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amywritesthings · 2 years

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CHAPTER SIX: JEALOUSY

The POINT A TO POINT B series.

gif credit @ venushasvixens

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Rating: E (Eventual smut, slow burn)

Word Count: 5.6K

Summary: One final night on Tatooine means you get to visit the local cantina. Your only problem will be dealing with a very jealous Mandalorian.

Warnings: Jealous!Din, Minor violence against third party, Praise kink, Pet names, Touch-starved shenanigans, Hands(TM), Din moans, Yearning, Unresolved Sexual Tension

A/N: Happy birthday to me! Here is where things start becoming less ‘friends’ and more ‘we probably shouldn’t do this’ and I love that for us. Spicy, but that sweet-sweet slow burn spicy.

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“We still need to talk about what happened.”

Interrogating the Child while Mando charts a course in the cockpit for the departure off Tatooine tomorrow feels wrong, but that doesn’t stop you from pointing your finger at the little one. He is awake in his perch, fresh-eyed and happy to see you — as if a life or death plight never hit the ship to begin with.

In the midst of finishing his morning egg, he holds his claws out to hold onto the tip of your finger.

“Focus, kid.”

With a content coo, he raises his chin to listen.

“You saw the thing on his side, right? I know I told you he was fine, but he was hurt. Bad.” The Child cocks his head, ears flopping in confusion. “And I know you saw it because you did something with your… hand.”

Or head. Maybe both in tandem.

(Something like magic.)

Little Green blows raspberries against the egg in front of his mouth.

“Don’t think because you’re cute that I’ll let this go,” you warn. “But also — thank you. For whatever you did.”

All the Child does is smile, his few tiny teeth gleaming, to acknowledge your belated gratitude with pride.

“I should teach you how to defend yourself.”

Behind you, Mando’s voice reverberates through the belly of the ship. Your attention whips over your shoulder to find him descending from the upper deck. Once his boots hit the ground, he leans his right hip against a nearby crate. His left hand cradles a small blaster.

“Since you’ll be walking around with my weapons.”

“Weapon, singular,” you correct him with a short laugh.

“Weapons, plural,” he argues without one.

“Mando,” you start, placing your hands on your hips. “I… appreciate? Your offer, I really do, but I do not plan to be as equipped as you.” Your hand rotates in a circle, gesturing to him. “You have a lot of stuff going on at all times.”

“Weapons are part of my religion,” he concedes, not fazed. “It would be strange if I didn’t.”

“Exactly. They’re your religion, so you have plenty of practice to handle them.”

“So will you.”

Your head tilts, a brow raised. “Do you actually trust me with your stuff?”

“I do now.”

Why does he always have to make everything so serious?

Still, his confidence brings an unstoppable smile to your lips. A wave of warmth floods your head, your arms, your legs — something fundamentally changed last night, but you don’t have words to describe how. What once was heavy and uncertain now feels light; he trusts you, and that feels good.

Like you made a difference in this little Razor Crest bubble.

Sliding your hands behind your back, you press your palms against the cool steel wall and lean back to watch him.

“How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Better,” he replies. “I… took care of the other wounds. That bacta pick-up in town was helpful.”

“Were they bad?”

“I’ve had worse.” He pushes off of the crate to cross the room. “What about you? How are you?”

“Better,” you mirror, lifting your chin to greet him as he towers over you. “By the time I went by your quarters, you were already in the cockpit.”

“I was restless,” he states. “Take this.”

He tosses the weapon in the air, catching it barrel-down and extending the small blaster between you.

“Once we finish this last job on Tatooine, I’ll teach you what you need to know. Handling, shooting, cleaning, reloading. There aren't many good places to practice in the desert.” His broad shoulder shrugs. “I would take us to see a friend, but something tells me she won’t appreciate us using her droids as live targets.”

You tilt your head, braided hair moving with you. “You have friends on Tatooine?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, you never mentioned you knew anyone on this planet.”

“Peli Motto,” he lists, matter-of-fact. “Repairs starships at a Mos Eisley spaceport. And Cobb—”

You snort. “Okay, you didn’t have to prove it. I believe you, you have plenty of friends on Tatooine. Are we visiting any?“

“We already spent almost a week here,” he reasons, offering the handle of the blaster to you. “We still have a few other stops to make before we reach Coruscant.”

Right.

Because there was a point to this galaxy joyride.

Gingerly you take the weapon — the same one you held with intention circling the perimeter of the ship last night — from his hand. Searching for a pocket to place it in, you lift the back of your tunic to tuck the blaster into the waistband of your tactical pants.

His visor drops considerably.

“Not like that,” he states, leaving to venture inside his quarters. You bring the blaster back into your hand, waiting against the wall.

When he returns, he holds a worn brown condor belt in both hands.

“See if this fits.”

“Is this one of your belts?”

“One of my early ones.”

With care, you hand him the blaster in order to situate the belt around your middle. You struggle to tighten one of the material straps, pulling with no budge.

Mando looks on, free fist flexing at his side before turning to place the blaster on a shelf of the weapon locker. Wordlessly he steps into your orbit, looping out the strap and tugging until the belt is secure around your hips. Once satisfied with the fit, his glove reaches back for the blaster and slides it into the pistol sheath.

“Suits you.”

“You’re just flattering me so I take the blaster.”

He hums, not answering but also not ignoring you as his visor remains focused on the belt.

“So what’s the job today?”

Albeit delayed, Mando finally levels his helmet to your face. “The cantina. I have to meet with someone about information I’ve been seeking.”

Your heart flutters. “We get to go inside the cantina?”

“For an hour, yes,” he answers. “Then it’s back to the ship. The rules for the town still apply.”

A grin grows across your face as you nod eagerly.

“Same rules apply, got it.”

“You keep your head down,” he continues, pointing a finger the same way you had pointed yours at the kid. “Don’t speak to anyone, don’t take any sabaac lessons—”

“Mother of Moons, they play sabaac there? I used to love sabaac.”

“—and don’t take any drinks from the locals.” He pauses, helmet jerking a centimeter back. “You love sabaac?”

“I—” Your brows knit, considering. “Yeah, I… played sabaac often enough to get excited about it. See? Cantina outings are great for your pocket and my head. And noted, about the other stuff. No one’s gonna buy me a drink, Mando.”

“You would be surprised,” he reasons, standing straighter as his finger drops to his belt. “The kid’ll stay here. He’ll be safer.”

Meaning this trip really will only be an hour.

At least it’s better than not going at all.

You watch the portside entrance ramp drop to the desert floor, its edges immediately covered by wind-blown sand. Gesturing for the bounty hunter to take his lead, you tighten the goggles and mask on your face, throwing your cloak hood over your head. He obliges, keeping pace with you in the treacherous sand.

No one speaks during the journey into town. No one has to.

To say you’re excited when you arrive at the front entrance of the cantina is an understatement. After seeing so many people come and go from that building happy, laughing, hands full of credits (or someone else) you’ve wanted this.

Maker, you’ve wanted to be among a crowd, if only for a short while.

Enough to scratch the itch before the skies are full of stars and there’s nothing but the hum of the Crest.

When Mando enters a room, he really enters. The minute he walks through the door, his entire aura changes: he’s stoic, completely unreachable and focused. People swiftly move out of his way at the sight of gleaming beskar. As if guilty, they drop their sight and ignore your presence. Some pick up their drinks from circular bar tops and rush to the safety of shadows.

The music is overwhelmingly loud, mixing with swirling smoke and the scent of hard liquor, tobacco, and something distinctly alive. Tucked mid-way through the cantina is a stage. A woman croons a song in a language you do not understand while dancers roll their hips in time with the rhythm.

It’s perfect.

In your daze, there’s almost an accident: someone bumps into you, sloshing their pint of green liquid onto the floor. Before the liquor can get on your clothes, however, Mando swiftly pulls you out of the way, pressing you to his side.

“You have to watch where you’re going,” he reminds you, gloves iron-clad on your torso.

“Sorry, I — this is amazing.”

You may be impressed with the venue, but Mando clearly isn’t. He escorts you to the corner of the semi-circle bar.

You may be impressed with the venue, but Mando clearly isn’t. He escorts you to the corner of the semi-circle bar. While Mando readies another lecture, you swoop under his arm to stake claim to a spot in view of the stage. You remove your goggles and mask, allowing them to hang around your neck.

“The person I’m meeting is in the back,” he explains once you’re sufficiently integrated into the crowd. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Take your time,” you respond, waving your fingers. “Go do what you need to do.”

“And you’ll be alright here?” he asks, managing to be soft against the shouts and cheers as one song concludes and another begins.

“Mando, I’m fine.” That waving hand of yours settles gently against his left gauntlet. “I’m more than fine. I’ll keep my head down, watch the show, and we’ll be in and out.”

He hesitates, looming, before answering with a curt nod.

With that he leaves you, Mandalorian iron gradually disappearing into the bustling crowd.

The musicians are good. The laughter is good. Everything about this cantina is good and wonderful and everything you could have hoped for.

It’s a place where you can be anonymous, just as Mando had said. Scoundrels and diplomats alike walk these narrow pathways — and perhaps a princess walks among them, too.

While the singer on stage takes a break, a drinking chant erupts through the entire building. Soon you’re surrounded by people banging their fists against tables to celebrate, holding their drinks up high.

Upon the toast, your eyes catch a glimpse of a bubbling reddish-pink drink in a slender, v-shaped glass. The drinks are held by a Blith individual and their companion, shoulder-to-shoulder and cheering with fervor.

As the bartender regards your side of the bar, you point to the couple and hastily ask for whatever they have.

According to the bartender, they call it a Fizz.

Your fingers tingle with anticipation.

“Is this spot taken?”

That isn't your voice, or Mando's.

You’re so distracted by the jubilations that you don’t realize another person has maneuvered their way beside you at the semi-circle bar. His dark blue hair is thick and wavy, meeting with the collar of his jet-black coat. His tunic is a deep crimson, wrapped around his middle and tucked into a tactical belt.

Your instinct is to hide your face, but his eyes catch yours before you can recover.

“Hey there, sorry.”

The man, another human, dips to catch your attention with a sheepish, almost friendly smile.

(No one is friendly in these parts. Assuming otherwise is a mistake you cannot afford to make.)

“Didn’t mean to disturb—”

“You’re not,” you interrupt quickly, mouthing a quick ‘thank you’ to the bartender as they place your reddish drink on the bar top.

“So..." He smiles wider. "Is it taken?”

“No.”

“No? Great. I didn’t anticipate how packed it would be. Couldn’t find a table for twenty kriffin' minutes.”

With both hands on your glass, you note the billowing smoke emitting from the liquid and stay quiet.

The man seems to forget you, tapping his bare hand against the bar top alongside the animated tune the band plays in reprise.

And for another song or two, it stays that way — until he turns to you with a lopsided grin.

“Hey, so — what’s your name?”

“I don’t have one,” you mumble in return, tasting the tanginess of the Fizz on your tongue.

“Don’t have one, huh?” he asks, pulling his drink close to his chest. “S’fine. Not a lot of people in these parts do have names, but beautiful suits you.”

You snort into your drink, blowing billowing smoke onto your hand.

“Oh, Maker,” he groans ruefully, dropping his head back. “Did I really just say that?”

“You did.” You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "Does that ever work?"

The man laughs, and it’s humble enough to accept a grueling defeat.

“No, never. First time I tried it. I hated it as soon as it left my mouth.”

“You should retire that line, then, before it’s too late.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me. Consider it buried and dead.” He raises his cup to a toast before finishing the drink in three large gulps. “Are you here on business?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he perks, shifting towards you. “Then pleasure?”

“Sight-seeing,” you correct. “Travel.”

“To Tatooine?” His face pulls to a grimace. “Bloody awful place to vacation.”

“I think it’s nice.”

“Have you gone to many places?”

You shake your head, sipping again. “No, not really.”

“Thought so.”

You turn slightly towards him. “Why, is it obvious?”

“Painfully.” He squints, tapping the bar with his finger. “You said you liked Tatooine. That alone tells me you need to visit more places. Bespin — that’s where you find the best clubs.”

“I’ll have to put it on my list,” you respond, making brief eye contact with the stranger.

He only smiles again as people around you erupt into thunderous applause for the band.

“I know the first time was a disaster, but would you be interested in another one of those?”

“Hmm?”

“Your drink. On me, obviously, for putting you through that terrible pick-up line.”

You keep your lips closed around the straw, observing with scrutiny before looking to the other side of the bar where the back rooms lay. How much longer would Mando be behind the curtains to exchange information?

He said an hour.

You’ve admittedly lost track of time.

With a half-hearted shrug, you nod and shift from facing the bar to facing him.

“I like these, whatever these are.”

“Fizz?” He holds up two fingers to the passing bartender, thumbing to himself and you before leaning his side against the counter. “Fizz is great. A little deadly but still sweet.”

“Are you gonna say ‘kind of like me’?” you deadpan into a tease, trying not to smile against the straw.

He laughs freely, head bent back once again.

“Mother of Moons, one bad pick-up line and you get run through the kriffin’ mud for it.”

You find yourself laughing, too, as the second round hits the bar top.

“Someone has to.”

He grins, sparkling and bright and alive. You can’t help but wonder if Mando looks at you the same way under the helmet. If he smiles at all when he laughs, or frowns when he’s concentrating. Are his expressions as stoic as his modulated voice?

“By all means, ma’am, keep me in line. I like it.”

The way he keeps eye contact as he sips on Fizz creeps heat up your neck.

How much eye contact does Mando really make when he knows you can’t see?

Your eyes absently drop to the man’s jawline. Clean shaven. No stubble.

Mando has stubble, or at least did last night.

“So what do you do?”

Your attention crawls back to his gaze, inquisitive yet guarded.

“Do?”

“For work,” he clarifies.

“I… What about you? What do you do?”

He brings a shoulder closer, shrugging like it’s the most casual occupation in the galaxy. “Collect the bad guys who might keep you up at night.”

Oh, kriff.

He’s one of them.

Adrenaline shoots through your veins. “Like a bounty hunter?”

“Exactly like a bounty hunter.” His brows knit together. “Is that a problem?”

“No! No, I’ve… never met a bounty hunter before,” you recover with urgency, forcibly smiling in his presence.

He seems thrilled you’re on board, but you can hear the blood pounding in your ears with every thump of live music blasting in this place.

“Never?”

You shake your head wildly, hair falling out of its braided place.

“Never,” you lie, turning the subject back to him. “What sort of bad guys have you caught lately? Anyone I might’ve heard of?”

“Could give you a list of names, if you want.” The man chuckles with a toothy grin, hand raising with apprehension. “Actually — hold on a sec. You got some Fizz bubs in your hair.”

“Some Fizz what?”

“Bubs. Bubbles. When you blew right into it. I’ll get it.”

You’re perfectly still when he runs his fingers along your temple to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

All you think about — all you see — is him.

The way his glove ran along your face last night after he returned to the land of the living. The way it hovered there next to your cheek. The way he was so hesitant to keep it there. You can recreate the touch by memory — you have created it with your own hand last night when you couldn’t sleep — but nothing compares to the earnest weight of Mando’s hand.

“Hey — hands off of her.”

Snapping you from the daydream is a gruff, aggravated, filtered voice.

Your Fizz beverage sloshes all over the bar top when Mando wedges himself right in front of you, cutting the other bounty hunter from view. His beskar sparkles under the cantina flashing lights, putting him front and center of the action.

A few patrons gasp in fear, clearing the area between the three of you.

So much for keeping a low profile.

Peering around Mando’s armor, you see the other bounty hunter holding his hands parallel to his chest in surrender instead of going for the blaster on his belt.

“Move and I guarantee you won’t live to see sunrise. Do I make myself clear?”

“Shit, we were just talking—”

“Do I make myself clear?” Mando removes the blaster at his hip with a growl. “I won’t ask again.”

“I didn’t know she was with anyone!” the other hunter yelps. “She never said anything about a kriffin’ Mandalorian—”

With an abrupt pistol whip to the face, the blue-haired bounty hunter drags several boozy glasses down with him in a crash to the floor. He scrambles for his blaster, but Mando quickly slams a boot down onto his wrist to prevent it. The fallen man hollers in pain.

The Mandalorian lifts his arm to aim his weapon, but you take a risky step forward and pull his arm back to your chest.

“Mando.”

He rests his helmet over his left shoulder, regarding you in his peripheral. You’re painfully aware of how exposed you both are, no thanks to him. Your hood has been knocked out of place, leaving you both red-handed in the commotion.

The cantina waits on baited breath.

Mando’s shoulders drop with an unpleasant grunt as he turns to regard the man on the floor and releases his wrist.

“I know your face now,” he threatens. “I won’t forget it.”

Wiping the smear of red from his nose, the blue-haired man glares. “Yeah? And I know your armor. I have a dozen people in this town who would come for your head."

Mando doesn’t skip a beat. “I like those odds.”

“Enough,” you hiss between gritted teeth. You tug on his arm one more time, harder and hoping to disengage from the impending cockfight. “Let’s go.”

Before things get worse.

The Mandalorian barely budges under your efforts, but a beat later relents on his own. He pockets the blaster back in its sheath and swiftly reaches behind to close his hand around your wrist. Without another word, he navigates the cantina for the entrance. You follow close behind, fidgeting to flick your hood over your head.

Gradually the venue springs back to life, from music to chatter to shouts of drunken praise.

It’s like nothing ever happened.

Thank the Maker.

Your heart’s this close to beating out of your chest, half-exhilarated over what transpired and half-mortified it came to this.

You’ve never seen him angry before. While perhaps not direct towards you, his outburst feels off. Something you cannot read between lines alone.

“Mando.”

Nothing. You trip over your own two boots in a cluster of sand at your feet.

“Mando, what the hell is into you?”

Still no answer, only making you frustrated.

“Hey!” you finally shout at the back of his helmet. “I’m talking to you!”

“We need to get back to the ship.”

His voice is not urgent; instead it’s laced with something else.

“Why, because he’s gonna come after us now?”

“He won’t come after us.”

“He sounded pretty confident he would.” You glance over your shoulder. “Did you even get a chance to finish the job?”

“The job is finished when I say it’s finished, Princess.”

What a load of bantha fodder.

You stop dead in your tracks, digging all of your weight in the sand at your heels.

Combined with his grip on your wrist and his continued gait, your arm raises between you in a contested tether. He stops walking.

“Are you upset with me? Because it sure feels that way.”

“I’m not.”

An uneasy smile crawls to the corners of your lips. “Then what was that all about?”

His visor drops to your wrist as he turns it in his glove.

“Your pulse is still high from when I intercepted you at the bar.”

“Intercepted me?” you spit, voice cracking from bewilderment. “I was waiting for you— wait, why are you checking my pulse?”

“It’s noted on my visor.”

“Oh. On your visor,” you repeat heatedly. He keeps a firm hold as you pull at your arm, forcing you to hop towards him. “Since when did you start taking notes like that?”

“Since I saw you talking to that bounty hunter.”

It dawns, slowly then all at once.

“Mando, are you jealous?"

The grip on your wrist becomes that much more as his muscles tense.

“Because to me? It—” You tug a second time, hopping another step forward. “—sounds a little like you're angry I was talking to him. I was keeping a low profile, just like you asked. He spoke first, and I had no choice but to blend in. But threatening to kill him in front of the entire cantina? What happened to your rules, or do they not apply to the Mandalorian?”

Radio silence.

Bastard.

“So now you’re quiet?” you challenge. “But you had so much to say back at the—”

This time, it isn’t you who tugs at your arm.

The Mandalorian pulls you in, causing you to stumble into his breastplate. In three long strides, he tucks the two of you into a nearby alley and pushes your back against a pourstone wall. You meet the visor peering down at you with lifted defiance.

While his grip remains strong, you can sense an uncertainty around him. There is an intimacy in this unspoken game, and he struggles to toe the line.

Then he really goes off the deep end.

With his free hand, his gloved fingers reach high and start at a brush to your temple. The widening of your eyes is genuine, slow; your lips part with a question you don’t know how to ask: what are you doing?

Mando lightly traces his finger down the side of your face, to your cheek, to your jaw. Gradually he dips under your jawline to draw an invisible line down the edge of your neck.

“He did this.”

Wait.

A small, involuntary noise exits from your throat as his hand ghosts further down.

“The rise in your pulse,” he explains as an afterthought, running a finger along your collarbone. “It started when I saw him touch you.”

He pauses.

“Did you like it when he did this?”

You have to remember to exhale when he gives you a breath to respond.

He’s talking about the bounty hunter removing Fizz from your hair. He saw it happen.

(Hands off of her.)

Mando leaves it at that question, teetering against his exertion of control. Orange-tipped fingers rest between your collarbone and shoulder.

You’re not sure what to say, so you offer the first thing that comes to mind:

“I like when you do it more.”

He seems to freeze all motor functions, hand sharpening against the shoulder of your tunic. You nod, leaning closer.

“The rise in my pulse? It started when he told me he was a bounty hunter, not because I liked him. He was bragging about how great of a hunter he was. I was just letting time pass until you were ready to leave.”

And as fast as the Fizz allows it, the truth slips past your tongue.

“And when he touched me, I wasn’t thinking about him. I didn’t even see him. I was too busy thinking about you.”

No use in lying now.

You laugh humorlessly, dropping the back of your head against the wall.

“So what does your sensor say? Am I telling the truth?”

Mando drops the hand from your shoulder to wrap cautiously around your hip. He cages you in, impossibly close.

“Dank farrik,” he finally murmurs under his breath.

“Were you jealous?” you ask.

He answers physically by squeezing your hip, jolting you under the pressure. By accident, your hips rock against his. A moan, low and amplified by the modulator, leaves his throat and leaves you with a tremble in your own.

“Were you jealous?” you ask again, smaller this time.

“Yes.”

Your stomach twists, heart pounding.

“Then say it.”

“I was jealous.” The confession is a mere growl in these shadows. “I am jealous.”

“Why?”

“Because he touched you. I don’t want...”

He trails off. A beat passes as he presses closer to you.

“You were thinking about me?”

The strain in his voice meets you with equal intensity and honesty. You blink into focus, mulling over his question and ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.

Three truths and no lies — everything the other man did, you pictured a version of the Mandalorian doing it first. Every movement in his face, every miscalculated gesture, was a question to what Mando would look like in your presence if you could see him.

How much can you tell him — really tell him — without everything going to shit? There’s a line neither of you can cross.

Right?

“Yeah.” You run your tongue against the seam of your lips. “I was.”

His fingers flex against your hip, helmet lowering in fractions until the cool beskar gingerly rests against your forehead. You invite the intimacy of him as your hand gently rests against his uninjured side.

Just like last night.

“I’m sorry.” You don’t need a sensor to know he is genuine. “He touched you with his bare hands, and I—"

He catches his words, allowing them to die on his tongue.

So he’s angry the bounty hunter got to touch you with no barrier.

You look down at his breastplate, contemplating your next question.

“Are… gloves a part of your creed?”

There’s that breathy response he does when he wants to laugh but can’t quite muster it. The beskar on your forehead moves.

“No, Princess, they're not.”

“So you’re saying… you can take them off.”

His helmet juts backwards at your bold question. Your mouth opens, delayed to reason.

“You mentioned his bare hands and I just thought how he—”

The orange tip of his middle finger now rests at your lower lip, forcing you to pause. Both of your wrists are free.

You stare into the chrome visor, frozen, until he utters one syllable so wrecked you’ll never forget it:

“Bite.”

Mother of Moons.

Obliging, your lips part enough to gently close around the tip of his middle finger. Your teeth bite down, careful not to hurt him. With precision he slides his hand out of the glove and into the cool desert air. The piece of clothing falls limp against your chin.

“Good girl.”

A rushed exhale leaves your nose.

Maybe you’ll die on Tatooine. Maybe that was the way the universe intended you to go out.

You can’t find a single reason to object.

He tugs lightly at the wrist guard of his glove, removing it from your mouth and allowing you space to finally say what you have been holding onto for a week:

“I like when you call me that.”

Since this is the night of truths — if you hear ‘good girl’ one more time, then you might explode.

Hovering his bare palm over the side of your face, Mando starts to chuckle with a hint of disbelief, but the sound is cut short by his own small gasp when you meet him in the middle: finally your face nuzzles into the warmth of his touch, lips lingering along the center of his palm. The callouses on the tips of his fingers are enough to make your knees buckle.

“Do you?” he asks. It’s in awe of this. (In awe of you.) “Maker, you’re so soft…”

“Haven’t stopped thinking about it since the first time,” you admit.

“In my cabin?”

So he really does remember.

You can’t help but laugh, almost delirious as you witness the manic way he lets go of your hip to rip away his second glove. Like a starved man lost in the middle of a Tatooine desert, he shoves the glove into his belt to accompany its twin.

Both bare palms cup your face as the pads of his thumbs run along the high points of your cheekbones. They draw semi-circles down and around your jaw, climbing back up — as if mesmerized by the sensation of skin against skin.

As if you are more precious than the spice in the sand beneath untouched dunes.

“And this,” he starts with a thick swallow, finding his voice, "is all I have thought about."

“Calling me a good girl?” you joke weakly.

“No,” he responds, running fingertips along your neck with a tremble in his fingertips. “Touching you. Know I… shouldn’t, but it...”

Your heart bursts with the implication.

“Have you ever touched someone without your gloves before?”

His helmet shakes. “No.”

Here is this Mandalorian bounty hunter who hasn’t so much as touched another person, likely for his entire life, traversing the galaxy in his beat-up ship and his little green ward. Without the Child, he is essentially alone.

Your expression softens as his thumb dips to run along your lower lip, parting your mouth with a gradual swipe. If you moved your tongue, it would lick the tip of his finger. “Just me?”

“Just you.”

He is careful and he is warm and he has entrusted you with something so small yet monumental.

You don’t take this — take him — for granted.

He speaks quietly as his fingers run along your jawline.

“We should go back to the ship.”

Is he trying to convince you or to convince himself?

“Before someone sees,” you agree to make things easier. “Kid’s probably eaten most of our rations for the trip.”

Humming with amusement, Mando eventually drops his arms to his sides. You wait against the wall, flushed with a rush of desire that needs to run its course before you run to him.

“It’s likely.”

With a step back, he pats around his belt for his tucked gloves. You’re not sure what comes over you, but you boldly invade his space to prevent him from doing so.

“Don’t.”

Pushing off the wall, your palm presses to the back of his left hand to steady it against his belt. His helmet tilts, inquisitive. Selfish, maybe, but he pauses when asked.

Experimentally your palm dips, swiveling around his own to connect your hands.

“Keep them off.” His visor drops to view your conjoined hands, his fingers still flexed. “At least until we get back to the ship.”

One by one, his fingers curl around the back of yours.

“Until we get back to the ship,” he agrees in a resolved murmur, relaxing against your touch.

And he does.

While you keep close to his side, hood up and head down, your eyes remain on your joined hands the entire trek back to the Razor Crest. Sometimes he squeezes like he’s testing you're still there. Like he’s surprised this isn’t a dream on the verge of evaporating.

He does not speak.

Neither do you.

Kriff, you really haven’t stopped touching since leaving that godforsaken cantina.

You have no idea what will happen after this, or why either of you have said what you’ve said tonight, but it feels good. He feels good.

When the landing ramp of the Crest falls and he beckons you to enter the ship before him, he never lets go. Once safely on board, Mando moves ahead of you to check on the Child, pulling you along.

The little one is comfortably asleep in his nest, no chaos or mess in sight. He stirs at the sight of Mando with a small coo, acknowledging you with one half-opened large brown eye, only to roll over with a content sigh.

At the very same time, your hands absolve the tether keeping you together and you both silently walk into your respective quarters.

You do not close your door.

Neither does he.

Tag List: @tragerlover

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rcksmith · 3 years

Text

Sun — Kaz Brekker

Resume: Feelings are destabilizing things.

A/N: This story is not set in the books of Six Crows, I also changed the age of the characters to twenty-something because the idea of writing something about a child makes me uncomfortable. All my stories, of any characters, are with them being of up age. Just like many fanfics out there in the teen series.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader.

Warnings: Mention of fight, swearing, mention of post-traumatic stress, angst, mention of kiss, mention of desire, desire, mention of death, but so fucking fluff.

Word count: 3k.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — —

There were few things in life that he was absolutely sure of. Things that were immutable, solid, unshakable. That even the strongest of winds would not be able to shake the structure. A life built on the basis of an equation of chaos, suffering, death and despair generated a result where it was necessary to be sure of something. And one of those certainties was the ability of himself, of his instincts, of his intelligence, the notion that he himself was a person capable of resolving any type of situation with iron fists. The second was the certainty of the loyalty of his crows, of the two people who, he knew, would never turn their backs on him.

And the third... the third was that when Kaz Brekker first laid eyes on you, he was sure that you would divide his life between a before and an after.

It was a lepid, ferocious feeling that swept the body of The Bastard of the Barrel from the top of his head to the tip of his polished boots. The heat immediately gave way to a cold sweat, a shiver as if receiving a midnight sigh at the back of the neck. There was a quick sensation of burning in the heat of an icy fire, but his composure did not flinch a single millimeter. He had learned to keep it in all situations, trained with steel fists.

Kaz looked at you deeply, from the top of your hair to the tip of your feet, trying to find answers as to why you had triggered such disturbing sensations with a simple and ridiculous exchange of looks. But he found no answers. He found neither after a day, nor after a week, damn it, he did not find nor after a month!

You had joined the infamous trio because they needed a fighting expert, someone who could defeat a good number of men on her own without needing backup, which would make their bigger and more complex robberies much easier. And when they found you, a girl who had been the subject for a experiment to create super soldiers, your ability to fight, physical endurance, and your sense of loyalty, made you perfect for the job.

But none of that explained why, whenever the stormy blue eyes met yours, he felt like he was ricochet by living eels. It was exasperating, frustrating on so many levels that it was difficult to put into words. Kaz could not expose this misfortune to his two closest people, first because his pride in admitting a disturbance in his subtly balanced world was too great, and second that... even if he considered said that, he would not know how to name those feelings for express what he were feeling.

How would Jesper and Inej understand something that even he did not understand?

Kaz Brekker had a firm and calm demeanor, an implacably logical mind and a way of narrowing his eyes that ensured that his orders were carried out with great efficiency, all according to the moment he wished. Then, just as he did to get rid of any disturbance, he buried those sensations so deeply until, like his overwhelming pains and traumas, they stopped tormenting him.

He thought that, like his flawless and cunning plans, it would have the same effect. That his nerves could get back to normal and he wouldn't have to deal with the feeling that feel hiself whit cold and hot at the same time whenever he laid eyes on you.

But, if it was true that the practice makes perfect, this rule has not been applied in this situation.

The deeper he buried those beginnings of thats sensations, more of them began to flourish, roaring harder, as a constant reminder that he was not that rock of stoicity and absence of feelings that he liked to think he was. It seemed that, just as light existed to exorcise the darkness, you existed to show that he still had a beating heart. Hot blood still coursing through the veins.

It has not helped anything in his cause that, over time, Inej and Jesper have become attache to you. Jesper even more. But if Kaz put aside his frustration and irritation for a second, he would know that he couldn't to blame them. In fact, there was no way to blame every person who approached you, delighted.

Jesper once described you as "the soul of the party", and Inej said that you had fire in your soul. Kaz would not have been able to think of better definitions to put into words what you were. There was thing about the way you laughed, the way you talked, the way your tilting your head and your so easy smile. There was a thing about you. That transformed you into the solar system and people orbited in your gravity like planets.

You had a way with people, Kaz really thought it was a gift, a talent. You were always laughing, smiling, playing with people and making them so comfortable in your presence that, once, Kaz saw a trader, who are in a the middle of a refused to close a contract with Kaz, just melt and give up because of the smile you gave to him.

Nothing from you has been forced, malicious, shrewd or cunning. You really smiled, you really laughed, as if you were...happy. Purely happy. And, in a second of insanity, Kaz wondered if that happiness was possible. If it was possible for him to feel something like this.

But, just as Brekker took his soul close from you as much as he could to avoid any emotion, Jesper did the exact opposite. Very quickly, just like Kaz and Inej are, the two of you became a pair of inseparable friends. Were always together.

Perhaps it was because you two were overwhelmingly alike: Always in the eye of danger, addicted to adrenaline, purely outgoing and liked a good fun. Or maybe it was because, like everyone around you, Jesper felt drawn closer to your warm, joyful and comforting aura.

But whatever it was, the timbre of your laughter followed by Jesper's became a sound as natural as the whistling of the wind. And it didn't take long for you two to become partners in thefts and plans.

However, it didn't take long too for the reactions Kaz had about the influence of your presence to become...louder.

If Kaz Brekker closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, he could still remember and feel that night perfectly as if it were yesterday:

The plan was succinct: They would have to go through guards, high walls and locks to enter a merchant's residence, open the safe, pick up the jewels and leave. Twenty minutes was the time limit to complete that sequence.

Everyone was assigned to one thing: Kaz would turn off a fabricated security system from a Grisha, Inej would sneak into the shadows to the safe and pick up the jewels, and Jesper and you would be responsible for dealing with the various guards. Everyone would have to meet in the corridor that led to the back exit.

Kaz did not think that that so ridiculous and simple plan it could go wrong. Or that someone could make a slip. To him, it seemed as easy as sneaking into a yacht boat. However, there he was, next to Inej who carried the jewelery bag in her hand, both of them standing in that dimly lit corridor, waiting for you and Jesper to appear.

"It's been three minutes!" Inej pointed, as if Kaz didn't already know that.

Her intonation was concerned, apprehensive, with a certain fear. Kaz thought about saying something, but as soon as his mouth opened to say anything, he heard...

Steps. Hurried steps of two people. No, actually, the two people were running.

Suddenly, you and Jesper burst into the corridor, running as if their lives depended on it. Inej and Kaz would have been worried if it weren't for the bastard and peraltas smiles that stretched across faces of you two, stretching their cheeks.

Then Kaz noticed the reason for the delay. You two carried a giant picture under your left arms. Jesper carried the front end and you the back end, like two children who made a mischief and was running from their mother. True accomplices.

Kaz's jaw opened, his eyes widened slightly and roamed the frame with agitated iris, while Inej was totally baffled.

"C'mon, C'mon!" You exclaimed with laughter in your voice, Jesper and you never stopped running.

As soon all left and took shelter in the safety and peace of the Crow Club closed in that night, Jesper and you fell on the couch, laughing and panting.

"What was that?!” But Kaz was exasperated "Do you both know how much risked the plan?!"

"It was only three minutes, Boss." Jesper defended himself.

"It..." That's when Kaz looked at the painting responsible for all the commotion and fuss.

It was a painting, a landscape by Ravka. The fold. In oil on parchment. A DeKappel. That was worth at least ten thousand Kruges.

“You commented that you needed a new painting for your office.” Your voice took Kaz out of the admiration on the painting, and Jesper and Inej looked at you as if they had discovered that now too.

Jesper and Inej thought it was just for the money...

Kaz looked up into your eyes, and the cold, warm shiver spreading across his chest and snaking to his bones. As it always did the moment yours eyes meeting.

He remembered commenting in passing, in a very vague and obtuse way, that he wanted a new painting in the office. Until that moment, Brekker didn't think you paying attention to what he had to say. Not when it wasn't about a job or plan.

But there you were, proving that you had heard. And that you cared.

His breath caught for a second, the icy chill turned to something warmer, like the first sparks of fire in a fireplace. The first flames that precede the fire.

After that, Kaz began to pay more attention, unconsciously, to what you said. And, consequently, he started paying more attention to you. It had been gradual, sneaky as a snake, imperceptible so he wouldn't be able to root it out. As if the universe, destiny or divines, introduced, grain by grain, a small summer in a landscape frozen by winter.

It all started with your comment about liking it sweeter than salty, that dry wine left you with a headache and that you preferred rum. He evolved to notice how your tone of voice got sweeter when you talked to children or animals, and more serious when it came to the safety of the three crows. And suddenly, as if Kaz already knew this as he knew the sky was blue, he knew how to say how your eyes sparkled when you felt the warmth of the sun on your skin.

In that second, looking at you from the other side of the agitated club that turned into a celebration with dance and music, the world became suspended for a moment. The music became just an echoing, blurry noise, the images turned to slow motion and the air seemed to change in pitch. You, who laughed and speen round in Jesper's arms amid so many people who did the same thing, were the only one who starred as the main attraction.

In that minute, when the breath was slow and lyrical, and the air had a beauty tone, Kaz's eyes caught the exact moment when a beam of sunlight hit your face, shining on your skin as if you were one pirate tropical treasure. In a burst, a second of insanity, like a violin string that burst at the apice of the song, he felt that there was nothing else in the world worth seeing that was not you.

It was a scary, terrifying discovery. Something that made him freeze from head to toe, and all the speed in the world came back so fast that Kaz felt dizzy. He pressed his covered hand to the crow's beak of his cane, as if he needed a reminder of reality. Something that would wake him up from those hellish sensations.

- -

The months passed after that fateful afternoon. Kaz avoided staying close to you any longer than necessary and would strongly and vigorously scold every change of tone within himself whenever he saw you.

He didn't know what those sensations meant, but he also didn't want to find out. He liked challenges and responsibilities, but being around you was proving to be more than he could take. Your presence ignited him in a cold and warm fire, promising a future full of unfulfilled infinite wills. From pain, impotence and doomed to failure. Any feeling for you would be more of a punishment than anything else. The only solution was to get it out of your head.

Of course, he had been trying to do just that since he met you.

But again, the universe did not seem to want to give up from he. Not so easily.

Kaz had to take you along to make a deal with a merchant who was more impassable than a rock. Kaz had tried to negotiate with him before (since he couldn't take the strength or rob what he wanted) and all his efforts were in vain. So, he appealed for the last weapon. The person who always had a natural gift whit other people and always had a real smile that made anybody feel like... as if happiness really existed.

You.

"I'm glad it's hot" You commented, while walking next to Kaz "I don’t like the cold."

How did he know that you would say just that? That was so you. Warm, sweet and cozy things were the embodiment of what you were. It was logical that you preferred the heat. So different from him that, instead of you, enjoyed the cold. Liked the rains and storms, relaxed with the moonlight and felt less tense with the midnight winter breeze.

Kaz understood your personality as he understood the very lines of his hands. You were wild, bordering on reckless, you acted before thinking and you always loved anything that aroused adrenaline. You ran like no one else, jumped from one horse's cell to another, decided to catch the largest number of targets just because you wanted the thrill of fighting five against one. Anything calm, serene and peaceful stirred your restless personality. And Kaz knew exactly your level of restlessness from the way your leg was constantly jumping when you had to sit still for more than a few minutes.

You were a free spirit, forged in the heart of the sun and in the heat of summer. While he was limited by his own body and built in the heart of winter and frozen by the cold of the sea. Anything between you was doomed to fail even before you two met. Kaz Brekker knew this very well.

“He is late.” You grunted, your leg was already starting to jumping when you two spent a measly ten minutes waiting for the man.

You looked back and seemed to find it interesting, because Kaz saw your eyes shine.

"Let's go there?" You pointed, and Kaz had to turn around to see that you were referring to a coffee shop.

Crowded with sweets in the window for a change. Why was he not surprised?

“No.” He turned forward again, both hands on the cane.

"So I go over there and come back quickly."

“Y/n" he just said in a warning tone, giving you a scolding look.

You mumbled something he didn't identify, turned around again and did your best to be quiet. Five minutes passed before that merchant arrived, and Kaz can perfectly follow the change in his posture, change in the man eyes when you greeted him with that summer voice and sunny smile.

It was so vibrant, so vivid that, for a second, Kaz found himself slightly swayed by all the brilliance you emanated. Pulled towards your like an animal needing the warmth of the sun.

It didn't take much for the man to sign and agree with everything Kaz said and imposed. In fact, he suspected that if he had asked him to give him his bank password, the man would have been happy to do so.

"Can we go in the coffee shop now?” You commented as soon as the man left, still turning around to look at you as much as possible.

Kaz restrained the glaring urge to roll his eyes, but he had just landed a very lucrative business just and exclusively because you agreed to help. Even though you didn't gain anything from it. So, if he had to go with you to a goddamn coffee shop so he wouldn't feel like a petty profiteer, he would go to the goddamn coffee shop.

Kaz just walked towards the place, and the wide, summery smile you gave may have he missed a few heartbeats.

Stop it!

Once inside the damn store, you scanned the menu that hung on the wall.

“I never took this one.” You commented, pointing to what appeared to be a very sweet mix of drink. Something that involved ice cream and chocolate with something else.

It was not the kind of comment that had an answer, and Kaz was still engaged in the mission to stay away from you. But he thought that statement was just the reason why you wouldn't order that drink. But, just as you always threw any worldview Kaz had in the latrine, you asked for just that. His eyes were bloodshot with astonishment.

“Why are you going to order something you don't know if you like it?” He asked as soon as you got the drink and paid for it.

"How am I supposed to know if something is good if I never try it?” You said casually, both of you going out of the store. “Wanna try out?”

You held out for he the plastic cup that was covered by a lid that had a hole in the middle, where a fat, transparent straw came out. Kaz looked at you as if you had created a second head.

“Come on, you'll never know if you like it if you don't taste it.” The two of you stopped, you still holding the glass gently towards his mouth.

“No.” Kaz shook his head.

“Come ooon.” You insisted, a petulant and amusing smile plastered on your face.

"No."

You shook the glass, holding it out once more. This time, Kaz gave you a slightly annoyed look.

"You're not going to stop insisting until I take this thing, are you?"

You laughed, with a triumphant and friendly smile “I'm glad you know me so well”

Kaz rolled his eyes, snatching the glass from your hand and bringing the hellish straw to his mouth. Hell, he felt so stupid pulling that stupid drink through that straw. As soon as the sweet liquid invaded his tongue, an explosion of flavors flooded his palate, causing him to remain unresponsive for a moment.

"You liked it!" But just as he unveiled all of your lookes, you knew how to unveil all of his.

Kaz handed you the glass. “Absurdly sweet."

"You liked that I know."

You joked and, for a second, you had aroused he a desire to smile. A succinct curve in lips. With your sunny smiles and summer expressions, you looked like you were out of an enchanted forest inhabited by mystical creatures. Sun nymphs. Maybe Kaz would even have let himself go lightly if, when you took the glass back, your lips had not wrapped around the tip of the straw.

Exactly where his mouth was a second ago.

He pulse quickened so fast that it made the blood burn in his veins. It was impossible not to look down at delicate mouth, the subtle but destabilizing curvature in the center of your lower lip. Suddenly, he was out of breath, his body numb and his heart stopped beating for a second before accelerating to an alarming level.

Everything became hot, stuffy. The world spun away, out of focus, out of existence, leading he on a waltz unlike anything Kaz had ever felt before.

Kaz Brekker was the Bastard of the Barrel. Dirty hands and scammer. Someone trapped by his own body and traumas, unable to allow himself to enjoy human contact. But, hell, he was still a man. And in that moment, in that insane moment, he wanted to pretend, even for a few seconds, that what he wanted was within his reach.

Kaz thought he understood the desire: an attraction. He thought he knew what lust was: a wish that people felt. He had seen countless examples on his bar counter, drunk and chattering about what it was like to want a woman, to long for her. He thought he understood.

And he found that he didn't understand anything.

The desire was a hot and feverish whirlwind that shivered he from head to toe, with dizzying speed, and dragged everything towards perdition, below any intellect, any rationality. Rationally, he shouldn't have thought you were even more beautiful. But he did. He shouldn't feel his breath catch, but he did.

He felt as if he were walking on a narrow suspended board. One misstep and it would be the end of it. Hiding his disturbing thoughts, Kaz looked away from you.

He was ruined for the rest of his life.

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker x you #shadow and bone #inejgayfa #jesper fahey #kaz x jesper #kaz x reader #kaz x kruge #freddy carter #freddy carter x reader #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker imagine #shadow and bone imagine #fluff #freddy carter fluffy #kaz brekker fluff #fanfic

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muchadoaboutbucky · 3 years

Text

all the time in the world | oneshot

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Native American!Reader WORD COUNT: 3,954 WARNINGS: slow burn, eventual smut, fluff, minor injury NOTE: Imagine if Bucky hadn’t been injured in Civil War and went on the run with everyone else. The reader’s face claim is Crystle Lightning. I also used Sebastian’s “Destroyer” look for inspiration as well. Enjoy!

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I do not consent to minors (17-) reading my work.

It’s been six months since Siberia. Six long, rough months of dodging the government and living off the grid. No phones, no computers, no connection to the outside world other than the daily newspapers you manage to pick up.

Living in close quarters isn’t the easiest. The jet doesn’t have the best sleeping quarters, just five open bunks on the lower level. The other two have become storage, a cluttered mess of papers and empty weapons boxes and ammunition that has yet to be organized.

It doesn’t help that you and Bucky have become a little more than friends.

He’s become different since you went on the run. He’s quiet, broody, and absolutely merciless when it comes to getting a mission done. To say the sight of the former assassin taking down the bad guys with nothing but a couple weapons and his bare metal hand doesn’t get you all kinds of riled up.

The five of you have just finished up a weekend in Portugal. A weapons bust had gone almost perfectly to plan, with the small exception of you getting a bullet graze on your thigh from one of the barely-alive arms dealers on your way out the door. You’d hit the ground hard, and before you could say anything or make a move to recover, Bucky scooped you off the ground and took the fire escape all the way up to the roof and into the jet without a second glance back.

Fortunately the medical bay’s been fully restocked, and Nat quickly gets you on the examining table while Sam takes off, the jet’s cloaking technology vanishing instantly into the dark three-am sky.

“Suit off,” Nat directs, reaching into one of the storage cupboards for a prepped cleaning kit. You strip out of your suit, wincing as the fabric grazes your wound. Natasha bends to examine the wound, gently pressing along the edges with a gloved finger.

“No stitches, please,” you mutter.

“Nope, you won’t need those.” Nat grabs an antiseptic wipe. “Just some bandages and you’ll need to take it easy for a couple days.”

You grumble. “Gross.”

“Could be worse.” Nat dabs the antiseptic wipe along the thin red line of your injury, and you wince, trying not to jerk away. “So… you and Barnes, huh?”

You frown, glancing down at the shimmer of her red hair. “What?”

She chuckles. “He carried you outta there like his ass was on fire. You two’ve been dancing around each other for a couple months.”

Your cheeks flush hot. “We just… it’s complicated.”

“How complicated can it be?” She smiles. “Two people like each other, they go out on a couple dates, maybe they fall in love.”

“It’s not like we have a lot in common,” you explain. “It’s just fooling around, right now, at least.”

If ‘fooling around’ counts as the time he pinned you up against the side of the jet and kissed the shit out of you with his thigh between your legs… or the time he’d waited for everyone else to be occupied with organizing the weapons closet before tugging your panties aside and sliding two fingers deep inside—

“You don’t have to bond over all the bad stuff.” She tosses the wipe into the trash and peels the wrapping off a patch of gauze. “Maybe you have small similarities. Maybe you both like chocolate, maybe you used to go to the same park as kids. It’s the little things.”

As slick and smart as she is, Natasha has no idea about the dirty things you and Bucky have done in the dark.

“I’m just not sure it would work.” You peer down when she lays a pair of large Band-Aids over the patch of gauze. “He’s a little more rough around the edges than I am, he’s still adjusting to this whole modern-life thing, I’m not sure saying ‘hey, you wanna be my boyfriend’ in the middle of it would be smart.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Oh please, he knows what he wants, he’s just afraid to ask for it. Men are like that.”

The privacy curtain slides back, and you and Natasha look up so fast you both nearly get whiplash. Bucky’s standing there, eyes wide as he takes in the full sight of you sitting on the table, clothed only in a plain black bra and panties.

“Oh.” He swallows, and his cheeks flush bright red. “Never mind, I was just—”

Natasha grins. “Barnes, if you have something to say—”

The curtain swishes shut, and the heavy tread of his boots fades away. You giggle, raising a hand to cover your mouth. He’s never seen you this degree of undressed before, much less seen a naked woman in the last several decades.

“Teach him how to knock,” Natasha jokes, sweeping the used kit into the trash and tugging her gloves off. “I’ll grab you some clothes, we don’t need all the men stroking out from seeing a pair of boobs.”

***

You emerge from the medical room dressed in a pair of pajama shorts and a tee shirt. Steve and Sam are settled comfortably in the pilots’ seats, and Natasha herself has changed into flannel pants and a one of the tee shirts she’s stolen from Sam.

Bucky’s nowhere to be found.

“We’ll find somewhere to land in a couple hours,” Steve says, glancing back at you. “How’s your leg, kid?”

“Hurts, but I’ve had worse.” You offer a smile before turning to Nat. “Where’s Bucky?” you ask her silently.

“Downstairs,” she replies, the corner of her mouth turning up into a little smirk. “Alone.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning as you head to the descending ladder for the lower level. Bucky’s sitting on the floor, earphones on, eyes closed. He somehow hears you approach, because he opens his eyes and reaches up to pull the scuffed headphones off and pause the old cassette player clutched in his left hand.

You’re so used to him being big and strong and dominant. Now he just seems… weary. A side you don’t see very often.

“Hi.” You slide down to sit next to him. “It’s late, Nat and I are going to bed, you should wash up and get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” he replies softly.

“Are you worried about walkin’ in on me half naked?” you ask, reaching up to run your fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head. Since almost shaving it off, it’s grown back, and he almost looks like he used to back in his time.

His cheeks flush. “You were a little more than half naked.”

“It’s not a problem, I didn’t mind.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “You look exhausted, you should really get some rest.”

“I’m not tired.” Bucky sets the cassette player and headphones on the floor next to him. “Been trying to get some alone time with you for a long time, and tonight when you went down… I just got a lot of ‘what if’s’ goin’ on in my head.”

You hum. “I’m fine. My leg hurts and Nat’s gonna kill me if I don’t take it easy, but—”

“I wanna take you somewhere.” He turns to face you. “I hate dancin’ around like this, and I get that it’s risky for us to be… involved, or whatever we’re trying to be, but…” he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, “I think we deserve one night where we aren’t gonna be sleeping in these stupid bunks. Just you and me.”

You wrap your fingers through his warm metal ones. “We do have that tent in the storage cupboard… we could make a camping night of it?”

He sighs. “I want a real bed. In a real… house, or hotel, or whatever, but I wanna be alone with you. We deserve that, we’ve been playing back and forth for the last six months and I’m tired of it.”

Smiling, you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “What else do you want?”

He lets out a soft breath before tipping his head back against the wall. “I wanna make love to you, and I can’t do that in a stupid little bunk where three other people can see us.”

You stifle a flustered giggle in his chest. “We can still fool around, Bucky.”

He grunts, dissatisfied. “Can’t you pretend your leg is worse than it is and they can drop us off somewhere?”

“I don’t know, they’ve seen me walking just fine.”

“You could be in shock and not know how bad it is.”

“Bucky.” You slide onto his lap and cup his face. “I’ve been in shock before, several times, and I’m not in shock.”

He smiles lazily, skimming his hands up your sides. “Really? You look a little cold.”

“Because we’re at fifteen-thousand feet,” you kiss him softly, wincing when your bandage pulls, “and Sam’s slacking on fixing the temperature regulator.”

“Maybe I should take you somewhere with a fireplace.” He peers at you through the dim light. “I could do a lot with that.”

“Oh yeah?” You run a finger over his cheek. “Like what?”

He grins wolfishly. “Put some blankets out in front of the fire… get you all warm and toasty before I make love to you.”

You bite your lip, shifting on his lap. “Bucky…”

“Hmm?”

“Hearing you talk about making love to me isn’t making the fact that I really want that right now any better.”

He chuckles. “I can be quick, you know that.”

“I’m not having our first time on the jet floor.” You stand up, pulling on his metal arm. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

He stands obediently, eyes raking up your bare thighs and the bandage on as he rises. “You know, you look really hot with a bandage on your thigh.”

“Oh, so you’re glad I got shot?”

“I didn’t say that.” He wraps his arms around your waist. “I mean I like seein’ you with things on your thighs. Holsters… those thigh-high socks you wore a month ago, that made me…” he shivers and digs his fingers into your hips.

“Freak,” you giggle. “Bucky, if you don’ let me go...”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mmm.” You slip a teasing finger into his belt.

He grins, slowly backing you up until your shoulders press against the steel wall. In a playful attempt to duck away, you try to slip just to his left, and warm metal wraps around your arm, pinning you firmly in place.

“Hold on,” he mutters, “you think you can just do that and walk away?”

You let out a long, soft moan when he presses his lips to yours, stepping up so close you can feel the firm heat of his body. Your fingers twist in his shirt, and he slots a knee between your thighs, careful to avoid your injured one as flesh fingers twist into your hair. He hums when you give an instinctual push of your hips against the rough fabric of his pants, and you

“Better rest up, then, honey.”

You giggle when he lands a firm swat on your ass and scamper up the ladder, heaving yourself onto the upper level with Bucky close behind you. The grin on Bucky’s face earns you a quizzical look from Sam, but you roll your eyes and head down to your bunk, making sure that nobody can see before stretching up on your toes and giving Bucky a goodnight kiss.

***

The jolt of the jet landing just over four hours later wakes you. You sit up, almost banging your head on the top of your bunk, and curse Sam for winning Rock Paper Scissors for the top one. You emerge blearily, shoving your privacy curtain aside with a grimace as a ray of sunlight smacks you in the face.

“Ow,” you mutter as Sam drops down from the bunk above you, “what time is it?”

“It’s late morning,” Steve replies, emerging from the cockpit. “We’re in Austria. Found us a place to lay low for a couple days. We’re gonna have to do a little bit of hiking and wear disguises when we check in, but the jet’s on stealth mode. Town’s about a twenty-minute walk away.”

Town. Thank God.

The four of you stumble around, stuffing things into your bags and checking your nanomasks before stepping off the jet. It’s a brisk morning, and you tug a jacket over your shoulders as you take in your surroundings.

Steve’s touched down in a large field of flowers. The jet’s invisible to your eye when the hatch closes, and you set off to the East, keeping your heads low as you head into a more-populated area and onto busy streets. There’s a market across from the closest hotel, and you make a note to sneak out and get some of the pretty fruits and breads on display.

When you get up to the counter, Steve shoves a wad of cash from his duffel bag at the attendant and asks for two rooms, which you get with a three-night guarantee.

“Okay,” Sam murmurs once you’re in the elevator heading up to your floor, “who shares with who? I’m not havin’ Barnes hogging all the covers again.”

“Mmm, you won’t.” Natasha slips you a sly look. “Barnes and Y/N together, I’ll share with Steve, so you, Sam, can have all the covers you want.”

You cast a quick glance at Bucky and find his cheeks stained bright pink. “That’s fine,” you cover when he fails to respond, “we’re gonna get some rest anyway.”

Nat smirks when the elevator doors slide open, and you roll your eyes before accepting the key card Steve offers you. “Sure, sure,” she replies, “make sure it’s a good rest.”

You give her a playful glare as she follows Steve and Sam into their room and closes the door, leaving you and Bucky to slip into your room across the hall with burning faces.

It’s definitely not the biggest—or best—room that you’ve ever stayed in, but it’ll do the trick. The bed is king-sized, with several lumpy-looking pillows stacked on a thin white comforter. You set your bag down on the floor and toe off your boots, stretching your arms over your head while Bucky goes to inspect the bathroom.

“It’s not bad,” he calls out, “just a shower stall, no tub.”

“That’s good enough for me.” You tug a fresh set of clothes out of your duffel and snag your almost-empty toiletries from the front pocket. “You wanna go first, or…”

“Nah, you.” He runs a hand up your back and leans in to press his lips against yours. “I’m gonna try and get some shut-eye. I never sleep well on the jet.”

You hum against his mouth, grateful for the sudden solitude. “I’ll be out in fifteen. Knock if you need anything, ‘kay?”

He smiles and slumps down on the bed, watching you slip into the bathroom and leave the door slightly ajar.

The water pressure isn’t too bad. It’s been a few days since you’ve been able to properly clean up, and your hair gets washed thoroughly, pits get shaved, well… everything that isn’t permanently done gets shaved, and you emerge from the steam-filled shower dressed in panties and a tee shirt, towel held to the now-exposed wound on your thigh. Bucky’s stretched out on the bed, a pillow tucked under his head, eyes closed. The medical kit’s in his bag, and you tug it free and watch one crystal-blue eye open as you perch on the edge of the bed.

“How’s that?” His eyes rake over the bare skin of your thigh as you pull it away to inspect the slowly-scabbing graze.

“Healing.” You gently poke at the angry bruise along the side and wince. “I still need to bandage it.”

Bucky sighs, watching you tug out a roll of gauze and tape. “Want some help with that?”

You smile gladly in return. “Please?”

“You got it.” He slides off the bed and reaches for the paper-wrapped supplies. Nimble fingers tear open the packets, and you lean back as he kneels on the carpet, flesh hand gently splayed out against your knee as he gently lowers a folded strip of cause to cover the exposed flesh. Medical tape snaps off between his teeth, and you watch him lay four strips, one on each side until he’s satisfied that your injury is sufficiently protected.

“Thanks.” You reach over and rub the top of his head. “So walking in on me in just my bra and panties didn’t… that didn’t bother you?”

He chuckles. “No, it didn’t bother me. Just surprised me.”

You giggle. “Really? ‘Cause you looked like a total virgin.”

“Shush.” He kisses your knee and gazes up at you, eyes wide and almost deceivingly innocent. “Not a virgin, honey, just… you look hot in that suit, and seeing you out of it was… a shock. Good shock.”

***

The rest of the day passes slowly, with you and Bucky dozing in and out of naps until Sam knocks on the door, asking if Bucky wants to go to the market outside. You watch him leave, donning his nanomask and swiping a couple bills from the plastic bag he keeps in his duffel before slipping out the door.

He’s back in an hour, carrying a large paper bag full of what looks like bread and fruit and all kinds of goodies. You eat slowly, sneaking kisses between bites of fresh, juicy watermelon for a mock-dessert.

Around six, Natasha comes by, inviting you to the other room for a much better dinner of pizza and drinks… which, as it turns out, hasn’t even been delivered yet. You and Bucky spend the first ten minutes enduring innuendo from Natasha, which Steve is quick to defend, although he snorts at one comment about peaches that makes Bucky choke on his bottle of ale.

The pizza finally arrives, three boxes to cater to two supersoldier appetites, and you’re able to unwind, laughing and joking and teasing each other until it’s late and Sam starts to yawn incessantly. You and Bucky make an excuse for being tired as well, and Natasha watches you leave with a glimmer in her eye as the door swings shut.

The moment you and Bucky are safely tucked in the seclusion of your room, he pulls you into his arms and plants a warm, sweet kiss on your lips.

“Baby,” he breathes, “we only got three nights here and I… I wanna take you, tonight…”

You giggle. “Bucky, we’re not in your time anymore. You can tell me what you want.”

He swallows, metal fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. “I wanna make love with you.”

You roll your eyes and wind your arms around his neck. “Is that all?”

He grumbles. “Baby, you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Sorry.” You stretch up on your toes and kiss him again, hips rubbing deliciously against his. “Only thing I need to be hard is this… and looks like you’re way ‘head of me.”

Bucky groans, breaking away to tug your shirt over your head. “If you keep doing that, you’re not gonna feel it for a while.”

You bite your lip, watching him strip his own shirt and toss it to the ground. Before you can do anything else, he lifts you up, careful to avoid your injured thigh, and lays you out on the bed, reaching for your pajama shorts and tugging them down to leave you in just a plain pair of panties.

Now he’s nervous, you can see it in his eyes. He’s had you open before, got his fingers wet inside your pussy, and kissed the shit out of you until you could barely breathe, but he’s never had you completely naked and exposed.

“Hey.” You reach for his hand, guiding it to the little blue bow between your hips. “It’s okay, baby.”

He chuckles, easing his fingers beneath the elastic and watching with held breath as he teases them down, letting them fall off the edge of the bed with a soft pat. His palms smooth down the insides of your thighs, spreading you open, and when he trails the pad of his thumb over your clit and you press your hips up to get closer, he lets out a strangled groan and curls over you, completely helpless.

Your hands push at his sweats, and you giggle when he clumsily kicks them down over his feet, leaving himself completely bare for you as well. When your fingers drift to wrap around his thick, heavy shaft, he stops, gritting his teeth against the side of your neck.

“Baby…” he clears his throat, raising his head to look at you. “We’re not movin’ too fast, right?”

“Don’t get soft on me,” you reply, “we’re good, Bucky, I’m happy, I wanna feel you…”

He nods, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Good, it’s just… it’s been a long time and—”

“Shhh.” You rub your hands over his hips. “I don’t care, I just want you.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, and he reaches down to grab himself, experimentally running the swollen tip of his cock through yout pussy until he finds your opening, and you grab on tight, a cry of pleasure dying in your throat as he pumps his hips forward and sinks in.

“Ahh, fuck—” he grunts quietly against your lips when your nails dig into his ass, “baby…”

You can’t even find the words to reply. He’s so deep, thick and hot and pulsing inside where your body grips him tight. All you can do is give a little tug, trying to urge him on, and he gives you what you want without question.

All sense of awkwardness or anxiety melts away as he props himself up on both arms, watching your body roll and move under his as he searches a rhythm, inexperience getting the better of him when his hips stutter and slide. He finds it, a steady, rough beat back and forth that makes your clit rub against the skin above his cock and high-pitched sighs and whimpers to rattle in your throat.

“C’mere,” he pants, hooking his flesh arm under your shoulders to keep you close, and you brace yourself as his thrusts grow hard enough for your bodies to slap together. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to feel this good that when his lips find one nipple and latch on, your body decides to follow its own path.

All it takes for you to cum is a few quick rolls of your clit under your fingers, and Bucky lets out a choked gasp when he feels the rapid contractions, burying his face in the crook of your neck and matching your moans with his own, panting harder and louder as he stutters, pushes in as far and hard as he can, and cums with a growl that resonates deep in your soul as you wrap your legs tight around his waist.

You come back to reality slowly, sweaty bodies sticking as he drops down over you, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips.

“That was fast,” he murmurs, “sorry, baby, I couldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” You run your fingers through his hair. “It’s been a long time for me too, it was… that was good.”

“Good.” He chuckles and pulls away, watching the first dribble of white slide from your core. “We got three more days to make it longer, huh?”

“Yeah.” You reach for his hand, fingers intertwining with his. “Right now, we have all the time in the world.”

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agntofhydra · 4 years

Text

Sawbones // SIX

(gif credit)

summary: Red String of Fate Soulmate AU

Soul mates have a red thread tied to each others pinkies that only one of them can see.

You’re the Resistance’s head medic. You can see the red thread of fate that leads you to your soulmate. Poe doesn’t believe in the soulmate / thread theory. You don’t agree with his tactics, nor does he approve of yours. Leia and Holdo just really want a win.

pairing: poe dameron x reader

rating: mature for later chapters

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read on till the end for notes!

CONTENT WARNING: this chapter contains drug use and more swearing than usual.

SAWBONES // SIX

CALM DOWN, STARBOY.

You’d surprised yourself, honestly.

Maybe you were cut out for politics - the way you were able to stand in line with Poe and the Generals, keep your face blank and greet the new recruits without a scowl? It was nothing short of impressive. For you and Poe to stand shoulder to shoulder, his hands clasped behind him while yours were clasped in front, and not glance down at the stupid fucking string and notice that it was probably the shortest it’s ever been entitled you to an award. Maybe a nice vacation, off base? For the entirety of this training?

That would be nice.

You half expected Poe to jump into her arms, like people often did when their significant others returned from a flight. He didn’t. In fact, Poe’s expression did not crack from it’s diplomatic mask. Shoulders back, jaw clenched and chin out, Poe scanned the pilots as they left their ships, and you couldn’t help but watch him from the corner of your eye. Poe now diametrically opposed who he had been in your office, his stupid smile now a faint memory.

Diplomatic, political Poe was one you hadn’t met nor seen in person.

Diplomatic, political Poe was hot.

Poe’s posture elongated his spine, jutted his chest out and brought forth his collar bones. Your eyes once again traced his gold chain.

Maybe you didn’t deserve all the praise you’d previously granted yourself as you openly ogled the man next to you. But Poe was your soulmate. It granted you an ogle pass, whether or not both parties were aware.

The pilots had lined up, helmets off and tucked under their arms. They were the perfect image, the very epitome of what people would want to see on Resistance banners. You’d purposely not remembered their names in spite. You were the Head Medic of the Resistance - they should have to introduce themselves to you.

Leia greeted them, her words sounded garbled as your eyes met the infamous Scoria Tane. She stood tall, her long white hair in a loose french braid. Her chestnut skin seemingly unmarred with such trivial marks like pores. You felt the breath leave your chest as her eyes flitted over to meet Poe’s. No matter how brief, you still caught it. You couldn’t feel any change in Poe’s demeanor, but you didn’t want to chance glancing over to see if there was a smile on his face. No need to put salt in an already festering wound.

“This is our head medic,” Leia introduced you. Your head turned to hers before returning back to the recruits with a small nod. You were really mucking up your air of superiority.

Besides Scoria, there was only one other human. And he was staring at you.

“It’s an honor to be here, Generals,” the man spoke up, his eyes momentarily leaving your figure to address Holo, Ackbar and Leia. “It seems like a large base. I don’t know about my fellow pilots, but I would love a tour.” His eyes were back on you.

“I’m sure Commander Dameron would be more than willing to accommodate you, Commander Ancin,” Holo nodded.

Ancin smiled slightly. “Doctor, would you have the time?”

You had been trying very hard not to meet his gaze, but his lack of subtlety forced your hand. However, Poe had beaten you to a response.

“She’s very busy,” he cleared his throat. “Still has to conduct your physicals and stress tests. I am more than willing to give you a tour,” his tone was clipped.

Ancin didn’t even spare Poe a glance, and you saw Poe clench his hands from behind his back out of your peripheral vision. You desperately wanted to pause time, to knock your shoulders or nudge him with your elbow. But you couldn’t, not with the audience in front of you.

“It’s fine, Commander Dameron. I’m sure I could spare some time,” you responded, feeling like your skin was on fire. No doubt the white of your coat further contrasted the fact that your face was also on fire.

“Great,” Ancin switched his helmet to the other arm. “Can we begin now?” He turned to Leia quickly. “My apologies, unless there was more to be discussed?”

Leia gave him a tight smile. “The specifics can be gone over later.”

Ancin nodded before breaking formation with his fellow pilots and grabbing your arm. “Shall we, Doc?”

If you would’ve had the time to turn your head as Ancin grabbed you, you would’ve seen the way Poe clenched his jaw impossibly tight and watched as the Coruscant’s pilot Commander dragged you away. If you would’ve perhaps taken the time to drag your eyes away from Poe’s chest and face earlier, you would’ve noticed that since the beginning of this whole situation, Poe had been slowly dragging the pointer finger of his right hand over the base of his left pinky.

If you did, maybe you wouldn’t have agreed to showing someone around a base you barely knew yourself.

“I’m going to apologize in advance,” you began, subtly removing your arm from his grip. “I don’t really know the base that well either. I know hangars, cafeteria and meeting room. But only in relation to the medbay.”

“That’s okay,” he smiled down at you. “We can figure it out together.”

You hadn’t forced yourself to memorize the names of the pilots, but hearing Ancin jogged your memory from when you had skimmed their files. You were pretty sure his first name was Cane, and if the galaxy could pick one person to represent them, it would probably be him.

Cane Ancin was objectively gorgeous. He was tall, several inches taller than you and most likely Poe, too. His cheekbones and jawline were sharp, and you remembered bitterly that he must be ridiculously fit, because he had one of the lowest resting heart rates you’d ever seen. He was broad, and his curls rivaled Poe’s. You outwardly winced at the comparison.

“Something wrong?” he asked, putting a hand on your shoulder. You tried not to shrug it off.

“Nothing. Just uh, remembering all the stuff I have to do back in the medbay.”

Cane wasn’t bothered. “Let’s start moving then, yeah?”

The two of you had continued walking for a couple of paces, Cane watching you out of the corner of his eye, not even bothering to take account of where the two of you were.

Fleetingly, you wondered if the base would be able to accommodate both Cane and Poe’s ego.

“Why did you want me to give you a tour?” you asked, his silent watching pushing you to the brink.

Cane shrugged. “Is it a crime to ask a beautiful woman to show me around?”

You blinked at him.

“Tell me,” his voice viscous like honey. He increased his stride so he could stand in front of you, abruptly stopping your movement. Throwing civility to the wind, you openly scowled.

“Can you see your thread?”

You wanted to roll your eyes. Could you have a conversation about literally anything else or was the soulmate tether your whole life now? You couldn’t work, sleep, or even eat without thinking about it. You’d never piloted one before, but you were sure that you could figure out how to steer an x-wing into oblivion. Sure, you had two of the best pilots in the galaxy on base that would catch your ass in no time, but it was nice to pretend that they couldn’t.

Cane looked you up and down slowly. You weren’t exactly sure what he was looking at. Your boots, black leggings and white coat buttoned up to your throat didn’t really emanate sexy, but this guy was weird. It probably did seem sexy to him. Your scowl deepened.

“I can see mine,” he drawled. Now would’ve been a great moment for one of your infamous ‘i’m gonna be sick’ moments. “And let me tell you, I like where it leads.”

You snorted. “Calm down, starboy. I can see mine, too.”

Cane deflated.

“Does that actually work? Do you get people with that?” you questioned, tapping on your chin. “Even on a few shots of fire-water I still don’t think I would’ve fell for it.”

Cane didn’t stay off-guard for long - after you were done speaking, he let out a laugh and held his hands up as if to say, ‘well, I tried.’

“It does sometimes,” he said. “The addition of fire-water does seem to increase the chances, though I figured I would try it with you regardless.”

“You pilots are always so risky,” the two of you fell into step again. The tension seemed to have dissipated instantly. “Always shoot first, ask questions later.”

“You speak from experience,” Cane raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know how many pilots end up in my medbay because of that mentality?” You shook your head. “Craziest beings in the galaxy, I swear.”

“Dameron is the worst of us,” he responded, and you didn’t miss the way his expression steeled. You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

“Commander of the Resistance? You really trust that guy?”

You narrowed your eyes, the words your brain wanted to speak in defense of Poe stilled at the tip of your tongue. You didn’t expect someone to join the ‘I hate Poe Dameron’ club, but as soon as it crossed your mind, you realized you weren’t even part of that club. You were in the ‘I hate loving Poe Dameron’ club. President of the ‘My soulmate is a douche but it’s totally my fault’ club.

You could go on.

“What’s your issue with Poe?” you asked.

“Typical he hasn’t mentioned me,” Cane scratched his bare jaw. It made you realize you preferred stubble. “He’s just...not the guy you all think he is.”

“Don’t be vague,” you said, annoyed.

“The guy just...he’s not this straight-laced, hero of the Resistance. Hell, I haven’t even been here a day and I can tell the whole base fucking worships him, and for what?”

“For being a good pilot?” you answered what was most likely a rhetorical question. “For risking his life every time he gets in that ship, getting us First Order intel and directly playing a role in saving the galaxy?” You were getting angrier by the second. Whatever past he had with Poe, you didn’t care about it.

“Might I remind you it’s the same galaxy that you and I both live in? We all have shit we’ve done in the past. How we move on from it defines us.” You stopped yourself before saying something you would regret, revealing too much to a man you didn’t know. And honestly? You didn’t care to.

You continued when Cane stayed silent.

“You don’t have skeletons in the closet? If you know Poe’s, I’m sure he knows yours.”

You turned to him, conveniently stopped outside of the double doors to your medbay. The harsh fluorescents illuminated Cane’s face, exposing the conflict and discord written all over his features. Whatever thoughts were floating in his head made you feel uneasy, as though you were teetering on a tightrope. Cane didn’t meet your gaze, instead he chose to finally notice his surroundings.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled for longer. You waited patiently.

“I’ll see you around for my tests, Doc.” Cane continued to walk down the hallway, and you fought the urge to point out that it was the opposite direction he needed to go. ...right?

You couldn’t dwell on your mediocre sense of direction before you heard the whoosh of air form the double doors opening and FX-7’s bulky metal frame towering over you. Droid or not, you could feel the disapproval from the lit, annular holes in its head as they bored into your back.

“You have plenty to do,” was all the droid said before it retreated back into the medbay.

✗ ✗ ✗

Yes, you had plenty to do. So much so that it took you up until early morning to finish. It was so early, (or late?) that you had recoiled when you’d checked the time.

But, as you were heading back to your quarters to catch up on sleep because you were in no rush to start taking vitals on the new recruits, your arm was caught on fire.

Not literally, but it felt literal. Like every nerve ending was ripped from your skin, abraded and exposed. And it all originated from one point on your hand. You fought the buckle of your knees, desperately applying pressure to your pinky finger after loudly yelling a string of expletives. As you took another step in the direction of your quarters, the pain impossibly intensified. Somehow, your brain was able to act logically as you quickly retraced your last few steps.

As you moved backwards, the pain slowly dissipated into a deep throb, coming from both your hand and somehow your chest? You inspected your arm, turning over at least seven times. Your medical training had never taught you, or even touched on anything related to...whatever just happened. As you retreated back to the medbay, the pain intensified again.

“What the fuck,” you gritted through your teeth. Stepping back from the double doors, you continued forward. And for the next few minutes, you continued like that. Walking and retracing your steps, following the path that didn’t beset your body in so much agony your vision went white.

In your course around the base, you were at a junction you’d never been to previously. To your left, the hallway led out to the runway and to your right, a dead end. However, a few experimental steps in either direction revealed that your phantom arm pain was directing you straight forward.

Honestly, fuck the galaxy, you sized up the door in front of you. Whatever forces were at work right now, pulling your sensory nerves like strings on a marionette could fuck off. Sending you to weird parts of the base that you’d never been to (it could’ve been a common area actually, you never really explored) and sending you to a blank, durasteel door? Another healthy dose of fire shot up your spinal cord.

“The thread is sentient,” you tried to catch your breath. “All of the past soulmates in the galaxy have joined together to kill me.”

Rationally, there was no way you were correct but you were running on empty and had been updating the files on the pilots until you thought your retinas would burn out. Maybe this was a dream? You could definitely be dreaming.

Shaking out your right arm, you bounced back and forth on either foot. You were going to go through this mystery door. Enter the mystery door that didn’t make your arm feel like the thread was pulling tight between your arm and torso as if to amputate it. Yes.

Before your mind could bitch out, your muscles pushed your legs forward by reflex - acting before the brain could process. Your hand pulling down on the handle, a component most doors on the base didn’t have.

Blue.

Your entire field of vision was met with a murky swirl of blue. The room was of decent size, maybe slightly smaller than your office. From what you could see, it looked like a storage room. The walls were lined with shelves that contained extra orange jumpsuits, helmets, blankets and clothes of all sorts. In your pursuit of orienting yourself, you disregarded the figure sitting on the ground against the wall opposite you.

With one leg forward and the other bent at the knee, the source of the smoke dangled loosely between the fingers of Poe Dameron.

But you didn’t realize that yet, because it was dark and hazy and you were confused and what was that smell? The acrid fumes were coupled with an odor that was almost...sweet? No. Tart felt like the better word. Sharp and sour and sitting on your tastebuds.

As Poe dragged on the stick in his hand, the embers that burned at the end burned brighter and attracted your eyes. Then, you noticed him.

“Dameron?” you squinted through the smoke, trying to swat it out of your vision. “Are you seriously smoking spice right now?”

In your confusion and disbelief, you didn’t notice how the throbbing from the remnants of pain in your arm had become an amalgamation of both the lingering pain and a new, warmer sensation. Pleasure.

“I’m surprised you know what this is,” he blew out a long stream.

You tried not to scoff. “I was a teenager once, too.”

He was silent for a moment before lazily motioning with the hand that held the joint to the spot next to him. With a concerning lack of reluctance you’d think on later, you sat down next to him.

“My entire left arm has been killing me all day,” he took another hit. You frowned as he blew the smoke out at you.

“So weird that there isn’t someone on base that could do something about that,” you replied casually, but your mind was spinning. His arm was hurting too? What the hell was going on?

He shook his head, ignoring your response and offered you the joint instead. Surprising both him and yourself, you took it, rotating it in your hand.

“Take a hit,” Poe urged. “You can turn off your doctor-mode for one seco - are you really inspecting it right now?”

You looked at him, confused. “Um, yes? Why are you inhaling this when you don’t even know what it’s made of?”

Poe blinked at you, albeit much slower than usual. “To get high.”

You tapped the ashes into the palm of your hand, then handed the spice back to him. His hand slowly, meticulously took it from your grip and brought it back to his lips. Rubbing the ashes with your pointer finger in your palm, you brought the fine, cerulean powder to your eyes, studying it before lightly placing your finger on your tongue. Poe’s eyes tracked every movement.

“It’s similar to Ryll,” you noted. “An ore from Ryloth. It’s usually used medicinally, but it can be refined into some good fucking spice.”

“You’ve smoked spice?”

You took the object in question from his grip, putting it between your lips and taking a deep inhale. Holding it, you smirked at him. You laughed while exhaling, your lungs somewhat relishing in the sweet burn you hadn’t felt in years.

“Medical school was hard.”

“That’s…” Poe’s eyebrows twisted as he tried to find the words, “so...normal? Of you?”

“Thanks?”

Poe leaned his head back against the wall. “You’re always the head medic, the doctor of the Resistance. You make it really hard to get to know you outside of that. Is there someone beneath the white coat?”

You took another hit to avoid answering and Poe had no issue in continuing.

“I had to ask that engineer you always hang out with,” he paused, thinking hard to remember Jasti’s name before giving up and continuing, “what your actual name was. The people I asked before didn’t know.”

“Everyone calls me Doc. I don’t mind it.”

“I do,” Poe snapped, uncharacteristically hostile. “Stars, I’ve made such an effort for you.”

“An effort?” you echoed.

“To get to know you, to spend time with you. Maker, I even thought for a second - “ Nope. Poe wasn’t high enough to let that statement loose.

But you were just high enough not to notice.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, the usual weight on your chest now heavier. “I don’t know how to act when people want to get to know me. I haven’t for a long time.”

Poe placed the joint on the ground, letting it burn out. The two of you sat in silence, slowly inhaling and exhaling the chemicals that swirled in the air. You could feel yourself becoming heavier and weightless at the same time. Your physical sense felt light, but the burden of everything else came down heavy.

“I hate having him here,” Poe began. “Ancin.”

“Did you know him previously?”

Poe swallowed thickly, and you watched his adam’s apple bob up and down. The thought crossed your mind again - the sensitivity of his carotid. It would be so easy for you to find out right now, to just lean over and place a finger, or even your lips on it. That part of your brain that kept you rational and reasonable must've been short circuited by the spice because it wasn’t telling you not to find out, not reminding you of any and all consequences. For once, your brain felt quiet.

Leaning his head back up towards you, he caught your staring but you couldn’t be bothered to look away. Maybe he was sensitive elsewhere, too. You had dated a guy from Corellia who went absolutely feral when your lips met his sternum. You wanted to find out if Poe was the same way. You wanted to place your lips on every inch of his body, test each section of skin for a quick intake of breath, a twitch, goosebumps. To feel his fingers, calloused from years of flight maneuvers and switches, testing you for sensitivity.

In your reverie, Poe had begun to inch closer at imperceptible increments. His left hand resting flat on the ground - next to your right. His left pinky laid over your right as he leaned in, tucking some hair behind your ear to justify his proximity. His head turned, his lips now ghosting over the strip of space between the bottom of your earlobe to the joint of your jaw.

“Is this okay?” He whispered, and you closed your eyes at the feeling of his lips brushing against you.

“This better not be a dream again,” you said under your breath.

Chuckling, Poe pressed his lips to your temporomandibular joint as you tilted your head, giving him full access. “Again?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Your filter was gone - your brain now occupied with the double assault of the spice and having Poe Dameron press kisses onto your skin.

“We don’t have to talk,” he said, unbuttoning the top two buttons of your white coat to give him more access to your neck. He sucked lightly at your own pulse point, and you sucked in a breath.

“Sensitive?” Stars. The irony.

“Are you?” you bit back as you brought your hand to rest on his bicep.

“Want to find out?” he pulled back to meet your eyes. In spite of your slow movements and cloudy train of thought, you had never felt so clear, so confident in an answer.

You licked your lips, moistening them as your hand slid up from its place on his bicep to the side of Poe’s face, stroking your thumb lightly. Poe sighed, leaning into your ministration and tangling his pinky finger with yours. You could feel the blood buzzing underneath your skin, your sympathetic nervous system sending adrenaline and epinephrine by the gallon to account for how fast your heart was racing.

You copied his earlier movements, pressing your lips to various points along his jaw, his neck. Testing what he liked the most. When you got to your target, you boldly licked the spot up to his jaw. Poe’s hand tangled in your hair, breath shuddering.

“That’s a yes for you, too,” you whispered with the last remnants of air in your lungs.

Finally, your brain rejoiced through the fog.

You continued kissing, nipping at spots here and there. At the notch between his collarbones, Poe groaned.

“Scoria.”

You stopped.

Pulling away, you mustered the courage to meet his eyes. The smoke of the room now felt suffocating, not intoxicating. You felt like you were being smothered, and you were now noticing the lack of fresh air in your lungs.

Poe’s eyes met yours, too before widening.

Your hand left his face, your pinky leaving his. The dull ache in your arm had returned. You swallowed thickly, nodding.

“Fuck. I’m - “ Poe couldn’t straighten out his thoughts, let alone form a sentence. Very clearly in his mind, he had known it was you kissing, sucking on his neck. Her name had just..slipped out.

“No,” you cut him off before he could formulate some half-assed excuse you didn’t want to hear. “I’m sorry. I should’ve have - I forgot about - “ You couldn’t find the words either.

Standing, you looked down at him briefly, noting how the red thread of fucking fate bisected his torso, standing out starkly against the blue of the smoke and his button up.

“Thanks for the spice,” you forced, before leaving the room.

Walking down the hallway, continuing your initial course of returning to your quarters, you felt extremely sober. What else could sober you up faster than the guy whose neck you're kissing moaning out the name of another woman?

Looking down, you quickly redid the buttons Poe had undone.

I’m sorry? Your mind replayed the moment. Sorry for what? Poe is yours.

You stopped in your tracks.

Poe was yours. Why the fuck were you embarrassed that you were indirectly kissing your soulmate? Apologizing because he was currently in the middle of wasting his time with another woman? Sure, it was girl code not to do what you had previously been doing, but soulmates were excluded from girl code. Whether or not it was indirectly (...or directly) your fault that he was with her wasn’t important.

So, yeah. Fuck being sorry, fuck being embarrassed. You were done tiptoeing around the subject. Operation ‘Poe is my soulmate and I’m finally going to do something about it’ was a go. You couldn’t waste any more time.

The realization that you would explode if you had to spend any more days of your life without Poe’s lips on you was completely unrelated.

-----

are you guys screaming? i'm screaming.

also, poe looks high af in the gif above so...i felt that it fit well.

but what a wild rollercoaster this has been & will continue to be. I hope y'all are excited for the ride, because I am. Can't thank you guys enough for the love & support. don't be scared, share the angst with your friends!! xoxox

also!!! official sawbones playlist because i am a slut for playlists. i’ll be adding and removing, so lmk how you feel about it :)

TAGLIST (message me to be added!)

@yayrainday @samhollandssweaters @softly-sad @rebelgeneraldameron @btillys @daydreamerinadazedworld @teaofpeach @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall @fandom-addict-aesthetics @peterwandaparker @bookaholicinwonderland @roserrys @clydesducktape @heythere-mel @justrunamok @corrupt-fvcker @lets-do-get-help @agents-assemble @idocarealot @phoenixhalliwell @afootnoteinyourhappiness @gottalovethefandom @bbuckysbeardd @stanningtoomanypeopleatonce @missreyskywalker @katrynec @lizajane3 @shootingstarzmagick

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron fic #poe dameron #slow burn #soulmate au #red thread soulmates #red thread of fate #star wars #star wars sequel trilogy #pre-TFA #romance #enemies to lovers #ish #fem!reader #medic!reader #mine #coworkers to lovers

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paversandplatters · 3 years

Text

||𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙|| (2/20)

Apocalypse! Au (TW! Minor gore and cussing)

Reader x multiple

Chapter 2: The church

Y/n puts the vehicle in gear carefully making a U turn and starts down the road in a westerly direction. Her original plan was find refuge in one of the larger towns along North Florida’s citrus belt such as Lake City or Gainesville- still seems viable despite the fact that the engine continues to ping and complain- something has come loose during the plunge to the woods and she doesn't like the sound of it. They need to find a place to stop soon look under the hood, get their wounds looked at- rest maybe, maybe find some provisions and fuel.

“Hey look!” Nick speaks up from the shadows of the rear seats pointing off to the Southwest at the end of the lot.

Y/n drives another 100 yards or so and then brings the Escalade to a stop at the gravel shoulder. She kills the engine and silence crashes down on the car’s interior, it’s almost deafening. Nobody says anything at first- they just stare at the road sign in the middle of the distance. It's one of those cheap translucent white fiberglass ones, set on wheels with the big removal plastic letters still bearing the words “Calvary Baptist Church all welcome Sunday 9 -&- 11.”

Through the spindly Cypress trees and columns of pine that line the road, she can see the luminous white gravel of a deserted parking lot. The long narrow lot leads to the front of a building, it's broken stained glass windows partially boarded up. Its steeple caved in on one side and scorched as if its seen a bombing raid. She stares at the huge steel cross at the top of the steeple- which is covered with a patina of rust- has come loose from its moorings.

It now lays upside down dangling by the remains of its rotted hardware. She can't help but get very still while gazing up at the ruin upended cross, the symbolism isn't lost on her but it may only be the beginning. She never been one for religion but realizes that this may very well be a sign that they've been left behind and this is the rapture and the world is a purgatory now. They’ll have to deal with what remains like junkyard dogs or vermin stuck in a sinking ship.

“Remind me”she says almost under her breath not taking her eyes off the building in the distance one of the windows in the rear has a dull yellow incandescent glow, behind it the chimney is spewing a thin wisp of smoke into the lightning sky.

“how much ammunition did y'all manage to scavenge before we left Calhoun?” the two young men give each other a quick look

Nick speaks up “I have one of the 33 round mags for the Glock and a box of two dozen .380s for the other pistol and that's it..”

“That's more than I managed.” George grimaces “all I managed to grab ammunition wise is what was in the office which I think it's like 6 rounds, maybe 8?”She picks up her Glock from the seat counting the number of times she's fired since they left Calhoun she's got six rounds left.

“All right gentlemen ... I want you to bring all of it, all the hardware locked and loaded.” she opens the door “and look alive…”

The two men get out of the vehicle and join her in the Golden light of the dawn. Something is wrong, Nick notices His hand are shaking as he injects a fresh magazine into the hilt of his pistol

“Y/n, I don't understand” he says finally.

“what are we loading up for? I doubt there's anything in there but scared church people. What are we doing?”

But she's already started down towards the church- her Glock is gripped tightly in her hands, arms dangling at her side like a calling card.

“It's the end of the world boys there's no such thing as church anymore it's all up for grabs…”

The two young men glanced at each other for a moment before hurrying up to catch up with her. They approached the property from the rear, through the grove of sickly eucalyptus trees that mark the outer edges of the churches lot. She can smell the stench of menthol and ammonia in the air as she creeps across the weed whiskered gravel, careful not to make too much noise when her boots crunch under the stones. The light in the chapel's rear window has dwindled with the morning sun and the roaring of crickets fade now, the silence returns over making her heart throb in her ears.

She pauses behind a tree about 20 feet away from the lighted window ... With a few quick hand signals she rouses the two who are hiding behind a nearby oak. Nick moves out from behind cover carrying the pistol against his solar plexus like a vestigial appendage. George moves behind his friend wide eyed and jumpy flinching at the twinges of pain. These two are not exactly the crème de la crème in the world's new survivor class she realizes but perhaps she should see these young men as they truly are. Loyal partners, and friends- surviving all the same.

She issues another signal stabbing a finger at the rear of the building. One by one the three of them move toward the small woodside annex off the rear of the Chapel- she’s in the lead her pistol now gripped in both hands, now pointed downward. The closer they get the more the sun rises over the horizon the more they realize something isn't right. The windows of the building and rectory of the deacons quarters are lined with aluminum foil. The screen door has been ripped off its hinge and the inner door is nailed shut and crisscrossed with lumber. The stench of the dead permeates the air and gets stronger as they approach. She reaches the building first and she gently stands with her back against the boarded door signaling the others with a the tip of her finger to her lips.

They approach as quietly as possible, stepping lightly over the trash and dead leaves that are skidding across the back of the deck in the morning breeze. George stands just behind her, while Nick keeps to her side, both keeping weapons at the ready. She reaches down to her scuffed boot and pulls out a 12 inch Randall knife from the interlining. She carefully wedges the point under one of the boards near the door latch and Yanks.

The door probes stubborn. She pries at it repeatedly with the knife making more racket than she cares to but she has no choice they would make even more noise if they had tried to break through one of the windows. The nails give slightly the creaking sound amplified and the hushed daylight. She has no idea of what they're about to find inside this building but she fairly certain now that both humans as well as the dead inhabit this place.

Zombies don't build fires and the average survivor with the access to soap and water doesn't usually smell like death. The door finally gives and the two men moving closer to her, guns up now as they enter at the same time. They find themselves in an empty room illuminated by dim yellow light and the smell of stale smoke and Bo smacks them in the face. She crosses the floor, her boots making the floorboards creak. She makes note of the small potbelly stove still radiating the heat of the dying embers, the braided rug stained with blood, a desk littered with teabags, dishes, candy wrappers gossip magazines, a few empty 44 bottles and crumpled cigarette packs…

She goes over to the desk and looks down at the display of playing cards arranged in the classic poker pattern it looks like somebody, likely a hand full of people, were here only a moments ago and left in a hurry. A noise from behind the inner doors suddenly takes her attention. she whips her head around to the source, both men stand across the room gazing sheepishly back at their leader.

Again she puts a four finger to her lips giving them the signal to hush. The two mens eyes are aglow with nervous tension, on the other side of the door shuffling noises build, the telltale sound of dragging feet. There's also the reek of mortified flesh almost as pungent as the methane and it's getting stronger. She recognizes that a number of undead are trapped in an enclosed space. She turns and points to George’s shotgun.

Nick understands that he's supposed to blow the lock off the door and George is supposed to back them both up. Neither young man is very happy about this plan. Nick looks pale and George is drenched in sweat both of them nursing wounds and perhaps even internal bleeding. Neither seem gung ho about fighting off and undetermined number of biters. But she is an irresistible leader and the mere look in her eyes is enough to kill any dissension in the ranks. She holds three fingers up. She begins to countdown. 3, 2-

A loud crack sounds as a rotten hand covered with mold burst through the weak spot in the lumber.

Nothing in reality ever seems to play out the way George imagines it should. He trips on his backward shuffling feet and falls on to the floor. The pain in his ribs explode the injury jostled by the impact and at the same time another pair of hands thrust their way through the busted slats of the door. Looking up he sees she has pulled something from her boot. He watches as a dull gleam of a Buck knife strikes through the air. She drives the blade through the tissue and cartilage sawing through the bone it’s hands flopping to the floor as neatly as tree limbs being pruned.

George watches as he tries to sit up, the back of his throat burns and his body threatens to upchuck the paltry contents of a stomach. Things are moving quickly now, hands are flopping around him like fish on a boat’s deck, slowly growing still as the electrical impulses from the reanimated central nervous system drains out. George’s vision blurs his mind swimming dizziness gripping him as his wounded lungs labor to get air.

She's already scooped the fallen shotgun from the floor pumping shells into its breach with a single jerk of her arms as she turns back to the door George manage to get himself back up into a standing position kicking the ghastly hands out of the way . She slims a boot into the door and it implodes revealing the interior of a dark Chapel. Nick gets a fleeting glimpse of the sanctuary before the 1st blast shatters the tableau.

What was once a quaint little church with stain glass and pine pews now resembles an arbiter from the 9th circle of hell. The dead number in dozens maybe as many as 40 or 50 most of them chained to the pews with heavy chains. They react to the light of the outer room as if she had just turned over her oktan exposed a colony of vermin.

Insensate faces jerk towards the noise, some are decorated with spiked collars and others have large makeshift cage like muzzles. The scene gives a a sense of some sort of demented zoo or kennel for these reanimated cadavers. Stranger still, in that terrible instant before the first flash of the 12 gauge, it seems like somebody apparently tried to administer these beings after they were reanimated.

In front of each are dead birds morsels, pieces of roadkill or unidentified human remains are scattered in the pews next to each being. The candles still burn in the same sanctuary on the advert stands in the front room on the modest little altar. Somewhere the buzz of a live microphone drones. The air smells of modified sewage perfumed with rancid flesh and disinfected.

Nick gets one final glance at her before the air lights up- the look on her face is a mixture of sorrow, rage, loss and regret. It's the look of someone confronting the merciless abyss. Then the shooting starts.

The first blast flashes and takes the closest cadaver down in a puff of carnal tissue, the shell ripping through the skull and taking a chunk out of the wood above the door. Three subsequent shots happen, making their ears ring. Already covered with blowback her anguished face stippled and splattered, she now moves deeper into the Chapel and starts in on the others.

It only takes a few minutes, the air flashing like a fireworks display as she goes from pew to pew, either vaporizing skulls or thrusting her Randall knife through petrified nasal cavities before the things even get a chance to bite at the air. George staggers towards the open door to get a better view and he notices Nick just in the side Chapel entrance.

She has the strangest look on her face now as she finished off the last of the monsters with a hard quick slashes of the knife the gun has been emptied, 8 shells peppering the wall behind the heaps of moldering flesh. Completely slick with blood, her eyes burning with inscrutable emotions, she almost looks beatific as she dispatches with the last re animated corpse .

For one terrible moment watching this all from the doorway Nick thinks of a woman having an orgasm. She lets out a voluptuous sigh of relief as she impales the skull of what seems to be an elderly woman. The Crone sacks against the back of her Pew, she was once somebody's mother, somebody's neighbor. She may have once baked cookies for her grandchildren search for famous bread pudding add ice cream socials and laid to rest her beloved husbands of 47 years in the Cemetery out behind the rectory .

Y/n pauses to catch her breath staring down at the woman, head bowed for a moment, when all at once she abruptly stops and looks up narrowing her eyes. She cocks her head to one side and listens closely to something in another part of the building at last she fixes her gaze on George and so softly whispers

“do you hear that ?”

@the-wandering-pan-ace

#dmsp #dsmp x reader #dream smp x reader #techno x reader #georgenotfound x y/n #sapnap x reader #philza x reader #tommyinnit #tubbo #ranboo #the behavior of sheep

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

Text

What Heroes Do

Category: Action, Drama

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Eijirou Kirishima

Hello, everyone! I’m super excited to post my piece for the @kirishimabigbang! I hope you all enjoy this action-packed piece about how Eijirou adjusts to life as a pro hero!

A low growl rumbled in Eijirou’s throat as sweat beaded on his flushed skin and his muscles ached with exertion. Even with his full body hardened, he could not escape the effects of the strain he was forced to endure at the moment. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, letting out little puffs of air before sucking fresh breaths in. Easy does it, Eijirou. Come on, body! Don’t quit on me now! he encouraged himself, his feet sliding a little across the concrete as he braced himself better. His biceps flexed powerfully as they strained to continue holding up the fire-engine-red automobile he currently had lifted up by its bumper.

Whatever you do, you can’t drop this car! He thought as he clenched his teeth, his vermillion eyes flickering to the pair of legs sticking out from the underside of the car. Though Eijirou preached “mind over matter” to himself like a mantra, his body had reached its limit after holding up the automobile for a nearly hour-long operation. His arms began to quake, and the car squeaked a little as he dropped it a good six inches. He groaned loudly, hunching down into a squat and pushing his palms into the underside of the bumper so hard that his hardened skin scratched the paint. Just as he was about to warn that his strength was going to give out, the would-be mechanic pushed himself out from underneath the vehicle.

“Phew! Thank ya, Red Riot. I can’t believe I forgot the jack at home. What a day to get an oil leak, eh?” The civilian laughed as he wiped oil off his brow, smudging the thick brown-black liquid across his forehead. Eijirou released a wheedling breath as he half-dropped, half-set the car back down on the ground. Using the trunk of the vehicle to support his weight, he took a minute to catch his breath, sucking in big gulps of air. He managed to find the strength to give the man a dismissive wave.

“No… No problem…” he wheezed, deactivating his Quirk. He flinched at the all-too-familiar sensation of sweat sticking to his hot skin. “That’s what heroes are for, after all… No problem’s too small…” He smiled charmingly as he flicked his sweat-soaked bangs out of his face and looked up at the man. When the civilian opened the driver’s side door, ensuring that everything was in proper order, Eijirou muttered several curses under his breath and allowed the pain pulsing through his muscles to show through an agonized scowl. As soon as the man turned back, he painted that cheesy shark-toothed smile on his face.

“I can’t thank you enough,” the man insisted, his face shining pink with both exertion and gratitude. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? A coffee, perhaps, or some lunch?”

Eijirou’s weary smile widened and he gave another nonchalant wave, finally finding the strength to straighten up to his full— and impressive— height. Clearly unnerved by Eijirou’s six-foot-something musclebound figure, the small civilian compulsively straightened as well, though his head probably only just barely brushed the underside of the hero's metal faceplate-bound chin.

“No, that isn’t necessary. Just get home safe,” Eijirou replied with a laugh, falling into a lunge to work out his aching calf and thigh muscles. After a bit of stretching, the fierce burn in his body dwindled a bit, and he gave the man a jovial wave. “All right, I’m off. Watch that car of yours, okay?” He winked before whirling on his heel to trot down the sidewalk. The man called after him, though Eijirou didn’t hear what he said.

As soon as he turned the corner into a deserted alleyway, he stopped to heave a sigh and plank against the grimy, damp wall. A muffled scream leaked out between his clenched teeth, and the iron of his face plate banged against the brick as he hit his forehead against the wall a few times. The frustration that had bubbled up inside his body dwindled as soon as it came, leaving him achy and blue. With lidded eyes, he gazed down at the fabric of his pants and his metal-plated shoes.

“I never imagined I would be using my totally manly Quirk and costume to help guys fix holes in their oil tanks on the side of the road,” he grumbled, and a flush of guilt immediately followed. With another sigh, he flopped around so his back was now to the wall; the brick scraped his skin as he slowly sunk down into a crouch, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

He knew that he shouldn’t be complaining; he’d only graduated a short time ago, after all, so it made sense that he would be sent out to do the grunt work while the higher-ups tackled the big jobs. Nonetheless, Eijirou just couldn’t help but feel unfulfilled. The most exciting thing he’d seen in the several months since he’d joined the agency was a stick-up of a candy store because some thirteen-year-old with a very realistic water gun wanted to nick some chocolate bars without paying. He knew it was wrong of him to wish trouble on anyone, but he craved the adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and the takedown. Groaning, he tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, meaning his shift would be ending soon.

“So ends another day in paradise.” He smiled wanly before pushing himself to his feet and trudging down the path back towards the agency.

His return was just as uneventful as the rest of his hero duty, so he soon found himself showered, changed, and on the bullet train home. He blinked sleepily as he clutched the silver handrail above his head. In his state of exhaustion, the gently rocking of the train car and the hum of conversation lulled him into drowsiness. His eyes drooped and he stifled a yawn with his free hand. I can’t wait to get in bed, he thought, smiling sleepily as he envisioned the embrace of his mattress and comforter. Just as his eyes shut and his body began to sway with the onset of sleep, the train lurched violently.

“What the—?” His exclamation was drowned out by the startled screams of the other passengers. Eijirou expected to hear the screeching of the brakes echoing through the bullet train tunnel, but instead, he felt the train lurch the other way— it was speeding up? As his mind whirled with confusion, the overhead speaker system buzzed to life.

“Attention passengers. This is not your captain speaking.”

A confused and frightened hush descended over the train car. His instincts buzzing, Eijirou gripped the handle as he leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he trained his ears on the voice echoing down from the gray speaker just above the door.

“You are now our hostages.”

Another chorus of screams and gasps rippled across the crowd. Children looked to their mothers in fright, tears beading in their eyes as they began to bawl and cling to sleeves and skirts. Many of the stout men paled as nervous sweat appeared on their foreheads, and quite a few of them clasped the hands of their significant others to squeeze them painfully tight. An old woman seemed unbothered by the threat, continuing her sudoku puzzle as if it were just another evening train ride.

“This train is now hurtling at rising speed. Inevitably, it will derail, causing catastrophic damage and countless casualties. Most, if not all, of you will perish in a maelstrom of steel and fire.” As more of the civilians began to openly weep, Eijirou felt his body flush hot with anger at the trainjacker’s mocking theatrics. The young hero also felt a cold rush of guilt follow, quenching the heat to turn his blood to ice. That selfish, selfish part of him had wished for something like this— and, even worse, he was enjoying it. His body sung with adrenaline, pumping through his veins to send every part of him on high-alert. He twitched incessantly, gripping the handlebar above his head and involuntarily activating his Quirk. Sparks rained down in his hair as his hardened skin scraped the metal.

Hurry up and finish your speech already, jerk, so I can kick your ass!

“What can you do? The answer is nothing. We have taken the train engineers hostage, and within each train car are several of my henchmen who are ready to deal with anyone who decides to get… rowdy. I advise you all to simply sit quietly and ponder whether the Japanese government considers your lives worth several hundred million yen.” With a cruel laugh, the villain cut off the speaker feed, leaving the train car deathly quiet. A few broken sobs and petulant whispers echoed in the metal box as the civilians looked around, wondering which of them could be the devils in disguise.

Eijirou dropped his arms to roll his shoulders, craning his head to the left and right to crack his vertebrae. He bounced on his heels, grinning widely as he allowed the adrenaline to overtake him. There was no time to worry about his selfish wishes and the universe’s dramatic answer… Right now, there were people who needed saving. As he extended his back, groaning in satisfaction as his vertebrae popped, a large man in a beanie, gray sweater, black cargo pants, and combat boots rose from where he was sitting. The fabric of his hat brushed the top of the roof as he squinted at Eijirou, who straightened up with a smirk.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” the stranger growled.

“Gettin’ rowdy,” the redhead replied cheerfully before socking the villain right in the jaw with a hardened fist. The man spun on his heel, his head snapping to the side with an audible crack. His jaw dangled uselessly as he stumbled in place in a daze before he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. It seemed he was the only villain stationed in this train car because no one rose to avenge him— or they simply were too frightened to bother after Eijirou had cold-cocked the hulking man without flinching. As shocked gasps, sobs of relief, and nervous reproach rippled through the train car, Eijirou rose his hands placatingly.

“It’s all right, everyone! I’m a pro hero!” he assured them with his signature shark-toothed grin. “Everything is going to be all right.” While a few of them sank into their seats in relief, most of them looked at the eighteen-year-old with doubt. Eijirou tried to hide the droop in his smile as he debated on what to do. The hostage negotiators were probably bickering with the villains, but there was no guarantee that they would succeed; worse, it could all be one big farce, and the psychopaths could have no intentions of letting anyone escape the train alive. The only sure-fire way to know what’s going on is to head to the front of the train! he decided.

“Are you gonna go fight the bad guys?” a little boy piped up as Eijirou began moving toward the door adjoining the next car. Grinning, Eijirou spun around to give the child a thumbs-up.

“That’s right! That’s what heroes do, after all!”

The little boy sucked in an awed breath, his eyes blowing wide with admiration. Invigorated by the plucky lad, Eijirou’s chest swelled as he strutted confidently up to the door, pausing to peer through the window. Another lone man stood in the middle of the aisle, with a strange purple gas floating around them. All the passengers were slumped over in their seats or crumpled to the floor, apparently asleep.

That’s one way to keep people from getting rowdy, Eijirou frowned, ripping off a large chunk of his tee shirt. A couple of high school girls sitting near him could barely suppress their squeals as the action revealed the chiseled planes of his abs, and he tossed them a wink before tying the fabric around the bottom half of his face. It wouldn’t prevent all of the strange mist from entering his system, but would hopefully buy him enough time to subdue the enemy and slip into the next train car.

He carefully watched the man’s movements until he inevitably turned his back. Sucking in a breath, Eijirou swung the car door open and bum-rushed the man, charging down the aisle like a linebacker. By the time the villain had turned around, Eijirou was driving his hardened elbow right into his solar plexus. The man wheezed, eyes rolling into the back of his head and spittle flying from his mouth as the breath was knocked from his body. He flew backward, slamming into the door with his head colliding with the glass window. As it shattered around the crown of his scalp, he crumpled, bleeding and unconscious.

The noise attracted the attention of the occupants of the next car, including the villain’s lackeys; Eijirou wasted no time, careening down the aisle and throwing the next door open. He vaulted over the unconscious man to land in the middle of the aisle, grabbing the two startled men by their heads to knock them together. As they reeled, eyes rolling, Eijirou shoved one to the ground to punch the other in the face. The villain howled as blood spurted from his nose— so Eijirou punched him until he stopped howling and flopped back, only held up by Eijirou’s grip on his shirt.

When Eijirou dropped the villain to look down at the other, who was still lying on the floor, the man slowly raised his arms in surrender.

“Look, man, they just told me I was gonna get paid.”

“I advise looking into a new career field,” Eijirou snorted and gave him a stern point. “Don’t make me come back here.” The man nodded vigorously at the warning, so Eijirou decided to let him be, stomping off down the aisle to the next door. He paused as the windows, which had previously shown the dark gray-black walls of the tunnel they were traveling through, suddenly blared with bright light. The picturesque countryside now stretched on before him, but he could barely enjoy it as the scenery was nothing but smudged green. The train was already precariously hurtling, gaining speed with every passing second and inching closer to fiery catastrophe.

“Damn lunatics,” he grumbled as he opened the door.

For a group capable of successfully hijacking a bullet train, Eijirou found their manpower sorely lacking. He proceeded from one train car to the next with little difficulty, either dispatching his enemies or frightening them into submission with his raw displays of power. He’d reached the front one-third of the passenger train before the loudspeaker screeched to life again, and he paused in the middle of pummeling another lackey to listen.

“It has come to my attention that we have a young pro hero on board. My apologies for not addressing you sooner; I don’t know of many pro heroes so poor that they have to take public transportation.”

Eijirou scowled at the blatant insult, unconsciously wrapping his hand tighter around the villain’s throat. He was oblivious to the man’s squirms and whimpers, too honed in on the calm and sadistic voice bleeding from the speaker above his head.

“It seems you are hell-bent on making it to the front of this train. I admire your grit, so I have pulled all of my underlings into the engineers’ room in the car attached to the control room. If you manage to fight your way through my entire group of henchmen, then I suppose you’ve earned the right to challenge the final boss, little hero. Good luck.”

As the speaker cut off, Eijirou released the villain, who sunk to the ground and gulped down greedy breaths. Smirking and tugging down the strip of tee-shirt he still had tied around his slightly sweaty face, the young hero grinned defiantly.

“All right then, asshole. Challenge accepted.”

As promised, there were no villains occupying the anterior cars of the train. Eijirou still skulked through them suspiciously, his red eyes searching the sea of passengers in case one of them was a villain in disguise looking to get the jump on him. His keen gaze saw no hostility, only fear, anxiety, and— when they clapped eyes on the unassuming hero— hope. Their expressions of trust and adoration filled Eijirou with vigor, prompting him to increase his stride and head toward the engineer’s car with as much speed as he could manage without exhausting himself. As he reached the final car— at least, what he thought to be as he noticed the lights were off in the next one— he paused as he realized something.

I’ve seen that expression countless times before. And it wasn’t just in crises like this— he’d seen it on the man’s face when he walked up to his car pulled up on the side of the road today. He’d seen it on a little girl’s face last week when he helped her find her lost cat. He’d seen it on an old woman’s face, too, when he helped her bring her groceries to her car across the entire supermarket parking lot. Hope, relief, trust… These were emotions he saw every single day as humble citizens looked to him to serve all their needs, big or small.

Smiling ruefully, Eijirou leaned his forehead against the door. I’ve been a big, fat idiot, haven’t I? All this time I’ve been too caught up in the glory that I totally forgot what matters… How unmanly. Taking a moment for the epiphany to sink in, he closed his eyes, feeling the way his muscles were humming and his blood vessels were singing with epinephrine. Sure, the high was nice, but… He also really wished he could be in his bed, enjoying a cup of something warm to drink while he watched the news report on some mundane event from the day. Right now, the populace was probably glued to the screens watching the train hijacking unfold in real-time.

From this moment on, Eijirou was going to wish that every day was as boring as it possibly could be— because boredom meant peace, and peace meant security for the most vulnerable, the most in need of saving.

And the only way to restore peace is to give this jerk and his lackeys a good old-fashioned Red Riot walloping! Eijirou grinned devilishly, stepping back and throwing the door open. In the gloom of the engineer’s car, which only housed modest wall-mounted cots, a mini-fridge, and some other odds and ends, about a dozen and a half plainclothes bozos turned their gaze upon him.

“All right, then. Who’s first?” Eijirou chirped.

They all sprang at him.

“Hey, hey, hey, that’s not fair!” the redhead cried, ducking a swing and delivering a blow to an assailant. Eijirou grimaced at the familiar thunk of Kevlar against his fist; so, this lot was a bit more prepared than the goons occupying the latter portion of the train. Grunting, Eijirou danced around another grunt who lashed out at him, her fingernails morphed into wicked-sharp, several-inch-long claws. He hopped up onto a cot and grabbed the curtain railing attached to the ceiling, pulling himself up to kick out both his legs. His boots plowed into the middle of two of the lackey’s faces, sending them stumbling back into the crowd. Another five surged forward to take their place.

“Man, this is a lot more exhausting than in the action movies!” Eijirou puffed as he dropped down onto the cloth to avoid the onslaught of quills a porcupine-like Quirk user had shot at him. He yanked one out of the wall to jab another in the nose, making him yowl and whip his head around. The lackeys all gave a wide berth to avoid being poked, allowing Eijirou to wrench the minifridge out of the wall and heft it over his head.

“Snack time!” he grinned before chucking it. It beamed one guy in the chest before bouncing off and crashing on another’s foot. As the first lackey collapsed against one of the beds, holding his likely cracked ribs, the other howled in pain and pushed the minifridge off his foot so he could cradle it, bouncing around in a circle on the other. All it took was an accidental shove for him to trip over his compatriot and bang his head against a pole, knocking him out cold.

All of the villains looked at him, then at Eijirou, who ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and made a “come on” gesture.

“I ain’t got all day, ya know!” he challenged.

“Do you think we’re getting paid enough to deal with this?” one of the grunts huffed, making Eijirou rear back in surprise. A ripple of unease traveled through the small group before another, a short blond-haired youth who looked like he wasn’t even out of high school, dropped the crowbar he had been wielding.

“Come to think of it, did he ever tell you guys how much he was gonna pay us?” The young man frowned. Another ripple of mutters and grumbles went around before a few of them tentatively shook their heads. In utter disbelief, Eijirou couldn’t help but speak up.

“Wait, wait, wait— you guys hijacked a train for this guy even though you had no idea how much you were getting paid?” he blurted, mouth falling open.

“We didn’t even know we were hijacking the train until we were on the train! He just told us he needed some grunts for a job!” one of the men complained, kicking the floor with the toe of his boot. “Man, I just wanted some cash to buy my daughter a nice birthday present…”

“I wanted to buy my lady some flowers,” another sighed wistfully, “and maybe one of those big giant teddy bears that are super squishy and soft…”

Eijirou reeled in confusion, reeling from the whiplash effect of the sudden development. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he held up his hand as if he could stop time to allow him to process what the hell was happening.

“Look, you guys… Whatever your motives are, you do realize that, if this train doesn’t stop, as soon as we hit a curve in the tracks it’ll derail, and there won’t be any cash because everyone will be dead or dying?” He sighed, cracking an eye open to see them gaping uncomprehendingly at him.

“But… The boss won’t let that happen, right? He just wants the ransom.”

“Are you sure about that? Have any of you seen him on a phone call? Hell, you don’t even know what he’s promising you, so it sounds kind of fishy to me.”

“The beefcake has a point.” A young woman frowned, rubbing her chin.

“Are ya telling me we’ve been conned?!” another man growled, stamping his foot with steam blowing out of his nose as his face reddened darkly. Probably, if this guy could talk you simpletons into hijacking a train without promising a solid figure of money, Eijirou thought, but he held his tongue; he was winning the villains over, after all, so he didn’t need to go and piss them off. They were beginning to dissolve into a mutinous uproar, yelling and shouting and fuming.

“All right, all right,” Eijirou shouted over the din, waving his hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s not get all bent out of shape, now.” He looked nervously to the door leading to the adjacent car, worried their superior heard the outburst. When no one came through, he continued in a quiet voice, “I’m sure none of you really want to be involved in a mass murder— right?” Staring owlishly at him, all of them feverishly shook their heads. Thank goodness, Eijirou thought with an inward groan, keeping the saccharine smile on his face. “So, I’ll cut you all a deal. If you let me pass to deal with this guy, I’ll downplay your involvement to the authorities. We can get you set up real nice— rehab programs, halfway houses, you know, ways to make your life better, yeah? How’s that sound?”

The crowd of grunts looked at one another uncertainly, then back at Eijirou, who was smiling so hard in his attempt to seem genuine and helpful that his facial muscles ached. He wasn’t lying anyway, but it was critical that he won them over, because he really was wasting time. Out of the corners of his eyes, he watched the landscape shooting by beyond the windows; the gray smudges against the horizon were probably mountains, which meant the tracks were going to begin to curve. Hitting them at this speed would be disastrous, so Eijirou had to stop the runaway train as soon as possible.

He breathed a small sigh of relief as the lackeys parted, giving him a wide berth to the door.

“Thank you, guys. You’re doing the right thing,” he encouraged brightly, patting them on the shoulders as he passed. A few of them blushed and shuffled their feet shyly; it made Eijirou burn with anger, the knowledge that someone manipulated downtrodden souls for such nefarious ends. As he got to the door, he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, loosening up his body for the final fight. He sucked in a breath, then pulled the door to the control room open.

He found a man in khaki slacks, a white button-up, polished shoes, and wire-rimmed glasses holding a gun to the train engineer’s head.

“Well, well,” the man quipped and used his free hand to push his glasses up his nose, “I didn’t realize I was being besieged by an upstart.”

“Who are you callin’ an upstart?!”

“My, what a brute you are. There’s no need to yell.”

“I’m yellin’ ‘cuz you hijacked a train!” Eijirou fumed, a vein bulging in his forehead. The man rolled his eyes as if Eijirou’s ire was completely unwarranted, casually flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Whatever! Slow down this train, right now!” he ordered, taking a step towards him. The man immediately pointed his gun at him, making him freeze in his tracks. He knew his Quirk would reflect the bullet, but in these close quarters, there was no guarantee the ricochet wouldn’t kill the hostage, or the villain, for that matter.

“No, that won’t do. You see, I absolutely need this train to derail.”

Eijirou looked at him dumbfoundedly.

“You mean… You have no intentions of stopping? You want to kill everyone on board?”

“Yes, precisely,” the man said disinterestedly. Eijirou blinked as his head swam, struggling to process the ludicrous notion. “I can see you’re having difficulty comprehending why someone would want to cold-bloodedly end the lives of hundreds of men, women, and children, so I’ll spell it out for you, so you can have some closure before you perish.” The man smiled like he was doing Eijirou a favor. A chill traveled down the redhead’s spine; even though he’d fought monsters like the League of Villains, he’d never seen such open malice.

This guy was a true sociopath.

“You see, I’m just a humble office worker,” the man said, flourishing his arm as he continued to point the pistol at Eijirou; he kept his peripheral vision on the engineer, a silent warning not to tamper with the controls under any circumstances. “I grew up with a loving mother and father, the middle child of three. I went to an average high school, had average grades, went to an average college and graduated with an average degree, and got an average-paying desk job. By all respects, I suppose you could call me more successful than some.” He shrugged, his tone betraying the fact he didn’t believe his words at all.

“That’s just it. My life is so average that it’s unfulfilling. I have no special talents or interests. I’m too plain for anyone to notice; I’m passed over for promotions, and I don’t catch girls’ attention. Do you realize how infuriating it is to see everyone parading how special and unique they are? Everyone is always talking about the need to fit in, yet, when you fit in too well, you don’t fit in at all.”

“I won’t be remembered when I die— at least, not living the life I have. But you know what people always remember? Tragedies, catastrophes, major accidents. You know who people remember? Great minds, villains of heinous proportions. So you see, young hero, I will be remembered now. They’re going to remember me as the mastermind who hijacked this train and led its occupants to a fiery death,” he said as a sickeningly elated grin spread across his face and his eyes lit with twisted pride.

“You’re vile,” Eijirou breathed, shaking his head with a completely amazed expression.

“Perhaps, but they remember vile people, too.” The man shrugged and pulled the trigger.

Eijirou managed to harden his chest just in time. The bullet bounced off his rock-hard skin, and he dove for the engineer on instinct, smooshing him against the control panel. The small compartment rang with a series of dings as the bullet bounced off the metal walls, and then the gun-wielding man let out pained yelp. Eijirou glanced down to see him curled up on the ground, clutching his thigh as it bled profusely and stained his pressed slacks a dark burgundy.

Eijirou kicked the gun away, sending it skittering to the far side of the room, before planting his foot on the office worker’s back.

“Stay down, if you know what’s good for you,” he snarled before pulling himself off the engineer. The train worker shook his head, a little dazed, before fluttering his hands over the controls.

“No! I won’t let you!” the villain screeched. His burst of fury and adrenaline allowed him to temporarily overpower Eijirou. He lunged up and grabbed the lever controlling the train’s speed, bending it at an odd angle and snapping it in half. Eijirou shoved him to the ground and wrenched his hand behind his back, but it was too late.

“Oh no! It’s jammed!” the train manager wailed, wrenching on the small stub of lever still remaining; in his effort, his hand slipped, and the jagged metal sliced open his palm. Red blood splashed across the controls as he curled in on himself, whimpering. Eijirou stepped off the villain, who was cackling maniacally, to rush to the window; he could see the curve leading into the mountains fast approaching. “We can’t stop the train now… He tore out the wires for the emergency brake system as well!” the train engineer lamented, pointing at a busted panel in the control bench with wires sticking out of it.

“Can you rewire it?” Eijirou asked as he looked back, eyebrows cinched with concern as his mind whirled. When the man shook his head, his heart plummeted and a sense of doom began to fill his belly.

“I can.”

Eijirou whirled around with a gasp to see the young blond-haired villain from earlier sauntering in, crowbar resting on his shoulder. The office worker, now pale from blood loss as it continued to leak out of his leg, looked at his former lackey in betrayal. “I’ve been hotwiring cars since I was eleven.” The youth grinned, thumbing the underside of his nose. “I should be able to get it working again, no problem.”

“Even if you manage to get it working, if we don’t have enough track between us and the curve and still hit it too fast, we’re doomed! The train is traveling upwards of 250 miles an hour right now!” the engineer cried as the boy squatted down and began fiddling with the wires.

“We just need to slow it down enough for me to get in front of it!” Eijirou said, watching the young man play with the wires. His deft fingers carefully entwined them back together, sparks jumping near the pads of his fingers. “If we can slow it down, I can use my Quirk and—”

“Got it!” the young boy cried, and the engineer immediately slammed down on a large blue button on the control panel. Eijirou looked up as a digital screen lit up, displaying a green schematic of the train deploying air resistance panels on its roof. The train immediately jerked back as the wind slammed against the large metal panels, and Eijirou saw the speedometer jump down below two hundred miles per hour.

“It’s working!” the engineer declared in glee. Eijirou planted his foot on the office worker’s back as he began to squirm.

“My Quirk allows me to harden my body. How slow does the train need to be going to make sure I don’t get squashed trying to push it to a stop?”

“I-I’m not sure, but, I would say at least under one hundred and fifty miles an hour, but that’s still incredibly fast—” the engineer muttered uncertainly, scratching his head. Eijirou ignored his apprehension, red eyes glued to the speedometer. As soon as the twitching dial reached the “150” marker, Eijirou whipped around to yank open the control car window.

The wind immediately rushed in, snatching at their clothes and hair. Eijirou stuck out his head, squinting as the fierce gale blasted into his face; through the tears welling up in his stinging eyes, he managed to make out the fast-approaching bend in the tracks as they snaked into the mountain range. Come on, Ei! You can do this! You have to slow the train! He encouraged himself, sucking in a breath and bouncing on his heels to psych himself up. Even with his Quirk, it was still pretty terrifying to be climbing on the front of a speeding bullet train. After a few seconds, he hauled himself up to sit in the window before he could change his mind.

“All right. Easy does it,” he grunted, kicking off his shoes and socks before hardening his fingers and toes into jagged, sharp edges. He reached up to dig his fingers into the metal side of the train; the smooth steel crunched under his grip, allowing him to get purchase on the otherwise sleek vehicle. After ensuring that both his hands wouldn’t slip with a few vigorous tugs, he swung his legs out the window. He yelped as the wind snatched at them, leaving him desperately kicking against the train until he managed to drive his hardened feet into the metal. He took a minute to collect himself, sweat dripping down his face, before slowly inching around to the front of the train.

Soon enough he was splayed out on the curved front of the train, with the wind blasting against him as he wondered how things could have possibly turned out this way. He sucked in a few breaths as the anxiety threatened to take over, using the cool wind to slow the nervous sweat blooming on his skin. It’s all good, Ei, he told himself with a weak smile as he hardened his entire body, the ridges of his skin bulging against his clothes. You just gotta drop down and slow the train. It’s fine. It’s cool. It’ll be one of those super-manly action scenes you see in the movies! You can tell everyone all about it! It’ll make a great story! Now, get… down… there!

Before he could stop himself, he slid down the front of the train. He caught himself at the last minute by slamming his hands into the metal, wincing at the heat bleeding out from the overheated engine. His feet slammed down into the wooden slats of the tracks and into the fresh earth beneath; the wood splintered immediately as Eijirou’s legs plowed through them, leaving bits of wood and scours in the earth in his wake.

A keening groan slipped through his clenched teeth as his entire body jarred, rattling his bones and shaking his brain around in his skull. Still, he held fast, throwing his weight against the train and digging in his feet until bits of earth and wood were flying around his calves. The massive vehicle groaned and whined at the assault, but Eijirou could hear the wheels squealing as they slowed. It’s working! He thought, relief making him almost euphoric— or, perhaps, it was his brain turning to jelly from behind knocked around in his cranium.

Above the squealing train, the buffeting wind, and the snapping wood, Eijirou thought he heard the whirling of helicopter blades. Sure enough, when he glanced out of the corners of his eyes, he saw the ovoid black form in his peripherals, keeping speed with the front of the train. It then reared up, coming over the top of the train, and Eijirou craned his head back as a lithe, blonde figure hopped down onto the roof.

“Hey, kiddo! Need a hand?” Mt. Lady winked at him. Eijirou couldn’t manage a response with how violently his body was shaking, but the pro hero wasn’t seeking one. As she grew to her gargantuan size, she slid off the side of the train to plant her feet down on the earth and wrap her arms around the vehicle. As she slid, she uprooted trees and bushes as her feet dug great trenches into the ground. Eijirou cried out as the train gave a mighty jerk backward, slowing ten or twenty miles per hour already. With Mt. Lady’s help, it didn’t take long for the train to smoothly glide to a stop, just a few yards from the bend in the curve leading into the mountains.

Eijirou slid bonelessly to a heap, trembling as his muscles burned from the strain. After shrinking down to her normal size, Mt. Lady rounded the front of the train to see him lying in a crumpled mess, panting heavily and shining with sweat. “You all right, kid?” she smiled down at him, hands planted on her hips. He gave a half-hearted flop of his hand in answer, making her chuckle. “You did a good job holding your own while we were on our way. The helicopter couldn’t match the speed of the train. If you hadn’t slowed it down for us, who knows what would have happened!” she said as she squatted down beside him.

Eijirou rolled his head to the side as he heard more helicopter blades and crunching tires. The bullet train was now surrounded by an entire fleet of personnel— military vehicles and soldiers, police officers and pro heroes, government officials. Although his entire body felt like a melted pile of goop, Eijirou forced himself to roll over and half-stumble, half walk around the front of the train.

“Hey, hey, wait!” he called hoarsely as they were unloading handcuffed villains from the engineer car. “Not those guys. Those guys are good.”

“What?” the officer asked with a look of bewilderment. Several other higher-ranking officials came to listen while Eijirou explained. Thankfully, there wasn’t too much argument; the Hero Commission representatives agreed to uphold Eijirou’s promise, and led them away uncuffed to hopefully a better future. The blond-haired kid threw him a wink and a thumbs up as he was paraded by.

“Phew! I’m tired,” Eijirou groaned as he flopped against the train. He cracked an eye open as the mastermind of the entire operation was wheeled out on a stretcher, stoically blank-faced. When he caught Eijirou’s eye, however, he grinned widely.

“They’ll remember me still, won’t they?”

Eijirou stared at him a second, then looked down the train, where the rattled passengers were being led to safety by the first responders. They probably would remember, but Eijirou didn’t want to give the sicko the satisfaction.

“Nope,” he quipped, looking back at him with a stony expression. “In time, all bad things are replaced by good things instead. You’ll be nothing but an afterthought.”

The man stared at him incredulously for a minute, mouth hanging open. Then, with a screech, he started bucking up against the leather restraints holding him down to the stretcher. The EMTs wordlessly wheeled him to the ambulance, giving no heed to his deranged ramblings. Sighing, Eijirou slumped back against the train, leaning his head and enjoying the way the metal cooled his sweaty, heated skin. He found himself drifting into a light doze, exhausted from all the chaos of the train ride.

He imagined the embrace of soft sheets, a warm comforter, and a fluffy pillow, making him smile dreamily. There was nothing like crawling into bed after a day like this. But… I’d much rather crawl in bed after a peaceful day, he thought drowsily, peeking at the crowd of civilians who’d had to endure the fruits of his selfish beseech to the heavens. When they crawled into bed tonight, would their sleep be plagued by nightmares? Would they have to hold their loved ones close to feel safe?

Indeed, Eijirou had been remiss in wishing for something exciting, but that was okay. He’d make up for it by being the best hero he could be. He’d put his all into every task at hand—whether it be rescuing a cat from a tree or preventing catastrophic destruction—because, regardless, that meant saving the day for somebody. He would attend to everyone in need, no matter if that need was big or small, because that’s what heroes do.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#eijirou kirishima #kirishima eijirou #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha

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madhyanas · 4 years

Text

the sweetest and most important sound

Part [TBD] of the Hospitality series

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Rating: T/PG-13 (Mainly due to verbal teasing and extremely mild language)

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: None, really. Some non-sexual intimacy, if you’d like to avoid that.

A/N: this is my first fic that’s staying posted, so feedback is welcome. i do have a series in mind with paz and this specific reader. check it out on ao3, too, if you want to see more detailed tags. title comes from a quote by dale carnegie.

big inspirations for this were @no-droids, @vercopaanir and @its-alltheway. also, i’m very new to tumblr, and @jangofctts has been lovely :)

Golden.

That’s what you see, what you feel. Stopped on some backwater, Outer Rim planet, your little travelling party finally has some time to relax. To tread on soft, grassy earth, and breathe in the sweet scent of flowers in the breeze. It’s a welcome change from recycled air and solid, mechanical floors.

The fresh, crisp forest atmosphere. You can taste it on your tongue, feel the chill of it as you inhale. You can detect the fragrance of berries, somewhere far off in the trees, and the earthy, waterlogged scent of silt closer by. A stream, perhaps.

You don’t know the name of the planet; you didn’t bother to ask Mando, excited as you were. You suspect it doesn’t have one; so untouched by war and Imperial rule that it just… remained. Literally, a land that time forgot. Someplace so out of the way that it soothes even Mando’s constant vigilance.

Two suns set over the horizon, and the sky is a dreamy blaze of orange and violet. Insects buzz faintly in the background, and you sigh.

The Hawk IV stands behind you, hatch down, as you rearrange some logs around Mando, who’s preparing firewood. Vosca’s giggles fill the air as she scampers through patches of tall grass. Keeping a close eye on her, you catch flashes of a crimson forehead as she stalks some kind of creature. A frog, you think.

The mild, familiar scent of her is comforting. You rub the white, geometric markings on your cheeks absent-mindedly, and will yourself to relax. She’s close, she’s safe, she’s happy.

It’s a nice thought to have.

“Give me a moment. I’ll be back,” Mando says suddenly, and you blink. The fireplace is lit, you notice, flames crackling. Your sturdy canvas satchel has been moved to sit upon one of the logs, noticeably dusted off. He stands, patiently waiting for you to respond before he goes. Helmet inclined towards you with a respect that manages to warm your cheeks every time.

“Ah, yeah. Of course.” You pause, and joke, “Just don’t run away with the ship, huh?”

There’s a burst of static through the vocoder, and you think it could be a snort, before he steps forward. His gloved hand falls on your shoulder, and you swallow thickly at the closeness. A scant few inches lie between the tip of your nose and his cuirass. “I would never.”

There’s a depth to his low voice that resonates within you. As if he’s taking an oath, kneeling at your altar. It’s… a lot more sincerity than you expect.

“Oh. Well, of course. I think Vosca would throw a fit.” You grin, attempting levity, but he shakes his head firmly. Leaving no room for debate.

“Even then, even if she were with me. I would— I would not leave you. I could not.”

The hand on your shoulder squeezes gently, and his helmet inclines down to your face, like he’s imploring you to understand. Staring up at him, your lips part as his meaning finally reaches you. His broad figure is backlit by the dusky glow around you, casting his silhouette over your smaller frame, and you like to think that behind the helm, those eyes are staring back with just as much wonder.

Your mouth is dry, as if you’ve crossed a desert for years. Only now finding the water to quench your thirst. His hand on your shoulder, as heavy and muscled as you know it to be, does not feel like a weight. It’s pulling you up, rising, and there are no words to describe the lightness in your heart.

He ducks his head then — the movement registers as shy, impossibly — and the palm slides off your shoulder, lingering down your arm, before ultimately leaving you at the hand. The cool kiss of leather on your skin makes your breathing hitch. A modulated sigh, before he repeats softly, “I’ll be back. Faster than you know.” He turns and begins the short walk to the ship.

There’s a bubbling urge to say something. “No need for dramatics,” you call after him, wiggling your toes in your boots. “But best hurry back, Mandalorian.”

He hesitates, a split-second pause that you would have missed, had you known him any less. You almost think you’ve imagined it, because when have you ever known Mando to hesitate? But then he continues without looking back, disappearing into the hull of the ship.

You slump down on a log bonelessly, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden. Your cheeks ache, and you realise you’re smiling.

“Ruusaan, Ruusaan!” A whirlwind of scarlet limbs tumbles in front of you. Startled, you blink at the little Zeltron girl. It’s rare that anyone manages to get the jump on you, but by now you know that Mando and his ward are exceptions to almost every rule in your book.

There are leaves and twigs stuck in the two brown braids running down the back of her head. She grins toothily at you, a smear of dirt on one cheek. Really, it’s more a bearing of teeth than anything else, feral thing that Vosca is. Her eyes are bright, shining with the thrill of a successful hunt, and she thrusts her little arms towards you. “Look what I caught!”

In Vosca’s grimy grasp, there’s a blue, particularly fat creature, rather like a toad. Held at the middle, its six limbs dangle loosely at the sides. Your nostrils flare minutely, but can’t pick up any scents of poisons or toxins, and you relax a fraction. It casts an unimpressed gaze over you once, and attempts a croak, but the child’s clutching grip digs in too deep to allow for the swell of its belly. Those lazy, golden eyes widen in panic, and you balk.

“Hey, bug, let’s just put it down for now, yeah?” Hastily, you extract the toad from Vosca’s hands, and she pouts at you. You still, and cradle your palms around the creature’s stomach, fingers resting gently on the front, in a caress rather than a pincer-grip.

“See here,” you explain, leaning in, as if you’re trading secrets. She ducks her head towards you in curiosity, and there’s a burst of tenderness in your chest. “We’ve got sharp, pointy fingers for animals like these. Gotta be careful. Be soft with it.”

Vosca’s eyes widen and she nods her head vigorously. A few dried leaves fall to the ground. A beat, then she asks shyly, “Can I try, please?”

Always so polite. While you don’t know for sure, you suspect it’s Mando’s influence. In any case, you don’t think you could deny her even if she’d demanded it. “Sure, bug.” Gently, you pass the toad back into her dusty, red palms. With a watchful eye, you see how quickly she takes to correction. Now holding the scared little thing with more care, less force. Precariously tilting it onto her chest, she frees one hand to stroke it tenderly across the back. The corner of your mouth ticks up fondly.

Then, carefully, she kneels down, and releases it. The toad immediately hops away into the tall grass with a vengeful ribbit, and your brows raise. Sensing the question on your face, she turns her face up to yours, doe eyes blinking up at you.

“It wasn’t prey,” Vosca says simply. “S’just for fun. Wouldn’t be fair to hurt it.” She shoots you another toothy smile, filling her whole face with innocent joy.

Huh. Always keeping you on your toes, this one. You return her grin as she sits next to you on the log. “Ah, that’s right, bug. Good girl.”

You lift your arm and she snuggles into your side, her scrawny body fitting into yours neatly. Lovingly, you press a kiss into her hair, eyes falling shut. You keep your head resting on hers, and she heaves a sigh as you idly stroke through the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

This is how Mando finds you, later. Half-asleep, curled around each other. Your eyes open at the fuzzy, tingling feeling on the back of your neck, and lo and behold: he’s watching you as he makes his way towards the makeshift campsite. His gait is familiar to you; the broad saunter of a man confident in his abilities, yet not foolish enough to be cocky. As if he couldn’t fill up a room already, his walk only amplifies his presence.

You blink lethargically, trying to focus. The sky is now a deep indigo, the bare beginnings of twinkling stars appearing across the heavens. It’ll be fully dark, soon.

The Mandalorian comes to stand over you. Once, you would have found his constant presence menacing. But now you smile at him, grateful for his company. It’s sweet, you think, how awkward he is. If you know what to look for. Most don’t have the chance to look beyond the beskar, and the assortment of weapons he lugs around.

He seems… duller, somehow. You shake your head lightly, dusting off the lingering fatigue, and you realise it’s true in the most literal sense. He’s not reflecting light as much as you would expect.

Aside from the helmet, he wears no beskar at all. Dressed in a dark, high-necked, shirt and canvas trousers, Mando seems comfortable. Relaxed. It’s a good look for him, you think.

“Did she fall asleep?” he asks you, nodding at Vosca, nuzzled in your arms. Her head emerges from where she’d buried it in your side, yawning blearily.

“I’m not… M’not sleepy,” she whines, squishing a chubby cheek against you. You and Mando both chuckle.

“Of course not, ad’ika.” You think he’ll hold his arms out to hold her, pick her up, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he just takes a seat next to you. The log creaks under his bulk, even without the added steel.

Vosca grumbles something under her breath, and you snort as she wriggles further into your warmth. She slumps bit by bit, falling asleep once more. You glance down at her, and the love you feel is all-encompassing.

Because you do love her. Your girl, just as much as she is Mando’s. You don’t know if she thinks of you as a mother, and the thought stings a little. An aunt, perhaps?

But without a doubt, you know she’s your child.

You’re startled out of your thoughts as a weight settles over your shoulders, and you look at the man next to you. Mando’s draping a cloak over you, tucking it around your frame and over the little girl in your arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you recognise the sturdy, brass-coloured clasp as his own.

“O-oh. You don’t have to…”

“You’ll get cold.”

He shuffles closer to fasten the clasp. As he raises his gloved hands and leans in, you wet your lips nervously.

His helmet shifts, ever so slightly, to follow the motion.

“But what about you?” you ask quietly, heart hammering in your chest. His long fingers meddle with the clasp at your clavicle; the weight of them on your person seems astronomical, for such a small, small thing. In the shining surface of the helmet, you can see the outline of your face, small and vaguely illuminated in the firelight, framed by those bold white strokes. But when you see them in Mando’s helmet, for once, you don’t think of your father’s matching stripes, of what you inherited from him. You think of how close you two are, in this moment.

He’s so close you can hear him breathe, too faint to be picked up by the modulator. There’s a small puff of air, escaping under the lip of his helm. Raw, unfiltered. You cling to it with all your heart.

“I will be fine, Ruusaan,” he rumbles. He’s leaning over Vosca’s snoozing body between you, arching carefully so he doesn’t disturb her. He’s… really quite close now.

Inhaling as subtly as you can, you catch the scent of him. Lingering on the thick wool, a clean blend of soap, blaster residue and freshly cut grass. Something smoky, too. It’s more soothing than you expect. Involuntarily, your nose twitches in delight, and his helmet tilts a fraction in response. You rush to distract him.

“But— But the armour.” Mando stares. “You’re not wearing any. Isn’t it cold? With— Without it, I mean.”

He dodges the question entirely. “Would you like me to put it on?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, sweetening his low baritone, and he quietens to a murmur as he sticks his head forward condescendingly. “I understand if this is too… scandalous."

You stifle an outraged squawk, and remove an arm from holding Vosca to swat his bicep. Your hand bounces harmlessly off corded muscle and you look away from him, cheeks burning. He just laughs at you, muffled for fear of waking the girl at your side.

You huff, resolutely averting your gaze, but it’s for naught. A large palm comes to cradle the side of your face, and your face feels tiny in its hold. He directs your eyes back to the visor with more care you’d ever expect, had you not known him so well. The smooth leather against your cheek is grounding, an anchor amongst the dizzying, overwhelming ocean of his presence. Surely, he can feel your flaming blush through the glove. In your embarrassment, a peculiar strike of courage grabs you by the throat.

With your free hand, you hold the glove cradling your face. Without taking your eyes off him, you lean into the touch, exhaling gently.

Mando stills. You can’t tell who’s predator or prey, here. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Deliberately, you squeeze your fingers around his own and an unfamiliar, choked noise comes out through the modulator.

You stare at him, and realise there’s hardly any distance between you. It’s nothing obscene, never could be with Vosca dozing in your arms, and yet you feel so giddy. There’s a type of intimacy here that you’ve never experienced before, never imagined before.You’re close enough that your breath fogs on the beskar.

“Mando…” you breathe.

Suddenly, the figure between you stretches awake with a yawn. You jump away from Mando as Vosca awakens with a long, languid yawn. The man beside her, a little subtler, leans back with the fluid, practiced grace of a warrior.

“Are you okay, Ruusaan?” she asks sleepily, oblivious to the moment now broken. She pulls the cloak away from her to face you properly.

“W-what? Of course I am, hun, why…”

“S’just,” she starts, rubbing one eye. “I got woken up. Your heart’s beating really fast.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. You try to backtrack, “How about you go back to sleep, bug? It’s late.” You can feel Mando’s stare on you. Piercing, even through the steel.

Vosca frowns at you, scrunching her nose up endearingly. “But then you and alor’ad will be without me.”

After a moment of floundering, struggling to come up with an answer, Mando beats you to it. Planting a gentle, reassuring hand on her head from behind, he says simply, “We’ll never be without you, adi’ka. You know this.”

She leans her head completely backwards, and her braids dangle in the air. Arching her neck to look at him upside down, the vibrant red of her skin reflects in his helmet. There’s a flash of hesitation as she considers, and you jump at the opportunity.

“Bedtime, bug,” you say, standing. Mando’s nearly your height, you notice, even as he sits. You stuff the thought down. Later. “Got a big day tomorrow.”

Vosca mutters something under her breath moodily — something about how everyday’s the same — but her eyelids are drooping, and you figure you can let it slide. Just this once.

Maker, you’re impatient.

You sigh. Again. You hate to undo Mando’s work, but… “C’mon, hun. Floor’s more comfortable.” You undo the clasp deftly, and some subconscious level, it occurs to you that Mando is dextrous. More so than anyone you’ve ever met, probably. Fastening the clasp would take seconds.

No reason for him to linger as long as he did.

You smile faintly to yourself, and the ever-present heat burning in your cheeks this evening unfurls through your face.

You bundle the girl in Mando’s cloak as she lays down in the shallow grass. Tugging your canvas bag towards you, and place it beneath her head.

Kneeling down next to her, you stroke her hair once, twice. “G’night, alor’ad, g’night, Ruusaan,” Vosca mumbles, eyes falling shut once more.

“Goodnight, bug.” You lean down to peck her forehead tenderly, and she snuggles into her covering.

“Goodnight,” Mando returns kindly. At last, when you’re convinced she’s really out for the count, you steel your courage and look back to him.

From this angle, he’s glowing. Your lips part in wonder as you marvel at the rolling flames reflecting in the helmet. The flickering bronze and gold and scarlet washing over his bulky frame, defining the hard lines of his arms and chest beneath the shirt like something out of a painting. A relic of another time. Beautiful in its detail. Regal, even when most relaxed.

Silently, he holds a gloved hand out to you. You blink at it for a moment, too overwhelmed by this man you know so little about but oh, would you like to learn.

You take his hand, and suddenly he’s pulling you up with him to stand. Stumbling a little, your other palm comes to steady yourself on his chest. The movement feels so natural, so instinctual, and you worry you’re being presumptuous.

But then Mando’s free hand comes to rest on your waist — “Oh.” — and all other thoughts leave your mind.

“She’s asleep,” he notes, and you can feel his deep voice rumbling. Through the shirt, vulnerable and unprotected, his chest lies beneath your fingers. Solid muscle, yes, but there’s the soft give of flesh just like anyone else. It’s… nice. Pleasant, in the way it reminds you how human he is. How he lets himself be, in these fleeting moments of peace.

You hum. “Finally.” The hand on his chest gradually makes its way up his pectoral, tracing the ridge of his clavicle, before coming to rest on his shoulder. Without the pauldron, you can feel just how taut he holds himself. “Relax, Mando,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb back and forth in an attempt to soothe whatever’s running through his mind.

“Could tell you the same,” he replies smoothly, but you feel the strain in his shoulders lessen slightly under your gentle ministrations. The helmet tilts forward to hover next to your ear; it’s somewhat awkward, with how much he needs to bend down to do it, but that’s alright, you think. “Careful, Ruusaan. Does your heart still beat so quickly?”

Your jaw clenches momentarily, if only out of sheer embarrassment, because you know he’s right. “That’s— that’s not— Come on, Mando.”

The man chuckles, and at this meagre distance, you can feel it in your soul. Straightening just a little, he rests the side of his helm against your head. Not leaning, per se, or applying weight. Just touching. Keeping contact. The cool surface of beskar feels chilling against your molten cheeks.

With the hand joined with his, you curl your fingers, embracing the gaps between his. You both linger like that, for a while. Basking in the haze of firelight and safety; frozen in a half-dance, holding each other contently.

Then you realise. In another, strange instance of boldness, you murmur, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed yours either, smooth talker.” The reassuring thud thud thud beneath your fingertips is steady, as always. But you feel it’s more insistent, more urgent than you’d expect.

He doesn’t stutter or fumble like you do, but there’s a bashful sort of groan through the vocoder. It really shouldn’t be endearing as it is. “Ah, well. Seems I’ve been caught.” He plays along in a plaintive, mournful tone, and you stifle a snort. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

You nudge the helmet with your cheek playfully. “Oh? What’s that?”

He breathes a particularly wounded sigh, and you feel rather than hear him sober as he murmurs, “This is what you do to me, Ruusaan.”

Your jaw falls slack. Oh.

Your head is reeling with the implications of it. Him affecting you was one thing, because how could he not? With the way he fills a room and laughs at your stupid jokes and tells Vosca bedtime stories and holds you so carefully it feels like a lover caressing glass, about to shatter any moment—

Kinda how he’s holding you now, actually.

Your hand on his shoulder brings his head up from where it rests to look at you properly, and holds the blue steel in the indent where his cheek would be. You’ve been struggling for words, wondering how to respond to the affections of someone you admire so much. How to do him justice.

“You are so much to me, Mando.”

Timidly, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and once more, his helmet tilts to follow the movement. You feel a kind of longing in that little shift, an age-old yearning borne of dedication to the Creed, from a man who feels everything so strongly.

The knowledge that you two will always be separated by a layer of beskar is always floating over your head. To say that you’ve made your peace with it would be a bold-faced lie, but—

Well, it’s who he is. To disrespect his Creed would be to disrespect him, and that you cannot allow.

But for the first time, you wonder how he feels about it. If that perennial ache in your chest whenever you glance at the helm resides in his, too.

Mando’s hand, previously resting on the slope of your waist, comes to hold your cheek. As if there’s a mirror between you, paralleling your stance to each other like clockwork. Two halves of a whole, reflecting each other.

Gradually, he tilts your face up to his. Leaning in, he touches the forehead of the helmet to yours, and your eyelids flutter shut, lashes barely grazing the metal. This time, the cold metal against your skin feels like a reprieve, freeing you from the burning sensation.

Like a kiss, you think absently. Is that what this is?

You’ve seen him do this before, with Vosca. Never truly knowing what it meant, what it signified to him, you’d left it alone.

You try to ask him, to make sense of the maelstrom of affection and yearning and want. “Mando—”

But his shoulders tense suddenly. “No.”

You blink. “N-no?”

He draws away, then. His hand is still cradling your face, but the helmet retreats, and you panic. What happened? What did you do? What boundary did you overstep to ruin something so torturously good—

He says your name. The name your mother gave you, not the nickname he and your girl call you in their language. “May I give you something?”

You’re confused, to say the least. The emotional range he’s currently choosing to display could give you whiplash. He’s not a very materialistic man, you know, and what could he possibly be giving you now, in this moment?

“I— I don’t think you could give me anything greater than this.”

He deflates. “Oh, ner kar’ta,” he croaks, stroking his thumb over your flushed cheek. Even through the modulator, the foreign syllables drip from his mouth like liquid gold, tongue rolling over the consonants in a way that makes you shiver. “I would be honoured to try.”

Wordlessly, you nod, still not fully comprehending what he means.

He must sense your bemusement. The grip on your side tightens nervously, and you dig your heels in to swallow a squeak. “My name is not ‘Mando’, cyare.”

And the world collapses beneath your feet.

This is new territory, dangerous territory. This is uncharted land, and you feel like you’re trespassing on the tricky, treacherous land of his very being.

You must look ridiculous. Like a fish, mouth bobbing open and shut. He chuckles, a small, subdued thing, and you immediately think it doesn’t suit him. The urge to fix it, to help him, crawls up your spine and settles in your gut.

You bite down the nerves scrambling up your throat to accept what he’s giving you. To reassure this man in your arms, who you have come to care for so deeply, and for yourself. To satiate the niggling curiosity in that corner of your mind left forcefully ignored for so long.

“If you’re sure.” You pause, and add, “Only if you’re sure. This isn’t… an obligation.” It’s somewhere between a question and a statement. You can both hear the moniker you’re avoiding, the cavernous gap opened up by what he’s offering you.

“I know. This is what I wish to give.” And there’s the Mandalorian you know, steadfast and confident, unwavering in the face of adversity. Willing to cross the gap into the unknown with you.

You remain silent, and step closer to press yourself to him. Feeling his pounding heartbeat against yours. Allowing the words to come from him, at his own pace, the warmth of your combined body heat hopefully calming his nerves.

Just as your eyes drift shut, content to wait as long as he needs, you hear it. Quiet, rasped through the helmet.

“Paz. Paz Vizsla.”

You inhale sharply, and look up. Oh, stars. It feels surreal, having a name to the face. Or lack thereof. To think he’d really trust you with such a core part of his being. You’re not sure if this breaks his Creed, or if there are loopholes, but as of now, you don’t care.

It… suits him. Short, robust. Yet somewhat lyrical on the tongue.

“Can I say it?” you ask meekly. The last thing you need right now to is to overstep, not when you’ve come so far.

“Please,” he breathes.

And the floodgates open. A smile breaks over your face, soft and eager, and you swell with affection. “Paz.”

A beat passes, in which everything you love hangs in the balance, and then he laughs. A true, full-bodied, bark of laughter that would ring in your ears long after it stops, but it doesn’t — it spills out of him like water spluttering through the fissure of a dam, bursting forth with all the weight of its years of confinement. He keeps laughing and laughing and then he’s holding you tightly with both arms, swinging you around. With anyone else, the action would’ve scared you. Would’ve been interpreted as a wild, uncontrolled invasion of space.

But with Mando— No. With Paz, you feel like you’re flying. You’re reminded of your days piloting through hyperspace, and the pride of swimming amongst the stars.

You shriek as your feet leave the ground, but it soon dissolves into giggles as he holds you above him.

(The ease with which he can manhandle you, can wrap both of those large, large hands around your comparatively diminutive hips, brings a blush to your face. But that’s a thought for another time.)

Eventually, he places you back on solid ground, and you beam up at him. He’s panting lightly, though you know lifting you was an easy task for someone of his strength. It’s okay. You feel breathless, too.

“Only with me,” he says. “And Vosca.”

You nod gravely. Maker, you’d never use it with anyone, just for the pleasure of knowing he trusts you. “I give you my word.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see the girl in question snoring lightly, still bundled up in Paz’s cloak. Somehow still asleep; you’re immensely grateful.

He returns the nod, and it’s funny how formal it seems compared to the little display you just put on. Paz stares for a moment longer, then huffs. “You sound like a Mandalorian.”

“Is that… good?”

He’s quiet, like he’s trying to find the words. “We may rubbing off on you— I may be rubbing off on you.”

You take a moment to look at him. Beskar gleaming in the moonlight, softly reflecting the fire behind you. He’s bared before you in a way that makes you feel safe. Maybe even loved.

“That might not be too bad.”

And so it goes. You and Paz stand under the stars, flames crackling at your feet, bending towards each other like flowers to the sun.

———

#paz vizsla #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizsla x you #paz vizsla/you #paz vizsla/reader #my writing #the mandalorian #reader-insert #original child character #she's vosca and she's my baby ok damn #could be part of a series? i'll let y'all know #star wars #the heavy infantry #heavy infantry #series: hospitality #sw #EDIT: is now part of a series! check 'series: hospitality' for more :)

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Whether It Works Out Or Not Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Eventual Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: You guys wanna' join me in yeehell? I don't know what's happened to me. I'm from New England. I shouldn't find this cowboy chicanery appealing, and yet here I am with eighty something hours in the game. So! I've only just gotten to Chapter Three and I have avoided spoilers thus far. Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the first three chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @zombiexbody @nelba @gabrielle1776 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore/graphic depictions of violence, historical inaccuracies and general peril. Stay safe!]

Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him.

Six glorious, difficult, yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.

The fateful night she had decided to leave her husband and make her own way in the world had been a long time coming. Every book, every treatise, every pamphlet she could get her hands on, she had devoured. She had no finances to speak of, everything was in her husband's name, so she knew that her struggle would be long and fraught with peril. But she refused to endure the abuse any longer, especially once he made an idle comment about pregnancy and how it would 'bind her to him forever.'

His bone-chilling chuckle afterwards had stiffened her resolve to steel. She left as the moon waned, her mount's saddlebags full of food and the mended clothes she would need for her new life.

In the city of Saint Denis, she sold her hair. Once her mother's pride and joy; when brushed out it reached the young woman's hips. The curls were unruly and dull russet in shade, but her mother had sworn up and down they bore auburn tones if the sun hit just right. Irene wondered briefly what her mother would say about her doing this, going to be shorn like a sheep, but she quickly put the thought out of her head. Her mother had been dead for nearly five years at that point, and her father in the ground for two. He had lived long enough to see her married off to the man he deemed a suitable match, and then the good Doctor Craft had passed on.

The barber, at the very least, was sober and much more kind than she had anticipated. He didn't begrudge her the few tears she did let fall, and he gave her a fair price for her locks.

With that business settled, Irene acquired supplies with her newfound wealth and headed up into the mountains. If her luck held, no one would come looking for such a delicate, fragile lady in the dangerous climes. She would take her chances, regardless.

…

The first few months were...challenging.

There was a massive difference between having the knowledge from books and having the experience that one could only garner out in the field. Bitter cold and hunger were excellent teachers though, and she had always been a quick study. Her mistakes were not often repeated.

Irene learned how to fletch her own arrows, learned how to snare small game and how to track large prey, how to build her shelters in the lee of bluffs to fend off the howling winds that whipped through the mountains. She made her living by hunting deer and other game to sell for their hides and meat in the nearby town of Valentine. No one would look for a woman if all they saw was a man, so she kept bundled up and pitched her voice into a low rasp when she needed to interact with other folks.

Irene had decided, in a fit of petulance, that she would call herself Frank. Franklin had been her father's name, and no doubt if he had been blessed with a son, the child would have been plagued by it as well. Doctor Craft loathed it when folk called him Frank, always correcting them with a belligerent harumph. Saints preserve them if they dared to call him Frankie.

So Frank Craft she became, the soft-spoken hunter who lived alone in the hills.

It was peaceful, but more importantly she was free.

Until the day she stumbled into a trap.

...

Again, she had been living in the mountains for around six months when this particular disaster struck. It had been a long day spent tracking a bull elk, which she had managed to fell just as night blanketed the landscape. Had it still been daylight out, she doubted she would have found herself in such a precarious position.

As it was, she had debated making camp right there, but ultimately decided to lash the hulking beast to her horse and forge her way back to her previous site.

She had been leading her horse through the fresh powder, not wanting to tax the weary animal, and didn't see the bear trap before her boot landed squarely in the middle of it. A mistake that would have cost her the whole leg, had she not been wearing these particular heavy furred boots. The trap also seemed worn, not crushing her foot outright as she had feared but simply gripping her ankle like a vise.

Though admittedly, it mattered very little. She was stuck. Her horse, a skittish, ghostly pale thing by the name of Bluster, immediately panicked at the sound of the trap snapping shut and fled. Irene swore at the damn animal until her voice threatened to give out, calling him every unkind name in the book while she tried to pry the jaws of the trap open to no avail.

She sat down awkwardly in the snow, bracing her free foot and then straining backwards in an attempt to unseat the tree that the trap's chain was secured to. Unfortunately for her, it held just fine. Then, she tried hobbling over to the tree and seeing if she could shim the chain off with a wedge, but that also proved futile.

Irene growled more obscenities under her breath, flopping onto her back and hammering her fists into the snow at her sides. "Shit." She sighed, the reality of her situation dawning slowly. She was trapped in a device that would no doubt cut off the circulation to her foot. There was a high probability of her losing the foot if that occurred. If, of course, she didn't perish from the cold or lack of food first.

Irene pressed her hands to her eyes, sucking in a lungful of the crisp, pine-scented air while she tried to assure herself that she would manage to escape this mess just like all the others. She wouldn't just give up, absolutely not!

As she sat there wracking her brain and trying to see whether she could muscle the trap apart enough for her to at least wiggle her foot out of her boot, she heard the distinct sound of a horse bumbling through the undergrowth. "Bluster!" She shouted, her voice a strange combination of husky and ragged. "You bastard, runnin' off at the first sign of trouble!"

But the horse that greeted her eyes first was not, in fact, Bluster. It was an appaloosa, still shaggy with its winter coat. On its back was a man in a heavy blue jacket, shearling peeking out at the collar. And in his hands were the reins for the sheepish-looking Bluster, who peered around the appaloosa and whinnied guiltily at her.

"Howdy mister." The man shook Bluster's reins. "I reckon this fine specimen is yours?"

Irene had never been more thankful to see a huge, imposing man in all her life. "Yessir, yes he is. I know we've only just met, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to offer me a helping hand?" She gruffed out, indicating her trapped foot with a grimace.

The man's face was in shadow from his hat, the moonlight overhead throwing everything into stark contrast. She caught a brief flash of teeth when he smiled. "Oh sure." He drawled, dismounting and securing Bluster to a nearby tree. His own horse he simply left the reins to trail, no doubt trusting the creature to behave itself. That done, he sauntered over to her, crouched down and with one low grunt, easily forced the jaws of the trap apart. "There. Simple enough. You weren't in there for very long, were you?" He asked, sounding a bit worried while she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her leg. With any luck, she would escape with nothing but some bruising.

"My sincerest thanks." Irene said gratefully, "no, it's hardly been an hour." She cocked her head curiously. "May I know the name of my rescuer, sir?"

"Uh, Arthur." He replied, shaking her proffered hand. "You sound like you've got some learnin' under your belt there, Mister…?"

"Frank Craft, Mister Arthur, and I don't know what fate would have befallen me had you not stumbled across the," Irene paused, raising her voice pointedly at Bluster, "titanic coward that is my loyal steed. I'm in your debt, my friend." She waved a hand at Bluster, indicating his heavy burden. "As you can see, I had a relatively successful hunt before this misfortune befell me. Normally I'd head into town with it at daybreak, but seeing as you've saved my life and all, it's only fair that you should have it."

"Whoa now, I ain't helped you to get your hunt." Arthur protested, tipping his head to the side and permitting the moon's illumination to reach beneath the brim of his hat. Irene was momentarily struck dumb by just how blue his eyes were, nearly missing when he continued, "too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return. If I was caught in a trap and I ain't had nothin' to give you for freein' me aside from gratitude, would you leave me?"

"What? No, that's barbaric." Irene almost forgot to adjust her voice, wincing when it cracked awkwardly.

Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her a hand up. She stumbled, her foot still numb, and the man kept a firm hand on her elbow until she regained her balance. "Now, that noble hogwash bein' said, I do got a lot of mouths to feed. So if the offer still stands, Mister Frank, I'd be mighty grateful."

"Absolutely! As long as you'll put it to use." And really, what was one day's worth of work to her? She could always find another creature to stalk and harvest. Bluster whickered nervously when she approached, the horse's ears flicking back and forth to catch the sound of her voice when she grumbled about his cowardice. "Kneel, Bluster." The horse clumsily obeyed and Irene untied the elk from his back, rolling it off onto the snow.

"Huh, that's a neat trick. I wouldn't have thought of that." Arthur remarked. "Teachin' a horse his dancin' steps and such."

"How else would I have gotten it up onto him?" Irene asked, grinning when Arthur chuckled again. "Of course, seeing as you muscled that trap open like it was nothing, I doubt you've ever had to worry about that sort of problem."

As if to prove her point, Arthur shouldered the elk up from the ground and neatly deposited it onto his own horse. The sturdy beast didn't so much as nicker, obviously used to this treatment. "You're more than welcome back at my camp, Mister Frank." He offered. "I reckon there's enough on this big bastard to warrant you gettin' a bowl of stew in the bargain."

Irene was already shaking her head before he could finish, politely declining his invitation. "I'm afraid I'm not suitable for most company, Mister Arthur. Been out here alone for too long. Maybe once the thaw hits, I'll suss out human companionship again."

Arthur chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then spat off to the side. "Well, I am mighty grateful all the same, Mister Frank. I know the others will appreciate this. Adios until we meet again, then?"

He touched the brim of his hat and Irene returned the gesture with a smile. "Adieu, Mister Arthur."

…

Two months went by before their paths crossed once more.

Irene had located a dense thicket of blackberry bushes down in the lowlands and spent almost two entire days stripping the branches of their fruit. A house was coming together just outside of Valentine, and that meant soon enough there would be a gathering for the last push of assembly. As she daydreamed about the most recent time she had been to a party (a dreary affair for her husband's birthday, full of ah the stately beauty and oh isn't she a catch despite her age), she failed to notice Bluster growing severely agitated about something.

Now granted, the horse's name was Bluster for a reason; he was always in a twist about one thing or another. So Irene paid him very little mind. By the time she noticed the problem, Bluster had snapped his tether line and taken off like a shot.

A bear, it was a bear, oh sweet Lord. Irene froze, a handful of berries halfway to her mouth while the beast scratched at the ground not fifteen feet away from her. It hasn't spotted me, she realized, trying desperately to recall what she had read about black bears. Was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to back away slowly? Wave her arms and yell?

Shit.

The bear grumbled, glancing around and sampling the air suspiciously. It appeared to notice her and reared up on its hind legs, unleashing a deafening roar. She was frozen, her knees shaking as the creature lumbered forward. She couldn't even open her mouth to scream. It rushed her with what seemed to be the devastating speed of a locomotive and she was knocked prone, her hand darting to her side, draw your knife idiot!

Her head flew back from the momentum of the assault and struck the ground hard when she landed, the blow sending sparking wheels of color across her vision and fading everything out for what felt like a lifetime. She had assumed she was dead, but someone shaking her shoulder roughly roused her back to consciousness. Irene groaned in pain, stirring.

"Alright, he lives! Wasn't sure for a little bit there." That voice. She knew that voice. "You comin' 'round, Mister Frank?"

Frank. Frank. Right, that was her. She was Frank. And that voice… "Arthur?" She rasped blearily.

He was on one knee over her, blocking out the sun with his large form. He inclined his head, drawling, "in the flesh, Mister Frank! Looks like you hit your head real hard when you landed. Put your own lights out."

Irene grimaced, moving to sit up. "Shit," she swore, touching the back of her head and feeling her fingers grow sticky with blood. The bear. She looked around frantically, spotting the creature slumped beside her with an arrow clean through its eye socket.

Arthur seemed to notice her distress, placing a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. "Easy now, boah. It's okay. You were lucky today, I s'pose." That hand traveled up the back of her neck, the man indelicately tipping her head forward and then whistling as he examined the wound on the back of it. "Damn, you'll have a hell of a scar. Looks like it's already stopped bleedin', though."

"How did you...where did you even come from?" Irene asked in confusion.

The man nodded in the direction of a large, grassy knoll to the west of their current location, adjusting himself absentmindedly in his pants when he settled back onto his haunches. Irene still had yet to maneuver that particular tic into her 'masculine' repertoire. She struggled enough with the spitting in public, and the last thing she wanted was to be labeled a pervert or a degenerate simply on account of her adjustments being 'less than organic'. "I didn't notice you was down here until the bear did, I'm pretty sure." He remarked. "Think you startled him as much as he startled you. You foragin' for berries?"

"Yes, I...I was thinking about treats and parties and I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention." Irene admitted, her face going a little red. Whether from the frank thoughts of adjusting or the shame of being caught unawares, she was uncertain.

"Blackberry pie, right?" Arthur hummed, obviously sympathizing with her distraction. "Means summer's really here. You bake things like that?" He rummaged in his satchel without waiting for a reply, pulling out a bandanna and two bottles. One bottle she recognized as whiskey, but the other was much smaller and made of a greenish glass. "You're gonna' want this to take the edge off." Arthur informed her calmly, pressing the bottle of whiskey into her hand and then uncorking the small bottle with his teeth.

"Edge?" She asked, wary now.

"Eeyup. Take a swig and I'll get started on this."

This was, apparently, cleaning and dressing the wound on the back of her head. Which, incidentally, the lone slug of whiskey she drank did nothing for. She didn't dare consume any more than that, however. Wine in the drawing room was one thing, but whiskey out in the berry patch was a horse of a different color. Arthur was at least capable, if a little more ruthless than the average physician. She had endured worse.

"You're a real lucky boah, Frank. Ain't deep enough to need stitchin'."

"I do feel immensely lucky today." Irene replied dryly, "a dead bear at my feet, a stomach full of fresh blackberries and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. Tell me, how could my life get any better than this?" She cringed in pain but the sensation quickly dulled in the wake of Arthur's gravelly chuckle.

"Gotta' say, you did a damn fine job of distractin' that bear. Let me get the easiest shot I've ever taken." He remarked conversationally after several minutes of silence.

"Mister Arthur, should I ask what it is that you're daubing all over the back of my head? Or is that a fool's errand?"

"What, this? Some uh…" he paused, flipping the bottle over and squinting at the label. "Ginseng and yarrow. Ol' Hosea swears by it and he's been alive longer n' most."

Irene relaxed slightly. The combination didn't sound too sinister, though she was unfamiliar with herbal medicine that wasn't refined tinctures. This was more of a paste than anything, Arthur constantly stopping to coax a bit more of it down the neck of the bottle. "Well, I'm very grateful, Mister Arthur. You don't have to-"

"I know." Arthur interrupted her. "You ain't beholden to me or anythin', don't fret. Though if you'd like to stick around an' help me butcher up that bear, I wouldn't say no."

"Are you still hunting for a small army?"

Arthur sounded rueful when he replied, "feels like there's more of 'em every damn day. I'll be takin' this kill into town. The women want the essentials, their flour and sugar and such." He grumbled, "dunno' why they need so damn much flour."

"Well, how else will they make pies?" Irene pointed out.

"Huh. S'pose you're right." Arthur said after a moment, seeming surprised. "Guess I never grew out the phase of thinkin' pies an' cakes just show up fresh on windowsills."

Cleanly skinning and butchering the good-sized bear was a long and arduous process, even with two sets of hands working on the task. Bluster had reemerged from the woods after a time and now grazed peacefully alongside Arthur's mare, that appaloosa from before who had since shed her winter coat.

Arthur finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat off his forehead and accidentally leaving a rusty red trail of blood in its wake. "Welp, I dunno' about you, Mister Frank. But I could certainly do with a wash-up and a meal." He had taken his hat off while they worked, his tawny, sun-streaked hair curling around his ears and sticking out at odd angles from the sweat. "Join me for supper, won't you?" He requested, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stream that flowed in a gully past the knoll. "Ain't nobody can chide me about takin' the best bits of the critter if nobody knows." He continued with a smirk. "Can I trust you not to rat me out, Frank?"

Irene hesitated. She was hungry and tired from the long day. Arthur didn't seem all that dangerous. Or rather, he obviously was, but in a way that was honest and blunt. "Absolutely." She replied firmly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mister Arthur."

"Now, I am gonna' ask for a handful or two of them berries you got." Arthur carried on as he got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. "As rec...recompense and such."

Irene sighed dramatically. "Ah, I should have known no good deed goes unpunished. And here I thought that offering myself up as unwitting bait was more than enough to justify a mouthful or two of meat."

Arthur's laugh was raucous, the large man clapping her on the back hard enough to make her stumble. "You're a good man, Frank."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Arthur." She retorted with a grin, confused by the way his face darkened.

"'Fraid I'd never be able to claim that title, Frank." Arthur said quietly, the mirth gone from his expression. "Beardless youth like yourself ain't oughta' cast me in any sort of decent light. I ain't a good person."

"Hey, what was it you said when you freed me up from that trap? 'Too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return', right?" Irene reminded him, trying to mimic his deep, honeyed drawl. She must have done a poor job, because Arthur cracked a reluctant smile. "You've helped me twice, now! Surely that warrants a smattering of decent light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw hell, Frank, I just don't want you developin' any lofty notions about my character is all! Don't want you gettin' your hopes dashed." Arthur protested. "I ain't no saint or role model or anythin' like that."

"Don't worry about my preconceptions, Mister Arthur. I don't view you as a role model at all." Irene wanted to laugh at how crestfallen he looked, despite his big talk. She splashed water on her hands, scrubbing at the blood on them with some of the sand from the riverbed. "I view you as a friend. A friend with flaws and drawbacks just like myself. Just like all human beings have." She elaborated, startled when Arthur crouched beside her on the riverbank and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you." The man said sincerely, his blue eyes warm and bright. "That means a whole lot to me, Mister Frank. I'd like to count you as a friend myself, if I could."

Irene forgot her tongue for a moment, ensnared by the blatantly hopeful look he was giving her. He must have any woman within fifty miles of here falling head over heels for him! "You'll have a remarkably difficult time trying to get rid of me, Mister Arthur. I'm very persistent." She finally managed to respond. "Like a mangy mutt once you feed it some table scraps."

"I reckon it's settled then." Arthur's smile had returned, and Irene found herself oddly pleased that she had been the one to bring it back.

...

They camped there under the stars that night.

Arthur planned to head into town the following day, where he would sell off the bear and then assist in the last few steps of the house building. But for now, he occupied himself with creating a roast fit for a king. Irene watched curiously as he studded the whole cut with herbs, finally daring to ask him a few questions about cooking. He obliged her with answers graciously and freely. Despite his opinionated stance on baking, he obviously had no such reservations when it came to cooking.

"I'm always afraid my ignorance of plants will get me into serious trouble. Lord only knows how many poisonous things I could consume if left to my own devices." Irene admitted, certain that he must think her foolish.

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal. He tossed her the notebook, chuckling lowly when she nearly fumbled it. "I sketch a fair amount, look at the last pages. Check the margins for whether it's edible or not."

When she tugged loose the strap that held the journal closed and obediently cracked it open to the last few pages, Irene was flabbergasted. Sprawled across the pages were both detailed drawings and fleeting sketches of various plants and animals. "Arthur," she said, her voice breaking as she nearly forgot to pitch it lower. The older man glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "These are incredible."

"What is?" Arthur asked in confusion. It abruptly seemed to dawn on him and he grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Oh, my l'il drawin's? They're just somethin' to pass the time, mostly. Done 'em ever since I was a kid."

"They're amazing!" Irene praised, making sure her hands were clean and free of grease before she even dared to hover her fingertips over the sketched snout of a border collie. "You actually capture the motion of the creature, which is a rare talent. I've seen a lot of art in my day, Mister Arthur, but few pieces have the same amount of life in them that your work displays."

"Aw shucks Frank, you're layin' it on pretty thick ain't ya'?" Arthur protested, and his face might not have been pink from just the heat of the fire. "It's nothin' special."

"Oh it absolutely is. These are...I mean all the plants are so detailed. Easily identifiable. Can you draw people and structures as well?"

Arthur took the journal back and carefully flipped through it to a few different pages, showing her that his skill extended to more than just plants and animals. An oil derrick sketched proud and tall against the blank-page sky, a blind man who he had come across in his travels, a two-page spread of a small camp titled Horseshoe Overlook... "Like I said, though, ain't nothin' special." He finished firmly, tucking the sketchbook back into his satchel.

"You ought to make a book!" Irene suggested. "For those of us ingrates that wouldn't know oregano from our elbow."

"Me? A book?" Arthur scoffed at the idea. "Last thing I want is more attention."

"Well...you could do it under a pseudonym!"

"A what? Listen here, Frank, I ain't no good Christian man, but I ain't about to pseudo...seedo...look, I ain't doin' nothin' to nobody's nims, alright?" Arthur sounded absolutely scandalised.

"Arthur, a pseudonym is just a fake name." Irene explained.

"Oh. Oh. Shit. Well I knew that." Arthur blustered at her, huffing out a breath. "Just...makin' sure you knew, is all!"

"Of course." Irene got to her feet, dusting herself off. "So. He can cook, he can draw, he can hunt…" she trailed off, doing her best to keep her tone light as Arthur continued to mumble in a flustered manner and fidget with the brim of his hat. "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Arthur?"

His laugh in reply was devoid of humor, a bitter noise. "Sure. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. More accurately though, can't seem to avoid gettin' dragged into trouble."

Irene squatted beside him next to the fire, debating giving his shoulder a rough shove of comradery. But the concern of accidentally knocking him over into the embers was enough to make her gentle her touch to a light pat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Arthur." She said quietly.

"Ah, don't pay me no mind, Frank. I'm just bellyachin'." Arthur placed his hand over hers absently, like it was an instinctive response. "You're a good kid. Don't get yourself tangled up in someone else's woes like I have, you understand me?" He admonished her sternly.

"I'm hardly a child, Mister Arthur." Irene protested. "I am nearly twenty-seven."

"What, without a lick of facial hair and your voice still shatterin'?" He teased, grazing her bare jaw with a large hand. "Naw, you ain't. But it's okay, your secret's safe with me."

"Arthur." Irene grabbed his hand, staring him down. She wasn't sure why this of all things was what she was caught up on. Maybe it was the notion that he believed she, or rather, Frank, was some fool stripling that had just been lucky so far. "I'm not a child."

Arthur stared at her, and for a split-second Irene was certain she had sold herself out. But then the older man abruptly guffawed, clapping her on the back. "No, I s'pose you ain't. You got old steel in them eyes of yours, Frank. Seen too much for your time on this earth, I imagine."

...

The final day had come at long last.

Irene hurried to help finish the last few clapboards for the outside of the house, nearly crushing her thumb with the hammer in her haste.

Various men and women from Valentine proper had already started to gather in the yard. Tables were being shuffled together, delicious smells coming from the freshly-christened firepit. Spirits were high and laughter was loud in the sunshine of midday, and Irene couldn't help her smile as she looked around.

It was truly a marvelous thing to be a part of a community that willingly accepted anyone who would help, regardless of their past transgressions. She felt utterly at peace here, even in the midst of such organized chaos.

A heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she felt a hand nearly shove the hat clean off her head. "There he is!" Arthur announced gladly, making her laugh. "It's finally time for the fun! You gonna' be stickin' around this evenin'?"

"Maybe." Irene allowed, letting him haul her into his side with his grip on her shoulders. Arthur didn't seem to actually know just how strong he was, which strangely enough made her feel safer around him. "And you, Arthur?"

"I wouldn't miss it!" The man replied, his voice bright with excitement. "Been too long since there was a reason to celebrate. Was a hard winter. Folks need this shit."

"Absolutely." Irene ducked out from beneath his arm and straightened her hat. "I'll see you later, Arthur. Gotta' go get washed up!"

Valentine was barely a five minute walk down the road, but impatience ate away at her and she broke into a jog. She'd hatched a plan for tonight. A foolhardy, stupid plan. She still had no clear idea why she was doing this, even as she sauntered up the steps to the Valentine hotel.

Irene slapped her money down on the counter, paying up front for a bath and a room for the night. Her spurs rattled loudly while she made her way up the stairs, nerves building in her throat like frantic bird wings beating away just beneath the skin.

It had been a short eternity since she had even seen herself in a looking glass, much less worn a dress.

The dress itself was nothing like the elaborate ones she had worn during her marriage. It was a plain fawn-brown color, lacking in lace trim or cumbersome whale bone buttons. A dress for this new life she had made, one that she could don and doff unaided.

Once she had scrubbed herself pink with the provided tub of hot bathwater and lye soap that threatened to be iris-scented, of all things, Irene stepped into the dress and slowly buttoned the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front. Thankfully, the cut was modest enough that she wouldn't need a fichu to cover up with.

She had been avoiding looking at herself in the mirror until she absolutely had to, and when she finally did gather her courage she was shocked by what met her gaze. She looked older, of course, a bit more weathered, but she looked alive. She had haunted her husband's house like a ghost, gaunt and battered and seen not heard. Now though, her eyes were clear and her cheeks were pink even without pinching, a byproduct of the fresh outdoor air. Her shoulders were freckled liberally as well, though the dress hid them well enough with its high neckline and long sleeves. Her mother had always tried to dull her freckles out with those blasted rose tea treatments and lemon, but the spots had stubbornly persisted.

Her hair though…

She grimaced, raking her fingers through the sun-lightened corkscrews that bounced and sprang back around her ears. It seemed that, as usual, her hair would be hopelessly unmanageable. Mercifully, since she always wore a hat, at least her hair wouldn't be the thing to give her away. Wonder of all wonders, it did appear that there was some auburn mixed in with the brown.

Irene emerged from her room, locking the door securely behind her and tucking the key into her pocket. She paused to straighten out her skirts, smiling a little dumbly downwards at the pleats while she swished back and forth in a brief moment of indulgence. However, no sooner had she stopped to do so than a large body in a hurry nearly toppled her over. She heard a startled grunt as the person managed to catch her, and then a familiar voice apologized, "sorry ma'am! 'Fraid I'm like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

Arthur, it was Arthur. Oh Lord. Irene stared at his boots in an effort to buy herself time to collect her thoughts, noticing dimly that he too had bathed and clearly attempted to tidy himself up. Did she come clean right now? Confess that she wasn't Frank at all, but Irene? Lord, this whole plan was stupid! What had she been thinking?! "Oh no sir, I should be the one apologizing. I was so excited for the festivities I appear to have forgotten my sensibilities." Her voice was soft and she looked up at him through her lashes, wondering whether he would even recognize her without a layer of grime on her face. "Forgive my inattention, won't you?"

Arthur, for some reason, swallowed hard. "Well, ain't you just as pleasant as punch! You must be from outta' town. My name's Arthur, ma'am, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He gave her a little half-bow and Irene barely contained her relief at his blatant unfamiliarity with her. Obviously she needn't have worried.

"My name is Irene, Mister Arthur, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine." She replied, automatically accepting the hand he offered. "Are you looking forward to the party as well?"

"Oh sure, Miss Irene." That drawl lingered sinfully on the syllables of her Christian name and Irene felt herself blush. "It's a rough life out here, only makes sense for folks to take what joy they can find where they can find it." Arthur glanced down at her, his smile a bit melancholy. "House raisin's hard work, but it's less tedious if we all know there's somethin' lighthearted waitin' at the end. Good food, good company…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Of that, I'm certain!" Irene dared to continue holding his arm once they reached the street, and Arthur made no move to dislodge her. "Do you think there will be dancing, Mister Arthur?"

He chuckled at her obvious excitement. "I s'pose there might be. I'm not much one for dancin', though."

"Well," Irene said boldly, "I would be just delighted if I could steal a dance with you at some point this evening."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up to his golden-brown hairline. "You sure you got the right feller, ma'am?"

"Of course! Please Arthur, won't you save me a dance?" She implored sweetly.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, which one of 'em put you up to this? It was Karen, weren't it. Woman won't stop interferin' in my personal affairs." He growled, "I ain't lookin' for pity, Miss Irene."

"What?" Irene asked in confusion. "No, I haven't been put up to anything. I...I simply wanted a dance. Have I offended you, Mister Arthur?" This could be an irreparable blunder! Her plan might be in shambles.

"Aw hell, now I feel like a fool." Arthur rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pardon my suspicion, Miss Irene. I'm used to bein' passed over is all." He mumbled.

"What?" Irene gasped theatrically, loving the way his laughter rumbled in his chest. "A fine man such as yourself, passed over? That's deplorable, Mister Arthur!"

"Shucks ma'am, I'm passable decent, but I don't know if I'd ever call myself fine." Arthur smiled, his face a bright, endearing pink. Oh, complimenting him elicited the sweetest results! Irene was enraptured.

"Would you accompany me along the path to the festivities, Mister Arthur? I'm afraid I have no chaperone this evening." She implored. It was so strange, sliding easily back into being able to make polite conversation or clinging to an arm with rapt attention while a man spoke. She supposed all those etiquette lessons had done her some good. At least with Arthur she didn't have to feign her attention.

He nodded, swallowing hard again. "Sure, I can do that, Miss Irene."

"Oh!" Irene said suddenly like a thought had just occurred to her, the young woman making a move to pull away. "I apologize, Mister Arthur. It is so presumptive of me to monopolize your time. Did I interrupt you on your way to the Mrs. Arthur? Or perhaps a tryst with your beloved? I'm afraid I've always been rather self-absorbed, do forgive me."

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. "Ma'am, there's no need for all that." He said, patting her arm in a way that he probably believed was soothing. Irene barely refrained from laughing at the knowledge that he calmed people like he calmed his horse. "All I'm headin' for tonight is some merriment with the local folk." He paused, still patting her hand absently. "Y'know, I think you'd get on real well with a friend of mine by the name of Frank." Arthur remarked, appearing oblivious to the way she froze. "He's got some real hellfirin' opinions and a noble heart. Nothin' like me at all, a genuine, sweet boah. Outspoken, but kinda' shy 'round lots of folks. If we stumble across him, I'll introduce you."

"Oh I very much doubt that we'll see him tonight." Irene muttered under her breath to herself, a little puffed up by the praise Arthur had inadvertently lavished upon her.

…

There was indeed food and drink, and Irene found herself in the midst of conversation more often than not. It was incredibly amusing to know that all she needed to do was wash the dirt off her face and don a dress to make 'Frank' disappear into the ether. But again, that had been the whole point.

The musicians were tuning up when she noticed something odd. There was an unmanned violin (or fiddle, perhaps), sitting forlorn and silent on the front steps. Irene straightened out her dress and made her way carefully over to the stairs. "Pardon me, sirs," she called cheerfully. "but where is your violinist?"

"Ah, I'm sorry ma'am, but ol' Jefferson died durin' the winter." The guitarist informed her, looking a touch morose. "Figured we'd bring out his Hyde so it could at least listen to all the hubbub. Be a shame to leave it to gather dust."

"My deepest condolences." Irene murmured, going to turn away and then biting her lip as she paused. "Sirs, I...perhaps I could be of assistance? I have...some prior experience with violin." Nobody needed to know about the years spent learning, and the few bright moments in her marriage being her improvising quick, jaunty tunes alone in the drawing room. Leaving the instrument behind had been like leaving a piece of her heart, but it was so delicate and fragile…

"Well if you think you can keep up, you're more n' welcome to rosin the bow ma'am." The man smiled, gesturing at the fiddle. "It would do it some good to be played again, I'll wager."

Irene was scooping up the instrument almost before he had finished speaking, immensely pleased to find out that it was relatively in tune. The man that she assumed would be the step caller graciously handed her a handkerchief to pad her cheek when she tucked the violin into place, and Irene spent several minutes hurriedly tightening and rosining up the bow.

The first draw emitted a note that was clear, if a bit flat. Irene grinned sheepishly, fidgeting with the tuning pegs and then trying again. Ah, there it was. The instrument had a beautifully rich voice, no doubt facilitated by the stockier body it bore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, finish up your food! It's time for the real fun to begin!" The caller announced over the buzz of the populace. Tables began to move out of the way, clearing the front yard.

"I see you're the fiddler this evenin'?" Irene started at the sound of Arthur's voice. She had lost track of him shortly after arriving to the party, the man apologizing to her even while he was getting dragged off by a dark-haired woman in a beautiful green dress. Now, he reclined against the railing, his eyes troubled but smile firmly in place.

"Hopefully, if the good Lord is merciful. It has been quite a while." Irene admitted. "I'd still very much like that dance, Arthur, if your other beaus don't keep you occupied." She jibed. Perhaps it was a bit bold for a woman to comment on an older man's pursuits, but she did feel that she could get away with a touch of good-natured ribbing.

"Welp," Arthur drawled, doffing his hat. "I s'pose we'll just have to see how the night goes, Miss Irene. I wouldn't call 'em beaus though. Just folks that want somethin' from me."

Irene tilted her head to the side, but Arthur managed to avoid her gaze. Following his line of sight, she noticed he appeared to be watching the dark-haired woman from earlier. "Who is your friend? I must know her seamstress, Mister Arthur, because that dress is lovely."

"Mary." Arthur muttered, the name sounding like it was dragged out of him. "Uh, that is, the widow Linton."

"Oh no, the poor thing." Irene said sadly, meaning every word. There had been a time in her life where she had been utterly devoted to her fiance, believing that she had truly loved him. She could not begrudge anyone their own happiness, as wary as she had been made from her past experience. As the saying went, 'see how the bear behaves in its den before you decide to live with it.'

"Eeyup, real shame. Pneumonia got him." Arthur informed her curtly.

Irene was sure her sympathy was evident on her face, because Arthur's sharp blue eyes had softened slightly when he looked back at her. Pneumonia was so sinister in its onset, the way it settled into the chest and by the time most patients realized it wasn't a cold, they were too far gone to help. "You should ask her to dance! Get her mind off of things." She suggested.

Arthur chuffed out a breath in a manner that was so similar to his horse Irene had to chew her lower lip to stave off her laughter. "Nope." He said firmly. "Mary shall not dance with me, Miss Irene. Not if I have anythin' to say about it. I doubt I'll dance much at all, honestly."

…

Arthur appeared to be sticking to his word throughout the night. He was indeed not much for dancing, but as he drank he got progressively more mobile. It was like his body loosened up, he smiled more, laughed louder…

He seemed absolutely thrilled when she found him later that evening, saying plainly, "There she is! I figured you forgot about me!"

Irene shook her head, smiling up at him. She had politely declined her way across nearly the entire yard in order to reach him. "I don't think I ever could, Mister Arthur. May I ask for a dance?"

"Obliged to oblige, ma'am." Arthur extended a hand, drawing her in almost indecently close. "That was some fine music you played earlier." He drawled after a moment.

Irene simply let herself be swayed back and forth, one hand on his shoulder and the other still entwined with his own. "Thank you." She replied softly. "It has been a while since I was able to indulge myself."

"Fiddlin' ain't a vice, ma'am." Arthur protested.

Irene chuckled. "Some might disagree, Mister Arthur."

"Well, they're wrong. How the hell could music be bad for someone?" He removed his hand from her hip to wave over at the group of men who were still currently playing away. "Music's good for the soul. Makes everythin' lighter. What miserable fools have you had to deal with?" Arthur grumbled.

Irene rolled her eyes comically. "Lord, you don't know the half of it!"

Arthur pressed her even tighter to his body, his breath hot over her ear when he murmured, "well Irene, they're dead wrong."

"Mister Arthur…" Irene went bright red at his proximity, at the heat that flooded her. What a strange sensation! Even back when she had been newly betrothed, before she had known her then-fiancé's cruelty, she had never experienced such a fierce reaction from a simple close whisper. Was it only to be chalked up to the newness of the experience? Or was it because it was Arthur doing it?

"Irene, I hope I ain't bein' too forward when I...would you like to…" Arthur trailed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, I ain't got anythin' to offer you aside from a good time," he continued to hem and haw. "You seem like a genuine lady and I...someone like me ain't never really been allowed to touch that sort of person. I sleep under the stars and drink too much for anyone's good, never mind my own." His eyes met her own and a slow, almost forlorn smile played across his mouth.

Despite the ribald impropriety of his words he looked so utterly tender, his hat slightly tilted and his eyes drowsily gentle. Irene found herself nodding before he even managed to actually ask her. "I have a room for the night, Mister Arthur. I am…" she hesitated. "Not...very experienced, but not inexperienced."

"Thank God." Arthur replied, surprising her. "You wouldn't want someone like me for somethin' like your first time."

"Oh?" Clearly, they had careened past the point of polite or appropriate conversation. But now, she was curious. "Why is that, Mister Arthur?"

He coughed, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "I'm just...I'm not...fit for that sorta' thing. Not worth it. Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman an' I ain't that." He stated.

"Arthur…" Irene took his hands and tugged on them, leading him out of the yard and towards the roadside. "You're more of a gentleman than most, I can promise you that." She insisted.

"Miss Irene, wait!" The sound of her name being yelled made her pause, and Irene found herself abruptly confronted with the step caller as he thrust the fiddle's sturdy case at her. "Me and the boys, we got to talkin'. We figure you ought to keep the old Hyde, as a thank you of sorts." He said, sweeping his hat off his head. "Besides, if you leave it here it'll never be played. And there's nothin' worse than an unplayed fiddle. Believe me, I would know!"

"I…" Irene wanted to burst into tears. This was so unexpected and kind. The case settled into her arms, like an old friend already. "B-But I have no way to-"

"Not for money ma'am. Simply for liftin' folks' spirits tonight. You take that Hyde and you spread that gift of yours around."

"Thank you." Irene said sincerely, "I...you have no idea how much this means to me, sir."

"Mighty kind of you fellers." Arthur added, his grin a little sheepish when the caller turned his attention on him to express his thanks for Arthur's help in acquiring the remaining lumber for the house. He tried to wave off the praise to no avail, looking increasingly awkward the longer he was subjected to the step caller's enthusiasm.

The woman from earlier (Irene wracked her brain for a moment before remembering Mary, Mary) approached on Arthur's opposite side while he was preoccupied with the step caller. However, she didn't miss the way Arthur's posture went tight as he noticed Mary standing there expectantly. Arthur suddenly seized Irene's hand, muttered a curt, "obliged," to the step caller and set off at a brisk pace down the road.

"Don't forget that you promised, Arthur Morgan!" The widow Linton called after him, her voice sharp. Arthur just waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Irene struggled to keep up even after Arthur scooped the case out of her arms, the man's longer legs easily outstripping her own. "Arthur, can you slow down?" She implored, a little fearful now. He looked like he was stewing, his shoulders squared against some invisible adversary.

Arthur obliged her in silence. He maintained that silence until they reached the outskirts of town, where he clarified, "you had a room, right?"

"Yes, I...yes. For the night." Irene answered softly. Arthur just nodded in reply. "Arthur, you don't-"

"I ain't gonna' hurt you." He cut her off. "You have my word, Miss Irene. Ain't got nothin' to fear from me."

Irene was still more than a touch anxious as they ascended the stairs, and she almost dropped the key, fumbling to get it into the lock. Arthur hummed low in his throat, that comforting horse pat landing on her arm again and soothing her enough that she managed to get the door open.

Arthur carefully set the case against the wall, and then he was on her. He kissed hungrily, his whole body pressed to hers before the door was even fully shut behind them. His tongue plunged into her mouth without so much as a warning or a by your leave. Irene had only read about this kind of kissing and experiencing it firsthand was composure-shattering. She found herself weak at the knees, grateful for the weight of Arthur's large form to anchor herself as he boldly coaxed her tongue to reply.

Irene shyly licked into his mouth, making a soft noise that had Arthur shuddering and offering his own groan in response. He pulled away, slow, like he was being dragged, and struggled to bring her with him.

The man sat down hard on the bed, urging her close in between his spread legs. Then, Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the back of her dress and rested his forehead on the spot directly beneath her breasts.

Irene froze, confused until she felt his shoulders tremble.

He was crying, like his heart was fit to break. Deep, shuddering sobs that came from somewhere by the floorboards and ravaged his entire body on the way up. Hesitantly, Irene carded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. She could feel the tears seeping into the fabric of her dress, slowly dampening the material.

"It's just never enough." Arthur finally said thickly. He stayed where he was, wearily slurring into her abdomen, "I give an' I give an' I do an' it's just...never enough to make folks happy."

"Arthur..." Irene whispered. She felt silly for not noticing sooner than something was very wrong, guilt rushing her as she realized that she had been so caught up in him giving her attention that she must have missed the signs.

"It's never enough that I'm just there, still alive, still willin', even though I'm a damn fool. Never enough." He mumbled, "God, I'm a fool."

"No you're not." Irene said firmly. Arthur looked up at her. "You're brave, you're loyal and you're kind, Arthur. It's not your fault that the people around you seem to have taken those traits for granted."

"We was plannin' to be married, y'know. Me an'...me an' Mary." He confessed abruptly, not that he needed to. "Or maybe it was just me plannin'. She...I just don't know."

"What happened? Did she call it off?"

"Her daddy, he didn't approve of me. I didn't have...enough," Arthur explained, his words stilted as he recounted probably more than he meant to. "I was orphaned pretty early on and I...well shit, I hung around with folks bad and good an' to Mr. Gillis, that was worth a condemnation. Forbade it. Said I was filthy, that I'd c'rupt...corrupt her. Ruin her. Break her with these turrible hands of mine." The hands in question gripped Irene's dress even tighter and he fought back a sob. "So I...I had to let her go. Watched her fall in love with some rich feller and it made me wonder, made me scared that she ain't never loved me at all. And then tonight..." He shook his head.

"What about tonight, Arthur?" Irene prompted him gently.

"She come to me askin' for a damn favor. After everythin' that's happened, she still had the damn gall to ask me for shit. Her little brother's gone off to shack up with some cult ." Arthur cleared his throat. "So I'm too rough to marry, but I'm sure as hell good enough to ask to rescue her precious baby brother. She said she thinks of me often and I just...dammit, it ain't right for her to tell me that!" He erupted, hiccupping out yet another sob. "It ain't right, I finally thought I was--I mean I was doin' okay, I was better, an' now…"

"It feels like you just hit a patch of shale and slid your way back down into the bottom of the gorge you were crawling out of."

Arthur sniffled. "Well, yeah. Kinda'. H-How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only person in the world to have troubles with people you were trying to recover from?" Irene's laugh was soft and sad. "My situation is a bit different, but no less weighty for it, Mister Arthur."

Arthur huffed out a breath, rubbing his forehead back and forth on her stomach. "I just hate myself. Can't hate her, all I can do is hate m'self." He sighed.

"Don't." Irene admonished him, trawling her fingers through his thick hair and dragging his head back with the motion. Arthur groaned again, this time lower, his eyes half-lidding as he appeared to enjoy being ministered to. "Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people, so many people who will love you for it. Hell, there's probably some that already do."

Blue eyes blinked open sluggishly, still glassy with tears as he looked up at her. Liquor-honest words tumbled from his lips, "why the hell are you bein' so nice to me? Led you up here for a reason an' now I'm all a mess about another woman." He shook his head, not waiting for a response before continuing, "I just wanna' sleep. Forget about all of this. I...lay down with me? I need...I need...somethin' to hang onto." He mumbled, tugging at the back of her skirt. "Clothes on is fine. Just need to hold you. Few minutes, even." He pleaded.

Irene bit her lip uncertainly. Laying down fully-clothed? It seemed a bit strange. But she didn't have on a corset, so at least she wouldn't be uncomfortable… "Alright." She agreed softly after a moment, reaching down to unlace her boots. Hopefully Arthur was too inebriated to notice that 'her' boots were also Frank's boots. He seemed more than a few sheets to the wind, if his weeping was anything to judge by.

Arthur clumsily kicked off his own boots and laid on his side, catching her arm to guide her down with her back to his chest. It was somewhat awkward at first; Irene had never actually been held in such a manner and the bed was incredibly small. She knew she was probably too stiff, and slowly urged her shoulders to loosen a bit. Arthur draped his arm over her hips, not even holding her so much as he was simply laying his hand on her stomach.

"Thank you." He mumbled into the back of her neck, still sniffling a little.

Irene tentatively placed her hand over his own, lacing her fingers through his. "Shh, sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, Arthur." She whispered. Then, so quiet she wasn't sure he would even hear her, "thank you, Arthur. For everything."

Part Two: Friends

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gerrystamour · 4 years

Text

the bittersweet between my teeth, Chapter 6

Written by: GerryStAmour | Gift for: @northisnotup

Some Important Notes:

I choose to believe that anything is possible in the future and that includes ridiculously quick turnaround times after near-death and also Getting Sexy New Teef bc I personally find it really hot.

The smut is only available on AO3! Link is in my pinned post! There is nothing in the smutty parts that is plot heavy, so you aren’t “missing” anything that isn’t covered in the PG-13 parts.

Nureyev is a gender euphoric trans man, as in he does not experience any dysphoria, and has not hat top-surgery, and he does not wear a binder. I use a mix of typically masculine and feminine terminology for his anatomy, particularly his genitalia, as I do for my own body as a transmasc individual.

Nureyev is never depicted with dysphoria in my fics, or having discomfort with his body because describing such a thing with a character I deeply identify with will trigger discomfort in my own body, etc.

Chapter Six [Previous Chapter][First Chapter]

- - - - - Nureyev’s POV - - - - -

Nureyev woke up slowly, his entire body feeling heavy and fatigued with a dull pain in his back and across his stomach, along with lesser pains all over his body. He swallowed and grimaced at the sensation of bandages across his throat.

The memories of the heist were slow to return to him. He could remember the sewers before entering, remembered getting to the vault and collecting the weapons. Then Nureyev remembered the Piranha, Juno coming to rescue him and the slice of pain as the knife plunged between his ribs. He remembered only flashes of their desperate escape, mostly just perfect, stupid, noble Juno refusing to leave him behind, even after discovering the wound.

Straining a bit, he could remember the sewers, laying on the ground while Juno was on his comms, panicked and pleading. The memory of Juno’s outrage at the thought of Nureyev—a thief, a murderer, a nameless criminal, a wanted terrorist—dying in a gutter like he deserved, his conviction that he wouldn’t…

“I love you, Nureyev.”

Jolting at the memory, Nureyev found himself properly awake and looking around for his beautiful detective.

Dread settled in his gut as Nureyev noticed multiple things at once. First, Juno was not anywhere to be seen. Second, he was in a hospital room, which did not bode well. Third, he had no glasses, which made it difficult to get an accurate impression on his situation.

The room he was in appeared to be either rundown or unfinished. The bed he was on felt new, however, so he was inclined to assume the latter. Swallowing thickly, he realized just how dry his throat was and looked around again.

He startled when he realized that someone had actually been sitting beside him, and Nureyev wondered how strong of painkillers he was on were. At first, with how groggy he felt and how fuzzy his vision was, he thought it was Juno, but quickly realized it was Benten.

Benten was reading a book but looked up as Nureyev moved around. He snorted a bit before standing to hand Nureyev a pair of glasses.

“Juno grabbed those for you from your hotel room,” he explained as Nureyev put the glasses on, adding, “He paid for a reservation extension, by the way.”

Nureyev attempted to thank Benten, but only a croak came out. When Benten handed him a water bottle and a straw, he nodded gratefully and took long sips. With his throat soothed a bit, Nureyev tried again and asked, “Where’s Juno?”

Benten stared at him, his expression stony before he sucked his teeth and said, “Taking care of whatever you idiots stole.”

“Ah, right,” Nureyev said with a nod, leaning back and trying not to feel disappointed. That was the smart thing to do, and Nureyev knew it. But waking up, remembering the panicked confessions, and not seeing the lady himself… “That’s good, then.”

“Don’t be too upset, Rex. He was here day and night until you were given the all-clear,” Benten said blandly at Nureyev’s sulking. “It would have been romantic, but he’s my brother, so it’s gross.”

“I’m sure,” Nureyev said with a laugh, looking around again now that he could see. Sure enough, the room he was in was unfinished, with most of the equipment missing and wires hanging from where there would someday be cameras.

“Okay, you know what? No,” Benten burst out, startling Nureyev out of his thoughts abruptly. When Nureyev looked back at him, Benten was glaring at him. “It wouldn’t’ve been romantic, because what you two did was stupid , and reckless , and so far beyond selfish, even I am disgusted with it.”

“Pardon?” Nureyev questioned, bewildered. “We were stopping—”

“Yeah, yeah, you were saving the world, whatever ,” Benten snapped, and it was at that moment that Nureyev realized there were tears in his eyes. “I’m just a little sick of hauling my brother out of gutters, covered in blood. And worse, you two and Rita hid it from me!”

“Benzaiten,” Nureyev started, but he quickly closed his mouth when he realized that nothing he could have said would be helpful.

“Like, fuck,” Benten said with a heavy sigh as he slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “When Juno told us to open without him, and Rita was jumpy all day and then you didn’t show, my first thought was you two dumb saps eloped—”

Nureyev actually choked a bit, blushing deeply. “I didnʼt— We wouldnʼt—”

“—That was literally my worst-case scenario, you know that, Rex? Then Juno’s call happened, and then…” Benten trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Nureyev in the bed before he pouted at the wall next to him.

“Benzaiten, I’m— There’s nothing I can say that can make up for what we did, but I am sorry,” Nureyev said slowly, carefully, and he barely refrained from flinching when Benten looked at him sharply out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, I know you are,” Benten said sternly, heaving a huge sigh. “Still mad as hell, though.”

“Of course,” Nureyev said with a nod before asking, “So, what happened after I passed out?”

Benten shrugged before saying, “Rita and I closed the cafe early, raced over, you were… bad , and Juno was…”

When he trailed off again, Nureyev remembered the hysterical edge to Juno’s voice just before he faded completely, and nodded.

“I called Mick, since he’s a security guard here, and he pulled some strings to get you up here,” Benten continued after a moment. “No cameras, and no records at all. Juno threw a ton of creds at the doctors and nurses. Rita’s checking constantly to make sure they keep their end of the deal.”

“Thank you,” Nureyev said after a bit, raising an eyebrow.

“It was Rita’s idea, mostly,” Benten said with a shrug of his shoulders and an eye-roll. “She heard you say ‘no hospitals’ like one of those ridiculous characters from her cheesiest streams and hatched the whole idea.”

Nureyev smiled at that and leaned back against the pillows. “Still, thank you, Benzaiten.”

“Whatever, Rex,” he replied with another eye-roll.

Nureyev actually chuckled, feeling exhaustion coming over him again. “Careful, Benzaiten. You’re almost being nice to me.”

“I’m contractually required to do anything my brother asks for twenty-four hours if he cries,” Benten said flatly. “He asked me to wait with you and ‘be nice’ when you woke up.”

Nureyev laughed out loud, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Licking his chapped lips, he flinched when he found the gap where his teeth used to be. He pressed his tongue into the hole, and made a face, resolving to fix that as quickly as possible.

“Plus, I mean,” Benten began with an explosive sigh. “I can’t really listen to my brother sob about how much he loves a guy while he’s bleeding out in a gutter and then get right back to bullying him when he wakes up. I have some morals or whatever. Yelling at you for being stupid does not count as bullying, though.”

Nureyev froze, eyes flashing open to look at Benten sharply. “How much… did you overhear?”

“Some of it. Enough of it, I guess,” he replied with a noncommittal shrug. “Juno already tore into me about your name, by the way. I get it, my lips are sealed, I’m leaving it alone. You’re ‘Rex’ until you tell me otherwise, okay?”

“Sounds agreeable,” Nureyev said tensely, but he forced himself to relax. This was Benzaiten Steel, the love of his life’s twin brother, with whom Juno shared nearly everything. If there was another person in the galaxy Nureyev would have eventually told, it likely would have been him.

“Just don’t be too hard on him about it,” Benten said quickly. “He’s been working himself into at least three ulcers over it.”

Nureyev merely nodded before he closed his eyes again and laid back. He would think about it more later when he had the opportunity to do so alone.

Benten made an unimpressed noise. “You have to choose your meals, Rex. It’s the paper on your tray.”

Nureyev sighed and shook his head. Exhaustion was dragging on his limbs and he couldn’t be bothered to choose what awful hospital food he would have forced on him.

“Fine, go to sleep. Gonna set you up with a liquid diet,” Benten said sourly. “Nothing but smoothies and broth.”

Nureyev laughed a bit before allowing himself to drop off back to sleep.

It was the next day when Juno returned.

Nureyev was picking at his meal, having eaten everything remotely palatable while Mick sat with him, shuffling a deck of cards. They had played a few rounds of various games up until someone delivered him his meal.

He could hear Juno’s heavy boots in the hall and looked over at the door moments before the detective walked in. Seeing him again, after everything they’d gone through, took the breath right out of Nureyev’s lungs.

Juno’s clothes were dusty and rumpled in a way that made Nureyev think heʼd slept in them, and he had more than a little bit of stubble on his jaw. Nureyev remembered that Juno loved him, and a thousand butterflies took wing in his stomach. He wanted to leap out of the bed and embrace Juno, shower him with romantic verse and tell him over and over and over again that he loved him, too.

But when Juno’s eye met his, he froze in the doorway, his expression open and easy to read for only the briefest of moments. It showed relief first, and then fear before it was closed, like shutters being pulled to keep Nureyev out.

That was concerning, but he wasn’t about to jump to any conclusions.

Mick looked over and grinned, his big goofy one that was usually contagious. “Hey, JayJay! Welcome back!”

“Hey, Mick,” Juno greeted, biting the inside of his cheek but not entering the room any further. “How’s everything?”

“Everything’s great!” Mick replied, turning to scoop up his cards and put them away in their box. “Especially now that you’re back, everything’s perfect!”

“Where are you going?” Juno asked, a look of panic overcoming his expression when his big friend stood and walked toward the door.

“I mean, I was going back to work? I do actually have a job here, you know,” he replied with a full laugh, looking between Juno and Nureyev with a suggestive look. “That, and I figure you two lovebirds would like the chance to catch up.”

Before either of them could say anything, Mick was already out the door, only pausing to clap a heavy hand on Juno’s shoulder as he passed. Once the door shut behind him with a loud clap, silence fell over the room.

After a minute or two with nothing said between them, Nureyev motioned to what was left of his food. “Hungry? I’m not eating the rest of this,” he said, sneering at the remainder of his meal.

Eying what Nureyev had left on his tray, Juno snorted. “Too good for jello and applesauce, Rex?”

“Yes,” Nureyev replied flatly.

With a chuckle, Juno picked up the applesauce pouch and opened it, eating the stuff slowly while Nureyev watched him. The detective was obviously thinking about something, and it wasn’t sitting very well on his mind either. Nureyev just wasn’t quite sure how to bring the topic up in a way that would be productive with his detective.

“Juno, darling—”

“I have to check on the cafe. It's been closed for a couple days,” Juno said suddenly, furrowing his brow down at the pouch of applesauce. “Gotta make sure it’s still in one piece.”

“I—” Nureyev started, his mouth twisting with hurt but he didn’t know what to say. Despite saying he should go, however, Juno hadn’t made any move to leave which gave Nureyev some hope. “O-of course, I understand. Could we talk before you leave, dear?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Juno asked, still pointedly looking at the pouch in his hands, and Nureyev’s frown deepened.

“Well, we can start with something small. How did disposing of the weapons go?” Nureyev asked, working hard to keep his voice steady.

“Went fine, your friend isn’t very talkative,” Juno replied, still not looking at him. “Feel like he kinda overcharged for his services, but hey, I’m not about to argue with someone twice my size. Plus, seemed kind of fitting to use Pereyra’s hush-money.”

“Of course,” Nureyev said, and the sigh escaped him before he could stop it, and he asked, “Have I done something wrong, Juno?”

“What?” Juno asked, finally meeting Nureyev’s gaze with an alarmed look.

“I mean, of course, I’m struggling to think of anything I could’ve done, given that I’ve been unconscious—”

“Rex, why the hell would you think you’ve done anything wrong?” Juno interrupted and Nureyev laughed at the question.

“You have barely looked at me since you returned and were planning to leave the moment you saw I was conscious,” Nureyev listed back at him, raising an eyebrow, trying to calm the rising panic in his gut. “So, either I’ve done something, or… I don’t know, Juno. I don’t know what else all of that could mean.”

“No, Rex, that’s not—” Juno abruptly cut himself off, and just like that, the wall came crumbling down. “I’m—I fucked up, so much, and didn’t listen to anything you said. I know you said no hospitals—”

“Juno—”

“—and I know it was really selfish of me to risk your identity—”

“My love, please—”

“—But I couldn’t just let it happen like that. And then Benten reminded me about Mick—”

“Juno—”

“—and I know Benten overheard your name, I fucked up, forgetting the comms—”

“Juno! Please,” Nureyev finally managed to get in, and Juno shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. Nureyev swivelled his tray out of the way and looked at Juno. “Yes, I said I couldn’t go to the hospital, but you seem to have sufficiently worked around the issues I have with them. As for your other point, yes it was not ideal, someone else learning my name, but I’m not— you didn’t do anything wrong. It can’t be taken back now, regardless.”

“But Rex—”

“I’ve talked to Benzaiten about it already. Now answer this for me: would I have survived if you had not brought me here?” Nureyev interrupted curtly, and he could feel himself shaking as he waited for Juno’s answer.

Juno bit the inside of his cheek, and his eye went glassy and wet with emotion. “No,” he replied, his voice something quiet and delicate.

“Then I’m grateful you ignored my wishes, Juno,” Nureyev said with a smile, holding his hand out to reach for Juno. “Now, please, can you just come here and lay with me?”

Juno was quick with tossing the empty pouch of applesauce in the trash and removing his boots before climbing onto the bed next to Nureyev. Juno only paused in laying down to give him a kiss, deepening it with a keening whine and a swipe of his tongue, straddling his lap carefully. The rasp of Juno’s stubble against Nureyev’s face was novel and exquisite, and he almost pulled the detective in for even more.

Then Juno pulled away with a bit of a grimace, laughing at Nureyev’s puzzled expression. “Sorry,” he laughed again, not sounding sorry at all. “Feels kinda weird with the missing teeth.”

Nureyev groaned. “I’m well aware, dear.”

Juno chuckled and kissed him again. “I’m sure I can get used to it. You know, if we practice a bit,” he said suggestively, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in for another kiss. Nureyev smirked and deepened it just enough to warrant a quick nip at Juno’s lower lip as he pulled away.

“That is certainly something we can do,” he agreed, grabbing the front of Juno’s shirt and pulling him in for more.

They made out slow and easy with no sense of urgency and very little heat for some time. Juno brought his hands up to hold Nureyev’s between them, sighing happily as Nureyev licked into his mouth.

After some time passed languidly like that, Juno pulled back to grumble, “How is it you can be out cold for two days and not have just rancid morning breath?”

“They do let me out of this bed, dear detective,” Nureyev replied with a laugh. “That is actually a requirement for them to discharge me. I’ve both bathed and brushed my teeth today.”

“Right, yeah,” Juno said sheepishly. “That makes sense. So you’ll be discharged soon?”

Nureyev nodded and said, “In a few days. The wound on my back has one more round of treatment before I can resume most normal physical activity.”

Juno nodded but was startled by a very big and very loud yawn. “Oh, shit. Sorry, Rex, I’m not bored, just exhausted,” he grumbled a bit as he rubbed his eye tiredly.

Nureyev smiled sweetly at Juno, which had the detective looking at him with a wide eye and chewing on the inside of his cheek. The expression was so strange on his face, so vulnerable that Nureyev expected the shutters to be pulled any moment, but then they weren’t. Another flock of butterflies burst to flight in his stomach.

“You’re fine, darling. Come and lay down with me,” Nureyev finally said, beckoning Juno into his arms, an invitation that was immediately accepted.

Nureyev let out a contented sigh as Juno wrapped around him like an octopus, his mouth and nose pressed into his throat, against the parts of his skin that weren’t covered in bandages. Nureyev shivered at the brushing touch of Juno’s lips, at the hot breath against his neck and felt the fluttering in his gut settle as he wrapped an arm around Juno’s shoulders. Held tight in Nureyev’s arms, Juno sucked in a deep breath through his nose, seemingly holding it before slowly releasing it and burrowing deeper into the nape of his neck.

“Is everything okay, Juno?” he asked quietly, feeling his entire body relaxing with the warmth of his lover against him.

“Mm-hmm,” Juno mumbled, his voice already thick and sleepy. “I was just… just needed to check something.”

Nureyev smiled at that and turned to press his lips against the top of Juno’s head in a gentle kiss. “Juno,” he said quietly, his heart jumping when he remembered Juno’s confession again. “I wanted to ask you something.”

There was no response from the detective except for a quiet, gentle snore. Juno was sound asleep within the handful of minutes it had taken him to settle in against him, and Nureyev couldn’t have helped the smile that came to his face if he wanted to.

- - - - -

It was dark when Nureyev was woken up, and he was immediately tense. Something was wrong, and for a delirious moment he thought it was the weight holding him down that was the issue. Then the memories of the hospital, Juno returning, and both of them falling asleep together came back in a rush.

Juno twitched and let out a low groan, his fingers curled tightly into the front of Nureyev’s medical gown. He was clammy, his sweat soaking through to Nureyev’s skin, and he was shivering. Then Juno gagged, dry-heaving as he woke up and looked around wildly.

Nureyev grabbed the little bucket he had been provided by the hospital and handed it to Juno, who immediately used it with incredible enthusiasm. The whole time, Nureyev rubbed his back gently, pausing to massage the back of Juno’s neck when he was done unloading the contents of his stomach, humming quietly as the detective tried to calm his breathing. A few minutes later, after successfully staving off another bout of puking, Juno finally leaned over to place the bucket on the bedside table.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he groaned, covering his face and his voice sounded entirely too upset for Nureyev’s liking. “They come back when I’m stressed out. The nightmares, I mean.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Nureyev asked, reaching up to gently pull Juno’s hands away from his face.

Juno blinked at him as if the answer was plain as day, baffled that he would even have to ask. “I woke you up,” Juno said flatly, as if that was enough of a reason. “I woke you up, almost puked on you, and shit, I’m so sweaty—”

“Juno, dear, do you realize how low those things are on my list of priorities?” Nureyev interrupted, lifting his hands to cradle Juno’s face. “Right now, I’m worried about you, love.”

He could feel Juno’s face heat up against his palms, the detective clearly embarrassed and perhaps a bit overwhelmed. “It’s— you need your sleep, so I should go,” Juno quickly said, but before he could get up, Nureyev adjusted his hands to hold the back of Juno’s head.

“What you’re going to do, Juno Steel, is go into that bathroom and use one of the toothbrushes provided by the hospital,” Nureyev said firmly, and Juno went still next to him. “Then you’re going to come back here and lay with me again.

“You don’t have to do this, Rex,” Juno whispered, and Nureyev pulled him down so he could press a kiss to his forehead.

“Of course I don’t, Juno. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” Nureyev replied, sighing as he let Juno sit back enough to meet his gaze again. “If you refuse to let me do this for you, then do as I ask for my own comfort. I’m worried about you, and would very much like to hold you.”

Juno bit the inside of his cheek as he shook his head in disbelief. “Are you serious?” he eventually asked and Nureyev laughed softly.

“Of course I am, darling,” he replied, pursing his lips tightly. “Now go and brush your teeth. I expect you to come right back here.”

Juno huffed a weak laugh and as he slipped off the bed, he muttered a quiet, “Yes, sir.” Nureyev found himself a bit breathless at being called “sir” and decided that might be something for them to explore properly later.

A few minutes later, Juno crawled back onto the bed, squawking a bit when Nureyev yanked him forward by the front of his shirt. Tucking the detective in beside him, Nureyev dipped his head to capture Juno’s lips in a chaste kiss, sighing when Juno pressed up into it.

“Would it… help to talk about it?” Nureyev asked a bit haltingly when they pulled apart. He personally had very little experience with nightmares and even less with the nightmares of a loved one.

“I don’t know,” Juno replied after a bit, and he flopped down next to Nureyev, tucking his head under his chin. “They’re just about when I lost my eye.”

“Ah, I see,” Nureyev hummed, rubbing Juno’s back soothingly.

“But now you’re there,” he confessed, wrapping his arm tightly around Nureyev’s waist. “When I was so busy fussing about my aim that she got you. Keeps replaying.”

“Juno, please understand that I am incredibly grateful for you taking what time you did to aim,” Nureyev said firmly. “Also, understand that she was going to ‘get me’ whether you shot her or not.”

Juno stiffened in his arms before propping himself up to look at Nureyev’s face. “What?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not sure if this will be comforting to you or not,” Nureyev started, before sighing. “I felt the knife before you even lifted your blaster, Juno. It was likely her plan to stab me, and let me bleed out while she continued taunting you.”

At that, Juno sat up fully to meet Nureyev’s gaze properly. “Seriously?”

“She underestimated you, dear detective,” Nureyev replied, smiling. “She didn’t do it as some sort of last moment revenge on you. She truly believed she had won.”

“That’s…” Juno trailed off before chuckling a bit. “That actually is kind of comforting.”

“I should hope so,” Nureyev said with a laugh of his own. “You were amazing in there, and I cannot thank you enough for doing literally nothing I told you to.”

Juno laughed out loud and bent to kiss Nureyev, slow and searching before pulling away to snuggle in tight again.

“I’ve always had a problem with authority,” he joked around a yawn.

Nureyev chuckled at that and squeezed Juno against his side. Within a few minutes, Juno was asleep again and Nureyev was drifting off to join him.

- - - - -

Nureyev discharged himself from the hospital a day early. He had managed to convince Juno to go home early in the evening, and that he would come by the cafe the next day at dinnertime, so there was no need to visit him again. There was part of him that knew leaving Mars immediately was wiser, that staying was just asking to get caught again by Ramses or even Pereyra.

But Nureyev was fairly confident that the information dug up and subsequently leaked for both mayoral candidates would keep them busy for the foreseeable future, at least long enough to spend a couple more nights however he pleased.

And what he wanted most was to spend his last night on Mars with a cranky private investigator. He also had another appointment.

So he changed hotels to something fancier, though discreet with very few surveillance cameras in the halls, as the establishment catered to guests seeking a more romantic experience. They would not be watched, nor bothered, and the rooms all had incredible sound-proofing between units.

Nureyev decided he should go all out for his romantic evening with Juno, and rented the honeymoon suite. It was a corner suite on the highest floor, which would give them an almost panoramic view of Hyperion City and the surface of Mars beyond the dome through uninterrupted floor-to-ceiling windows. Just off the spacious living room through a set of double-doors was the bedroom and it’s ensuite.

Nureyev was particularly enamoured with the king-sized four-poster bed, which was on a raised platform and tucked right into the corner of windows. There were gauzy fabrics hanging from the ceiling and secured at points above the corners of the bed, though they only draped to curtain off the two sides of the bed facing into the bedroom. The gauzy fabric was lined with thousands of dots of gentle, amber lights that twinkled like stars.

The ensuite itself was massive, with a huge soaker tub and luxurious shower stall, both also situated against floor-to-ceiling windows.

Nureyev spent the better part of his afternoon chatting with the concierge about arrangements for the next evening and then, after asking her a few questions about local stores, he headed out to do some shopping.

The next day, Nureyev properly groomed himself for the first time since the heist, which had been… a bit of an ordeal he hadn’t anticipated.

It was the first time he had seen himself naked for any amount of time without bandages and there was a vain part of him that cringed away from himself, that squirmed at the idea of Juno seeing him like that.

The scars on his face would be easy to hide with make-up, he decided, especially the thinner ones that decorated his cheeks and the line of his jaw. The ones on his throat would be trickier, and he cursed his lack of foresight during his shopping trip the day before. He could have gotten a nice collar or something to cover them up. He would have to use make-up until he found a more suitable alternative.

It was the mess of slashes on his chest and the electrical burn scars on his abdomen that caused him the most distress, given his penchant for revealing tops. He didn’t have much in the way of sexy clothing that would hide those, and make-up wouldn’t be ideal.

What would Juno think?

But then he remembered that Juno wore his scars, if not with pride then with defiance. What would that say to Juno, if Nureyev went to such great lengths to hide his own wounds? What would that communicate to his sensitive detective?

So with a determined sigh, Nureyev got dressed without consideration for hiding anything, putting on a black, cropped top with a plunging neckline that showed off all of the jagged scars across his chest, and if not for the corset-waisted slacks he wore, the burn scar would also have been almost completely visible.

He finished his look off with a loose braid, tied off with a black ribbon, keeping his hair quite nicely out of his face.

Nureyev looked at himself in the mirror again, and hated what he saw, but he would learn to be okay with it. If Juno could, so could Nureyev.

As he left the hotel that afternoon, he stopped by the front desk to verify that the special accommodations he set up the night before were still happening, and to inform them he was leaving for the day for their convenience.

The cab ride to his first destination was short and sweet, and Nureyev asked the driver to keep the meter running, regardless of how long it took him to return.

It did not take long, as he had been promised it wouldn’t when the specialist had visited him at the hospital. It was only thirty minutes, and he was returning to the cab with a new set of teeth. The marvels of modern medicine and cosmetic surgery had allowed him to easily and almost painlessly fix the mess the Piranha had made of his iconic smile. He even paid a little bit extra to get something a bit flashier than boring old white, going instead with something that looked like rose gold, inspired by the ear cuff Juno always wore.

In the back of the cab, Nureyev was beside himself with excitement to show Juno, bouncing his knee and drumming a beat on his thigh. By the time they reached the cafe, he was about to vibrate right out of his skin.

“Keep the meter running again, please,” Nureyev said breathlessly to the driver, sliding out and walking into the cafe

Juno was behind the counter with Benten and Rita, the three of them chatting while Juno was balancing an empty serving tray on the tip of his finger. Juno was less rumpled—wearing a pink sweater-dress that exposed his shoulders and just enough of his collarbones to make Nureyev’s mouth water—though he still had quite a bit of stubble defining the sharp edge of his jaw.

Nureyev may have commented on the stubble at one point while he was in the hospital, perhaps in the middle of a heated make-out session with his detective. There was also the possibility that he had made a crude comment about where else he might enjoy feeling the burn of it. Juno had since been conspicuously lax on shaving, and that excited Nureyev greatly.

Juno looked over, and when he properly registered that it was indeed Nureyev he was seeing, his face lit up. It wasn’t a grin, but there was a way his face would shift when he smirked at him that felt like the entire sun was being channelled through it. Juno’s posture straightened and he grabbed the tray between both of his hands to avoid dropping it.

“They let you out early for good behaviour?” Juno asked teasingly, pushing a grumpy Benten out of the way so he could lean against the counter as Nureyev approached. “Thought you wouldn’t be here until after dinner.”

“I actually discharged myself last night to get a few things prepared. I also had an appointment today,” Nureyev said as he stopped at the counter. He placed his hands on the counter top and leaned close, grinning broadly at the detective.

The moment Juno saw the new teeth, his eye widened and the tray slipped out of his hands, clattering loudly against the counter before hitting the floor.

Benten let out a low, begrudgingly impressed whistle before turning a judgmental look on Juno.

Rita however shoved herself up as tall as she could get on the counter short of standing on it, letting out a high-pitched sound of excitement. Without hesitation, she grabbed Nureyev’s face with both hands and turned it side to side before squealing again.

“Wow, Mista Glass, that is so cool! And preeetty!” she gushed before gasping dramatically and letting go of his face. “They’re pretty-cool! Not pretty cool as in cooler than normal, boring cool, but pretty-cool as in they’re both pretty and cool because they’re cool and pretty!”

She barely paused to catch her breath before she smacked Juno’s arm with a stern look. “Mista Steel, aren’tcha gonna say something nice about Mista Glass’ new teeth?” she growled in a tone that she possibly thought was quiet, but the entire restaurant heard her.

Juno swallowed thickly, taking in a shaky breath before nodding. “Uh,” he began, his voice too hoarse to continue right away, so he cleared his throat before saying, “They’re, uh, they’re really great. They l-look, uh, good.”

Nureyev took a moment to bite his bottom lip, feigning shyness to show off the teeth pressing into soft flesh. Juno’s breath left him in a quick whoosh at that, his expression taking on an even more dazed quality.

“Holy shit,” Juno whispered dreamily, quiet enough that only the three of them with him at the counter could hear.

At that, Benten pulled a face and gagged audibly. “Oh, gross. Get a room,” he groaned loudly, and Juno spluttered for a moment, successfully snapped out of his stupor.

Nureyev turned a broad grin on Benten, not missing the way Juno’s eye locked on his mouth again.

“I did, in fact, get one,” he said, and turned to look at Juno again, adding, “I’m here to collect my dear detective for the evening.”

Rita actually screamed with her delight, gaining the attention of every patron in the cafe, and abruptly turned to start pulling Juno’s apron off.

“Aw, Mista Glass, how romantic! C’mon, Mista Steel, get outta here!” she commanded, growling when Juno kept knocking her hands away.

Juno bit the inside of his cheek, finally managing to get Rita to stop grabbing at his clothes. For the first time since Nureyev arrived, Juno looked unsure and Nureyev wanted to pull him into a kiss.

“I’m not really dressed for a date, Rex,” he said, and Nureyev could tell he was pulling down the back of his dress nervously. Nureyev smiled at him, feeling utterly fond of Juno in a way that was almost smothering.

“You look beautiful, radiant even, my love,” he replied and Rita made that sound of hers again, the one like a rocketship revving, while Benten groaned and rolled his eyes.

“What a line, Rex,” Benten said flatly. “Juno’s not that easy—”

“Y-yeah, okay. Yeah,” Juno interrupted, his gaze turning dreamy again as he fished the keys to the cafe out of the pocket of his dress and finished taking off his apron.

“Wow, I stand corrected,” Benten murmured, eyebrows raised as he accepted the keys from Juno. “Are you going to be home in time to open tomorrow, or should I post a sign?”

Juno glanced at Nureyev, who merely smirked at him suggestively, relishing Benten’s gag and Rita’s snickers.

“The sign might be a better idea, Ben,” Juno replied with his own little smirk before he came around the counter and followed Nureyev out.

They slid into the backseat of the cab, sitting flush together and the moment they were settled, Nureyev pulled Juno into a kiss. It was chaste, for the sake of the driver if nothing else, but he desperately wanted to deepen it. Juno, the absolute minx, tested his restraint when he dragged his pierced tongue along the seam of his lips.

However, the driver cleared his throat and Juno pulled away so quickly, Nureyev feared he might exit the vehicle entirely.

“So, where to now, Mr Rose?” the driver asked, his expression unimpressed in the rear view mirror.

Nureyev only smiled at the man’s sour look and said, “Back to the hotel, please.”

“Your hotel?” Juno asked, and when Nureyev looked at him, he was delighted to see the confused little pout.

It was obvious Juno was thinking about the seedy little hotel room he’d booked before the heist, and it was endearing that he had expected better. Nureyev smiled soothingly down at Juno, grabbing his thigh and squeezing lightly.

“Do you trust me, love?” Nureyev asked, low and quiet.

“Well, yeah,” Juno said without hesitation.

Nureyev leaned down and gave Juno a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and the detective immediately turned into it. Nureyev was almost sad that he had to pull away, lest he get carried away.

“Then trust that I wouldn’t take you to a hovel for—” he paused, realizing what he was about to say, and that it would be the first time he was saying it aloud. Nureyev took a deep breath, and said, “For our last night before I leave.”

Juno’s expression faltered, becoming deeply sad before he visibly rallied himself with a small smile. “Okay.”

When they pulled up to the hotel, Juno let out a low whistle and looked down at his sweater-dress and clunky leather boots. “Damn, Duke. Now I’m definitely underdressed,” he said, and while it was said as if it was a joke, it sounded a bit too self-deprecating for Nureyev’s liking.

Nureyev paid the cabby handsomely for being a chauffeur and got out when the doorman opened his door. Reaching back into the cab, he helped Juno slide out with a firm grip on his hand.

“I said you looked radiant, love, and I meant it,” Nureyev soothed. “And if it worries you so much, I do have something up in the room for you to change into.”

“You bought me clothes?” Juno asked him incredulously, his face the picture of annoyance but his tone lacked all heat.

“Only a few items, love, and at quite the discount, too. A steal even,” Nureyev said cheekily, kissing the top of Juno’s head and tangling their fingers together. “So don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.”

“Duke, is this… okay?” Juno asked quietly as Nureyev led him inside by their clasped hands. When Juno tucked himself in close to his side, Nureyev looked down at him and while the detective looked unsure, there was the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.

“This hotel is very discreet, very few cameras,” Nureyev explained, squeezing Juno’s hand a bit. “Also, we aren’t hiding from mayors, aspiring or otherwise, nor their shared criminal bodyguard.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Juno said as an adorable smile curved his lips, and Nureyev was very nearly about to bend and kiss him senseless right there in the lobby.

“And,” Nureyev began in a lower voice as they arrived at the elevators. “The staff might think it’s odd if we walked in acting like we barely knew each other.”

“And why’s that?” Juno asked, looking up at him through his lashes.

“I requested a few romantic accommodations earlier,” he replied with a smirk, pausing at Juno’s shaky inhale. “And, I did rent the honeymoon suite.”

“Are you serious?” Juno asked as the elevator dinged with its arrival, his hand twitching in Nureyev’s.

“Of course I am,” Nureyev says with a winning smile as they stepped inside. Juno’s gaze, as Nureyev expected, was immediately drawn to the new teeth. “Only the best for my beautiful lady, after all.”

As soon as the doors slid shut behind them, Nureyev was dragged down by the front of his loose and flowy shirt, his mouth captured in a hungry kiss. Juno whined, pressing as close to Nureyev’s body as he could, tongue pressing into his mouth insistently. The sudden armful of solid detective had Nureyev stumbling back against the wall, chuckling into Juno’s mouth before meeting his tongue halfway. He allowed the kiss for a few moments before he gently pushed Juno back, grinning at the detective’s dazed expression.

“Slow down, love,” he said soothingly as the elevator slowed to a stop. When the doors reopened, Nureyev took Juno’s hand again and began to lead him down the hall. “We have all night.”

“That a promise?” Juno asked huskily, and Nureyev was shocked at how slick he felt between his legs already.

“Well, I’m certainly up for the challenge,” Nureyev replied as they arrived at the door to the suite, pulling out his key and smirking down at Juno. “And I fully expect you to stay the night this time.”

“Sounding pretty confident there, Rose,” Juno teased.

“I can be quite persuasive, I’ve been told,” Nureyev replied, beckoning Juno inside once he got the door open.

Upon seeing the suite, Juno gasped and let go of Nureyev’s hand to cross the room to the windows overlooking his city.

Nureyev took the time that Juno was distracted to survey the room for his requests and remove his gloves. There was a small table set up with a tablecloth and a beautiful flower arrangement, ready and waiting for their dinner to be delivered in the next hour or so. The monitor was on, set to a station that was playing gentle, romantic music.

Overall, he was pleased with the hotel’s work and had faith the bedroom and ensuite were to his specifications as well. Joining Juno at the windows, he looked down and his breath caught at the stunned expression on the detective’s face. Juno finally turned his gaze away to look at the suite, his eye wide.

“Nureyev,” he started, and it was that moment that Nureyev realized he hadn’t heard his name from those lips in days, a realization that almost knocked him off his feet. “This is… really nice.”

Nureyev was very suddenly unsure of his plans, whether they were the right course of action or if they were more likely to scare the detective away. Juno looked overwhelmed, his eye wet with unshed tears, his bottom lip quivering a bit before he bit it lightly. Nureyev cupped Juno’s cheeks in both hands, wiping away a tear that was about to fall.

“Juno, is this okay?” he asked, truly worried he’d gone too far.

“Yeah, jeez, sorry. This is amazing, just,” Juno said with a laugh, tilting his head into one of Nureyev’s hands and closing his eye with a watery sigh. “No one’s ever done something this nice for me.”

Not for the first time, Nureyev was overcome with the urge to hunt down and strangle the life out of every single person who had deemed themselves worthy of Juno Steel’s time. They had all swept him up and they took, and took, and took from him, not once putting in the work to deserve him, leaving Juno to tear up over the bare minimum.

Instead, Nureyev stooped to kiss Juno, deep and searching, drawing the soft little gasping moans he loved so dearly from his gorgeous detective.

“Well, then I’m glad to have been the first,” he said as they parted for air. “Dinner should be arriving in just over an hour. The bathroom is just inside the bedroom if you would like to freshen up a bit?”

Juno took a deep breath and nodded, stepping out of Nureyev’s embrace. “Yeah, I’ll go do that,” he said, a bit dazed still, and when he turned to walk away, Nureyev followed him.

“You know, I’ve been running around all morning, so I think I’ll get cleaned up as well,” he said with a cheeky grin, the expression widening at Juno’s sceptical snort.

“I doubt we have time for both of us to take a shower, Nureyev,” Juno said.

“I’m sure we could think of some sort of arrangement, love,” Nureyev purred suggestively, thoroughly enjoying the confused look on Juno’s face when he glanced back.

“What the hell does—” he began, but at Nureyev’s smirk, his expression went slack with realization, an expression Nureyev found as beautiful as it was priceless. “—Oh.”

Juno swallowed thickly and stammered, “Y-yeah, I mean sure—yeah, we can do that. Totally.”

Nureyev smiled wide when Juno cut himself off shyly, biting the inside of his cheek. Juno glanced at the new teeth again, and Nureyev took that moment to drag his tongue lightly across the points of them. Juno took a shuddery breath before grabbing his hand and dragging him to the bedroom.

The opulence of the bedroom actually tripped Juno up a bit, Nureyev running into him when he staggered to a halt with a gasp.

The curtains around the bed were freed from their tie-backs, and the twinkling lights in the billowy canopy were turned on. The gauzy fabrics obscured the view of the bed and windows beyond by quite a bit, but Nureyev did like that they wouldn’t offer complete privacy.

Taking a deep breath, Juno continued into the ensuite, only to come to an abrupt halt all over again.

The room was lit up in the gentle, amber light of the chandelier hanging above the huge round soaker tub to their left. It was set into a ledge which sat against the massive windows overlooking the city. The tub was already full of steamy water, and there was a near-solid layer of rose petals across the surface. The petals were also scattered across the edge of the tub, the window ledge, and the floor around it.

“Jeez, Nureyev. Are there any roses left in Hyperion City?” Juno all but whispered next to him, and he flushed deeply.

He had requested a romantic set-up for the evening, certainly, but he had expressed that his date would not appreciate a spectacle. The concierge had confirmed a subtle, understated romantic feel, and Nureyev shuddered at the thought of what the full romantic package would have looked like.

Nureyev turned to defend himself and saw the expression on Juno’s face. His eye was wide with wonder and delight, as well as something intense like yearning— no, it was love that overtook Juno’s expression. Nureyev was winded when he realized that Juno loved it, every part of it, right down to the floral massacre in the bathtub. The sass was an attempt at deflecting, at trying not to let on just how much he wanted it.

With a tug of their clasped hands, Nureyev spun Juno into his embrace and dipped down for a searching kiss, hands twisting in the knit of Juno’s dress. Juno whined and opened for him, pushing up onto his toes with his hands holding Nureyev’s biceps. They stood flush together, mouths moving slow and perfect, and Nureyev sighed when Juno’s tongue pressed against his own, the piercings sending a thrill through him.

Nureyev pulled back to catch his breath, and Juno tipped back onto his heels to stare up at him, dazed and smiling. He took in the face of his detective, his gaze lingering on the plain black eyepatch for a few moments before lifting a hand questioningly. It wasn’t even particularly important to him if Juno wore the eyepatch or not—that was Juno’s decision, and his decision only. Nureyev only figured that it would be an inconvenient obstacle in the bath.

Juno sucked in a sharp breath as Nureyev’s fingers lightly touched the eyepatch, and Nureyev waited for a sign to continue or back off. There was a beat before Juno gave him a quick nod, and Nureyev slowly lifted it off, tossing it onto the vanity.

Turning back to his detective, Nureyev took in the full view of Juno’s face for the first time since meeting him.

Nureyev found himself surprised to see that Juno still had his natural eye. For whatever reason, he had expected the eye to have been completely removed, but that was not the case.

“They were able to save the eye itself,” Juno muttered quietly, tensely as if hearing Nureyev’s thoughts. “Couldn’t get the vision back.”

Nureyev nodded with a comforting smile and looked his face over, really taking it in and cataloging each new thing.

There were three very distinct scars running vertically over the eyelid. Two of them were quite shallow and short, just enough to have drawn blood and cause pain, but minimal permanent damage. The third, however, was deep and jagged, starting just under Juno’s brow and ending just about his cheekbone. While the eye itself had been salvaged, it was murky where the scarring and blood vessels had formed over the damaged iris and pupil.

The injury would have been brutal, the pain immense, and for a moment Nureyev was deeply disappointed that the Piranha had been given a quick execution.

Juno’s breathing quickened as Nureyev took his time, his eyes glancing down before he began to turn away, biting the inside of his cheek. Nureyev made a small sound, a gentle tsk as he cupped Juno’s jaw with both hands and turned him back to meet his gaze. The detective was shaking, waiting for Nureyev’s reaction and it was obvious he expected the worst.

And Nureyev wasn’t sure he could blame Juno; if anything Piranha had said about this supposed fiance of Juno’s was true, he had every reason to fear such vulnerability.

Slowly, Nureyev bent to place a gentle, lingering kiss to Juno’s cheekbone, waiting out the bout of shuddering breaths. The moment Juno released a soft sigh, and the tension leaked out of his shoulders, he moved his lips to the corner of his eye. There he waited again, humming happily when Juno almost immediately tilted his head back, and leaned his body closer to Nureyev.

Nureyev dropped a hand to wrap around Juno’s back to hold him firmly, soothingly, and gently brushed a gentle, barely-there kiss to Juno’s scarred eyelid.

“You’re gorgeous, my love,” Nureyev breathed, and he could feel tears pricking behind his eyelids with the ferocity of his emotions for Juno. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Juno made a soft, almost wounded sound before he tipped his head back and surged up onto his toes to capture Nureyev’s lips again. With a happy sigh, Nureyev gathered Juno up into his arms, pressing closer and deeper, wanting to taste and feel Juno as much and as quickly as possible. He was overwhelmed by the way the detective clung and squirmed against him, making soft and desperate sounds against his tongue.

Nureyev pulled back with a groan and dropped his mouth to Juno’s shoulder, exposed as it was with the open panels of his dress, and bit it lightly. Juno gasped, tipping his head back with a shudder, and Nureyev let go to place an open-mouthed kiss against the spot, lapping at it soothingly as Juno let out a sob.

He startled at the metallic tang of blood and pulled back to check on Juno. There were two cuts, each tiny enough to have stopped bleeding already, but Nureyev still cursed himself under his breath for being reckless.

“I’m sorry about that, my love,” he said sheepishly, kissing the spot soothingly again. “These new teeth are quite sharp.”

“Yeah, they are,” Juno sighed dreamily, and when Nureyev properly looked at him, the detective appeared perfectly blissed out. “They’re amazing.”

Nureyev raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh, are they?” he asked with a smirk, and at Juno’s rare, unrestrained grin, Nureyev pressed in for another searching kiss.

- - - - -

They sat in the bathtub for some time, slowly making out while they caught their breath after their impromptu romp. Nureyev was floating above the clouds it seemed, weightless and blissed-out with his lady in his lap and in his arms.

Juno made a small sound in his throat at one particularly languid pass of Nureyev’s tongue and squirmed against him. Heat was building again, and Nureyev was happy to be swept away by it again. He knew there was a reason not to, but he couldn’t be bothered to remember it when Juno shifted to straddle his lap, sitting flush to his front and playing with his tits idly.

“The hell was that?”

Nureyev actually whined when Juno wrenched away from his mouth, and he chased after the kiss. His lips found Juno’s throat instead, which was perfectly fine for him.

“Duke, knock it off, I heard something!” Juno hissed and that caught Nureyev’s attention.

Pulling away, Nureyev and Juno sat quietly for a few moments, listening to the sound of movement in the living room. At a sound that was clearly the clinking of cutlery and crystal, Nureyev cringed.

“That is likely the serving staff,” he said slowly, tipping his head back against the cushioned lip of the tub and closing his eyes. “Delivering our food.”

“Duke… did you close any of the doors coming in here?” Juno asked quietly, drawing the question out and pulling a chuckle from Nureyev.

“I did not,” he confessed. “I foolishly had not planned for us to have… appetizers, so to speak.”

“So they heard at least some of that?”

There was something odd in Juno’s tone, and Nureyev opened his eyes again to meet his gaze, worried that Juno was upset. “It’s entirely likely,” he replied carefully.

Nureyev did not miss the look of intense interest that crossed Juno’s face, and he was a little shocked that the detective would be inclined toward a bit of exhibitionism. Then again, he thought, Juno had been the one to wear fancy lingerie to work under a sweater-dress that barely covered his ass. Excitement pulsed through Nureyev at the thought of Juno wanting to show off a bit, about taking Juno where they might get caught, where they could be heard and possibly seen.

He quickly filed that away, however, taking a deep breath to calm himself before he got too hot again.

“Perhaps we should wash up while we wait for them to leave?” Nureyev suggested, and Juno nodded quickly, smiling openly at the thief.

They took their time wiping each other down, slowly kissing while they did. Nureyev paid special attention to Juno, keeping his touches light and chaste, though their intent for later were quite clear. Juno leaned heavily against him, accepting the pampering with a sigh while he mouthed at Nureyev’s pulse.

When they had finished up, Nureyev cradled Juno’s cheek gently and smiled lightly when their gazes met again. Juno leaned forward with a sigh, and Nureyev happily accepted the slow, sweet kiss, wrapping his detective in his arms loosely. It was utterly perfect, and Nureyev almost cursed when the noises from the living room quieted and they heard the door to the hallway close.

“I think it is safe to get out now, dear,” he murmured against Juno’s lips, gently pushing him away and encouraging him to stand up.

Juno grumbled as he did, unclipping the collar of his harness and peeling it off of himself. Nureyev watched Juno move around the bathroom in all of his naked glory with an appreciative eye as he got out of the tub.

“I have something else for you to wear this evening,” Nureyev said as Juno moved to grab his sweater-dress off the ground, touching his arm lightly and smiling when the detective looked up at him questioningly. “It’s in the closet just inside the room. I’ll meet you at the dinner table.”

Juno blinked up at him, a bit dazed by the gentle commands, and nodded as he returned the smile.

Nureyev watched the detective leave before he turned to the cabinet in the bathroom, where he kept his own outfit for the evening.

It could hardly be called an “outfit,” though.

After seeing Juno in his harness on their first date, Nureyev simply had to get his own, a sleek black and gold number that had straps and the gold detailing all the way down to mid-thigh. The embroidered design decorated his abdomen with a chevron that ended just below his sternum, framing his pelvis along the outside edge of the piercings lining his hips.

Over the harness, Nureyev pulled on a short, sheer black robe which tied shut at the waist with a thick black ribbon. The entire back of the robe was lace and completely see-through, showing off all of the straps of his harness where they hugged his pale skin.

Slipping his glasses back onto his face, Nureyev looked around the room and made a face at the smudges, huffing with some annoyance. He picked his pants up off the floor and dug for the cloth he kept specially for cleaning them, cursing his hoarding tendencies for the first time in his decades-long career. After a few too many moments of struggling, Nureyev made a small sound of triumph when his fingers finally closed around the little scrap of material.

Wiping his glasses clean and putting them back on, he completed the ensemble with a pair of black silk slippers. Then, fixing his braid, Nureyev walked out to the living room to join his lover.

Nureyev was nearly winded at the sight of Juno as he stood by the windows and looked out over Hyperion City in the long, sleeveless robe Nureyev had bought him. The fabric was gauzy and pale pink, sheer enough to see the outline of Juno’s legs through it with the neon of the city shining in on him.

Juno must have heard him and turned around a bit with a warm smile. Nureyev could see a hint of the new harness he procured for Juno through the V of the robe, pink and cream flowers decorating his chest and ending in a pretty collar of flowers at the base of his throat. The robe itself was tied by three delicate ribbons at the thick panel of pink and blue flowery lace just above Juno’s natural waist.

Nureyev wanted nothing more than to untie those little ribbons and devour Juno.

When he finally snapped himself out of his own thoughts, he realized Juno was staring. Their gazes met in the next moment and they both swallowed thickly. Juno’s expression was so beautiful, full of want and love, that Nureyev was ready to forgo every plan he had to leave the next day and stay.

Juno cleared his throat and he glanced away. “The hell do you have such long legs for, Nureyev?” Juno asked, his tone so offended and accusatory that Nureyev couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“And why are yours so thick and enticing?” the thief countered, looking pointedly at where he could see Juno’s gorgeous thighs through the opening of his robe.

Juno merely bit the inside of his cheek, and the smirk he wore was tinged with something distinctly pleased.

Nureyev motioned at the table set with their dinner and asked, “Care to join me, dear?”

Juno smirked and crossed the room. “Thought you’d never ask,” he teased and sat down.

Their dinner was quite lovely, filled with casual chatter, laughter, and more than a few glasses of champagne. Juno looked so happy and relaxed across from him, smiling and laughing openly. Nureyev couldn’t help but watch him dreamily as he animatedly told a story from his childhood.

Juno looked so beautiful in the dim, amber lighting of the living room, and Nureyev’s heart ached with the weight of knowing he could not keep him.

Nureyev remembered the pleading “I love you’s” from the sewers as Juno ended his story, and he placed his glass on the table.

“Juno, I distinctly remember I had asked you to accompany me to a gala,” Nureyev started, drawing it out only in part to enjoy the way Juno pouted. “I had done so with the hope that I would have the honour of dancing with you.”

Juno cringed. “Yeah?”

Nureyev nodded and stood, his gut churning with anxiety about what he was about to do for the first time that evening. Offering his hand to Juno, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

“Here?” Juno asked, biting the inside of his cheek. “Now?”

“There’s music, there’s space, and there’s two of us,” Nureyev replied, smiling winningly down at Juno, even as his stomach roiled. He was only comforted a small amount by Juno’s hungry look at his new teeth. “So why not here? Why not now?”

Juno made a face of mock disapproval, but accepted the offered hand and allowed Nureyev to tug him in close. They were hardly dancing, only holding each other and gently rocking, but for Nureyev it was perfect. When he looked down at the detective, he could see tears in Juno’s eyes, belying once again just how much he loved it. It only took a few slow turns for Juno to melt completely against Nureyev with a sigh, resting his ear against the thief’s chest.

They danced together quietly while Nureyev contemplated how best to bring up what he heard in the sewers. He didn’t want to scare Juno off, but Nureyev couldn’t leave Mars without telling the beautiful detective the depths of his own feelings.

“Juno, I wanted to ask you about something,” Nureyev started tentatively, and frowned when Juno tensed in his arms.

“Mm-hmm?” Juno prompted, and Nureyev really wished he’d started this when he could see the detective’s face.

“Well, it’s more I would like to tell you something, but,” he babbled a bit nervously before he took a deep, calming breath that did nothing to help calm him, and said, “I remember hearing you say something in the sewers before I passed out.”

Juno went rigid and pulled back, though they did not pause in their dance. Nureyev’s stomach twisted when he realized that Juno had that unreadable expression on his face that he’d only seen once before.

When he had told him his name and confessed to working for the people who ruined his life.

“You do?” Juno asked, his voice flat and Nureyev realized too late he had brought it up all wrong and began scrambling internally for the words to defuse the situation.

“Yes,” Nureyev said after taking a deep breath. “I was still lucid enough to hear you, when you said you lo—”

“Shit, I didn’t—” Juno hissed, pulling out of the embrace, and Nureyev let him. Then he growled at himself, “Shit, Steel, there you go ruining things again.”

Nureyev stepped forward and gently grabbed Juno’s hand. “Juno, just let me finish—”

Juno wrenched his hand away and looked around the room. His expression was so intensely sad for just a second that Nureyev felt his own eyes prickle with tears. Then the shutters behind Juno’s gaze slammed down, and when Juno’s eyes met his again, he saw anger.

“I always do this, get too attached, too soon and then—” Juno muttered, mostly to himself before cutting off with a bitter laugh and eye-roll. “That’s why you did this, isn’t it?”

“Well, the short answer is yes, Juno, but—”

“All of this, it’s all just a joke. Or I’m an easy lay until you find the next stupid sap on some other stupid planet who’ll spread their legs for you,” Juno spat, but then his expression changed, filling with something like humiliation. “Or worse, you felt bad.”

“Juno, please—” Nureyev began, reaching for the detective again, frustration building in him when Juno stepped away from him. For how intelligent and logical he knew Juno to be most of the time, Nureyev was genuinely surprised by his commitment to jumping to the worst possible conclusions if the truth meant happiness for him.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” Juno cut him off again, and though he worded it like a question, it was spoken as an accusation with such bitter anger that Nureyev almost flinched. “You feel bad for me because I was stupid enough to fall in lo— fall for you in two weeks like some fucking teenager. About what the Piranha said about my ex. About my eye. All of it.”

Nureyev’s thoughts were swirling as he felt everything falling apart. He loved Juno deeply and fully, and he had desperately needed him to know it, but now their last few hours together were unravelling because he tried to say it. He berated himself for his impulsiveness, for jumping the gun and breaking the fragile truce he’d come to with Juno’s sense of self-worth.

He wanted to drop it and ask Juno to forget he had said anything, but the longer Nureyev said nothing, the surer Juno became in his conviction.

Tears brimmed Juno’s eyes when Nureyev met his gaze again for just a moment before he strengthened his glare.

“Admit it, Nureyev,” Juno demanded, crossing his arms over his middle.

Nureyev reached forward to grab Juno’s hand with both of his and held tight when the detective tried to pull it away again. “Juno, I promise—”

“Just admit it, Nureyev!” Juno all but growled, fighting the grip on his hand.

“You won’t even allow me a word in edgewise, Juno, even for that much!” Nureyev snapped, not quite yelling but close to it, and Juno’s mouth shut with an audible click.

Nureyev softened, pulling Juno closer and cradling his jaw gently in one hand while the other wrapped around his waist. He held tight when Juno made a half-hearted attempt at breaking free, and after a few moments Juno’s breath left him in whoosh.

When the detective relaxed almost completely against him, Nureyev felt hopeful that he could turn this evening around for both of them.

“You are so clever, so good, and absolutely gorgeous, Juno,” Nureyev said fondly. “You are also frustratingly committed to self-sabotage, love.”

Juno pulled a face, and he looked almost embarrassed. “What the—”

“No, I’m talking now, detective,” Nureyev said sternly, and Juno instantly closed his mouth again. “Do you truly believe I would do all of this for you as a… a pity fuck?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, Nureyev,” Juno snapped. “Had a guy almost marry me, and it turned out he only stuck around as long as he did because he felt bad for me.”

Nureyev felt rage wash over him at that, wanting to know the name and last known location of Juno’s former fiance. Perhaps this was information he could get from Benten or Rita before he left, he thought briefly but dismissed it in favour of focusing on the conversation at hand.

“Juno, I would never do that to you,” he said instead, tone gentle and earnest. “This isn’t a pity fuck, I’m not using you, I’m— if you wanted to leave right now, I wouldn’t stop you. You could walk right out that door, and that would be the end of it. You’ll never hear from me again.”

Juno bit the inside of his cheek and glanced around. For a heart-stopping moment, it looked like Juno would actually pull away and get changed. Nureyev was prepared to stand by his promise, but he felt gutted at the mere thought of having to.

Then Juno sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head to lean into Nureyev’s palm, and asked so quietly Nureyev almost couldn’t hear him over the music, “What the hell else is this, then?”

Nureyev lifted his other hand to cradle his face in both, lifting Juno’s gaze to his own again. “I’ve done all of this—the room, the clothes, the dinner—as well as given you my name, Juno, because,” Nureyev paused to take a deep breath, “I believe I’ve fallen in love with you as well.”

Juno sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, a tear falling as he quietly asked, “W-what?”

Nureyev wiped the tear away with this thumb with a gentle smile. “I love you, Juno. I thought that much was obvious since our first night, but I suppose you could benefit from hearing it being said.”

“B-but you— that— you barely know me,” he stammered, trying to look away but Nureyev held fast.

“You know even less about me, Juno,” Nureyev pointed out with a raised eyebrow. “Yet you love me?”

“That’s different,” he said stubbornly, and Nureyev’s heart broke.

“How is it different, Juno?” he asked gently. “If you truly believe that, help me to understand it.”

Juno let out a gusty sigh and his eyes teared up even more. Seeing both eyes—one a deep blue and the other murky white—glassy with unshed tears had rage boiling in his gut all over again. He wanted to hurt every single person who taught someone as beautiful, and good, and caring as Juno to feel shame and guilt for being told he was loved.

And suddenly Nureyev understood why Juno couldn’t readily accept his confession; Juno saw himself as inherently unworthy of love and affection while giving himself completely to everyone, hoping they would finally see he had something to offer. That was where it made sense to Juno that he could fall in love with someone he barely knew, but those feelings could not be reciprocated.

“It’s just different,” Juno repeated firmly and with such finality that Nureyev knew he couldn’t push for a proper answer without damaging something between them beyond repair.

So Nureyev stepped closer to Juno instead, their bodies pressed flush together again. “Do you trust me, Juno?” he asked, stroking both of the detective’s cheeks with his thumbs.

“Yes,” Juno said without hesitation.

“Do you trust that I wouldn’t lie about something important?” he asked, and when Juno’s expression twisted, he added, “If we were having any other conversation right now, would you trust I was being honest with all of the important details?”

“Yeah,” Juno answered quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Then allow me to put things into perspective for you,” Nureyev said earnestly, meeting Juno’s gaze and holding it. “You are the first person to have learned my real name with my consent in twenty years.”

Juno took a shaky breath, and though his expression was still sceptical, it was also so soft. Nureyev could see that Juno wanted to believe everything, that he wanted to accept what he was offering, so Nureyev continued.

“Do you think a master thief would have risked courting you the way I had just for fun?” Nureyev asked, and did not wait for Juno to respond before he wrapped an arm around his waist. “I have given you the key to a past I’ve tried to bury, as well as the very thread that could unravel my entire career for the past twenty years.”

Juno looked up at him, his expression unreadable as he lifted a hand to cover Nureyev’s still cradling his cheek.

“Look me in the eye and tell me none of that means anything, Juno,” Nureyev offered, and shivered when Juno closed his eyes and turned his head just enough to press his lips to the middle of his palm. “I wouldn’t give any of that to just anyone, Juno.”

Juno was quiet for what felt like an eternity, his eyes closed and breathing softly against Nureyev’s palm. Eventually, the detective sighed and kissed him gently before turning to meet Nureyev’s gaze.

“You’re about to sign up for one hell of a time trying to convince me, Nureyev,” Juno said lightly, and though it was said as a joke, Nureyev could tell he was also completely serious.

Nureyev smiled broadly and stooped to kiss Juno, sweet and chaste.

“Then I gladly accept that challenge, starting tonight,” Nureyev said against Juno’s lips before kissing his way up his cheek, taking a small detour to press a light kiss just below Juno’s right eye. He finished his journey at the hinge of Juno’s jaw and whispered, “I love you, Juno Steel.”

Juno exhaled sharply and sobbed, angling his mouth up for the searching, needy kiss Nureyev had for him.

“I love you…” Juno whispered when they pulled apart for air, and very quietly, almost reluctantly, he added, “Too. I love you, too.”

The quiet concession, even if it was clear he didn’t quite believe it but was willing to try, made Nureyev’s heart pound and butterflies burst to life in his gut. Just hearing those three words again, this time when he was meant to hear them and he wasn’t knocking on Death’s door, brought tears to Nureyev’s eyes.

It was at that moment when Nureyev realized, or allowed himself to realize, that he hadn’t let himself get close enough to anyone since Mag to be loved. He kept himself unreachable and unknowable for twenty years, leaving Mag as the last person to have said they loved him and meant it.

Several moments of heart-stopping terror followed that revelation, and Nureyev wanted to run from it. He did the calculations instantly; he knew the flight schedule for every ship off of Mars by heart for the next week and a half, and with a good distraction, he could catch one within the hour. His fingers itched for his comms and he instinctively began to slip out of Juno’s arms, pretty words and a prettier lie already on the tip of his tongue.

Juno pulled him in tighter, however, clinging to him as he brought their lips together again, and Nureyev was shaken from his thoughts.

“Shit,” Juno all but sobbed against his lips, laughing wetly as tears fell down his cheeks. “I love you, Nureyev.”

Just like that, Nureyev dumped every contingency plan and escape route he had drawn up. There Juno was, giving him everything he had, and Nureyev was thinking of leaving him with nothing. Master thief though he may be, Nureyev was determined to not become one of the people to steal Juno’s heart. He would make a fair trade for it, give himself to Juno, and share the heartbreak of their parting.

Nureyev recognized the desire to run, to leave and never look back, but he knew that he would never be able to compartmentalize his love for Juno.

At Juno’s shivery whine, Nureyev hauled him up into his arms and groaned when Juno’s legs locked around his waist. With one arm around Juno’s waist, and his other hand holding his thigh, Nureyev stumbled in the direction of the bedroom. Juno’s hands were in his hair, messing his braid up and pulling on the freed strands, and Nureyev couldn’t help the soft, needy sounds he was making. Losing focus and rapidly losing his balance, Nureyev stopped just outside the bedroom, and pinned Juno against the wall next to the double-doors, licking deep into Juno’s mouth while he slid his hand up to grope at his ass.

When Juno turned his face away to catch his breath, Nureyev latched onto his throat, kissing, biting, and licking the length of it, paying extra attention to the underside of his jaw when Juno’s cries grew higher in pitch.

“N’reyev, the bed,” Juno whimpered and Nureyev moaned his agreement into the bruise he had just worried into Juno’s skin.

After a few more stumbling moments and close calls, Nureyev found the bed, which was tall enough that Juno was almost sitting on it already when he let him go. As he stepped back a couple paces, Juno looked up at him with eyes still glassy with unshed tears, but the softest smile Nureyev had ever seen on his face. Juno reached out to hold Nureyev’s hand, as if needing some sort of physical contact and Nureyev could understand.

Stroking the back of Juno’s hand with this thumb, Nureyev asked, “How do you want to spend the rest of our evening, my love?”

With a shiver, Juno shifted onto his knees to undo the belt of Nureyev’s robe and admired the view as it fell open. Nureyev shuddered a bit as the silky material slipped down his arms and pooled around his feet. Juno pressed in for another kiss, wrapping one arm around Nureyev’s shoulders and walking the other down his stomach teasingly.

“Think it’s pretty obvious what I want, Nureyev,” Juno replied cheekily as his fingers reached his lower abdomen.

“Use your words, dear,” Nureyev scolded lightly, grabbing Juno’s wrist gently. “Or you get nothing at all.”

Juno huffed, but it had no heat to it. Nureyev did not doubt that Juno was a bit frustrated—used to being tipped over and tumbled without ceremony as he was—but he also knew Juno thoroughly enjoyed being told what to do.

“Do I have to do this every time?” Juno asked with a pout.

“With me?” Nureyev replied with a chuckle, stooping to kiss Juno’s cheek. “Yes.”

Juno shivered and nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek before he pressed up against Nureyev, both arms around his shoulders as he untied the ribbon holding Nureyev’s braid together.

“I-I want you to fuck me into this mattress until the neighbours complain,” Juno whispered in a bit of a rush, and Nureyev’s breath hitched.

“The sound-proofing in this hotel is almost absolute, dear detective,” Nureyev responded huskily.

Juno laughed lightly before looking up at Nureyev coyly through his lashes. “I’m sure it is,” he said softly and deliberately.

Nureyev groaned and recaptured Juno’s lips, bringing both hands up to cradle the back of his head and keep him there while he kissed the breath from his lungs.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Nureyev all but growled between kisses and swallowed Juno’s excited laugh.

- - - - -

Nureyev worked to catch his breath, his arm slung around Juno’s waist so he could run his hand up and down his back soothingly. Occasionally, he would sweep his palm further to massage the muscled thigh thrown over his hip.

“Are you okay, love?” Nureyev asked around a yawn when Juno stretched with a bit of a pained sound.

“Yeah, I’m golden,” Juno said softly with a dreamy sigh, nuzzling his forehead against Nureyev’s chest before meeting his gaze with a blissed-out smile. “I’m perfect.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my love,” Nureyev hummed, stealing a chaste kiss from Juno before saying, “We should wash up before bed, though.”

Juno groaned and snuggled in closer, shaking his head with a little hmph. “Don’wanna,” he mumbled petulantly.

Nureyev laughed, just as disinterested in the prospect of getting up, but there were some general hygiene items they needed to take care of. “Come along, love, up we get,” Nureyev said, sitting up and giving Juno’s ass a sharp slap.

“Babe, if you want me out of this bed, you better knock that off,” Juno teased with a sexy sprawl, but the effect was lost when he yawned hugely.

“No offense, dear, but I don’t think either of us have the stamina to make good on any threats like that,” Nureyev laughed, and eventually dragged Juno out of the bed and into the ensuite.

The shower stall was ridiculous in its size, and set in the bathroom so one of it’s walls was just windows. The windows in the shower weren’t quite floor to ceiling, and had a tiled ledge that was about half a foot tall. There was also a safety bar that travelled along the window. The spray of the shower came from a fixture right above them, the water coming down like a perfect, warm rain. It reminded Nureyev of a rain storm he had found himself caught in the one time he had gone to earth, and Juno hummed thoughtfully when he told him as much.

Neither of them was particularly keen on turning on the lights, so they showered by the lights of the city coming through the window. Juno was looking down at Hyperion City, his city, with his hands resting on the safety bar while Nureyev lathered up a plush washcloth and began wiping his body down.

Standing flush behind Juno, Nureyev wrapped an arm around his shoulder and chest, holding him tenderly as he washed his stomach and lower. With a contented hum, he pressed a kiss to the hinge of Juno’s jaw and frowned when the detective sighed a touch too wistful for Nureyev’s comfort.

“What’s on your mind, my love?” he asked before mouthing at Juno’s throat.

“What if you could stay?” Juno asked, his tone flat but curious.

Nureyev hesitated a moment before asking, “Do you want me to answer that?”

“Yeah,” he replied after a thoughtful hum. “The honest one.”

“That would be the only one I would give you, dear detective. You’re too important and too smart for any of the others,” Nureyev sighed, and he couldn’t help the teasingly bitter tone out of his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Juno snorted, and Nureyev could hear the eye-roll. “You’re deflecting.”

“We would be happy for a bit, I think— No, I know we would be happy, at first that is. Then I would get bored,” he confessed in a sigh against Juno’s ear, and when he felt Juno tense in his arms, he added quickly, “Not of you, my love. Never of you. But I would go mad sitting still. Doing busywork.”

Juno chuckled, as if laughing at some private joke, but the humour didn’t quite reach it.

“Like a caged fox. Or something,” Juno supplied, and leaned his forehead against the glass.

“Exactly,” Nureyev replied quietly, a sad smile of his own twisting his mouth. “And if you could come with me?”

Though he couldn’t see Juno’s face completely, Nureyev could tell there were tears in his eyes with the way he bit his lower lip.

“I… I would be miserable without Benten and Rita,” he admitted, his voice watery. He lifted his hand to wipe a tear that fell away and Nureyev’s heart broke. “I don’t think I’d be happy without them at all, even in the beginning. I’m sorry—”

Nureyev turned Juno around and kissed him soundly, sighing when Juno opened for him readily. There was no way to measure who would hurt the most when it came time for Nureyev to leave, the one who could stay and would hate it, or the one who could leave but would suffer. But they didn’t have to think about that tonight.

Nureyev just wished they didn’t have to think about it at all.

“Don’t apologize, Juno,” Nureyev whispered when he pulled back to finish washing them up. “I understand.”

A short time later, they slipped back into the bed, still damp and naked from their shower. Nureyev propped himself over Juno, kissing him breathless with lazy and slow motions. With a contented noise, Juno kissed his way to the line of Nureyev’s jaw, lips pausing over the raised line of the new scar there. Nureyev shivered a bit when Juno pressed his fingers against his chest, gently feeling the jagged lines before sliding down to press his whole palm to the burn on his abdomen.

When he didn’t move his hand any further, Nureyev pulled back to look at Juno’s face.

Juno was thoughtful, looking down at the lines of his scars, stroking the burn gently with a furrowed brow. Nureyev reached up to brush his thumb across Juno’s cheekbone, below his blinded eye. The detective almost flinched away as if the touch burned before he settled and leaned into the touch.

“What are you thinking about, love?” Nureyev asked, dropping a soft kiss just below his eye.

Juno shivered under the gentle affection with a little sigh. “Are you going to get your scars reduced?” Juno asked after a bit, scrunching his face up adorably when Nureyev moved his lips to the scar on the bridge of his nose.

“Why would I?” Nureyev asked, pulling back and meeting Juno’s gaze.

The detective shrugged, glancing away and chewing his cheek. “Your whole anonymity thing?” Juno offered in a quiet mumble. There was obviously more to that thought, but Nureyev wouldn’t pry.

“Going under for surgery is risky, so I typically avoid doing so outside of emergencies,” Nureyev replied with a small smile. “I’ll simply cover them as needed if I must.”

Juno hummed at that, nodding and moved his gaze away to look at the jagged lines that criss-crossed his throat.

“Besides,” Nureyev continued, lowering himself to lay his full weight against Juno, his legs straddling his thick thighs. He gave Juno’s eye another soft kiss, and said, “I find scars to be quite… sexy.”

“Of course, you do,” Juno said with a snort.

“I do,” Nureyev replied seriously, figuring Juno didn’t have to know how much he hated the scars at the moment, and coaxed Juno into a searching kiss.

Juno didn’t respond as readily as he had expected, so Nureyev pulled back and met his eyes again. The detective was still pensive and even a bit sceptical, which was far too serious for Nureyev’s liking.

“Juno, darling,” he prompted gently. “What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

“No, you didn’t say anything wrong, just thinking,” Juno said almost flippantly, but he seemed to realize he was dismissing and deflecting. With a sigh he said, “I don’t… believe you when you say the scars don’t bother you, but that’s not— You didn’t— I get it, if you didn’t like them. They’re ugly—”

“They’re not ugly,” Nureyev interrupted firmly, and Juno glared a bit up at him. “If we’re to have these sorts of talks, dear, we should keep this… negative self-talk to a minimum.”

Juno snorted and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” Juno conceded and took a deep breath. “My ex wanted me to get mine fixed, or reduced, or whatever. He was really pushy about it, and wanted me to get a fake eye, too. Even just a basic glass one. Nothing fancy.”

“But you didn’t,” Nureyev encouraged.

“Well, obviously. I didn’t want to spend Pereyra’s hush money, and I just… didn’t want another surgery,” Juno said quietly. “I didn’t really get that it was such a big deal for him until he— until I ended things. Or, when he left.”

“Do you know why it was such a big issue with him?” Nureyev asked, even as he planned the very painful way he would dispatch the bastard. When Juno raised his eyebrow at him sceptically, it hit him instantly.

Juno had looked like Benten, until he lost his eye.

“It’s the past, and it should stay there,” Juno replied eventually, and hummed when Nureyev drew him into a gentle press of lips.

“I will be honest with you, Juno; I hate my scars, as they are right now,” Nureyev confessed when he pulled away, smiling weakly at Juno’s curious expression. “Perhaps once they’re less fresh, I will find them more tolerable, but I was considering covering them up before meeting with you tonight.”

“Why didn’t you?” Juno asked.

“Because of you, honestly,” Nureyev said, smiling openly at Juno. “I thought of you, and how beautiful I believe you to be, and your scars are part of that.”

“Jeez, Nureyev,” Juno huffed, glancing away bashfully and chewing the inside of his cheek. “You’re laying it on pretty thick.”

“All of it is the truth, my love,” Nureyev sighed with a grin. “I just can’t believe no one else had figured it out as well.”

“Well,” Juno started with a shrug, “I got you out of it, didn’t I?”

“I was avoiding celebrating decades of people being incredibly stupid and cruel to you, dear,” he chastised lightly, pulling a laugh from Juno.

“Go ahead and celebrate. I mean, I am,” Juno said, accepting another kiss with a quiet moan.

“Are you?” Nureyev asked teasingly, their lips still pressed tightly together.

“Little bit,” Juno sighed and Nureyev laughed, deepening the kiss.

Nureyev kept it up until Juno began faltering in returning the kisses, his eyes fluttering shut. The detective would shake himself awake every time his mouth fell slack under Nureyev’s, returning the kisses with renewed fervor and enthusiasm, hands finding their way into his hair to ground himself.

Eventually though, when Juno drifted off, Nureyev pulled away and let him sleep.

Nureyev laid next to Juno for a while, watching the love of his life sleep peacefully, partially lit up by the city beyond the windows. The next day, he knew he would have to leave, but he thanked every entity from every planet orbiting every star that must have answered whatever secret prayer he had whispered.

Juno Steel was such a gift he didn’t deserve, it had to have been divine intervention.

With a sigh and one last chaste kiss to Juno’s cheek, Nureyev lowered his head to his own pillow and quickly drifted off to sleep as well.

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#the penumbra podcast #the penumbra fanfic #junoverse #juno steel #jupeter #gerry writes #full fic #bittersweet

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olicitysecretsanta · 4 years

Text

Convergence

For @swiftletinthecloud

Hello! We have never met or spoken before, but I am so happy to have you as my giftee because now we have! I was so happy about your response to my anon ask about what kinds of fic you like, because so many of your interests are also mine. It was actually a problem because I had too many interesting ideas for fic that were inspired by your suggestions. Now I just have more fic to write, I guess.

Anyway, I decided to write this idea for you because it was the SHORTEST of all the ideas I had. You can see how well that turned out. What is below is 2 out of 3 total chapters. The last chapter still needs editing, so your gift will be fully complete when I post this to AO3. Until then, please enjoy these first two chapters of season 1 alternate canon!

Much love, @allimariexf

Title: Convergence

Warnings: No warnings apply

Relationship: Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak

Tags: Arrow season 1, alternate canon AU, episode tag 1x21 (The Undertaking)

Chapter 1

Oliver Queen moved like a panther through the underground casino, a sleek and beautiful predator at home among the understated opulence. His eyes strayed around the room, a careless smirk masking his close assessment of the security.

Two pit bosses, a floorman, and six armed guards, two of which flanked a hallway that must lead to Dominic Alonzo’s office. If he was going to get in there, he needed to come up with a distraction.

His mind went back to the document he’d found saved on his computer. Like all the previous messages he’d gotten over the past seven months, it took the form of a simple text file, saved prominently on the desktop of his computer in the foundry.

December 12, 2012: Harold Backman deposits $2 million to Cayman Fidelity on behalf of Dominic Alonzo, known kidnapper.

Also December 12: Walter Steele goes missing.

Coincidence? I don’t think so.

I know I normally don’t agree with your “shoot first, ask questions later” policy, but I’m willing to give you a pass on Alonzo. He seems like just the kind of low-life someone would pay to kidnap Mr. Steele. How many arrows do you think you’d need to put in Alonzo before he gave up Mr. Steele’s location - probably a lot, right?

Never mind, forget I said that. Alonzo’s private records are offline - likely stored in his office in his base of operations, an underground casino with basically its own private army. Not the best odds, even for you. But I have a plan that doesn’t involve arrows or any other pointy objects, so sit tight and I’ll contact you tomorrow.

The corners of his lips lifted at the memory. The anonymous hacker who’d been helping him certainly had a way with words, and in their months together she’d often surprised him with her uncannily insightful observations. But if she honestly thought he’d sit back and wait when they finally had a solid lead on finding Walter, maybe she didn’t know him as well as he sometimes suspected. Not when Walter had been missing for almost five months and the likelihood of him being found alive decreased every day. Not with the recorded evidence John Diggle had collected that seemed to confirm his mother had something to do with Walter’s disappearance - and that it was all connected to the List.

Oliver was tired of waiting for answers. This was something he could do. It just so happened that this time, he needed a bespoke suit of Italian wool, rather than green leather in order to do it.

Eyes tracking the movement of the guards, Oliver positioned himself at a well-situated roulette table. Several wealthy patrons crowded around the dealer, including an elegant brunette who instantly met his gaze.

“You’re Oliver Queen,” she purred, reaching out with graceful fingers to draw him toward her. Slipping easily into the role, he let his eyes travel down her body as she trailed her hand down his arm.

Choosing not to answer with words, he winked and held out his dice for her to blow on. It was enough to maintain the part he was playing, and in another life he would have taken her up on the unspoken invitation written in every line of her body. But as his eyes slid down her lithe frame, he barely saw her. Instead, he was seeking something else, some spark of her.

Huli jing.

His anonymous hacker ally.

His thoughts turned to her, as they had increasingly done over the past several months. Who was she, in her normal life? Where was she, what was she doing? When he mingled among the residents of Starling City by day, could she be right next to him, without either of them realizing it? Like always, the possibility sent a thrill of excitement through him.

Part of him was acutely aware that it was futile, even ridiculous, to entertain those thoughts, but as long as they only existed on the fringes of his mind, he indulged them. His life was his mission, and there was no room for anything else, but there was no harm in letting his mind play with the idea of her in his downtime. Not when there was no chance they could ever meet. So when he put in his appearances at Verdant, when he met up with Thea at her favorite cafe, when he picked up his mom from Queen consolidated, he allowed himself to wonder. And if his eyes caught on long red hair, a charming smile, or a long length of exposed thigh, he’d mentally compare the woman in front of him with his mental picture of her. But none of them ever had her unique, undefinable spark. And somehow, by comparison, every woman he saw seemed somehow less because they were not her.

She had contacted him for the first time seven months ago, though “contacted” hardly felt like the right term. He’d arrived at the foundry and booted up his computer one night only to find the entire system had been upgraded, and simple text document saved to the desktop:

I’m truly stunned that no one managed to trace the redistribution of Adam Hunt’s funds back to you. No one else, I mean.

Now that I mention it, I’m even more surprised you managed to steal that $40 million in the first place. Your system looks like it’s from the 80s.

(And not the good part of the 80s, like Madonna and legwarmers, to be clear.) I maybe spruced things up a little bit while I was in there. Seeing a network that poorly set up hurts me in my soul. Seriously it was like you left a crying infant on my doorstep, except it was like a 30 year old baby and it wasn’t my doorstep, because I was the one who kind of broke into your house. But my point is, you have a severely neglected computer setup, and I guess my maternal instinct kicked in. So to speak.

Oliver had barely finished reading the note before he’d ransacked the bunker, searching for evidence of a breach. When he found none, he read the note several more times, seeking hidden clues as to what the infiltrator knew, what they wanted. The program he used to take Adam Hunt’s money was something he’d taken from ARGUS, and no one should have been able to track it. Deeply alarmed, he read the note again and again. Not until the sixth time did he finally consider the playful tone of the note might be sincere, and only then did it occur to him that there might not be a threat buried in the message at all.

He remained on heightened alert for several days after that, but only on principle. The improvements she’d made (and she was a she, he was sure) to his system made his ARGUS programs run faster, and while using compromised equipment was normally a risk he would never take, his gut told him there was no danger. For reasons he didn’t examine, he found himself rereading the note, until he had it memorized word for word.

When he didn’t hear from her for three weeks, he told himself the sense of disappointment he felt was only because lingering questions felt too much like unfinished business. Not because he was intrigued by the hacker. Not because her note had made him smile the way no one had since he’d returned from the island.

He was starting to think of the incident as an amusing, but ultimately harmless one-time stunt when one night, after an afternoon of failing to get data off of Floyd Lawton’s computer and an evening taking his frustration out on a slum lord, he returned to the foundry and discovered a large data dump open on his computer - along with another note.

Blueprints to the Exchange Building, where the Unidac Industries auction is scheduled to take place. Gonna be a pretty target-rich environment. For the person who is trying to eliminate bidders in the auction via assassination, I mean. Which, to be clear, someone IS trying to do, according to the SCPD’s unreleased records. Anyway, do with this information as you wish. (Not “as you wish,” as in code for “I love you.” Obviously, I don’t even know you. Though from the captured video footage of you, I can say with confidence that you can really wear a pair of leather pants. Anyway, speaking of Westley, the papers are calling you “the vigilante” or “the hood,” but maybe you should consider adopting Dread Pirate Roberts. A name that inspires fear, so that you don’t have to do so much arrowing in order to get your point across. You should consider it. Good luck with the auction.

Oliver huffed out his nose, struck by her abrupt topic changes and her particular, rambly way of putting things before it even occurred to him to wonder how she’d managed to pull any information off Lawton’s damaged laptop. Or question whether she had any ulterior motive in doing so.

It was unusual for him to trust anyone so quickly, especially someone he knew virtually nothing about. But somehow, he did, and when her tip about Lawton proved sound, he found he wasn’t surprised at all.

After that he began to seek out her help, adopting her habit of communicating via text document saved to his computer. With each tip she left him, she proved herself invaluable to bringing down another of the city’s worst offenders. He could tell that she was brave, fearless even, and before he knew it, they had developed a rapport. And while it wasn’t exactly a partnership, it worked.

If I’m the the Dread Pirate Roberts, who are you? He asked finally, against the advice of the inner voice that cautioned him that the more he knew about her, the harder it would be to one day give her up.

But in answer, all she said was, You can call me Huli jing.

The Dark Archer, Ted Gaynor, Count Vertigo, Ken Williams, and the list went on. The notes came more frequently, and Oliver found himself looking forward to them, the first thing he’d check for every night. Even having never been there, she filled the dark, dank foundry basement with a bright presence that was just as tangible as John Diggle’s reliable support.

What do you think keeps these bad guys up at night? Probably not worrying about that one time they accidentally stared at a man for two full minutes while they were busy trying to figure out what the Cylons’ plan really was. They said they had “a Plan,” like capital P PLAN, you know? Anyway, despite what that guy probably thought, I was NOT creeping on him. But to my point, now that I think of it these criminals probably just close their eyes and get a full 8 hours every night. Sometimes it really sucks to have a conscience.

As the months wore on, he learned that she wielded a formidable intelligence, a sharp sense of humor, an unerring sense of justice, and, somehow, an unshakeable confidence in his mission. In him. She became a voice in his head that he couldn’t tune out. And he found, more and more, that he didn’t want to.

Anyway, while I’m at it, did you ever think about not killing some of these thugs? Look, I get it - they’re taking shots at you and you’re just trying to stay alive, but on the other hand, they’re just hired guns and you’re…you know. You. All I’m saying is, with your aim - which I have seen evidence of, so please don’t start with the false modesty - you could just as easily be shooting these guys in the hand or leg or something, you know? Anyway. Just a thought.

Before he realized it, she had come to haunt his thoughts. When he was wrestling with a problem, he found himself playing out imaginary conversations with her, unerringly channeling her firm conviction and steady support.

He didn’t even know what she looked like, but he couldn’t get her out of his head. Sometimes he thought he was half in love with her. No; that was ridiculous. It was the fantasy, the not knowing, that fascinated him. The idea that she could be anyone. He told himself didn’t want to know who she really was, because there was no way the reality could live up to the fantasy he’d built up in his mind.

A rough voice, intentionally pitched to grab his attention, cut into his reverie. “Is that Oliver Queen?”

“No, couldn’t be,” came a loud, theatrical reply, drawing closer toward him.

“Why not?” the first voice asked from somewhere right behind him. Oliver turned his head to present the speakers with a careless smirk.

“Because Oliver Queen wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this,” the second man sneered, pressing a gun against his back.

The gun cocked. “Well then I guess he has a death wish.”

So much for blending in, he thought as they dragged him toward the back hallway.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Felicity stilled her frantic movements to free herself from the ties that were cutting into her wrists as the door abruptly opened and a man was pushed inside. She tried not to gape as her captor stepped in behind him and roughly zip-tied his hands behind his back, exactly as he had done to Felicity not ten minutes before.

Despite her situation, she couldn’t stop the flow of words that spilled out of her mouth when she saw who had joined her. “Oh, great. It’s you.” The newcomer whipped his head up and she locked gazes with a pair of striking blue eyes.

Strangely, the first thought that crossed her mind was that if she had known her curiosity about the hood was going to lead to crossing paths with Oliver Queen, she would never have tried to solve the mystery of Adam Hunt’s $40 million in the first place.

Though to be fair, her interest in the Hood pre-dated the article that mentioned Hunt’s missing money, so she couldn’t entirely blame her entanglement with the vigilante on her compulsive need to unravel knotty mysteries. And it wasn’t just the allure of a dark and brooding man who could pull off leather, either. Something about his single-minded dedication and passion, at the risk to his own freedom and safety, was simply irresistible.

It was curiosity that first led her to him. Maybe boredom. Her job was monotonous and unchallenging, something she’d sought out after her brief brush with hacktivism had backfired so spectacularly. When she first read about the Hood, she dismissed him as some whacko loose canon. But she followed the story - and the police reports - for lack of anything better to do. But when she read that Adam Hunt claimed the Hood had stolen $40 million, Felicity was intrigued. A crazy person couldn’t - wouldn’t - pull something like that off. So she hacked into Hunt’s accounts, following the trail back to a program that emptied the money and redistributed it to Hunt’s victims. It was shockingly easy, like following a flashing neon sign, and she was legitimately stunned that the police hadn’t managed to do the same. They also had no idea that the missing money had been returned to its rightful owners. On impulse, she erased the digital evidence.

She could have left it at that, but the mystery was too compelling. She told herself she just wanted to make sure she hadn’t just enabled a psycho or terrorist to do even more psychotic and terrifying things, but the truth was, the fact that he’d quietly returned Hunt’s victims’ money to them cast him in an entirely unexpected light. She needed to know more.

She found that his system was alarmingly, disturbingly unprotected. And primitive. Really, it wasn’t even tolerable for the tiny amount of poking around and passive monitoring that she planned to do. Which is why she discreetly updated speed and capacity as much as she could without added hardware, then added a few dozen security protocols, because anything less was begging the police to come find him.

Then she established several monitoring programs and alerts, and waited. Just a few weeks later, she got an alert that an unprotected device had been plugged in - a quick remote in revealed that it was one of those Tuff laptops, with a damaged system. It was clear that the Hood hadn’t been able to access the drive, but Felicity was curious, so she remotely cloned the data and opened it on her own system. When she discovered the blueprints of the Exchange Building on the drive, she remembered that the Unidac auction was shortly going to be held there, which naturally reminded her of recent news that one of bidders, James Holder of Holder Group, had recently been murdered. Which naturally then led to a little bit of unsanctioned poking around the SCPD’s internal files, and before she knew it the she found herself composing a message to the Hood before she’d even consciously decided to get involved.

After all, she didn’t actually want to be involved. She was just an IT girl, and she intended to keep a low profile. But the possibility that she could help prevent another murder weighed on her conscience, so she left a message pointing him in the right direction, hoping her suspicions were false.

When she heard about the shooting at the auction, she poured herself a glass of wine - well, a bottle, really - and gave herself a talk. It wasn’t that she wasn’t glad she’d helped prevent an even greater catastrophe, because she was. It was just that the reality of the situation finally hit her, and she was faced with a choice.

Get involved, take a stance, use her powers in the real world again? She’d been down this road, she’d seen what her interference was capable of. She’d played with fire and hadn’t just gotten burned; she’d burned down her entire world - and Cooper’s.

But the Hood wasn’t Cooper. He wasn’t innocent. He wasn’t naive to the forces he was playing with. She wasn’t sure what he was. He’d killed, and he would kill again, she was sure.

But as much as she couldn’t condone the killing, she also couldn’t ignore the good that he’d done, and she realized she already didn’t have a choice. Something was happening in her city, the signs were all around her, and choosing to do nothing would only make her complicit.

From then on, she kept tabs on the Hood’s activities, always leaving documents on his desktop explaining, briefly, what he needed to know. It wasn’t long until he began leaving notes of his own.

Through unspoken agreement, they never asked each other personal questions, but between the lines, she gained a sense of the man he was. Compassionate. Loyal. Selfless.

When Oliver Queen was arrested as the suspected Hood, Felicity instantly dismissed the idea. She knew about the arresting officer’s personal grudge against Oliver Queen, which explained why he pursued him like a dog with a bone. But Felicity knew it was impossible; she knew what kind of person Oliver Queen was, and there was no overlap with the kind of person the vigilante was.

Aside from that, she purposely avoided speculating about who the Hood could be. If she had wanted to know, she could have found out easily enough, but she didn’t want to know. She told herself it didn’t matter; that the work he was doing was what was important. She didn’t want to put a face to the hood, because then she would begin to worry about him.

More than she already did, that is. Despite not knowing his name, she felt a connection with him that sometimes felt stronger for their mutual anonymity. His notes were always brief, especially compared to hers, but she learned to read what he didn’t say. And when he was repeatedly crucified in the media while his quietly heroic actions went unnoticed, he never complained, never faltered in his mission. He never even acknowledged the subtle tones of praise layered into her notes. She would almost suspect him of being a robot if it weren’t for the clear passion that underscored every action.

So when Walter Steele gave her the notebook that turned out to be filled with names that correlated with the criminals the vigilante was confronting, she didn’t say anything. There was too much she still didn’t know about the notebook to risk jeopardizing their relationship over it. Because if there was one thing she did know, it was that she trusted him.

When Mr. Steele went missing, however, she had to break her silence. Without giving away details that could expose her own identity, she presented him with digital evidence of Moira Queen’s involvement of the events that likely got her husband kidnapped, and asked him for help.

Which was how she now found herself in this hideously decorated criminal lair staring into the supremely beautiful face of Oliver Queen.

Chapter 2

“Oh great. It’s you.”

Oliver looked up at the sarcastic words being spoken by a stunning blonde. Even as he was roughly manhandled, his hands being zip-tied behind his back, he couldn’t help but be a little offended at her tone. “Excuse me?” Beautiful women treating him like some kind of disease was something he’d never experienced before, and while he wasn’t the same person he used to be, he had to admit his ego took a hit.

She stared at him silently, eyes flashing with undisguised contempt, until after Dominic Alonzo’s minion had left the room.

“Oliver Queen?” she finally answered distastefully, tilting her head at him in an exaggerated motion, as if his name was explanation enough. “Entitled billionaire and general asshole?”

Her stomach swooped as his eyes searched her face. Disturbingly, and contrary to the cool attitude she was projecting, Felicity found his presence a little overwhelming, not quite matching the plastic and glossy picture presented by the tabloids. Rather than being some kind of smarmy Trust Fund Ken, in person he was exquisitely human. Felicity had always suspected she was immune to the appeal of a man in a suit, but on him, the tapered line from broad shoulder to narrow waist suggested an essential masculinity that awoke a deeply primal response she’d never experienced before. In contrast to the brutal strength of his body, his eyes were startlingly expressive; his chiseled jaw was complemented by soft, sensual lips. In short, he was utterly, unfairly beautiful in a way that affected her immediately, physically, and urgently.

“Wow, okay,” Oliver scoffed, unaware of her internal struggle. “Most people lead with ‘Are you okay, Mr. Queen?’ ‘How did you survive all those years alone, Mr. Queen?’ ‘What does it feel like to be the only survivor in an accident that killed your father, Mr. Queen?’” He spoke harshly, wielding the crude words like a club. While he usually found the subject too intrusive to mention to anyone, let alone complete strangers, something about this woman’s fiery disdain was really getting under his skin, and extreme measures were called for.

Felicity smiled insincerely, holding on to her irritation like a shield from the confusing wave of sympathy that, along with his sheer attractiveness, threatened to undo her. This man slept with his girlfriend’s sister, she firmly reminded herself. “Well, I’m sorry, but my concern didn’t really seem necessary, given the fact that you seem utterly unaffected by what you went through. I caught your appearance at the opening of Queen Consolidated’s Applied Sciences building,” she added witheringly. “You seemed perfectly okay. Or at least as okay as you ever were.”

Oliver crossed his arms, bothered by her words even though the image she described was the exact public persona he’d been purposefully crafting. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t stand the idea that this woman found him so completely and vehemently offensive. Shaking his head, he tried a different tack. “Have we met before? Have I done something to offend you?” There was something compelling and almost familiar about her, but he was pretty sure he would remember if they’d met.

She scoffed dismissively. “No, definitely not.”

“Well, you sure have a lot of opinions about me for someone who doesn’t know me.” His eyes ran over her again, trying to figure out why she seemed so familiar. She was undeniably beautiful, with delicate features animated by a streak of passion that was not characteristic of the type of woman he’d have gone for before the island.

“Oh, I know all about you, Oliver Queen. If it’s on the internet, I can find it. Not -” her eyes flew to the ceiling as she turned pink, “not that I’ve looked into you!” Her sudden lack of composure was completely unexpected and disarming, and Oliver was intrigued and charmed by the new side of Felicity it revealed. And, if he was being honest, gratified by the suggestion that maybe she was not as immune to him as he originally thought. “It’s just that I work for your company,” she continued, straightening her shoulders and meeting his eyes again as sarcasm crept back into her tone, “and it’s a little hard to avoid hearing about all your little…adventures and mishaps.”

“Hmm,” he answered, covering the dismay he felt at hearing her refer to his past actions when he suddenly, illogically, wanted her to know that he wasn’t that person anymore. “You work for Queen Consolidated?”

“Yeah, I do.” She pinned him with a fierce look. “But don’t go getting any weird ideas. I don’t work for you.”

Felicity rolled her eyes to illustrate how distasteful she found that idea, and to cover up the effect his nearness was having on her. This was Oliver Queen, Frat Boy Extraordinaire, Professional Heartbreaker. She should not be flattered by any interest he showed to her. Anyway, he was probably just talking to her because there was no one else to talk to, as they were both literally imprisoned together. Speaking of, she needed to stop being distracted by Oliver Queen’s whole overwhelmingness, and start figuring out a way out of her handcuffs so she could carry out her plan to infiltrate Dominic Alonzo’s computer. She was lucky that when they caught her counting cards they brought her here, at least. Though she would have preferred that she hadn’t gotten caught at all, so she could have found her way here without the zip-tie cuffs, as she had planned. But dammit, she was new to this. She didn’t know anything about going undercover in an underground casino. As evidenced by the very great misfortune of finding herself trapped with Oliver Queen, of all people. Well, at least his presence solved one problem. “So anyway, how is it that Oliver Queen ends up handcuffed in the back of an underground casino?” she asked, deliberately toning down her attitude in the hopes that he’d prove cooperative.

“I could ask you the same thing, Miss…” he trailed off in question, a clear indication that she should fill in her name, as he tried to figure out how to respond.

The truth was certainly not an option. Even if he could trust her with his secret - and for some inexplicable reason, he did feel generally inclined to trust her - doing so would put her at risk. He couldn’t even tell her a half-truth. Sure, the whole city at this point knew that his step-father was missing, possibly kidnapped, probably dead, but there was no good reason why Oliver Queen would be investigating that. Or that he should have figured out that Alonzo was the person who had him kidnapped.

Felicity met his eyes warily, aware that she didn’t have an acceptable explanation for being there either, and they came to a silent agreement not to press each other for information. For now. “Felicity Smoak,” she supplied.

He smiled. She stared back, refusing to be charmed, even though she detected a hint of dimple.

Needing to get him to stop smiling at her, because she was much more susceptible than she wanted him to know, she hastened on, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can help me.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Help you?” Help her do what? He didn’t expect his co-hostage to have any sort of plan; rather, he was busy trying to figure out how he could convince her to stay calm, and possibly hide in a closet, while he dislocated his thumb, got out of the zip-ties, searched through the office, and then called the police to come rescue them.

It wasn’t an ideal plan; he considered all the variables, all the things that could go wrong. Getting made definitely hadn’t been part of his plan. He’d hoped to sneak in the back without being noticed, not get thrown there with the attention of Alonzo and his thugs. And Felicity proved an even bigger problem. While he could easily hold himself back and take a beating if necessary, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do the same if they threatened her; and if it came to a fight, he wasn’t sure how he was going to preserve his secret.

“Help me get out of these zip-ties,” Felicity answered, taking a deliberate step toward Oliver. Her heart was pounding at what she was about to suggest, but she schooled her expression to appear nonchalant, annoyed by the necessity, even. Not flustered. And definitely, definitely not turned on by the prospect. She took a deep breath. “I need you to get the knife out of my bra.”

Oliver blinked. No words could have been more unexpected coming from her mouth. “What?”

She rolled her eyes to distract from the fact that she was blushing. Eyes firmly locked on the ceiling, she elaborated, “There is a pocketknife in my bra and we can use it to cut our binds.”

Oliver stared at her in wonder, steadfastly ignoring the primal thrill that ran through him at her suggestion. It seemed he had severely underestimated Felicity Smoak. His mind was racing with questions, but the one that he blurted out was “Why do you have a pocketknife in your bra?”

“Mr. Queen!” she flared, exasperated nerves causing her to meet his gaze. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

Oliver’s mind was suddenly reeling with images of what she was proposing. In an instinctual stalling tactic, he said the first words that came to him. “Mr. Queen was my father.”

Felicity gaped at him.

Oliver shook his head at himself, saying nothing as he attempted to get his head on straight. He considered her plan rationally. Aside from the question of why it was so important to Felicity that she get out of her cuffs, and the mystery of what she planned to do once she was free of them, the fact of the matter was that going along with her plan would free him to search the office without having to dislocate his thumb. Deciding to continue their no-questions truce, he nodded. “Okay. But…,” he trailed off, throat dry as he looked looking down into unexpectedly near wide blue eyes.

Felicity was pretty sure they were both imagining what he was about to do. “Yeah,” she exhaled, suddenly very aware of the cadence of his breaths, his intoxicatingly masculine scent. Throughout the course of their discussion, he had moved closer to her, and now his expressive eyes fixed on her, waiting. “You won’t be able to see what you’re doing, but if you’re standing, I can kneel behind you and you can kind of…feel around.”

Oliver’s eyes widened as she spoke, her matter-of-fact words making the situation more real. More shocking. It wasn’t that he hadn’t done more with women he’d known for less time in much less dire circumstances, but something about touching Felicity in these circumstances felt wrong, like a violation, and he suddenly, irrationally found himself wanting to get to know her first, and to tell her about himself, about the real him. He briefly reconsidered his original plan of dislocating his thumb.

Mortified by Oliver’s reaction to her words, Felicity tried to cut the tension. “I mean, I know it’s not ideal, but I figure it’s gotta be better than the alternative.”

Caught up, Oliver automatically asked, “What’s the alternative?”

Her eyes dropped involuntarily to his lips and she swayed a little toward him as she whispered, “Using your mouth.” But when her eyes flicked up to meet his, neither of them were laughing.

Oliver’s mouth fell open in surprise, his gaze dropping to the deep vee of her bodice, before dragging back up to her face. The action pulled him even closer toward her, and a rush of heat washed over him as he fully took her in for the first time. The red chiffon dress clung to her curves, outlining a deeply feminine, lush body. She was a study in contradictions, watching him through darkly-lashed eyes that were somehow both innocent and knowing; her face lightly dusted with freckles that contrasted alluringly with a sinfully soft mouth. She watched him with dilated pupils and parted lips, and his cock twitched in response.

But then reality crashed back in on him as she interrupted, “Not that I’m suggesting anything! I’m not coming on to you or anything.”

Oliver blinked, trying to regain control by reminding himself where they were and why. Catching her gaze, he nodded in an attempt to reassure her. Hoping that she didn’t pick up on just how affected he himself was.

Felicity took a deep, centering breath. It didn’t make any sense that Oliver Queen was having this effect on her. He was just some shallow billionaire, a douchebag womanizer. None of it made any sense. When he looked at her, it was like he saw her. And as much as she told herself it was impossible, it looked as if he wanted her. No. She had to be projecting. And she didn’t want him to want her, anyway. Sure, he was gorgeous. So, so masculine and touchable he smelled so good, with an essential manliness that was softened by those eyes…but no. He was still Oliver Queen, and the fact that she was so attracted to him only explained why so many women had given in to his appeal, despite the long list of reasons to avoid him. She might have judged those women in the past, but now she could not.

She squared her shoulders, trying to clear the attraction from her mind and prepare for what had to happen next. “So, okay?” She chanced a look in his direction, not quite meeting his eyes.

Oliver nodded, and Felicity took refuge in remembering her mission. After all, she was here to help the Hood, and she could not have her sudden weakness to very handsome men - or rather, one specific very handsome man - getting in the way of that.

“All right, just turn a little to your right,” she directed hoarsely, nodding encouragingly as he complied. “Okay, stop there. I’ll position myself so you should be able to locate the knife relatively easily.” She lowered herself to the ground behind him as she was speaking, her voice only slightly wavering with the awareness that Oliver Queen was about to feel her up. “It’s on the left side,” she rambled, masking her response to the feeling of his surprisingly rough fingers dipping below her bodice, carrying on as if this were normal, as if she were directing someone to the library, as if Oliver Queen’s very large hands weren’t currently sliding along the sides of her breasts…her words tapered off and she bit her bottom lip, concentrating on not moaning out loud because oh god, his fingers brushed against her nipple and her body responded as if he was tugging on a string tied directly to her thrumming core.

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, trying to be quick, methodical, and clinical, but he had felt enough breasts in his life to know that Felicity Smoak’s were a rarity. As much as he tried to stay on task,he found himself getting distracted, unable to stop the picture that drifted through his mind. Perfect breasts, not large, but extremely full; firm but very soft, with tight nipples that his fingertips couldn’t help brushing over repeatedly as he wedged his large hand into the tight space of her bodice. Tight, very sensitive nipples, he corrected unhelpfully, judging by the way she gasped softly in response to his inadvertent touches. As her voice trailed off, he remained aware of the soft catching of her breath, and even with his back to her, he he felt completely in tune with her, much more intimately than if they had only been having sex. Finally, his fingers touched upon warm metal, and even though the entire encounter lasted less than fifteen seconds, he was out of breath as he withdrew the pocketknife and turned to meet her eyes. His dick was rock hard, and the look she returned him said she was equally affected.

She was staring up at him, speechless, so he took the lead, flipping open the knife and directing her in a soft voice, “Turn around. I’ll cut your ties.”

Felicity nodded silently, turning so that they were back to back and trusting that he wouldn’t cut her as he twisted around to line her zip-ties up with the blade. “Okay,” he told her when the knife was in position, “try an up and down sawing motion,” and they easily and wordlessly fell into a rhythm that quickly parted the plastic around her wrists.

“Oh thank god,” she exhaled as her hands came free. She instantly started rubbing her wrists, then silently turned to take the knife.

Oliver felt her warm hand close around his wrists, steadying him as she positioned the blade against his ties. He took a steadying breath as she freed him. “I probably shouldn’t do this,” she commented, “since my plan is to maintain the illusion that we’re still tied up and that would be easier to do if you actually were still tied up, but I have to admit that I’ll feel safer if your hands are free.” With a final tug, the plastic came apart, but she didn’t release his hands immediately. Inexplicably, her words inflated him with a disproportionate sense of pride and purpose. He liked that she felt safe with him, that even without knowing his alternate identity, and despite her pre-existing opinion of Oliver Queen, she somehow trusted him. He was struck with an acute desire to be worthy of that trust, and a deep yearning to prove to her that it was not misplaced.

After a long moment, Felicity dropped his hands, taking large step backward in a move designed to decrease the tension. Truthfully, she was a little impressed by Oliver Queen. He was a lot more gentle, sensitive, and thoughtful than she would have thought. She had expected him to be obnoxious, entitled, and immature, the type of person who, finding himself in this situation, would either panic or make a joke of the whole thing. Either way, she’d have expected him to be throwing his money around trying to save himself, not quietly and calmly following her lead. And no way would she have predicted he was capable of being so respectful of her body. Probably more respectful of her body than she was being of his. Not that she had forced him to feel her up…but she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t enjoyed it. Fleetingly, she wondered if it counted as sexual harassment to get turned on when a man was merely trying to locate a knife in your bra so you could escape a kidnapping situation.

For his part, Oliver’s admiration for Felicity was growing exponentially. She was much more resourceful and level headed than he would have expected anyone to be in her situation. From the moment she opened her mouth, she’d already proven herself smarter and more sensible than most people in his experience - she had a cautious, strategic manner that he was unused to in other people.

“So now what?” he asked, caught up in the intelligence in her eyes, the mystery of her presence. Even though he was the one with a plan and she was technically just an inconvenience, he momentarily set that aside because he just wanted to know. He wanted to know what she was planning to do. He wanted to know her. “You mentioned you have a plan, one that requires your hands be free,” he prodded, hoping she would fill in some pieces of the puzzle.

“That’s for me to know,” she countered playfully, holding his gaze as she reached into her bra, pulling something else out, “and you to find out.”

His eyes widened and dropped to her chest before snapping back up, unsure if she meant anything by it. Again, it was the last thing he expected. And again, it set his heart racing.

“Or, I mean, not to find out. There will be no finding out, from you. Just stay there and look pretty.” Her eyes grew rounder. “Not that you’re pretty, it’s just an expression. Just sit there.” She backed away until she ran into the desk, and then she dropped to the ground and started feeling around underneath it.

He watched her with amused eyes, interested in her actions and utterly captivated by her. “I’m not pretty?” he pressed, curious to know how she would react.

Her head popped up from the other side of the desk, sending him an exasperated look. “No! I mean, yes! Very pretty like, really very attractive, objectively speaking I mean, I’m not coming on to you. It’s science; you’re scientifically pretty.” Her head disappeared again beneath the desk.

Oliver stood up, drawn to her, until he was leaning over the desk looking down at her ass protruding from under the desk. “Scientifically pretty?”

Felicity visibly startled, then took a deep breath, then carefully, and with as much dignity as possible, crawled backwards and rose out from under the desk, smoothing down her hair. She arched her brow at him. “Don’t tell me you’re one of these anti-science climate change denier people.”

Oliver guffawed, unable to come up with a fitting response. She was unlike anyone he’d ever come across. Instead of answering, he watched as she sat herself at the desk and instantly penetrated the password protection, diving with singular focus directly into the files on Alonzo’s computer. “What are you doing?” he asked after a moment, fascinated by her actions. He knew time was precious, that he should be taking the opportunity to riffle through drawers, search filing cabinets, etc., but rather than pursue his mission, he couldn’t help but pull at the loose thread that was Felicity Smoak.

She lifted distracted eyes to him, giving the distinct impression that he had yanked her out of a very deep concentration, despite the fact that it had only been twenty seconds since she’d sat down. He expected her to crack another joke, but instead she blinked and said seriously, “It’s better you don’t know,” before returning her attention to the computer.

Surprised, Oliver slipped off the desk he’d been casually leaning against, the hair raising on the back of his neck; her words were like a warning, almost ominous. Who was she? Why was she here? What was she involved in? Habits shaped over the past five years forced him to question her motives: honest people rarely found themselves involved with guys like Dominic Alonzo; he had to consider that Felicity might not be as innocent as she seemed; he had to wonder if she might even be on the list. But as soon as the thought surfaced, he dismissed it. His five years away had also taught him to trust his instincts, and every single part of him was shouting at him to trust her.

“Okay,” she announced a few seconds later, “I need you to come here and keep an eye on this feed.”

Oliver stepped up beside her to where she was pointing at CCTV footage in a corner of the computer monitor. “What is that?”

“Security feed, showing the corridor just outside. This way we can know ahead of time if anyone’s coming.” Her eyes returned to the screen, where she was still methodically searching through the computer’s files.

“Felicity,” Oliver said firmly, coming to a decision even as his eyes obediently remained glued on the feed.

“Hmm?”

Oliver took a deep breath, his racing mind rapidly drawing conclusions that he couldn’t quite believe were true. But every objection he came up with was easily disproved; rather, every detail about her only seemed to confirm the picture that was forming in his mind.

Huli jing.

“Felicity,” he repeated, and this time the name felt familiar on his tongue, like he had been saying it his whole life, like he had been born to say it. “You need to tell me why you’re here.”

He knew. There was no denying it; when she spoke, it was with the voice he’d been hearing in his head for seven months. When she smiled, it was with the unique humor that had amused him like nothing else had been able to do since returning from the island. And when she looked at him, it was with eyes that perceived all the things he didn’t say. It was her. But he needed to hear her say it.

“Oliver, look,” she began, unexpectedly turning to meet his eyes. He was nearly flattened by the look of sincere regret and conviction in her eyes. “I’m sorry about before, what I said.”

His eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“When I said you hadn’t changed. I was wrong. The person the tabloids make you out to be - that’s not who you are. And I’m sorry I misjudged you.”

Oliver’s lips parted in surprise. “That’s not -”

“No, it is necessary,” she pressed, misunderstanding what he was going to say. “I made assumptions, and they were completely unfair.” Over his protests, she continued, “I don’t know what you did out there to piss off the casino bosses, but I’m really sorry you’re caught up in this. Please,” she emphasized, “just believe me when I tell you that the less you know, the safer you’ll be.” She reached out a hand but started to pull it back before it made contact with his chest, and he caught it between his own before she could fully withdraw.

“Felicity.” He fixed her with a steady, knowing look, and he heard her breath catch, and felt her pulse pick up under his fingers. “I need to ask you something.”

Felicity’s eyes widened at his sudden, inexplicable intensity and focus. She had no idea Oliver Queen was capable of such depth and sincerity. His large hands were cradling her, his thumb soothing over her wrist, and she had long ago surrendered to that penetrating look in his eyes. “What?” she breathed, not knowing what Oliver Queen could tell her that required so much intensity and passion, but suddenly very much wanting to find out.

His words were the last thing she expected to hear. “Are you here because of the Hood?”

Her stomach dropped. “What?”

Before he could respond, he caught sight of someone on the security feed walking up the hallway. “Someone’s coming!”

She turned to the feed, then instantly went to the computer and, with a blur of hands on the keyboard, logged off and put the monitor to sleep. There was no time for anything else, so without thinking any further, Oliver reached around her body, pressing her wrists together behind her in an approximation of being handcuffed, secured his own hands behind his back, then pressed his mouth to hers in an urgent kiss.

Felicity gasped in surprise, and he instinctively used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, coaxing her lips open, his tongue seeking hers. After a stunned moment, she responded with ardor, the passion exploding like a match to dry tinder.

Kissing her was like putting the last piece of the puzzle in place.

For seven months, he had been drawn to the woman with intriguingly contradictory parts: a dizzyingly sharp partner who amused and irritated and charmed and inspired him.

For seven months, the more space he allowed her in his mission, the wider the empty hole that only she could fill had become in his life. He hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge it, but meeting her face to face meant he could no longer deny how he felt about her. He had been drawn to her since he saw her, his body seeking any excuse to touch hers. Everything about her provoked and challenged and called to him; her passion, her intelligence, her humor, her bravery, and the glimpses of vulnerability.

She was the woman he’d been waiting for, and if the way she was responding to him was any indication, she’d been waiting for him too.

He bore down on her, covering her with his body, and it was everything he could do to keep his hands behind his back. The need to touch her is like electricity in his veins, and he forgot everything but the urgent need to be close to her.

“What’s going on?” The voice broke into the moment like a bucket of cold water.

Oliver’s lips released Felicity’s reluctantly, and she met his eyes as she pulled back. Her pupils were nearly black, her lips parted and swollen, and the sight sent a jolt through his body to his already throbbing dick.

“Oliver Queen, you really can’t control yourself, can you?” asked Dominic Alonzo, striding into the room. “I’d almost be impressed if you weren’t such a pain in my ass.”

Oliver glanced once more at Felicity, and the last thought he had before turning his attention to Alonzo was that she looked utterly shell-shocked.

…to be continued…

#arrow #olicity #olicity secret santa #goodbye olicity #submission

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scattershotmind · 4 years

Text

Samyah (OC)

Gonna put it below the cut because this is probably going to be long! ALSO @eisehaus , you've been tagged!

The basics:

Birthday: May 30th, 2001 (Tropical Zodiac: Gemini, Chinese Zodiac: Snake)

Age: 19 Years

Gender: Female

Height: 5′5″

Eye Color: Gold

Hair Color: Jet Black

Skin Tone: (The photo above is a little too pale) Her skin tone is best describe as a light-medium, usually slightly tanned (from long hours spent in the sun working), beige with slight olive undertones

Pets: Two cats; one female orange tabby with amber eyes named Venus and one male black cat with green eyes named Titan. She also has a solid white female Blizzard Corn Snake (pictured above, she goes with Sam almost everywhere) that she named Astaroth.

Clothing style: Her favorite color is black, first of all. She has a weird sense of style, in all honesty. She doesn’t mind showing skin, as long as none of her cleavage is showing and as long as her butt is fully covered. She’ll wear shorts and crop tops as long as they meet the aforementioned requirements. She does prefer jeans, tank tops/t-shirts, typically steel-toed black combat boots, and her very prized black leather jacket. She loves leather in general though, so anything leather is bound to become part of her wardrobe, such as vests, jewelry, etc. She loves rings and necklaces, and tends to always have some type of choker on. Her favorite choker happens to be a gunmetal colored, medium-size linked chain that fits around her neck perfectly.

Piercings and tattoos: She’s only pierced on her ears, but those piercings climb up the outer side of her ears. Two piercings on the lobe, then 5 piercings spread out along her ear, going up into the cartilage at the top. As for tattoos, she has a black and white cat yin yang tattoo on the inside of her left arm, about 2 inches down from her wrist. On her back, she has a set tribal wings, the base of the wings sitting between her shoulder blades on either side of her spine with the actual wings stretching up to stop just below the top of her shoulders and coming to a stop at the middle of her back, the tips curling in towards each other. In between the two bases of the wings sits a simple trinity knot. On her right bicep, she has a Chinese stye dragon wrapped like a cuff, going all the way around her arm 3 times with the head at the top, pointing up towards her shoulder and the tail at the bottom, pointing down towards her elbow.

Body description: Coming in at 5′5″, she’s not really tall, nor is she specifically short by human standards. She’s on the slimmer side with some muscle definition in her biceps, thighs, calves, and, while not extremely sharp, you can see the six pack on her stomach. Her feminine assets are decent and fairly average, she doesn’t have many complaints there.

Likes: Rock/Metal music, drums, guitar, anime, video games, baking, belly dancing, tarot cards, working out, singing, chocolate, hugs, cats, snakes, pretty much all animals, cars, working on cars, medical stuff.

Dislikes: Most cleaning chores (Does them anyways though), yelling, fighting, being touched out of nowhere (like sneaking up on her and touching her, she will try and punch you), her parents, alcohol, drugs, typically kids but will put up with them, parties, large crowds of people.

Hobbies: Absolutely loves to work on cars and their engines, can and will tear engines down and rebuild them, playing guitar/drums, rescuing animals, loves learning about and has taken classes on medical stuff so she knows her basics of caring for wounds, and resuscitation.

Personality: Samyah is a fairly feisty person. She talks shit back to people and can be very sassy if she’s in the mood for it. Her mouth is that of a sailor’s, and it has and will get her into trouble if she’s not careful. She doesn’t hesitate to speak her mind or stand up for others if she feels it’s needed. She’s fairly easy going and loves to have fun. She also is fairly soft for those she cares about. She can tend to become somewhat motherly, checking in on her loved ones, bringing them food, just basically trying to take care of them in small ways. She’ll gladly give them advice if they ask for it. If one of them falls sick, she can and will take care of them until they feel better, borderline hovering. Let’s not even get into how much of a doting and fawning person she becomes when caring for animals. Despite all of this, there are times where she becomes very shy and soft spoken. Conversely, when angered, she can and will lash out at the people around her. She tends to need time to vent out her frustrations, usually through music, playing drums/guitar, or working out. Occasionally, she’ll sing her feelings out, but would be extremely embarrassed if someone heard her.

Other info?: She’s lactose intolerant.

The backstory:

Sam was thrown into, as she calls it, ‘the system’ at the fairly young age of 13, right after the death of her (scumbag) father and subsequent disappearance of her (deadbeat) mother. Basically, she was abandoned, so she was put into the adoption system. Her life passed her by like dark storm clouds that just kept failing to release rain. She wasn’t adopted because people always preferred smaller, younger babies. So, around the time she turned 15, she became a bit of a problem child. She skipped school, and when she was at school she got into fights with kids who bullied her. She did keep away from smoking, but dabbled in alcoholic drinks occasionally. However, it was around this time that most of her passions began to surface. She made few friends, but those few introduced her to the things that helped her start to straighten up. She learned how to play the drums and electric guitar, and turned to those instruments instead of taking her anger out in a fight. She ended up learning how to read tarot cards, and even learned the only style of dance she knows to this day; belly dancing. She found a passion for weight lifting and working out in general, and began to aspire to build her strength to protect herself and her small friend group. Heck, her friends even got her into anime, video games, and cosplaying. They became as thick as thieves during their high school years.

Living in the system was no joke though. Between girls meaner than she was, and guardians who were only in it for the money, her life wasn’t exactly great. She often got bullied into doing chores for the other girls, and this is where the other side of her personality made itself known. While she wanted to be and acted like this badass, headstrong, fearless girl at school, she lacked most of her bravado at ‘home’. The quieter, perhaps even shy, side of her surfaced. She put up with the bullying and just did as she was told. She learned how to cook and bake from this, and did end up developing a love for baking.

When she turned 16, she received news of her mother’s overdose. She was officially an orphan, with both of her parents now dead. She often felt like there might have been something wrong with her, because she wasn’t even upset about it. Her abusive childhood under their roof, paired with the rougher life of living in an adoption home plus her frequent fighting and bullying made her more numb emotionally. Or, that’s how she preferred to be around others. When alone, she often felt sad and empty, though as the months passed she became happier again through a lot of work. She’d never have to worry about her crazy mother coming to find her, so that was a plus.

Eventually, she turned 18 and was allowed to move into her own place. She immediately got a job and worked towards going to college. Between 16 and 18, she got her shit together and straightened up, putting herself to the task of passing high school and graduating. She took both automotive classes and medical classes in high school, and she adored them both and couldn’t pick which one to major in when she went to college. She planned on waiting to enter college when she had a fairly decent amount saved up from her job, but things happened. She turned 19, and as the fall began to approach, she suddenly found herself waking up surrounded by demons in a different realm. Oh boy, she wasn’t ready for it.

BONUS:

Samyah's demon form, I finally decided on it lol

#ValSam OC #Samyah

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blankrslate07 · 4 years

Text

Oho, you have read my mind, anon!

( I was supposed to post this yesterday, but Tumblr was being uncooperative as usual.)

Name:

Avel Wheeler

Gender/Sex:

Male

Age:

Species:

Human/Red Sentient Hybrid

Sexuality:

Asexual, Biromantic

Relatives:

Vert Wheeler (Biological Father)

Krytus (Biological Father)

Sage (Aunt)

Jack Wheeler (Grandfather)

Vert's Mother (Grandmother)

Appearance:

Mostly similar to his father, Vert. Having pale skin, and blue (kind of greenish) eyes. His hair is short, curly, and slightly pale blonde, with two strands on the sides of his head that are hard as a rock and unbendable, the roots coloured red as well.

His body is on the slim side, but still lean. The only parts that of a Red Sentient are his hands and knees down to the feet.

Avel wears a white turtleneck sweater with black stripes, collar and hems. A red vest that has gold trims and buttons. Three straps of brown leather on his wrists, and black, durable, leather gloves. His pants is made out of the same material as his gloves and tucked into a pair of boots with metal tips and soles.

Underneath all of these clothings, is a necklace with a silver moth pendant with rubies inlaid into the eyes and garnet on the wings.

How he was conceived?:

Before anyone asks, NO he wasn't a product of Mpreg.

Avel was born in a battlezone that held a machine that could mix any two species into a hybrid that would reside in an egg until it will hatch into a healthy baby.

The device has been inactive for eons now, until Battle Force 5 and the Reds arrived and started driving around the curved "Roads" around it. The kinetic energy of the cars soon powered the device one last time, tendrils came out and sucked some of the blood of BF5 and energy from the Reds.

The Reds' shells were shattered while BF5 had to retreat.

What was left in the machine, were five eggs in the size of an ostrich's egg. All of them floating in tubes filled with liquid.

Eventually, the eggs are taken by BF5 when Sage gets a energy signature that resembles that of a Sentient. After two weeks, it was discovered that the eggs had energy signature similar to that of the Red Sentients, and the BF5. It was decided that the best course of action is to put them in cyrostasis since most of the BF5 aren't exactly ready to become parents yet.

Unfortunately, the eggs were hatched sooner than thought.

Three Years later, during the fight against the Ancient Ones, the Hub was nearly destroyed and the eggs were later being transported to the Red Sentient Planet by BF5 and RS5 (Who were released from being frozen due to their help being wanted.)

Along the way, the eggs were starting to hatch with no way of stopping. By the time both teams already in the planet, all of the eggs have already hatched. Cries of six hybrid babies filed the air as their stunned parents look upon them.

Afterwards, when the Ancient Ones havr been defeated, both teams, Sage, and Jack Wheeler come discuss what should be done about the children. The suggestion of putting them in an orphanage was out, be it in Earth or in the Sentient Planets (Kyburi especially was against it).

While it was reluctant, it was decided that the both parents shall be present to raise their child. With Krytus and his team gaining the chance to redeem themselves while in parole. Both parents will get half of each each human month to spend time with their children.

Personality:

Avel can be rather passionate about his feelings. His emotions clear on his face, especially when he's feeling happy, sad, or angry. Eyes shining through with his emotions, nearly lighting up even.

He is also very determined to complete any tasks or goals he has been given. There few things that would make him back down from doing them, and usually its his dads that stop him from doing something stupid and dangerous.

Also a good strategist. Often taking note of the terrain around him, how it will affect ones movement, the visible weaknesses of his opponents and what visible weaknesses he has to cover up.

However, he would be a better strategist if he wasn't so arrogant. Avel brags about his achievements a lot to his fellow hybrids, along with trying to prove himself to others by doing dangerous stunts.

He is also quite the lone wolf. Often going off on his own during mission, thinking that he can handle it himself and that his team can just relax and watch him. This has led him into getting in a lot of trouble, yet he still does it.

Avel can be rather paranoid at times. Usually having a lot of knives on his body and even hair. The four posts of his bed even have retractable swords in them incase of an attack.

He has some insecurity about his abilities and not being able to create a vehicle compared to other pure Sentients. His attempts to impress everyone and prove himself stemmed from this insecurity.

Avel absolutely adores and looks up to both his fathers. Thinking that they're one of the greatest beings in the Multiverse. He has a positive relationship with both of them, spending enough time with both of them. Krytus is more of the stricter parent, usually telling Avel hunting and survival tips along with telling him a few tales during the Red's Youth. While Vert is more the relaxed parent, helping Avel with his vehicle and teaching him being a leader should be.

He wants to make them proud of him someday. Avel sometime feels like he isn't living up to standards, with both of his dads being famous in the Multiverse. Vert Wheeler, the hero of the Multiverse, and despite Krytus' infamous status, it's still well known how strategic he is, especially during the battle of the Ancient Ones.

Abilities:

Fire Manipulation: Capable of setting parts of his body on fire and controlling it. Avel can create waves, concentrated blast, and even melt thick steel if he can concentrate hard enough. But he cannot use this for too long, his body would start to heat up and make him tired before inevitable causing him to faint from exhaustion.

Claws: His fingers can turn into sharp knives if needed.

Heat Resistance: Avel can stand the heat, even if it is in extreme conditions.

Skills:

Sword Combat: With both of his dads skilled at the swords, it was obvious that Avel would be taught how to handle it and how to fight with it. His sword can split into two, thinner ones for greater range and can be set on fire as well.

Flexibility: Avel was born rather flexible, and has been honing it for a long time.

Vehicle:

The Acrotract:

A vehicle that has two modes. One mode is a rather simple looking, red and black, skateboard. The skateboard is used for missions that require stealth. The second mode is a long, slender, vehicle, shaped like a sleeping pod and a pair of scissors were mixed together. It can fire sharp missiles in rapid succession, let out oil slick from the back, can be driven upside down (much like the Saber), and can seperate into three, connected segments that could trap opponents, or make tall objects fall onto them.

#hot wheels battle force 5 #battle force 5 #battle froce 5 #vert wheeler #krytus #oc bio

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sooghostwriter · 5 years

Text

Iliada

Pairings: Do Kyung Soo x OC

Genre: Mature, Romance, AU, mention of violence, action, bad language, Smut in future chapters

Warnings: Kyung Soo is not a good guy. Mentions of violence.

Summary: After a long and hard assignment, Yoon Suji is sent to a new mission that involves less violence but needs a lot of acting. Do Kyung Soo has one of the biggest drugs rings in South Korea, but police haven’t been able to get him. They need proof that he is the one in charge and Suji is the one sent to get them.

She has the freedom to decide how is she going to get his trust.

Notes: I wrote this story a while ago, I published somewhere else (LJ I think) then I read it again and I didn’t like it, so I changed some things and some characters. Since this story is already written, there will be a new chapter every week. Also, here Kyung Soo is a bit older. This is not child’s game. Also if you are Russian, this is nothing against your country. I grew up in the ’90s when every bad guy in action movies was Russian.

Chapter 1

There are many stories about the fearsome female warriors from ancient Greece: stories about women that, since they were little girls, were trained in the art of war and the handling of weapons, as well as trained to support all kinds of physical sufferings. These stories contain passages that give us hints about how they defeated regiments of man on the battlefield.

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From December 16th to December 20th

December 16th to December 17th

Inside the room, Suji was accompanied by three more girls. None of them looked older than 16 years old. Probably outside there was 3°C, but inside and sitting on the floor it felt like minus 3°C. It was her third day in Russia, and as soon as the airplane landed, everything felt like hell.

And she was ready for hell.

Sadly, the three girls in front of her weren’t. It was obvious that their young bodies went through a lot. Their ankles and wrists were bruised, and their mouths had traces of blood in the corners. “Did you guys eat something?” She asked them. Just one of them answered. No. Suji got up and rummaged inside one of her boots and found what she was looking for. Two protein bars.

“They taste bad, but they have a bunch of protein, minerals, and all that crap, they will make you feel better” She cut the bars in half and gave one half to each girl. They bowed at her with gratitude.

She came back to her position and rested her head against the wall. She had to wait until midnight to make a move. At that time, Zala, the big blond guy that received her when she arrived, was supposed to “check the products”.

She felt bad for the girls in front of her, they would be taken soon. She had a plan, but she wouldn’t be able to help them sooner than that.

This was the last day of a one-year mission. Svavelsjo was the biggest human trafficking group in Eastern Europe. And they spread around the world like the plague. What started as a denouncement of a missing person in the suburbs of Busan, ended up as a secret mission of 50 people from the Switzerland and Korean governments to dismantle the Svavelsjo group. Suji was the undercover agent of the circus. She got into the group as a product, as one of the young girls brought from Korea to be sold in the black market as ‘Tender Meat’ as they call girls under eighteen. She was already past eighteen, but her body constitution made her look younger. Illegally younger.

It was probably around 10 when they came to take one of the girls. She struggled a bit but was quickly calmed down with a slap. The guy grabbed her by the hair and pulled her outside the room. Immediately the other two girls began shaking and crying, scared, but already surrendered. Suji rearranged her position and waited for her turn.

“It's 11:30, if you can hear me, cough twice” Suji did as told. Minseok’s voice sounded low but clear. Apparently, the small communicating device hidden in her ear was working.

“We are already located in our positions, the map you gave us was pretty close to the actual deal, at 12 o’clock we will knock down the glass in the ceiling and come in, try to be safe until that happens, I’ll cut communications for now…and Miss Yoon, good luck” Suji smiled at no one and wished for the same.

She kept looking at the two remaining girls in front of her. She wanted to calm them down, but she knew no words were good enough. In one year as an undercover agent, she saw hell in the eyes of all those young girls and boys. She went through hell too, but she was ready for it, she knew how to deal with it. They didn’t. They were just kids. Scared kids.

She was rather grateful when Zala appeared at the door. Looking at her with dark eyes, licking his lips. At least those two girls will be free soon. “How’s my china girl?” Suji kept quiet, hiding her face with her hair. The man grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up, and grabbed one of her hands looking at her long pink nails. He licked one of her fingers, sucking it and biting the tip. She felt like hitting the guy down his throat, but she had to stay calm “People say you did a good job at Japan and then at Russia, so let’s see how you do here” He sucked at her fingers for the last time and then grabbed a stronghold on her hair “Come with me slut!” She followed him, faking some resistance, and heard the door was shut behind her.

Zala walked along a dark alley, she couldn’t see a thing and felt insecure about the future of the operation. But they reached the room he was looking for and felt relieved when a strong beam of light passed through the open door. He pushed her inside the room and took his time to close the door. Suji looked around her and the content of the room made her feel sick. A gurney, old hospital equipment, oxygen tanks, dirty scrubs, and a wall covered with refrigerating units “You are useless to us now, we will take the last thing we need from you” He grabbed her by the neck and tossed her on top of the bed. She hit her head on the landing and the squeal she made, made Zala laugh. She was getting more and more grossed out. “Yoon, 10 seconds” She sat on top of the bed, holding herself in her hands “9…8…7…6…5…4” Zala was preparing a needle with a dark liquid inside, and approached her slowly “ 3…2…1”

Chaos reigned.

The two short-range bombs in the two main doors exploded and quickly the SWAT team invaded the hall of the abandoned factory that worked as an operation center. Zala looked at the door, not knowing what was going on. Screams and shooting noises started to fill the air. He looked at Suji and fear got into his bones when he saw her break into a smile, appearing under the hair that was covering her face “I thought I will have to fight barehanded, but since mister Zala is an amateur doctor, now I have a weapon” It was faster than his ability to react. One of the scalpels that were inside a small trash can went inside his left eye. Suji knew that the hit wasn’t enough to knock down a man like him, but it was very painful, and it will give her time to move from there. “You fucking bitch!” He dashed in her direction, with his fist high up, gaining some momentum. The fist landed in the wall and he saw how Suji moved under his legs, grabbing one of the steel chairs and swagging it towards him, hitting him in the back of his head. “Suji?!, We are in, where are you?”

“Last room to the left! Hurry up” Zala couldn’t understand what she was saying or to who she was talking to, and the pain on his back didn’t let him think. Suji had to move. She grabbed a cord from the floor and went behind Zala, passing the cord around his neck. She was able to grab a stronghold. He kept cursing in Russian, she could understand only half of it. He kept struggling, making it hard for Suji to hold on. He was too big and too strong for her small frame.

Suddenly things looked dark for Suji.

Zala had a gun in his hand. Inside his boots, she thought, feeling stupid. He threw an accurate blow to her head, hitting her with the barrel of the gun. She landed on the floor, feeling dizzy. She could only see his blurry figure move close to her. He mumbled something, but she couldn’t get what he said.

She didn’t feel the bullet sink in her thigh, but the smell of gunpowder stung her nose. “Suji, was that you?”

“Hurry up Minseok!, I got shot!” She heard Minseok cursing and a second later someone was trying to open the door.

“Minseok! It’s closed, use the bomb!” Zala looked at the door and then at her, then back to the door

“Suji, move away!”

“Doesn’t fucking matter, just blow the door!” Minseok obeyed, she was the one in charge anyway. Zala couldn’t understand what they were talking about.

“You better lay down Zala” Suji told him with malice in her voice. But it was too late. She was fast enough to turn herself into a ball, covering her ears and hiding her head from the fragments of the explosion. Maybe a minute passed when the dust started to dissipate and Minseok came to her rescue.

Suji looked like a different person, he hadn't seen her in maybe six months, and she already looked this bad. He suddenly felt enraged towards those pigs “Pick me up, we have to clean this mess” Minseok helped her get on her feet. She looked around and found Zala on the floor, with a big bleeding wound on the side of his head, not very conscious.

“I got you pig, you and your friends can begin to think about fucking each other in jail” He didn’t need to speak Korean to know that she was cursing at him. He cursed the day he decided to bring her from Korea.

December 17 Th

Baekhyun had gathered all of Kyung Soo’s potential business partners at the big dining room at Kyung Soo’s favorite restaurant. It wasn’t that hard. To the call of easy money all the easy people come.

It was a top-secret reunion. All the attendees agreed with it. If someone knew where they were now, it would be a tragedy, to say the least. Twelve people gathered, nine old collaborators and three new ones. Kyung Soo was excited. With a bit of luck, this could help his business. Make it grow.

“My dear friends, welcome '' There was a collective greeting, and Kyung Soo sat with his guests, adopting a solemn aptitude. Everyone went silent so Kyung Soo could start talking.

“We are all very busy, so I’ll give a brief but clear explanation of what I need and what you people can win. Last month, a new bill was sent by the prime minister to congress. Legalization of Marihuana. And not just that. The bill says that the state will sell it, ergo, all the money will go to the government. Now that is very bad for us, the president is taking away a big part of our job!...So this is what I need. That law can not pass. Period. I don’t think I need to explain myself”

“But there’s 26 more of us in congress, of course, we are going to say no to that bill, but what can we do with the rest?”

“Use your best words, your best smile and convince the people from your party. Of course, I’ll do my part, I have people in a lot of places, but I need help” The reunion finished fast. All of them promised to do whatever was in their hands. Kyung Soo gave them a week.

December 17 to December 18

The effect of the painkillers started to fade out. Suji’s eyes opened slowly, getting used to the sunlight that came from outside. It took her a couple of seconds to realize where she was.

She hated hospitals. The smell was unbearable, too clean, too warm. She looked at her left arm, growling at the intravenous going inside her skin. Her head felt heavy, she tried to move, but it hurt too much.

“I see you’re up?” Suji looked at the door, where a tall blond guy got in.

“I’m your doctor, tell me, how do you feel?”

”Good enough to leave this place”

“I don’t think so, the wound in your thigh is still healing, thank god it didn’t reach your bones, it did quite a damage, you will need rehab, but your people told us that they will do that in their hospital, you got a rib splintered, and some burns in your arms due to the explosion…now, we found some other wounds…and…we took care of some of them…are they related with your undercover work?”

“Yes” She didn’t give him the explanation he was looking for.

“Well, you took good care of some of them”

“It’s not my first time”

“For me, it was the first time I saw those kinds of wounds in a female agent” Suji looked straight at his eyes. She hated to give explanations when she didn’t have to, but it was easier this way. One fast answer was better than being asked ten times the same question.

“I had to fuck some of those guys, it was that or lose months of undercover work, it’s not as bad as what happened to all the girls there, so don’t think too much about it, did you give me a blood test?”

“Yes”

“Did you find anything? HIV, Gonorrhea, Hepatitis?”

“Nothing” She was relieved. But she had some questions now.

“What happened to the rest?”

”Well, most of the guys…” She interrupted him right there.

“I don’t give a damn about those bastards, I should have killed those sons of bitches, I’m asking about the kids”

“Oh, sure, well…they brought 15 women and 5 kids, 10 of them are now out of danger, we gave them vitamins, food, and today they came to take their confessions, the other kids are under intensive care now, due to critical wounds and neurological damage” Although it looked bad, those were good news for Suji. They were safe.

Eventually, the doctor left, leaving her with a bad taste in the mouth. His questions remind her of what happened that year. She wouldn’t say this was the hardest mission – her first mission as an agent in North Korea won by far – but the physical abuse was like nothing she had experienced before. But she still considered herself lucky. She wasn’t selfish enough to feel bad about her situation, she saw some girls drop dead in front of her due to extenuation.

She shook those thoughts away. She was alright right now. And all that hell was in the past. For her and for the victims.

After a really bad hospital lunch, Suji got the first visit from someone from the team. With a box of pizza and a bottle of Sprite, Minseok and Junmyeon, her boss, arrived at her room.

“Suji!, I brought someone” Suji bowed instinctively at the sight of her boss. “Miss Yoon, you look great”

“Thanks boss, Minseok? Thank you for saving me”

“Na, it’s nothing, I’m glad we could make it” Minseok arranged the sliding table in front of Suji and put the box of pizza and a glass in front of her.

“Doctor says you can eat normal right now… the first time I saw you I couldn’t recognize you, you are so skinny!! Well, you have always been skinny, but muscular, you know? Now you are just bones, you need to gain those muscles back, I’ll help you” Suji patted Minseok’s head and accepted his proposal.

Kim Minseok was one of her closest friends at the agency. Six years ago he recruited her. Minseok was one of those hidden gems. Her first impression of him was negative. He was small and his appearance was too soft. But when needed, he transformed. And it always surprised her how serious he was towards his work.

Junmyeon walked to the window and looked outside with a brooding face, the angle of his eyebrows kept getting deeper. “Minseok, I need to talk with Yoon Suji, will you give us a minute?”

“No…sorry boss, but she was my partner in this mission, and I’m worried as you are, she got the worst part of it” Junmyeon didn’t answer. He could understand that much.

Kim Junmyeon was known for his fatherly behavior towards his subordinates. It was a double-edged sword, good for the agency, bad for his nerves. Sending Suji to this mission was something that kept bugging him. He never liked the idea, but she was the only option. And her stupid superwoman complex made her beg him to give her that mission. Now, after reading her medical record, he felt as if someone had done that to her little sister. He kept looking outside the window, with his hands inside his pockets.

”I hate this country…is so damn cold, and I feel like in every corner someone is been killed in cold blood…or maybe I have watched way too many spy movies”

“No sir, it is like that, at least that’s the only Russia I have seen”

“I’m sorry you have to see it, I’m sorry I send you to this goddamn mission” Suji rearranged her position in her bed, grabbing a second slice of pizza.

“If you’re apologizing for giving me this job, you can stop right there, we planned this attack with Minseok from the beginning, and it worked out just as we imagined, so I was ready for the beatings, the cold, and the lack of sleep and food, although I will probably need some help getting it over, I have been having dreams…” Minseok patted her arm and sat next to her.

“Boss, the only thing we could do for Suji now is to give her the good news and then take her with us back to Korea'' Junmyeon finally looked away from the window, meeting Suji’s eyes, smiling, for once.

“The trial that will be held next week with Zala and all the people from Svavelsjo, is a mere formality, they infringed too many human rights this time, no lawyer will save them…and since it was such a wide group, each member will be judged under the laws of their respective countries, so some of them will be sentenced to death” Those were the words she wanted to hear. Not only they saved everybody, but also those sadist bastards were getting what they deserved.

She felt better now.

From January 10th to March 23th

January 10th – January 11th

She was abruptly awakened by the sound of her cellphone. It was 8 o’clock, and she had to be at the airport in 3 hours. She got up, turned on the television, and opened the curtains of her hotel room. Although more than a hotel, it was like a palace. The island of Koh-Kood, in Thailand, was by far the best retreat place she has found in several years. Set amidst a tropical rainforest, Suji found a place where she could be far away from home, with no communication whatsoever, but still with the facilities she needed right now. As an expertise masseur, a fully equipped gym, good food and a beautiful waitress who could cover her natural necessities, like breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sex. Because after so many bad experiences with guys, her body only could react to the touch of a woman, and Jayne was that woman. A British 20 something girl, who decided to change the cloudy Manchester for a sunny island. And that girl was knocking on her door, her breakfast was ready. Suji put on some clothes and went to open the door.

“Good morning!” She pushed the food cart inside her room, with her characteristic smile and her beautiful British accent.

“Good morning, how was the night shift?”

“Boring, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be here on your last night”

“It’s alright, we had a nice time the night before”

“True, true, so…are you ready?” She looked around, finding Suji’s only suitcase next to her nightstand.

“I’m ready, I will eat this amazing breakfast, take a quick shower and then go downstairs” Jayne looked at her, a bit gloomy “Jayne, beautiful, don’t be sad”

“I’m not sad, is just…I will miss you, single women don’t come often to this place, you know how hard it is for a lesbian?”

“I can imagine, sorry” She shrugged, and patted Suji’s shoulder, walking outside the room, closing the door behind her. Suji did as she said, and in less than an hour, she was returning her key at the reception.

It took her two days to be back in Korea. In between a plane from Koh-Kodd to Bangkok, scales here and there, and the long ride from Incheon to her apartment, she was finally at home. Or at least what she called home.

The refrigerator was empty, and the place smelled like humidity. With resignation, she took off her clothes, changed into clean sweats, and dropped dead on the couch. It was already midnight, the convenience store in front of her apartment was open, but before anything, she needed some sleep.

≠

Kyung Soo got up that morning feeling like a kid that didn’t want to go to school. Baekhyun went to his room two times to wake him up. The third time, he didn’t give Kyung Soo an option, he pulled his friend outside the bed.

“Kyung Soo, come on, in an hour the guys will be here” Kyung Soo only released a grunt and walked to the shower.

“Boss!” Four guys receive him in his office. Kyung Soo bowed at them and sat on his chair in front of them. He turned on a cigarette, drank from the cup of coffee that was waiting for him, and gave a signal to the guy in front of him to talk.

“Boss, we followed Nam Jangmin, and he indeed has been meeting with that freelance journalist that showed up the other day here asking to talk with you about your business, we took some pictures, Mister Byun has them” Kyung Soo looked at Baekhyun and he gave him a nod. The pictures were clear.

Nam Jangmin was the new governor of Daegu, and also one of Kyung Soo’s oldest business associates. Kyung Soo saw him as an investor. The man looked like a promise in politics, not because he was a good politician, in fact, he was quite bad at it, but he was good with words. With all that cynicism he could run that country. Just when Jangmin was in need of money, Kyung Soo appeared, with a good deal. He would give him the money he needed. In exchange, Nam Jangmin had to do him some favors. Favors that he would ask in the future. With time, Nam Jangmin got hooked on the easy money and Kyung Soo’s hypnotizing voice. But now Jangmin had his first child. Now he wanted to make things right. Kyung Soo could understand that. But Nam Jangmin was an idiot. It would have been easy, Kyung Soo thought, to ask him for a meeting, and explain to him why he wanted to leave Kyung Soo’s side. Kyung Soo would have wished him luck, and let him run free.

But he didn’t.

Nam Jangmin decided to inculpate him. And as soon as someone asked him something about Kyung Soo and his business, someone like that freelance journalist, Jangmin opened his mouth.

“Ok, it’s quite clear now. What can we do?” Kyung Soo only asked out of politeness. He already knew what he had to do, and he didn’t like it too much.

“We could give him a visit”

“Visit him and his family”

“Sure, but we have to be sure, sure that he will not speak, guys…you know how to shut up someone, just do it beautifully, ok?” The four men gave one single nod at the same time, got up and left the house.

“He has a son”

“I know Baekhyun, but he should have known better, now if you excuse me, I need to go out”

“Where?” Kyung Soo didn’t answer and left the room. Baekhyun didn’t bother to follow him.

Kyung Soo climbed the stairs to the temple feeling as if the air was going thin. After two weeks of being locked in his house, it felt nice to feel the cold air in his face, slipping through his scarf. The stairs were still wet due to the heavy rain that fell the night before and some old ladies were carrying an umbrella just in case. He will buy one later, he didn’t know when he would be back at home. There was no line in front of the altar, and as always, he felt a bit anxious in front of it. He looked at the few people going in and out and slowly walked inside. Kyung Soo tossed the coin, put his hands together and prayed, screaming loudly inside his head.

“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me”. He made a deep bow and walked away. As he stepped into the stairway, a single drop landed in his head. He looked above, frowning at the sky. From one time to the other it went dark. He hated it, each time his people were commanded to do the job, it rained.

After a quick lunch at some ramen shop, he stopped a taxi.

“To Gangnam please” The driver nodded once and took the main street to the left. Kyung Soo didn’t look outside the window, his stare fixed on his hands. After 15 minutes, the driver spoke to him.

“Sir, we are in Gangnam, where exactly do you want me to drop you?”

“In the next corner please” The driver nodded again and stopped once they reached his destination. Kyung Soo paid him, telling him that he could keep the change. The streets were already packed with office workers getting ready for a long night of drinking. Kyung Soo felt sick. He walked faster.

He knocked at the door twice. “Who is it?”

“Customer” The door was quickly opened by a middle-aged woman with a bright smile. Kyung Soo smiled back at her.

“Mister Do, you are here! So long no see! What? Are we stressed?”

“Yes”

“Don’t worry, one of my girls will take care of it, who do you want?” Kyung Soo hated when she talked about her ‘girls’ as if they were flavors of ice cream that you could pick, covered in chocolate and cream. Although he liked that idea.

“Is Sara available?”

“She is, you know where you can find her” Kyung Soo nodded and walked inside the flat. The place didn’t have a name, it didn’t need it either. It was well known between the people that required those kinds of services. Kyung Soo found out about it through Baekhyun. Apparently, one of his classmates at university used to work there. The place itself looked like a normal flat from outside, but the neighborhood said everything. Still, it was a secret place. And Kyung Soo liked that.

He reached Sara’s room and knocked at her door. She was a psychology student at Seoul University. Smart, funny, and sexy. Kyung Soo always asked for her services.

“I thought I heard your voice Kyung Soo”

“Hi” She grabbed his hand and guided him to the bed. He sat, closing his eyes and feeling how Sara arranged behind him, caressing his shoulders.

“Something happened”

“Yeah…I want the same as always”

“Understood” Sara kissed his temple and took off her t-shirt.

The next day Kyung Soo woke up feeling sore and still sleepy. Sara was already awake reading a book “What are you reading?”

“Sartre’s, La Nausée” He joined her, resting his chin on her naked shoulder. “Why are you reading something so despairing?”

“You mean realistic?” Kyung Soo looked at her frowning, pouting in a rather cute way, at least for Sara.

“Is it for your classes?”

“Yeah, I’m preparing for a clinical case that I have to defend, so I’m trying to understand my patient” Kyung Soo started to doze off again when Sara interrupted him.

“Kyung Soo, I like you” Before Kyung Soo could freak out, Sara explained herself.

“No, not that kind of like, I admire you”

“And why is that?” Kyung Soo couldn’t understand why she would admire him. As far as she knew, Kyung Soo was a drug dealer with a lot of money and status.

“Well, first, you don’t stick to the routine that is killing us, you don’t try to demonstrate your existence by appearances, looking for superiority or heroic acts. On the other hand, you allow existence to invade you sharply, it weighs in your heart like a beast…without that…there’s nothing left inside us” Sara’s words sounded like nonsense. He was nothing like that. Sara was saying that he was the kind of man that Sartre approved of, that he was the contradiction of the nausea, and that was just nonsense. He felt like the nausea itself. Kyung Soo tossed the book on the floor and got on top of Sara, looking for that beast that she said he had inside his heart.

January 12th to January 14th

Her plan after arriving home was to sleep. Sleep until her body couldn’t stand the pain in her back due to the horizontal position. But a knock at her door interrupted her. She tried to ignore it, it was probably her landlord. She covered her head with a pillow, going back to sleep, but the knocking continued.

“Suji, let’s go play!” Suji’s eyes were wide open.

“Chanyeol?” She asked to herself. Chanyeol knocking at her door could mean only one thing.

Work was calling.

“Suji, let’s go play!” Her legs worked without her consent. She walked with short, lazy steps to the door, picking up her underwear from the floor and an oversized t-shirt that could cover her body.

“Yoon Suji, let’s go…” She opened her door before he could finish.

“I got it, I got it, let’s go play, just please allow me to take a shower”

“That would be nice because you stink” She kicked him in the leg, making him yelp.

“Minseok said you looked bad, but you don’t”

“Well Chanyeol, I spent some weeks getting back in shape, remind me to hit Minseok for saying that” Chanyeol set his suitcase on top of Suji’s kitchen counter, under the curious stare of his colleague. From inside his suitcase, Chanyeol took a bottle of Coke, a package of chocolate cookies, and a bar of white chocolate.

“I thought you would be hungry, now go take that shower, we have to be at the agency at 10”.

Park Chanyeol was Suji’s coworker. He got into the agency three years earlier than her. How he got hired was kind of special. After spending five years in America studying Computer engineering he came back to Korea after they found him hacking the computer of the dean. He wanted to change his English notes in order to save his scholarship. Suji always wondered how he could survive 5 years in America with that crappy English of his. Once he was back in Korea, with an unfinished career, he began working as an IT in an important high school. Doing his work, which was only maintenance, he found some very suspicious folders in the computer of the headmaster. Curious as he is, he opened them. The folders contained huge amounts of child pornography and some naked pictures of some students. Without telling the police, Chanyeol did a perfectly held investigation that led him to one of the biggest groups of child pornography in South Korea. He found himself with a big scoop that was out of his reach, so he contacted the police. By the time Junmyeon received the case, the only thing left to do was put those bastards behind the bars. Chanyeol, in less than a month, put together names, institutions, bank accounts, addresses, telephone numbers, and emails, all of them related to the culprits. When asked how he did it, he explained how, with a program created by him, he could get a replica of the computer’s hard disc of each affiliate. That gave him full access to their transactions, their meetings, and the names of those who were selling them the images. But despite all the great work, what Chanyeol did was illegal. Junmyeon offered him a deal. He would keep him out of jail, but in exchange, he had to work for him.

Chanyeol was everything Junmyeon needed in his team. Compromised, smart, thorough, and hard-working. And Suji was grateful for that. She has been working with Chanyeol since her first mission, and he had never failed her. More than once, his ability to get into people’s data systems has saved her life.

≠

Kyung Soo looked outside the window and the sun was up already, people down there walking from one side to the other. Sara had already left, not without giving Kyung Soo a last service. He made sure to pay her more than the normal fee. After a short shower, he turned on his phone, finding what he thought he would find.

-Boss, work done. No more worries-

Kyung Soo closed his phone and smiled to himself. It was time to come back to reality.

≠

Suji walked next to Chanyeol as they got inside the agency. The few people there welcomed her with wide smiles. Apparently, for what Chanyeol told her on their way there, everyone read the report from her last mission and now she was a heroine. Some memories from those days threatened to come back. Maybe she would ask for that psychologist that the agency offered her.

When Chanyeol opened the door of the meeting room she met with some old faces. Junmyeon and Minseok.

“We arrived early?” She asked, sitting next to Minseok, hitting him in the ribs.

“No, in fact, you’re late, but let’s start” Junmyeon got up from his seat, walking toward the digital board, opening some files.

“Oh, just the four of us?”

“Yeah, just the four of us” Suji looked at Minseok, asking for an explanation. He gave her a signal to wait. The meetings were held in front of 10 or 15 people. From the boss to the director of the SWAT team. Now it was just those three guys and her. Suddenly she felt unsure about being there.

“I know you are wondering what is going on with this meeting, Why so few people, and the answer is simple. This mission doesn’t need big weapons or teams, Chanyeol please” Suji was a bit lost. Junmyeon was acting somehow vague. Chanyeol got up, excited with the idea of showing his short but fruitful investigation.

“For over 3 years, the police have been behind this man” A passport picture appeared on the screen. Damn fine, was the first thought that came to Suji’s after seeing the picture, and she was surprised by her own reaction.

“Do Kyung Soo, 30 years old, single, no studies. The police have caught him twice, but they haven’t been able to put him behind the bars for the simple reason that they have zero evidence, Not a single picture or fingerprint. Nothing”

“So how do they know is him?” Minseok asked the obvious.

“It’s like a well-known secret. As soon as the name Do Kyung Soo comes up, everyone goes silent, You know what I mean?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“I think so, they know he does it because the guy is a big gangster or something, and probably they have seen him, but nothing more than that?”

“Exactly, and the two times he was arrested, this guy over here took him out” A new picture appeared on the screen. This time a man that looked like a high schooler with a nice suit.

“This guy is Byun Baekhyun, 31 years old, single, lawyer. There are no records about him being involved in Do’s business, but there isn’t evidence that states the opposite. He only acts as his lawyer. Nothing else. But they hang out together a lot” Chanyeol touched the screen, closing Do’s and Byun’s pictures.

“Do’s business is pretty simple. Importation and exportation of drugs, money-laundering, and blackmailing” Chanyeol saw how Suji s’s face broke in surprise. Junmyeon got up from his seat again and stood next to Chanyeol.

“It’s a hard case, and it was sent to us because detectives can’t do more. We need to get inside and get some evidence” He said, signaling at Suji. She looked at Junmyeon and adopted her negotiation aptitude.

“Then convince me, boss” Junmyeon smiled at her, he knew he would get that answer.

TBC

#Kyungsoo #kyung soo #do kyungsoo #d.o #kyungsoo fanfic #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #d.o fanfic

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azvolrien · 4 years

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Water Horses - Chapter Four

This one got a bit longer than the last few. I didn’t think it was quite long enough to have a good place to split in two.

~~~

After a good night’s sleep and a bowl of porridge, Asta wandered out of the broch to see Roan sitting cross-legged on top of the wall. Hens scurried out of her way as she crossed over to the steps.

“What are you doing?” she asked, climbing the steps.

Roan looked up. She had a damp cloth tied over her mouth and nose and a pair of goggles strapped over her eyes. “Making arrowheads,” she said, slightly muffled by the cloth as she waved a hand-sized lump of stone in the air.

“Is that flint?”

“Chert, technically,” said Roan. “But the skills involved are similar.” She set her hammer-stone down and held up a finished arrowhead for Asta to see. It was more of a lozenge or a leaf-shape than the barbed triangle that classically said ‘arrowhead’, but the point and edges had been knapped wickedly sharp.

“And the…?” Asta sat down and waved her hand in front of her face to indicate Roan’s somewhat makeshift safety gear.

“The cloth is so I don’t breathe in the stone dust,” said Roan, lifting her hammer again and returning to work on her current arrowhead. “The goggles are so I don’t get hit in the eye by a stray flake of chert.” She paused. “You might want to sit a little further back.”

Asta nodded and shuffled back to a safer distance. “Do you use them for hunting?”

Roan nodded and held the half-finished arrowhead up to her eyes for a closer look. “Birds, mostly. Grouse; pheasants. Sometimes deer. Just the little roes, though – I could take down one of the big reds or reindeer with a well-aimed shot, maybe even an elk if I was lucky, but most of the carcass would go to waste. I try not to kill anything I can’t carry by myself, since I don’t have a pony or anything.”

“Seals are heavy,” Asta pointed out, nodding at the cloak and skull lying on the wall beside Roan.

Roan laughed. “I didn’t kill the seal! It was already dead when I found it washed up on the rocks. That being said – I could carry a seal for long enough to get it from the sea to the broch.” She held up one arm and flexed her biceps. Asta nodded thoughtfully, momentarily distracted by the interesting way Roan’s tattoos moved over the muscle.

“And the reindeer skin on your bed?” she asked once her focus returned.

“Heh, you’ve got me there. I had to camp out on the hills for a few days while I rendered the carcass a bit more portable. So – knapping like this takes years of practice, but would you like to learn how to make arrows?”

For a hermit, Roan turned out to have a surprising passion for teaching. By their second visit to the market island a week after the first, Asta could not only make a stone-headed, grouse-fletched arrow to a reasonable standard, but also gut a fish and cook it over a fire she had built herself, match wills with Vanessa the hen to collect the day’s eggs from the coop without too many pecks to her hands, roughly tell the time from the position of the sun, and pilot Each-Uisge with, if not Roan’s expertise, enough confidence to get it safely away from the island jetty while Roan finished securing their new supplies.

“Before I forget,” said Roan as she locked the boat shed. “Here. Got a present for you back on the island.”

It was a knife: about six inches of single-edged steel, with a black leather sheath, an antler handle, and a whetstone on a string to keep it sharp. It carried no ornamentation, not even a maker’s mark stamped on the blade, but there was a certain beauty in its simplicity and the quality of its anonymous craftsmanship. Asta accepted it in trembling hands, drew a couple of inches from the sheath to test the edge – it was sharp – and started to cry.

Roan’s eyes widened. “Um. I’m sorry! I just – you seemed quite taken with the one you were using for the fish earlier! I thought that maybe – but no, it was a bad idea, I’ll just-” She reached out to take the knife back.

“No!” squeaked Asta, hugging the knife to her chest. “I like it. I do like it. Thank you.” She sniffed, bowing her head, and managed a tearful smile. “It’s just.” She sniffed again and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. “It’s nothing.”

Still a little wide-eyed, Roan patted her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, then nodded towards the broch. “Come on. I think it’s going to be a cold night.”

It was; by morning a thick blanket of snow had covered the ground, putting enough of a chill into the air that Roan opened the door, winced, and retreated back inside for her sealskin and a tunic with sleeves before she went to scatter some feed for the hens.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you cover your arms,” said Asta, following her out with the reindeer skin around her shoulders and her thick woollen scarf wrapped around her neck as many times as it would go. “You don’t want a hat and scarf as well?”

“Hey, I’ve got this,” said Roan, pointing to the seal skull on top of her head. “Besides, I quite like the cold, even if I do have my limits.” She threw another handful of oats for the hens. “Was there any spare porridge? We can give it to the girls for a treat.”

Asta went back inside for the porridge pot. The hens gathered around, clucking excitedly, as she tipped the leftover porridge out on the ground for them. “They seem to like it.”

“I think it’s good for them to get something warm now and then, don’t you?” said Roan, watching the scrum with affection.

“This snow won’t kill off your vegetables, will it?”

“Nah, I already harvested everything that can’t survive the cold.”

“Do you not worry about foxes getting in?” asked Asta as Vanessa missed a blob of porridge and pecked the toe of her boot instead.

“No, I have the gate warded against them,” said Roan. “Besides – even if they did get past it, I’m not sure it would matter. Before I placed the ward I once saw Vanessa rally the others to chase off one that had got in.”

“Tough chicken.”

“The toughest.”

“So…” Asta linked her fingers over her stomach and leant against the chicken coop, looking at the ground. “You were probably wondering why I burst into tears when you gave me the knife yesterday.”

Roan scattered a last handful of oats, brushed off the dust, and gently placed her fingertips under Asta’s chin, tilting her head up to meet her eyes. “I’ve never really been in the habit of asking people about their problems,” she said quietly. “I think it gave people the impression I wasn’t interested; it was more that it always seemed like prying into things that weren’t my business.” She laid both hands on Asta’s shoulders. “But if there are things you need to talk about, I am here to listen.”

Asta sighed, ran a hand through her hair, and nodded. “Inside, though. It’s… a bit cold for it out here.”

“All right. I’ll be back in soon – I need to check on some skins in my workshop.”

Asta suspected Roan was really just giving her some time to compose herself. It was only a few minutes before Roan let herself back into the broch, sat down on the opposite side of the fire, and gestured for her to start when she was ready.

“I’m an only child,” Asta began. “My parents had done the maths. They could feed one extra mouth quite easily, and still have a bit left over for a small luxury now and then. Two, and they would struggle to even afford the basics. I’m not sure what they would have done if I’d turned out to be twins.” Roan nodded and said nothing, her grey eyes glinting in the firelight.

“So I had a pretty good childhood. Like I said earlier – not extravagant, but comfortable. I did well at school and went on to study literature at university.” If Roan had any opinions about this choice of degree, they did not show on her face. “Then in my last year, just after I graduated… It turned out my parents had decided to take a chance and invest some of their savings in… some venture or other. I didn’t take as much of an interest in the household finances as I probably should have, so I was never sure exactly what they’d paid into.” One of Roan’s eyebrows quirked very slightly upwards, but she still remained silent. “The plan was that if the investment paid off, they planned to make a presentation to Lord zeDamar to get access to the House funds.”

“The more you pay in, the more you get out,” said Roan neutrally. “Theoretically.”

“Theoretically. It… did not pay off. I’m still not really sure if the venture went badly and they felt they’d paid in too much to cut their losses and back away or if it had just been an outright con from the start but it was like it just ate money. They arranged to travel out to meet the people they’d invested with, have a look over things, see if there was anything to be done to fix things, but they never made it. There was…” Asta swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, covering them with one hand. “They hit a storm on the way, up in the Kiraani Hills, and there was an accident. Their carriage went into a ravine. The House didn’t want to know about it; it was my immediate family’s mess so it was ours – mine – to clean up. So I was left to make all the arrangements by myself, which… was expensive. And then I started getting letters from my parents’ creditors.”

“By law, debts are not automatically inherited,” said Roan quietly. “You have to specifically agree to take them on before they’re something you’re obligated to pay. A lot of creditors rely on people not knowing that.”

Asta laughed bitterly. “Well, it worked! I sold off one thing after another, right up to the house, and the letters kept coming. So I went out to the slave markets. The Slavers’ League agreed to take on all the debts in exchange for putting me up on the next auction block. I suppose it was flattering in a way, how fierce the bidding was. Lady MacArra was prepared to pay a lot of money just for a secretary, and she was up against a lot of competition. She never really explained why.”

Roan pursed her lips as if locked in some internal debate and briefly opened her mouth, but shook her head and did not comment.

“I lived with her in Duncraig for five years. She was… kind, in her own way. A little grumpy at times, not really given to, ah, out-of-work socialising, but she was patient with any mistakes I made, gave me the weekends off, and more or less let me do as I pleased when I wasn’t helping in her office. Never let Daro bother me whenever he came to pester her, which I was grateful for. Even then I’d heard rumours about how her children and grandchildren treated slaves.” Asta sighed and gazed at the fire. Roan silently got up to add another log to the flames and sat back down. “And then she died. Something to do with her heart – it came on very suddenly. I ran to fetch a healer, but there was nothing they could do for her.” She closed her eyes again, scrubbing away the tears threatening at the corners. “Is it stupid, to grieve for someone who literally owned you?”

“Grief doesn’t care about whether or not it makes sense,” said Roan quietly, stirring the logs with a poker. “Slaves are vulnerable, no matter who their owner is, and she protected you. There’s no shame in missing her for that.”

Asta nodded and got up to lean on the wall by the stairs, facing the stonework. “So when you gave me the knife, I… I suppose everything just suddenly piled on at once and I realised that it’s been a very long time since anyone gave me a present just because they thought I would like it.”

Roan’s footsteps padded across the stone floor and she laid the very tips of her fingers against Asta’s shoulder. Asta turned to face her again with a half-hearted smile, and Roan drew her into a tight embrace. Asta blinked in surprise, frozen for a moment, before she sighed and wrapped her arms around Roan’s waist. “I’ve been so lonely,” she mumbled into her shoulder.

“I think I have too,” whispered Roan. “I just didn’t realise until I had someone around again.”

The emotional conversation went undiscussed after that, but the thoughts felt lighter for having been spoken, and the daily routine at Dun Ardech went on as usual. Asta took on a few more of the chores as she learned how to do them, such as cleaning the fish Roan caught, and was able to share a more efficient fish trap design she had read about. She had long since lost track of what day it was. After another week, she finally put her foot down about the sleeping arrangements and insisted that Roan take her own bed back; it was ridiculous for her to still be sleeping on one of the couches when it was her own home. Somehow this just resulted in them sharing it, which wasn’t quite what Asta had had in mind.

It did mean that Roan didn’t have very far to go when she suddenly shook Asta awake in the middle of the night, a couple of days before Curlew was due back from its voyage to the north. “Hsst! Asta! Wake up!”

“What time is it?” asked Asta blearily.

“Almost midnight.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why are you waking me up at midnight?”

Roan grinned, only visible by the faint witchlight she had conjured. “I’d forgotten what day it is. Nothing bad – but something is happening. Come up to the roof with me.”

Grumbling under her breath, Asta wrapped the reindeer skin around herself again and followed Roan up the steps to the trapdoor and out onto the walkway. There was no moon, but the sky was perfectly clear, covered in thousands of stars with the silvery band of the Birds’ Road stretching all the way across. A faint curtain of green light shimmered at the northern horizon, but this clearly wasn’t what Roan wanted to show her: instead she pointed across the sea loch to the south, and the sound of voices raised in song – too many to count – drifted across the calm water to them.

“Is that – is that a dragon ship?” asked Asta as the first boat came into view.

“Aye,” said Roan. “Sort of – it’s just a replica.”

The longship made its stately way down the loch, the carved dragon figurehead proud at the front. The striped sail was raised, but seemingly just for show; the propulsion came from a bank of oars on each side. Behind it, a row of boats smaller than the longship but longer and wider than Each-Uisge sailed side-by-side, each one with a row of burning torches fixed along the rails, while a whole flotilla of vessels from simple rowing boats to comfortable yachts followed behind, each bearing a lantern on its prow and each pilot and passenger joining in with the same song.

“What are they singing?” asked Asta.

“It’s an ancient hymn to the sun,” said Roan. “Thanking it for returning even after the longest winter nights, and praying that it always will. I wasn’t sure if you would have seen this before; a few boats in the fleet leave from Duncraig, but the dragon ship leaves from a little further down Loch Gorm and the rest join it along the way. It’s an old tradition – not sure how old exactly, but it’s been done since long before I was born. The song is in an old dialect. That’s why you can’t understand the words.”

Asta shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen this before.”

Most of the fleet came to a halt before they came level with the broch, but the dragon ship and its escorts carried on past it. One by one, the rowers on the dragon ship abandoned their oars and jumped into the water to swim back to the other boats, where they were hauled aboard and quickly bundled up in warm blankets with mugs of tea and soup.

One man on the foremost escort boat stood up and raised his arm. The singing came to a gradual halt, the silence spreading back through the fleet in a wave. More people in the other boats got to their feet, nocking arrows to bowstrings. The man closed his fist; the arrows were set alight, the bows were raised, and the strings drawn back. Then he let his arm fall in one sweeping gesture and two dozen flaming arrows arched high above the water to plummet back down onto the dragon ship, punching through the sail and slamming into the deck like terrible rain. The flames spread rapidly; in the space of less than a minute, the entire ship was ablaze with the firelight reflecting in the water.

“It was originally a funeral practice,” explained Roan. “When a monarch or a chieftain died, they’d be cremated in a ship like that. But nowadays it’s just symbolic.”

“Of what?” asked Asta, watching as the longship’s yard crumbled and fell to the deck in a shower of golden sparks.

Roan laid an arm around her shoulders and, after a tiny pause, leant in to kiss her on the cheek. “Happy New Year.”

Asta laid her head on her shoulder. “I’m glad you woke me up for this.”

They watched until the remains of the longship sank beneath the water and the rest of the boats began to drift home. Roan straightened up, stretched, and turned to go back to the trapdoor.

Asta caught her hand. “Roan.”

“Hm?”

Now or never. Asta summoned her courage, reached up to take Roan’s head in her hands, and pushed herself up on her toes to kiss her on the lips. Roan didn’t even hesitate; she wound her arms around Asta, almost lifting her off the floor, and leant into the kiss.

“Wow.” Asta drew back, swaying slightly. “You know,” she said dizzily, “for a semi-feral sea witch… you’re a really good kisser.”

Roan just smiled and pressed her forehead against hers.

She had disappeared in the morning, though she had left a note on her pillow saying ‘Checking traps’ with a heart symbol and a tiny cartoon of a happy seal. Asta yawned, got dressed, and went downstairs to collect some eggs and start heating some porridge.

She took her breakfast up to the outer wall to watch for Roan coming back, but there was no sign of her yet. Strangely, even though it was light, the water horses were still on the rocks. Perhaps the burning of the dragon ship had disturbed them and they were catching up on their missed sleep.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. It was a boat, not as big as last night’s dragon ship but at least three times the size of little Each-Uisge, floating along on the breeze filling its sail. Asta frowned as the boat turned, heading for the rocks. Riabhach and his herd raised their heads curiously.

There was a thrum of bowstrings and a volley of crossbow bolts shot from the boat into the herd. One of the water horses let out a high-pitched scream; Riabhach reared up to his full height, stretching out his forelegs to hold back the attackers while the rest of the herd made their escape into the water, but even he had to back away and flee with an enormous splash as people began to leap from the boat to the rocks, carrying long knives and hunting spears. The last to disembark held no blade, but a long whip hung coiled at his wide belt.

Daro.

Asta dropped her bowl and ran for the broch, slamming the door behind her and lodging the bar in its slots. Her knife was upstairs. She ran to get it and climbed to the roof to crouch behind the rampart. There was no mist to hide her today.

Most of the strangers waited with the boat, but Daro led the rest up over the rocks and through the gate to the courtyard. The hens approached, expecting food, but even Vanessa ran back to the shelter of the coop when Daro aimed a vicious kick at her. There was a crash of splintering wood as his cronies broke down the door, then heavy booted footsteps coming up the stairs.

Asta readied the knife as Daro pushed the trapdoor open.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he commented, leaning on the rampart as the others filed out after him. “It took me a while to round up enough help that weren’t too scared of ghost stories to launch an assault on Dun Ardech. I thought it might be easier to arrive by sea. Where’s your strange friend with the dog skull?”

“It’s a seal,” said Asta, holding the knife’s grip in both hands.

“A seal. Well,” Daro spread a hand on his chest in mocking apology, “consider me thoroughly corrected. I’m sure this has all been a lot of fun, but it’s time to come home, Asta.”

“Your family estate is not my home.”

“Asta,” he said, attempting a conciliatory tone. “Be reasonable. However far you may have fallen from your rightful place, you’re still nobility of the Empire. You belong in proper society, on the arm of a fellow noble and with a collar of the finest gold, not…” he cast an eye around the broch, “…here.”

“Maybe I would rather live here than wear a collar at all.”

“Come, now.” Daro placed a hand on his waist, just above the whip on his belt. “We have to maintain a certain level of discipline, but haven’t you been treated fairly?”

“Fairly!?” Asta stormed forwards, brandishing the knife. Daro took a cautious step backwards, but motioned for the others to stay where they were. “You chained me to a post in your stable yard and whipped me until I bled when I had done nothing. I was lucky to be able to walk afterwards. If you want me to leave here with you,” she lifted the knife to his chin, “you’re going to have to drag me out.”

Daro shrugged. “All right.” In a flash, he caught both of her wrists and pushed the knife down from his chin until Asta lost her grip on the handle and it fell to the stone beneath their feet. “Give me some help here!” More hands grabbed her arms, forcing them down and binding her wrists behind her back, shoving her towards the trapdoor. In a last desperate move, Asta lunged forwards and slammed her forehead into Daro’s nose. The satisfaction of the crunch it made did not last for long; he lifted a hand to his face, inspected the blood that came away on his fingertips, and drove his fist into her gut. She doubled over, wheezing for breath, and three people at once lifted her off her feet to carry her bodily down the stairs and out to the boat.

They dumped her in the stern like a sack of oats.

“Enough of this nonsense,” said Daro, taking a moment to tie her ankles and force a gag between her teeth. “Let’s just get back to the estate and we can put this whole sordid affair behind us, hmm? Cast off!” he added to the crew.

The boat turned to sail back up the loch. Behind it, Riabhach raised his head from the waves and roared once, before he and the other water horses climbed back onto the rocks.

There was still no sign of Roan.

~~~

Well that’s not good

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