#and then hopefully the swelling will go down so we can operate again

[fandom-monium]

fuck shit i loved unrivaled but can we please get jealous reader? like maybe everyones on a mission and spencer has to flirt with someone?? the target??? thank you keep doing what you do!! <3

Established Relationship Rivalry

Summary: In which you really don't like Spencer talking to other girls... or assassins. "Shut your mouth, before I do it for you."

WC: 1.8k

TW: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader, Jealous!Reader, companion piece to Unrivaled but not a sequel, pining (?), fluff and angst(?), established relationships RIVALRY, more reader-centric sorry, ft. Entropy Cat Adams that bitch (derogatory), a darker side of Mysterious!Reader comes to light

⏤

You sit at the bar a few seats down from JJ, watching Spencer at the corner of your eye as he puts on a show of settling into the velvet booth. 

The restaurant is fancy, the kind you take your significant other, or in this case, invite your ‘high end’ date to gain their trust, lure them in. Your vision swims at its dark red scheme and slightly dim lights, but it’s not too much that you don’t notice how good Spencer looks in his new suit, something he’s recently taken up. The blazer’s dark against his light skin, his purple tie is in a lopsided knot, and he even combed his hair a little. 

You sigh. If only you weren’t on the job, you’d stare as much as you’d want. It seems you’re not the only one who’s noticed either, surrounding patrons stealing glances at Spencer despite most of them with company.

You decide suits might be your favorite on him. It’s definitely up there.

But as the wine glass threatens to crack between your fingers, you weigh the possibility that maybe⏤just maybe⏤you should reel in your emotions, because you might actually get yourself kicked off the operation.

Now, you’re not jealous. Seriously.

This isn’t jealousy. Spencer and you aren’t even like that. Like, yeah you care about each other (more than what would be considered platonic), but you’re not together together, and there’s certainly not this weird, unspoken agreement that neither of you are to be ‘involved’ with others. Because that would imply you have feelings. More specifically, non-platonic feelings for someone you’re just not ready to admit to.

Then Catherine Adams enters the arena.

Her strides are short, almost dainty, and if you were a less experienced profiler you’d think that she was a normal woman, shy and awkward as any first date would be.

But you know each footstep is calculated, controlled. A perfected facade built on years of practice.

Other than respecting her abilities, you don’t know how to feel about her. From what little you guys could gather from her file, she is little… psycho.

So no, you’re not jealous. 

You’re not jealous when she exchanges shy smiles with Spencer. 

You’re not jealous when she invades his personal bubble. Or when she gropes him for his gun.

No, this isn’t jealousy that burns in your stomach. Oh no no no.

This is fury, your eyes stinging with barely contained rage. And as you imagine the eight different ways you could amputate Adam’s hands with a butterknife (there’s plenty within arms length, you could reach it), it takes Hotch’s stern voice for you to lower it to a simmer.

“(Your Name), calm down,” he crackles into your earpiece.

Hoping to dissuade from yourself, you cover a sickly sweet smile behind your glass, your canines glinting in the light. “Hotch, please, I’m the epitome of calm and collected.”

“We can literally see your teeth grinding on cams, and if we can see it, Cat Adam’s will too⏤”

You huff.

“Now calm down. You look more like a disgruntled divorcee than a satisfied customer.”

Okay, harsh. You almost reply indignantly before you catch JJ’s gaze, her blue eyes warm with enough understanding that it makes your shoulders relax. As much as you appreciate her, you’re supposed to be strangers in this restaurant. She can’t even mouth to you without giving you both away, blowing your covers⏤

“...tell Blondie McBlonderson over there at the bar to disappear.”

⏤cover. Welp. There goes that plan.

Immediately you lower your gaze to the rim of your glass, keeping the bitch in your peripheral as JJ clenches her jaw and slides off her stool, trudging off to the kitchen. It’s a chess match; Cat picks each of you off as if you’re pawns, sacrificial pieces, bait, until the restaurant is clear and Morgan, Lewis, and you remain. Gun raised, you try not to sneer as Lewis cuffs the Bomber’s hands behind her back, leading her and the civilians outside. 

“Guess we’re right back where we started. You and me with a gun,” Adams huffs, her tone betraying nothing. Your anger spikes as she grips Reid like a human shield. “Although, I didn’t think I’d get the chance to see you.” She stares across the room at Morgan…and you.

She’s looking directly at you.

You frown. “Do I know you?”

Adams snorts, adjusting Reid in front of her, “No, I guess not. Last time we met was years ago, and you were a whole other person at the time. I barely even recognized you.” Her eyes trail over your figure, and your skin crawls as her lips stretch into a cruel smile. A threat. “But you never forget your first, right?”

Oh. Oh.

Oh no.

In the blink of an eye, you pull the hammer of your firearm, its click echoing through the empty restaurant louder than it should have. Your lips pull back in a snarl, “Shut your mouth, before I do it for you.” 

Her response: a cheshire grin in return.

Huh. You hadn’t used that tone in what feels like forever, your voice laced with the promise of silence and death. It doesn’t feel as foreign as you hoped, and the realization wrenches your gut as you pretend not to notice Reid and Morgan’s scrutinizing gaze, eyes full of questions. Questions you really don’t want to answer. Not now.

Preferably not ever.

So you redirect everyone’s attention back to the situation at hand. It takes little prompting, considering Adams is holding a gun to Reid’s face, and it’s not long when Morgan convinces her to surrender. Like a shadow, you trail behind Morgan as Reid hauls her to the prison transport, your eyes burning a hole in the back of her head.

As Reid steps away, as he quietly settles next to you, before Morgan shuts the truck’s double doors Adams catches your eye. Her eyes glisten as her body shudders from hiccups. But she grins at you, wide enough to make your stomach squirm.

You flip her the bird in return.  

For the rest of the night you act natural, keeping your head down. You don’t leave right away, because nothing screams ‘something’s wrong’ than ditching everyone, so you passively agree to check on Garcia despite your grim mood. But at the sight of her, inebriated as she aggressively tells everyone how she loves them⏤loves you⏤you can’t help the tiny smile that spreads across your face (mostly because she’s pinching your cheeks). 

Even if she doesn’t mean to, Garcia manages to brighten your day, and you love her more for that.

After bidding your farewells (swallowing when Morgan shoots you a look that says, ‘this isn’t over’), you walk side by side with Reid, trudging through the tense atmosphere until you realize with a tight chest: he escorted you to your car. For a moment, you both stand at the driver’s side door, a beat of silence passing as you shakily pull out your keys. 

His hands, stuffed in his pockets, clench and unclench as his jaw sets. He’s yet to look you in the eye but you know, and for once you pray⏤to the universe, to whatever deities are out there, to Karma⏤that he’ll let this go, drop the subject. Hopefully never bring it up.

But this is Spencer we’re talking about. He’s your… friend. He’s confused and concerned and he wants to help some way, somehow.

So as you unlock your car, as his lips part, you don’t give him the chance, shoving away your dread. 

“You wanna get dinner?” It comes rushed, fear trickling into your voice. You hope he doesn’t notice. (He does.)

Spencer blinks at you, his mouth agape. “What?”

“It’s just,” You lick your lips, tugging thick air into your lungs as your body screams to run. Your eyes dart from his, looking at the ground, your car, the scuffs on your shoes, and you hate yourself, knowing Spencer notices all of it. “It’s a shame we didn’t get the chance to eat at that expensive restaurant, ya know? It was paid for too.”

Please, don’t ask. Please, don’t ask. 

“...That’s true.” His tone is scarily neutral. 

Looking up, you’re taken aback as he turns away to round the hood of your car to the passenger side door. “What do you think of thai for tonight?” 

You stammer a response, something along the lines of ‘uh⏤yeah, sounds good’ as you clamber into the car after him, fumbling to insert your key into the ignition. Your nerves only worsen by the second as you drive off into the dark, the only sounds coming from the rev of the engine and your heart thundering in your ears. Up ahead the traffic light changes, slowing you to a stop. You glance at Spencer, his purple tie red from the light, his side profile softly outlined in its harsh glow. He remains deathly quiet.

The silent treatment, huh. If he thinks reverse psychology is going to work on you...

He’d be absolutely right. His silence is deafening.

You turn to him, “Spencer⏤”

“You don’t have to.” Your breath catches in your throat, his lips parting and closing as he stumbles for the right words, “I mean, not right now. I-I know this isn’t the best time, but at some point we’re going to have to talk about it. So whenever you’re ready, I⏤” He clears his throat, twisting in his seat and meeting your eyes. His eyes gleam, earnest even in the dark. 

“We’ll be here for you.”

You can’t help gawking at him. Because Spencer’s eyes are inquisitive and kind⏤always have been⏤but right now they’re trained on you, and your face burns as your heart swells. You’re suffocating.

Because you want to tell him⏤all of them.

But fear clutches your heart.

White-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, you face the road again, blinking through unshed tears. “Thank you.”

Spencer nods, relaxing back into his seat. You’re relieved your answer’s enough for now.

The light turns green and you speed off. The grim night turns a little brighter as you fall back into routine with Spencer, the tension slowly lifting, your stomach, once filled with lead, now stuffed with thai food.

You’ll deal with Cat Adams later. She’s behind bars, so you doubt it’ll be anytime soon. You laugh as Spencer curses, soiling another pair of chopsticks when they hit the floor. Yes, you’ll deal with her when you’re ready.

That is, until you’re stopped by another red light.

⏤

AN: no cap i hesitated posting this because i realized after finishing its less of a Spencer Reid x Reader and more a reader-centric. i wanted to establish that reader has a whole backstory sorryyyy i hope yall like it anyway :)))

if you didnt notice, unless stated otherwise almost all my oneshots and FtH are tied together by Mysterious!Reader. yall dont have to but if you read them it helps understand reader better??

[andypantsx3]

subtle | 2 | Shouto Todoroki/Reader

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

status: complete

length: 2,265 words

summary: Someone leaves chocolates on your desk. You’re determined to track down the sender, certain it’s a mistake, and Shouto Todoroki makes himself as unhelpful as possible.

tags: romance, reader-insert, fluff, valentine’s day

warnings: aged up characters (no smut though!!)

notes: Hi all! Happy Valentine's Day! I'm posting a follow up chapter because so many people asked for it in my inbox. It's completely unedited because I just decided to write it today, and I wanted to get it up before the holiday was over! I promise I will come back and edit at some point in the next few weeks.

No one had come for the box.

You’d made a point to be out of your office as much as possible throughout the day, leaving plenty of opportunity for whoever the sender was to sneak back in and correct their mistake. But every time you reentered the room, there the box was, crowning a pile of your paperwork like a coronet of ineptitude.

You’d checked in with Shouto several times as well, anxious to learn whether or not he’d overheard anything as he changed out of his uniform from patrol, but he proved just as unhelpful as he’d been earlier this morning. He simply leaned towards you, looking almost conspiratorial--spiking both your heart rate and your hopes--only for him to murmur in his low voice, “No one is coming for it.”

Which was so fucking unhelpful.

So you’d set about the office yourself, lingering hopefully on the fringes of people’s conversations, peering about for clues on the agency staffer’s desks, but there was nothing to give the sender away, no whispered snippet of conversation or receipt laying amongst some expense sheets. You might have resorted to sifting through people’s garbage cans, if only Shouto hadn’t taken to suddenly appearing wherever you were investigating, watching you with a wry little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You knew he hadn’t the slightest modicum of romantic interest in you, but that didn’t mean you wanted him to witness you digging through people’s garbage either. That would have to wait until you could get him out of the building.

Which was also proving to be an impossible endeavor. He usually had a habit of lingering after his shift, coming into your office to make queries about one thing or another that almost always devolved into conversations deeply unrelated to work. But today he was especially resistant to leaving, seeming content to lounge around in the chairs you’d set out for clients, draping one distractingly muscled arm across the backs and watching you intently with those heterochromatic eyes.

“Shouto, get out of my office,” you hissed, coming back in at the end of the day to find him still in one of the chairs, his phone clutched in those long fingers.

He glanced up at you, eyes fastening to your features in that attentive way he had. “I work here.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” you asked, trying to suppress a small spike of irritation with him. “Because it looks like you’re scaring off the box sender to me. How are they supposed to sneak in here and take it back if their boss is looming in here like their worst nightmare?”

Shouto looked unconcerned. “I’m not.”

“Not what?” you asked. Maybe he wasn’t their worst nightmare, but being caught by your boss in the middle of correcting a romantic mishap was probably at least a nightmare.

“Not scaring anyone off,” he said, putting his phone away into his pocket. “I know who the box belongs to.”

You stopped short, your attention snapping fully towards him. A thrill of excitement went down your spine, even as regret poured through you. A little part of you had maybe hoped you would end up getting to eat the chocolates, even if they weren’t yours. But this was good news.

“You do? Why didn’t you tell me?” you demanded.

Yor feet guided you to the chair where he sat, and you stood, looking down at him expectantly. He watched you through his long lashes, eyes glinting strangely.

“It’s mine,” he said finally, after a moment that stretched long and slow, like warm taffy.

Your breath caught in your chest, a swell of confusion rising within you. The box was his?

Was he being truthful or was this another attempt to make you take it? Why would he have tried to make you think it was from a secret admirer, then? Why have let you run around all day, attempting to find the sender, if the chocolates had been his all along? Unless...

Unless he was embarrassed. You didn’t know why he might have left them in your office, but you suspected maybe force of habit had drawn him here. Maybe he was operating on autopilot after his distracting shift this morning, since he usually spent so much time in your office, and then you’d come in to find them before he’d had a chance to realize it. And the rest had been history.

But then that begged the question of who he’d really meant them for--your heart sank as the thought occurred to you.

Obviously, you had known since you’d first met him that he wasn’t interested in you. You’d spent years with your thoughts all muddled around him, quelling every blush, never straying into his personal space or staring at him longer than was appropriate. You’d been so, so careful around him, but you’d never had any indication that Shouto was as careful around you. On the contrary, he was always calm and intent--he never looked away from you in a fit of bashfulness the way you had him, and he seemed to have no qualms about getting into your personal space, leaning over you as you looked through reports together, putting a hand on your back to guide you through publicity events.

So yeah, you had known he was basically immune to you. You had known it for a long time. But it still smarted to think of him giving that box to someone else.

God, how embarrassing for you. How mortifying, really, that Shouto had been thinking of someone else all those days that you had been nursing your crush on him.

But you were a professional, you could deal with this.

All you had to do was play it cool, give him back the box and laugh it off like it hardly affected you. And then you could head back to your apartment and binge ice cream and be all wistful and embarrassing for one evening. You could allow yourself that before you had to come back and be doubly professional, smile and congratulate whichever analyst or support staffer or fellow hero had caught his interest.

You could be happy for him. You’d miss the chocolates though.

Drawing yourself together, you looked down at him, pulling out a small but genuine smile. Shouto was your friend, and he was going to nail it with whoever the box was meant for--you could give him your support. But then Shouto was unfolding himself out of the chair, standing up so he could look down into your face, taking a step closer to you.

You tried to ignore the flutter in your stomach at his sudden proximity, the hint of his clean cologne and the lick of warmth coming off of his left side.

“They’re, uh, they’re yours?” you managed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “You are in such big trouble for coming in here and peddling conspiracy theories instead of owning up to it. You at least owe me a coffee for being such a brat.”

Shouto watched you quietly, saying nothing.

“But we can hash that out later,” you said, waving what you hoped was a casual hand at him. “You need to move quickly. You should try to catch whoever you meant these for before they leave--daytime shift is over in a couple minutes.”

Shouto’s brows knitted, a small frown pulling at his mouth. “You still think they’re not for you,” he said.

It took a minute for you to register the words he’d spoken. The comment struck you dumb when you did, a thrill of disbelief going through you. Was he trying to be tactful now? Now, of all times?

“Shouto, seriously, you can make it up to me later. This is not the time to fuck around, the day’s almost over,” you said.

His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to you, close enough that you could feel him exhale. You took a step back in surprise, your hip bumping your desk.

“You promised me,” he said in his deep voice, “that if no one came looking for them by the end of the day, you would take them.”

You stared up at him, your mind churning wildly with all kinds of insane thoughts, wild insinuations that brought heat to your face. He absolutely could not mean what you thought he meant.

There was literally no way.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” you admitted. “But if you’re telling me I can take them just because you promised them, I don’t want them. I think you should give them to who you meant them for.”

That wry little smile played about his mouth again, and Shouto took another step closer. The back of your thighs dug into your desk and you wobbled, putting a hand down to keep your balance.

“To think I trust you with my career,” Shouto intoned, ducking his head to look into your face. You felt the heat of his left arm at your side as he placed it gently on your desk, caging you in. “Let me be plain, then. I did give them to who they were meant for.”

Your cheeks went hot, both with his proximity and the implied insult. But the rejoinder died on your tongue as the implication of his last few words sank in.

He had meant them for you? Shouto Todoroki, number four hero, your coworker of several years and your most patient, attentive, and mind-numbingly handsome friend, had gone to Grégoire Chardin, for Valentine’s Day chocolate, thinking--of all people--of you?

For a moment, it felt like the earth was sliding out from under your feet, but then you realized it was just you, tipping backwards on your desk. Your elbow banged into the side of the chocolate box, and you accidentally sent a small pile of papers fluttering over the side of your desk. You cringed, embarrassed, but then Shouto was over you, both arms braced on either side of your head.

“You don’t need to accept them if you don’t want,” he said quietly, watching your face. The intensity of his focus made your head swim, and you tried to focus on what he was saying, rather than the shape of his mouth as he spoke, the heat from his skin. “But I wanted you to know. I like you.”

You gaped at him, the words feeling like they were embedding themselves in your brain.

“You...like me?” you echoed in disbelief.

Shouto grinned, the expression so disarmingly charming that even your nose went hot. “Yes. Very much.”

A swell of emotions welled up inside you, like the unstoppable tide of a coastal flood, and you were gripped with the sudden desire to lean up and kiss him, to press your mouth to his and see if he meant it, if any of what he’d just said to you could possibly be real. Suddenly, that was the only thought in your entire brain.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” you heard yourself utter stupidly.

You hesitated for just a second, realizing that maybe you should pinch yourself first to see if this was actually happening, but then Shouto was already there, covering your mouth with his.

His kiss was hot and soft and utterly perfect, and very quickly there were no thoughts in your brain at all, nothing but the feel of him over you, one muscled thigh pressing insistently between yours, his long fingers tangling gently in the hair behind your ear. You clutched him to you tightly, an embarrassing little sound escaping you, and Shouto groaned, pressing more of his weight down on you, licking firmly into your mouth.

You were half-delirious with the feeling of him by the time he let you up for air, and you could feel yourself grinning like an absolute fool.

“I had a secret admirer,” you said. “You were being serious.”

Shouto smirked, leaning in to press a hot kiss to your throat. Your thighs clenched involuntarily. “Yes, I had been secretly admiring you for a while.”

For some reason, the words embarrassed you, and you tucked your face into his broad shoulder. “I...this is so embarrassing. I’ve been...admiring you, too.”

You heard Shouto huff a soft laugh, and then his calloused fingers were gripping your chin, angling your face back towards him so he could seize your mouth again. You went slack and pliant underneath him, enjoying the press of his mouth on yours, your toes curling when he did something particularly talented with his tongue.

“I did tell you,” Shouto said after a while, pulling back, one of his hands gripping your thigh.

“Tell me what?” you asked absently, wondering how you could get his mouth on yours again.

His eyes caught yours, the blue of his left glittering at you conspiratorially. “That I could be subtle.”

You laughed, feeling stupid--but more than that, flushed and completely pleased. You didn’t know if subtle was exactly the right word, but you weren’t going to argue specifics at the moment. “I guess you can be. Though you might have been a little bit more overt before now.”

“Then if you don’t mind,” Shouto said after a while, something like amusement in his voice, “I’d like to take you home and admire you quite overtly now.”

You were answering before he could even finish. “Yes, oh my god, yes.”

Shouto laughed again, smoothing a large palm down your side.

And then he did. And not even chocolates from Grégoire Chardin could compare.

[delimeful]

(dont) take this the wrong way (5)

warnings: injury, blood mentions, past psychological&emotional&physical abuse, ptsd, sickness

-

Virgil woke up, which was only unsurprising for the few moments it took him to 1. realize that his head was pounding and 2. remember the two very large reasons why.

His eyes flew open, and he found himself half-submerged in a shallow pool of cool water, surrounded by flat ledges of dry rock. The sound of ocean waves lapping against the cliffside echoed around the cavern, which was dimly lit by overhead cracks in the ceiling.

In one of these beams of paltry light, Logan was slumped over on his side, glasses askew. Virgil’s relief at seeing him was instantly overshadowed by terror at what could have happened to the human after Virgil had gone and gotten his skull knocked against rock.

His headache worsened, and he lifted a hand to press against the sore spot, pausing when he found more of those stiff bandage strips wrapped around his head.

The soft sloshing of water seemed to be enough to startle Logan into wakefulness, and the human brightened slightly at the sight of him. “Virgil. It’s good to see you awake. Are you feeling any pain or nausea?”

“What happened?” Virgil replied in lieu of the real answer, which was ‘everything hurts’. “Where are we, I thought we were dead for sure—!”

“Take a few deep breaths,” Logan advised, shuffling closer to the pool and offering a hand. Virgil took it gratefully. “We’re not currently in any danger. I believe we’re at the home of the seal-hybrid mer, if—“

“We’re what?!” Virgil’s voice dropped to a horrified double pitch, his grip on Logan’s hand instantly turning crushing.

“Ow,” Logan said in a pointed monotone. Virgil eased up before his claws could turn the human’s palm into bloody ribbons. “Let me finish, please. I’ve managed to work out a rudimentary method of communication, and as far as I know, we’re not currently at risk.”

“From the giant mer-eating monsters that literally kidnapped us, you mean?”

“Yes, that was the potential risk I was referring to.” Logan pulled Virgil further upright, reaching out with his free hand. “More importantly, you’ve been out for some time. Will you allow me to take a look at your injury?”

Virgil shuffled a little closer, allowing the hand to make contact with him. He had traversed currents of all temperatures, but in chilled still waters like this, Logan’s warmth was more than welcome. “I dunno how that’s more important than our inevitable, rapidly-approaching deaths, but sure, fine. Knock yourself out.”

“I will not? You are already dealing with a likely concussion, I see no reason to double that number.” Logan squinted at him like he was concerned that the head wound had taken a worse toll than he’d thought.

“No, it’s-- it’s just an expression. Don’t actually pass out, or I’ll freak out.”

“Ah,” Logan acknowledged, his hand twitching like he wanted to grab something before returning to carefully peeling the bandages away. “My apologies. Colloquialisms are not my strong suit.”

Virgil blinked back at him, because five syllable words were a little much even when he wasn’t concussed. “No worries?”

Logan continued to gently probe the back of his head. A sharp pang made him jerk away with a muted hiss, his vision blurring with pain as the sharp motion only agitated all his other cuts. He waved off Logan’s apology before it was fully formed. “S’fine. What’s the damage?”

“The bleeding has stopped, which is a good sign. It’s swelled significantly, but the cool water is hopefully helping reduce that as well. The best course of action now is for you to rest and recover in a dark, quiet place, ideally for at least two full days.”

“Yeah, but that’s not happening unless we get away first,” Virgil shot back, irritably twitching his fins down as Logan rewrapped the injury. The human let out a slow breath.

“Virgil. I believe the situation isn’t as dire as you think.” He settled back on his heels, back stiff as he spoke. “Our captors have shown no signs of aggression or hunger, even with the significant bleeding from your head wound. It’s possible--”

“It’s not possible!” Virgil cut him off, scowling fiercely. “That doesn’t mean anything. They’re playing some kind of sick game the way they always do, and if you let them trick you, you’re going to lose!”

Logan looked back at him inquisitively, still not getting it. “What evidence are you basing this off of? I was under the impression that you’ve spent only marginally more time in their company than me. Have they attempted to trick you in the past?”

“Yes, no, I mean--,” Virgil groaned, pulling at his bangs. “They don’t have to say it. That’s just how giants like them operate. We’re smaller, they can do what they want to us, we don’t get a say in it. You escape or you die.”

“Yet, we’ve been in their admittedly less-than-ideal care for over 24 hours, and they haven’t hurt us or made any indications they intend to hurt us.” Logan gestured expansively, his hand a bit wobbly. “That’s a rather long time to pretend, and for what purpose? If it was what they desired, we have been easy targets for a meal from the moment they relocated us.”

A rather long time to pretend. Virgil swallowed down a hysterical laugh, feeling dizzy. If a day of false niceties was all it took to buy his trust, he’d have never gotten away from his first encounter with a giant mer. “You’re— you’re human. You don’t know anything about this.”

Logan frowned. “I may be human, but that does not make me an idiot. Even with a language barrier, body language and expression are invaluable tools for communication, and I’ve been doing very little but observe them while you were unconscious. Virgil, if you just tried talking to them—“

“No!” he snapped, curling in even as his fins flared wide and threatening. He wouldn’t do this again, wouldn’t be subjected to the world’s most torturous game of catch and release, wouldn’t be lured back into too-tight hands by false promises and meaningless apologies. He couldn’t do that again.

Measured, rhythmic tapping on the back of his hand slowly brought him back to the present, cool air and Logan’s steady voice by his side. His throat was closed-up-too-tight, his gills too far out of the water to switch lungs— but the rhythm was counted out over and over, breathe in, hold, and out.

“There you go,” Logan said as Virgil took in another long, shuddering drag of air. “Well done.”

The air smelled like iron. He realized that somewhere in the past few minutes, he’d dug his claws into the soft sides of the human’s hand, drawing blood. He pulled away as though he’d been burned.

Logan didn’t even twitch, still searching his gaze intently. “Are you with me?”

Virgil nodded stiffly. “Yeah, I— fuck, I’m sorry.”

“No, I shouldn’t have pushed you. I didn’t realize— but I should have.” A deep, resolved breath. “It’s okay. I’ll find you a way out that doesn’t involve interacting with them.” Logan’s gaze went distant and hazy with thought, and Virgil hesitantly drew closer, pulling a bandage free to wrap around his bleeding hand.

… He was really warm. Clammy, too, and he’d been sitting in a cold, wet cave for hours, hadn’t he? Had been completely drenched for even longer.

“You’re sick,” Virgil said, and Logan took a moment too long to refocus on him. How had it taken him so long to notice? “That’s why you need me to talk to them. You need to get home.”

“My illness is no more severe than your injuries,” he deflected, adjusting his glasses clumsily. “Right now, the priority is getting you away from triggering circumstances. If my suspicions are correct, I will be fine regardless.”

Right. His suspicions, based on his willingness to trust his own abductors. He’d trusted Virgil, too, back in those tunnels. He’d known that he might be abandoned and he’d freed Virgil anyways, taken his hand anyways. Gotten hurt for his trouble.

He’d get hurt worse if Virgil left him here.

“... Yeah,” Virgil said, tucking the edge of the bandage in carefully. “But you should sleep for now. We both should. You said they haven’t done anything yet, right?”

“Yes, but…,” Logan’s brow was furrowed slightly, as though he knew something was off, but wasn’t quite sure what. “I mean, you do need rest. If… If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Virgil replied, curling against the edge of the pool and pillowing his head on his arms to hide their shaking. “Get some sleep, Specs.”

—

It was early morning when Patton woke to the splash of something small dropping into the water from his air room.

The room wasn’t overly large, being designed only for occasional use when he needed some extra oxygen in his system. It was also quite a few caves up above his sleeping den, but with two delicate little guests staying over, his senses were on high alert. He disentangled from Roman, who had been clinging to him for extra warmth, waking the shark mer in the process.

“Mwha’huh?” he asked groggily, and Patton chuckled at the way one side of his hair had been pressed into a tangled bundle.

“I think they may be awake!” he reported quietly, and Roman perked right up. They had originally hovered in the room over the two of them, only leaving after the human-- busy tending to the tiny mer’s wounds-- had gotten too fed up and used charades to shoo them away, leaving them with nothing to do but sit around and think about how badly they’d messed up. As such, they were both more than eager to start fixing things.

Upon popping up into the air room, however, they found only the human, lying completely still apart from the slow rise and fall of his chest. Deep in sleep, with an empty pool at his side.

Roman and Patton exchanged a panicked look, and ducked back underwater to search through his home and see where, exactly, the injured mer had gone.

It didn’t take long to spot him. The mer had practically every fin and frill puffed out, even the ones that were still injured. The threat display as eye-catching as they got.

He was hovering in the opening of a vent crevice, one that helped circulate seawater through the caves. It was small enough that if he vanished through it, they wouldn’t be able to stop him or see where he was headed. He knew it, too, staring them down with sharp defiance rather than absolute terror.

“Don’t move,” he said, as though they hadn’t both frozen at the sight of him. “I’m going to-- to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?” Roman asked, and received a sharp, wild-eyed glare for his troubles.

“Yeah, a deal. The other one is sick,” a slight jerk of the head toward the air room, “so he won’t last long here. Probably already too far gone to even play a single game.”

Patton was torn between concern (the human was sick?) and confusion. Game?

“But I’m fine. I’ve had much worse than this.” The mer drifted back slightly, closer to the crevice. “If I leave now, you’ll never find me, and then Lo-- the human will die, and you won’t have anything to play with.”

A creeping sense of dread overcame Patton. He still didn’t know what was going on, but it was sounding more and more like something was seriously wrong here.

“So, a deal. You take the human back to where you found him, and I’ll stay-- I’ll stay here,” his voice cracked painfully, but he ignored it, staring at them with a desperate sort of intensity. “With you. I won’t try to get away or anything. I-- I swear.”

“Get away?” Roman asked, his voice going high with the same sort of horror that currently swamping Patton. The mer ducked back at the sound, gaze flitting between them, some of that terror returning.

“I will! I’ll leave, if you-- you can either have one or none, that’s the deal, I’m not kidding. I’m not!” His fins flared wider, blood beginning to leak from some of them. “He’s human anyways, he can barely even swim, you don’t want him--”

“Kiddo,” Patton cut in urgently, raising his hands peacefully and trying not to wince when the mer flinched, “if he’s sick, of course we’ll take him back to where he can get help. No deals necessary, okay?”

The little guy didn’t look reassured at all. “I want to watch. I have to see you put him back, where other humans will find him, or else the deal’s off.”

He didn't believe them. Patton exchanged a helpless look with Roman, who finally nodded.

“Of course,” the shark mer said, “You are more than welcome to accompany us back to the mainland where Patton found him, provided that you’re not exacerbating your injuries.”

The mer hissed at him, a tiny, reedy sound. “And whose fault is that?”

“Irresponsible human fishing vessels?” Roman tried, and then wilted under both Patton and the mer’s looks when the joke fell flat. He cleared his throat. “It is, of course, mine. I wanted to apologize for the way I manhandled you before. Regardless of my intentions, it was unbefitting behavior, and it hurt you. I am truly sorry.”

He bowed with a little flourish, moving slower than normal. The mer stared at his bowed head apprehensively, and then covered the look up with a distrustful scowl.

“If you’re sorry, get Logan out of this place before he gets any worse,” he finally replied, and Patton nodded and went to retrieve the human-- Logan, presumably.

Glancing over his shoulder as he left, he could see the way the tiny mer’s fins had settled just slightly, not quite as frantically overextended as before.

It was a start.

[toraodwaterlaw]

An End and a Beginning

Having survived Minion, Rosinante is reassigned to East Blue, where he and Law will start their new lives. 1700 words, CoraLives!Au, mild hurt/comfort, found family

-

“I’m ready.”

Law was seated on his bed, a full length mirror in front of him and a scalpel in his right hand. Neither was strictly necessary- neither the mirror nor the scalpel- but he insisted they helped. He really only needed to feel out the lead with his powers, not to see anything, but Rosinante could understand how weird it would feel to work blind, more or less. That he could still operate with everything flipped in the mirror only proved what a remarkable doctor he might have been had life been less cruel. Perhaps he still would be. Rosinante certainly hoped. Law would have his whole life ahead of him once this was finally over.

As for the scalpel, well, apparently it worked as a sort of focus for the Ope-Ope to work through. It made Rosinante wince, made the whole thing seem more like a normal operation, but it was infinitely preferable to the sword Law had first suggested using. Apparently the boy already had ideas on how he might use the Devil Fruit to fight. Rosinante had to draw the line at practicing that on himself. It was bad enough Law had to operate on himself.

“Ready,” Rosinante repeated. He nodded and looked down at Law a moment more. He wouldn’t stay. He never did, not after the first time. Law insisted that it didn’t hurt but Rosinante couldn’t bear to see him like that. It looked too close to dying even if it was more like the opposite. “Right. I’ll be guarding the front door like always. Just right out there,” he said, knowing all the while it was more a reassurance to himself than to Law who was seemingly unfazed by the whole process. “If you need me, all you have to do is call for me.”

Law rolled his eyes. “I know, Cora-san.” He waved the scalpel in his hand menacingly. “Now get out of here. You’re distracting.”

Rosinante nodded and promptly tripped over his own feet on the way to the door. He caught himself on the door handle and smiled sheepishly back at Law who only scowled in return. He found his usual seat outside the room with a heavy sigh. One more operation and this would all be behind them.

For as much as he himself had told Law that the fruit wasn’t magic, he’d somehow imagined this would be over with one miraculous wave of the hand. Law would awaken to his new powers, find the lead in his veins and pull it all out in one go. Instead, it had been staggered over the course of weeks. Law had needed to learn how to use his powers and then they’d both found just how much energy it all took. The real delay came, Rosinante would admit, had come at his own insistence. He hadn’t been around for the first attempts at operating, since he’d been held up on Minion while Law went ahead to Swallow. Law himself had been tight lipped about how that had gone but from what he’d gathered from the other boys that had been there, there had been blood loss. Just how much he’d never know. In his opinion, any was too much. 

Rosinante shook his head to get that particular image out of his head. He patted down his pockets until he found his cigarettes. He flicked at his lighter with a trembling thumb and nearly caught his hair instead of the cigarette with the resulting flame. He sucked in deep and let out a long, smoke filled breath. His eyes slid closed. He needed to focus on the positive. This would all be over soon. Already, life was coming back with a flush in Law’s skin. It would be a while before the patches in his skin would be gone completely but sunny Windmill Village was doing a lot to help vitality along. Law was healing. They both were.

He’d have to find a way to thank Sengoku and Garp. Maybe he’d just send food and drink along under the guise of souvenirs. At least Garp was likely to accept. Sengoku was still pretending that sending a Marine Commander to such an out of the way posting was a punishment. Rosinante knew, though, just how many strings the Fleet Commander likely had pulled to get him here. As important as the rulers of the Goa Kingdom might consider themselves, they didn’t really merit a strong naval presence.

“I’m done.”

The voice was quiet and weak enough that he nearly didn’t hear it but he was on his feet in an instant. He gripped the wall to keep upright and then stumbled in through the door. Law was seated just as he’d been before. If Rosinante didn’t know any better, he’d think nothing had happened. He did know better, though.

“Done? All done?”

“That’s what I said, you stupid clown,” came the expected reply. There wasn’t nearly as much bite in the insult as there once had been. Law fell back onto his bed. Rosinante took a worried step forward before he saw the smile on Law’s face. “But yeah, it’s all done. Not a trace of lead left.”

Of the two of them, Rosinante had most definitely been the more optimistic one about this whole process. Yet, here he was, unable to quite believe it. The past weeks had been so hard and the six months before that had been harder still. It felt impossible that they’d both survived it all and now would get to simply get on with their lives.

Law opened one golden eye and fixed it on Rosinante. “You think I’m lying to make you feel better or something?”

Rosinante gaped. The forgotten cigarette dropped from his mouth. He stomped it out with a yelp before anything was burnt. “No!” he insisted. “It’s just—”

How could he explain? But Law was smart. He got it even without words.

The boy sat up. “See for yourself.” He extended a hand and was surrounded in a sphere of shimmering blue. “Scan.”

That blue light intensified and shone in a path that followed the careful sweep of Law’s hand. Rosinante knew from previous experience exactly what Law was showing him. There was nothing. No lead. No lingering illness.

Rosinante’s face split into a wide smile. He could see Law biting back on a smile of his own as he threw himself back down into the bed.

“Told you, idiot. I thought you crammed that fruit down my throat because you believed in my medical skills.”

“I did. I do! But after everything…”

“Yeah. I know.” Law chewed on his lip and a complicated expression crossed his face. Whatever it was about, when it passed, there was only a smile left in its place. “I might’ve scanned three or four times before I called you in. Just to be really sure.”

“But it’s over.”

“It’s over.”

How many times would they have to repeat that before either of them believed it?

Law had let his eyes drift shut again. Rosinante took the opportunity to really look at him. He wondered what changes the next months and years would bring. Law was still rather small for his age. Rosinante knew he was hardly the best judge given he was, as Law would point out, rather larger than average himself, but the boy hardly had the look of someone on the cusp of adolescence. Hopefully without the constant strain on his body, he would be able to catch up with where he should be. Perhaps he’d never be as tall or as bulky as he might have been but only time would tell. Rosinante chose to hope for the best.

And then there was his skin. Amber Lead Syndrome was blessedly unheard of all the way out in a rural corner of East Blue but Rosinante knew Law was still self conscious. Every curious look or question about the white patches made him pull into himself. Although the people of Windmill Village had overall been very kind and accepting, Law would undoubtedly be more comfortable when his skin was clear of any lingering paleness.

Rosinante’s heart swelled thinking of that future. Maybe Law would start to open up more, find friends even. He knew Garp’s grandkids were about somewhere. And that was only the start of it. Law was smart, he was strong, and now he was healthy. The future was practically limitless.

Rosinante threw himself into the bed next to Law, causing the boy to bounce up into the air with a yelp.

“Oi! Watch what you’re doing, you giant oaf.”

Rosinante could only smile. He ruffled a fond hand through Law’s unruly black hair. “We should start looking at what medical training is available. There might not be anything somewhere so out of the way but there’s plenty of time. We can find you the best training. Go anywhere you want.”

Law rolled his eyes. “Give me a few seconds to breathe, would you? I only just finished getting rid of the lead and you’re already planning out my entire future.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll try not to get carried away. But…” Rosinante hesitated. He knew this was a sensitive subject given all the time Law had spent convinced he was going to die. Still, the boy needed to start looking ahead at some point. “Have you thought at all what you might want to do now?”

Law was silent a moment and Rosinante thought he had perhaps pushed too far. Then Law smiled. “I was thinking…” Rosinante propped himself up onto his elbows and waited. Law’s smile only grew. “Maybe I’ll become a pirate.”

Rosinante’s eyes widened. “What?” He swatted at Law, only to be easily dodged as Law hopped over him and off the bed. “You brat! You aren’t going to be a pirate.”

Law threw back his head and laughed as he continued to dance out of Rosinante’s reach. It was a boisterous, youthful thing that the blond couldn’t help but love the sound of. Law was still a brat. He would probably always be a bit of a shit but there would really be time ahead for him to grow. Mature. There was finally a future that both of them could see and Rosinante couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment whether that included Law turning pirate or doing anything else he might imagine.

[theeasternempress]

Big Hands, Little Hands, Two Big Hearts

Summary - Wrecker has always known that his tough exterior was the first thing people saw of him but with every passing day, Omega brings out more and more of the gentle giant hidden within him. 

Word count - 1.8k

AO3 

“Hold on, this is gonna be a bumpy one!” Wrecker bellowed, doing his best to protect Omega. 

She was giggling as he held her against his waist with one arm, spinning around in circles. His heart swelled with each giggle that filled his ears, knowing that he had caused them. 

Wrecker laughed, “Uh oh, it looks like we’re hitting some turbulence. I think we’re going to crash!” 

As carefully as he could while still exaggerating his movements, he dropped to the ground and rolled Omega on top of him. She giggled and rolled off of him to lay at his side, both of them catching their breath.

They’d been playing together for about half an hour now since Wrecker was currently her only source of entertainment. Hunter had left for a lone supply run while Echo and Tech were working on repairs. Hunter had asked Wrecker to keep an eye on Omega and while he probably meant that as “just check on her every so often to make sure she’s alright”, Wrecker wasn’t one to stay still for long and decided to play with her instead. 

Once they had both caught their breath, Wrecker sat up and scooped Omega up to sling her across his shoulders. She shrieked with laughter, knowing what was coming next.

“Alright kid, it’s weightlifting time! You ready?” Wrecker asked, positioning his hands on Omega’s back and knees to lift her.

“Yes please, lift me higher than last time!” Omega squealed. 

Wrecker laughed at her excitement and lifted her over his head, her squeals and giggles increasing in volume the higher she went. 

“How’s the view from up there?” Wrecker asked, staying as still as possible to keep her balanced. 

She looked down at him and replied, “Everything looks so different! Can you show me the rest of the ship like this?” 

“You got it, kiddo. We just gotta be careful around the doorways so you don’t get hit,” Wrecker responded, happy that Omega was having such a good time with him. 

He carried her through the main hallway, spinning around a few times to let her see every new angle. She was giggling the whole time, almost to the point that Wrecker was afraid that she wasn’t breathing enough. She occasionally would reach up to brush her fingers along the ceiling with amazement glowing in her eyes. 

The cockpit was their next stop and Echo and Tech were quietly working when they walked in. Wrecker hated to say it, but he was happy that Hunter was out so he wouldn’t see him carrying Omega around like this. 

“Echo, Tech, look how high I am!” Omega exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. Both men turned to look at her, their eyes going wide with shock at the same time. 

“Careful with her, Wrecker,” Echo spoke, giving Wrecker a look that he knew meant there would be hell to pay if she got hurt. 

“Hey, I’ve got this under control,” Wrecker said. Just to show off, he flipped Omega in the air and caught her so that she was facing the opposite direction. He didn’t miss how Tech, who was the closest, tossed his datapad aside and stuck his arms out to catch Omega if she fell. 

Echo sighed deeply from his chair and shook his head. Wrecker remembered how it had taken him some time to adapt to the chaotic methods of his new team, but there were still times when they did something ridiculous and he would just sigh.

“You’re lucky Hunter isn’t here to see you swinging Omega around like that,” Tech snarked, picking his datapad up from the floor. 

“Yeah, well I’m sure Hunter would just want Omega to have fun, isn’t that right?” Wrecker asked Omega, who nodded between her giggles. 

As Wrecker began to carry Omega out of the cockpit, he heard her call out, “Bye Tech! Bye Echo!”  

Wrecker smiled to himself over Omega’s love for his brothers. The change that this child brought about their ship in such a short period of time always brought a smile to his face. 

Wrecker carried Omega around the rest of the ship with ease, enjoying every second of her laughter. It didn’t take long for them to finish walking around the rest of the ship, and Wrecker carefully set Omega back on the ground to ask her, “Alright kiddo, what do you want to do next?” 

She thought for a moment before gasping and saying, “I have an idea! I’ll lift Lula while you lift me so she can see the view too!” 

Omega didn’t even wait for a response from Wrecker as she ran to her room to grab Lula. She grabbed the toy and hopped back down but in her excited state, she didn’t notice that one of Lula’s ears had gotten caught on a loose screw. As she pulled the toy down, she heard a faint tearing sound and gasped as she realized it had come from Lula. 

Omega saw that Lula’s right ear had been torn to the point that the stuffing had started to fall out, but the ear was not completely off. Tears began to blur Omega’s vision as she stared at Wrecker's precious toy. She’d been so happy when he gave it to her and promised to keep her safe, but now she’d ruined her.  

As scared as she was to tell Wrecker, she knew that she had to. She took a deep breath, tried to hide her tears, and hoped that Wrecker wouldn’t be too upset with her.

Wrecker had noticed that Omega was taking a while to grab Lula so he called up, “Hey kid, you doing alright?”

She appeared a moment later with tears in her eyes and Wrecker felt his heart drop. He’d never seen her cry before and the sight of it physically pained him.

He kneeled down in front of her and softly asked, “Hey, what are those tears for?” 

Omega stayed silent as more tears grew in her eyes and she revealed Lula from behind her back. Wrecker could see that one of her ears was a little torn, but at least not completely ripped off.

“I’m … I’m sorry, Wrecker. I didn’t mean to rip her,” Omega choked out as the tears that had been glimmering in her eyes began to fall down her cheeks. 

Wrecker gently took Lula from Omega’s hand to set her aside and then pulled the young girl to his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and began sobbing against him. Omega’s cries sent a pain directly to Wrecker’s heart as he felt tears building up in his own eyes at the sadness of the child in his arms. He let her cry against him for as long as she needed, running a comforting hand up and down her back in an attempt to calm her.  

“It’s alright, Omega, it’s alright,” Wrecker said in as soft a voice as he could. Omega’s sobs began to whittle down into sharp intakes of breath before she eventually pulled away from Wrecker to wipe away her tears with her sleeve. 

“I’m really sorry, Wrecker,” she apologized, her voice shaking from crying. 

“Don’t worry Omega, I used to rip Lula all the time when I was younger. I learned how to fix her though, so it’s okay when she gets torn. If you want, I can show you how to do it,” Wrecker said as he rested a hand on Omega’s cheek to wipe her tears away with his thumb.

She sniffled and replied, “Are you sure you’re not upset with me?” 

“I promise I’m not. Lula isn’t upset with you either, she knows that accidents happen,” Wrecker emphasized. 

That brought a smile to Omega’s face, which gave Wrecker the chance to stand up and ruffle her hair. 

“You stay here with our patient, I’m gonna go get my sewing kit,” Wrecker told Omega, who nodded in response. 

Wrecker walked over to his bunk and pulled out the small sewing kit stored beneath it. His large hands had made learning how to sew difficult but the more experience he got, the more he was able to adapt to it and form his own methods.

He quickly returned to Omega, who had laid Lula flat on her back against the floor. 

Wrecker kneeled down next to Omega and asked, “Alright, how is my favorite doctor and patient doing?

Omega laughed a little and replied, “The patient has a small tear at the base of her right ear that will need some stitches.”

“Well then, let’s get started on getting our patient back to normal,” Wrecker responded. 

He raised his left arm out and let Omega tuck herself against his side so that she could see everything he was doing. 

Wrecker explained each step of the sewing process carefully to ensure that Omega understood. He noticed how as time went on, the redness in her eyes from crying disappeared and was slowly replaced by the avid curiosity that made her so special.  

The stitching of Lula’s ear went smoothly, and Wrecker even let Omega do a couple of stitches. By the end of it, Wrecker could barely notice there had been a tear to begin with. 

“I declare this operation a success! We should find some way to celebrate,” Wrecker said with a cheerful voice. 

“Can you lift Lula and me up so we can see the ship again?” Omega asked hopefully with big, brown eyes that Wrecker quickly learned he could never say no to. 

“Sure thing, Omega. Whatever you want,” Wrecker replied softly. 

Wrecker and Omega continued to play together until Wrecker noticed that Omega’s giggles had stopped. He carefully lifted her down from over his head and into his arms to check on her. He found her fast asleep with Lula held tight in her arms. Soft snores were leaving the girl’s mouth and it took all of Wrecker’s willpower to not laugh at the adorable scene before him.  

Being more careful than he had ever been in his life, Wrecker gently carried Omega up to her room and slowly set her down. He unfolded her thin blanket and tenderly covered her with it, tucking it around her small frame. Omega only moved for a moment to snuggle deeper into her blanket and bring Lula close to her chest. Wrecker smiled at the small girl and lightly ran a hand through the soft blonde strands of hair against her forehead. Omega smiled softly in her sleep and leaned into Wrecker’s touch.

Wrecker stayed like that, gently running a hand through Omega’s hair, for so long that his legs had long since fallen asleep. He eventually urged himself to let the girl sleep, but the warm feeling in his chest remained long after. 

[clonemando]

Had a bad day and am stressed out so I wrote some Father/Son Jaster and Jango hurt comfort to make me feel a little better. Please enjoy!

Jango hasn't been eating like he should after hearing rations are low and Jaster isn't pleased to find out.

Jango smiled as he sat next to one of the foundlings being looked after by the Ha'at after the last campaign and offered them a second bowl of tiingilar. "Shh, just a secret between us." He said with a wink at them when their expression lit up amd he took the empty bowl in exchange. Jaster couldn't know he had been giving his portions away or he'd be furious but Jango knew what it was like to be new and hungry and too scared to ask for food. Especially when their rations were as low as they were at current. Death Watch was targeting any settlement that traded with Haat they could find and it was leading more and more to turn them away and refuse to trade with them. That with all the crop burning and more foundlings being left behind with no where else to go meant slim pickings for food. Jango was older than most of the others. He was used to missing meals while out on the field with Jaster. Plus the less he ate the easier it got to ignore the slight pains of hunger that would occasionally pop up. It was fine. He wasn't starving himself. He still ate midmeal. He just only at midmeal and whatever snacks Jaster occasionally would share with him.

He got up and walked around to another new kid and snuck them a ration bar that was supposed to he for his breakfast. They smiled at him in thanks and he nodded back before heading to turn in the empty dish.

"You finished that off fast Alor'ika! We should enter you in a competition." Bari said with a bright grin that showed off some fangs she had inherited through mixed genetics. She looked mostly human but so did most Mandalorians, years of adopting any species or race into their own had played with all of their DNA in weird ways. Jango himself was certainly some sort of mash of things as well but it's never really mattered since he was human enough.

"I guess the mission earlier just really had me hungry. I'm all filled up now though. Delicious as I expect from the best cook in the camp." he said kindly but she just raised a brow.

"You really are Jaster's ad with a tongue that smooth Alor'ika. Speaking of which, I haven't seen your buir yet. Take him his portion for me? He's probably still going over those maps." She asked handing him another full bowl and Jango nodded.

"Of course. Honestly how he got anything done before I was here to remind him life exists is a mystery." He chuckled and headed back towards his father's room getting nods from a few verd as he passed them. He felt good about his position. He wasn't cocky enough to think he was special or anything like that but he hot along easily with the other Haat'ade and most seemed to think he belonged with Jaster. It felt nice to be wanted and to have other people confirm his place with them. Even if he didn't become Mand'alor after Jaster, he'd always belong there.

"Buir! Bari sent me with your food. You get lost in that romance novel again?" He asked teasingly as he set the bowl down on Jaster's desk after clearing some space.

Jaster jumped a little in his chair glasses askew on his face before he relaxed at the sight of his son. "I actually think I fell asleep after calling a few more friends to make sure Tor hasn't bothered them." He admitted ruffling Jango's hair fondly and picking up the bowl and sniffling the stew inside.

"Mmm. This smells great. Bari really is a miracle on this whole operation. Only she could manage Tiingilar on such a meager budget." He chuckled and Jango nodded.

"Yeah. It's great! She's an amazing cook." He said clearing his throat when his stomach growled at him to cover the sound.

Jaster took a few bites while Jango looked over the list of numbers Jaster had been going through.

"Hmmm, something about this tastes different." He said after a while and Jango hummed absently.

"She said earlier that she ran out of the normal spice paste she used and started using Clan Rook's stuff instead." Jango said surprised when Jaster choked on his bite causing him to pat Jaster's back.

"Clan Rook's? Are you sure? And you ate it?" Jaster asked eyes fluttering over Jango with concern.

"Of course! It's not like I'm going to turn down Tiingilar! What are you scared Clan Rook is out to poison me or something?" Jango asked playfully though he was trying to understand what had Jaster so upset.

"Jango... Clan Rook uses vash nut powder in their spice mix." He pointed out and Jango winced. Right. Of course they did. And he just happened to be extremely allergic to that particular nut.

"Well... I... Actually wasn't that hungry tonight and didn't want to worry you. I'm sorry Buir. I shouldn't have lied about it. I'm fine though. It's a good thing too it seems since it saved us me swelling up and needing to go to medical." He tried to joke but Jaster was staring at him with a considering gaze now that made him uncomfortable.

"Well you still have your breakfast rations right? You can have that tonight and I'll talk to Bari and make sure there's no more surprises like that again." He offered and Jango reached into the empty pocket head ducking.

"I... uh... I don't have my breakfast ration anymore buir." He said letting his hair fall forward to hide his eyes feeling heat burning his face in shame.

"What happened to it? Did you drop it?" Jaster asked and Jango cleared his throat as his stomach growled again but this time there was no hiding it.

"I'm really not hungry Buir! Really. I'm fine." Jango said knowing he couldn't lie and especially not to Jaster.

"Jango, what's going on? Why aren't you eating? Are you feeling sick?" Jaster asked setting his bowl aside to feel Jango's forehead but Jango pushed his hand aside.

"No... I just... gave it to the foundlings. They need it more. Many are too nervous to speak up and rations are low right now. I don't mind. When things pick up again I'll eat more. I promise." he admitted quietly.

"Jango... why didn't you say anything? You... How many meals have you been skipping? How long?" Jaster asked looking concerned.

"I've been giving away my breakfast rations and late meal. I still eat with you obviously. It's enough. I'm used to it. It doesn't even hurt anymore." He said quickly then regretted it.

"Anymore?! It doesn't hurt anymore? Oh no. No no no. Come on." Jaster stood and grabbed his arm gently but firm enough he couldn't jerk it away easily and started dragging him out of the room.

"Buir! Buir wait! You're overreacting! It's really fine! Some of the verd were even impressed by how good I'm looking!" He said and Jaster almost growled.

"Looks don't matter! None of that matters! You haven't been eating Jango! You're a child! If anyone should he cutting portions it would be the adults and even that there are ways to manage it so we all take turns so no one misses meals the way you have. If you had just said something I could have been giving you extra breakfast rations to give to the others if they're too nervous to ask. You shouldn't have been starving yourself! Do you have any idea how it feels to hear you talking like this? Like you deserve to eat less for some reason? You're my son and I've failed you by not even noticing you were doing this to yourself. I thought maybe the weight loss was because of a growth spurt coming on. I never had an ad before but you... You've been hurting yourself. We're going to medical. They're going to run tests and we're going to figure out how badly you've thrown your diet out of whack. Hopefully not too badly. Then we're eating every meal together until I'm certain I can trust you again." Jaster ranted and Jango just stared at the floor fighting tears. He had just wanted to help.

Jaster took a deep breath and let it out. "Jango, ner ad, you are a good boy with a good heart. But you matter just as much as the new foundlings, you know that right?" he asked more gently as he knelt and tipped Jango's face back up.

"Of course I do. But I'm going to be a leader one day and I have to make sure that our people are all taken care of first. You would have done the same thing!" He argued feeling the tears start to spill down his cheeks and hating it. Being eleven sucked.

Jaster wiped the tears away with his thumb. "Jango, if that was true why am I still eating normally? We have plenty of food Jango. Yes it's a little tight, but nothing to where you need to skip out on everything besides midmeal. And I'm your leader. So, again, it would be me or the other adults, who would be responsible for figuring out how to ration. Which we would need you to be honest about how much you need to eat to be able to do. You're my son. I love you and want you to be living a happy healthy life. Something not hurting anymore, is not a sign of you being happy and healthy. It should never hurt to begin with. You're not in trouble. I'm not mad. I'm scared and upset with myself for not noticing and fixing this sooner." He murmured more calmly and Jango wrapped him in an embrace he eagerly returned.

"Do you promise to actually eat all the meals I give you and tell me if you or anyone else needs extra from now on?" Jaster asked and Jango nodded from where his face was tucked into Jaster's shoulder.

"Good. Then let's get you examined and then I think we both deserve a treat tonight. After you eat a proper latemeal." He said firmly but lifted Jango up and carried him to medical.

[flowerwrites06]

blossoms and blood III — jjk

Plot: Two lovers are ripped apart in the name of duty.

Pairing(s): Prince/King!Jungkook x Princess/Queen!OC (Name: Belle)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Word Count: 4k

Genre: Royal | Angst | Smut

Tags & Warnings: violence, angst, explicit smut, blood

Authors Note: I know a couple of you wanted this so I hope you like!

In the warm, comforting day Belle took a stroll towards the school and care-house of the inner city. A few families were reluctant in sending their children to these new establishments so after a couple of days of thinking, new participants came walking in.

Sun hat veil covering her face, she walked towards one of the teachers Jimin who had the brightest smile tugged at his lips.

He stood near the entrance, sweetly greeting the waddling and prancing little humans entering the building.

When he saw Belle pad towards them, he quickly gave her a bow along with the parents standing to watch their children. She waved it away standing next to the teacher.

“Have they been adjusting well?” Belle asked.

Jimin nodded keeping a close eye so everyone was accounted for. Every child seemed to reach just past his knee, looking up at the Queen with a curious smile before going about their way. “A few of them are little sensitive to loudness so we have to really keep the noises down.”

“They’ve been exposed to the horrors of war, I’m not surprised.” Belle intertwined her fingers together in front of her. “You could try soothing them with music during class. They might get used to the slight noise in a different way.” She remembered her mother using that technique on her as a child after a siege or attack. Though eventually being deep into her journeys across the seven years caused her to be used to the sights, noises and smells.

He hummed in agreement. “I’ll try to do that today.” He nodded. “How’d the council meeting go?”

Belles’ smile disappeared for a moment at the mention. “The decision still hasn’t been confirmed on the new conditions. The Sun King is coming today and I have no idea whether he’s going to come in peace or with cannons.” She spoke the last part in a lower voice.

Once the last child walked into the building, he turned to face her. “Well whatever happens, we’ll try to keep them safe.” A smile tugged at his lips as a form of reassurance.

The Queen nodded. “Thank you.” Her heart swelled when she heard giggling from the inside of the room. No matter what happened on the political side of things, Belle was glad to see the innocence in some of these children were still preserved.

Walking over to the building next door was the care-house for younger children and infants. Belle opened the door carefully and saw Gaia at the front carrying a baby calmly sucking on its hand while she pointed at a few drawings for the toddlers on the floor. The couple opened the buildings together a few months after her reign when the amount of orphans on the streets grew too high. Consequences of disease which caused her to get physicians like Taehyung to lessen the death count.

“You’ve got your hands full. Literally.” Belle grinned closing the door to ensure no one crawled out accidentally.

Gaia chuckled, bright eyes flickering over to the monarch before giving her a half curtsy. “They’re adorable. Although we’ve had some of them wanting to train to be soldiers. Hopefully the pillow sticks suffice for now.” She nodded towards the two toddlers whacking each other with soft floppy cylinders and giggling after a few seconds.

“Let’s hope we don’t get that desperate to start recruiting babies.” She mused walking closer to the woman.

“You made the right decision, you know. Taking all those people in.” Gaia spoke while bouncing the baby in her arms a little. “I’ve seen kings who would turn away anyone they didn’t have responsibility for.”

“Good thing I’m not a King.” Belles’ eyes flickered over to a little one crawling across the floor before stopping in their tracks to stare up at her. She couldn’t help but have a large smile tugged at her lips. She remembered a time where a younger version of herself imagined have her own children play around in the castle or out in the gardens.

Pulling her sun hat off and placing it on the floor, she leaned down slowly and picked the baby up. “Are you a little explorer?” Belle chuckled lightly under her breath.

“Jimin and I have been taking her home. The guards brought her in a basket. Said they heard her crying in a burning house.” Gaia reached out to the baby in Belle’s arms and caressed her cheek gently.

The Sun King was a brutal conqueror but Belle somehow couldn’t find herself being angry at the male. She never burned down villages or killed innocents but she had cut down soldiers who had families or newly born children just like the one she held. Maybe their methods were a little different in terms of brutality but they both were conquerors nevertheless. Somehow she felt undeserving of holding such an innocent in her blood stained arms.

Belle blinked quickly and placed her gently on the floor. “Off you go, little one.” She whispered caressing the sweet little things’ back before standing up straight. “You take good care of them, Gaia.”

“Of course.” She bowed carefully.

She grabbed her sunhat and made her way out of the care-house with it placed securely on her head again. However, she stopped in her tracks at the entrance when she saw a familiar figure leaning against the edge of the now open door. A ghost of a smile played on his small lips.

“I thought you already did your rounds on the people.” Belle spoke while walking past him.

“There’s no harm in checking again. I heard there were new children coming in and I wanted to see if they arrived safely.” Jungkook pushed himself off the edge, closing the door before following the Queen down the streets.

Both monarchs ended up walking side by side down the streets of the flourishing kingdom. “I didn’t peg you to be interested in such delicate matters.” Belle averted her gaze from the male even though she felt his shoulder brush against hers.

“Oh Belle you know I’m very good at handling delicacies every now and then.” Jungkook couldn’t help the wide smirk tugging at his lips.

Belle looked at him in disbelief and mock disgust. “May I remind you that the very reason you’re allowed to stay here is because I’ve just dived my own people into a war you started?”

“The Sun King started this war.” He corrected.

“And your parents only heightened it.”

“What about you? You’re calling the most brutal King ever known to man into your home and for what? He won’t answer to diplomatic negotiations.” Jungkook shook his head.

“Well I can’t just wait until his army takes over your kingdom and comes to mine.” Belle argued. “This problem is preventable. The Sun King is brutal but he’s not closed for negotiations otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to come.” She wasn’t sure how much of that sentiment was true because the woman never met this King before but all she could do was hope.

The two paused in the middle as Jungkook tried to read her expression through her veil. A small distant memory passed through his mind when she used to tease him by hiding herself under the veil preventing a kiss. He tried to stop himself from smiling at the thought. “What if he’s lying?”

“Then I’ll take full responsibility in killing the bastard where he stands.”

-

At midday, the Sun King rode in his majestic chariot through the gates of Belles’ kingdom. Gates opened in an almost deafening screech welcoming a crowd of white and tawny horses across the large courtyard. Seokjin stood at the entrance of the palace watching the chariot come to full stop with the driver climbing out from the front and stepping to the door.

The King climbed out of the chariot, outfit shining in gold and green elegantly representing nature. While the beauty of it all can be admired it was Hoseoks’ artistic way of saying he was everywhere, embedded in nature itself and ruler of anything that resides in it. A classic mindset for the Sun Kingdom lineage.

Double doors opened and the proud monarch padded into the room with the utmost confidence, jewellery clinking and shoes echoing against the floor. Dark blond hair reaching just below his eyes and even his skin harboured a golden glow but everyone knew it was a disguise for this dark actions.

While Hoseok stopped in the centre, Seokjin continued walked to the Queens’ side.

Standing in front of the throne, Belle wore a yellow and deep pink dress with her hair tied up securely by golden pins and jewelled strings while a few strands of her hair hovered over her forehead and down the sides of her face. Jungkook stood on the far right side of the room, anger immediately radiating from his being at the sight of the Sun King while Seokjin stood on Belle’s left with a neutral expression.

Hoseok had the widest smile plastered on his face. If Belle didn’t know his bloody history, she could have easily mistaken him for a kind man with a good heart. “Why this is a very pleasant surprise. The mighty Queen Belle.” He did a brief bow.

“Sun King Hoseok.” Belle addressed in a calm tone, deep pink painted lips pursed together.

“I must admit, almost a decade of operating separately, I was a little taken aback at your request for an audience.” Delicate looking hands touched his chest.

“Situation has changed a little, I’m afraid.” She replied simply.

Hoseoks’ gaze flickered over to Jungkook, his smile disappeared only for a moment before his smile grew into a sinister smirk. “Yes…it was very kind of you to take in a whole kingdoms’ population under your wing. We don’t find loyal and trusting monarchs these days, do we?” He kept his gaze on Jungkook as he spoke those words.

Belles’ grip around her own fingers tightened. “Which is exactly why I asked for this meeting.”

The Sun King turned his gaze to the bright Queen now. “Of course. What do you need from me?”

She took a deep breath. “As you may be aware, your attempts at governing King Jungkooks’ land has led to countless casualties.”

“Some sacrifices have to be made, Your Majesty.”

“Yes. Sacrifices of soldiers and generals is the way of war. Not merchants or farmers or tailors or infants. Those are still brutal murders, war or not.” Belle clarified with a neutral expression and once again the court drowned in deep silence at her voice. “King Jungkook has pleaded for my help which I accept on account of protecting survivors that wish to stay under my protection.”

Hoseok chuckled quietly. “You are most kind to protect a King that once betrayed you.”

“This is not a personal matter.”

“Of course, of course. But I’m afraid my family been acquiring this kingdom before your glorious reign.” Hoseok took a few steps forward and so did Seokjin. “You must understand that we cannot just call off our journey on a mere request. Not saying that Your Majesty’s’ voice is not of utmost importance but you do need understand that certain promises need to have a stronger bond.”

“What are your terms?” Belle’s brows furrowed a little.

Purposely, the Sun King left a moment of silence to add anticipation but they both knew what was on his mind. “If you would do me the greatest honour, your Majesty…allow me to take your hand in your marriage.” Hoseok smirked. “It has proven to be the strongest bond of any alliance after all. And…you are by far the most beautiful royal I have ever seen.”

Jungkooks’ expression hardened, burning holes through the Sun King. Smoke could have come out of his ears at this point as he resisted to shout out an objection. Instead his fingers curled up into fists, knuckles whitening from the pressure.

“I accept.” Belle replied plainly.

Even Seokjins’ head turned to face his Queen for a moment. Ever since the death of her parents, the woman promised never to delve into marital status. Unless Belle really needed to protect something dear to her.

Jungkooks’ eyes reddened at this point flickering over to Belle who had her chin raised and neutral expression. No. Please don’t. He pleaded in his thoughts, the words just touching his tongue but his voice seemed lose its way.

The Sun King, however, smiled in his new little victory.

-

Belle calmly walked through the doors of her bedroom, taking a deep breath to dry out the tears forming in her eyes. This was the best decision. She knew it was. It had to be. If she wanted a non-violent way to stop things, this was the only way. She tried repeating the phrase over again in her mind to somehow ease this tugging feeling. The dreary silence however soon broke when Jungkook practically bashed through the door and slammed it behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jungkook growled a little, walking closer to the Queen as she walked to the table in the centre.

“Helping your kingdom.” Belle replied in a somewhat calm voice, taking off her earrings with shaky fingers.

“You’re going to marry that fucking murderer!” He roughly pointed at the closed door.

She tossed the earrings on the table attempting to avoid his burning gaze. “I had no choice.”

“He destroyed our homes and threatened both our kingdoms our whole lives!” Jungkook followed her, rage burning through his veins while she padded towards her vanity. “And you’re just going to invite him to your bed.”

Belle slammed her hair pins onto the table causing some of the products to rattle in the tension thick air. “You think this is easy for me.” Fingers tightened around the sharp tip almost piercing into her palm. “You think the last seven years, I’ve sat here helplessly sitting and doing nothing!” She slid the pins off the vanity as they crashed onto the floor.

Strands stuck to her tear stained cheeks as Belle faced the now silent King. “I’ve been out there! I know exactly what’s he done because I’ve done the same thing.” She let out a shaky sigh. “I’m a murderer. You’re a murderer. We’re no different than him.”

Jungkook tightened his jaw and swallowed thickly. “He would never do what you did with my people.” He nodded towards the door, attempting to take a breath to calm himself down but nothing about this was soothing. Glossy eyes twitched as more dangerous words escaped from his lips. “He won’t love you like I—”

“Don’t.” She shook her head. “Don’t do that. This is going to happen if you want your people to be safe.” Her voice resorted to a hurtful mixture of a mutter and whisper.

“Why does it have to be a choice between your happiness and their safety?” Jungkook stepped closer to a point where she could feel the heat radiating from his taller frame.

“Because that’s how it’s always been.” Belle sniffled lightly. “And you’ve chosen the latter before…why is it so hard now?”

“I can’t—” He gulped down hard. “I can’t watch you get married to him.”

“Then don’t come to the wedding.” Belle tried to walk past him but he grabbed onto her arms. “Jungkook…” She kept her eyes down on his neck instead of staring at him directly in fear of doing something she promised herself never to do again.

“Please…” Jungkook whispered, lips seconds away from her nose. “I’ll turn myself in. The people can stay here. He wants the territory and he wants my crown. You don’t have to do this.” His head practically magnetized onto hers, their foreheads slightly brushing against each other and bodies nearing.

“They’re still your people.” Belle swallowed down the lump in her throat. “They need to see you.”

Jungkook stammered lightly. “There has to be something the—” He took a deep breath. “We spent our entire lives promising to be together.”

“Things change.” She turned her head to the side.

“Have you stopped loving me?” His voice broke a little tugging at something in her belly.

Belles’ chin quivered, closing her eyes momentarily. “Jungkook…”

“Just tell me.” Jungkook leaned in nudging his nose against her temple. One side of him waiting for her to push him away but he only kept melting into her warmth minute by minute. “Tell me you don’t love me…”

“Stop it.”

“Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll leave you alone.”

She took a deep breath with a hardened expression and looked him in the eye. Their faces merely a breath apart. Every time the couple were this close together, they only did one thing and one thing alone. Seven years ago at least. When she wasn’t arranged to be married to someone else. Belle gulped down the desire to lean closer and tightened her jaw. “I don’t love you.”

Jungkooks’ grip on her arms loosened as he backed away from her. A light ripping feeling in his chest as he watched the love of his life turn away. His own hands hung loosely at his sides, back resting on one of the pillars of her bed, breathing growing uncomfortably heavy.

“Please leave.” Belle whispered, pushing a strand behind her ear.

Swallowing the painful lump in his throat, Jungkook turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

As the King disappeared Belle slid down the wall, sobs shaking her body, landing on the floor in complete helplessness of the hole she fell in.

-

Deep into the dark night, King Hoseok strolled through the outer pathways of the beautiful palace owned by Queen Belle. Eyes flickered over to the sides where the servants were cleaning up the fallen leaves off of the courtyards. One of them caught his eye quickly as he saw a familiar tattoo on his arm.

“You, sir…” He announced capturing the servant’s attention as he stood up straight watching him curiously. “Come here.”

The servant walked over to the monarch and began strolling beside him.

“I understand you had a great dedication towards your previous King.” Hoseok glanced at his tattoo again recognizing it as a sigil for the man who claimed himself as the Silver King. The tattoo showcasing the white tiger head. “You were a good solider to him.”

“Kings are better at governing successful countries, Your Majesty.” He answered without any hesitation.

Hoseok suppressed the need to roll his eyes but smiled either way. “I need you to do a job for me. While I find much enjoyment in marrying Queen Belle in all her glory, there are a few things that need to be taken care of regarding her relations with King Jungkook. I assume you’ve heard some stories of their history.”

The servant nodded more to please Hoseok rather than actually knowing what he was talking about. Either way it didn’t matter. He just needed someone to get the job done. Who better than a blind minded solider?

Pulling out a vial from his pouch, he handed it to the servant. The deep blue liquid glimmered a little under the lantern lights. “This will help her be a little…more responsive when I deal with the King by my own wishes.” Hoseok spoke under his breath but clear enough for the servant to hear. “A few drops over her eyes should do the trick.”

The servant accepted the vial, as expected, with no questions asked.

“In time the potion will wear off…but she will understand why some Kings are better off pulled out of the picture.” Hoseok placed his hands behind his back.

The servant bowed and hid the vial under his clothes while walking away making him feel a lot more at ease.

-

Belle slept soundly in her bed as the night fell. On the other side of her door, however, the usual guards were nowhere to be found. Empty enough for Hoseoks’ planted man to slither along the hallway.

The door opened silently, just enough for the servant to slither inside. He shut it with the faintest click making him wince a little but the Queen didn’t move too much. The closer he inched towards her slumbering body, the faster his heart pounded through his chest.

Pulling the cork from the potion, the servants’ shaky fingers carefully held it, standing just at the edge of her bed and hovering it over Belle’s eyes.

His own breath caught in his throat when those eyes opened. Gaze burned right through him almost burning his chest.

Belle grabbed the hilt of her sword from the side of her bed and wacked the servant away. The man stumbled back almost falling onto the ground but he knocked onto the table, the vase of flowers falling to the side.

He hurried tried to grab for his sword, unsheathing it with heaving breaths and immediately slashed it to keep her away.

“Guards!” Belle yelled out, swinging her own sword causing their weapons to clash.

Jungkook padded through the hallways of the palace, rubbing his tired eyes from the inability to sleep. Eyes flickered over to the entrance of the Queen’s bedchamber and he halted. No one was posted in front of her door. Brows furrowed taking a few careful steps as the sound of something thudding echoed through the other side.

Then he heard a familiar voice scream out and the first instinct was to barge through the door. Jungkook saw her trying to fend off an attacker dressing servants clothing.

The King unsheathed his own weapon and his sword clashed with the attacker, pushing him fully onto the ground.

The attacker stayed stationery for a moment causing both monarchs to lose track of his movement before lunged towards Jungkook again, blades flashing against the light and screeching against each other. In his frantic need to escape quickly, the attacker finally swung his sword against Jungkooks’ shoulder.

He felt his skin rip apart, agonising pain burning through him and his vision growing darker.

Belle used the attackers’ distraction to wave her sword right across his neck, a tear spurting out blood down his clothes and drooling down his mouth as he limped to the ground.

Breathing heavily to calm herself down, she stared down at Jungkook fallen to the ground as he gripped onto his shoulder, thick red liquid dripping between his fingers.

She took off her cotton robe, crumbling it up slightly before pressing it onto his wound. “It’s okay.” Belle whispered. The white robe almost instantly soaked fading into a deep red colour as she heard metal clanging from outside getting louder.

The door burst open with Seokjin and a crowd of guards rolling in with their swords raised. Seokjin raised a hand calling them to stand down once they saw the two fallen bodies. “Belle, are you alright?” He asked.

“Call the physician please!” Belle almost shrieked in her broken tone, tears flooding in the brim of her eyes.

One of the guards immediately ran out of her chambers to do exactly as asked.

Belle looked down at Jungkook again seeing his eyes reddened and sweat dribbling from the sides of his face. Softly she placed his head on her lap, her less blood stained hand caressing his cheek as she placed pressure on the wound as it continued to ooze through the thin fabric. “Why did you do that?” She whispered, lips trembling.

Jungkook let out shaky sigh, wincing a little. “It’s like you said.” He smirked a little. “I’m a solider…I protect my Queen blindly.” His eyelids felt heavy, relishing in the warmth of her embrace.

“Keep your eyes open.” She muttered, heart racing as he saw his lashes touch down to his cheeks and his breathing slowed down.

The last thing Jungkook was heard was Belle’s soothing voice and the sound of pounding footsteps before he lulled into a light sleep.

<< prev chap | next chap >>

[honsoolie]

don’t rush | 03

pairing: Yoongi/reader

genre: slight enemies to lovers, college au, fluff, smut, classical pianist!yoongi, violinist!reader, they’re both actually really into each other but won’t admit it

warnings: mentions of alcohol (everyone is sober!!), explicit smut, fingering, oral (f receiving), min yoongi has a dirty mouth 

words: 6k 

rating: +18

summary: You know, when Min Yoongi’s face isn’t screwed into an accusatory scowl, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you’d have no trouble falling in love with. Or, the conservatory au where Yoongi helps you get over your stage fright. In more ways than one.

a/n: ahhh i hope you’re as excited for this chapter as i am ;) start from the beginning? 

You never realized how easy it was for your life to fall into a smooth common time rhythm, now that the semester was in full swing. School, music, dodging your friends (usually to go practice), and now, Yoongi. You find yourself slipping into the gentlest of cadences. Spring is coming, the flowers are blooming. There’s a new spring in your step, from the warming weather or the constant daily dose of Yoongi, you’re not sure. 

You go to classes, pay your dues in the library. Write the papers that need to be written. You throw yourself into practice. At times you wake up in that half-awake morning sleep, fingers twitching with whatever phrase you were perfecting the previous night. The same cancelled plans, weekend meetups whenever you can manage. 

You study with Yoongi. Or at least, that’s the pretense that you operate under when you go to his apartment. By now, you’re there more often than not. (To be fair, it’s much a much better place to study than your room, what with the in-and-out bustle of your roommate. And, well, it’s Yoongi. ) 

On the nights that aren’t as busy, and you’re not filled with the swelling dread that the impending Bach Festival brings, you practice that Brahms piece with Yoongi in the dingy practice rooms. Much to Yoongi’s dismay, you had started your meetings (lovingly) calling “weekly jam sessions.” Although they were neither weekly nor really jam sessions. Most of the time that you spent in the practice room with him was either laughing at whatever joke he had just cracked, or thumbing through your score, trying to pick up where you had left off. The time you had left until your performance at the Bach Festival was quickly decreasing and you never really found the time to practice the Brahms to properly do it justice, but that wasn’t the point. 

The point, like Yoongi had said, was to get you to find the joy in the music again. Secondary to that was hopefully finding the bravery and confidence to play in front of other people, and Yoongi’s plan was slowly working. After all, you can’t really worry about your intonation at the same time that you’re groaning at Yoongi’s shitty dad jokes. If you didn’t know better, these jam sessions really serve to be a shoddy excuse for what should really be called a date. 

When Yoongi invites you to meet him in the practice rooms, to practice this romantic piece of music, and offers to get dinner with you afterward, how could you call it anything but a date? 

Especially when he insisted on holding your hands if he deemed it too cold. He would shake his head in mock disdain, chiding you in a way that felt nothing like criticism. 

Where are your gloves, y/n?  

Or God forbid that Yoongi decided that your evening attire wasn’t suitable for the still-frigid weather, and you ended up going through the whole night wearing one of his jackets. Every time you turned your head or moved ever so slightly, you would again be surrounded by the fresh-laundry-cute-piano-major smell of his clothing, and it would take every muscle in your body to not swoon right then and there. 

~

Your first violin teacher had always said to you, “You can’t hide from the metronome. The metronome always tells you the truth.” As a child, it wasn’t bow maneuvers or intonation or memorizing pieces that escaped you. It was keeping the simple rhythm, keeping track of the steady downbeat. You could have been learning the most straightforward pieces, but would get tripped up at simple syncopation patterns or start rushing at the wrong places. And that was something that plagued you into your life as a music student. It was difficult to corral your tempo problem, sometimes derailing orchestra rehearsals or struggling with the same sections over and over during your own practice. All because you would stray away from the gentle tick of the metronome. 

Yoongi, however, kept the time for you. Like the metronome, he didn’t lie to you. He kept you grounded. 

When your thoughts would begin to race and run miles ahead of your heart, Yoongi would look into your eyes with that reverent tenderness and tell you it was going to be okay. Then he would pull that wry smile of his and everything melted away. Sometimes, words weren’t necessary and rather, he would pull you into a tight hug that left both of you breathless.

He wasn’t always easy on you. If he knew you were acting unreasonably fretful, he would tell you the truth. Didn’t feel the need to dress it up in gentle words or beat around the bush. Then he would tell you a sex joke that he probably got from a joke book and then the weight on your shoulders was lifted, albeit briefly. Sometimes the tough love approach works. (Although, at times, it seemed like that this whole stage fright ordeal was the only thing that he could be direct with you about.) 

The pressure was mounting, advancing on all sides. Dr. Kim gave you more-than-firm reminders in the form of tight-lipped smiles every lesson, circling dates and deadlines on the lesson notes marked with your name. Dr. Yang greeted you in the hallways, jesting, “Can’t wait to hear the Bach!” Your university email inbox was flooded with music department newsletter updates, promoting the upcoming festival in every. Single. Email. Staring at the “OPEN TO THE PUBLIC” notice printed at the bottom of the e-flyer probably wasn’t doing anything to help you perfect the Baroque interpretation on Bach’s partita, but there it was, looking back at you. Taunting you. 

There was only so much time until your fated performance, only so many hours left to practice, only so many days left until finals week descended upon your campus. Two weeks, if you wanted to get technical about it. 

And Yoongi somehow made it all bearable. 

Like all things in life, adjusting to Yoongi took time. He set new baselines for you. New thresholds on what was friendly banter, ever toeing the carefully drawn line. 

Ever since that pivotal study date (You know, the one where Yoongi held you down and told you he was going to make you beg? Kind of hard to forget.), the signs inexplicably became more and more mixed. Or you were just living in a constant state of denial. 

Because all of the things that he said and did with you, none of them could be considered flirting. You didn’t want to give into that belief. It felt too self-indulgent, too good to be true. It felt like setting yourself up for failure. 

Because if you did, well, that would warrant action. If you decided what he said with you was flirting or something-more-than-just friends, then you would have to do something about that. 

You would either have to take his carefully extended invitation, or reject him. Neither of which you were willing to do. The space that the two of you had come to exist in became precious to you, even if you remained only as friends. Ever before you ever spoke with him, you had spent a great deal of time admiring from afar. Pining is all you’ve known, at least when it comes to Min Yoongi. Wouldn’t it be easier to take the path of least resistance? 

And of course, what if you were wrong? Reading all the signs wrong, falling again into the trap of wishful thinking. Things in real life are never like reading off a score. There are no dynamic or expression markings telling you how to broach this kind of conversation. 

By now, the unwillingness to speak on the matter is irrefrangible. Like an ancient tradition, some unspoken agreement to ignore the elephant in the room. 

Yoongi wanted you, you wanted Yoongi. At least, that’s what you wanted to think. That’s what all the signs pointed to. But it was too late to mention it now. You and Yoongi let it drag on, well past midterms and trundling on in the slow march toward finals. And the Bach Festival. 

Unless, of course, this was a total non-issue. Maybe this was how he talked to all your friends. Maybe this was just how Yoongi was nice. Maybe he just has a totally dirty sense of humor… that clicked perfectly with yours. 

Here’s the catch. Interpretation isn’t always all that simple, especially with Bach. You have to get historical context, you need to know enough about esoteric Germany to know how to interpret the markings on Bach’s scores. It’s not always so easy, but that makes things all the worse. 

It’s all the maybes and what-ifs that plague you when you’re restless at night and the only thing you can think about is Yoongi. Maybe he’s into you, maybe he’s not. What if he’s actually repulsed by you and he just wants a study partner? What if this whole study buddy thing is just a ploy to get you to spend time with him, because what if he’s actually just as into you as you are into him? Maybe he just wants to be friends, but what if he doesn’t? 

What if Yoongi is actually an alien, and he’s trying to decipher how to act like a human being, and that’s why he acts like that? 

What if. 

You would have better luck divining your future with Yoongi in your coffee dregs rather than lay awake, staring at the mildewing ceiling tiles. 

~

You (8:18pm): want to work on the Brahms tonight 

You (8:19pm): we can get boba if it’ll sweeten the deal 

 Yoongi (8:23pm): sure

Yoongi (8:24pm): I was going to go out later tonight so we can practice for like an hour

 You (8:26pm): oh 

 Yoongi (8:26pm): I’ll make it up to you though, i promise. Boba on me? 

Yoongi (8:27pm): you should come out with me, namjoon will be there 

Yoongi (8:27pm): taehyung too 

Yoongi (8:27pm): we literally all know each other, let’s gooooo pls 

 You (8:28pm): i wish but it’s literally thursday dude 

You (8:29pm): have a drink in my name :) 

 Yoongi (8:30pm): will do 

Yoongi (8:31pm): meet me in 115B in twenty minutes, what boba do you want? 

~ 

So Yoongi does have a sense of fashion outside of sweatpants and beanies after all. White button-up, but only a few buttons are actually done up. Sleeves rolled up to his elbow. Dark jeans, and god, that belt . The need to cry or get on your knees right then and there is overwhelming. 

Wow, everything works for him. Every time you think you’ve done the impossible task of not having a visceral reaction in his presence, he does something like this. You never know what specific flavor of Yoongi will appear before you at any given time. 

Yoongi, aloof college student. Yoongi, dark and mysterious man who buys you a drink in a hazy bar. Yoongi, the concert pianist with hands of steel and a heart of gold. Yoongi, the love of your life—no. No, we are not going there. 

It’s a crush, it’s a harmless crush, nobody said anything about love. 

You try to get your head out of the mushy-falling-in-love gutter by doing what you do best. Flirting with him, teasing him, poking fun at him for the littlest things. “You clean up well, don’t you.” You all but sneer, incongruous with the heat spreading across your face. “You’re late.” 

“Well, I was taking care of an important errand. Look,” He shakes your iced drink in front of him. 

You take a sip, refreshing despite the still-frigid weather. “Fuck, we’re so bad. We shouldn’t be eating in here.” 

“We’re not technically eating, are we?” 

“You’re right.” He never, ever fails to make you laugh. Or everything he says is funny. “Let’s get started, I don’t want you to be late,” you say, fiddling with the music stand. 

“You should cooooome out, y/n. Don’t be so boring for once.” 

You gasp. “I’ll pretend like that didn’t hurt. And I won’t know anybody there, and I’m not even dressed to go out, and it’s Thursday .” You gesture to your evening loungewear, your barren face. 

“Okay, but just this once. You’ll have to come out with me next time.” It sounds like a promise, or maybe a demand, when he says it. 

Come out with me next time. Again, you wonder if he knows the implication behind his words, if he really ever means what he says. 

You pull your music out of your backpack, the plastic sleeve of your binder crackling underneath your touch. It’s a familiar sound. You set a pencil on your music stand, like you’ve done thousands of times before. 

“Let’s get started, Yoongi.” He takes a seat at the piano bench, smiling contentedly. You smile back at him, and for a still moment, everything feels just right. 

~

Yoongi isn’t usually late to class. He usually comes in a couple minutes early, headphones on and deaf to the warble of students around him. You know this, because you’ve always made it a point to show up especially early to the classes you share, just so you can watch him scroll through his phone for the few precious minutes before class starts. 

Today, he stumbles in right after Dr. Won, wearing last night’s clothes and a bucket hat undoubtedly covering a messy bedhead. He’s missing his usual coffee, and the bags under his eyes belie the smile he gives you. Yoongi says nothing as he sinks into the seat beside you, cradling his head in his arms. You sense the opportunity to tease him, and pull your phone into your lap. 

You (10:06am): it looks like someone had a rough night 

 Yoongi (10:08am): you should mind your own business and pay attention 

Yoongi (10:09am): i don’t look that bad do i :( 

 You (10:10am): just tired that’s all 

You (10:11am): still drunk or something? 

 Yoongi (10:11am): nope painfully sober 

Yoongi (10:11am): let’s get day drunk after this >:) 

 You (10:13am): no <3 

Maybe his questionable inebriation lowered his inhibitions, which might explain his knee nudging yours underneath the desk. Looks like he didn’t forget your previous conversation. It’s not an accident; accidental knees are nowhere as insistent as Yoongi is being now. You nudge your knee back, as if to say, two can play at that game.  

Yoongi (10:14am): still touch starved? ;)

 You (10:16am): fuck off >:(  

Your theory is confirmed when he inches his hand closer and closer to you, finally resting his hand on your knee. His thumb draws languid circles on the inner part of your thigh, insistent but gentle, playful but...  possessive. It’s a lot to take in at once. 

However, you don’t need alcohol to stoop down to his level. You’ll never let him get the upper hand on you without a fight, no matter how much the butterflies in your stomach would like to contest that. 

You take his hand and place it back in his own lap, trying your best to stay discreet. You keep your eyes trained on Dr. Won, but your gaze still slides back to Yoongi. When you look at him, he’s looking at you in contempt. “Is that a challenge,” his eyes seem to ask.

Slowly, tentatively, you slide your hand from the desk into your lap. It doesn’t get Yoongi’s attention at first, until you gently greet his hand with yours. He’s still looking at you with those same taunting eyes. 

Sometimes you can’t stand how cocky he is. And other times, like these, you love it. You just want to take him down a notch. Your journey underneath the table continues when your hand comes to rest on his thigh, trailing your fingertips along until you find the inner seam of his pants. He’s warm and solid under your touch. It feels overwhelmingly real, and you wonder if you have the guts to finish what you started. 

You try to keep a neutral face, like this isn’t affecting you at all, like you do this all the time with other cute piano performance majors. The smile breaks through your facade anyway. You bite the inside of your cheek red in an attempt to stop it, and you renew your efforts to continue taking notes. 

Your smile turns into a stifled gasp when Yoongi guides your hand higher up his thigh, his hand dwarfing yours. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the half-hardness between his legs, holding your hand in place.

 Blatantly, you realize, your actions have consequences. This is real. This, whatever this is, with Yoongi, is real. Neither of you can fake it anymore. 

The blushing starts up again, creeping down your neck. The heat spreads through the rest of your body, settling in the pit of your stomach, replacing the nervous knots that were there not an hour ago. This was most definitely not what you were expecting. Was fake-drunk Yoongi really going to take the flirty banter this far? You thought that was just part of being friends with Yoongi. Do all his friends get to touch his dick? 

You really should have thought this through more, but you’re going to finish what you started. 

You use the heel of your hand to trace along the length of his cock, dragging it slowly just to tease him for his contempt. You’re suddenly thankful that nobody can see what you’re doing from your angle in the classroom. He shifts into your touch, still not quite looking at you. Yoongi picks his pen up again, scrawling on the blank corner of your notebook. 

“I’m a horny drunk,” it reads. You roll your eyes. Everything is a joke to him, you posit. 

You continue your gentle teasing. Eventually, Yoongi rocking back into your touch. Not once do you tear your eyes off the Powerpoint slides projected across the room. This is the only time in your life you’ve ever cared so much about the beautiful simplicity of Bach’s fugue subjects. 

But in the end, no matter how hard you try, you can only focus on one thing at once. And the task at hand (literally) was to tease Min Yoongi to full hardness. You were fairly successful. 

Yoongi picks his pen up again. “Just so you know,” he writes, “ I’m about to blow a load.” He places your hand back in your lap, patting it for good measure. You don’t miss the way that his hand trembles. 

“I’m a girl with a mission,” You retort, as petulant as you can be with a pen. “Let me finish the job.”  

“Continue your mission after class.”  

Oh. Friends don’t do this with each other. 

You scribble over your correspondence with your pen. 

~

You wish you could take the extra time to explore the inside of Yoongi’s apartment, despite how many times you’ve been here already. Maybe there would be something new to decipher, now that you were here under different pretenses. You catch scant glimpses of the familiar quaint kitchenette and the neatly organized rack of shoes, but you’re now preoccupied with Yoongi’s hands on your waist, tugging your shirt out of where it was tucked into your pants. You see the same guitar on the same wire stand and the same MacBook sitting idle, but your view is obscured after Yoongi presses you up against the door. 

It’s a feat of mental strength to stay upright, and he hasn’t even done anything yet. 

~

After class, Yoongi had shot up from his seat, hand in his pocket, likely readjusting himself. His eyes were glassy. He had looked so, so wrecked. 

“Come with me,” He said, voice strained. To the untrained ear it might have sounded like a voice heavy with sleep, or maybe too many drinks too late at night. 

But to you it sounded like a voice rough with lust, or (a lot of) wanting. All for you. 

 He had grabbed you by the hand and led you back to his apartment, as nonchalant as you can be about this kind of thing. It was an unspoken truth what you two were about to do, like this was the natural order of things. Like you were just fulfilling the inevitable. Like you were always meant to fall into his arms like this. It almost makes sense. 

He had grabbed your hand and led you along the looping hallways out onto the sunny walkway like he had done this hundreds of times before, like the both of you have been touching each other like this for months—rather than just hinting and skirting around the innuendoes, the half-worn glances, the knowing smiles. 

The walk back to his apartment was silent and full of untapped sexual tension coming to a head. Even if the hammering in your chest allowed you to speak, you wouldn’t have. It passed by in a blur, the denial giving you tunnel vision. 

Yoongi is holding your hands in his, like this is a much more intimate moment than it should be. “You still don’t have gloves,” He murmurs against your lips, but he doesn’t close the gap. It sounds more like a promise rather than a statement. 

He’s warming you up from the inside out, erasing the cold from the walk here. Spring was still slowly waking up. The sun takes time to melt the snow. 

He rolls his hips against yours, more insistent than he was in class. When he does, you can feel precisely how wanting he is. All the contemptuousness is gone from his eyes. Whatever replaces it isn’t something you can give a name to.

He can’t—Yoongi can’t hold your hands like that and look solemnly into your eyes like that. Yoongi can’t look at you with that kind of reverence, because that was what made you fall into this deep dark pit of confusing feelings in the first place. But you don’t have time to consider it because he’s rolling his hips against yours again. 

“Look,” he gasps, “Look at what you did to me.” When you look at him again, his pupils are blown wide, all fucked out and desperate and wanting. If it was physically possible, he might be more desperate than you, from the look of it. 

“I thought you said you were a horny drunk.” You tease, and to steer the conversation away from the way he had been looking at you. That’s a conversation that you’re not ready for—neither of you are ready for. 

 After these weeks of back and forth, you’re finally going to make him say what he’s really been thinking all along. You’re done being the cat chasing after the mouse.

The Yoongi in front of you is a far cry from the one before, teasing you for not having been laid in months, showing you just how dirty his mouth could get. 

“No, this is all you…” He breaks off into a breathy moan, muffled by your hair. His hips are still slotted against yours, and your ability to ignore that is diminishing by the second. 

Who knew that the stoic Min Yoongi could ever produce such a whimper? 

“I have to get to class, can’t be late…” You tease, trailing a finger down his chest, but you’ve already made up your mind with what you’re going to do with him. 

You’re going to stay. 

You can worry about the loose ends later. 

“Please stay, just a little longer, please.” He guides you over to the couch, clutching your hand like a damn lifeline. When he straddles your hips, you’re reminded of the last time he held you down, when you were studying together. That memory seems faint now. It’s funny how context can change everything. 

“You won’t be late, I promise,” He says, voice coarse. “And I’m going to fucking show you what this mouth can do.” 

“And you have to promise not to ever drink that much again, what the fuck.” You chastise, your breath hitching at his promise, but you don’t really care. Not if it gets Yoongi like this. Your hand comes to rest on the waistband of his jeans. 

“I didn’t have that much, I was just up late… thinking about you.” He starts to unbutton the collar to your shirt, slotting his leg between yours. Yoongi traces the cup of your bra with a daintiness that reminds you of the way he runs his hands over the keys of the piano before he reels up to play. Knowing that these hands that create his beautiful music are the same hands that are currently on your body produces a shiver that sparks down your spine. 

You try not to put too much stock into what he’s saying, he’s always been all talk. It’s just words to get you in the mood, set the scene. Yoongi has always been all bark and no bite, teasing you with empty, joking promises. That was his whole gimmick, if you could call it that. 

He knows you like dirty talk (you made that abundantly clear from that last conversation), you’re a warm and eager body in front of him, you can do the math yourself. There’s no need to read between the lines for this one. 

The gasp you make when he starts mouthing down your neck is involuntary, as is the way that you thread your fingers through his hair when he moves his way down your chest. 

Yoongi’s hair is uncharacteristically soft, like silk, or the little sigh of satisfaction he makes when he finds the sweet spot he’s looking for. You briefly consider asking him about his haircare routine when he closes his mouth over your nipple. Hot, wet, and everything you needed to forget about the long afternoon ahead of you. 

“Please, please.” He pleads again. “Please stay. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Okay,” You gasp, “Okay, I’ll stay.” 

“Good, because I’ll make you eat your fucking words,” Yoongi says, gritting his teeth. He’s fully unbuttoned your shirt now, and you are all but bare to him, save for your bra. “What were you thinking? Touching me like that? In class? What if someone saw? But you don’t care about that, right?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer, however, instead opting to kiss bruises into your collarbones, adding to the faded violin hickey on the left side of your neck.

You are a deer in headlights, frozen in place, completely pliant underneath his touch. Even if you weren’t pinned underneath him with his hands and legs, then you are underneath his piercing gaze. You know he can probably see more than just your shocked, open-mouthed expression. He can probably see your longing written all over your face, or maybe the special kind of glee that comes from wish fulfillment. You might as well confess your feelings for him now, because your expression has all but told him the truth. 

“Did you forget what I said to you the other day? I’m supposed to be the one teasing you until you’re fucking desperate to come, not the other way around.” You shake your head no, lost for words. Who’s going to tell him you’re already desperate to come, sans teasing? 

He starts to push your pants past your thighs, kissing at the skin that’s now bare—and you squirm, whine, whimper into his touch, just to show him how much you want this. Want him. 

Somehow, it feels better like this, with the way he’s left your clothes half on, half off. The collar of your shirt is undone. There is a trail of four socks leading to the couch. It… it…  almost suggests that Yoongi is in such a rush to have you that he can’t be bothered to undress you properly. Like he needs you that much. You ignore the following twinge in your heart. 

All you can focus on is the fine bead of sweat on his hairline as he sways on top of you, ghosting a hand over your panties. When you finally feel him nudging against your clit with insistent, slow pressure, you make a strangled gasp. 

Faintly, you hear yourself cry out into the filtered indoor air, just above the sound of the heater humming. It doesn’t sound like your voice, but you’re too far gone to care or investigate further. All you can focus on is the increasingly hopeless need between your legs, and the person that’s currently about to attend to that. You’ve never heard yourself make noises like these before, let alone meet someone who’s able to make you so desperate. 

Your desperation makes itself tangible in the way that you writhe against him, straining against the warm weight of his body, too much and never enough. It feels like your body is making up for lost time, getting revenge for all the almost-touches, almost-confessions. All those quiet moments in the still night where you should have kissed Yoongi but didn’t, never closing the gap. 

Even now, when you’re right up against his body, it doesn’t feel like enough. Should it scare you that it doesn’t like enough, and you’re almost certain it never will be?

He laughs, almost coldly. It sounds nothing like the morning that you met him. This is a different kind of cold, a different kind of cruelty. “You sound like a little bitch in heat. What, you can’t be a little patient?” He checks the time on his watch, because of course, Yoongi is the kind of guy to wear an analog watch. “We still have time before your next class.” 

At your silence, he softens. He takes his hands off of you, much to your dismay. “Is that—okay? Can I call you that?” You should be embarrassed at the enthusiasm in your nod, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to care. 

Yoongi leans over you again, grinning. “Don’t worry, I like it. I like having you like this. All desperate and,” Yoongi drags a finger downward , “Wet.” 

“Fuck, don’t tease. Don’t-” You’re absolutely shameless now, but it doesn’t matter, as long as you can get some kind of relief. 

“Are you sure? Then it would be over so, so soon.” Yoongi returns to your clit, tracing light circles that only serve to incense you. “Can you even take it?” He pulls your panties askew, blowing gently on the exposed skin. You shiver, now realizing just how wet you are for him. 

“Yes, yes, please, I can, just give it to me–” His finger meets little resistance when he finally pushes a finger inside your needy cunt, immediately setting a punishing rhythm. 

“This is what you wanted, hmm?” He kisses the crook of your thigh, settling ever closer to you. “I told you I would get you to beg.” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Oh, shut up.” You cover your face in your hands, laughing despite yourself. “Not everything is a competition, you know.” 

He works you open with skill because, of course, Yoongi is good at this too. It’s not enough for fate to make him a diligent student, a talented pianist, and have a heart of motherfucking gold. No, he just has to be good in bed too. How are you supposed to resist falling for him? Was it ever worth the effort to try? 

“But it’s so much more fun like that. You know, I don’t appreciate this backtalk.” He presses deeper on that sweet spot inside of you, and you keen, eyes fluttering shut. “Seeing as I’m the one who’s going to make you come, and all.” All the light is gone from his voice now. 

“You’re going to be good for me, right?” Yoongi says, as if the answer could be anything other than a firm, enthusiastic yes. He tightens your grip on your hips, his blunt nails digging into the soft skin. 

“ Yeahyesyesyesyesanythingyouwant,” you whimper. You don’t even have to pretend like you want this dearly, as you’ve had to in the past with less doting partners. How long have you held your breath, waiting for something like this to happen?

“And I thought you were worried about being late? You didn’t get enough? Don’t worry baby, I’ll make sure you get your fill.” His playful condescension sinks to the lowest parts of your stomach. 

“Yoongi,” You whine, “You’re going to kill me.” You attempt to draw your legs up in a belated attempt to preserve your modesty, but Yoongi yanks you further down the couch. 

“No, no, I’m not done with you yet.” Yoongi finally takes your panties off, inadvertently streaking your arousal down your thigh. He throws them off to the side. In doing so, you can see your arousal dripping down his wrist in the afternoon glow. 

“This, Yoongi says, with stars in his eyes, “Is payback.” 

The hot lick of his tongue feels nothing like revenge. 

Yoongi is still keeping you trapped in the same place, nowhere to go. You’re nowhere closer to a release than before. The initial thrill of his mouth on you is gone when you realize that he’s not evolving past the featherlight touches with his hands. You roll your hips against him, as if to to pout. 

“Please, Yoongi,” You gasp. 

“What? Please, what?” He smiles. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and you’re not sure whether to love or hate him for it. 

“You—you can’t—just leave someone like this.” You all but shove your pussy in his face, relentless in your pursuit of some kind of relief, no matter how small. But he won’t give it to you. The kitten licks he’s giving you aren’t enough. The uncharacteristically coquettish kisses he trails down the inside of your thighs, leaving gooseflesh in his wake, aren’t enough. You’re insatiable. 

“Like what? I think I like you more like this.” You know he’s reveling in this, much like how he’s likely reveled in your desperation in the past weeks. Nothing he’s doing is providing relief to the need, the ache. Everything he does only serves to stoke the fire brewing in the pit of your stomach. 

“Yoongi, I need you.” Maybe if you keep hinting at what you want, he’ll give it to you. Because you’re not about to fucking beg for him. Again. 

“I’m going to need you to be more specific.” He drives his point home by dragging his fingers against the upper wall of your pussy. Your answering moan should be specific enough. 

“Come on…” You whimper, thighs trembling. You’re not sure if it’s from the pleasure or the lack of it. 

“Come on… use your words.” Yoongi stills his hand. 

“Just—ugh— touch me. ” you urge, whinier than you intend, exasperated and desperate. You need this release. You need it so much your vision is blurring. “Make me come,” your voice smaller, “Use your mouth, your hand, I don’t care anymore.” You throw your arm over your eyes in defeat. 

Yoongi has all the puzzle pieces laid out in front of him. He’s seen your wanting expression, now that you’ve all but admitted that you want him to give you an orgasm. How could he not see your puppy love for what it is? 

He chuckles, light as bells. “Was that so hard. And for the record, next time, you’re gonna come on my cock.” And just like that, it’s like a dam has broken. No more denial, no more teasing, no more waiting, and Yoongi is touching you in full now. 

You try not to look at him with his head buried between his legs. One, the pleasure is so immense that you can hardly stop your legs from trembling, let alone stop your head from lolling back against the couch cushion. 

Two, you’re scared. Of him looking at you, catching his eye. Of him seeing your face from below. Scared to face the truth, just a little bit. Min Yoongi, the concert pianist that you have been eyeing all semester, is servicing you with his mouth. It even sounds ridiculous in your head. 

Three, you’re not really even sure if this is happening. It is entirely plausible that you’re going to wake up tangled in your bedsheets in the dead of night and realize it was another night of mistaken belief. 

Next time. Maybe. What if. 

The few glimpses you do catch are of the dark hair caught between your fingers, handholds tethering you to the couch, to him. You can also see the indents his fingers make in your thighs, he’s holding you in place. His knuckles are white with the effort. 

“I’m-I’m gonna come. Yoongi, fuck, I’m—” When you finally crest over the edge, you all but levitate off the couch, every muscle in your body straining under the force of your orgasm. 

The sound he makes sounds almost like “you’re mine,” but you ignore that for now. You sit up, blinking in the sunlight. It might be nearly noon now, but you don’t care. Your afternoon lecture is low on your list of priorities right now. You smile wolfishly. “Your turn.” 

There’s no way to pretend anymore, no more mental gymnastics, no more what-ifs, buts, or maybes. You might as well dive in headfirst. 

[detroitbydark]

Chp 10

Characters: Commander Fox/Mouse (reader), Palpatine, Captain Rex, Anakin Skywalker, Mace Windu.

Word count:4500

Warnings: Sith typical mind fuckery, canon typical violence. Use of the force to injure.

A/N: well here we are ladies and lads, Fox lovers all. The day is upon us. I’m pretty stoked the way this one came out and I hope y’all don’t hate me too much after the fact. As always let me know what you think, ask questions, yell at me. Whatever floats your boat.

Today hadn’t started well and you were already so far past caring it was insane.

You didn’t care you’d woken up on your couch in your clothes from the day before, rumpled and wrinkled beyond salvage, your mascara a messy mask under your eyes.

You didn’t care that you spent the better part of your first hour at the office staring out the transparisteel window into the skylane that ran not far from where you sat, watching transports and speeders for by in a soothing blur.

You didn’t care about the tartness in your voice when the 501st Captain had comm’d stating it was important that he speak with Commander Fox immediately. You’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that what the Commander had on the schedule for today was of the utmost importance and that you would make sure he got the message when he got in.

Maybe you’d been a bitch, latent embarrassment from the peep show you’d unintentionally given the day before still simmering but, really, he hadn’t even offered an apology and the muffled yelling behind closed doors hadn’t done much to place him in your good graces either.

You try not to replay the night before. You’d done that plenty on the ride home. All the same, you let it play through again in your head. Now, you're looking at it in the light of day and with more clarity. The way the anxiety had been almost palpable when you’d first entered the room hadn’t seemed so obvious at the time-

“Ma’am?”

A portly woman is standing a few feet away politely smiling. Your face flushes.

“I’m sorry. Daydreaming.” You explain with a forced smile and a lie “what can I do for you?” A movement behind the woman catches your attention. A tiny green hand clings to the women's slacks as equally green eyes peek around her thick leg.

“I’m Sukin Maly with level 504 children’s home. I was told this was Commander Fox’s office?” She’s pleasant looking as she glances back at the child clinging to her before focusing on you. Lines pull at the corner of her eyes letting you know she was a woman who enjoyed smiling a lot and often.

The child slowly rounds the woman’s thigh and you watch with delight as you recognize the twi’lek girl from the pictures Fox had shown you. Pushing away from your desk you move closer, crouching down and offering your hand. Wide eyes look from your hand to the attendant who gives a small nod. The girl hesitantly takes it and you give it a gentle shake before looking back up to her minder.

“I’m afraid the Commander is out of the office today.” The woman gives an understanding smile as you turn back to the little girl.

“I think I know who you are.” You offer conspiratorially, “are you Me’kar? You made quite the impression on Commander Fox.”

Her little lekku wriggle happily at the sound of her name.

The children’s attendant says something in Ryl you don’t understand. Me’kar’s tiny hands go to the top of each lek and she makes little ears with her fingers.

“Fox” she says clear as day in basic.

You can’t help but laugh and her smile brightens as she repeats the word over and over.

“She’s picking it up quickly”, Sukin explains “but that seems to be her favorite word.

“It’s ok, sweetheart. It’s mine too” you say softly as she bounces in front of the older woman.

”it’s nice to meet you both.” You offer them your given name before addressing the child again, “but you can call me Mouse if you’d like. Everyone around here does.”

This brings a peel of laughter bubbling up in the child as the attendant translates. She holds her hands in front of her like tiny paws and wiggles her little green button of a nose before making a squeaking noise. “Mouse,” she giggles.

You laugh as she pulls a stuffed tooka out of the bag draped across her shoulders.

“Cat. Meow.” She says proudly, holding the raggedy stuffy up. “Fox kiss better.”

You look up to the attendant with a furrowed brow. “She was quite taken that the Commander gave her kitten kisses when it was scared.”

You fight back a laugh at the image. “I wish he was here to see you. He’s going to be disappointed he missed such an important visitor.” The girl's smile fades as Sukin translates but only for a moment before she’s digging back in her bag for a folded piece of flimsy.

“Fox” she says proudly as she unfolds the flimsy, finally holding up an image she’d obviously been very proud of. It’s rough but you can very clearly make out little Me’kar and Fox drawn as brightly colored stick figures. Fox’s helmet is so large that the weight of it looks like it will break his little stick body in half at any moment, maybe it’s the small green hand intertwined with his red one that stops it from happening.

Your ovaries nearly implode. It is the single most adorable thing you’ve ever seen and you willingly take it as she turns to her minder and speaks in rapid Ryl.

“She’d like you to give it to the Commander.”

“Please?”

Saying no was never going to be an option so you nod, thrown off when she attaches herself to your waist and gives you a big hug. You pay the top of her head, “how about this. I give him this” you wriggle the picture, “and we set something up so you and your friends can come a different day when I know the Commander and his friends will be here? You could eat lunch in the big cafeteria and maybe they could give you a tour?”

Me’kar can barely contain herself as the older woman translates. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

She spins and bounces with excitement and Sulin hurries to calm her as you hide a smile behind your hand. You trade comms with the woman and promise to be in touch after you’ve spoken with the Commander and set something up. Me’kar waves manically, turning and pulling every few steps when It’s time to leave.

“Bye Mouse! Bye!”

It’s the first bright spot in your day and you cling to the swelling feeling in your heart as you return to sorting out the mess that was the day to day operations of the Coruscant Guard.

——-

The aide arrives early afternoon. You’d only just finished lunch and are busy packing your bag when you see them coming down the hall. The upturned nose and refined, high-end clothing scream politician from 20 klicks away. They’re feet away from your desk before their eyes even move to you.

“I’m sorry, Commander Fox-“ you begin your usual explanation and are quickly cut off.

“Your presence is requested this afternoon in the office of the Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine.”

The request strikes you as odd immediately both in its formality and, if by the way the aide is staring at you, its presumed immediacy.

You were not an individual that ever had any right being in the same room as someone as powerful as the Supreme Chancellor, not because you were unworthy or less than, but simply because you had nothing to offer in any way you could find necessary.

You inform the aide gently that he is likely in the wrong place, has the wrong person.

He huffs impatiently before speaking your name, “that is your name correct?”.

You nod mutely.

“Than, miss, I believe I am in the right place and the Chancellor is well aware of who you are.”

Something sours in your stomach. You wish Fox or one of the boys were around because something just seems off. “We could do this a different time?” You question hopefully, retrieving your datapad and flipping open the calendar, “I really shouldn’t be leaving halfway through my day.”

“The Commander is with the Chancellor awaiting your arrival.”

Well, you knew that, didn’t you? You were the one who’d been answering comms for Fox all day. So why did it make your stomach flip and lurch? Maybe because you’d expect Fox to contact you with a heads up or, knowing him, send one of the kits to collect you.

“So, like now?” You clarify.

The aide's foot begins an impatient rhythm, toes tapping irritably against the floor, “like, now.” He clarifies pointedly.

You try to ignore his demeanor, he probably wasn’t used to playing go-for and certainly not used to anyone doing anything less than jumping at a chance to meet the Chancellor. Still, you don’t move with any great urgency. Maybe had he been a little nicer or the request not been so abnormal to begin with. You make a point of locking down the datapads and grabbing your coat and bags, ignoring his sigh while he glances at his chrono.

He never introduces himself. Not as you follow a step behind down the halls, not as you climb into the sleek black speeder on the landing platform. Hound And Rule are parking a pair of speeder bikes. You give them a shrug and a nervous smile as their helmets both cock in question. Hound looks like his namesake be it with a more viscous paint job. You’d laugh if you weren’t so kriffing nervous. It’s stupid. So this wasn’t exactly normal, but aside from a rude, nameless aide this was nothing worse than heading to an inter-office meeting.

Than why couldn’t you shake the feeling that you were about to get in trouble, like a child being called to the principals office? Your fingers fumble as you buckle the restraint across your chest. You barely have a chance to wave to the two Guardsmen still looking your way before the speeder is diving into the skylane and heading toward the Senate Executive building.

The ride is quiet. Any attempt to make small talk is met with a simple yes or no, a few things are even ignored completely. If this guy was intending on going into politics he’d need to take a class or two on how to fake interest in his constituents.

The speeder comes to a stop at the Supreme Chancellor’s private platform and you’re ushered off without fanfare.

“Don’t we need to check in with security?” You ask as your collector opens the door to what you can only assume is the Chancellor’s suite, a rich expanse of room and excess that doesn’t allow your eyes a moment to relax or focus on one point.

“That won’t be necessary, unless you feel like you need to be scanned and patted down?” His raises brow makes you blush.

“No- of course not. Just protocol-“

“The Supreme Chancellor sets his own protocols.” He explains as you move further into the office. The large wall of transparisteel looks out over the very tops of buildings you knew to tower high about the highest heights of the Coruscanti top level. It’s breathtaking.

The decorations are ostentatious, with a very strong splash of deep red everywhere- from the carpeting to the tapestries interspersed on the walls. Bronzium statues sit atop marble stands, their twisted faces and gnarled figures seem out of place amongst all the finery before you.

“This way, please.”

You hadn’t realized you’d slowed to gawk and move to pick up the pace from where you’d fallen back. You offer a small apology that goes unacknowledged as he presses through an imposing set of doors on the other side is more transparisteel, more red.

And the Chancellor.

Sheev Palpatine sits with his hands folded on the dark wood in front of him looking as if he’d been waiting for you to arrive. He greets you as such.

“My dear girl!” He rises to greet you, moving carefully around his desk.

Your first thought is that he was not nearly as tall as you’d imagined he’d be. On the holonet he looked every bit as tall as any of the clones that served as his guards. He’s only a head taller than you, you note as he reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle shake. You smile weakly, a spark of something uncomfortable and disquieting burning inside you.

“Supreme Chancellor” you incline your head to break the uncomfortably intense eye contact, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“She is a beautiful little creature, Commander.” He intones looking past you, ignoring your greeting.

You glance over your shoulder to see Fox standing at attention next to the door you’d walked through. It was a wonder you hadn’t noticed him immediately but with all the red bleeding through the room it was no great difficulty for him to blend in. He tips his helmet toward you even though he seems stiff. Regardless, just his presence does something to calm your nerves. Any residual anxiety about the pair of you seems to dissolve as you look at him. When you turn back to the Chancellor your smile is genuine.

The chancellor’s is still questionable while he cups your elbow and leads you toward his desk. The soft clatter of plastoid armor follows behind you. You can feel Fox behind you, can almost imagine his all too familiar body heat radiating along your back. You fight the urge to let your hand sweep behind you in an attempt to capture his own.

“My dear, the good Commander speaks very highly of you.”

“I think very highly of him” you murmur fighting the urge to look behind you.

“Very good. Very good. Have a seat and we’ll begin our little meeting.”

The chair is plush and comfortable. When the Chancellor sits down across you notice that his chair is positioned slightly higher than your own, making him appear as if he was looking down at you. The desk is fairly clean, only a handful of datapads and some neatly organized flimsy. Next to everything is a gleaming blaster. It’s hard to keep your eyes from skimming over it. You’d sat through enough conversations with Hound and Ryk to not recognize a hold-out blaster when you saw one.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it? Blas-Tech, I believe.” The chancellor motions toward the blaster but you shake your head. As much as you’ve been privy to conversations about the different makes and models you’d never really become comfortable with the actual blasters themselves. “Well suit yourself” the chancellor shakes his head gently picking up the blaster and making a show of turning it in the light. It’s small, most hold-outs were. “A gift from one of the Corellian delegates” he continues “a very thoughtful gift but I personally find blasters rather uncivilized.” He makes a show of setting it down closer to you.

“I see” you fidget in your seat, “I really don’t want to waste any of your time. I’m sure you have far more important-“

“- this is of the utmost importance, I’m afraid” there’s something about the almost apologetic look he gives you or maybe it’s the slight cooling of his tone that washes away any comfort that knowing Fox was with you had provided.

“I’m afraid, I’m not sure what this conversation is about.”

A scoff crosses the length of the desk as the Chancellor looks past you to Fox. “She is very tricky isn’t she Commander? Had I known you couldn’t see past a simple deception I would never have encouraged you to pursue her.”

“My apologies, my lord” Fox’s voice is cool and emotionless, not the rich baritone you were used to. Warning klaxons sound in your head.

“Sir?”

“Oh, dear girl there’s no use hiding it any longer.”

Your heart rate is slowly creeping up, moving more close to the rate of your namesake than you were comfortable with. You attempt to rise to your feet but a pair of gauntlets come down on your shoulders and press you back into the chair that no longer feels comfortable.

The chancellor rises and moves toward the windows, his fine robes swing around him as he goes. Your eyes follow him carefully. Pressure builds at the back of your skull, a wholly inopportune moment for a headache to present itself if you’ve ever had one. You shake your head gently in an attempt to dislodge it. The chancellor laughs and it sends a cold shock down your spine.

“You’ve used your position and your wiles to lead the Commander astray” he begins “you’ve filled his head full of ideas of conspiracies and plots that don’t exist. And for what, might I ask?”

When you turn and look up at Fox he’s staring down at you through the dark lens of his visor. You will him to say something, anything. Surely this was a mistake.

“Fox, you can’t believe this?” You turn toward Palpatine, “this is a mistake. I’m not sure where this has come from-“

“-So I shouldn’t believe that you gathered the data for the Commander? That you didn’t read through it unlawfully and offer your own silly ideas as to what happened after our best investigators found that the ARC trooper acted against the Republic? That he was, indeed, intent on assassignation?” The chancellor’s voice grows louder as he speaks.

Your mouth gapes as he continues.

“Should the Commander not be made aware that you’ve used his affection to manipulate a good soldier into believing that the Grand Army, the highest level of military excellence in the galaxy, was intent on destroying not only his brothers but the entire Jedi order?”

Fox’s hands leave your shoulders and you jump to your feet, the chair pushing back behind you, forcing him to take a step back or be hit with it. His hand rests at his hip, fingers wrapped around the grip of his deece. The pressure on the back of your head intensifies, burns.

“You used me” the words are a broken snarl, an injured animal fighting back. “You made me love you so you could what? Tell me damnit!” His body is tight, coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“Fox, this isn’t right-“

Palpatine's voice rises over the pair of you. “I’ll tell you Commander. She came with the intent of finishing what the ARc trooper started. She was a conspirator.” The word conspirator is hissed out. Fox’s head jerks than shakes. The heel of his free hand presses against his visor. You want to go to him, find a way to make him understand, to soften the hard lines of his body.

Pick up the blaster.

A voice, cool and calculating echoes in your skull. Your eyes trail down to the blaster and your fingers flex into a fist, knuckles going white as you fight the urge that you shouldn’t have. You can hear your heartbeat pounding along rapidly in your head, adrenaline flooding your system.

“She’s here to kill me Commander. She is a spy and assassin. How else could she get in here without the guards knowing?”

Fox’s hand twitches over his own blaster. “It hurts” one hand presses at the side of his bucket. Is Palpatine in his head too?

Pick. Up. The. Blaster.

Your skull feels as if it will implode at any moment. Your eyes turn away from Fox and to the Chancellor. A cruel smile twists his mouth, a vicious play on a genuine one. Your brows furrow together as the clanging in your head grows louder.

“You’re doing this?!” Panic rises in your throat, bile burns it raw. “Why? Get out of my head!”

The pained squeal that slips from your mouth sounds foreign, a feral animal sound. “Get out of my head!” You sob whipping around. Fox, who seems to be struggling on his own, drops down to one knee, bucket cradled in his hands.

“Cyar’ika-“ he sounds small and you want it to stop, would do anything to protect him. His visor rises up to meet your eyes and you swear you see him clear as day as if it’s not there. He’s your Fox and he needs you.

Because you love him.

“How touching” Palpatine's voice echoes through the room, a perverse pleasure notable in his tone as he sees your realization from inside your mind.

But you love Fox and the weight of it gives you strength. You push harder against whatever magic has slithered into your head.

“Good soldiers follow orders” Palpatine reminds, voice cold and calculating “Shoot the traitor.”

“Fox, it’s me.” You beg him to see you. To look at you “he’s making you believe something that isn’t real. See me-“ a broken sob bubbles it’s way over your lips, “Fox…”

Distantly, the sound of blasters and the rising shout of voices becomes clear but you don’t have time to discern what’s going on.

“You will shoot the assassin commander. The blaster is in her hand. Do it, Commander!”

“Mouse- I- I- can’t” Fox’s voice comes out as if through gritted teeth and then something snaps and he rises back to his full height. The uncertainty that had been rolling off of him is gone.

“No, no, no…” you mumble, shaking your head as tears fill yours eyes. Your hand covers your mouth in horror as if it alone can hold your grief in. Fox raises his blaster at you. Desperately you turn to the chancellor. “Please! Please don’t make him do this! I’ll do anything. Please don’t make him!”

He laughs in your face and you finally do as the voice in you head has willed.

You grab the blaster.

It feels foreign in your grip. You scream as a bolt from Fox’s deece grazes your left shoulder but your right hand holds tight to the one in your hand.

“PUT IT DOWN! GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!” Fox’s voice booms as you turn back toward him. There’s no way you will get a shot off on the chancellor. “Mouse- please-“ desperation bleeds through his words suddenly and it hurts almost as much as the singed flesh of your arm.

You raise the blaster to your head. You're going to die. You know it in your very soul. Now it was only a matter of how and who. It won’t be Fox. It will be the last thing you do-

“DO IT!”

Noise erupts around you. The doors of the Chancellor's office explode open, splinters of wood showering down.

Chaos ensues.

Another blaster bolt hits you in the right flank while your attention is divided. Everything moves in slow motion. The blaster in Fox’s hand shakes as he continues to aim it in your direction. The smell of ozone assault your senses. The room spins on its own unseen axis.

The blaster falls from your fingers with a clatter as you drop to your knees. You can’t breathe, your mind screams to draw in a breath but your body refuses to comply only allowing shallow, useless gasps.

Lights flare in your periphery purple, red, blue. Voices roar to life.

Electricity tickles at your skin as your hands press down over burnt flesh. “Fox…” his name comes out as a whimper as the transparisteel at your back shatters, shards of it bite into your back, burrow deep into your flesh. The smell of blood, the coppery tang makes your stomach heave..

Chaos is everywhere, omnipotent and overwhelming. Voices shout, threaten, and yell and you struggle to focus in on any one thing.

“Don’t take another step, vod!” You see the familiar blue and white jaig eyed bucket of Captain Rex. Twin deeces are aimed at Fox but his blaster is only half pointed, his head cocks then shakes violently. “I said stop, Fox!”

“It’s not him-“ the words come out in a choked cough, not loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of wind rising up between the buildings and the clashing of Jedi lightsabers. You press up on one arm and point shakily with your injured left arm. You try again, “it’s him!”

Rex’s helmet tips toward you but his blasters remain trained on Fox as you point toward the old man held at the tip of a purple saber.

You don’t have the strength to stay upright and your arm crumples. You fall against the red carpet with a gasp. Your shoulder bears the brunt of it causing bright hot pain to shoot anew through your body. When you're able to open your eyes, your blood mixing with the red fibers, almost imperceptibly, greets you.

“Mouse- Fierfek” the gutted sound of Fox’s voice slips into your ears, “I’m sorry. I’m-“ he voice is choked off as he grabs at his throat. Another man, lip curled back in a snarl, advances on him hand raised. His robes are dark matching the poisonous look in his eyes.

“Yes, young Skywalker. Strike him down!” The chancellor's sickly voice rises up over the winds.

“Anakin!” The Jedi wielding the purple saber snarls. You see him look back at the chancellor.

“I am the senate. You will not kill me, Jedi”

“The senate is overruled”

The purple saber flashes without hesitation. You choke back a scream as Sheev Palpatine’s head leaves his body. You struggle, dragging yourself toward Fox as his hands claw against his own throat trying to dislodge his invisible assailant.

“General! Enough!” Rex’s voice rises as you grab at Fox’s leg pulling yourself in front of him.

“Skywalker” the other man intones quietly. The purple glow retracts as he places a hand over the younger Jedi’s forearm and presses down, “let him go. This wasn’t his doing.”

You miss the choked cry the younger man bites back because whatever has held Fox at bay releases him and he falls forward, body draping over you protectively.

The winds still howl, blowing up from the deep wells of Coruscant below but it sounds distant. It doesn’t chill you like it had because Fox is with you and he’ll make everything right.

You want to tell him how much you love him. You want to kiss him just once as the darkness presses in at the edges of your vision. It’s a struggle to focus on the lines of his helmet, to pretend you can see through to the cut of his jaw, his full lips -that turn up just so when he smiles- and the soothing browns of his eyes.

“You don’t get to do this” he whispers angrily between harsh breaths. His arms wrap around your body pulling you close his nose pressing against your temple. “You don’t get to die because of me”

You tell him it’s not his fault, or at least you try. You can’t make your voice work.

Fox’s lips press roughly behind your ear. A continuous loop of promises and apologies and curses spill from his mouth. Mando’a and basic slur together. You try to keep your eyes open. You want to stay with him. It doesn’t hurt anymore so everything must be ok. Fox has made it ok…

Someone yells for a medic and the darkness overtakes you.

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout

In the real world pepper spray wasn’t invented until the 70′s, if anyone wanted to know, so it would be a very strange weapon to the SSR.

-

As it turned out, Thompson did not get the chance to visit Peggy in the hospital.  After washing her face with soap and water over and over again, the doctors declared that while they didn’t know what had been done to her, it appeared unlikely to have any long-term effects, and released her.  By this time the burning had gone down significantly, although her eyes were still swollen and watery and the back of her throat felt as if she’d drunk straight vinegar and immediately vomited it up again.  In addition, she had developed a pounding headache.  It felt as if her skin were too tight for her skull and her eyes too big for their sockets, with everything pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

She took a taxi back to her hotel and found the button for her floor by feel.  Even the dim late-night lighting felt like needles in her eyes.  She had to ask a maid to direct her to her room, and when she got inside she made sure all the lights were off and felt her way to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face.

This was a cause for immediate regret, as everything started burning all over again.

In the end she simply dropped herself into bed, face-up, and hoped to feel better in the morning.

- 

She did not, particularly.

It was nearly noon when Peggy woke, thanks in part to the time difference between the coasts and in part to the very late night before.  Her head still ached, and the sunlight through the crack in the hotel room curtains seemed to slice into her eyes like one of HYDRA’s beam weapons.  It was incredibly tempting to just stay in bed all day, and the next day, and the day after that, and Peggy would have given in were it not for the fact that when she rolled over she realized she needed to use the toilet.  With a theatrical groan, she tossed the covers back, stood up, and staggered into the washroom.

Peggy had not, the previous evening, bothered to take in what she looked like in the aftermath of Miss Lake’s attack.  It was not quite as bad as she’d feared, but still not a pretty picture – her eyes were nearly swollen shut and the skin around them, along with her nose, lips, and cheeks, was ferociously red and puffy.  It looked superficially like a severe sunburn.

She reached to rub one eye, then thought better of it.

Now that she was upright, Peggy no longer felt quite so much like staying in bed the entire day.  She should at least have some breakfast, and then let Daniel know she was all right.  He would most likely have heard about last night and would want to be kept informed.  With that in mind, she called downstairs for room service, combed her hair, and then carefully held the telephone receiver an inch away from her skin as she asked the operator for Los Angeles.

Daniel was relieved to hear from her.  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.  “Thompson said you’d been burned by some kind of chemical?”

“I have,” said Peggy, “and there seems to be nothing I can do for it except wait for it to get better.  It’s already improved from last night.”  The headache, at the very least, was no more than a mild annoyance together, rather than an all-consuming agony.

“Let me know if they figure out what it was,” Daniel said.  “Could be useful.”

“Whatever it is, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” Peggy told him, then re-evaluated this statement.  Who did she consider her worst enemy?  Some of those Nazis who were still being tried for their crimes could do with a dose of that substance.  At her most obnoxious, so could Dottie Underwood.  She would keep that in mind.  “I don’t know how Miss Lake is doing yet,” Peggy went on.  “She was still in the hospital when I was released.”

“Oh, she’s out now,” said Daniel.  “Thompson called me this morning.  They’ve got her in custody at the police station down the street, the same one we kept Dottie at, but she’s not talking.”

Peggy sat up a little straighter.  “Well, at least we know she won’t be able to escape without help,” she quipped.  “Nobody told me.”

“They probably didn’t want to disturb you,” Daniel suggested.  “You’re convalescing, after all.”

Peggy considered how she would have felt if the phone had rung at eight am while she was still trying to sleep off whatever this was, and had to concede the point.  “I suppose I’d better head down there and see what they’re up to.  Thank you for telling me.”

“Don’t work too hard,” said Daniel.

“I’ll try not to, but I can make no promises,” Peggy told him.

After breakfast, she washed her face – carefully, and with almost more soap than water – and brushed her hair, then got dressed.  Makeup seemed like a terrible idea so she wore none, choosing instead a pair of large sunglasses and a hat she could tilt down to make her face harder to see.  She couldn’t see well enough to tell if people were staring at her as she hailed another taxi.  If she’d tried to walk, they probably would have thought she was a blind woman, blundering down the street with only the barest idea where she was going.

“Telephone company headquarters, please,” she told the cab driver.

Fortunately, once she reached the New York office, Peggy really could have found her way around the building with her eyes closed.  She took the elevator up to the SSR, and immediately encountered Thompson.

“Marge?” she heard him ask.  “You look terrible.”

“Your honesty is refreshing, Mr. Thompson,” Peggy replied, and even she didn’t know if she were being sarcastic or not.  “Has anyone figured out what she sprayed me with yet?”

“Actually, Dr. Mroczek was just giving me the results of that now,” said Thompson.

Frank Mroczek was the East Coast SSR’s head of the science department.  Peggy couldn’t see his face well enough to tell what he thought of her appearance, and he tactfully declined to say anything about it.  “Well,” he said, “yes, we analyzed the substance in the perfume jar.  The active ingredient appears to be capsaicin.”

“What is that?” asked Peggy.

“It’s the chemical that makes curries spicy” he explained.  “She seems to have isolated it, put it in an emulsion with what I think is propylene glycol, and used it as a weapon.  It’s not soluble in water, so trying to rinse it away won’t work.”

“I’d noticed,” Peggy sighed.  “Thank you, Dr. Mroczek.”  The idea that it was a substance people ate on purpose was reassuring.  Hopefully it meant that Peggy wouldn’t suffer any lasting damage.  “Have we learned anything else?” she asked Thompson.

“We found your gun in the car,” he said.  “Along with hers.  It’s another Colt thirty-eight, with a home-made suppressor.”

That was why all Peggy had heard was a popping sound.  “How did she break the window glass?”

“She didn’t.  She drilled through it with a hand auger.”  Thompson shook his head.  “She must’ve been at it all night.  No idea how she did it without being seen.”

“All that effort only to shoot the wrong man,” Peggy observed.  “Who did she get?”

“Armin Zola,” said Thompson.

Peggy’s eyes were too swollen to open wide, but she could feel them trying.  “What, really?”  As political prisoners went, Zola was if anything more important than Fenhoff!  He was one of the men the United States Government was pumping for information on the Nazi and HYDRA science projects and methods, though unlike some others he was considered too dangerous to be allowed his freedom.  The CIA was going to be furious.

Just what they needed, she thought.  Another acronym involved in this mess.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“Very,” Thompson said.  “The bullet entered his left cheek, went straight through his brain, and hit the wall.  Good riddance, if you ask me.”

“I’m inclined to agree but there are people who will not be,” Peggy observed.

Peggy heard the elevator open and turned to see what it was, but from this distance could make out no more than a vague blue man-like shape.  She stood no chance of recognizing the individual until he spoke.

“Chief Thompson?” he asked.  “I’m Ned Russel, from the California FBI.”

“Agent Russel?” Peggy asked.  “What are you doing here?”

“Agent Carter?” Russel was as surprised as she was.  He came closer, and she was able, by squinting, to make out his familiar face and plaid blazer.  “I didn’t recognize you!” he said.  “Bees?”

She blinked.  “Bees?”

“One of the secretaries at the Sacramento office got stung by a bee in her garden last summer,” he said.  “Her hand turned purple and swelled up like it would burst.  Some of the men still call her the Lobster Lady.”

“I’m sure she appreciated their sympathy,” said Peggy.

“I see you two have met,” Thompson observed.

“Briefly,” Peggy agreed.  “Agent Russel, I thought you were being taken off this case?”

“I’m here as a witness.  They need me to identify Miss Lake as the woman who drugged and robbed me.  After that… yes, I’m being reassigned,” he admitted.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.  “How is your wife?”

Russel sighed.  “She’s gone to stay with her brother in Houston.”

“Well, that I’m afraid serves you right,” Peggy said with a nod.  “No, incidentally, I was not stung by a bee – I was stung by Miss Lake.”

“I see.  Guess I got off easy.”

Thompson escorted his two guests up the street to the station where Miss Lake was being kept.  She was, indeed, not only in the same building but in the same cell as they’d kept Dottie, sitting on the bed with shackles on her wrists and ankles.  Peggy still couldn’t see very well, but she made out that they’d washed the charcoal off Lake’s face and hands and put her in a gray women’s prison uniform, and she’d been allowed to comb her hair.  Her accident had taken the skin off her knees and the back of her right arm, and her right cheek was scraped and bruised, but she still looked considerably better than Peggy did.

The dim illumination in the cell didn’t exactly count as the full light of day, but it was enough to tell that this was definitely the same person who’d come to the Los Angeles office claiming to be Agent Nadine Russel.

The prisoner looked up as they entered, and smiled, wiggling her fingers at them in a parody of a wave.  Her expression was downright smug, Peggy thought.  Miss Lake knew she had secrets the SSR wanted badly, and she also knew that she alone had control over when and whether she would reveal them.

“That’s her,” Russel told Thompson.

“All right.”  He nodded.  “We’ve got one positive ID.  How about you, Carter?  Is that the woman you met?”

“Yes, it is,” said Peggy.  “I would know her anywhere.”

Thompson approached the bars, and Peggy very nearly decided to grab him and pull him back.  She could just imagine Lake darting into action the moment a potential victim came within reach.  Fortunately, Thompson was smart enough to stay about an arm’s length away to speak to her.

“You’re going to jail either way, sweetheart,” he said.  “Assault, robbery, impersonating a federal agent, unauthorized access to classified information, breaking and entering, and now murder.  We know you can talk, so there’s no point in sitting there all stony-faced.  If you give us information, we might go easy on you.”

Lake raised a hand, and pointed at Peggy.  “I want to talk to Agent Carter,” she said.

Thompson’s eyebrows rose.  He looked over his shoulder at Peggy.

“Is that the first time she’s spoken?” she asked.

“First time,” he agreed.  Thompson looked at the prisoner levelly.  “Why do you want to talk to Carter?” he asked.

Lake said nothing.

Peggy tried.  “Why do you want to talk to me?”

“Because I think you want to talk to me,” said Lake.

She was certainly right about that.  Peggy’s purse, with that mysterious letter still in it, suddenly felt very heavy.  Ironic how the thing she most wanted to talk to Lake about was the one she could not bring up in anybody else’s presence.

But she could definitely learn something.  “That I do,” she said.  “If one of you gentlemen could bring me a chair,” she asked Thompson and the police, “I’m sure I could talk to our guest all day.”

[stixxxy]

Merry Siegemas All! Day 12.

Sorry for posting so late, but I finally got home- thank you so much to @dualrainbow for allowing me to take part in Day 12 of this fun r6s writing event. :D

And apologies in advance incase there’s any grammar errors- I write and grammar check myself.

Fun Short Story; about 1.5k words.

Promt: Unexpectedly spending the holidays together

——

"You'd recon these people have at least some families for Christmas," James 'Smoke' Porter sighed, rubbing his hands together in trying to warm up to the cold Northern British atmosphere.

The north was never actively warm, which actively meant that late December would (as James would say) cause you to "Freeze your tits off", it got cold and dark quickly with wind and rain but alas no snow, snow was rare to see despite the country's cold atmosphere. It was a few days before Christmas as well; so instead of being home or in the base with friends- Porter, Mark 'Mute' Chandlar, Dominic ‘Bandit’ Brunsmeier, and Sébastien ‘Buck’ Côté had been sent to the Shetland isles in hope that they could work on developing a secret base so to speak just as a last resort. The place wasn't so bad- it was just extremely freezing but at least the town was quite nice. At the centre there were bright lights hanging from the olden wind beating buildings, a large festively decorated tree sat in the opening besides the shore. Moods were high throughout the few townsfolk they saw- 2 days before Christmas always brought either stress or glee, which you clearly could tell by how the people commuted.

"They're terrorists," Mute responded, "they hate happiness. Be thankful we're just sorting out a base."

Mark spoke in a tone that was almost as bitter as the northern air which prickled at James’ skin. ‘Even if the white masks didn’t kill us before we get to the base, the cold sure would have’ the Londoner thought. James didn’t get why they needed yet another base- they already had England and Greece, they were about to colonise an island in north Scotland next. Harry had insisted that the base was meant for training in ‘harsher environments’, and since Russia probably would say no to a military group that wasn’t theirs, the next best thing was Scotland.

“I still think we could have bribed Jordan to come,” The voice of the German operator piped up, as he and their Canadian coworker, Sébastian, jogged up the small hill with their kit.

Smoke turned his head towards the duo approaching, “And have him complaining nonstop?”

“Source of entertainment I call it.”

Buck looked at the three other operators, “what did I do wrong to be picked with you people?”

——

The trip was originally scheduled for the 4 operators to camp overnight, get a feel for the place and then decide whether it would make a decent enough area for training with harsher/colder environments. The harsher and colder had already been challenging before the group even reached their site- there was no denying that fact. Sébastian had been the only one who hadn’t complained yet, that was until a certain shorter than average Brit accidentally got his clothes wet.. which lead to Mark reluctantly lending Buck one of his hoodies. So the trip was going swell.

“If i give you £20 will you let me share your sleeping bag?”

“Piss off.”

After the request, James received an elbow to the his side- a smile growing oh his face but again they returned back to their quiet. Sounds of the ocean they sat lulled the silence, distant talking and cars came and went as the minutes went by.

“How’s lily?” For a change Mark initiated a conversation, putting his phone down on the grass besides him.

James let out a sigh, bringing a hand to go through his hair. He paused.

“I promised her this year I’d be with her for Christmas, like- the whole 2 weeks she gets off,” he started, turned to his hands which he was fiddling with his sleeves with. “I don’t know how Zofia can do it- do this and then be a mother. What kind of parent am I if I barely even see my kid?”

Silence once again filled the air, Mute leaned back- his arms supporting his body as he thought. He was never one for emotional conversations, he could ramble about computer science for hours but the second it gets touchy and feely- his brain shuts off. Mark turned to James who’s face was the opposite of how he usually was, a frown plastered on his lips and his normally bright eyes were tinted dimly.

“I’m sure she understands, it is your job after all. She’s 16; when I w-“

“-She’s not like you Mark,” James snapped, turning to face the younger, “You’re practically a child genius who has no manners socially, Lily’s... you know what the kid’s like.”

James nuzzled his chin into his scarf, in a way to both shut himself off and to try warm himself up before he started to cry and freeze his cheeks off. He never felt homesick, James loved his job, but he just hated that he couldn’t keep a promise.

“At least you’ll be with her for Christmas Day.”

The only response was a small breath and a nod.

——

Sharing a tent with 3 other men was not Sébastians initial plan for Christmas eve’s eve- likewise having to borrow one of the others’ clothes because his own got soaked by a prank. He knew he wouldn’t get to visit home this year but spending Christmas with his friends wasn’t so bad, Sébastian was just lucky he had managed to visit Canada for his birthday a few months prior.

“Fucking freezing out here,” the words of Dominic alerted Séb from his book, a hint of tiredness in his voice.

“It’s not too cold,” Buck smiled, moving in his seat besides the small campfire.

The German scoffed, “because you have a hoodie which is too big, a beanie and gloves. My gloves to be exact.”

“You offered.”

Dominic pushed Sébastian’s beanie over Séb’s face as he walked by to sit on the seat besides his teammate. A small laugh coming from him while he watched the Canadian huff when he reorganised his beanie.

“Before I forget; Harry called- there’s a storm coming to welcome us a merry Christmas,” Séb knew where this was going. Bandit dipped his head and then leaned back, “he thinks we’re going to be stuck here for a few days longer than expected.”

“Typical.”

Dominic kicked his legs up onto the stand besides the fire, “he did say we could stay at a friend of his rather than risk being killed by the high winds of Scotland.”

“How thoughtful.”

It wasn’t long until Mark and James returned, the news hit James hard; being in the middle of nowhere for Christmas was never ideal- at least they weren’t alone in the middle of nowhere.

James sighed, sitting up in his sleeping bag- the wind was already starting to pick up and the rain was battering the tens thin material. Silent breathing from the sleeping people continued, unfazed by the storm brewing. Smoke lay back down, staring at the green above him. Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach- anxiety from both Christmas being the next day and the fact he couldn’t keep a single promise towards his daughter. If only it wasn’t raining he could at least walk the nerves off.

—

“For professionals you all like to sleep in.”

A Scottish man let out a laugh, watching the four Rainbow operators crawl out of the tent in dampened clothes as the tent got ripped after something bumped into it due to the high winds the previous night.

“You try sleeping in a leaking tent,” The pleasant morning voice of Mute spoke, “then we can talk about ‘sleep in’.”

A hearty laugh came from the man, “well if it means anything, I’m sorry about your situation.”

Sébastian stepped up, apologising for the other three’s attitude- making some small chat to the Scottsman who was called Duncan.

—

“Hey Lilypad,” James stood in the hallway- looking around at the tinsel wrapped around the staircase, “so plans changed, I’m sorry.”

“You promised dad-“

“I know.. I know- there’s a storm and the boats been cancelled-“

Dominic appeared from the doorway, “Porter?”

“I’m coming,” James mouthed then turned to the phone,” I’ll hopefully be back for Boxing Day- we can get Gramps and everyone over. I’ll, I’ll make it up to you Lils.”

“It’s... Sorry’s not good enough okay?”

Before he could even mutter another ‘sorry’, the line went dead.

James sat on the staircase, letting his head fall into his hands. It was the one thing he and Lily had been looking forward too, 2 weeks together for Christmas and having the family over; god how he missed his own parents. A person slid down to sit a stair above, resting a comforting hand on James’ shoulder.

“Coming from someone who’s been through the same thing as Lily, she knows it’s not your fault,” the Quebec man let out a small laugh, “of course she’s hurt, but you’re her dad; she loves you and as long as you both have each other- she’ll forgive you. Just let her process.”

James nodded, inhaling a shaky breath. He patted the hand on his shoulder and stood up.

“Let’s make this a good Christmas from what we have,” he turned to Séb who promptly followed him down.

“You gehirnverweigerer! Just tell me what the fucking thing is! The zucker! STOP LAUGHING JUST TELL ME WHAT IT IS!” The voice of a very angry Dominic came from the kitchen.

Buck smiled and wrapped an arm around the English man, “Merry Christmas James.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

[cutieodonoghue]

dark gray (10/?)

summary: Killian Jones operates a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, preferring a life of isolation, until one day a woman and a baby wash up on his little island and change his life forever.

read it on: ao3, ff.net

and also catch up on tumblr!

///

Ten

During Henry’s naps, Emma has taken to reading for most of the day. So far, she’s made her way through almost thirty books, which must be a record of some kind. 

If anyone had told her two weeks ago that she would become a stereotypical housewife for the better part of a month, she would not have believed it. 

In the real world, she’s a police officer in Storybrooke with her father, who is sheriff of their little town. It's not a busy place, but it suits her well enough. 

She gets plenty of time off and she spends a lot of it helping her mother with preparing for her classes at Storybrooke Elementary. The woman is a saint, but sometimes she does need someone to help her balance such a heavy workload.

One of the things she’s most excited about is getting to sit with her mother while she eagerly wonders about every little detail of Emma’s life. It can be annoying, sure, but her mother has to be one of the most genuinely kind people in the world.

That kindness is something that Emma takes into consideration while she pours focus and heart into her day-to-day efforts with both Henry and Killian.

Pondering what one act of kindness she could perform for Killian, Emma makes a less-than-half serving of oatmeal for herself. 

Henry sits on a blanket on the floor nearby, playing with a makeshift doll that she’d fashioned out of an old shirt. 

He is a cute little boy, with his little dimples and his sweet, excited babbling. But the more important thing is that he seems happy, despite everything that’s already happened in his life. She’s glad he won’t have to remember this experience. One day, it will just be a story she’ll tell him and he probably won’t believe it. 

The front door opens with a squeal and comes clattering back as Killian steps inside. He looks over at her with worry in his eyes. "We've got some unwelcome company."

Emma furrows her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Every so often, a ship of pirates comes off the coast of the island. I've never dealt with them directly. Usually I have to signal back to the mainland for help, but since I've disarmed our radio, we need to make all appearances that we are not home."

Fear rushes into the peace of the morning faster than she can think to breathe. Her heart begins beating faster, whirling thoughts and worries silencing her.

She turns the stove off and moves the pot to keep the breakfast she’d been preparing from burning.

Killian already makes his way through the small house, flipping off lights and ousting the fires that keep them from freezing.

Emma nervously bites at her lip and crouches down to gather Henry up into her arms. He chatters sweetly in her ear and she smiles, setting her palm to his belly as she gives his cheek a reassuring kiss.

"Come on, baby. We're going to play somewhere else." 

She steps into the living room where Killian enters in from the bedroom.

"The fires are out. Hopefully they haven't seen the smoke yet."

Emma nods. She doesn’t know what to say. Pirates weren’t on her bingo card of potential worst case scenarios, so she truly finds herself fearful and out of her depth.

Killian tips his head toward the bedroom. "Why don't you and Henry hide in there in case something happens?"

In case something happens.

Whatever dangers he thinks these pirates are capable of sends shivers up her spine. 

"What about you?"

He goes over to the bookshelf, digs into a box he keeps higher up, and removes a gun and its components.

“I'll be fine, love.”

Emma wants to argue, but he comes up to her and presses a kiss to her forehead, his hand warm against her arm. She squeezes her eyes shut, not realizing that she would be so worried over something that the circumstances are so unclear over.

It hits her as he's leaving a kiss to the top of her head that he's trying to comfort her. That maybe he's worried about the end. That maybe he has no idea what’s about to happen.

She watches him as he walks away, then takes a shaky breath. "Be careful, Killian."

He turns, his eyes filled with anguished determination. "Stay hidden. It shouldn't be long."

Emma holds the back of Henry's head and walks with him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. She carries the baby to the bed and sits him down, taking a few steadying nervous breaths as she stands by him, watching his curious little eyes light up. 

She wonders what Killian’s doing, if he's sitting out in the kitchen or if he's going to go outside. She can't really hear anything, and it produces a sinking feeling in her gut as she tries to keep Henry occupied.

After a little while, she hears shouting voices, but she can't make out the words for the life of her, and she bites hard on her lip as she gathers up Henry in her arms. 

Quickly, she goes to the opposite side of the room, ducking to hide as best she can behind the bed. She holds Henry tight to her chest, determined that she will protect him at all costs.

She’s shocked when she hears gunfire and her eyes widen, holding the little boy ever tighter, especially when he whimpers fearfully. He can clearly sense that something is going on, so she puts her hand over his ear and her chest against his other, allowing him to listen to her pounding heart instead.

"It's okay," she hushes him. "We're going to be okay. Killian is going to take care of us."

Emma clamps her eyes shut. She doesn't know if she actually believes that or if she just needs to hear it from someone. 

The doorknob to the bedroom jiggles before it opens.

Fear crawls along her skin, but she manages a deep breath, recalling her training as an officer. Prepared to fight, she decides she’ll put Henry under the bed to protect him before making her move and grabbing the shovel that leans against a chest opposite the bed.

She hesitantly looks up and over the top of the bed, expecting the absolute worst.

Relief fills her chest at the sight of Killian standing there instead.

She rises to her feet. "What happened? I heard shots."

"I took care of them." He clearly isn't very distressed about what happened, but he trembles a little upon closer examination.

Emma crosses the room to stand before him at the door. "Are they gone now?"

Killian nods. "For the moment at least. They've taken my warning."

Acting on impulse, she wraps her free arm around his neck, burying herself in his grasp. He tightens his arm around her and she hears him sigh.

"I was worried about you," she admits softly. 

He allows her to rest in his embrace for a few solemn moments before he speaks. "How is he?"

Emma shuts her eyes and breathes him in, taking the moment to be thankful that they’re all safe. 

She takes a step back, looking at Henry where he hangs over her hip. He chirps and babbles, making her smile as she tugs at his little makeshift outfit.

"He's good."

Killian smiles softly when she looks at him, reaching out to tug at Henry's foot. "That's a lad. Did you keep Emma safe for me?"

Henry makes a noise that makes them both laugh.

Emma kisses the crown of his head and smiles when he decides to collapse against her collarbone with his hands clutching at her hair.

When she looks at Killian again, he admires her with eyes she's seen more often lately.

He's been getting better with Henry, but the little boy still prefers her company to his, probably because Killian refuses to hold him for very long. He helps when he wakes up crying in the middle of the night and sometimes sings to him and plays with him in the evenings when they're all gathered in the living room with nothing else to do.

"How are you?" she asks him. "Did they hurt you or anything?"

He shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. "I was the better arm."

"Thank you," she says again, seriously.

He nods once. “How about you, love? Are you alright?”

She takes a breath, assessing, and nods. "Yeah. I am. Just a little shaken up, I guess.” 

On another instinct, she brings her hand up to his face, gently thumbing over the apple of his cheek. She feels him lean into her ever so slightly, his eyes falling shut briefly when her hand meets his face. “I'm just glad nothing happened to you."

His eyes are full of longing. It's downright ridiculous..

"Emma," he breathes out, shaking his head slightly.

She feels her chest tightening and she doesn't know what to say. She pulls her hand away and swallows at the lump in her throat.

He looks at her for a long few moments, then steps a little closer to her. He pauses and cradles the back of her head with his hand, pressing his lips against her forehead in a lingering kiss.

Without another word, Killian turns to go. 

Emma takes a deep breath, unsure what that was about.

/

She laughs with Henry when she has him sit in the tub to take a bath. 

He's happy to be in the water and he splashes her far too much, but she doesn't mind. Emma spends quality time scrubbing his hair and putting bubbles onto his nose to make him giggle.

Maybe being a mom isn't such a bad thing. In fact, she kind of likes it. A lot.

She wraps Henry up in a big warm towel and dries him off, cuddling with him on her way back to the living room. 

The front door opens and closes as she's wrapping Henry's make-shift diaper over him, smiling as he watches her with curiosity. Emma pokes his belly and he flails his legs, making her laugh.

"You are a very lucky boy, Henry. And I'm lucky that I met you."

She strokes up at his hair, making it into a little wispy mohawk before she pulls him into an outfit created by one of Killian's old tee shirts.

Henry kicks his feet and clutches at her hair as she kisses all along his little face. Her heart swells warmly.

"Hey, I love you, little guy. Do you know that? I love you."

Henry just blinks at her.

"I'm going to love you for a long time," Her heart races, because she's never loved anyone like this before. "I promise nothing is going to hurt you as long as you and I have each other."

Emma gives him another kiss to his cheek and sits with him in her lap, her hand pressed against his belly while one of his hands examines her other one.

She glances up, finding herself looking at Killian leaning against the doorframe. She wonders how long he's been watching her when he unfolds his arms and crosses the room.

Killian sits beside her on the sofa and she turns to look at him with a cautious smile.

"Did you finish working?" Emma wonders as casually as she can.

He nods and looks down at Henry when he chirps. 

"He's a noisy fellow, isn't he?" Killian asks, smiling a little.

Emma laughs, nodding in agreement. "He's really happy right now. He loves having baths."

Killian reaches in and strokes Henry's soft cheek with the back of his hand.

"You're good for him," Killian tells her softly. "You make a good mother."

Emma feels a blush fill her cheeks, something she thinks he must notice, because he smiles at her softly.

"Maybe the ocean brought us here for this," Emma muses. She turns her attention onto Henry. "I mean, since it'll probably never happen organically… this is my one shot at being a mom."

When Emma looks up at him, Killian furrows his brow at her in confusion.

She rolls her eyes at her own logic. "You know, because I do so much better on my own. I chase off decent guys and cling to stupid ones."

He hums thoughtfully. "And where do I fall in that spectrum?" She opens her mouth, her ears reddening and words not coming forward. He chuckles, resting his hand against her thigh. "I see."

Emma gapes at him. "It was just a kiss. I don't think that constitutes being on the spectrum. I thought you didn’t even want to consider… us being… involved."

Killian tips his head to the side in thought.

Her jaw falls open in mild surprise and she shakes her head. "We're only going to be here for another week and a half, Killian."

He stares at her for a few seconds and sighs, pushing his head down so he stares at his lap. "I know."

Emma stares at Henry. He's sleepy, his head drooped and his eyes falling shut.

"I know I keep asking you this, but, when we leave, what's going to happen to you?" she asks boldly. "Are you going to stay here?"

Killian stares at her, his gaze unfailing. "Emma-"

"If you can't tell me you don't want to come with me, then it's not worth the heartache."

Emma manages to smile at him, regardless of the tight feeling in her chest. She stands to take Henry into the bedroom to sleep. As she stares at the boy in his cradle, she thinks about the absurdity of it all.

He’s all on his own here. He has a clear cut way out if he leaves with them, but he won’t take it.

Determined, she marches back out into the living room and faces the sofa where Killian's still sitting.

"Why are you here? On this island?"

Killian looks up at her and shakes his head, wordless.

"You know that you're not cursed, right? You've had some horrible stuff happen to you, but that doesn't mean that everyone you care about has to die, or that you’re never going to have a life like you had before everything happened."

Killian clenches his jaw and stands up, clearly getting a little wound up by what she’s saying.

“Just because you're here, Emma, and just because we're friends, it doesn't mean I'm ready-"

"That’s crap. Don’t tell me you’re not ready.” Emma shakes her head. “You keep telling yourself that and you're never going to have any space in your heart to move on.”

He laughs, spiteful. “You’ve been here two weeks and suddenly you’re an expert on what I’m ready to do?”

“I want you to come home with us,” Emma argues passionately. “Okay? I want you to come home with me and Henry, and watch him grow up, and… meet everyone I love and learn new things and go new places…” Feeling weary, she sighs. “I want you to stop hiding out here.”

“I’m not…” he stops himself, falling quiet.

Searching his eyes, she waits for him to finish his reply, but he doesn’t. 

“You’re not alive so you can act dead, Killian.”

Pivoting fast on her heel, she goes into the bedroom, but knows they're not done with this fight.

/

The couch is an uncomfortable bed, but he's gotten more or less used to it in these past few days. He drags a blanket over him and stares at the wall across the room.

His heart races and his mind is a blur as he considers Emma's frustration over his choices. Maybe he's being stubborn, but it's for a good cause. His life has been one disaster after another.

Killian thinks about Liam, how strong his brother had been up through the end of his life. Liam probably wouldn't want him wasting his life away just as much as Emma doesn't.

On a grimace, Killian shakes his head. No, Liam's gone, so he doesn't get to have opinions, and Emma barely knows him.

But still, it feels like he's falling into the deepest, darkest pit and he's never going to be able to get out. The heart of him cries out in silence, begging him to follow Emma and Henry away from this island.

She wants him to. She wants him.

It terrifies him, the thought of living a life away from here. Especially after stranding himself here for so long.

Emma might be worth it.

/

She wakes to the sound of Killian's voice.

Her eyes open slowly and she realizes in a jolt of awareness that he's sitting at her side, his fingers pressed against her arm to try and shake her awake. 

The room is softly lit by early dawn's glow, and she'd think nothing of Killian being here, but they did just have both pirates and a pretty serious argument. His being at her side this early in the morning could be for anything, as far as she knows.

Emma pushes herself upright. Her eyes blink open wider and she forces herself to wake up as she asks, "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

She places her hands between her thighs and looks up at Killian, who sits in silence. He wears a dark expression on his face, something sorrowful knitting his brow.

Suddenly, he slides his fingers down her arm until he finds hers. Emma's eyes meet his in surprise and he smiles slightly.

"There are reasons," he tells her. "Reasons I didn't pursue you when I had every opportunity." He scans her face with determination. Clearly, he's trying to fight something in his mind. "But I'm tired of waiting on the demons from my past."

With her heart in her throat, Emma notices that there are dark circles under Killian's eyes, as if he'd been up all night thinking about the weight of the world that rests upon his shoulders.

If he’d been up all night thinking about this, then what she’d said to him must have been meaningful.

“I… don't..." Emma pauses. She shakes her head. This is something she never would have expected. Her fingers fit easily between his and she stares down at them with her heart still racing. "Killian, I don't want to get hurt when I can leave."

He smiles a little, his eyes absolutely flattering her with the way they light up with adoration. "I don't know if I'm ready to leave, but I know I want to keep you in my life."

She tilts her head, resting it on her shoulder. "Killian-"

He smiles as he mirrors her, clearly captivated by something about her.

"I'm terrified of what it means, but I want to be with you, Emma." Killian says solemnly. "When we kissed, it exposed something." Her gaze shifts back to his. Her heart races at the words tumbling from his lips. "I never thought I'd be capable of letting go of my first love, of my Milah, to believe that I could find someone else, that is, until I met you."

Her heart squeezes tight and she feels tears for no actual reason prickling at the surface of her eyes. She knows he's being serious, because of that deep, meaningful look in his eyes. 

Emma takes a deep breath, like the moment before taking the plunge, and leans in close to him. He's warm and kind when he kisses her, not demanding a single thing from her.

And as she kisses him, for real this time, she feels something she isn’t sure she’s had in a very long time. She feels hope so tangible that she almost worries that it’s too good to be true.

[rainbowinthemaking]

Our First Child

I’m really not sure how to start this, but my husband encouraged this idea. And, I know my aunt would really love to read this if she was still here so hopefully others will too. And if not, that’s okay. 

My whole life all I ever wanted was to be was a mother (aside from a ballerina firefighter -- but let’s not get in to that). I know superstitions and premonitions aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I believe that shit, hard. When I was about 18 I had this feeling come over me that what I wanted most might be hard for me to achieve. Every boyfriend, or fling was clearly told that if I pregnancy were to ever occur, abortion was not an option for me and they were more than welcome to not be involved. A lot of them thought I was crazy, but I just knew deep down it wouldn’t be easy. I mean, that is life after all. 

At 25 I married the man I wanted to start that family with. I was off birth control our entire relationship but we never started trying till 2 months before our wedding. In hindsight, I wish we had started trying sooner. But of course that’s easy to say when I know where we are at now. It took almost a year and a half for us to have our first pregnancy. Ironically, we found out about 4 weeks before our doctor appointment to get our infertility referral. By the time that appointment rolled around we were given upsetting news. After rushing to the ER two weeks earlier for bleeding and cramps, I was instructed to be on bed rest and that baby was looking good, that bleeding can be normal and not to worry too much. 

The following week we went back to the same hospital for another ultrasound. My husband wasn’t allowed to go with me, even though this was well before COVID. I’ll never understand why they operate that way. She did the pelvic ultrasound and left the room after instructing me to undress so she could try transvaginally. When she left the room I noticed she had forgotten to lock the computer and the images were on the screen. For 10 weeks we weren’t at where we should’ve been. I knew what spot to expect that see that cute lil gummy bear at and it was empty. Barren. Useless. The hospital didn’t give us our results and told us our Doctor would follow up and to continue bedrest for now.

I cried on the car ride home, trying to hide my tears from my husband and googling what a 10 week ultrasound should be. Deep down I knew I had lost our baby and I couldn’t help but blame myself. I tried to keep a positive attitude on the outside for my husband’s sake. If I could only change one thing, it would be not doing this. He seemed so blindsided when we finally got the news. 

Two weeks from my last ultrasounds we had our appointment with the doctor. At that point I was hoping maybe my thoughts were wrong, my cravings were still strong, I still had food aversions and my belly continued to swell. I had made the deal with my husband that if it was a positive, we could announce to the world the good news. 

To say our Doctor’s appointment was awkward would be an understatement. I kept wondering why she hadn’t started talking about the baby, or why there was no ultrasound equipment in the room. When we finally asked, she seemed surprised and sad to say; “Oh, they didn’t tell you at the hospital? ....It appears you had a miscarriage. Most likely a blighted ovum. I am so sorry, I can’t believe they didn’t let you know.” My husband was in utter disbelief, he tried to tell our Doctor that there must be some mistake, that we must be able to check again. I couldn’t cry at the appointment, I needed to be strong for my husband then. I felt like that was the least I could do for him when I had “failed” him and our child. 

Instead of drafting our pregnancy announcement on the car ride home, I drafted our first child’s obituary, all of our hopes and dreams we had built for them over the 10 weeks. I was still a mother, and I had lost my child, I couldn’t imagine the world never knowing or loving the idea of their existence, no matter how short. 

[peraltasames]

in all your gorgeous colours

49. “Stop being so attractive!” 76. "I want to go home."

or, amy's in the hospital after minor surgery and goes through a wide spectrum of emotions while under the influence of pain meds.

read on ao3

Jake’s been pacing the waiting room of Brooklyn Methodist, no doubt disrupting the dozens of people silently sitting with his nervous energy, for about three hours straight when the doctor finally comes out.

She says a bunch of things about the surgery that Jake doesn’t understand but Holt is nodding attentively to right beside him, and finally finally gets to the “she’s okay, I expect her to make a full recovery” part of it. Jake is so relieved he nearly collapses, and Holt’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Mr. Peralta.” The doctor checks the clipboard as if to double-check that he’s really listed as her immediate family, to make sure that the man who had been holding her hand and harassing that very surgeon with questions and concerns as they wheeled Amy into the operating room is really her lawfully-wedded husband. “You can see her now, if you’d like. Visiting hours for non-family start at eight tomorrow.”

Jake turns to face Holt - and Rosa, who’s a few steps behind them. The rest of the squad had stayed behind at the precinct to await further information after Jake reported that it was just diverticulitis and she would be okay after routine surgery. Of course, they all knew that he would still be a mess - he’s sure his face when he left with her in the ambulance gave that away - so Holt and Rosa came shortly after, Holt providing logical and somewhat emotional reassurance and Rosa bringing him an NYPD hoodie from his locker to change into because he looked, to quote her exactly, “all sweaty and gross.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Rosa says with a rare, brief smile. “Let us know how she’s doing.”

“Yes, Peralta, please call if you need anything,” Holt adds.

“Thanks, guys,” Jake says, unable to smile in return until he sees his wife’s face again, but still mustering a small nod of appreciation. “I will.”

He follows the doctor to the elevator and through a winding hallway. He can’t help but replay the day’s events in his mind as he makes his way to her. He won’t soon forget the feeling of pure terror in his chest when he saw Amy collapse in front of everyone in the briefing room, nor the look of pain on her face as he raced to her and gently pulled her head into his lap while Terry called for an ambulance.

“You can go on in, she should still be awake but might be a bit out of it from the anesthesia.”

He’s so disoriented that he doesn’t realize they’ve arrived until the doctor speaks to him directly and he stops in his tracks and turns to face the door. She lets him in and then continues down the hallway, allowing him to finally be alone with his wife.

Amy’s a little pale and her hair’s a little messed up when he sees her lying awake in her bed, but she no longer seems to be in pain and that thought alone floods his system with relief. A glowing smile spreads across her face as soon as she spots him.

“Hi, babe,” Jake says tenderly, racing over to her bedside and gently cupping her cheek. “How are you doing?”

“I’m great,” she grins, leaning into his touch. “The doctors said I had diver - diverticlio-“

“Diverticulitis, babe.” He chuckles at her adorably puzzled expression. “Infection in your digestive tract. That’s what made your stomach hurt so bad.”

She grimaces in memory of the pain from earlier that day. She had a stomach ache since she woke up but had chalked it up to early period cramps or stress and denied his many pleas for her to go home early or let him take her to the hospital. It wasn’t until she was giving the afternoon briefing that the pain overcame her and she fainted in front of half the precinct.

“Doesn’t hurt anymore, though,” she says contently.

“Mhm, the nice doctors fixed you up and gave you lots of fun drugs.”

“Drugs are fun. I don’t know why we don’t just let people do them all the time,” she laments, and Jake can’t help but laugh.

“Ah, spoken like a true NYPD sergeant.”

Amy shifts a little bit and beckons him closer with her finger, her expression suddenly very serious.

“Are you okay?” he asks quickly, his brow furrowed. “Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head, a smug grin spreading across her face.

“Nuh-uh. I want you, Peralta.”

Amy leans back against the pillows and does her best attempt at a sexy pose, and Jake has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Oh, he can’t wait to tell her about this tomorrow.

“I don’t know, babe, I think we might need to take a break from sexy times while you get better,” Jake says, making her frown in response. “We’re also in a very public place right now.”

Amy pouts and crosses her arms. Apparently Amy on morphine is mysteriously similar to four-drink Amy, and though he hopes he never has to see her in a situation like this again, he is definitely entertained.

Jake sits down next to her on the bed and gently brushes the hair away from her face, attempting to match her level of sincerity despite the strong urge to laugh at his loopy wife.

“Tell you what, as soon as you’re better we can have a whole day of sexy times. And we’ll do whatever you want. Sound good?”

She examines his face closely, her eyes narrowing, then lets out another huff and leans back into the bed again.

“What’s wrong, babe?”

“Stop being so attractive!” she sighs dramatically. “It’s not fair.”

“Oh, honey,” Jake chuckles, a slight blush creeping on his cheeks. “You know I can’t help that.”

Amy nods like he’s just made a very compelling point, sighing again. “Yeah, I know.”

His heart swells as she grabs his hand hovering over her hair and presses it against her cheek, laying back and nuzzling into his palm. She lets out a small sigh of contentment, her momentary lust for him fading as the drugs begin to wear her down.

“You scared me today, Ames,” he admits when he’s not sure if she’s still awake. He knows these feelings can and probably should wait until she’s more lucid, but the immense relief of seeing her safe and comfortable is overwhelming.

She opens one eye and furrows her eyebrows. “How come?”

“Cause you fainted in the briefing room and we had to call an ambulance and I didn’t know how serious it was,” he rambles. “And I knew I should’ve forced you to see a doctor earlier-”

“Not your fault, babe.”

Jake sighs. “I know, it just sucked seeing you in pain. A lot.”

She slides her hand up to his forearm and squeezes, and her grip is weak but comforting nonetheless. She smiles at him softly, and it says more than she’s capable of articulating right now.

“I’m okay,” she assures him, adjusting her position slightly in an effort to get comfortable. “I want to go home. I miss my bed.”

“You’ve gotta stay here overnight so the doctors can keep an eye on you.”

“But I’ve gotta go home so I can get ready for work tomorrow-”

She’s cut off by a yawn, and Jake stands to pull the covers from her waist up to her shoulders to ensure she’s warm enough.

“You’re definitely not going to work for at least a few days,” he says, immediately met with another frown. Of course, Amy’s FOMOW persists even as she lays in a hospital bed. “Don’t worry, you’ll be nice and comfy here, and hopefully we can go home sometime tomorrow.”

She lets her eyes close again as she’s enveloped by the warmth of the hospital blankets and the reassurance of his words.

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Yeah, babe, of course.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Ames,” Jake murmurs, bending down to kiss her forehead. “You’re my wife.”

She smiles again as he kisses her and nods in agreement. “I like being your wife.”

“I like it too.”

He pecks her lips quickly, unable to resist her adorableness right now, and then pulls away to sit back down in the plastic chair at her bedside. He drags the chair as close to her bed as possible.

“You should sleep now, honey, I’ll try to save you some jello when the nurse comes around.”

“You should sleep too,” she mumbles, voice already getting heavier. “It’s nighttime.”

“I will, I just wanna watch you for a little longer.”

Amy’s asleep before she can reply, but she drifts off with a loving grin still lingering on her face and her head turned towards him.

He does take a few more minutes to admire every detail of her face before he finally gives in to the lure of sleep, knowing that she will be here when he wakes up and that she’s safe and comfortable and alive.

Jake grabs the extra blanket the nurse brought for him from the back of his chair and carefully drapes it over Amy to make sure she doesn’t catch a chill during the night.

Once he’s sure she’s properly tucked in, he lays his head down next to her on the mattress, takes her hand loosely in his and lets his eyes fall shut.

request a fic from this list! xx

[until-we-fall-in-love]

Ingénue: Chapter Five

-Read Chapter Four-

-Masterlist-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader, in later chapters Natasha Romanov x Reader, and Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: You take a job as a showgirl in an illegal speakeasy owned by two of the most notorious mobsters of New York City in 1921. Caught up in the glamor and mystique, you go spiraling into a world a little more dangerous than you had originally thought. 1920s AU.

In this chapter, there’s an argument, and deeper feelings are revealed.

Warnings: Smut in this chapter, other chapters there will be violence, etc. 

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: sorry this one took awhile guys! i’ve been really busy with end of semester, so hopefully things will begin to slow down soon and i can write more frequently! i hope you enjoy this chapter and pls let me know what you think!! also happy thanksgiving to americans!

***

“I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” 

Alexander’s voice is smooth and airy and you lift your eyes to find his eyes which are glued to your face with an eerie curiosity. As if he has found a jewel or gem, something interesting and incredible; something that he can use and twist and break. 

Bucky grows tense beside you. 

You sit up, though, tilt your chin up slightly and try to find your pride as you stare down the notorious Alexander Pierce. You try to find a piece of that bravado you bring on stage every night; the one that caught Natasha’s attention, that enamored Bucky and Steve and half of New York. 

The courage that a mobster’s girlfriend might have. 

You give him your name through hooded, haughty eyes. Your lashes curl against your cheek which are soft and rosy in the candlelight. Your hair is curled loosely, tousled from the stage and you’re still smelling like roses and violets; flowers that were gifted to you after your performance. You offer your hand to Pierce as if you are a princess to be revered, royalty to be looked upon with adoration and respect. Pierce places a kiss to your knuckles, a twinkle in his eyes as he assesses you closer. 

“You’re as beguiling as everyone says you are.” Alexander comments, but the way he’s gazing you is more akin to grotesque fascination rather than genuine attention. 

You withdraw your hand daintily, “Thank you.”

“What do you want, Pierce?” Bucky snaps suddenly, the low timbre of his voice a warning, a trace of a growl around the edges.

“Always so impatient, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Pierce,” Steve says, more evenly, but sterner, “What do you want?” 

“Only to talk.” He says easily, settling back into his chair a little more as if he owns the place, as if he is quite comfortable.

“Then why’d you bring half your crew?” Bucky insists darkly, eyes flitting out to him. 

“Precaution, is all. Never sure with you two.” He comments lightly, as if this is an easily fixed issue. “Now,” And he claps his hands together, “Let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen?”

You blink between them.

“Does she know anything?” Rumlow asks suddenly instead. Pierce looks briefly irritated, but his features are schooled so quickly, you wonder if you imagined it. 

“No,” Bucky says quickly, “She’s totally in the dark.”

Pierce narrows his eyes, puckers his lips, “That so?”

“That’s so.” Steve says firmly. And then he turns to you, ducks his face closer to yours and says, “Why don’t you head to the ladies room for a moment, huh?” 

Your eyes widen in sudden surprise and fear-- he’s not serious, is he? You search his face wildly for a moment, and find that he is. Your breath comes in quicker, a little more rapid. He’d really leave you alone?

“Steve,” You almost beg. 

“Go on,” Steve urges, gentler, hand on your waist to ease you past him and out the booth. 

Pierce watches on a little too closely. When you stand on shaking legs, trying to straighten your back, bring your breath in deep, all eyes are on you. It’s almost as if you can feel the warmth of stage lights, the glare burning into you there and then. So you school your features again and glide forward surprisingly well.

Faintly, you hear Pierce muse, “So she really is in the dark, then.”

A woman of Pierce’s follows after you, seemingly casual but she makes your teeth grind. When you enter the bathroom, it is eerily quiet. The long, old mirrors are prettily distressed and your reflection shimmers before your eyes. 

You force yourself into being calmer, even as the door slams shut behind you two. 

You pretend to fix your makeup, your fingers are shaking though, a slight tremble that betrays your disguised face. 

The woman leans against the wall casually, watching you like a hawk. 

You flutter your lashes innocently, “I like your trousers.” You tell her, trying to gauge her, to express your naivete. 

She quirks a brow as you rattle on, “I wish I could pull off trousers like that.” 

She doesn’t give you a response, but looks rather amused with you, or perhaps annoyed that she’s been given the duty of watching someone so asinine. Your insignificance is both a little insulting and suddenly comforting. You gain a swell of bravery, turn back towards the mirror to play with your hair, humming a little tune to yourself. 

You make yourself wide eyed and silly and nothing like her. Ditzy and blind about everything; which isn’t a lie, in some ways. Steve and Bucky have let you in on so little in regards to business. They keep you safely tucked away in their garden, in their house on top of a hill, far from the reaches of intel and mobs and danger.

Another woman suddenly steps into the restroom, glances between you two. You keep humming to yourself, a little flitting tune that makes you seem distracted as you push and pull at your hair in the mirror. 

You don’t even glance at them as one says to the other, “Everyone’s in place, interceptions ready. We’ve gotta go.” 

And just like that, she disappears, leaving you without a thought. You’re not a threat, just a girl caught up with the wrong crowd. 

You give yourself a moment, drop the tune, inhale sharply. Whatever was intercepted is likely important, likely something Steve and Bucky need to know, but when you glance back out at the tables, Pierce still sits comfortably.

You return to the bathroom, ring your hands and try to breathe. You ease through your thoughts and try to unravel a plan. Is it too long to wait until Pierce is gone to tell them? It feels it, the time tick, tick, ticking by too quickly.

You worry your lip, think harder. Could you tell them secretly? Would it matter if you could? What would they do when they’re outmanned and outgunned?

You wish you could just tell Natasha or-- or Sam.

And like lightning your plan comes all at once, in a great strike of heat and spark. 

You force yourself not to rush out of the bathroom, glide back towards the kitchen where Donna had ushered many of the staff back. She welcomes you back there with open arms, hushing and cooing at you about what brutes they are, how she wants you to stay back here until they’re gone. You sniffle and agree, but only to ask your next question;

“Do you have a telephone, perhaps?”

She looks at you quizzically for a heartbeat, but then nods, “Yes, yes, in the back office.” And she points you down a hallway. 

“May I use it? I’d like to call my sister. She always knows how to calm me down.” 

Few can deny your wide eyes and in moments, you find yourself in the small, back office. The telephone is mounted on the wall and Donna shuts the door behind her, leaving you alone. 

You rush towards it, dial for operator, and rush to answer him so he can connect you to the mansion and beg for someone to answer. For a fearsome, horrible moment you fear the worst. But then it’s Sam’s smoothe, warm voice--

“Sam!” You gasp into the phone.

“Hey honey, what’s going on?”

“Alexander Pierce is here.” You respond hushed and quickly, “And I caught word of some of his henchmen-- they’re intercepting something. I don’t know what, and I can’t warn Steve or Bucky right now.” 

Sam goes deathly silent for a moment. 

“Sam?” You ask, voice breaking, “Sam, do you know what they’re talking about?”

“Yeah,” He says then and his voice has gone hard, too, “Yeah, I do.” And then, “Are you safe? Do you need me?”

“I-I’m safe. We’re really outnumbered but he’s just-- Pierce is just talking to them.” 

Sam’s breath is a shaky exhale, “I think he’s distracting them. You stay where you are, okay? Don’t get involved with this.” 

“O-okay.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do something about all this. Just hang on.” Sam promises fiercely, and then as soon as the conversation had started, it’s over. Your heart is throbbing, a fierce pulse in your chest but-- but you had to have done something, didn't you?

Pierce leaves in fifteen minutes. 

When you return to Steve and Bucky’s sides, they are tense and abrasive. But Steve looks you over with concern. He cradles your cheek with delicacy, his eyes a flurry over your features, your body. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, blue eyes blazing. 

You nod into his hands, leaning in to the comfort. “I called Sam, after I heard one of Pierce’s girls say that they were ready to intercept something—“

Bucky and Steve look at each other sharply, Steve’s hands falling from your face. Evidently, they know what it is that Pierce would be intercepting. You can see it in the flood of worry or anger on their features. Bucky curses before Steve looks back at you.

“Wait, you called Sam, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, “I figured it was important to know so I went to the back and said I had to call my sister and I called Sam.” 

Bucky’s brows quirk upward and he regards you with surprise, a little astonishment, “You lied like that? Just off the top of your head?”

You nod again, slowly, “I couldn’t tell you, so I assumed I should tell Sam.” You look between them, your eyes fluttering back and forth, “What were they talking about intercepting?”

Another slow look is shared between them, silent. 

“Honey,” Steve starts, placating and soft and you know he won’t tell you. Not with his voice like that, all gentle and coaxing, a way to get you to his side before he’s even said no. Usually, it serves to make you melt, but this time, it makes you harden. You jerk away from his touch, tilt your chin up and try not to pout at him. 

“I want to know.” You say suddenly, and the moment you do, you realize how much you want to know. You realize your own naïveté, the way they’d coddled and hid you from everything and you’re not angry—

You’re not angry yet.  

You’ve simply never thought to ask. You’ve never been engulfed in it, in this life of criminals and mobsters and crime. You’ve been kept tucked away in soft, linen beds and in rosy, summer damp gardens. Should you be angry at them? 

You blink hard, suck in a sharp breath. 

“I want to know everything, I don’t like being in the dark anymore.” You say and your voice is firm, new to even your own ears. 

Steve shakes his head, “It just isn’t safe--” He starts gently, reaching for your hand now.

You pull away again, adamant, your cheeks flushing with color, “After tonight, don’t you think it’s more dangerous if I don’t know?” You glance good Bucky to gauge his reaction, “What if I’m approached alone? Or without you? What am I supposed to do?” 

Steve and Bucky are quiet for a moment. 

It’s Bucky who says, “We didn’t want to involve you in all this.” 

And you say, with your nose turned up, perhaps a little too coldly, “Then you should have never started dating me.”

Steve’s eyes flare like a lightning strike; there’s an argument in them, you can see it brewing. There’s some hurt, too, swirling in the brightness of them. And you know he’s stubborn, you know this is going to lead to your first real argument. Perhaps you should be more scared, perhaps less challenging, but you meet Steve’s eyes head on and don’t falter.

“We’re not talking about this here.” Steve says sternly, as if to scold you. 

“Fine,” You respond, insolent and breezy, as you pick up your purse and ease out of the booth seamlessly. You glide towards the door with your chin up, expecting them to follow without another word.

It’s bratty, you know this. But it’s also to preserve your own images. You won’t argue with them in public, you won’t let rumors spread. Especially when, recently, every other column in the newspaper is about you. Everyone has an opinion on you, condemning you or loving you, judging you or adoring you. And Steve’s right, you shouldn’t speak about this here, but he’s made you testy with the burning look in his eyes and the hard-set jaw. 

So you turn your back on them and walk to the car with elegance and briskness, your heels clicking against the stone, a swish in your hips. 

Bucky and Steve share another look, longer this time. A silent conversation. Bucky is the first to move, jogging to catch up to you. 

The car ride home is quiet and you hang your head off the side in the back, cheek pressed to your arm, the breeze tangling in your hair. 

You wonder if ignorance really is bliss, and if it is, why do you want to leave it so badly? 

***

When you arrive back to the mansion, Sam and Natasha are there. In fact, Sam sweeps you up into his arms with a broad smile. The air leaves your lungs just as he praises, “There’s the heroine of the hour!” 

He spins you around and because of your morose mood you can’t find it in yourself to smile, but you do throw your arms around him and bury your face in his neck. You huff lightly, just as he sets you down on your feet. He’s still got you around the waist, strong and sweet, as Bucky asks over your head;

“So you stopped them, then?” 

“Hell yeah we did.” Sam says, chest swelling with pride. And then he pulls away to look at you, to grasp your chin, “All because of your wits, princess.” 

He finally takes in your sullen features, the way your lips are pinched into a pout. “What’s a matter, huh?” He asks then, dropping his voice for you so it settles warmly into your chest, along the column of your spine. “Pierce scare you?” 

You shake your head, “Not really.” 

“Rumlow?” Natasha asks then, eyeing you. 

You scoff lightly, step away from Sam and glide past them to the velvet settee, sink down upon with another little huff, moving to pull your shoes right off. 

“Someone’s gotten awfully brave after one encounter.” Steve says and there’s a cutting edge to his voice that makes you bristle, it’s sharp and if you’re not careful, you’ll cut yourself on it. You tense, glance at him over your shoulders as you begin to take out your earrings.

“I’ve met Rumlow before.” You counter, letting the pearls drop into your open palm like dew drops. 

“And you cowered behind Natasha the whole time.” Steve shoots back and you flush with anger and a tinge of embarrassment, the heat prickling uncomfortably at your neck. Much to your irritation, bitter tears spring to your eyes. Pressure builds inside of you. But you refuse to let it out this time, take a deep, rushed breath to try and keep it all carefully in the back of your throat. 

“Well, that’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? Cower behind everyone.” You snap back, and this time your voice is thick with emotion, “Maybe I should’ve cowered tonight, Steve, and then your--” 

You don’t even know what it is you managed to help save. You swallow back your frustration, all the pressure in you building. 

“Whatever-- would’ve been intercepted.” You bite out, scrub angrily at your cheek when a silken tear slips free. 

Bucky moves to you now, moves to sit beside you, “A shipment of booze. A big one that would’ve hurt business badly if it would’ve been taken from us.” He supplies, and he lays his arm across the back of the settee, it hovers behind you, a pressure at your back. He doesn't touch you, but leans close and drops near you. 

You try to ignore him, begin stripping off your gloves angrily to distract yourself from his probing eyes. You toss them to the floor. And then, unashamed, you move to your stockings, bending over and hitching your dress up to roll them down from your legs quickly. You feel suddenly constricted in all your clothes and jewels and pins. 

“You did good tonight, sweetheart.” Bucky murmurs, fingers skimming the bare skin of your shoulders.

You aren’t ready to give in to him yet, though. Even if a part of you longs to lay your head against his chest, feel the thud of his heart beneath your cheek. Let him wrap you up in his arms, curl you into his lap. But you’re being stubborn, too.

“If I did so well, why won’t you tell me anything?” You ask, a hiss of breath between your teeth as you toss your stockings to the floor, too. 

“I told you this would happen eventually.” Natasha muses aloud, leaning against the wall casually, her cat eyes following the three of you. Steve throws her a glare before moving. 

“It’s dangerous.” Steve says firmly, finally coming to your other side. “And you know it.” 

Your eyes flash, shimmering with tears and your temper. “What are you gonna do, Steve? Keep me here forever?” 

“You know I don’t keep you here.” 

“Might as well. I know it’s what you want, keeping me all helpless and tucked away here.” You stand suddenly, your emotions bubbling. The pressure in you mounts, presses at your eyes and throat and heart. 

“We’re trying to keep you safe.” Steve grinds back--

 And you shouldn’t say it, but you’re upset and maybe your adrenaline is still burning through you like a candle burns a wick and the words burst forth from your lips like a stray bird being loosened from a cage; 

“I’m just someone to keep your bed warm! Entertain you for awhile. I’m your little toy to protect, isn’t that right?” You seethe, a few tears suddenly dripping onto your cheeks, making them dewy and glittering in the low light. You know you’re getting irrational now, you know you’re throwing a tantrum, but you can’t stop it now. Not when it’s spilled over and out of you, crybaby girl, trying to make all the noise in the world, drown the whole place in your tears. Until the chandelier sinks and everything turns blue and bubbly and muted.  

So you turn away, glance over your shoulder, “I’ll be in your bed, then!” You tell Steve, raising your voice, suddenly reaching to grasp at your dress and peel it right off your body. You shuck it off and let it drop to the floor as you head down the hallway towards the bedroom, the beads clatter and skitter across the marble floor as some burst free from the fabric, “Since all I am is some dame on your arm!” 

You’re down to your silk slip now, the fabric hanging high on your thighs. “Some floozy that doesn’t know anything!” You yell because it hurts, because it feels like they don’t trust you, because--

Because you want more, still. You don’t want to be dumb and clueless anymore, you don’t want to look foolish or be left in the dark to wonder and grasp at God knows what. Even more, you want to help them. 

You want to be apart of this, apart of them, fully and without constraints. 

“Get back over here!” Steve says after you, but you slam the door to the bedroom before he can reach you.

It rattles on its hinges, the sound echoing inside of you, making your heart tremble, too.  You throw yourself down onto the bed, grab a pillow to bury your face in and yell and cry until you’re hoarse. 

Until you fall asleep, curled around the pillow, around yourself, all lonesome on a too-big bed. 

***

You don’t rise easily in the morning, linger in the sheets that smell of Bucky and Steve. You turn inward, half-embarrassed, and half too prideful to be the first to appear. You gnaw on your bottom lip, twist and turn and roll around restlessly until there is a knock on the door. The sun is pale and muted by the curtains. 

Quietly, you slip from bed, pad over to the door and open it. 

Bucky stands before you, dark hair tousled, and in his boxers. He’s bare chested and sleepy-eyed; he looks warm and like you want to drag him to bed. 

“Can I come in?” He asks, voice rough and soft.

You let the door swing open wider, turning from him to sit upon the bed once more. 

“Where’s Steve?” You ask, since it was the two of you that had really started the spark and caught flame. 

“On a run.” Bucky answers, and he tentatively sits beside you on the bed. You fiddle with the end of your slip, which you hadn’t changed out of before drifting off to sleep the previous night. Your fingers twist and turn in the fabric, focusing on anything but him.

The silence that becomes thick and tight between you two is broken by him again, “Steve thinks, the less you know, the less our enemies will be interested in you.” Bucky explains gently, watches you closely as you tense again. “We’re trying to keep you safe.” 

“Safety isn’t a cage.” 

“Do we cage you?” Bucky asks quietly, brows pulling together and he’s earnest and worried, “Do you not like it here?” 

You deflate slightly at his tone, at the care he gazes at you with, “No,” You say lightly, “No, I love it here.” You admit, your eyes falling away from his face and to your hands. “I just-- I want to be apart of this, too.” 

Bucky lets out a slow breath, “We don’t want to risk you, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, “If anything happened to you because of us--” 

“It isn’t your choice to make, though.” You tell him, soft, but your tone is firm, and you reach out to him finally, touch his face with seeking, cold little finger tips. “I should know what I’m getting myself into.” 

“I know, but--” 

“Bucky.” You say, “This is my choice.” 

Bucky loosens another breath, but this time you can tell that he knows what you say is true. He’s giving in, you can see it in his eyes, in the slightly fond curl of his lips as he says, “You’re gonna give Stevie a run for his money when it comes to stubbornness.” 

You give him a small, sheepish smile back, “Someone’s gotta.” You say and Bucky surprises you with a warm, rumbling laugh. 

“C’mere, doll.” He murmurs and then you’re being pulled into his warm lap, twining your arms around his neck and shoulders. He noses at your neck, at your collar bones, inhales deep and fits you close to him. As if he missed you dearly and sorely, as if it hadn’t been a night but a week. 

“You know you mean the world to Stevie and I, right?” He then says into your hair, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “You know we don’t think of you as—“ 

“I know.” You respond on a breath, nudging your nose against his cheek. “I only said those things because I was angry.” You admit, embarrassed and shy, burying yourself in Bucky’s arms. He rubs at your back, your neck, let’s you stay hidden in the warmth of his bare skin. 

Bucky leans away slightly, only to snag your lips in a slow, light kiss. It’s soft, slightly teasing, and full of love and forgiveness and an apology. And you return it, force him to deepen it and tighten your arms around him. You can feel a smile on his lips at your sudden eagerness, the way his hand slides along your shoulders, pulling you that much closer.

You kiss languid and sweet, trying to get rid of the sting from the previous night. Bucky tangles a hand in your hair, rolls your hips against his. 

There’s a creek at the door, a shuffle of feet. You pull away from Bucky’s lips, and he pushes his nose and lips to your neck, in the curtain of your hair as you turn to look over your shoulder. 

Steve stands in the doorway, in shorts and a t-shirt. His skin is flushed and damp with sweat, his hair disheveled, too. Your eyes clash with his for a heartbeat, before you turn back into Bucky’s shoulder and bury your face there. You huff into his shoulder, still a little sore after last night, 

You hear more than you see Steve step towards you two, a little tentative, but he eventually stands behind you. Bucky faces him and you think there’s a shared, silent conversation before Steve’s hand gently nestles into your hair.

He cards through it lightly, delicately, working his way down from the crown of your head to the ends. You try not to sink into the touch, to lean back and bask in it. 

After a moment, he says, “I’m sorry about last night.” 

“S’okay.” You mumble into Bucky’s neck, still clinging to him. You feel childish, feel needy and vulnerable somehow. You should apologize, too. Your pride has a hard time going down, but you swallow it and add, “I’m sorry, too.” 

“It’s okay.” Steve says softly, “You were right, in ways. I only wanted to keep you safe and happy and free here.” Steve admits, “I just—“ 

And he pauses, swallows his fear, settles his hand into the nape of your neck. You think you can hear his heart beating, pounding like a little drum. His mouth opens, closes, opens again;

“I love you. And I got scared last night.” 

You pick your head up finally from Bucky’s shoulder, heart soaring or dropping or stuttering. You fill with the light of dawn, the peach burst of sweetness, the warmth of honeyed summer, thick and heady with it. 

You fill with nervous, too, twisting butterflies that burst through you. As if they might break free from your ribs and flit about the room. 

Your lashes flutter as you look back up at Steve, arch your back and gaze at him over your shoulder. The morning is hazy and gauzy white through the curtains. You let him cradle your skull with a broad hand, let him sink his hand deep into your hair at the nape of your neck, where you’re vulnerable and precious.

“Steve,” You breathe, and his fingers flex in your hair, like they might tighten, but he stays gentle. You turn slightly, reach out to him, snag his t-shirt to yank him down to you. 

His lips meet yours in a messy sort of desperate kiss, the clink of teeth, the harsh breath that pulls from his lungs and seems to fill yours. You try to steady yourself by grasping Bucky’s shoulder, your other hand balled into a fist of Steve’s shirt. 

His hand tightens in your hair, tilts your head up to open your lips further to him. Bucky’s warm mouth touches your neck, pulls a sweet whine right from the pit of you.

When you pull away, breathless, chest rising and falling against Bucky’s, you stay close to Steve. Keep your eyes shut a moment; as if you could hold this moment in the dearest, softest part of you. As if you could cradle it forever in the fire bloom of your heart. Your eyes open to Steve’s and there are tears there, shining and new and tender.

So you tell him, with all your adoration and love and ache for him wrapped around the petal-soft words;

“I love you, too.” 

His lips come down on yours again, harsher this time, with a violent sort of need. A desperate love, the kind that is raw and open and vulnerable, trembling and weak and horrified and elated. He possesses you and you let him, let him pull your silk slip from your body. Let Bucky rid you of panties until all you are is naked and soft between them. A flower unfurled, bare and lovely and flushed.

When Steve lets you breathe again, you let your lips curl upwards into a mischievous little smile, and your eyes gleaming with new love, “Does that mean you’ll tell me everything, then?” You ask and it’s cheeky, it’s warm, it makes Bucky laugh into your chest. “You’ll let me in?” 

Steve can’t help but smile at you, against your cheek, dragging to the nape of your neck. “Yeah,” He says, “Yeah, but we’ll talk about it later.” He husks and his hand curls around your shoulder, pushes you deep into Bucky, until he has to lay back and send you down with him, with you on his chest. 

Bucky hitches your leg up around his waist, fingers curling into your thigh. You lean into him, nuzzle into his neck with flaming cheeks. 

He leaves you open to Steve, kisses you hard when Steve slides fingers against where you’ve gotten warm and aching. Bucky drinks down all your cries eagerly, his hands rough on the dips and curves of you, fingers digging into skin. 

Steve undresses, slides himself against your core, the crown of him catching, gliding through the wetness. And he takes you like that, pushes inside and there’s an ache still, so you bite down on Bucky’s shoulder and whimper. He hushes you, rubbing his cheek to yours. Steve doesn’t give you time to adjust, begins moving while there is still a bite of pain, stretching you until it hurts. 

You fuss slightly, because it’s overwhelming and you want to. You begin squirming atop of Bucky to get away from Steve. You could handle it, you know you could, but you still want to be a brat. Not let him in so easily. There’s some lingering feelings all tangled up in you, a bittersweetness after the previous night and this morning. There’s still a long talk to be had and—

You whine his name and then gasp, “You’re being a brute.” 

You ease up to rest your hands on Bucky’s chest and look over your shoulder and pout at Steve, “I’ll make you watch first if you’re gonna be mean, Stevie.” You tell him with a flutter of lashes, a haughty little attitude that drives Steve right up the wall.

Maybe you do it purposefully. Maybe you like seeing him worked up.

“Oh, big girl thinks she’s calling the shots now, huh?” He says lowly, his blue eyes dark and glittering. 

Steve grabs your hips and pushes back into you to make you cry out, then. He gets all close, nose at the nape of your neck and guides your hips to move over him, to take him in and out in quick, rough thrusts. “You’ve gotten quite the attitude lately, honey.” He murmurs, grunting slightly then, overcome with you, “God, and you’re still so damn tight.” 

You squabble to hold onto Bucky, your brows pulled together and you kinda want to fight em, kinda want to squirm more and see if he’d force you down into Bucky’s arms  and just—

You moan, a soft, hiccuped little sound because you’re trying to contain it. 

“What are you gonna do, Stevie?” You whimper, trying to keep it together, “Punish me?” 

The sudden sharp pull of your hair makes you inhale fast and hot, makes you dig nails into Bucky’s chest, who hisses slightly. His hips, still clad in boxers, desperately rise against nothing, almost against your own hips, but Steve had pulled you to your knees above Bucky to be so demanding of you. 

“Maybe I should,” Steve says through his teeth, “Whad’ya think, Buck? Think she’d look good over my knees?” 

Bucky almost groans at the thought, at the way Steve is pushing into you. He cradles your cheek with a broad palm, brushes his thumb over your lips, “If she keeps running this pretty little mouth—“ And he pushes it past the seam of your lips, now actually groaning when you eagerly take it into the warmth of your mouth.

He loses his words as your moan around his thumb, as Steve takes you the way he wants. In rough, desperate strokes. But it’s all love, the messy kind, the deeper, darker and more possessive kind. Still fills you with heat and adoration, amorous twists of your heart. Bucky marks up the front of your neck, your chest, and Steve settles marks into the back of your shoulders. He makes you his, makes you burst apart in a dizzying climax, pulls out and spills onto your back where Bucky immediately makes more of a mess with wandering hands.

“Bucky’s aching something fierce, baby.” Steve murmurs then and you can feel more than see Steve taking hold of Bucky through his boxers, who hisses at the touch, desperately pushing into Steve’s hand. 

Your head collapses into the crook of Bucky’s neck. You’re already sore, hurting and throbbing from Steve, sticky and warm and exhausted from your fist peak. You nuzzle there, can feel when Bucky arches his hips up so Steve can strip him bare, return to fully grip Bucky and have him brokenly moan underneath you. 

You end up on your side, leg hitched high over Steve’s waist where he holds you open now, your head on his chest, in his neck, as Bucky spoons you. He takes you from the side in those languid, surprisingly gentle thrusts.

He works you up all over again, fills you until there’s the building ache and pressure in you. Steve strokes your thigh, tells you that you’re good and sweet and his. 

Theirs.

He plays with the golden necklace between your breasts as Bucky ruts into you in slow glides. He tries to take away the ache, let’s you and Steve kiss and make up and murmur to each other. 

Bucky brings you to another peak, this one pulls you under its tide, down deep into the darkened depths of it.

 It makes you cry, glittering tears that Steve kisses away. It makes you grip them tight and desperate and fall deeper into them, your heart tumbling and twisting and dropping. You feel air-borne, plummeting.

And you fall into it like an angel falls from grace, burning and bright, like a comet, a broken star, and fall deeper in love with them.

***

The Daily Bugle wants an interview with you; they have for weeks now and you finally have decided to indulge them. You can’t help the flutter of nerves as Wanda helps you get ready. She stands between your legs, finishing your makeup at the tall, ornate vanity in the bedroom.

“You’re awfully quiet.” She muses, dabbing your lips with red before she swipes at your bottom lip with her thumb.

Your eyes flicker up to her, lips parting. You shouldn’t, but a flash of heat pulses through you. Perhaps because Bucky and Steve are always parting your lips, and your cheeks flush at the thought. 

Wanda smiles, mischievous, as if she knows maybe where your thoughts have wandered to, “Cat got your tongue?” She hums and you blink.

“N-no.” You say, “Just nervous for the interview.” 

She brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear and you lean into the touch, “You’ll do wonderful. Just be yourself, everyone loves you.” She sighs, and you turn your lips to her wrist, playfully kiss her pulse there with smiling eyes. 

Thankful, glittering, and hopeful.

***

The reporter comes to interview you at the mansion, where you’ll host him in the parlor. You’re dressed in dazzling, rosy red. It’s soft and blushing, vibrant for summer but not so much as to hurt the eyes. It’s darling and daring, the gold necklace hanging proudly around your neck, paired with gleaming pearls. 

You greet him with warmth, allow him to take your photo on the settee with his large, heavy camera. You ask how you should pose, smile shyly at him in a way that already has his eyes softening on you. 

He suggests, however you like! Whatever is most you! With a smile and twinkling eyes. 

So you lean against the arm of it, cross your arms and let your head rest there, turning dreamy and soft eyes upward. Angelic and hazy, you gentle your features so you’re wistful and hopeful. 

A burst of light, a curl of smoke, and the picture is taken. 

You usher him to sit as well once his camera is away, offer him coffee you’d made and he accepts some. 

You sit across from him then and he begins, with his notebook on his lap, pencil in hand;

“You’ve grown awfully popular in the past few weeks, did you expect it?”

You shake your head with a slight laugh, “No, not at all! I was only looking for work as a singer! I was thankful I was even hired.” 

“But now you’re the It-Girl of New York. Everyone’s looking to you for fashion and trends. The talk of the town. Is it daunting?”

You draw in a slow breath, become aware that you haven’t even thought of it like that, that you’d been so preoccupied with the people in your life, with singing and performing and living, that you hadn’t paused to consider what the rest of the state thinks of you. 

“I suppose, if I think about it.” You begin lightly, “But I’m not living for them, just for myself, so I haven’t thought long on it.”

“Do you pay much attention to your critiques?” 

You blink, “I try not to. I’m very sensitive.” You say with a slight laugh and he can’t help but smile, too.

“Have you always been singing?” He then asks, steers the conversation into something more light hearted.

“Yes,” You respond with a smile, “I’ve always had music in me. And I think, recently, the worlds just made me want to sing.” 

He smiles at your earnestness, “Would you ever act?” 

“Sure.” You say with a responding smile.

“In those new films?” 

You shake your head, “No, in theater! I like New York, I like how alive the stage is.”

“An ingénue, then!” He suggests and you laugh, which sounds like twinkling bells.

He turns to fun questions, then, entertained and enthralled by you, “Your favorite color?”

“Gold, for now.”

“Favorite flower?” 

“Peonies! We’re having a bush of them placed in the back garden soon!” 

“Favorite food?”

“Desserts! I have a horrible sweet tooth.” 

“Do you have any pets? Would you like one?”

“I’d love a little, white kitten.” 

And the interview presses onward, until you’re feeling a little drained from speaking with someone, but thankful it went so well. You walk him out to the driveway when you’re finished and he kisses your hand goodbye, watch as his car ambles away and out of the tall, iron gates of the estate. 

A week later, the paper is printed, your photo on the cover and the words, written in bold above it;

THE PRINCESS OF NEW YORK DAZZLES 

***   

Steve and Bucky spend night upon night finally telling you and showing you the way the mob works, the way business goes. Natasha and Sam step in, too, guide you through it all carefully. 

They tell you about all they give back to the community; they take care of it, of everyone they can. They’re not out to hurt anyone who isn’t out to hurt them. Their job isn’t to frighten. What they’re doing is illegal, but it’s not without cause. It’s not only for money. You meet other mobsters loyal to them and they all regard you with respect.

A plan is devised; you will act naive still, you will act foolish to keep yourself safe, but you’ll know everything.

There’s an argument about self defense; if you should be taught it or not. 

Steve wishes you didn’t have to know it, but Natasha thinks it necessary. You want to know it. So she trains you when she can, uses your ballet training to teach you to be swift and strong and graceful.

It becomes increasingly important as you become bigger in New York, other mob bosses send you flowers as warnings to Steve and Bucky. You act foolish, gushing about how pretty they are, naive and innocent.

And finally, the biggest bouquet of roses you’ve ever seen is left backstage for you one night. They’re deeply red and white and fragrant, soft petals and their thorny undersides proudly on display. They take up an absurd, obnoxious amount of room. Nothing humble or simple about them, ridiculously elegant and large. A fragrant show of wealth. It’s almost silly. 

But the card reads, in sprawling, messy letters;

To the Princess of New York. I’d love to get a drink with you sometime. On me. 

Humbly,

Tony Stark

[scripttorture]

what do you know about the use of torture in the military dictatorships in 20th century Latin America? i'm brazilian, so i learned a bit about them in history classes, and i've always known they (or at least the brazilian one) used a lot ov torture

I got in contact with the asker about this to get a better idea of what they were interested in and hopefully this will answer most of those questions.

 What I know is mostly what Rejali collected in his book about this period.

 Rejali’s particular focus was on what he calls ‘clean torture’, that is torture that doesn’t leave any obvious physical marks on the victims. He’d noticed that the practice of torture seemed to have undergone a rapid, global change: scarring tortures were becoming rarer and clean tortures more common.

 Going forward it’s important to be aware that clean tortures can leave temporary marks. But they’re generally things that could come from something other then torture.

 For instance the swelling that stress positions cause is also caused by some diseases. This makes it harder for a survivor to prove they were tortured, even if they have evidence of this swelling. Because they need to prove they weren’t ill.

 A big part of what Rejali was looking at was the use of electrical torture in particular and how it spread across the globe. He maps the Brazilian use of electrical torture from the 1970s onwards but his data doesn’t seem to show a clear pattern of different devices.

 What he does show in that during the 1970s most Brazilian tortures used magnetos. In the context of torture these are usually small portable, hand cranked electrical generators. They had legitimate uses in police and military groups globally; they were often used to operate field telephones and other electrical equipment.

 Here’s a description of their use from the Franco-Algerian war:

‘Suddenly, I leapt in my bonds and shouted with all my might. Cha- had just sent a first electric charge through my body. A flash of lightning exploded next to my ear and I felt my heart racing in my breast. I struggled, screaming and stiffened myself until the straps cut into my flesh. All the while the shocks controlled by Cha-, magneto in hand, followed each other without cease.[…..] Suddenly I felt as if a savage beast had torn the flesh from my body. Still smiling above me Ja- had attached the pincer to my penis. The shocks going through me were so strong that the straps holding me to the board came loose. They stopped to tie them again and we continued.

After a while the lieutenant took the place of Ja-. He had removed the wire from one of the pincers and fastened it down along the entire width of my chest. The whole of my body was shaking with nervous shocks getting ever stronger in intensity, and the session went on interminably. They had thrown cold water over me in order to increase the intensity of the current and between every two spasms I trembled with cold.’ (H Alleg in The Question)

 By the early 2000s Brazil had transitioned to mostly using stun guns.

 Both devices can be clean but my understanding is that stun guns are less likely to leave marks and are more easily ‘explained’ as ‘essential equipment’ in a more modern context.

 According to Rejali Brazilian police torture started to the transition from scarring to clean some time in the 40s.

 In the 1930s victims were most commonly beaten, whipped and choked. There were also records of; teeth and nails being pulled out, burning with torches, cigars and electrical devices, and the use of needles.

 In the 40s they started to use elements of the American National Style at the time, possibly as a result of greater contact with American and British agents in 1943 during a large investigation into a German spy ring.

 Sleep deprivation and the ‘standing cuffs’ stress position were used when they hadn’t been before. More beatings were clean. But they also kept some scarring techniques such as burning with cigarettes.

 The later records show similar mixes of clean and scarring techniques. What stands out as unusual to me is the rapid changes in regular used techniques decade by decade.

 This might be due to changes in government, purges of torturers or just differences across a very large country. The data I have doesn’t break down the techniques by region. It’s possible that the shifts in ‘common’ techniques are actually shifts in regional rather then national styles.

 In the 60s there were reports of the following clean tortures:

Electrical torture

Near drowning (it’s unclear if this is waterboarding or holding victim’s heads under water)

Exhaustion exercises

Clean beatings

Stress positions using furniture

Temperature torture using meat lockers

 And the following scarring tortures:

Suspension

‘Pepper’, in this case by pouring alcohol in the anus

Pulling flesh with pincers

 In the 70s-80s clean electrical torture was still prominent. Other clean tortures included clean beatings (some with historical objects used during slavery), sleep deprivation, pumping and standing stress positions. Suspension (scarring) was still used and more rarely insects, snakes and drugs were used.

 In early 2000 suspension was still in use but otherwise torture was entirely clean. Electrical torture, falaka (beating the soles of the feet), exhaustion exercises, clean beatings and sweat boxes.

 Brazil does have the most well recorded example of direct torture ‘training’. In the 1960s American operatives supplied Brazil with magnetos and actively encouraged their use in torture. Rejali examines a discussion of this in N Chomsky and E Herman’s The Washington Connection and Third World Fascism. He rejects their conclusions that the US was behind the overall spread of electrical torture but accepts that in the case of Brazil particularly the US played a role in its spread and promotion. I think Rejali’s evidence is persuasive.

 Brazil in the 60s is also one of the few examples we have of torture actually being taught in a classroom style (see Langguth Hidden Terrors 1978). The demonstration included suspension, clean beating, falaka, magnetos, pumping and forced standing on sharp cans.

 Pumping is forcing a victim to swallow a huge quantity of liquid. It causes the internal organs to swell and it’s incredibly painful. It also causes diarrhoea and vomiting. It’s sometimes accompanied by beating the stomach which causes- well bluntly it causes liquid to spew out of every possible orifice. It’s incredibly messy but it also leaves no lasting marks.

 The type of suspension favoured in Brazil is something I refer to as ‘the parrots perch’. It was also used in France historically. Essentially the victim’s hands and feet are cuffed. The legs are bent in front of the body and the arms go over the knees. A stick is then put through the gap, so that it’s under the knees and over the elbows. The victim is then hoisted up and often beaten or subjected to electric shocks.

 This isn’t a recent torture but I’m unsure how old exactly it is. It was certainly used through European colonies in the Americas during the transatlantic slave trade; mostly against enslaved people.

 The kind of active training program described above seems to be very rare. In fact there isn’t any evidence that this was a regular occurrence in Brazil at the time. Rather the evidence suggests that most torture is ‘learnt’ on the job, ie by observation of other torturers.

 Brazil also provides another rare case: clearly documented evidence of the extent to which torture fractures organisations.

 This is documented elsewhere. Examination of Japanese police departments shows deskilling and there are a lot of well documented cases of torture leading to rogue groups that refuse to obey orders. But the Brazilian case is both unusually well attested and unusually extreme.

 In the 60s Brazilian intelligence units had stopped communicating and working together to the point where they were conducting active raids on each other’s prisons. Rejali quotes records of blackmail, extortion, active violence within the military, murder of fellow soldiers and finally imprisoning and torturing fellow officers.

 Here’s a quote Rejali repeats from the time ‘The torturers were going to have to be isolated, marginalised and eliminated, so as to save the Army.’

 For a more in-depth discussion of the incident Rejali references Huggins Political Policing (180, 186).

 This might give the impression that Brazil during the 60s is somehow unique in torture use. I don’t think this is the case. I think that what we have in Brazil is uniquely good quality record keeping.

 It makes it a valuable case study and comparison.

 What does seem ‘different’ about Brazil is the extent to which torture techniques have kept changing. There isn’t a sense of a settled modern ‘style’ that some countries have.

 That could be because of changes in leadership. It could be because it’s common for torturers to be periodically purged (often violently), however these purges occurred in the Soviet Union with no accompanying stylistic changes.

 It could also be because Brazil is huge. It’s possible that rather then a ‘National Style’ Brazil has several distinct ‘regional styles’, some of which are more prominent at different times or better recorded at different times.

 I hope that’s given you enough to work with, if you can I would recommend getting hold of Rejali’s Torture and Democracy. I feel like it puts Brazil in a more global context and comparison with neighbouring countries may be helpful for you. :)

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