffens at the use of his title, but you continue. “I know you’re a better pilot than I am, but you need to learn not to look down on people who are a lower rank than you!”

Dameron’s mouth opens...and then shuts without comment. As you continue glaring at him, you realise this is the first time he’s been speechless around you. And it’s now, his body so close he’s nearly pressing you into the wall and what the hell is poking you? You can feel your heart beating quickly and you hope he doesn’t notice it in your neck.

“Well, maybe I do, but you need to learn not to judge others. Not everything’s as simple as it seems!” He’s not shouting anymore, but his voice still feels dangerous.

Whatever. You don’t want to be a part of this anymore. You push roughly past him, hitting his shoulder as you do and mumbling a “Fuck off” under your breath as you finally make your escape.

***

No sooner had you rejected Poe’s apology than you wished you had accepted. It had been an automatic reaction, snapping back at him in your hurt. You’d never been close to Poe, the snub he’d given you when you met preventing you from ever seeing him in a favourable light.

And Poe’s apology was causing an annoying thought to run through your mind. One you had absolutely no business thinking about, and you didn’t know what had brought it about.

But still. What had you missed out on by not being Poe’s friend?

The answer was, of course, absolutely nothing.

Especially now.

It would no longer be enough to bicker like siblings with a rivalry. Regret made you clench your jaw and your heart around Poe Dameron, a physical remainder of the damage you’d done.

This was a new feeling. This was proper anger, real hurt. It was unfamiliar and you weren’t quite sure what to do with it.

You didn’t walk around the base unless you had too now, preferring the isolation of your room to the fear that would shoot through you every time you saw someone with curly hair.

Instead, you found people came to you. Rose was a frequent visitor and you were always happy to see her, even if she didn’t quite understand your reluctance to leave. Members of your squadron came to catch you up on what you missed and after a couple of days you began to think maybe you were being ridiculous. Would it really be so bad if you saw him again?

The decision was taken out of your hands when Kare knocked on your door. She was holding her helmet, with her orange flight suit zipped up. She had a pretty bad case of helmet hair, blonde strands flopping into her face contrasting brilliantly with her brown skin. Dameron stood behind her, determinedly not looking into your room, looking slightly at odds in a normal shirt.  

Great. You couldn’t even avoid him by not going anywhere.

“Hi!” she started, pausing, “Are you alright?”

You hum gently at her, tiredness scratching at your eyes, despite the amount of sleeping you’ve been doing. “What’s going on? Where are you off to?”

“I just got back from a recon mission,” she tells you, and sleep is still pulling at you. “General Organa asked me to tell both of you that she wants to see you for a briefing tomorrow.”

You look again at Poe, as he nods stiffly.

“Is that everything?” He’s not even looking at Kare, and you shoot her a questioning glance.

“It’s at 8 in her office,” Kare says, shaking her head, silently telling you not now. You bit back an irrational laugh as Dameron nods again, leaving as fast as he can. “You’ve pissed him off!”

You’ve not managed to shut the door as she says this, and you shush her desperately as the two of you dissolve into giggles. “So it’s true?” Kare’s taken Rose’s usual seat at your desk, spinning round with the soles of her feet scraping on the floor. “You shouted at him?”

You sigh. That.

“I - yes. He did something stupid,” you tell her and she lets out a chuckle.

“When doesn’t he?” And maybe it’s something about her expression, and the contrast with her dry tone, but it makes you laugh again as she continues, “Don’t worry, everyone thinks he deserved it.”

“Really?” you ask, surprised. “They do?”

She nods, “Yeah. You’ll have to work with him on this mission though.” She’s picking up objects on your desk, and haphazardly returning them to the wrong place. You huff a little at the idea but change the topic.

***

Walking into Leia’s office the next day, you immediately rolled your eyes when you saw Dameron pulling a face as he made eye contact with you.

“Ok this stops right now.” Leia’s voice is sharp and to the point as she glares at the two of you. “This is ridiculous. The two of you are on the same side, fighting the same fight and you can’t even be in the same room?”

“With all due respect General, the enemy of my enemy is not my friend,” you say, not looking away from Dameron. He looks better than usual, wearing a black t-shirt that somehow makes his hair look darker, his arms stronger, his face fresher.

Leia huffs, and gestures to the seat next to Dameron which you take ungraciously, as she continues. “Perhaps not, but you are on the same side. I would like to ask for at least civility towards each other.” Dameron’s wearing tac gear, you realise, scanning up and down his body. Knee pads blend into the black of his trousers, which are tucked into a hefty pair of boots. Your eyes keep catching on the smoothness of his jaw and throat, he must have just had a shave. “Shake hands.”

Your mouth drops open, finally looking away. “What?!” Both of you speak at the same time. You look back at him to see him smiling gently at you. You frown, but stick your hand out, breaching the gap.

“Truce?”

You’re acting annoyed, but there’s a thrumming excitement rising again in you. A mission is a mission, even if it means working with someone you don’t really want to.

You ignore the very small part of you that does want to be friends with him.

Dameron’s hand is warm when it grasps yours, strong in his conviction, and there’s something unreadable in face as he replies. “Truce.”

Leia smiles at you when you turn back to face her, and you have to squash down your own, wanting to remain annoyed at Dameron. Clicking a button on her desk, she starts playing a hologram. It’s a video replay of a number of ships - 2 distinctly First Order TIE fighters, and 3 Resistance X-wings. The TIE fighters are moving in a way you’ve never seen before, unprecedented skill allowing them to miss Resistance shots that should have been hits.

Leia allows the video to play a number of times before waving her hand to freeze the image. You can only gape at her, not quite sure what she wants you and Poe to do about it. Dameron’s hands are already twitching in your peripheral vision, like he’s imagining how he would manipulate the controls to achieve the same effect.

“This was supposed to be a simple recon mission, which was not supposed to have any engagement,” Leia starts, “but the First Order showed up, and our pilots decided to shoot first, but couldn’t make a hit. I want the two of you to work out how they managed to do this. And I’ve arranged for the two of you to practice on Greplimin, which is a largely empty planet two parsecs from here.” Sighing, she leaned on the desk, giving Dameron the holo stick. “Can I trust you not to kill each other?”

Dameron leaves as fast as he can, muttering something about finding BB-8, but you hang back, waiting by the door to ask Leia something.

“Why have you asked me?” You still feel too vulnerable when you look at her, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll ever get over this.

Leia only raises an eyebrow, asking you to elaborate.

“I’m not the best pilot.” You start desperately. “I know I’m not. I would never tell him-,” you throw your arm at the door, “-that, but it’s true. I’m not the best person to ask and if you want someone who gets on with Dameron, I don’t - why, why did you choose me?”

Leia sits down and you stand there, feeling weirdly lanky.

“You’re right.” How is she so confident? “You’re not the best pilot. But you have an unconventional way of flying and the First Order didn’t manage to pull that stunt by being conventional.”

“Figure it out, Lieutenant,” she dismisses you, attention already on some papers on her desk.

***

Dameron had begun to make dinner by the time you’d finished setting up the tent. You’d grumbled under your breath as you worked to construct the two camp beds, sure that the Resistance could afford two tents. Outside, Dameron’s quiet conversation with BB-8 was muffled, indistinct words floating to you under the chirping sounds of the birds and insects.

Even in your grumpy mood as you’d flown out, you could appreciate the beauty of Greplimin. Green had stretched out as far as you could see, circling until you’d found a good place to make camp. A large clearing surrounded by trees, a lake not too far of a walk for water, which was now set alight with the glow of the three suns as they began to set.

The food, cooked by Dameron over an open fire, was nice enough, but something had risen to the back of your throat, making it hard to swallow. You don’t talk much, saying the bare minimum in order to resist snapping at Dameron unnecessarily. As much as you don’t want to admit it, Leia is right - you are on the same side of the war. Conversation is stilted and unnatural, so you take the cowards way out, feigning tiredness to escape.

But that doesn’t mean Dameron has any business being as attractive as he is on this mission. It’s as though ever since your argument in the common room, his attractiveness has increased dramatically and you hate it.  

By the next morning, a slight stubble had started to grow, darkening his jaw and making your heart beat a little faster as the two of you eat in silence, lit by the glow of the sun rise. Out of annoyance, you told yourself, after all, it’s unprofessional to have stubble. And anyway, who can grow facial hair that fast? From the look of him yesterday, he’d freshly shaved.

And he’d started to look at you differently too. You’re just not sure what the difference is.

The next day is spent flying. Both you and Dameron are a little rusty, having both been grounded for a month now. You have to focus on breathing calmly when you first sit back in the cockpit, the image of Poe near to collapse in the seat behind you sending you back to your last mission. You have to turn around to convince yourself that he’s sat in the other X-wing.

Turning on your comm link, the two of you run through pre-flight checks together, methodical and reassuring, before running through the normal exercises, switching between who is acting as First Order and who is Resistance.

It’s nice. Comforting, even, the familiar routines you could do in your sleep, muscle memory taking over when your brain stumbles.

And even though neither you or Poe say a whole lot, it’s a nice safety net, knowing that there’s someone on the other end of the line. It’s the odd little phrases that he uses, praising you or himself, with the occasional swear word or whoop of delight thrown in. He’s playing music, because of course he is, but you can only catch the odd bar, not enough to recognise any songs.  

Not for the first time, you recognise the intimacy of comm’s, how talking directly to the other’s ears feels...more personal, somehow. So you bite back any quick replies you think of, pushing down any breathless laughter at his comments.

You love flying too. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of floating in the sky, taking turns at a ridiculous pace, and feeling adrenaline burn you up on the inside.

The usual exercises end up taking over the whole day, you and Dameron blasting them until they’re perfect. Briefly you wonder if this is what it would be like to be in Black Squadron, perfection expected rather than a nice added bonus. He doesn’t seem surprised though, when you manage them. You frown, you’d expected some kind of taunt about how you’d done better than he’d thought...but the comms were silent to your expectations, just the odd, respectful, “Well done.”

On the third day, you give the First Order’s new moves a go. Neither you nor Dameron are quite brave enough to fully twist the way they did, and you’re not sure what his worry is, but the idea of overheating your engine mid-flight is enough to stop you.

Lunch is spent with the two of you eating together and poring over the video, stopping and starting it at different moments to talk over the best ways to fall out of the spin. Having a goal, a problem to solve makes conversation flow much easier and you’re grateful for it. It’s something else to concentrate on and you can ignore sparks of irritation as he scratches his stubble, the noise swooping low in your chest.

After lunch, Dameron acts as First Order, and it’s a surprise when his voice crackles through the comm links.

“I’m going for it.”

He’s determined, and you know there’s not much you can say to stop him, especially because you’re out here to solve this, but you still yelp out a “What!”

“If I can get enough height I reckon I could do it.” Comes the reply and you can only sigh and watch as Dameron’s ship starts to climb. Switching gears, you start to follow, circling round to imitate how the Resistance would catch up.

Poe starts to twirl as he descends, copying the way the First Order pilots had gained speed and unpredictability, and you struggle to hold your ship steady in his airstream.

He starts to spin faster and faster, cutting his engine and throwing the X-wing to the left. You’re miles behind now, having been unable to reach the same speed and you can only listen to his steady swearing as he struggles to start the engines back up again.

As he reaches closer to the tree line you start shouting. “Deploy! Deploy now!” Desperation laces your voice, “Poe deploy your parachute NOW!”

And he does.

A plume of fabric billows out from the back of his X-wing, slowing him down enough that you can see the exact moment when Poe restarts the engines. It doesn’t last for long though, and all Poe can do is control his landing, skidding through the trees.

You careen after him, bruising your landing and scrambling to get out of the cockpit to go and help clear the door to get Poe out. “Are you alright?” You ask, looking into his eyes to check for signs of a concussion. He was wearing his helmet, but that was a rough landing.

And his eyes are a really pretty shade of brown, swoons a voice inside of you, which you try and squash with a few choice swear words. Now is definitely not the time. There is never a good time for noticing Dameron’s eyes.

Poe seems alright though, accepting your hand of help to jump out. “I never knew you cared, sweetheart” he grins, and then groans. “Could do with some water though.”

So you help him back to your campsite, giving him a glass and sitting next to him in silence. Except, for the second time that day, it’s comfortable.

“The spinning was good,” you offer after a moment.

You’re not looking at him, the water glimmering as a distraction. He only hmphs in return.

“It was!” And are you trying to convince Poe Dameron of all people that he did a good job? You take a quick glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s looking in the same direction as you and you note that the colour has returned to his cheeks again.

“You got good speed up,” you continue, “faster than I could and we just need to figure out how to cool our engines down - especially when we’re in hyperspace.”

“I want to know how they didn’t crash into each other.” You look at him again, his voice thoughtful. “There’s just so little control, once you cut the engine after spinning like that, you’re subject to airflow but they knew where the other would be.”

“Do you think it’s possible they’re better than us?” If you hadn’t watched Poe talk, you’d have thought you hallucinated.

Grinning, you shove your shoulder against his. “Better than you and me? You’re having a laugh.”

“Yeah that’s not it.”

There’s not much to say after that, the occasional huff of laughter bubbling out.

***

You do eventually have to go back to the X-wings, both of which need patching up. The hull of yours is damaged where you hit some trees when landing, while Poe has to start with packing up his chute before even thinking about the wiring and his engines.

Once you’ve done all you can for yours, you clamber into Poe’s cockpit. Thankfully he doesn't notice at first, allowing you a moment to compose yourself. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms as he grips together some wiring. BB-8 is sat in the pilot's chair, beeping some instructions at him.

Meanwhile there’s a tool sticking out of his mouth, and something about that is insanely sexy, but you clear your throat before your mind can go anywhere. Poe looks up and oh maker this man is going to destroy me.

You scowl at him as you speak, as though scowling can undo your traitorous thoughts. “Do you need a hand?” Poe looks like he’s going to say no, but then something sparks out, hitting his hand, and he drops the wires, mouthing a swear in pain, although he keeps his teeth clenched around the screwdriver.

Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shitshitshitshit.

You can’t look away from his mouth and you need to reset, to go back to square one, base level, because your heart has stopped in your chest and you know what this means. Instead you whack Poe over the head as you push your way into his space, stepping over the wires on the floor.

“Do you want my help or not?” you ask again, and maker you’re rude. Your parents would be disappointed. But Poe looks surprised that you’re offering again.

His eyes meet yours when he replies, steady and unwavering. “Yeah that would be nice.” The tension gradually dissipates as the two of you work together, rewiring and melding your way through the underneath of the control panel.

You do your best to ignore the touches, telling yourself that it’s inevitable in such a small space as your hands brush together as you lean over him, or how close he is when he peers over your shoulder to instruct you which piece to hold while he adjusts them back to their proper place.

***

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Chapter 1<----->Chapter 3

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