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sequencefairy · 3 years

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shyan + 'shane uses non-sexual kink techniques to calm ryan down after an spn shoot' setup?

It’s the hand around the back of his neck that does it.

Suddenly, in the midst of the buzzing static of his brain, Ryan finds silence in the grip of Shane’s fingers on the back of his neck. It’s not a tight grip, and it’s quick, just a fleeting moment of pressure, enough to reel in all the loose and fraying threads of Ryan’s ability to reason and logic himself through the rest of this shoot. It’s not on camera, because Shane would never, just that quick reach up, the close of his fingers around the back of Ryan’s neck, and then, blessed silence in that brief warm squeeze.

The rest of the shoot goes as well as can be expected, and Shane doesn’t touch Ryan again. He won’t, Ryan knows, he never does. It’s only these little moments of grounding, to remind Ryan of the lines and borders of his body, to bring him back inside of them, contain the ever-expanding spiral of anxiety back inside of his flesh where Ryan can beat it back with measured breaths and catching the steady gaze of his partner out of the corner of his eye.

At the hotel, Ryan’s restless again. He usually is after a shoot, but this is different. It’s humming under his skin, buzzing in his ears, like the panic is still trying to win. It fades out under the pounding of the shower on his shoulders, but it’s back with a high-pitched whine when he turns off the light in the bathroom and steps back out into their room.

Shane’s sprawled out on the bed closest to the window, all eight hundred miles of his limbs spread across the dizzy pattern of the comforter. He’s not asleep, Ryan knows, because he’s tapping a rhythm against his sternum with one finger. It’s steady, slow and even, and Ryan’s eyes catch on the movement of Shane’s hand, the tap of his nail against the button on his henley.

Shane’s eyes open when Ryan sinks down to sitting on the bed he’d claimed as his own when they’d dropped their shit off here earlier in the day.

“Still buzzing, hey?” Shane asks, voice low. He always knows, seems to be able to read it in Ryan’s body language, no matter how much he tries to hide it. Ryan nods, because even if he tried to lie, Shane would know and Ryan tries very hard not to lie to Shane.

Shane sits up on the bed and turns so he’s facing Ryan, his long legs crossed. He looks at Ryan. For the first time in their long partnership of not saying anything about the elephants they keep bringing into every room they’re in, it looks like Shane might say something after all. Ryan holds his gaze.

Shane looks away first. Something that’s fine in the dark and under the cobwebs seems not to be fine in the low light of a hotel room across town. Ryan looks down at his own knees. His palms are sweaty where he skims them against his thighs, the fabric of his sweats catching. He shivers, shrugging his shoulders up and then rolling them back and down.

He closes his eyes, sucking in a breath. He’ll need to settle, find his way back into his own skin, pull in the scattered shadows of his fears and seal them back inside the boundary of his own physical form. If he doesn’t, he won’t sleep.

There’s a touch to his knee, then a grip, just above the joint, Shane’s fingers pressed into the pressure point, enough that it draws Ryan out of his breathing count. Shane’s sitting on the edge of the other bed now, feet flat on the floor. He’s leaning forward, and when Ryan doesn’t shake off his grip, he grabs hold of Ryan’s other knee.

“This helps.” It’s not a question but Ryan nods anyway. Shane squeezes a little tighter, and Ryan feels something in the top of his spine come loose. Ryan breathes out, and Shane shifts forward, close enough that their knees brush. When he looks up this time, Shane’s watching him, eyes dark.

“Get on the floor,” Shane says, letting go of Ryan’s knees. He leans back to give Ryan some space.

Ryan hesitates. If he does this, what does it mean for them? If he lets Shane put him back together like this, what does that change about who they will be in the morning? If Shane sees him like this, sees him coming apart at the seams still, even hours after, what does it change about how Shane sees him?

What if it changes nothing at all?

Ryan slides forward and then off the bed entirely, going to his knees in front of Shane. He looks up. Shane’s watching him, eyes searching Ryan’s face, hands pressed against his own thighs. There’s a wild feeling behind Ryan’s ribs, something untethering him from himself as he kneels here, for Shane. It’s just kneeling, Ryan tries to tell himself, but he knows it’s not. He knows it’s more than that, that is has been more than that since Shane gripped him by the back of the neck so many hours ago.

The thick carpet and soft bedding deadens everything in the room, snuffing any extraneous sound before it can begin to ring.

The energy under Ryan’s skin seethes.

Shane’s watching him. Ryan shivers in a breath, the tension in his spine still ratcheted tight.

“Hands behind your back,” Shane suggests but Ryan knows it’s not. Something about Shane’s tone makes Ryan want to scramble to do whatever Shane is asking of him. “Lace your fingers together.”

Ryan does what he’s told. Shane reaches out and pushes his fingers into Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan locks up his core to resist the overbalancing. Shane nods to himself.

“Stay like that,” he says, and sits back on the bed, leaning back on his hands. “Feels okay?”

Ryan nods. Something warm and longing curls in his belly, but Ryan ignores it. Eventually this position will be uncomfortable, what with the way his shoulders are pulled back and the pressure against his knees, but for now, Ryan feels like he could stay here for hours. Feels like he might want to stay here for hours, with Shane giving the instruction. He packs that thought away to examine not here on his knees in front of Shane.

“Tell me about the property again,” Shane says, after a moment.

“What?”

“You heard me. I want a history lesson.”

“A what?”

Shane sighs. He scuffs a hand through his hair. “You’re still keyed up from earlier, right? So, stay there on the floor, and tell me a story.”

“I don’t see how this is going to help.” It comes out as more of a question than anything else.

“Why don’t you just trust me and see,” Shane says. He turns on the bed and settles against the pillows, arms crossed under his head. He looks like he’s ready to sleep. He gives Ryan a few seconds of silence to fill and when Ryan doesn’t he pushes himself up a little on his elbows. “Well? Go on.”

So, Ryan does.

It takes a couple of tries to get into the rhythm of telling the story, but once he’s found it, the words just keep coming, until his voice starts to get hoarse and the ache in his knees and his shoulders becomes too pressing to ignore.

What he stops feeling is the thrumming anxiety.

When he pauses for a deep breath, Shane sits back up.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Knees hurt,” Ryan says. He shrugs his shoulders as best as he can. “Shoulders, too.”

“Okay,” Shane replies, and reaches out, big hands landing on Ryan’s shoulders. “How’s the rest?”

Ryan takes a moment to check. Aside from the physical ache of kneeling on the floor for however long it’s been, he’s fine. He yawns, ducking his head to hide it since his hands are still laced together behind his back.

Shane’s face softens. The slight smile that curves his mouth is full of a fondness Ryan knows Shane will never attach words to. “Think you can sleep now?”

“Yeah,” Ryan croaks.

“Good,” Shane answers. “Unlace your fingers for me, okay? Then slowly roll your shoulders out, you’ll get stiff otherwise.”

Ryan rolls his shoulders out, reaching up first one hand and then the other to rub at the muscles that have stiffened while he’s been kneeling.

“Standing’s gonna suck,” Shane says, when Ryan’s finished moving his shoulders. “Let me help.”

Shane offers his hand and Ryan takes it, letting Shane steady him as he pushes himself up off his knees, one leg at a time. His knees both pop when he straightens, and it makes Ryan shiver. He feels laid out like he does sometimes after a hard run, the good kind of exhausted. He looks up at Shane. Shane’s looking down at him.

For a moment, they stand there, until Shane reaches out with one hand to brush his fingers along Ryan’s jaw. The tenderness of the gesture makes Ryan’s toes curl into the carpet. The moment is broken when Shane steps back out of Ryan’s space.

“I’m beat,” Shane declares, rocking back onto his heels with a dramatic yawn that he covers with one hand.

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. He looks over at the bed he’d claimed and then back at the rumpled one Shane’s been lying on.

“Just get in,” Shane says, slipping around to the other side of the bed. “Grab the light when you do.”

By the time Ryan remembers how to move, Shane’s already under the covers. He’s got his glasses in his hand and he waggles them at Ryan when Ryan reaches to pull down the coverlet and get in.

They get situated, Shane on his back, one hand thrown up behind his head, and Ryan curled up tight on his side.

“Ryan,” Shane says, into the dark. “Chill. Just sleep, dude. You need it.”

“Shane?”

“Yeah, bud,” Shane says, and Ryan can hear him moving behind him.

“Just--”

“C’mere,” Shane says, from much closer than he was previously. Shane’s hand curls around Ryan’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “Stop getting in your head so much about this,” Shane suggests, “you’ll undo all that work from earlier.”

Ryan takes a deep breath and exhales slowly through his nose, forcing himself to relax. As he does, he realises that Shane’s snugged up almost directly behind him, warmth of his body bleeding into Ryan’s. Shane’s hand smooths down Ryan’s arm and then lands in the dip of his waist, the weight of it soothing in a way Ryan hadn’t expected.

Ryan closes his eyes.

He falls asleep thinking about whether it would be weird to reach back with one foot and find Shane’s calf with his toes.

#crabsandlobsters #jess answers #shyan #skeptic believer #i dunno maybe this is not quite what you wanted but it is what happened #i would like to come back to this again later

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dracusfyre · 3 years

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Wing and a Prayer

Had a pretty bad bout of writer’s block towards some of my WIPS so I took a break and wrote a quick wingfic, I’ve never written wingfic before and was intrigued to give it a shot. Shout out to @massivespacewren for the prompt :)

also on AO3

~~~

"Oh, shit-"

It was just a brief curse before Tony's comms cut out, and in the scheme of things, "oh shit" was rather mild given the situation. But there was a note in Tony's voice that made Bucky look up from his rifle scope to find him, trying to see the flash of his repulsers and the dark brown of his wings amidst the cloud of drones that were swarming the city.

"Oh, fuck," Bucky breathed when he found him. He dropped his rifle and started running, keeping his eyes on where Tony was dropping rapidly, his desperately flapping wings and the intermittent bursts from apparently busted repulsors doing little to slow his fall.

Steve was on the other side of the fight, covering some escaping civilians as the dive-bombing drones tried to knock them from the sky, and Natasha and Clint were too far away. "Tony, I'm coming!" He shouted, ripping at the velcro on his body armor and shrugging it off as he ran. This was Tony's nightmare, his repulsors failing him while he was in the sky now that his flight muscles were compromised by the arc reactor. He left his ammunition and hand grenades with his tac belt on the edge of the roof as he jumped, his wings stretching to their limit as he strove for height. As he flapped he realized he was still carrying too much weight to catch Tony, so he glided for a second, catching thermals coming off of the sun-lit city streets to lift him up as he reached down and unzipped his combat boots, kicking them off to land somewhere below. Another roof was coming up, so he sprinted along the roof, ignoring the broken glass and rocks that dug into his feet, then jumped off the edge again with more powerful beats of his wings. He was gaining on Tony, who had somehow figured out how to use the failing repulsors to at least steer him towards a place to land that might be more forgiving than the city streets, wings spread for a few moments at a time before the muscles gave out and they crumpled.

“Come on, come on,” Bucky said breathlessly, chest and lungs burning as he struggled to catch up. Whoever was controlling the drones had seen that Tony was vulnerable, and he was having to waste precious repulsor power shooting them down as they attacked him. A small swarm spotted Bucky trying to rescue him and moved to intercept, but as they closed in on him Bucky twisted into a tornado flip, flicking out his wings so the the razor sharp vibranium primaries on his wings sliced through the drones, leaving most of them damaged or disabled. It cost him some height, though, and he cursed as he tried to make up for it, ignoring the last remaining drone as it dived at him like a mobbing bird, until it got too close and he grabbed it, metal arm crushing the central processer and tossing it to the side.

“Tony, I need you to fold your wings,” Bucky said urgently, searching their surroundings for a good landing point. He was finally a little higher than Tony and tilted his wings on a course for intercept, steeper than a glide but not quite so sharp as a dive.

“What?” Tony said with surprise, and Bucky saw him craning his neck to see where Bucky was. “What do you-“

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but-“

“Wings in, now!” It was gratifying to see the speed that Tony obeyed, folding his wings tight up against his back even though it violated every instinct a person had, to close their wings while falling. He also stopped trying to use his repulsors and brought his arms to his chest and his legs together, turning into exactly the kind of target that Bucky needed.

Bucky hit him at a high enough speed that it almost knocked the breath out of him and he heard Tony grunt, but Tony didn’t move as Bucky wrapped his arms around Tony’s chest, even though he probably crushed a few feathers in the process. Bucky’s wings strained with the extra weight, and the glide turned into more of a dive than Bucky was comfortable with. He knew he couldn’t land like this; they were picking up speed too fast to even land safely – or even unsafely - on a grassy field, the force of the impact would be fatal. They had to get out of the sky now.

Bucky eyed one of the skyscrapers that was looming in the sky in front of them and groaned inwardly. This was going to suck. As he steered towards one of the huge glass windows, he brought his metal hand up to tuck Tony’s head into his shoulder and protect his spine, then at the last second he curled his wings around them and prayed that the vibranium-reinforced bones of his wing wrists would be enough to break through the glass.

It did, but it hurt; the impact shuddered through his bones, and his muscles screamed at the effort of keepings his wings tight around them as they rolled through desks and cubicle dividers before finally coming to a stop.

“Ow,” Bucky said, letting his exhausted wings flop open to splay out on the cheap commercial carpeting as he opened his eyes to check the damage. He looked down at Tony, who was laying on his chest. “Are you okay?” he asked, as he let go.

“Am I okay?” Tony sat up sharply and scrambled off of Bucky’s chest to start checking him for injuries. “You flew through an industrial-strength window! Are you insane? Those things are specifically designed to not be broken by people throwing themselves at them!”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He wanted to say, I’m okay, but he wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or not – pain was starting to make itself known even through the adrenaline rush, the hot ache of overworked muscles, sharp pains that meant he was probably bleeding, and the throb of something that was probably torn or dislocated. But Tony seemed fine, judging from the way he was still scolding Bucky while his hands, gentle despite their briskness, ran over his arms and legs and combed through the feathers on his wings, searching for injuries. “Better than hitting the ground, right?”

Tony paused for a moment, sat back on his heels and looked Bucky in the eyes. Bucky wondered if he knew how his wings were hunched protectively over Bucky. “Thank you,” he said, and Bucky got a glimpse of the fear he must have felt as he fell. “Whoever is guiding the drones realized that the repulsors were helping me fly and also helping me shoot down the drones, so they had the drones suicide bomb me until they took them out.”

“Figured something like that had happened,” Bucky said, managing a wan smile. The pain was really starting to set in now, so he tried to sit up or roll over before he got stuck on the floor like a wet rag. The effort tore a groan out of him as he realized that yep, his maneuver had definitely dislocated his wings.

“Oh, God, Bucky,” Tony said, giving him a hand to help him sit up, looking with dismay at how Bucky’s wings sagged on his back, dragging limply on the carpet. He ran his hands along the wing bones, searching for breaks; Bucky could have told him that with the amount of vibranium that Hydra had used to reinforce his bones, they would probably be ripped off before anything broke, but instead Bucky watched and wished he could feel Tony’s touch around the unignorable shriek of pain coming from his shoulders. “I don’t feel any breaks, I think they’re just dislocated,” Tony said after a moment.

“Do you know how to reset them?”

“In theory.” Tony grimaced. Now he was smoothing down Bucky’s ruffled coverts, unconsciously grooming Bucky as his gaze searched the room that they’d tumbled into. Their impact had left a trail of broken or shoved aside office furniture, tangled computer cables, and dented filing cabinets, but it wasn’t like they’d landed in a doctor’s office so there wasn’t a convenient examination table with wing supports for them to use. “Guess we’ll just have to do it laying down.”

Bucky mourned when Tony stopped grooming to help Bucky move so he could lay down on his stomach, though the movement was less “laying down” and more “controlled topple” as Tony let him down slowly. Tony had to spread out Bucky’s wings by hand, fussing more than he needed to as he made sure that none of the feathers were torqued or twisted, staying carefully away from Bucky’s deadly primaries. Tony also made tiny noises as he saw the places on Bucky’s back where the glass and debris had cut him on the way in, but reported that none of the injuries were major. As Bucky rested his head on his arms, he directed Tony on how to reset his shoulder joints. “I need you to do it fast and hard,” Bucky warned him. “You can’t be afraid of hurting me, because doing it more than once would be even worse.”

“I will,” Tony said, patting Bucky between his shoulder blades reassuringly. “One, two, thr-“ and halfway into three he shoved hard, before Bucky could tense up, and even as Bucky choked on a scream of pain he heard the pop of the joint resetting. Bucky panted harshly as the pain on that side settled into an angry pulse that felt much better than it had before, even though it was going to be a while before Bucky would want to move his wings on purpose. “Do you want me to wait before I do the next one?” Tony asked, sounding concerned.

Bucky swallowed back a whimper at the thought of going through that again. “Yes,” he forced himself to say. “Just give me a minute.”

“Okay.” Tony sat against Bucky’s side, a warm weight at his hip, and started grooming Bucky’s wing comfortingly, straightening out the feathers, smoothing them down, and picking out the detritus that had gathered in them. Despite everything, Bucky felt himself relaxing; it had been a long time since anyone had cared for his wings with anything other than brisk professionalism.

He could have laid there all day letting Tony do that, but Bucky reminded himself that there was a battle going on outside their impromptu refuge and so he said, “Okay, I’m rea- FUCK!”

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Tony said, this time stroking down Bucky’s back as he shuddered from the second relocation. “It’s better when you’re not expecting it.”

“Yep,” Bucky agreed through gritted teeth, trying to focus on the feeling of Tony’s hand on his back rather than the pain radiating from his shoulders. “So what’s the plan now?” he asked, trying to find something else to think about. He had no idea what was going on in the sky outside, his communicator had been lost in the impact, and wasn’t sure that there was anything they could do now that they were both grounded, but he figured Tony probably had an idea, he always did.

“As soon as you’re okay for me to leave you, I am going to finish trying to disrupt the signal to the drones,” Tony said. While Bucky slowly tried to relax the muscles that had instinctively tightened up from the pain, Tony went back to grooming his wings to help. “That’s what I was doing when they swarmed me.”

“You should go do that,” Bucky said, shoving down the selfish urge to let Tony keep grooming him. “I’m just going to lay here for a little while, then I’ll cut strips to bind my wings until my shoulders heal.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky forced himself to nod, and then with a last pat on his secondary coverts Tony stood. “I just need to find this place’s IT closet and I think I’ll have everything I need,” Tony said, and Bucky lifted his head from his arms to watch as Tony disappeared through the maze of cubicles. After a few minutes, Bucky pushed himself to sitting, then to his feet, hissing as the movement jostled his wings. He unfastened the Velcro that held his shirt together along his ribs then pulled it over his head, trying to move his arms as little as possible, then started ripping it into long strips to help support his wings.

“Found it!” Tony crowed just as Bucky had gotten as far along as he could without help. Bucky looked up just in time to see Tony’s steps slow as he came around the corner and saw Bucky shirtless, and the way Tony’s eyes skimmed down his chest before coming back up to his face went a long way towards making Bucky’s day better. “I, uh, I just need five minutes with this router and we’ll be set,” Tony continued, dragging his eyes away to look at the electronics in his arms. He cleared the stuff off a nearby table and took a seat, leaning against the chest support as he started to disassemble everything and start plugging it into his headset, using his wings to brush the bits that he didn’t need out of his way. As Bucky took a seat too and watched, Tony started explaining what he was doing, which Bucky only listened to with half an ear, most of his attention on the sky outside the window to make sure they weren’t ambushed by any drones. He could tell when Tony was successful because suddenly clouds of drones started dropping all across the sky before Tony could even say “That should do it.” Bucky’s mouth quirked as Tony let out a smug ha as he turned to watch the black specks fall all across the city; it would never fail to impress Bucky how Tony could literally go from falling out of the sky to defeating the enemy in the space of twenty minutes. The newspapers had taken to calling him the Invincible Iron Hawk and even though Tony complained about the name Bucky thought the invincible part was spot on. Indomitable would work too, and as far as Bucky was concerned, he’d add irresistible to the list.

“Nice work,” Bucky said, and his face must have been showing more of his thoughts than he meant it to because when Tony met his gaze his face went red and his wings half opened before resettling against his back.

“Thanks,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I’ll bind up your wings, then we’ll hit the elevators and head home?”

“Sure.” Tony was an old hand at binding wings to carry the weight and ease the pressure from the chest and shoulders, making sure the strips went across Bucky’s chest and that it rested under the feathers to keep it from slipping and breaking any. “There,” he said when he was done, patting Bucky’s bare shoulder.

Bucky reached up and put his hand on top of Tony’s before he could pull it away. “Would you like to go flying with me sometime?” he asked before he could talk himself out of it, feeling his face flame. “Flying flying?”

Tony’s grin was rueful. “Flying flying? I don’t know, I think you did some pretty impressive flying to save my life back there,” he teased, but his wings were up and already unfurling, like he was ready to go right now. Bucky’s wings instinctively tried to match him, and the spike of pain made Bucky wince. Tony gave him a sympathetic look and refolded his wings, reaching over to squeeze his hand instead. “Yes, that would be lovely. I will fix my gauntlets, you heal, and then we’ll go flying.”

#tony stark #bucky barnes #tony x bucky #winteriron

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megumi-stan · 4 years

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|Soothe Me | M.F x Reader

A/N: It’s Soft Megumi hours! This was supposed to be a NSFW piece, but it was just so sweet i didn’t want to take the story there and distract from his loving and overall caring energy!

All characters are aged up in this story! Also, quick reminder that I’m open for requests :)

Dedication: Thank you so much @timewehad for sending such a sweet ask! You definitely motivated me to finish this thing i started a few days ago and completely forgot in my drafts!

Fighting curses for a living had a price. Besides the constant endangerment of your life.

Sore muscles.

Every time you bent down to tie your shoes, seven different muscles pulled painfully and at least ten vertebrae locked in place, forcing your body into a struggle to straighten itself. If you could walk just looking at the floor without it being weird, you wouldn’t bother to endure the hell that came with a straight spine. If only you had eyes in the top of your head like some of those slimy creatures you fought regularly, your life would be ten times easier.

After one particular busy night, your bed was calling your name. Busy in the sense that little weak curses kept popping around every corner nonstop, like a wicked game of whack-a-mole, only without the hammer. If you had one of those at hand, you surely would feel a lot less stressed. Something about smashing things was an exceptional way to relieve pent-up frustrations.

Walking up to your bed proved to be an arduous task, with your stiff legs and trembling muscles, but slowly you made progress. Your chest felt like it was about to cave in from exhaustion as you were slightly aware of the shower running and Megumi’s soft voice mumbling the lyrics of some cheesy 80’s love song he unexpectedly knew the lyrics of.

The soft comforter brushed your legs when you got to the bedside, and with no grace flopped down face first into it. You tried to kick off your slippers, but failed terribly as they refused to let go of your feet, so giving up you just left your legs dangling off the side.

Megumi’s sweet singing and the storm outside was a perfect recipe for sleeping, and right at that moment sleeping was all you could manage. Lulled, you drifted off into the place between dream and reality, still slightly aware of everything going around you but too busy making up fictional scenarios where you were laying on Megumi’s chest as a soft warm breeze ruffled your hair and the smell of ocean drowned the smell of coffee that lingered in your bedroom.

“What are you doing?” The fog dissipated, and suddenly you were face to face with your boyfriend.

Megumi had gotten out of the shower and was crouching down on the floor. A soft smile curved the tip of his full lips and amusement glinted in his eyes. Your eyes scanned his face and traveled lower, to the sharp curve of his jaw and the smooth skin of his throat. Drops of water still clung to his bare chest and glistened under the warm light of lamp resting on your bedside table. He looked like one of those greek gods you often appreciated in old paintings, all hard muscle but with a peaceful aura surrounding him, looking like he was a minute away from growing wings and taking off into the sunlight.

You hummed in acknowledgment and turned to your side, ten different vertebrae and a shoulder blade popping in the process. You winced, eyes drifting shut at the sharp spike of pain followed by the bliss of relieved pressure off of your nerves.

“Well, that sounded painful...” His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair out of your eyes and they lingered on your cheekbone, tracing idle circles on your skin. “I’m assuming work was a pain on your ass, huh?” Leaning in, his mouth lingered above your brow for a millisecond before pressing a chaste kiss on your forehead. His breath tickled you and warmth blossomed in your heart.

He got up and walked to the pile of clothes resting stop of a chair in the room’s corner. Your eyes followed his figure and never once blinked as you took in his graceful strides and the patch of pale skin often hidden by his pants, but now on full display because of the towel that hung dangerously low on his hips. He always complain about the word “beautiful” every time you used it next to the “you are”. He would argue non stop, stating you were just trying to boost his ego, but you never once found another word to describe him, and somehow you still felt that Beautiful wasn’t enough.

Not even the other girls gawking at him in the streets and shamelessly flirting while you, obviously his partner, stood next to him seemed to prove your point to Megumi. You couldn’t even be angry at the flirts. He was a sight worth of painting, framing, even adoring. He could be a god disguised as a mere mortal for all you knew, and even that would make more sense. It shouldn’t be possible for someone to be as breathtakingly beautiful as he was.

Even casually standing and just roaming through the pile of clothes, he made your stomach curl with something hot and heavy. The muscles on his arms flexed and his shoulder blades moved underneath his skin, doing very interesting things under the dim lights that had you hypnotized, eyes glued to his back and taking in everything they could, committing every single dip and crevice to memory. You could barely breathe while looking at him.

As if he could have felt your eyes on him like a caress, Megumi looked at you from the corner of his eye, a smirk tilted his mouth and a small barely noticeable dimple appeared on his cheek. Your muscles tensed at the sigh, suddenly too hot and bothered to relax when it was obvious he was evening something. The glint in his forest green irises was a dead giveaway.

Sighing intently while his eyes never once left your form, he loosened his grip on the towel. The white fabric slipped across his legs as it came undone and landed at his feet. Traveling the distance your fingers twitched to travel as well. He was sideways, showing you his profile as he grabbed a pair of loose black sweatpants. His well-defined thighs were teasing you, seemingly mocking you along with the deep V on his hip. His position was so that nothing too inappropriate could peek, and you were never awakened as fast as in that moment.

He slipped the pants on, managing not to flash you in the process and came right by your side, the smell of spice and pine from his deodorant enveloped you in a hug as he, in a sweet action that had your belly feeling funny from the amount of butterflies fluttering around, took off your slippers, his fingers casually brushing the arc of your feet and triggering chills down your arms.

“Thank you...” You muttered, turning to lie on your back. Another joint popped, but you couldn’t feel which one it was. Megumi Chuckled at this and shook his head while circling the bed. He sat down with his back against the headboard, going through his phone. His hip bone was leveled with your head and the temptation to just press your lips against it was poking your brain, but your body refused to move a few inches to do so. You were so exhausted and even tho it was worth it you couldn’t for the love of god lift your head from the mattress.

“Tired?” he questioned, while his fingers made their way to your head and sunk into your hair. With knowledge he had from years of dating and even before that when you two were just friends, Megumi’s fingers stroke your scalp, earning a soft hum of approbation from you. You looked up and found his eyes already on you, phone long forgotten because of the new task he had at hands.

“Yeah, a little…” You said, with your eyes fluttering close to enjoy the attention he was giving you.

Megumi patted your head a few times to catch your attention, and when you looked at him, he extended his arms towards you, asking you to get in between them. “Come here…” He invited, a sigh laced in his words.

You tried to push yourself up from the bed, but your treacherous arms failed you, giving up under your weight and sending you face first into your bed.

“Your helpless… You know?” Megumi chuckled under his breath before one of his arms snaked around your waist, his bicep flexing and pulling you onto his lap. Once he had you where he wanted, with your back pressed against his chest and his hands resting on your midriff, he kissed your cheek. Your eyes drifted shut simply enjoying his presence, letting the even rais and fall of his chest calm your mind. “Can i have a kiss?” he muttered, resting his chin on your shoulder, and peering at you with those forest green eyes that seemed to shine, and when he was so tender towards you, how could you deny?

Your chest soared with his words, so you turned your head to meet his awaiting lips, you could almost feel the softness of his mouth when a sharp searing pain stabbed your spine halting your movements as you squeezed your eyes tight. “Shit,” You cursed, pressing your palm against the ache in the back of your neck, hoping it would do something to soothe it.

“Oh, god… Baby, let me see?” Megumi’s fingers pried yours away and then brushed your hair away. His fingers thumb brushed your skin two times over the spot you were holding, and even though it still hurt, his concern seemed to tone the pain down a little.. “Does this hurts?” He applied a little more pressure and when you didn’t wince he kept going, tracing circles and working to erase the knots and kinks that bothered you. “Lean forwards for me…”

Doing just what Fushiguro instructed, you leaned forwards as he shifted underneath you. Suddenly you were no longer sitting on top of his legs but instead sitting in the mattress while his thighs circled yours, pressing against them and allowing his warmth to seep into your legs through the fabric of your jeans.

His other hand soon joined, and his fingers massaged your shoulders and neck intently. You could still feel the burn and sometimes when he pressed a little to hard on a specially sore spot you would yelp and try to get away from him, but he was fast to apologizes and land a kiss on the side of your neck.

You two spent fifteen minutes in that comfortable silence, until he perked up and and halted his movements

“I know what to do… Hold on a minute.” He shuffled behind you and leaped out of the bed, walking away into the bathroom without any explanation.

You just sat there, waiting, and wondering if he had some kind of lotion or cream to help you. You couldn’t recall ever seeing one in the shelves, but he often bought things and forget about them hours later.

The sound of running water rushed out and drowned the silence. You counted on your head, one minute, two, three… Still no signs of Megumi coming back to bed.

“Megumi?” Your answer came in the form of footsteps. Coming out of the room, he smiled at you as he approached. “What are you doing…?”

“Come here…” He said, not answering your question and scooping you up in his arms. On instinct your legs circled his waist while he supported your weight with his hands underneath your thighs.

“Megumi!” You laughed, surprised, clinging to his shoulders while he walked you two back into the steamed filled bathroom. The scent of flowers was what hit you first, closely followed by the sight of a filled tub with bubbles. “What?… Did you do this?” You asked in wonder, feeling cupid just shot another dozen arrows into your already pierced heart.

“Of course… You’re not feeling well, and a warm bath is a wonderful solution.” Pride shone in his eyes. He lowered you on the edge and took a step back. “Get in, and I’ll be right back.” He moved towards the door but hesitated before exiting the room. “Can you take off your clothes? Because I wouldn’t mind helping you out with that…”

“Oh god…” Embarrassment hit you like a wave and you covered your heated face with your hands. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. “

“Just looking out for my girl.” the dimple appeared again, and you almost wanted to crawl under the water to hide from the embarrassment. Even after all this time, he still earned a reaction from you.

“I’m sure you do.”

His laugh lingered in the air as he exited, and with shaky fingers you unbuttoned your jeans and slipped them off. The muscles on your back pulled as your pulled the hem of your shirt over your head, but you endured it. The sweet call of the warm water had you stripped down and inside the tub in no time.

Bubbles covered your chest as the heat from the water seeped into your body, the water brushed your chin as you just felt all the exhaustion from the day drain out of your body. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you lounged in the water like a tea bag without a care in the world.

“Comfortable?” Looking up, he was next to you once again.

“Very...”

He tapped something on his phone, and a soft guitar strummed. He placed it on the mirror shelf before grabbing the elastic of his pants. Noticing he was actually pulling them down, you turned away, covering your eyes.

“What are you doing!?” You asked, startled.

“Well... You seriously don’t expect me to get in with my pants on, do you?” He said matter-of-factly. And a shiver raced down your arms, while a heated wave pooled at the pit of your stomach.

“Are you getting in? You just showered! ” You stole a glance at him, forcing your gaze to stay on his face.

“Yes, but then you weren’t sitting in the bathroom with this much skin exposed... are you really embarrassed?” Laughing kicked the garment off. “You just watched me change a few minutes ago.”

“Shut up, Megumi.” You whined, fighting the urge to let your eyes roam.

“Come on, scoot over.” He laughed. “ I’m worried your might combust from embarrassment.”

Sighing, you moved forwards on the tub, letting enough space for him to sit behind you. The water rippled around you before you felt his soft skin brushing your bare back. His hands found yours and laced your fingers together.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you, love...” You whispered, bringing your joined hands to your mouth and kissing his knuckles. Scars from past battles scattered the surface but you could only a testimony of his strength.

“Of course.” He squeezed you against his chest for a few heartbeats before asking. “Do you mid if I wash your hair?”

A heat that had nothing to do with the water temperature and all with the rumble of his words crept from your toes to your neck.

“I think I’d like that.”

Grabbing the bottle of shampoo, he dropped some of it on his palm and then he started robbing your scalp in lazy circles, his nails gently scraping it. You could feel his head swinging to the beat of the song sounding in the bathroom, before his voiced joined in.

Lyrics about love and happiness tumbled out of his mouth with a subtle rasp to them. And suddenly you were back to thinking about your dream, the one with beaches and warmth. Maybe a vacation wouldn’t hurt... You considered bringing it up, but the atmosphere was too serene to disrupt it with questions about his schedule. If you asked, it meant he had to stop singing in order to answer you, and that was the last thing you wanted at the moment.

Surely it was the warm water and his fingers, but sitting there listening to his voice and feeling his breath brushing your face, you concluded that Megumi’s mere presence was all you needed to feel better.

#megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi x reader #fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #megumi #fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #fluff #my fic #megumi-stan

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stupid-stew · 3 years

Text

A Different Kind of Pain

i forgot what writing was but then boom little venty fic if you please anyways mom eda for the win (AO3 link if you want) content warning for injury and vomiting because yes.

Ouch.

That was all Luz could think. Every bone in her body hurt, her muscles were having a screaming match with each other and she hadn’t even moved yet. Oh no. She had to move. In that moment, that was the last thing Luz wanted, she would rather have stayed there on the floor moving for days. But that wasn’t an option.

She took a deep breath in and lifted her left arm. That was all she had to do, get her arm off the ground, easy, right? Wrong. A burning pain shot from her shoulder all the way through her joints and into her fingertips. Luz had to bite her tongue to keep herself from making noise, her mouth tasted metallic. Great, another injury, what was one more. Maybe the other arm wasn’t as bad. Luz took a deep breath and shut her eyes before trying her other arm-

Huh.

That wasn’t bad.

There was a definite soreness, but nothing comparable to the other one.

Luz took her time testing her limbs one by one, how much did they hurt individually, except for her left arm, not again. It seemed like that was the worst of it, so she pulled her left hand into her body and tried to get up. Not a good idea. Her whole left side had something else to say, an intense numb ache through her entire abdomen stopped her in her tracks, she fell back onto her sleeping bag with a loud thud, the noise however was the last of Luz’s worries at the moment. The impact with the ground had made her unfortunately aware of the fact that her head was throbbing.

“Luz?”

Shoot. Eda must have heard her fall. She didn’t want Eda to know, she didn’t need anything else to worry about.

“Luz are you ok in there?”

She tried to sit up, which led to her having to muffle a pained groan before replying, “yeah everything’s fine i’m ok, just slipped.”

“Are you sure?”

God couldn’t Eda just take her at her word?

“Yep!” Luz put as much false enthusiasm into her voice as she could muster, which seemed to do the trick because Eda just hummed and continued walking.

Luz waited until she could no longer hear footsteps before deciding she had to get up. One intense inhale and a lot of momentum later, she was on her feet, doubled over in pain, but on her feet nonetheless. How could everything hurt? Did she even have enough body parts to be experiencing this? Luz tested her weight, shifting onto her right foot didn’t cause any real problems, but trying her luck on her left foot was a different story. She had to put her arm out to grab something so she didn’t fall, but using her left hand was a mistake. Luz couldn’t stop herself from yelling out as violent pins and needles made their way up and down her arm. She couldn’t move, she felt parylized. There was a set of rapid footsteps coming up the stairs.

Eda.

Luz didn’t want her to know, didn’t want her to worry, but she couldn’t do anything about it. If she moved, let go of the beam she was holding onto, put her leg out, no matter what she did next, it wasn’t looking good for her.

“Luz?” Eda sounded worried, that wasn’t part of the plan, but Luz couldn’t even respond, the pain throughout her body had rendered her mute.

“Ok kid, I’m coming in.” Every part of Luz’s mind was on fire, she didn’t want Eda in here, she couldn’t talk or move, what was she going to do?

A soft sliver of light came from the hallway and illuminated the part of Luz’s room where she was standing, huh, sort of like a really awful spotlight, Luz thought to herself. She closed her eyes, it was the one part of her body she could move and there was no way she was going to let herself see Eda’s face.

“Oh titan.”

Luz guessed she must have had some visible injuries because Eda ran right up to her side and placed her hands on Luz’s back in an attempt to give her arm some relief, which surprisingly didn’t hurt as much as she was expecting.

“Luz, let go of the beam, I’m gonna lower down, ok?”

She tried to open her mouth but there was something sealing her lips, so she just nodded her head and closed her eyes as she let her hand relax. Even without her magic, Eda was strong enough to hold Luz and gently place her on the ground. The problem came when Eda had to move her hands out from under Luz, she ended up running her hands along Luz’s left side, and that set her off.

Suddenly, it was like there were too many things happening at once. She couldn’t pinpoint where the pain was coming from, it was all over. It was hard to breathe, wait why wasn’t she breathing. Luz realized she had been holding her breath. She tried to let it go, but the lack of pressure in her chest made everything worse. Now it was like she needed more, more weight, everywhere. She took a deep breath in and held it. Good, that was better. It was like there was no more pain, she couldn’t feel anything past her thoughts, she rolled over and grabbed Eda’s side, desperate for any sort of contact she could get.

“Woah kid what are you doi- OOPH-”

Luz pulled Eda on top of her and held on tight. The witch was sort of kneeling now next to Luz with her torso laid across Luz’s while the kid seemed to be trying to pull Eda into the ground with her.

“Luz what is going on?”

Luz couldn’t answer, instead she just tightened the grip her forearms had around Eda’s middle and let out a sad sort of pained groan.

Eda realized that Luz’s chest wasn’t moving, was she breathing?

“Kid you have to breathe.”

Luz didn’t process what Eda had said, too busy focusing on the insane amounts of energy that were crashing through every part of her. She needed to move, to go, to do something, but she couldn’t at the same time. She just needed to wait, to have something crushing her, holding her down, keeping her still. Eda, where was Eda going.

Eda had put her own arms out and was trying to lift herself off of Luz, it seemed like the kid needed something but she wasn’t sure what until she saw the look in Luz’s eyes.

The kid looked desperate, she was writhing around, whimpering, looking for anything to grab, to hold onto, how was she even moving with those bruises? Eda didn’t think twice about it, instead she just repositioned herself and took Luz in her own embrace, allowing her to hold on as tightly as she needed. She noticed Luz starting to breathe, they were sharp, deep inhales that the kid was holding in for far too long, but at least there was oxygen entering and leaving her lungs.

Luz suddenly took her hands off of Eda, and Eda took it as a sign to get up, which was apparently the right call because Luz shot up off the ground, and started walking around, ignoring the searing pain that was still deep in her bones, she wasn’t going anywhere, back and forth across the room, moving her arms around in seemingly random patterns. Her thoughts were still too loud, even though she wasn’t thinking about anything, she couldn’t hear, she was flapping her hands and repeatedly popping her knuckles in an attempt to make everything stop. She didn’t know what was going on, there were too many things happening and they all needed to stop. Her prayers were answered when she realized she was nauseous. She stopped moving and walked straight for the bathroom, not even registering Eda behind her.

She made it just in time, her knees hitting the floor just as the first wave of bile escaped her throat.

Eda wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. First Luz was holding onto her as if her life depended on it, then she was walking around in constant motion as if stopping meant the end of the world, and then she had walked out of the room on a mission? Where was she going? All of Eda’s questions were answered when she heard heaving in the room next to her. Uh oh. Eda briskly walked to the bathroom, and just as she had suspected, found Luz face down in the toilet bowl. If the last couple minutes were any indication, Luz probably didn’t want anyone touching her at the moment, so Eda kept her distance, deciding to leave the kid to it while she went down to the kitchen to get a glass of water ready.

Luz’s whole body was on fire. Her joints, her muscles, her throat now, but she had never appreciated it more. Sure, nobody liked dry heaving into the toilet unable to breathe, but that meant she was done. She could move again. Luz felt tears running down her cheeks, she wasn’t sure if they were out of pain, relief, if it was just because she was overwhelmed, but she wasn’t going to do anything to stop it, she didn’t have the energy. She rolled into a sitting position on the floor, rudely reminded of the fact she was still injured by a wave of discomfort caused by the motion.

Luz took a minute to sit there, just sitting with her head against the wall, crying, letting herself be hurt, and that was how Eda found her.

“Oh, Luz.”

Eda put the glass of water in her opposite hand and took a seat next to the girl. She knew better than to touch Luz anywhere that might cause the kid pain, so she just placed her hand gently on Luz’s knee. If she wanted anything more, Eda trusted her to initiate it. She waited for Luz’s breathing to calm before offering the water.

Luz wasn’t thirsty, but she knew Eda would worry if she didn’t have any, plus it couldn’t do her any harm to get some water in her body given the events of the past half hour, so she took a couple of swiggs before handing it back.

Eda sighed, “we need to take care of those bruises.”

Luz just nodded.

“Anywhere in particular it hurts too much?”

Luz cleared her throat as best she could, deciding it was time to test if her voice had returned yet, “My left side.” it was quiet, but it was her voice.

Eda winced “that’s where I moved my hands after setting you down isn’t it?”

The silence told Eda all she needed to know.

“I’m so sorry kid.”

Luz laughed a little, “it’s ok, you didn’t know.”

Eda hung her head a little and got herself up before extending her hand out to Luz.

“Cmon, let’s get you up.”

Together they were able to get Luz seated onto the counter, the hisses of pain that came from Luz were enough to drive Eda to the edge of tears, but she knew it had to be done. As she helped Luz, the realization of what had just happened to Luz hit her. Eda was familiar with it, it had happened to her a few times when she had first gotten cursed, those transformations had been especially difficult, painful. Eda didn’t have to imagine how much pain Luz had been in to cause that kind of reaction, she had been there herself.

It took a while, but eventually Luz was sitting facing Eda from the countertop.

“I’m assuming your arm hurts the most?”

Eda had noticed Luz treating it with a different tenderness than the rest of her body.

Luz blushed and nodded.

This confused Eda. “You know you don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s ok to be in pain, you just need to let me help you.”

Luz looked up at her with tears in her eyes, “bu-” something stopped Luz’s words. Oh no. Before she knew it she was emptying the contents of her stomach onto the floor in front of her, which was also where Eda was standing.

“Eda I’m so sorry.” Luz was crying now, each of her words punctuated with a sob.

“Shhh it’s ok. It’s just some water and some clothes. Don’t worry about it.” Eda wrapped her arms around Luz’s shoulders, taking care not to hit any spots that might hurt Luz more. She let the kid sob into her chest, not caring the slightest bit about her shirt. Let it get stained by tears, by vomit, as long as Luz is ok. Eda rocked back and forth on her feet, being careful not to move Luz too much, just enough to coax her into a normal breathing pattern. It seemed to work, because she was able to pull away and look Luz in the face, though the kid didn’t seem all that interested in returning the eye contact.

“You,” Eda brought her hand up to Luz’s face and wiped away some of the tears that were still running down her cheeks, “have nothing to be sorry for. And you have had a very long morning.” Eda was now running her nails through Luz’s hair “So, what do you say we get your arm all checked out and then you can go back to bed.”

Luz met her eye, which made Eda feel a lot better. “Nest party?” The kid’s voice was still carrying a lot of unshed tears, but Eda couldn’t help but laugh. Only Luz would be in so much pain she couldn’t move or speak, then get too overwhelmed to sit still, and then throw up, and still be injured with the prospect of a lot more discomfort in the near future, and still be focused on a nest party. Only Luz. “Yes, yes we can have a nest party.”

Luz closed her eyes and rested her head against the mirror behind her.

“Awesome.”

Eda reached out to touch Luz’s arm, not missing the look across her face at the contact, and rolled up the sleeve gingerly.

“Yeesh.”

Luz opened her eyes and looked down. She knew her arm hurt, she was well aware of that, but she really wasn’t expecting it to be this bad. There were two vertical purple and green lines running up what seemed to be the entirety of her arm, starting at the wrist.

“Yeesh indeed.”

Eda picked up Luz’s arm by the wrist and was met by a shout, causing her to gently place the arm back down as quickly as she could.

“Sorry sorry sorry, probably a sprained wrist.”

Luz hissed through her teeth, “of course.”

Several bandages later, Luz was at the point she could move her arm stiffly around without much of an issue, still wasn’t enjoyable, but doable.

After proving to Eda she could at least swing her arm and place it down without much of an issue, Luz was allowed off the counter.

“You sure you can walk?”

Luz wasn’t sure. But she had to try, so she gave Eda a shaky nod.

Eda didn’t look fully convinced, and offered Luz her arm as a support.

With Eda’s help she was able to make it all the way to the red double doors and to the nest. When they got there, Luz almost flopped into the nest, the exhaustion of her short day already catching up to her. Her back still hurt, her neck, her arms, her legs, everything was sore and she didn’t want to move. Eda picked up on this and settled for carefully moving behind Luz in the nest, and was greeted by the girl wrapping her good arm around the witch’s waist.

“Thanks Eda.” Luz’s words were slow, expressing how tired she was.

Eda grinned at this, “Don’t mention it kid.”

“Mkay.” She could tell Luz was really ready for a rest, Eda didn’t even want to think about how long Luz had sat there in her room by herself before Eda had come in, so she settled for helping Luz now. She carefully lifted Luz’s head and placed her own arm under the kid’s neck, reaching around to gently run her long nails up and down her back and up into her hair repeatedly, being extra careful to avoid anything too far to the left for Luz’s sake. The motion was all Luz needed to fall into a deep sleep, and Eda didn’t mind the breath that was blowing her own hair into her face or the cramp in her arm, because Luz was comfortable, and that was all that mattered. Eda knew what Luz had gone through, and it was a different kind of pain, and if she could do anything to take it away, even for a moment, she’d do so gladly, for Luz.

#the owl house #eda clawthorne #luz noceda #fanfic

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with-my-murder-flute · 4 years

Text

by the sword (Nile genfic, 2.6k)

Fic summary: Nile learned fencing and longsword and hand-to-hand fighting long before she ever met Andy's small army. But learning with them is a new form of difficult. Not because they've got thousands of years more experience (though they do), but because this time the practice doesn't stop when somebody gets hurt.

So she has to learn about war and how you balance it out with peace. Figure out how they do it and who she wants to be. And decide which weapons suit her best.

Content notes: Explicit depiction of the injuries Nile gets when training in knife fighting and quarterstaff combat with Nicky and Joe. There are also discussions of the physical damage done by different kinds of weapons, the butchering of animals, and people cutting off their own body parts in industrial accidents. (Oh, and a positive/sympathetic portrayal of Nile as a Christian)

They promised that in March they'd start teaching Nile how to fight with a sword, but when March came, Nicky gave her a knife.

A hauntingly familiar one, even though she'd never touched it before. For a second she thought it was her own, the Ka-Bar she planted in Andy's shoulder the day they met. Instead, as she turned it over, finding it familiar in every groove and contour, she found it an anonymous and identical match to her dad's instead. Not new, with the black paint worn down around the edges of the handle, but not a knife she knew. It could have been used by any Marine in the world except her. Except her father.

"You know too much," Joe explained from the side of the hangar, where he'd tumbled an umbrella stand of swords out onto a tarp and started removing their rust with fine-grit sandpaper. "We're not knights or cavaliers. For them, swordfighting was about honour. There were rules. We don't have any of that."

Nile knew going into this that nothing she knew so far was real swordsmanship. Like yes, she could fence; she'd competed in foil and saber for two years as a teenager. But that was closer to stagefighting than actual combat. It was all so staged and carefully managed. Even in her longsword league they said over and over again, it was a martial sport, not actual combat. They could imagine what it might have been like—could land heavy blows on armour, could mime falling down dead—but that wasn't the reality of it.

It seemed to her that the purpose of beginning with knife-fighting lessons was to go over territory she already knew, and do it for real this time. Nicky said he had something else in mind, some principle of combat he meant to teach. But that wasn't what Nile noticed.

What Nile noticed was that this time, she really died.

The old people argued it over, about how to teach Nile. Andy's example made them newly-cautious, but this was the way they'd always trained: You had to do it through blood and pain, you had to fight when you were still resurrecting. It was the way Andy and Quynh had trained Nicky and Joe.

Nile wondered, in the back of her mind, if being trained like that had something to do with the way Booker... well, Booker. After he'd already had such terrible experience of war that he'd wanted to desert. But that was the kind of thing she didn't air out loud, because they'd only just stopped having that kind of useless, circular, self-flagellating argument. She figured she'd keep her own peace on Booker.

She also opined, after hearing them wrangle over it for a day or two, that she'd rather practice with live weapons and get injured among friends than play it safe and incur a dangerous injury among enemies.

And when the knife fighting started, she was grateful they hadn't moved directly to longswords.

They taught knights how to do this, Nicky said, by having them slaughter and butcher animals. It taught you your way around muscles and tendons and joints. He offered to take her to a bullfight sometime, which she didn't say sounded so barbaric she had to wonder why PETA bothered with picketing rodeos.

He said that after her trachea healed over. She hadn't actually died that time; you had to aim further up or to the side to get the carotid artery. But the horror—not actually the pain, but the horror of feeling the air wheeze through the gash in her throat—had been so overwhelming that she'd barely resisted the pin he got her in. She'd just shuddered with her arms behind her back and his weight pressing her down until it healed, and tapped out of the rest of the afternoon. He'd been understanding when she didn't want to be around him for a bit, and let Joe gather her into a hug and let her cry.

That was when he told her about the bulls. She told him about Chicago's meatpacking district, about the old men she knew who'd butchered hogs every day of their lives for decades. About how they said they got numb to it, until one day one of them cut off his thumb with a machine and didn't feel it, until the guy next to him looked over and noticed all the new blood. About how after you see too much violence, your brain just stops processing it. About how a study on kids in the next neighbourhood over from hers had shown they had permanently elevated levels of cortisol, a sign that their bodies were under stress all the time and didn't know how to calm down.

Those were the kind of conversations Andy couldn't stay in the room for. She slunk off somewhere and got drunk, and you saw her the next morning, maybe. Nile used to judge her a lot more for it, but the day her throat got cut she let Joe and Nicky feed her a red wine as soft as velvet and fell asleep pressed against Joe on the sofa and understood, deeper than words, just how much keeping sane meant feeling anything other than your body shattering into pain.

Nicky braided her hair, the next day. Slow and careful, a little unpracticed, singing ballads in a language that wasn't exactly dead, but only had a few thousand speakers left in northern Italy. Their composer hadn't been good, exactly, but they'd been snowed into a castle with him one winter in the 1680s, so Nicky remembered his entire repertoire. Nile listened to the music and knew he'd refuse if she offered to record it, or write it down. One of the songs felt like the length of a novel (but was, when she checked her phone, more like one hour twenty) and by the end of it she was singing the chorus along with him, and it occurred to her that she could simply ask him to teach her.

"You can't rescue every one you see," she remembered her mom saying, when she found a half-stunned bird on the sidewalk. That was what it felt like with languages.

That afternoon Andy took her to the market. Ostensibly it was for groceries, but Andy didn't do simple errands, especially not when it involved food. She stopped to smell fruit Nile had never heard of; Google told Nile that medlar and quince were related to apples and also, apparently, roses. Nile had to try pine nuts, wild mustard, and three different kinds of yogurt drinks, one of which tasted of roses. Andy protested when she added a bag of potatoes to the load, saying they were bland, but Nile, who'd had enough of turnips, sweetly told her to pay the fuck up.

If you were lonely, and hurting, and didn't have someone to hold you, you could comfort yourself like this. Sunshine and sweetmeats and the steady hands of friends. Something, but probably still not enough. Nile understood it but it made her chest ache. She felt, sometimes, a little glad that Andy would die someday, the way families felt helping someone keep alive from cancer. Of course you wanted them to be alive, but you didn't want them to suffer.

Joe moved her on to staff fighting the next day. It was, he said, not the most useful of weapons in the current day and age, since it was most useful against long bladed weapons, "And who else but us uses those?" But there was some kind of theoretical basis behind the progression of her teaching, from weapon to weapon, and after knife came staff.

To tell the truth, Nile liked it. She'd learned about quarterstaff in her longsword weapons, as something that could defeat a swordsman, but nobody anybody she knew actually practiced it, because while you could wear percussion-resistant cloth and keep safe with blunted swords, there was simply no defending your bones against the percussive strike of a giant whirling stick.

There was something less offensive about getting your skull split or your collarbone broken, compared to getting stabbed. Partly it was because Joe was just a much nicer teacher, slower and more patient, while Nicky would keep stabbing you as you fought to reach your own knife. But also it felt more impersonal, more like an accident that had happened to you.

Okay, and it was also more fun. Knives created small imaginary hemispheres of pain, the angle of the arm as it swept out. Quarterstaves were huge, so long that if you wanted to get around them, sometimes it was literally easier to flip yourself into the air or dump your opponent to the ground instead of getting the staff to move. The first time she managed to run up a wall to get leverage on him, it felt so awesome she didn't actually mind that much that he popped her shoulder out taking her back down.

It was bloody and violent and really would have been impossible if dying had been a significant barrier for them. It made Nile laugh in a high-on-endorphins way, because it felt like she could finally push past the pain and find a place beyond her limits. It felt like being free. Like all her life she'd been wearing a heavy armor of caution, knowing she'd had to keep herself alive, and now she just felt the lightness of taking it off.

There were tears at the back of that laughter, about everything she'd lost because of it, but she pushed that away and went to shower. She and Joe spent the evening on Youtube, watching videos of capoeira and wushu, while the other two made a batch of some kind of pickled egg they thought they remembered from three hundred years ago.

Nile hugged Andy sometimes, because she looked like she needed to be hugged. Andy almost never turned her down.

A long time ago, she thought she remembered, holding a sword had seemed to transport her to some other time. Some other place. Like the sword had been a tangible connection to the past, to a time when things felt... clearer, or truer, or more real somehow. Like the feeling the word "honour" gave her, of something echoing and amplifying through a vaulted space. There was a time when people fought with swords for what they believed in. There was a time when you knew what was right and what was wrong and laid down your life accordingly.

She'd been twelve and believed in fairytales. So sue her.

The swords in their armory spelled out a long story of misery and war. When she held them now, Nile felt like she could feel the bodies that had come into contact with their blades. Curved single-bladed sabers and scimitars, ideally wielded from horseback, meant for a decisive downward chop. Nicky's giant longswords, meant to peel an armored knight like a tin can. (He'd used it, he said, to similar effect on a tank once or twice.) Andy's axes showed her age; before they had the metallurgy to make an entire blade, it was better to use a wood polearm with a blade on the end, and focus the sharp metal to a curved edge, to as small a surface area as possible.

Andy's axes showed her age, but not theirs; they were less than ten years old. Steel, especially steel that came into contact with blood, aged fast enough (and could only take so much of a beating) that the old people knew and had opinions on all the modern replica manufacturers. The oldest blades in the collection were used at Waterloo, only a little more than 200 years ago.

(Nile wondered, as she polished one and rubbed a state-of-the-art hydrophobic finish on it, if the quarterstaff lessons were actually preparing her to fight Booker, should she ever find herself opposing him. It was the kind of thing she couldn't help but think about the logistics of. Surely firearms would be more effective, she initially reasoned, except... guns jammed, guns broke, guns overheated, guns ran out of bullets. And then your gun became a very expensive bludgeon. And you're facing a swordsman who's had 200 years to train. So... why not try a very big stick?)

She knew that even this team could betray her. Even they could fight for the wrong cause. They'd supported revolutions that turned into dictatorships and fought alongside people who turned out to be monsters. There was no promise, no moral certainty, in violence.

So she felt really stupid about it, but the truth was that holding a sword... still brought back that old emotion. That feeling of being capable of doing things. Fighting for a better world. It made her feel taller. It made her feel like her life had a purpose that she'd been heading towards since she was young.

Like God had called her for a special purpose.

Which she'd never say to any of the rest of them, since Andy had been a god and Nicky had been a holy warrior and Joe had broken down completely once, when they let him get too close to a newspaper. They'd only ever hear it with the weight of all the horror they had seen.

So instead she had to carry it as a private conviction, a calling she would have to follow by herself, her own career to make holy instead of horrific. Like when she joined the Marines. Freer, in some ways, but even more out of her depth, not sure she totally understood the situations she was injecting herself into.

The fact that she wasn't sure she ever could walk the path of righteousness and keep herself always on the side of good... was absolutely no inducement not to try. It never had been.

"Picked one yet?" Andy asked, from the door.

"What, you guys weren't gonna pick one for me?" Nile asked, craning her neck around. Andy had her hands buried in the pockets of her jacket, smiling faintly.

"Some things, nobody can pick for you," she said. She picked up one of Nile's polished sabers and admired the sheen along its blade. "Your last-ditch weapon, least of all."

Nile already had a secret favourite of all the swords, but what she found herself saying was, "I want us to do some training in de-escalation."

Andy looked aside from the blade. "Sorry?"

Nile took a deep breath, her heart suddenly pounding like crazy. "That's what I was trained in, aside from combat. De-escalating conflicts. When I was a security guard, we... I got a course on mental health crisis from a guy who does hostage negotiation. I want... we should practice it."

She was ready to be seared by Andy's instant, caustic sarcasm. By a reminder that they were a specialist unit brought in when negotiation failed. Instead Andy looked back at the sword, twisting it to catch the light. "Was it useful?"

"Yeah," Nile said, trying not to let the breath shudder out of her in one long exhale. She didn't want Andy to know how nervous she'd been. "There's a... a lotta conflicts that don't have to turn violent, if you just approach it in..." She ran out of steam for an instant, and shrugged. "If you know how to respond."

"See if there's a webinar," Andy said, which flabbergasted Nile so much—coming from Andy!—that she didn't have anything to say while Andy set the saber down and sauntered back out of the building.

Nile sat for a good long while after that, surrounded by swords on a floor stained with her own blood, and got her breathing under control. Eventually she took her knife out of its sheath and looked it over.

It felt silly, to take a sacred oath on a Ka-Bar knife.

"I swear to almighty God," she said to it, anyway, "that I will use you as my last resort. Not my first."

#nileweek2020 #nile freeman #the old guard #my stuff

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pinnithin-writes · 3 years

Text

The First: Aftermath (Part 4)

A collaborative work between myself and @reneethecyborg on what happened after Lupin III: The First. Part 4 of 4, 1405 words.

The pain after a heist is nothing new to Lupin. It’s part of the job. There’s always the stab in his hips from running and jumping and climbing, the ache in his shoulders from pushing and pulling and carrying, the throb in his wrists from drawing schematics and fiddling with locks, the headache from too many all-nighters spent planning and replanning and planning some more. It’s usually not quite this extreme, but still, these things come with the territory. Besides, some broken bones and angry joints are a small price to pay if it means the entire world is no longer in jeopardy.

At least the worst is over. And now the three of them are away from that whole mess, holed up in some hideout or another. Lupin’s pretty sure it’s one of his, based on what little he’s seen of the decor since they arrived, but these places all sort of bleed together in the post-work haze of pain and exhaustion. It’s been raining on and off since they got here (a few hours ago? yesterday? the day before?), which is nice. Would be nicer if he could sit by the window and watch, but the sound of it hitting the roof is almost as good. Goemon says hearing the rain is better, because of course he does.

The bed is also nice, though Lupin’s starting to resent being trapped in it. Big enough for all of them, with the pillows Goemon likes and the thick comforter Jigen likes. Now that Jigen’s back from his outing to town, he’s seen fit to make himself comfortable in his usual spot to Lupin’s right. “So,” he says, fluffing his pillow and propping it up so he can lean against the headboard, “I went and called Zenigata like you wanted, Lupin.”

“And?”

“Sounds like he’s up to his ears cleaning this up. I had to call five times before I got through.” Jigen smacks his pillow a few more times before he seems satisfied with it. “Told the receptionist I had information on the whereabouts of the Lupin gang, Zenigata’s ears only.”

Goemon goes ‘hm’ from his typical spot sitting cross-legged to Lupin’s left. “I suppose solving crimes generates a lot of paperwork.”

After several seconds of shuffling around, Jigen seems to find the most comfortable configuration of limbs and gets settled. “I told him to take a month or two off after this.”

“Wait, what? Why? That’s—” Taking a deep enough breath to get more than a few words out isn’t pleasant, but the great Lupin III won’t be silenced by a petty little thing like broken ribs. “That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it? Pops won’t be ready for our next job.”

The look Jigen aims his way would be scathing, if it weren’t coming from a guy lounging in his pajamas (who even wears nightshirts in this century?). “Hey, Lupin. Quick question. When, exactly, do you think our next job is going to be?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s being given a chance to save himself! How merciful. “...Not for another month or two?”

“Alright, good. Just making sure we have an understanding. You sounded kind of confused for a second there.” Jigen’s old mob ties come out in the strangest ways sometimes. With that, he does what Lupin sometimes mentally refers to as a big ol’ stretch, holding the pose until his back cracks. “The way I see it, none of us are doing jack shit for the next while—” he throws another pointed glance Lupin’s way, which Lupin dutifully pretends not to notice— “so we might as well let Pops off the hook too. He deserves a break, what with all the hell we put him through.”

Goemon nods sagely. “We do torment him quite often.”

He does have a point. Lupin can’t deny that they hassle Pops perhaps a bit more than necessary. “Yeah, but it’s good for him. Builds character.” It’s also made him a lot more crafty, but that’s the price you pay sometimes. Jigen’s very good stretch over there is making Lupin excessively aware of how stiff he’s gotten lying here all day; he makes a tentative attempt at stretching his arms, but that one shoulder muscle he can never remember the name of seizes up on him almost instantly.

In a perfect world, nobody would notice, but Jigen and Goemon have both very obviously noticed. Jigen manages to replicate his classic look of squinting at Lupin from under his hat, but it’s distinctly less threatening from under a nightcap. “You’ve been on bedrest half a day and you’re already pushing it, huh?”

“I’m fine. Just a spasm.” Everything’s back in its proper place now—insofar as it can be—but his joints still feel like they might fall apart again at a moment’s notice, and every muscle he can think of is either unbelievably sore or drawn so taut he can barely move without hurting himself. That’s pretty much to be expected, after such a beating. It’s been a long time since someone’s pummeled him this bad. With luck, it’ll be a long time before it happens again.

Jigen doesn’t seem terribly convinced that it’s fine, judging by his expression. With some grunts befitting his status as the world’s oldest twenty-something, he shifts to prop himself up on one arm—Lupin wishes he could do that right now without breaking something—and pokes around at the muscles in Lupin’s shoulder with his free hand. Always careful, always gentle. If he weren’t so tired, Lupin would try to string together something about a sharpshooter using his hands for caring instead of killing. “Christ, man, it’s like you’re made of stone. I’d look for knots, but I think you’re all knot. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“It’s not that bad. Most of the time I don’t even notice.” He’s noticing now, but these are extenuating circumstances.

“I’m not sure I buy that. You need one of those massages where they jab you with their elbows.”

“Are you volunteering, Jigen?”

He was mostly joking, but Jigen pauses in his proddings like he’s genuinely thinking it over. “Sure, why not.” Goemon opens one eye to fix Jigen with a stern look. “Later, though. When your ribs won’t turn to dust.”

“Alright, deal. As long as you don’t poke any holes in me with those pointy elbows of yours.” Jigen goes ‘tch’, as is his wont. “Maybe I will. Might deflate your ego a bit.”

Touché. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to pass character judgments, monsieur chemise.” He takes a chance and waves a hand at Jigen’s silly little nightshirt; his wrist twinges and pops, but holds firm.

Another noise of annoyance from Jigen. His French might not be great, but he knows enough to know when he’s being insulted. “At least I don’t wear vinyl pants.”

“You leave my pants out of this!”

“You’re the one who started an argument about clothes. Not my fault you think vinyl pants and leather suit jackets are a good combo.”

Lupin loses track of his very strong and argument-winning retort when he notices Goemon chuckling quietly at the two of them bickering like children over their respective poor fashion choices. It’s nice to just sit around talking about nothing. Part of the routine, really. The work is done, and now they can relax. This time yesterday, Lupin wasn’t sure he’d be around to do this when the dust settled. “...Listen, guys. I’m sorry about how all this turned out.”

The mood shifts a little, but not in a bad way. Jigen and Goemon exchange a look for a moment before Goemon speaks. “Nobody among us is at fault. We simply need to formulate our plans more carefully in the future.”

That’s a very tactful way of putting it. “I probably should’ve let you talk me out of the Hitler thing.”

Jigen makes a noise akin to shrugging. “I think that part was alright. One of us just should’ve gone with you to kill that prick before he got violent, is all.”

He has a point. Lupin’s usually not a fan of killing anybody, but even he can admit that there was really no other way for his tussle with Geralt to end. “Yeah, well. Next time.”

“There shouldn’t be a next time,” Jigen grumbles more than says.

“Sure, but with our luck? Within the year. Calling it now.”

“Well, now you jinxed it.”

Part 3 (by Pin) < --- Part 4 (by Cosma)

#ink #fanfiction #lupin iii #goemon ishikawa #daisuke jigen #lupin iii: the first

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poptod · 3 years

Text

The Breeding Kings, pt. 21

Description: The Hanging Gardens of Babel

Notes: there is an innate human need to be remembered for both accomplishments and person; for those thousands of years from now to look back and know that people have always been human. WC: 6.9k

He'd trained before, but this was different.

For one, he didn't usually have an audience, and second, he didn't usually have to respect his teacher, either. Tall buildings and their shadows that once surrounded them were now turned to dead gardens outside the manor of his employment, acting as a 'private' circle of study surrounded by the half-wall around the property.

He panted as he lifted himself to his feet, taking up his staff once more. The trainer was the head guard, Urtak, a man who Ahk was pretty sure did not like him, and who did nothing to try and negate that belief. Sometimes Ahk would complain about this to you and you'd try to comfort him, but now you just laughed whenever the guard knocked him to his back.

"Come now, Aganu," Urtak said, pacing and slamming the end of his staff against the hard ground, crackling into the dry earth. "Can't expect to protect Ukani's home and guests with this technique."

"I do not speak Akkadian," Ahk repeated for the fourth time that day, grunting as he jumped up again.

"He is saying you are a pussy!!" You yelled in Egyptian from the servant's quarters' roof.

"Thank you, Yogi," Ahk called sarcastically, a bitter smile on his face.

Ahk cast one annoyed glance in your direction before Urtak's staff was hooking behind his knee again, forcing him to the ground, again. His hands were scratched, red, and dry, irritated further by the rough ground and spiky plants below him. He took a deep breath––or as deep a breath as he could in the dust cloud––and took up his spear once more, facing Urtak with a malice lacing his parted lips. Years spent training would aid him now, but he drew a blank on how to approach his opponent.

Urtak's staff came whizzing down from above, aiming directly for his skull. Instinctively, Ahk whipped his own spear up, dislocating the staff's projectory. The guard tried a couple more times, coming down upon his midsection or legs in hopes of knocking Ahkmen back down to the ground. This time he blocked––though, it did take him a few more moves before he realized he could now parry in return.

Before attempting to strike at his side in any way, or to knock his balance off kilter, he stabbed the blunt end of his staff into Urtak's stomach, punching the breath out of him.

A distant 'WHOOO!' came from behind him and he laughed, glancing to you in time to see your grin and a lute swinging about in your hand. It gave ample distraction that led to Urtak taking revenge in an unconventional manner when it came to staff fights; he punched him in the face.

Ahkmen groaned loudly as he stumbled back, still on his feet but with his hands covering his nose and mouth. Something warm was dripping from his nose, and as he pulled his hands away he found blood, coating his skin in thick drops.

"Aaaaaand," your lute began to play a joyous little tune as you sang, "he get fuck in the face!"

"Those aren't even words!" Ahk yelled back through his laughter.

"Pay attention," Urtak said stiffly, bringing his staff to backslap Ahk's head.

Of course training had to come just when his bruises and aches were healing from falling over a tarp fence taller than his whole body. Now everything was back tenfold, aching from old pain and biting from new. The only good part was that now you were both being paid, meaning you could afford a couple luxuries, such as a lavender healing ointment you found on your way home from the brewery that day.

Ahkmen spent a good deal more of his freetime sleeping than you did, napping beneath the warm, mud roof, but safe from the burning rays of the sun. Birds tweeted about outside, their songs muffled through the thick walls. Flies managed to get inside. To his fortune, no one else was in the servant's quarters, and he could splay out on the biggest bed. He continued to doze in the warmth, resting his creaking joints until footsteps sounded through the dry underbrush, crunching beneath small feet.

"Aganu?" Came your soft voice, your knuckles knocking against the cool, clay doorway.

He let out a muffled moan, regretfully moving himself to sit up straight.

"How've you been, my dear?" He asked, sniffing to clear his still-bloody nose.

"Better than you," you said as you knelt beside him.

You carried several different things in your hands, including a damp cloth, a bandage, a small bottle of honey, and the ointment you bought without him.

"What's that?" He asked.

"For the scraping," you said, taking his hand and resting it in your lap palm up.

The cork popped out of the jar, tossed onto the bed as you poured some of the ointment onto your hands. Ahk watched in interest as you took his hand, washing his skin with the cool mixture, and partially burning the more sensitive cuts. He hissed as you passed over the largest.

"Do you think that this is good for you?" You asked as you looked up.

"What, the ointment or –"

"The fighting," you chuckled.

"Ah. Well, it has been good to rehearse some of my moves," he said with a shrug.

You nodded, continuing to massage the red marks.

"Then I can protect you better," he said.

"My little boy," you grinned, pinching his cheek with your lotion-clad fingers. He scrunched up his face, wiping the treatment away.

"I'm not a little boy," he said flatly.

"But you are my – or, mine," you said.

"A little." He nodded vaguely.

Your affections had been switching unpredictably the last few days, since around when he snuck into the King's garden, so he never knew how to react to certain things you said. Sometimes you would snap at him for things he hadn't ever considered, but other times, like this, you tied him to you, caring for wounded muscles and mind.

Once you were done with both his hands, you moved on to his scuffed knees, and gently rubbed the ointment in there. Again he flinched back, but you held him tight in place.

"What are you going to be doing for the party?" He asked after a few minutes of silence, spent convincing himself it'd be odd to reach forward and tangle his fingers in your unkempt hair.

"I am with the beer, and the food," you said, glancing up sparingly. "I am one of the people who does not talk the whole time."

"Oh, don't worry," he sighed, sitting back. "So am I."

It'd be the first event Ahk ever attended where he wasn't expected to look like a God, or to perform some heavenly speech that assured the listening people of his nation.

Later that same day it would be announced to the staff at large that a member of the royal family would be attending as an honored guest of the estate owner's––whose name was Ukani––three, triplet daughters. It was the first time Ahk had seen the identical girls, though you had clearly met them before judging by your glazed over expression. It was also announced that because of this, all the servants and guards would have to be wearing proper attire––something that fit a nobleman's party better than plain skirts and dirtied dresses.

Every servant in line let out a long groan, though most were subdued in the face of the stewardess. She glared down each of you thoroughly.

"I'm sure you'll be glad to learn these will be supplied for you. You won't need to get anything on your own," she said, and everyone seemed to fare much better with that.

She drilled into the eleven of you standing in that line––including yourselves and the other four new recruits–-that respect of the family and their friends was vital, and that employment would not last should that respect be breached. Ahkmen wondered as he watched her steely eyes if guards and servants were treated like this in his own home by the overseers; his personal servant, Naguib, hadn't said anything about it. Then again, Ahk never asked.

You were soon dismissed, and you and Ahk immediately went to each other.

"I do not like this," you said, crossing your arms. Clearly the dress code bothered you, even if it was financially stable.

"Don't worry," he chuckled, "I'm sure you'll look fine."

"I am not a doll."

"Really? You're small enough to be one –"

Before he could laugh at his own joke you punched him in the gut, laughing when he clutched his stomach. Of course, it didn't hurt all that much, but it did take him greatly by surprise.

Steaming buns filled with mashed dates smelled more heavenly than he ever could've imagined. The shop was only across the plaza from the brewery, as well––it gave him an ample opportunity to dash over, purchase a couple, and run back before you finished preparing the same batch throughout the ten you were starting today. Experiments never ended with you––continuous tests and studies had to be conducted.

He jogged down the steps, ducking beneath the tarp doorway with a cloth sack in hand; within it, the buns. The scent of broiling beer wafted thick in the small stirring room, the many fires of different bubbling pots warmed the area as well, and the heat remained trapped beneath the tarp ceiling. Sunlight poured in through gaps between the ceiling and the wall, illuminating wisps of smoke rising from a small plate of incense burning opposite the entrance. A few of the brewers discussed things quietly among themselves as he passed. Familiarity became this room; humid, almost unpleasantly warm, and smelling of nothing more than sweet, honeyed beer. And you.

"How's it coming?" Ahk asked, stopping in front of your stand, the warm desert in his hand clutched to his chest.

"Good, I am with the, uh..." you paused as you pumped the stir stick up and down through the thick malt, "the saffron."

"Smells nice," he said, earning a smile from you.

"Thanks many," you said.

He chuckled, shifting his weight as he looked bashfully down.

"Oh, I got you something," Ahk said after seeing the pouch again. He released the drawstring, pulling out one of the buns.

"Oooh," you said as you took it. "What is it?"

"Some sort of date dessert, I don't think I've ever tried one of these before."

Within the date paste were chewy nuts which, after a moment, tasted distinctly like pistachios. You hummed pleasurably with your first bite, your cheeks puffing out with how massive of a bite you'd taken.

Conversation continued throughout the couple rows of stirring pots, must of the words muffled beneath the churning of beer. Ahkmen finished his bun quicker than you did, and spun slowly round to scan the room before his attention fell back to you, watching as you finished.

"Good?" He asked with a chuckle.

"Very," you assured him.

More murmurs and whispers had him turning around again, trying to look for who was speaking in such noticeable whispers.

"What do you talk about all day with these people?" Ahk asked as he spun back round to you, his hands on his hips.

"I do not talk much," you admitted. "I do not talk good in Akkadian, but I do hear what they say."

"So... what do they talk about?"

"Oh, they have parents, and children, and lovers... and they have the beer, also. They, uh.. they do talk about you," you added hesitantly.

"Me?" He asked incredulously.

He turned around and, sure enough, two women's eyes darted from the back of his head down to their work.

"Wait, why?" He asked, suddenly horrified by the products of his imagination. So much so that he didn't notice his hands gripping the lip of your pot, soon to be burned by the heat. Once he noticed, he ripped his hands away, scanning the red marks on his palms

"Aganu, do not do that," you said in a tired sigh, clunking the spoon down in the bowl.

You stepped down from your stool, taking him by his wrist and leading him over to a corner of the brewery stocked with shelves. The class and clay bottle clinked together brightly as you shuffled through them, expertly finding a small, black bottle with an equally adorable cork. A pop came from it as you pulled it out, placing your finger over the mouth and shaking it upside down.

"What is that?" He asked quietly as he looked over your shoulder.

"It is an oil, for burns," you said, concentrating greatly as you organized the cork, the bottle, and your oil-covered finger onto one hand.

"Oh. Does it happen a lot?"

"Yes," you said with an irate groan that had Ahk chuckling. "Harmu come in here and make love words with the women, and – and take them off the beer, and that makes the batch fail. That is a lot of barley, gone."

"Ah," he breathed out.

While you talked you took his hand, displaying the burnt palm and coating it with the oil on your finger. Since there was only a little bottle of it, you used very little with each dip into the oil, and thus had to flip the bottle much more frequently over your finger.

"It is still okay to eat, but it is not good at all," you said, shaking your head.

"You've tried it then?"

"I have smelled it," you said.

He belted out a laugh.

"Am I one of the... what did you call them? Harmu?"

"Yes, uh... fuck, what is it in Egyptian?" You closed your eyes, your face screwed up in a frown. "I can only remember the Akkadian and the Harappan."

"But am I one of them?

You looked up, almost surprised by his question.

"Oh, no, you do not make love with women here," you said.

Ahkmen sighed very, very deeply, just barely staunching the circus of laughter in his chest.

"Please don't say that again."

The whole of the incident was forgotten by the time you were walking home, bathed in the shadow of the tall city walls. Most of the stores you passed were now closed, making way for warm nights and a hot meal, the latter of which you looked forward to. It took a little getting used to, but eventually the porridge-type beer served at the estate rubbed off on you.

Until then, you wandered through the streets of Babylon, absorbing the colors bursting around you, before sinking into the quiet of night once more.

By the time the stone walls of the estate came into view, life around you had dimmed into such quiet moments resigned to the windows of nearby houses. Crickets chirped in the absence of thundering footsteps.

Neither of you spoke much––sometimes commentating on stray cats or dogs, or the bugs that jumped in and out of view, but little more than that. Part of it was Ahkmen's doing, as he was usually the first to say something, and as of right now he was far too absorbed in his own thoughts to make any such conversation. But, like usual, he was still engrossed in you, dreaming of something that came to his sleepy mind a few hours ago.

"Husband!" You suddenly exclaimed, your eyes widening as recognition washed over you.

"What??"

"That is the word I did not know, harmu, it is husband," you said with a grin.

"Ohh," he said. "You scared me."

"Sorry," you said, and leant into him, holding his arm to your chest.

Ah, right. That's what a heart palpitation felt like, beating wildly in his chest at the feeling of your heat. Even in the warm evening he revelled in the touch. So maybe it was alright, he reasoned––maybe you really had forgiven him, and done readily so, leaving Ahk himself to build this discomfort in your presence that fed off his uncertainty.

Perhaps he should live more in the moment––that is what he thought, and he debated it greatly during your small dinner atop the servant's quarters roof.

The two of you chewed in silence for a little while, enjoying the warmth of the porridge as quiet murmurs below you broke the creaking of crickets. Someone down in the quarters was plucking at a lute, but made no particular melody, and Ahk imagined them leant back on their bed, their head pressed against the wall and their eyes closed as they played. It'd been a while since he'd heard you play, and he'd never heard you actually sing before for purposes other than making fun of him.

While he listened he stared ahead at the city's silhouette, from the dips marking streets to the towers reaching the Milky Way. He squinted to see the steps of a pyramid––not entirely unlike the step pyramid of Djoser––and frowned when he couldn't identify its' use. Temples were built in the form of ziggurats in Babylon, not pyramids.

It hit him after a few more seconds of staring, and before he could think it through he blurted something out that he couldn't quite hear.

"I think we should go see one of the gardens here," he said, recogniing the vines and flora that draped from the steps of the tower. "They've been taunting me lately with their grandeur."

You chuckled, leaning back and saying, "okay... but I have garden work, here, tomorrow."

"Of course. Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, always," you said with a nod.

"You said the women talk about me. What do they say?" He asked.

"Oh," a smile spread across your face as you looked away, "oh, not any words too bad. It is... you do not speak Akkadian, that is not right for them, you know? And you do have clothes a little... um, not Karanduniash. You speak only to me and all you say to them is I do not know Akkadian in Akkadian. That is also a little..."

"Strange?" He offered.

"A little," you nodded, shrugging in hopes of lessening the blow.

"I've never been strange before," he said quietly.

"What?" You looked up from the floor to meet his eye.

"Well, my father was rich so a lot of people treated me with great respect. If I wanted to I could have had hordes of friends and followers, so it was definitely my own choice to stay to myself," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hands as he spoke and you nodded along with him.

"I had thought people did not like you," you admitted.

"What, why??" He said, suddenly horrified. His reaction had you belting out a laugh.

"You had one, mean friend, and Panya did not like you, too," you said with another apologetic shrug.

"Well when you put it like that," he said, and the both of you devolved into giggles.

When you calmed down there was less space between you, your dishes set to the side as you inched closer.

"Did Panya ever talk about me?" He asked, inquisitive eyes scanning you thoroughly.

"A little," you nodded. "She says... you did mean things when you were.. young. Piye did, too."

"Piye said I was a bad person?"

"No, only that you had things when you were young," you assured him. "But good things, also. You are... kind, in heart."

Your attention glazed over, and Ahk watched with uncertainty as you reached forward, setting your hand over his trembling heart. He could feel your hand moving with how hard his heart beat, trying desperately to calm himself as skin met flushed skin.

Fingers trailed down his bare chest until you withdrew your hand entirely, finally looking back up at him with gleaming eyes.

"I think you are good, still if you say the words wrong, you are good at heart," you said in a sudden need to assure him of his own humanity.

It acted as an apology in your eyes, but to him he saw nothing but love, and his heartbeat increased tenfold. What summer nights brought about amidst the bugs and acquaintances murmuring below.

Coins jingled in his pocket as he made his way through the streets, weaving through thick crowds to reach the center marketplace. He bid good-bye to you several minutes earlier, leaving you to work on the estate's garden, while Ahkmen enjoyed his freetime away from the masters. His clothes, perfectly suited to blend in with the locals, also hid away his various bags of grain and coins that he would use as payment, and the dagger strapped to his hip.

There was no particular aim he had in mind as he walked, eyes darting from the indecipherable shop signs to the various people spending their morning out on the streets. He would, at times, come across small trios or couplets of musicians who filled up the space between loud conversations, bringing to the chaos a sort of art. High flutes played in tune with deep lyres, the instruments made of a cheaper wood more easily afforded by the lower classes. But the bustle of traders and merchants could still be heard clearly throughout the noise, calling out prices and wares, and advertising the many products sold within the streets of Babylon.

Babylon had, like Egypt, somehow retained much of its' prosperity despite the trying times. Rapiqum and the cities of Canaan––Jericho and Jerusalem––suffered much worse; a lack of water befalling the people who resided in the starved cities. But the river Euphrates never strayed from Babylon, and had continued to run through the city in plentiful waves.

The water of the Euphrates was said to be tears. Tears from the primorial Goddess, whose name Ahk couldn't recall. He frowned as he looked over the edge of the terrace, leaning on a white stone railing that separated him from a ten foot drop into the swirling waters below, lined with the blue tile of the city's gates. From the even decorations on either side, Ahk correctly assumed that it marked the water level of a typical year; the water currently ran an arm's length below the mark. He let out a long sigh, his fingers digging into the railing.

At the sight of this Ahk couldn't help but imagine the Nile falling to such depths. Each year brought forth a differing inundation, making it hard to truly worry about the water level. But years of this would dry the farmlands, polluting the cities with dry, infertile dirt, and ridding of the already scant shade along the Nile's shores. Birds would leave in droves, and antelope would follow the scent of water to more fruitful lands.

He didn't notice how tight his grip on the rail grew until the plaster cracked, the pop drawing his attention back to his intense glare and gritted jaw. A couple of the people stopping at the riverside gave him odd looks, some of them scooting away from him, at which point he released all the tension in his body and stepped quickly away, heading back into the western city.

He once again found himself in one of the city's many center circles, allowing shopfronts to spread out in multitudes to present their wares. Nearly all the shops were open at this time, since it was around noon, and Ahk could hardly hear his own thoughts with the rampant conversation and shouts surrounding him. A headache sprouted in his knotted brow from the confused––or irritated––expression on him.

"Lost, are you?"

"Who the f–"

Ahk whipped around to see who had spoken, mostly because it was in Egyptian, only to find a dissapointingly familiar face.

"Oh. You," Ahk said stiffly, crossing his arms as he stopped dead in the center of the moving crowd, the Kassite Prince standing across from him with a smile.

"I thought you looked a little lonely out here," he said, taking several, leisurely steps forward. "All by yourself."

"Listen, you and I do not know each other," Ahk said, taking his movement as a challenge and stepping forward till he truly faced the shorter prince. "Stop talking to me in public."

"You should feel honored I ever speak to you at all," he retorted.

Ahkmen internally groaned. Did others feel this way when they spoke to him during his childhood? The Kassite Prince did seem to be a little younger than Ahk, though not by much.

"Don't you have Kings in Egypt?" the Prince continued.

"Pharaohs. And I'm fully aware they do, I just never liked them," Ahk lied sourly, his lips pursed tight together.

"That gold on your arm says otherwise," he said, gesturing with his chin to the gold band wrapped round his bicep.

"Who even are you?"

"The Prince, you –"

"I know that," Ahk interrupted him. "I meant your name."

The Kassite Prince hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the question.

"You know what? I don't care," Ahk said after another second of silence, throwing his hands up in the in defeat, and turning round and walking away.

"Hey!" The prince called out in a whine, but the crowd already welled up in the space between them. "My name's Rimush!"

"And my name's Fuck You," Ahk muttered beneath his breath.

Incense from Elam. Considering your interest in other cultures, and the magic ongoings of said cultures, Ahk took the guess that you would enjoy a hint of the travel yet to come. You still had beer batches you had to finish, and Ahk was enjoying his time returning to combat training, eagerly memorizing each move and doing it thoroughly as he imagined besting any creature that dared to hurt you. There was no need to hurry yourselves to Elam, but there still lingered a curiosity in you and Ahkmen. Priest teachers in Egypt never spoke much about Elam considering the distances between the two countries. Imports reached further than power, however, so Ahk actually had used Elamite incense before, and recalled it as being pleasant. You'd like it, he thought.

Incense progressed into talismans and tools, till his poor money-managing skills led him to carrying three bags worth of things, some for you, and some for himself. Most for you, though. He burned a bright red as he walked back to the estate, already knowing how you'd laugh, rocking back in your seat as he revealed your effect on him even without your presence. But it would be worth it to see the hidden delight in your twinkling eyes.

"Aganu, do you know how many necklaces you have give me?" You asked, about ten minutes after you asked what the thing in your hand was, and he answered 'necklace'.

"No, I wasn't really counting," he said, lifting himself out of his own bag to look over your shoulder.

You sat on his bed, you at the head and him on the side, his legs still planted on the ground. Two of the bags were now empty, their contents scattered in piles around the sheets, all of which belonged to you. Ahk kept his own belongings in a separate bag on the floor.

"This is ten and six necklaces," you said as you held up the mass of necklaces, looking more like tiny, black and brown worms rather than jewelry, the sight of which had giggles bubbling up in both of you.

"Sorry?" He said through his chuckling.

"No, no, I love," you said, setting to untangling them.

It took nearly ten minutes but eventually the two of you untangled all of them, only for you to put every last one of them around your neck, tangling them back around on your chest. You flashed a dizzying grin once you wore all his gifts.

"It's still early," he stuttered out, his face slowly warming with blood as he found himself unable to look away from you, or the sunlight streaming through the door that illuminated your soft skin. "Do you think today'll work for the garden?"

"Oh, yes," you said, straightening your back. "Yes, that is good!"

He chuckled, averting his eyes to his fidgeting fingers.

Tamarisk trees flanked the entrance of the tower, still scraping the sky with the tallest terrace overflowing with leaves of green. The throes of a dying sun painted the white pillars red and orange, burning like flames that would surely overtake the city, but still cooled by the high-up winds that brushed against the hanging trees and flowers.

A wide arch greeted you, acting as a massive entrance leading into a tall room overflowing with grasses, reeds, and bushes. Most of them you recognized instantly––herbs of special sorts, both from Mesopotamia and from far away. You picked those you recognized, stuffing the leaves and roots into one of your many pockets. Ahkmen chuckled at your behavior, but still stopped at your side to allow your collecting, which continued to the stairs carved in a polished, white stone, massive lamassu statutes towering above you. They popped right out of the stone, empty eyes staring straight down into Ahk.

"Wow," he said, earning a hum from you.

"It is like Egypt," you said.

He turned to you with a frown.

"How so?"

"Big, stone cat, with a man head," you said, pointing up at the human fae.

"Oh," he turned back to the statue, "I suppose you're right."

A couple came down the stairs, pressed tightly together when they noticed you. The two of you also drew closer, and began to head up the stairs, watching for the new flora that bloomed out of seemingly nothing.

Lines of arches whose pillars were carved in intricate patterns led to the wind of open air rustling through the trees, willows and their long tendrils dancing and entangling themselves with the flowers of nearby vines. Water clung to the air around you, kept humid and warm in the strange, and surely intentional, dome of a ceiling. Yet more stairs sat behind you, meaning the next floor must've been built higher than the ceiling of the second floor.

Fruits––though most of them small––grew on the low bushes and on high trees, their blooming colors matching the many petals of white, red, gold, and deep purple. You soon discovered the reason for the small fruits was that the other people roaming throughout the terraces picked the larger, more ripened ones, eating them as they wandered about. You soon did the same, picking a small plum and offering part of it to Ahk. He took a couple bites before handing it back to you.

At the brush of your fingers, his heart did not speed––not like before, and he melted into the familiarity, into the warmth he memorized in your touch. Without much thought he took your hand, entwining your fingers sticky with fruit sugar together. When you didn't try to pull away, he pushed down the excitement that was quick to fill his chest, but allowed himself a small smile.

A woman picked fruit from a tree in front of your path, but when he accidentally caught her eye, she hurried off with her basket in hand. Ahk looked up to where she'd been tending, and found large, red pomegranates hanging abundantly from the flimsy tree.

Moving up to his toes, he picked one of the fruits and handed it to you.

"Ever had a pomegranate before?" He asked when you just held it, staring at it in your hands.

"That is this?" You said as you raised it.

"Indeed so. My brother and I used to split it."

"You had a brother??" You asked incredulously.

"Did I never tell you?"

"No," you said. Obviously.

"Alright, well, before he started really hating me, we'd sometimes sneak out into the market and split food, since we couldn't find enough money to pay for an overzealous amount," Ahk explained.

At the very end of his sentence you took a massive bite into the raw peel, instantly frowning when you bit into something fleshy and bitter. Ahkmen, who took a second to notice this, quickly took the fruit from you with a gasp. A large bitemark was already in the fruit.

"That – that's not how you eat pomegranates," he stammered, digging his thumbs into the new-revealed fruit, and splitting it open to reveal the seeds within.

"It is bad," you said, your expression still contorted uncomfortably.

"Spit it out!"

You spit your bite into the nearby bushes, earning cold stares from the couple of people who saw. Their gazes had you shrinking in on yourself.

"Don't worry about it," Ahk said quietly, setting a hand on your back. "I would definitely have done the same thing."

The two of you split the pomegranate, and Ahkmen showed you that it was the fruit-covered seeds that were the truly consumable part. You ended up enjoying them quite a bit, and the one pomegranate lasted you throughout the whole of the marble and limestone garden terrace, following you up the stairs till nothing remained but the shell. Ahk tossed the remains away, and the two of you continued onwards.

Eventually the air began to cool with the ascending floors, and Ahk's Egyptian clothes––which he'd worn that day because he had no work––ceased to fit the temperature, landing Ahk with a soured look and goosebumps coming up constantly on his arms that were crossed tight over his chest.

"Awwwh, you are cold?" You asked in a saccharine voice, after Ahk spent ten minutes wondering if you noticed his shivering.

Your attention did feel better, but not enough.

"A little," he said.

"You do want my coat?" You offered, already setting to undoing the buttons set high on the stiff, red and gold fabric neck.

"No, no, don't trouble yourself," Ahk said quickly, unwrapping his arms from himself to shake his hands no.

"That is okay," you said after a moment. "I do not think it would go in your big arms."

"You think my arms are big?" He squeaked out, looking down at his bicep, which had grown slightly more toned after several training sessions.

"Well, you..." you poked his left bicep, "are big."

"How kind of you, Yogasundari," he said with a massive grin, looking down at you like you lit up the sky.

"Shut up," you said as you pushed him away, earning a loud laugh from him.

"What a show you put on," came a voice from behind you. "I'm almost embarrassed to be seen talking to you."

Ahk groaned––externally this time––and turned slowly around, his dull eyes meeting the Prince Rimush's plotting expression.

"Then stop talking to us," Ahk said, setting his left arm around your shoulder and directing the both of you back forward.

"You've got me there," Rimush said and, to Ahk's great dismay, ran to catch up with you and Ahk, standing at Ahkmen's right. "I just can't dismiss how wonderful of a whore you would make."

Ahk shot you an odd look, but you just shrugged.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked with a glare.

"Well, you've got the body for it, and you clearly don't care about showing a little skin," he said, a smirk creeping across his face.

"You know, I don't complain that you're a little brat and that I wish I could subjugate you. Maybe you could do the same," Ahkmen said.

Rimush just laughed, throwing his head of curly, black hair back.

"Who is this man?" You whispered to Ahk while the other was distracted.

"Some idiot I've seen a couple times. He's just a dick."

"I am a Prince, thank you," Rimush interrupted with a cocked brow.

"Okay, Prince Dick," Ahk said, rolling his eyes.

Rimush's mouth fell open as he stared at Ahk, stopping dead in his step. You and Ahk spared him no mercy, and continued forward, leaving the Kassite Prince behind, but only for a moment. He soon ran back up to join you, drawing a heavier-yet groan from Ahkmen.

"Oh come on, don't be like that," he said, hitting Ahk's chest.

"Would you please leave? I'm trying to spend an evening alone with my – my..." Ahk trailed off, his eyes darting to you and back to Rimush.

"Tunae," you suggested, and despite not knowing what the hell you were talking about, he agreed.

"Alright, very well," Rimush said with a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. "But I'd still like to invite you to an event within a few weeks, if you're not too busy... staring at each other."

"Clever," Ahk said flatly.

"It's at Ukani's estate. One of our high priests, a good friend of my father's," the Prince continued.

It took a moment, but the words oh fuck rolled over Ahk's already irritated mind.

"We'll already be there," Ahk said. "We work for the man."

"Oh, wonderful. I hope you're doing some of the dancing, then," Rimush said, and his eyes raked over Ahk again. "I've heard the dancers are dressed in only the finest and thinnest of silks."

"I guess you'll find out," Ahk replied in the same, flat tone.

The two of you, now pressed tightly together, didn't move or speak till Rimush's unkempt locks disappeared down the stairway. At that point Ahk let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding, and returned his attention chiefly to you.

"He is a prince?" You asked as you picked up your stroll once more.

"Yes, somehow."

"We must be good to him," you said.

"Uh... why?" Ahk asked, wanting to do the exact opposite.

"You said, in Egypt, to go with what the power says, the Kings and that," you said, and his eyes drifted shut.

"I did say that, didn't I," he mumbled.

Now that those conventions weren't upholding his status and were there instead to crush him, well––things seemed a little different on the earth than it did in the clouds, and his thought process worked just the same.

Both of you fell quiet after that, wandering in silence throughout the climbing terraces. Trees of figs, dates, melons, plums, and pears lined the walkway, beside softly running streams pouring their lifeforce into the plants. After several minutes, and a couple floors later, Ahk finally gathered up enough gall to take your hand again. Instantly your fingers tangled into his, and he noted with great pride the smile tugging at the corners of your blushing lips.

The very top of the tower overlooked the whole of the city, from the ziggurats to the outer walls, and to the town-like structures stretching onwards from Karanduniash. The Euphrates continued on endlessly, splitting the land before you in two as wind blew with the force to disrobe you.

People who walked down below were no larger than the ochre dot on your forehead, and moved about as slow as an ant crawling to get to its' hive. Ahk was the only one that could truly watch them, as you were uneasy whenever you leant over the garden's edge, and saw the ground below at a height tall enough to kill you. Instead you crossed you arms, whining whenever Ahk got too close and appeared to be close to falling off.

"Do not be dumb," you said with a frown, your folded arms helping keep your clothes tight to your body.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," he said, leaning just enough over the sheer cliff to see the terraces built beneath you, and those who stood on the edge just as he did.

"I would like to worry about that, thank you," you said matter-of-factly.

Ahkmen chuckled but relented, returning to your side in the center of the highest floor. Despite the plant's water coming from far below you, the creek still ran through the last terrace, feeding the scant trees and brush that could survive the overbearing winds. The bells of rushing water accompanied him as he took your hands, holding them gentle in his own.

"You know I adore you, don't you?" He said, scanning your expectant eyes.

"What does a door do with this?"

"No, not -" he giggled with warming cheeks, "not a door. Adore. It means to care for something deeply, to admire it in a way."

"Ohhh, yes, I did hear this, I only forgot. Sorry," you said with your own sheepish chuckle.

"No need to apologize. I just want you to remember that."

"What adore is saying?"

"No, that I adore you," he said, and despite his screw-ups rushing blood to his face, he knelt before you to more easily meet your eye.

Looking up to you was a special sort of reverence. His bare knee dug into the fertile earth, his other kept up near his chest as he craned his neck to hold your gaze. You appeared, for a moment, to be entirely quiet, wide eyes staring wordlessly down at him. Even the breath in your chest ceased to move.

In the past, you had bowed before many people––passing Kings and High Priests, masters, and your own family in celebrations for the new year. The view from above was quite different from the one below, and you were allowed movement.

You gently pulled one of your hands out of his hold. His empty hand fell like muslin to his lap, a feeling replicated in warm, tingling sensations when your thumb stroked over his jawline. Eyes fluttered shut once more as he leant into your touch, melting when the whole of your palm rested on his flushed cheek.

"Look at me," you said softly, and Ahk raised his head, opening his eyes. "Know my face."

"I've already memorized it," he replied in a murmur.

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x female reader #ahkmenrah x male reader

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applsauss · 4 years

Text

Yellow, Warm

Description: You’re hurt on a mission, and wake up the next day hungry.

Fandom: Avengers

 Pairing:  Tony Stark/Reader

Word Count:  1.3k+

Warning(s): Mention of Injury (Reader’s).

A/N: My brain says Avengers: Endgame happened. My heart says time stopped after Avengers: Age of Ultron and everyone lives in Avengers Tower and eats family dinner on Fridays...

A strip of sunlight is hitting the foot of the bed when you wake. The rest of the room is soaked in a damp darkness - but there, just where your toes peek out from the covers, it’s warm. Just so. The deep, yellow sort.

You curl your fists into the warm covers and wiggle your toes. Tony never could figure out how to close the curtains all the way; was always, and still is, too above the struggles of the common man. You wrinkle your nose. It’s endearing; It’s annoying; It’s Tony.

As your mind slowly pulls itself from deep sleep, you realize a couple things in meandering succession.

One; Tony chose a west-facing room to specifically avoid being woken by the sun, meaning the light entering the room is from late-afternoon-to-sunset sunshine.

Two; your body aches like you’ve been bulldozed by the Incredible Hulk, and Bruce Banner, holding the same grudge, shorted your morphine supply.

You try and sit up, but your movements are halting. Slowly, slowly, you ease up so your feet are hanging off the bed, and you drag an exhausted hand across your stomach, scratching slightly around the patches of gauze to relieve the crawling, itching feeling that’s settled around your treated wound. Maybe it wasn’t the Incredible Hulk, but a superhuman with a serrated knife will certainly do you in all the same. Everytime you breathe, it feels like someone’s stabbed you a second time.

Driven by your demanding bladder and stomach, you tug a thick sock back into place, awkwardly having to avoid stretching or scrunching your midsection completely; fetch a second from under the covers; then carefully stand, wobbling a bit on the balls of your feet when you do.

Stretching proves difficult, but necessary. You moan when your shoulders pop and crack your knuckles, careful of the muddy bruising blooming on them. But it doesn’t chase away all the aches. Your muscles groan in a baritone throb and your joints crack with movement. The dry taste of blood remains in your mouth, and your eyes refuse to stay open long enough for you to gather any concrete images of your surroundings, leaving you with a blurry and dark impression resembling Tony’s room, rather than it’s reality as you fumble your way into the ensuite bathroom.

You have to pause in the middle of washing your hands as a wave of nausea washes over you. You fall forward and hold the edge of the counter in a white-knuckled grip. When’s the last time you ate? You keep a groan caged behind your clenched teeth. Your stomach is so empty it almost hurts worse than the stitches.

When the bout passes, you scrub your face with cold water, then wonder idly where Tony might be. You already know his kitchen will be void of food, the bastard is barely human as it is, and the thought of asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. for anything makes indignation flare up in your chest. You’re perfectly capable on your own.

After a moment of intense deliberation, you decide you could probably make it to the communal kitchen. There’s always pizza in the fridge - And you’re hurting; with any luck you’ll run into Tony on the way.

Your trip to the door of Tony’s suite is quick, but saps most of your strength from you by the time you’re fumbling with the lock.

Halfway through the first hallway, your knees nearly give out, and once you reach the elevator, you’re heaving and gripping fiercely at your own forearms, fighting back the pain and fatigue. A bit of your confidence dims.

You step out of the elevator, and suddenly you’re freezing. Your feet begin to drag, and the fabric of your sock catches on an edge of a floor tile, nearly sending you to the ground.

You realize you’re gasping for air. Your vision blurs. Your head feels hot. You lower yourself to the floor and crawl towards the wall, so you can rest your back against it. You just need to catch your breath, you convince yourself as your head lulls back against the wall. Not for the first time, you find yourself cursing Tony’s inability to keep any substantial food in his suite’s kitchenette.

You blink your heavy eyes open and realize you’re not sure which hallway you’re in. Faded amber sunlight pours in through the windows on the wall in front of you, unfittingly beautiful, and it makes you feel out of place, a bundle of pain surrounded completely by heaven.

The sunset casts the hallway in an odd light, making it feel like shouldn’t really exist, like you’re intruding on something special. You suck in a sharp, cold breath, and the action forces a pained gasp to rush from your lungs.

White pain is centered in your stomach wound, and pulsing steadily out into the rest of your body like a wave of needles. Idly, you settle a hand over it, close your eyes, and try to will it away. The color red glares at you from the back of your eyelids, a parting gift from the light of the sun, and it’s warmth encases you completely now, the air buzzing around you like cicadas in the evening.

You’re vaguely aware that all of New York is splayed out in front of you, visible from the top levels of Stark Tower. You try and open your eyes, but find they’re glued shut, and the gentle warmth of the sun is melting you into the floor. Unconsciousness begins to tug at the edges of your thoughts, unravelling them as you lose focus.

You think of Tony, reveling in the sun when he has a moment of genuine respite. You and him had a rocky start, but you just liked him so much - he’s funny, and deep down, he’s earnest.

When you were in college, you’d joke about getting a sugar daddy. You think that your relationship with Tony is sort of like that, but also not because you don’t want what money can buy and Tony gives you everything because he has everything -- loves you earnestly, deep down.

You hiss as pressure is applied to your stomach, and you pour every ounce of strength you have left into opening your eyes, only to find Tony kneeling next to you, his gaze cradling you in deep concern.

“Tony…” You whisper his name.

He frowns, and you drag a heavy hand up to grip his forearm. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asks, moving a hand behind your head to support your weak neck.

You grin weakly up at him. “Got hungry.”

His serious facade breaks as he laughs, the skin around his eyes wrinkling and his lips drawing thin in a warm smile. He pulls your hand that’s cradling your wound up to his lips to brush a chaste kiss against your knuckles, then says, “darling, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” You look down at your stomach, then shrug. “S’not so bad,” you say, when in reality you’re fighting viciously with the sudden urge to cry at his handling of you. He’s earnest, deep down. He loves you, and he doesn’t say it a lot, but you can tell. It makes you love him so much, twice as much, you hold your breath to keep yourself from spilling out over him.

Of course he notices your sudden change in demeanor. “What is it?” he asks, seriousness returning.

You shake your head and swallow thickly. “S’nothing. Jus’ happy you’re here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay. come on --” He drags you up by your forearms so you’re standing, swaying on your feet, then collects you into his arms. “Friday, let the medbay know we’re coming.”

“I’m fine, Tony,” you whine, but you’re beginning to think that maybe you’re not. You’re freezing, and it’s mildly concerning.

“‘Course you are,” he grunts as he calls the elevator with the toe of his shoe. It takes him three tries.

“Let me get that for you, Mr. Stark,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. sarcastically comments as the doors open.

You laugh, and set your head on Tony’s shoulder, turning your face so you can bury your nose in his neck and shoulder. He says something sardonic you don’t pay attention to. He’s warm. You close your eyes. He’s warm. The deep, yellow sort.

Masterlist in Desc.

#avengers #tony stark #tony stark x reader #avengers x reader #marvel #marvel x reader

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snelbz · 5 years

Text

“You should have ruined me when you had the chance.” {Nessian Angst/Smut, Tag Team}

A/N: You all knew we’d be hitting you with the smut soon enough. And you knew exactly who it’d be. Tag team with the always amazing @tacmc. It feels good to be back. :)

Warning: Rated M.

Cassian hit the bag in front of him with so much force that it ripped the anchor from the ceiling and the bag went flying. He watched as it slid to a stop across the gleaming, marble floors but he never dropped his stance. Almost like he was waiting for the bag to get up. Almost like it might fight back.

Cass, he heard the voice in his mind. We’re just about ready on our end. How soon can you be here?

The issue with having a daemati for a High Lord - and even worse, a best friend - meant that when Rhys was in his head, even if he tried, he could always tell when Cassian wasn’t being completely truthful. So often, rather than answering, Cassian let down his mind’s shields and fully allowed Rhys to see his surroundings. He felt that watchful gaze in his mind’s eye zero in on the downed bag across the room. There was a question in his mind, but whatever it was Rhys let it go before Cassian could fully hear it.

Ah, the midnight voice chuckled, so a bath before anything else, that much is clear. Meet us at the townhouse at noon?

He nodded once, an answer that Rhysand clearly accepted, since an instant later, Cassian knew he was well and truly alone in the training room high above Velaris once again.

With a heavy sigh, Cassian thudded across the room and picked up the bag with one, taped up hand. He thought about hanging it back up, but tossed it in the corner instead. He’d do it tomorrow. Today he could care less.

He found a thin rag draped over the back of the chair in the corner and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then the back of his neck. He tossed it in the corner, along with the punching bag, and left.

The halls were quiet. Everyone had made note, with the exception of his intrusive High Lord, to give Cassian space. He had a temper, he knew as much, and no one quite got under his skin like she did.

Just the thought of her made him want to turn around and head back to the training room, and rip the punching bag he’d tossed in the corner to shreds.

Instead, he continued on until he found himself standing on the balcony of the House of Wind and closing his eyes in the bright morning sun.

He didn’t know what time it was, didn’t know how close to noon he was creeping.

As he spread his wings in a long, smooth stretch, Cassian debated just how crucial that bath before their departure was.

It was then that he smelled himself and decided a bath was non-negotiable.

A full Court trip was something that was very, very carefully planned. Azriel was wound tighter than Cassian had ever seen him, the more so since Elain announced her early pregnancy 4 months ago. Now, as she was nearing the end tox her second trimester, he was a wreck. He hated to be away from her for any longer than necessary, so making sure that Adriata was safe and that the Summer Court wasn’t waiting to ambush was draining on him.

But finally, the long-awaited day has arrived. Amren had agreed to stay and keep the city safe, as long as Varian agreed to come help.

Feyre would be going, of course, as High Lady and as a female that hated to be kept in Velaris when something important was going on elsewhere, more so since she became a mother herself. Feyre not only wanted to protect her people, her family, but now her son. Their toddler would stay with Elain, whom Rhysand deemed the only person in all of Prythian that he trusted to watch his young heir.

And then the face of the last person joining their trip popped into Cassian's mind as he turned on the hot water and removed his pants.

Piercing blue-gray eyes, narrowed in annoyance, haunted him as he settled into the large porcelain tub. He tilted his head back against the lip of the tub, stretching his wings out wide. The heat of the water soothed the aches that were settling into the cartilage and membranes of his wings and he carefully took one in his hand and looked at it. He held it up to the open window, seeing what Feyre always described as she watched them fly.

Reddish-gold shone through, darker at the joints, thinner, so, so thin, where it was stretched tight.

His wings, however…

His wings were marred. There were other jagged scars every few inches. A brand to show just how close he’d come to losing his wings, to losing his life.

To losing her.

He thought about it often, the war with Hybern, everything that had led up to that point.

Not much had changed in the years that passed, not even after they had returned from the Illyrian camps. Not when it came to where he stood with Nesta Archeron, anyway. Time and time again he would think that he broke through to her, that she would let him in.

But he was always disappointed.

He went back to examining the painful beauty of his wings. He had lived for hundreds of years, and all he had to show for it were those damned scars.

Cassian untied his hair and sunk beneath the warm water. He stayed there for a moment, holding his breath. His eyes opened to see the clouded ceiling of the washroom as he pulled himself back up, just as a soft knock came on the washroom door.

Cassian’s shoulders tensed.

He’d know her scent anywhere.

“I’m bathing,” Cassian mumbled. “Rhysand’s request.”

The door pushed open anyway and Nesta stood on the threshold. “Still pissed?”

Cassian draped an arm over the side of the tub and was slightly disappointed when Nesta’s eyes remained locked with his own.

“Didn’t expect to see you until we leave,” was all Cassian replied.

Nesta slipped into the room and shut the door behind her with a soft click. Cassian tried to seem relaxed, tried to sink a little lower into the water, but every part of him tensed up as she closed the two of them in together.

They’d enjoyed each other’s bodies in the Illyrian Mountains. It became almost a type of reward for Nesta after she’d finish a hard day of training. It would always begin as a massage to soothe her aching muscles and end with an orgasm.

She never stayed in his bed once.

She never slept in his arms once.

She never gave him more than a single glance over her shoulder.

But her insults lessened. The attacks on his person and moral character eventually weren’t as barbed, as sharp. They were meant to poke at him, not to stab.

She began to seem as if she even enjoyed his presence.

Yet she still wouldn’t accept the bond.

“Come to join me?” Cassian asked, unable to stop the subtle bite in his voice.

“No,” Nesta said between gritted teeth. “I came to…”

Cassian waited, but Nesta refused to meet his gaze as her words trailed off.

Eventually, Cassian lifted a brow. “Yes?”

Her lips snapped shut and those cruel eyes narrowed. “Nevermind.”

She turned to leave, but stopped herself, the hand that was outstretched toward the doorknob falling back to her side. “I went to the training room. Saw it was a wreck. Thought I’d come see how you were doing. If you were...okay.”

Her tone was vicious, but her words seemed genuine enough.

Cassian sat up a little straighter, although he had learned long ago not to get his hopes up. Even her nicer moments seemed to be done out of some sort of annoyance.

“I’m fine,” Cassian replied, propping his cheek in the palm of his hand. “See you at noon. Don’t be late.”

Nesta glanced over her shoulder. Cassian couldn’t help his grin as he saw just how much he was getting under her skin. “Must you always be such a prick?”

Cassian had a lot of retorts he could have followed such a question with, but he simply tilted his head to the left and remained silent.

When it was clear that he wasn’t going to answer her question, rhetorical or no, she rolled her eyes and left the room.

As the door opened and closed, a chill slipped in and Cassian let himself go under the water again to keep from cooling down. He stayed under until he could hear himself think again over the pull of the female walking down the stairs. He stayed under until his lungs hurt. He stayed under until she was far enough away that she wouldn’t hear his scream of frustration from under the water.

He wanted her to leave.

He wanted her to come back.

He didn’t know if it was worse to live with her or without her. Both seemed to infuriate him.

I went to the training room. Saw it was a wreck.

Temper.

He had such a temper.

A temper he couldn’t, didn’t want to, control.

Cassian came back above the water and looked outside. Noon was approaching quickly, but he didn’t want to move even though he knew he had to.

He had to fly Nesta across the border and spend the next three days alongside her, trying to contain that damn creeping anger as he did so.

With a low, frustrated growl, Cassian pulled himself out of the tub, water sloshing onto the floor as he did so. He grabbed a towel and started drying off his hair as he opened the door to the balcony to find Nesta meeting Mor by the edge of the lower balcony, outside the dining room.

Neither female noticed him as Mor winnowed them both away.

————————

Her arms were a vice around his neck.

She flew with him a hundred times yet she never truly conquered her fear of flying.

Or rather, her fear of falling.

It didn’t matter how many times he told her he’d keep her safe. It didn’t matter that she trusted him explicitly. She had never well and truly let herself enjoy the sky.

As they crossed the border into the Summer Court, the magic of the barrier zapped against his skin. He could feel it crawling under his armor, beneath his leathers even. It was taking inventory of his weapons, of his strength.

Nesta growled, and Cassian gave her a curious glance.

All at once, the magic left them, though Cassian knew they barrier line extended another 10 feet or so.

“How did you-?”

“It was looking for the key to my power,” she interrupted him, voice low, but so close to him, he could hear her over the wind. “So I told it there wasn’t one.”

Cassian shook his head and chuckled.

Cauldron born and Cauldron made, indeed.

“When can you put me down?” She hissed.

Cassian's hands tightened. “When we get to the palace.”

“I hate it here,” Nesta said, and she thought she hadn’t said it aloud, but Cassian’s arms tightened around her once more.

She allowed herself to feel comforted, if only for a second. Then, her nails once again dug into his skin.

Tensions were high with the Summer Court, and Cassian knew that Nesta secretly liked the intense excitement. She may not like being involved with court politics, but she sure enjoyed watching the drama.

“Alright, Emissary,” Cassian mumbled into her ear.

Before Nesta could fully prepare herself for the landing, Cassian's boots landed on the brick with a thud. He didn’t free Nesta from his grip until he straightened from his crouch.

A large group of court members were waiting for them at the palace’s entrance.

Rhysand stepped in front of them all, Feyre at his side.

“Tarquin isn’t here to welcome us?” He crooned. “Shame.”

A young male, wearing armor similar to Cassian’s but in turquoise and gold, stepped forward.

“He had to leave court on emergency business,” he said, steadily, although refusing to make eye contact with the High Lord and Lady of Night. “He will be back tomorrow, he sends his apologies. He hopes that you will spend your evening relaxing and enjoying the summer court and he looks forward to meeting with you all tomorrow afternoon.”

Rhysand inclined his head to thank the young male for passing on the message.

The young male held out his hand. “You will be shown to your rooms. Dinner will be served at nightfall.”

Nesta followed Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Feyre, and Rhysand through the palace. Varian was at the head of the group, talking quietly among those of Tarquin's court.

Cassian sped up until his pace matched Rhysand’s. He had one hand in his pocket, the other protectively on Feyre’s back. “I thought Varian was meeting Amren in Velaris?”

“He’ll be leaving in the morning,” Rhys replied, his violet eyes sliding to Cassian, annoyance obvious. “And thanks to the delay, Varian will be staying with us for an additional week. I just don’t know if Tarquin is aware.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Varian called over his shoulder. “Amren has made him very much aware.”

Rhys smirked as Cassian nodded and fell back into step beside Nesta.

Cassian has grown to like Varian over time. He was glad to have him as their connection between their two courts. It took a little bit of the tension away.

Just a little bit.

The group was shown to a suite on the far side of the palace. A sitting room sat in the middle of three bedrooms, in which Feyre and Rhysand automatically claimed the one on the right, shutting themselves inside.

Mor rolled her eyes. “Great, we get to listen to those two until dinner.”

Azriel chuckled as Rhysand sent a vulgar gesture into all of their minds.

As Nesta headed toward the room on the left, Mor looped her arm through Azriel's. “Come. Let’s explore.”

Before Cassian could comment, they had vanished, leaving him to watch Nesta disappear around the corner and listen to Rhysand’s teasing growls on the other side of the door behind him.

Cassian entered the third bedroom, expecting that to be a shared room for he and Azriel. But instead, he found three glittering gowns hanging from the armoire and a scarlet duffel. With a growl and a roll of his eyes, Cassian made his way back out to the living room and draped himself across the couch.

A few moments later, Nesta re-emerged from the bedroom, her braids let out, her hair loose around her shoulders. The stuffy dress she typically wore was gone and she wore a pair of loose-fitting trousers and-.

“Is that my tunic?” Cassian asked, eyebrow raised, arms crossed behind his head.

Nesta's lips tightened. “You left it in my room one night. I wear it when I need to move my arms.”

Cassian blinked. “You’re choosing to train right now?”

Nesta scoffed. “There’s nothing else to do right now. I left the novel I was reading in Velaris and dinner isn’t for hours.”

Cassian leaned up on his elbows. “Want company?”

Nesta stared him down for a moment. “Fine. Stand up.”

Cassian looked around the sitting room. It was large enough, sure, but he was known to cause damage in the Summer Court.

Tarquin already wasn’t his biggest fan.

Cassian didn’t move. “What? In here?”

Nesta looked at him like he was dense, which in her defense, he could be. “I don’t exactly know where else we can go.”

Cassian smirked. “Oh, sweetheart. Have I got something to show you.”

Twenty minutes later, dressed in strikingly similar attire, Cassian led Nesta into the underground barracks of the Summer Court militia. Nesta couldn’t keep the awe off of her face as she gazed up at the glistening cave walls.

The domed room was formed straight into the ore-rich rock. Deposits of gems and jewels could still be seen peeking through in places. There was every type of training tool imaginable, weapons, weights, training rings, even a small track. In the far corner was a small pool, steam rising as it was naturally heated from underground.

“Are we supposed to be in here?” Nesta asked, glancing around timidly, though they were clearly by themselves. Though they were feet underground, balls of Fae light illuminated the entirety of the room. No corner was obscured.

Cassian threw a cocky glance over his shoulder towards her. “You don’t become Commander of the entire Illyrian Legion without making a few friends.” He turned back and headed for the sparring ring.

It took Nesta a minute to stop gawking before she followed him in. Naturally, he stripped off his tunic as Nesta faced him in the ring.

She rolled her eyes. “Must you always train shirtless?”

Cassian grinned. “It’s cute how you act like you don’t like it.” Her jaw tensed as he motioned her forward. “Hit me, sweetheart.”

She took a moment to tie her hair in a loose knot atop her head. As she stepped into the ring, she was rolling the sleeves of the tunic up, being careful to ensure they were even on both sides, but even so-.

Nesta launched herself at Cassian while he was watching her adjust the sleeves of his shirt. She’d lured him into the trap and he’d fallen for it with far too much ease. His guard was always down around her.

At the same time her open palm slammed against his right shoulder, she twisted and connected her fist with his cheek. He grunted but quickly righted himself, growling at the deceptive move. One muscular arm tried to wrap around her waist, but she was quicker than him and was able to snake out of his grasp, but not before he swept her legs from under her. She was on her back and gazing up at his smirking face before she knew what had happened.

“That wasn’t fair,” he crooned, hair beginning to slip from the bun at the back of his head. “Cheap shots aren’t allowed. You know that.”

“We aren’t in the mountains anymore,” she snarled, taking the outstretched hand he offered her. He effortlessly pulled her to her feet. “The rules no longer apply.”

She could see the mask slowly slipping into place as it always did when they trained. It was only a matter of minutes before the Commander made his presence known.

“There are always rules,” he replied, calmly, turning to get back into stance. “You just have a blatant disregard for them. Back to the edge. Square up again.”

It took everything in Nesta not to throw herself onto his muscular back and pummel the back of his head.

Instead, she did as she was told, and bided her time until the Commander made his appearance. She smirked as she got in cheap shot after cheap shot, a knee to the groin, a punch to the kidney, when her hand slipped off of his arm and she “accidentally” hit him in the throat.

She watched as he leaned over, hands resting on his knees, trying to catch his breath, arms crossed over her heaving chest.

“I didn’t realize it was this easy to take down the leader of the Night Courts forces,” she drawled, her head tilted to the side as she caught her own breath. “Maybe I should talk to Rhys about changing my title. You’re getting a little old anyway.” She smirked as his head snapped up and he looked at her with hazel eyes that were filled with flame. “Might be time to retire, old man.”

Cassian stood to his full height, breathing even, rage written all over his features. “Get back in the ring.” His voice was like stone. He turned and grabbed a pitcher of water from a nearby table, only pausing to drink for a short moment before pouring the entire thing over his head, drenching his body.

As he made his way back into the ring, rivulets of sweat and water both trailing between his muscles, Nesta’s mouth dried up and she smiled.

“Hello, Commander,” she cooed.

Cassian showed no indication that the tone of her voice sent his heart ablaze.

He stopped a few feet in front of her and got into ft the stance of someone who was about to be attacked.

As he had been.

Countless times at this point, to Nesta’s satisfaction.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he beckoned, voice low, words clipped.

Nesta gave a show of lifting them hem of his tunic to wipe the sweat off her brow, her neck. When she let it drop, she watched how his eyes were resting on her abdomen, where her pale skin had been showing.

But his jaw was locked, his teeth clenched. He wouldn’t fall for it again. He’d had enough.

When his eyes reconnected with her own, Nesta charged.

He blocked every shot she took, anticipating every blow, deflecting every kick. Time after time, she ended up on the mat.

She grunted as he landed on her side, arm outstretched above her head. She laid there, forehead pressed against the cool material. Her breathing was erratic and her arms were heavy when she tried to push herself up. She stopped and laid still, trying to calm her breathing, to slow her heart.

“Had enough?” Cassian asked, and she turned to look back at him, hitching her knee as she did. She found him staring at her ass, the pants stretching with the motion and sitting lower on her hips. His eyes flicked to her own, unashamed that she’d caught him staring.

Nesta got to her feet. “Not hardly.”

Before she had a chance to get into stance, he took a page from her own book and charged her. She only had time to turn before his arms were restraining her and she began to writhe against him.

It was then she noticed he was rock solid against her lower back.

She fought back a whimper from the feel of him and ground herself back against him, letting his covered length skim the top of her ass.

He growled and tightened his arms. His lips were right next to her ear when he breathed, “Don’t. We’re training. You haven’t earned that yet.”

She shivered, despite her mind telling her body to get it together, and was able to loosen one arm. Why Cassian didn’t immediately restrain her, she didn’t know, but she let that arm fall behind them. Her fingers delicately cupped the back of his neck, sliding upward through his sweat-drenched hair, and pulling the leather tie out. His hair fell loose and she gently pulled her fingers out of the tangled length and let her arm fall in front of her.

“Nes,” he breathed, voice a gravelly whisper.

He couldn’t say anything else because she brought her elbow up and slammed it back into his face

He immediately dropped his hold on her, stumbling back and clutching his face. When she whirled to face him, expecting him to be angry and ready to fight, she was surprised to find his eyes tired and blood trickling down his lips.

He walked toward the edge of the ring and leaned down, grabbing his tunic before walking towards the main entrance.

“Where are you going?” Nesta called, dropping her stance and chasing after him, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “We aren’t done yet. That was a clean hit.”

Cassian stopped but didn’t move another inch, he didn’t turn back to look at her like she longed for him to. “You broke our first rule.”

Nesta froze, her grip on his wrist slackening.

She thought back to a night in the cabin, years and years ago, not long after they’d arrived in Illyria. Cassian had sat her down. After she’d continued to be a miserable terror to the camp, he’d laid out a list of rules, starting at number two and working his way through. At the end, he asked if she had any questions and she spit out that he was a far more stupid brute than she thought if he hadn’t even noticed he’d skipped the very first rule.

He told her that his attraction to her and subsequent distraction was one thing, since it was a viable tactic to use in hand to hand combat that could save her life one day. She was allowed to use his lust against him. His love, however…

She was never allowed to use the bond, to use his feelings for her, against him. In training, in arguments, in any way. Not until she accepted the bond and accepted that she was a part of him, and he of her.

To this day, she refused to acknowledge the bond existed, to admit that the pull she felt towards him was damn near constant at this point.

The intimacy she’d allowed, when she’d caressed him and ran his fingers through his hair, that was more than she’d ever allowed him.

She’d handed him a gift he’d longed for so long then punished him when he’d taken it.

His eyes were cold, sad when she looked up into his face. His hair was loose around his face and he looked younger than she’d ever seen him.

He looked broken.

“Cassian, I-.”

“You should have ruined me when you had the chance,” he breathed.

He turned to leave, she watched his inked back, the wings that drooped behind him.

“Do not walk out on me!” she yelled, panic beginning to settle in. “Do not fucking walk out on me!”

Cassian froze, but there was no life in his heavy shoulders. He didn’t even bother to look back at her as he asked, “Why not?”

Nesta was speechless. Why not?

“Just…”

She had nothing.

Cassian’s shoulders finally tensed, that brewing anger returning as he slowly turned to meet her gaze.

The blood trickling from his nose was beginning to dry. “Why the fuck not, Nesta?”

His voice echoed in the cave, and Nesta couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She had spent so long fighting, so long neglecting the male she couldn’t live without.

“Because if I walked out, you couldn’t use me anymore? Huh?” His eyes were manic as he slowly walked toward her. He stopped a few feet away, his tunic tossed casually over his shoulder. “I couldn’t be your fucking plaything anymore? You know what we are, Nesta. I know you do. And you know what? Fuck you! I’ve waited for years! And I’m tired of waiting. If you don’t want me, fine. I accept that. But don’t keep stringing me along. Don’t keep getting my hopes up for something that will never happen.”

Nesta shook her head. The bond, it terrified her. “I can’t, Cass,” she said, her voice breaking on his name. It was small, like that of a scared child. “I can’t give myself like that to someone. I can’t give up my control. I can’t be forced to rely on someone but myself.”

Cassian took two careful steps forward, gently cradling her face in his hands. “You aren’t giving yourself to me, you’re sharing yourself with me.” His voice was steady, but it wasn’t cold, like earlier. No, it was warm, calming. It was a voice full of love. “You aren’t giving up your control,” he breathed, stroking her cheek with a calloused thumb. “And you will always have a choice, but if you need me, I’m here. Nesta, the bond...it’s not a prison sentence like you seem to think.” Her eyes were shut tight, trying to block out his words, block out the topic they so rarely talked about.

Cassian let his hands drop to his sides, but he didn’t walk away. “All I want is to be allowed to love you.” Nesta felt the tears break free from beneath her closed lids. “I want to live this life alongside you, for however long I can.”

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, intently. Rough fingers reached up to brush her tears away.

“I will never hurt you,” he promised, then his voice became lighter as he said, “Although, if I did, you can obviously kick my ass.”

Nesta, despite herself, chuckled. She shook her head. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Impossible,” he whispered as he brushed the fallen strands of golden-brown hair out of her face. “I know you, Nes. And there is not one thing about you that could ever disappoint me.”

Her eyes fluttered shut once more, and that familiar feeling of his palm against her cheek returned. “You’re not perfect. Nor am I, as we all know. It’s going to be difficult, but I want to do this. With you. Only you.”

Before she could think up a response, his lips gently pressed against her own.

It was like in that moment a switch had been flipped. Her world tumbled upside down in the instant his lips were on hers. Because in all of the times they’d been together, she’d never once allowed him to kiss her. She’d never once let him put his lips anywhere on her body.

Because they’d not kissed since that last battle against Hybern, when they thought it was the last thing they would ever do.

His lips were her undoing.

When her eyes opened, she found his, soft and steady, watching, waiting for her reaction.

Her slender fingers reached up to the tunic sitting on his shoulder and gripped the fabric. She tossed it aside before bringing her forehead against his, her palms resting on both sides of his stubbled cheeks.

She said no more, and he didn’t say another word, either.

She kissed him, slowly, melting in his presence. She had forgotten the taste of his lips, had forgotten what the brush of his tongue felt like inside of her mouth.

A soft whimper broke away from her inner barrier and Nesta Archeron, despite the years she had built up such a shield, at last let go and freed herself before him.

Cassian growled as her fingers twisted into his hair, as he lifted her up so that her body pressed against his own, as his hands held onto her so tightly that it would be impossible to break free.

But Nesta didn’t want to be free of him.

She was right where she belonged.

She pulled her lips from his, with immense effort on both sides, and breathed, “Bed?”

He couldn’t bear to keep his lips off of her skin now that he’d finally been able to taste it once again, so as soon as she’d ended the kiss, his lips had trailed down her throat. He bit the tender spot where her shoulder met her neck before growling, “Too far. I need to be inside you now.” He froze, though, and breathed. “If that’s what you’re wanting. If you’re truly willing and ready to accept the bond.”

She could feel him there, on the other side of that bridge, but while he used to be a mile away, now he was just a couple hundred feet. She knew that once she accepted the bond, once she accepted him, the bridge would become a door. A door that she could open to him completely and let him know every inch of who she was, of who she’d been.

All at once, she was terrified again. She’d been terrible to Feyre and nearly everyone else she knew in her mortal life. Rhys has just recently forgiven her after years and years of begging from Feyre.

“Cassian, I’m not-.” A sob tore from her and she was powerless to stop it.

His voice was gentle when he cupped her cheek and asked, “You’re not what, sweetheart?”

She hesitated. How could you put so many emotions into mere words? She didn’t deserve such happiness after all she had done.

Cassian lifted her chin so that she met his stare. “I know what you’re thinking. Okay? Don’t talk yourself out of this. Not again. If you want this, if you want me, fucking take it.”

She couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t sort out her thoughts. But she did want this, did want him. Was it truly so simple?

She took control of her life and decided it was.

Her arms tightened around his neck and her lips crashed against his. His hands, which had been content just to hold, were now grabbing and squeezing, feeling her wherever he could. His hand dipped below the waistband of her pants, which had dropped low on her hips. He gripped the swell of her ass and groaned as he ground her against him.

He needed her. Here, now.

His teeth grazed her neck, just beneath her jaw. Nesta's eyes fluttered shut as she clung to him, her heart beating wildly from within her chest.

Cassian pressed her back up against the cave’s wall, his body holding her up as he took the tunic of his that she wore and pulled it over her head.

He caught her gaze, so hungry and needy, before his lips found hers once more.

“Wait,” Nesta breathed, pushing lightly against his chest. “I need to feed you.”

Cassian chuckled and asked, “What?”

“Feyre told me about the soup,” she explained, referencing the meal Feyre had given to Rhys to show she accepted their bond, accepted him. “That to accept the bond, I have to give you food.”

He tossed his head back and laughed, pressing kisses to her exposed chest as the echoes of his laughter subsided. “There are dozens of ways to accept the bond. Offering food is just one of the more traditional routes.”

Nesta nodded, blushing at her own lack of understanding so many years after bring made fae herself, chewing on her top lip. “Is there an...Illyrian method you prefer?” She traced the lines of his tattoos, following one that wrapped around his nipple and then made a direct path down the center of his abdomen.

Cassian shuddered and pressed his forehead against hers. “There are vows - sacred vows - that when uttered, bind the mind, body, and soul together. Two become one. It’s almost like a...traditional, mortal marriage ceremony. But there’s no need for witnesses or priestesses. It doesn’t have to be done in the presence of your family or before the sun has reached its highest point in the sky. It just requires two beings willing to devote themselves to each other.” His hazel eyes were full of love and humor when he gazed up at her. “And a short joining ceremony afterward.”

“Joining ceremony?” She asked, breathlessly, as her finger hooked into the band of his trousers.

Cassian nodded, becoming all too aware of where her fingers were traveling.

“Hmmm,” she contemplated, fiddling with the button of his pants free with one hand, the other grasping a handful of his thick, black hair.

Cassian leaned forward, his mouth brushing along her earlobe as he whispered, “Tease.”

“I want the others to be there,” Nesta said, pulling back for only a moment. “When we do our vows. I...think my sisters would want to be a part of it.”

Cassian's grip on her loosened, if only a little bit. “Okay.”

She nodded, head falling back against the wall of the cave. “Good.”

“Good,” he agreed, voice rough, quiet.

“Cass?”

“Yes,” he growled, hands sliding up her sides, cupping her breasts.

“I am yours,” she said. “Take me. Please.”

“Fuck,” was all he said before he had her pressed between himself and the wall once more, body to body. His hand possessively dragged down her body, beginning with her throat, between her breasts and to the waistband of her pants. “I want to look at you, I want to see you. I want to know what you look like when you’re coming for me and not for you.” He kissed her hard. “I want to see what you look like when I fuck you.”

Nesta whimpered, her thoughts vanishing as his tongue slid between her lips. She used the heels of her boots to push down his trousers, down past his thighs, down to his knees. Her eyes fluttered shut as the hardened length of him sprung out beneath her.

Her shaky hands traveled down his back, down to his firm ass.

“Take me to the pool,” she pleaded.

He obliged her, taking her over to the shallow bath. He placed her on her feet and stepped back allowing his pants to fall to the ground. He stepped down into hot water, his muscles relaxing almost immediately. He sat down and leaned back, gazing up at her. She stood wearing only her pants and boots, the tunic she’d stolen from him long ago tossed on the small table by the wall.

She toed her boots off and shyly hook her thumbs into the waistband of her trousers. She hesitated, and she didn’t know why. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen her bare. It wasn’t like he’d never been inside her. He’d fucked her hundreds of times in the mountains, but that was never out of love for each other. That was because she needed to get off and he was willing to be her living sex toy.

But this.

This total baring of her mind, body, and soul, this was something different entirely.

“Nes.”

Her eyes opened and she gazed at him, standing in the pool, hand outstretched.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Evening her breathing, Nesta slipped off her trousers and took his hand. He watched her body moving towards him, every second passing used to his advantage to take her in.

She met him at the bottom of the stairs, and he wrapped his arms around her. His eyes were soft, bright, and they only made Nesta blush.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.

“No,” he grinned, kissing her softly.

That soft kiss quickly turned hungrier, his hands wandering to her ass to lift her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he sat down, once more. She straddled his waist, her fingers softly grazing the insides of his wings, just above where they met his skin.

His head fell back, a soft moan from his lips filling the silence.

Nesta carefully repeated the motion, feeling Cassian’s entire body shuddering beneath her. “I’ve always wondered what they felt like,” she whispered. She carefully traced a long, thick scar. Cassian could feel the difference in the torn flesh. He braced himself for the pity he always received when his wings were closely examined.

“They’re so beautiful.”

His eyes snapped open and he looked up at her. She was gazing at his wings, though, not at his body or even his face.

But at his shredded, disgraceful wings.

“They tell a story,” she said, her voice quiet, full of admiration. “Of how you overcame. Of how you survived.”

Her eyes went misty for a moment, as if she was remembering. Nesta raised herself up on her knees and brushed her lips along the edge of his scars. Cassian's breath hitched, his body falling slack as Nesta leaned back down and pressed her mouth to his forehead, and his nose, and his mouth. She reached below the water's surface and gently used her fingers to stroke his length.

“You…,” he began, a whisper through gritted teeth, “are going to be the death of me.”

Nesta laughed, a soft, true, melodious sound.

Cassian's eyes opened, bright and wild, as his hands found her hips and positioned her over him.

“We’re going to take our vows in front of your sisters and my brothers as soon as we can arrange it, but for now,” he said, leaning up and kissing her. “I need to hear you say it, please, sweetheart.”

“Say what?” She breathed, eyes fluttering shut as he rubbed himself against her entrance. She longed to lower her hips, to feel his thick length inside of her in a whole new way.

“Who are you, Nesta?” He asked, leaning up and biting down on her earlobe.

“Mate,” she moaned, the sound echoing off of the rocks and repeating it. “Mate. You’re my mate.”

Cassian gripped Nesta’s hips and slammed her onto him, impaling her on his hard cock.

She cried out, her voice rippling throughout the silence of the cave. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she sunk down, pushing him into her as far as he’d go. Cassian's mouth trailed along her collarbone, and down to her breasts, his tongue circling her nipple as her hips moved slowly against his.

She held onto the back of his head, afraid that if she let go his mouth would leave her skin.

The water sloshed slightly, lapping against the raised edges of the pool. Whispered curses left his mouth as he leaned back and she increased her pace, as he watched the rise and fall of her chest, the bounce of her breasts. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy and he reached up to tweak her pebbled nipple.

She groaned and threaded her fingers into his hair. He leaned forward, pressing kisses between the valley of her breasts.

“I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.”

“Cass.” She whispered his name like a prayer, her body colliding with his in perfect harmony.

It was a different sensation, a different sort of pleasure, making love with someone Nesta allowed herself to love. For once, she did not hold back. For once, she was not ashamed or embarrassed. For once, she let him have all of her and didn’t think about what would happen next.

Without warning, he gripped her ass and stood, lifting them out of the water. “I need to fuck you properly. I need to pound into you and make you scream. I want to hear you scream my name, sweetheart. Please.”

He carried her through a doorway obscured by a small curtain. The recovery room was outfitted with a small pantry and medicine, everything one could need for recuperation after a battle. But, most importantly, it had a four-poster bed against the far wall.

As they walked across the room, he snaked his arm around and circled her clit. “Promise me you’ll let loose for me, Nes. Promise me you’ll let go.”

She could only nod, having dropped her forehead against his shoulder. She began to whimper as he pressed softly.

He laid her back on the bed, letting her legs hang off the side. He gripped her under the knee and brought her ankle to rest on his shoulder. He kissed a pass from her ankle down her calf. The other leg hooked around his waist. His length rubbed against her slit, driving her insane.

“Cassian, please!” She cried.

“Again,” he breathed, gripping her ass.

“Cassian,” she begged, breathlessly as her eyes fluttered shut.

He pulled her into him, and she screamed, back arched as he fell into her over and over again.

“Please, please, please,” she repeated, panting as he pushed into her, pulling his length all the way out, before slamming back in.

Cassian was mesmerized as he watched her hand snake between them, lick her finger, and press her finger to her clit. “You’re going to be my undoing,” he groaned, snapping his hips back into hers. She screamed, picking the pace up as she rubbed her clit.

Her legs began to quiver as the pleasure consumed her, her mind was free of all thoughts except for the one of the man before her, making her feel like an untouchable goddess.

Everything was going bright white. She could feel every nerve ending in her body. Her orgasm was barreling through her and she could barely speak to warn him.

“Cass,” she moaned, gripping one of his arms where he was holding her hips right while he fucked her with no abandon. “Please, baby, I’m close, I-.”

With no warning, he pulled out of her. Nesta growled, her arm tossed over her eyes. She was seconds from finding her release but now that he-.

A long flat lick trailed up from her entrance to the tip of her clit. A second followed and she couldn’t stop herself from reaching down and tangling her fingers into his hair as she groaned.

Cassian was enjoying himself, she knew he was, was enjoying the pleasurable torture he was currently making her endure.

He growled, low and deep, as her fingers in his hair tightened and pulled.

She moaned his name. His name was all that she could think of, the only thought that she could manage to string together.

Cassian, Cassian, my mate, Cassian. My mate, mate, mate.

Keep calling my name, sweetheart. Keep telling everyone who’s making you feel so good.

Cassian’s lips closed around her clit and he sucked, unraveling what bit of Nesta’s resolved remained and she tumbled down into her orgasm.

It was like nothing she’d ever experienced, enjoying the orgasm Cassian wrung out of her. She screamed his name and she could have sworn the earth moved beneath them.

Her body shook, her mind falling blank into utter ecstasy. She thought her heart would explode, beat directly out of her chest. As Cassian leaned back to drink her in, a soft laugh bubbled out of her mouth. She cursed as her eyes shot open and he met her gaze.

He licked what remained of her off his lips before he asked, “Satisfied, sweetheart?”

“Cocky asshole,” she mumbled, motioning for him to come closer.

He kissed a path up her body, loving the way she twitched and squealed when he reached her breasts and paid them special attention. When he reached her lips, he hitched her leg up around his waist, opening her up to him. One long finger teased her entrance. “Speaking of those,” he breathed, continuing to kiss her neck. He let his finger trail farther back. Her eyes shot open as he teased that sensitive, forbidden entrance. He stopped, letting his finger trail back to her clit and he circled the nub. “If you ever decide you want to explore, I can promise you that you won’t regret it.”

Nesta had never even considered that before, letting him well and truly take her from behind, and today wasn’t the day either as Cassian sheathed himself inside of her with one strong thrust.

Nesta screamed and the sound bounced off the walls of the tiny room.

His name became an oath on her lips, reverent and holy, and she could do nothing but bask in the love that she knew would one day be her absolute redemption.

She reached up to hold his stubbled cheeks, forcing him to meet her intent gaze. His eyes connected with hers as sweat trickled from his brow, coating her frail fingertips. His eyes did not waver from hers as he made love to her, his fingers tightened around her waist as he thrust himself in and out. It suddenly became more intimate, suddenly less animalistic as they watched every emotion that passed between them.

That pleasure changed from one of ecstasy to one of bliss and beauty, endless love and pure adoration.

Cassian was a territorial fae bastard. Fucking, he was good at. Great at. Exceptional at, as Nesta happily knew all too well. But she had never known him to be so intimate, so raw.

And he was so utterly raw as his eyes stripped her down, gave her every ounce of him, and promised her himself for whatever years they had left in their immortal lifetimes.

His head fell against her chest. “Gods, I’m close,” he breathed, picking up the pace. Nesta, too, was right at the edge and she gripped his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

“I love you,” she breathed, and crashed her lips against his.

The words, the profession he’d been waiting to hear for so long triggered his release and his orgasm barreled through him.

He continued to fuck her hard and her orgasm was right on top of his. She cried out and milked him for all that he had as he came inside of her with a groan and her name.

When they were done, they laid there a while, not willing to yet break the contact between them. Cassian finally pulled out of her and watched as their mixed climaxes spilled out of her. He was already set to go again.

Nesta grinned, tracing the patterns on his chest. “This is it, isn’t it? The territorial mate thing has kicked in? You’re going to start killing every male that looks my direction, aren't you…”

Cassian nipped at her nose before contemplating his response. “Yeah, it’s better to ignore everything I do in the next few days. Feel free to kick my ass every time I overstep a line.”

“So, I’ll be kicking your ass a lot, then,” Nesta said, laughing quietly, reaching behind him to slap his ass.

Cassian's grin widened. “I haven’t even done anything yet!” He pressed his mouth to hers before saying, “Feel free to do it again.”

Nesta smiled softly before saying “Everything is going to change now, isn't it?”

Cassian laid down next to her, gathering her in his arms, as he said, “Some things will. Some will have to. One of us will have to move, because I can’t sleep a night without you now. I’ll get my ass handed to me by Azriel and Rhys for a while when I snarl at them for walking in the room. Oh, and you won’t be able to walk straight for the next few months.” She laughed and swatted his chest. “But the one thing that won’t change is the way I feel about you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her sweaty forehead. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you…”

And I’ll love you until we step into the next life.

Nesta’s head snapped up and she looked at him as she realized she could hear him in her head, she could clearly hear him down the bond.

I love you, she said, clear and strong down the bond. A test to see how well he could-.

I love you more.

Nesta rolled her eyes and laid her head back on his chest.

He said it again, and again, into her mind as he had wanted to do for so many years. And Nesta said it back until they both fell into a steady sleep, tangled in each other’s arms atop the sheets of a bed within a cave deep within the underground of the Summer Court.

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nesta x cassian #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of war and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #sarah j maas #sjm #throne of ashes and beauty #tacmc #toab tacmc collab #tag team prompt #shara writes

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pandoraborn · 4 years

Text

BORN TO RISE Chapter 5 Also found here

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A twelve-year-old Tommy frowns at the paperwork in Philza’s hands. He knows exactly what that paperwork is for and why Phil is trying to keep it hidden. Tommy also knows he’s not supposed to follow the man into his office, but that doesn’t stop Tommy from doing it anyway.

“Tommy, I’m busy, can this wait?” Phil asks with an eye roll. “I need to be alone.”

“Why’re you signing adoption papers?” Tommy insists. “I don’t want to be a part of this family if it means you’re going to use me for competitions.”

Phil stares at him, with an expression that resembles a deer-in-headlights. Tommy would laugh if the situation didn’t feel so urgent. The young teen moves closer to the desk, pressing the palms of his hands down as he glares at Phil. “I mean it Phil, I know the reputation you all have, and I don’t want to be a part of it.”

“You think we’re using you?” Phil shakes his head, looking sad. “Tommy, I’m giving you a home and a family. Just as I extended that to the others, I’m extending that to you. Of course you’re more than a figurehead. I’m more than a figurehead.”

“You’re a stupid twat, is what you are,” Tommy scowls. He turns to leave, rubbing his palms against the wall as he exits. “Have fun with your paperwork, I guess.”

“Does this mean I have your approval to adopt you?”

Tommy won’t admit it out loud, but he’s glad the legendary Philza is taking him in. Tommy can’t quell the pride rising up inside him, and how much he wants to make his foster father look at him with adoration and pride. Maybe not now, but eventually. “Yeah, I guess. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna start calling you dad though.”

As Tommy closes the door behind him, he hears Phil laugh quietly. Maybe he won’t call him ‘dad’ to his face, but the man has already been the best father he’s ever known.

Tommy wakes, dream almost instantly forgotten when reality sets in.

It’s not a slow climb back to consciousness, but a rapid, dizzying rush, as if he’s bolting from a bad nightmare. He’s gasping for air, but every breath he takes aches in his chest and he feels it in his sides, like someone is squeezing him a little too hard. His first thought is that Dream is gripping him firmly, as if afraid to let go. But when Tommy shifts, he realizes that he’s a few feet from Dream.

Dream is laying facedown, head twisted to the side. Tommy pales when he sees the mask Dream normally wears is cracked and splintered, pieces of it missing. Tommy doesn’t know when that happened; had they hit the cliff walls on their way down? They had to, otherwise the pair would not be in shambles.

More than that, Dream’s weapons and tools are lying around him. His diamond sword is broken clean in half, laying in pieces inches away from the man. Tommy’s trembling as he tries to get up, but only manages a pathetic whimper instead.

He aches too much to move. He aches too much to rise to his hands and knees to crawl over to the unconscious man lying next to him, and he aches too much to even cry.

Tommy’s pretty sure he’d broken a couple of ribs. There’s no way he’d survive this fall and not break a few bones. It’d be too easy to lie here and suffer in agony, but he can hear the rattling of skeletons. If they stay out in the open any longer, they’re most certainly going to die. He weighs the pros and cons of letting them both respawn, but Tommy knows it’ll be more agony he doesn’t want to deal with, and with Dream being out cold, that’s not a risk he really wants to take right now.

“D...ugh.” Tommy can’t even speak. Is his jaw broken too? Everything aches too much for him to think straight, and any shift results in his vision blinking in and out. He has to try something though. He’s not going to be selfish enough to let Dream suffer. For himself, it’s not a huge deal, but Dream, he feels, has to come first.

Tommy lets out a yelp when he finally sits up. Bones crack and joints pop, and he’s certain each movement is causing even more injury, but he doesn’t have a choice. “Dream?” His voice is quiet, broken and hesitant. He’s not expecting a response from the older man, but he’s hoping for one. He needs to know that Dream isn’t completely gone.

Just sitting up was agony enough. Getting to his feet has Tommy hissing and crying and whimpering, trying to keep every bit of pain at bay. It’s hard when he’s nauseated and dizzy, and his vision keeps blinking in and out. It’s even harder to think when his head is thumping so painfully it feels like someone’s cracking his skull open. He wonders if he’s bleeding, too. Probably; he’d be surprised if he wasn’t at this point.

He doesn’t know how hard he’d fallen, and he especially doesn’t even know how he and Dream survived the fall in the first place. By all rights, they should have died and hit respawn. He glances up to see how far the distance is. From down here, it doesn’t look that bad, but it had certainly felt like a much longer fall than it actually was. At least he knows now how they survived.

There’s not enough light to see anything. He can’t see anything above, so he’s certain he’s completely alone now. Tommy rummages through his sack, trying to find anything he can use. He has a broken pickaxe, and he has a few things to build a campfire. He’s glad he’d gotten plenty of wood when he had the chance. What he needs now is coal.

Ignoring how much his body aches, Tommy starts mining away into the wall, grateful for the iron and the coal he’s finding right away. The process takes a lot longer than Tommy intends, and he has to constantly stop to take a breather. He’s opening wounds more, with blood dripping down his arms. His muscles are screaming at him, but Tommy forces himself to continue. He has to get Dream out of the open and into somewhere they can hide.

When the small hole is big enough, Tommy places two torches down against the wall as a small light source. He has to rely on that to keep the mobs at bay; it’s making him uneasy that there are creepers lurking nearby. The last thing Tommy wants is for one to wander too close and explode, killing both of them.

He bends over Dream, tapping the man on the cheek. “Dream?” Tommy asks. There’s a grunt of pain, followed by faint stirring, but nothing beyond that. He’s either sleeping or more injured than Tommy knows how to deal with.

He rolls Dream over, wincing at the injuries on the man. In the dim, flickering light of the torches, he can see an ugly purple bruise forming underneath the cracked and broken helmet. Tommy hisses when he realizes he’s probably sporting a similar bruise. When his thoughts zero back in on his own injuries, Tommy thinks of how Phil would handle this. Phil would probably murder Dream and Tommy both, as well as the other members of the team. His brothers would be right behind him...

The thought of his family brings a new sort of ache. Tommy misses home. He misses being at home and in bed where it’s warm and he has actual food, and is around people who don’t run him ragged or cause him to get hurt. God, everything just sucks right now. This entire training session had been a disaster from the get-go, and it’s even more of one now.

He pushes thoughts of the Sleepybois out of his head. He can’t afford to think about them right now, not when it’s the middle of the night and there are zombies and skeletons and creepers surrounding them. He hooks his hands around Dream’s arms, trying to grip tightly without screaming in pain. Keeping his grip tight is making him feel like his arms are going to pop right off his body, but he chomps down on his tongue and starts dragging Dream into his makeshift cave, inch by inch.

Even Dream is crying out in pain. Tommy ignores the tears streaming down his cheeks as he backs into the hole, finally dropping Dream when they’re safe enough inside. Falling against the wall, Tommy heaves, fighting down waves of nausea and pain, ignoring how Dream rolls over and goes right back to sleep. He’s too dizzy, too injured, and it’s taking a lot more energy to remain upright than he wants to spend.

He can’t afford to go to sleep yet. He still has to build the campfire, and just the thought of moving again has Tommy wanting to collapse. He rests on his knees, trying to massage sore limbs first. He wants to clean the blood off, he wants to find food. More than ever, Tommy wants to go home.

Again, thoughts of his family take over his mind. He can’t push the thoughts away this time, they’re swirling around as he builds the fire. He’s no longer crying out of pain now, but out of guilt. He can’t do this. He can’t do this, specifically. This whole ordeal hadn’t been worth it. Had he known he’d end up cold and injured at the bottom of a ravine, he never would have entered competitions in the first place.

He can see the expressions of disappointment on Phil’s face. He can hear his brothers mocking him, jeering at him and joking about how he can’t handle the heat. Why wouldn’t they? Tommy remembers the training sessions they’d all gone through, they’ve all pushed themselves beyond what they could handle and have barely broken a sweat.

He’s not like them. He’s competed with them a few times, even earned himself a few victories, but Tommy knows he’s nowhere near their level of skill. He’s always skated by unnoticed. His dad and brothers get all the attention. Dream gets all the attention, he’s just the sixteen year old with a hot mouth and even hotter temper.

“Who am I playing at?” Tommy growls to himself. He lays a few pieces of meat next to the fire in an attempt to cook it. At least moving is getting slightly easier, now that he’s not completely straining himself. “I’m not good enough.”

He sits back down and hunches forward in front of the fire. He doesn’t even bother wiping his eyes dry as he watches the meat sizzle. Behind him, he can hear Dream stirring again, but Tommy ignores him. The stupid bastard is asleep, which Tommy is thankful for. He wants to be even more alone than he is now.

Burying his face in his hands, Tommy groans.

“I wanna go home,” he mutters. “I just wanna go home and forget about all of this. I’ve never been good enough, I’m just a stupid kid, and I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.”

He turns around to glare at Dream, not flinching when he sees the man’s eyes open. Turning back toward the fire, Tommy hunches forward again, ignoring the way his head is pounding now.

“Tommy?”

“Being friends with you and your stupid team isn’t worth it anymore,” Tommy grumbles. “Sorry, but I’m done.”

#mcyt #mcc-based fic #born to rise #born to rise fanfic #mcyt fanfiction #ao3 fanfiction #tommyinnit #dreamwastaken #whump #long post #chapter 5 #miishae writes

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maybe-your-left · 4 years

Text

A Case In Need: I Have to Mark You

This chapter has a lot in it... it's not as long as my others but there's a lot that happens.

TW/CW: stepping into more dark territory for this chapter. It may cause you to have anxiety if that's something you get from reading fics that touch on 'physical or mental abuse' if so, I would skip this chapter. Nothing NSFW, but there is some emotional and mental manipulation happening in this chapter.

This chapter hurt me to write but it needed to be done so the two can progress in a 'non-healthy' way in their relationship.

I also wanted to say that I do not condone Ren's actions in this chapter. If you have feelings for someone this is NOT the way to do it.

As always I have a Masterlist so you can read all the chapters and also check out my two other fics, Cowboy Blues and Good Intentions. They are not as intense as this chapter if thats what you are into!

Pain.

Digging, throbbing, gum scraping pain.

Hands were all over you, touching. Grabbing, pinching your skin.

You kept trying to scream, trying to thrash away but the chains kept you still. Ren made sure of it.

You don’t know how long you were held there, you just remember hearing the door open and close. The sound of footsteps entering the room. Ren's voice talking to others, and suddenly you were being touched. Not anywhere sexually, but it felt violating. You didn’t know who they were, how many there were. All you knew was that it hurt.

You jolted from your anxiety-induced fainting, someone was stroking your hair. Brushing it with the cold bristles of a brush. Back and forth over your part, being sure to keep every hair out of your face. It would’ve been soothing if you could speak, but all that could come out were garbled moans. Spit was spilling over the ball gag, soaking your chin, dripping down onto your chest. Whoever was there was quick to wipe the excess while the brush kept combing your hair.

“They’re almost done, Angel.” a deep voice cooed. Lips touching your ear, voice like honey over your frayed wounds. You jerked your head to the side, desperate for reassurance from the assailant. A sharp sting by your side, followed by a separate voice mumbling to itself. “You did so well my princess… I’m so proud of you.”

You moaned, tensing your arms again, trying to break free. But the more you flexed, the more exhausted you became. All you could do was cry, and allow whoever to continue to brush your hair, hoping that the horror would end.

Moments later the pain stopped, in its place was a cold film. Spread across your side, sticking to your sweat-slicked body. Footsteps out of the room. You heard what sounded like a fridge door opening and shutting, followed by someone sitting in a chair opposite from you. Oh how you wished you could see, touch, hear anything except the blood rushing to your brain.

A drink was sipped, the smacking of lips across the room, “Now you’ll never forget who you belong to.”

-----

You were sore. Rolling over in bed, stretching and flexing your arms and legs. Sighing at the popping of joints, a symphony to your bedridden ears. You felt the sunshine flood through the windows, basking the bed in its warmth. You opened your eyes, they were crusted and dry. Probably needed to take out your contacts, you must’ve forgotten to take them out when you went to sleep last night.

Oh.

Your eyes fell to the sheets.

These weren’t yours.

No the ones in your bed were white, these were a charcoal gray.

Something different was in your arms, a soothing softness you hadn’t felt in weeks. You blinked a few times, trying to rehydrate your contacts. Pulling the article up to your face you saw colors. You gasped, it was your tie-dye blanket! The one Ren had stolen from you weeks ago! You held it close to your face, breathing in the scent, familiar and safe. You started crying into the blanket, it had been so long.

“I see you’re awake.”

You stopped, memories of the night before flooding your brain. Dropping the blanket from your eyes you peaked at the man sitting at the foot of the bed.

Ren.

You saw red.

What did he do to you last night? You couldn’t remember, your brain blocking out the trauma he induced. You launched at his figure, stoic and still. He was staring at you, sipping on a cup of coffee. In his sleep shirt and pants, hair tousled so effortlessly you would have forgiven him right then and there. But the moment you moved your side ached with pain. You sat up, instinctively cupping your rib cage.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he instructed. Eyes unblinking, you would’ve thought he was a statue if it wasn’t for his eye twitching.

“What, what do you mean?”

You looked down at yourself, somehow you were dressed in your sleep shirt and a pair of old sweatpants. Both you hadn’t seen since your move to the new apartment, more things Ren must’ve stolen. Your hand pressed to your ribcage, instantly causing you to wince.

“What did I just say?” He set down his coffee on the bedside table, moving closer to you. Reaching out his large paws to no doubt restrain you again. You flinched away, tears forming in your eyes.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed. Your bottom lip was already quivering, although you couldn’t remember everything. You remembered that he did this to you.

Ren stopped moving towards you, hands falling to his folded legs. Looking at you with dead, unblinking eyes. He hummed and got off the bed, crossing the hotel room to the kitchen. You clutched onto the blanket, attempting to hide from him. Shutting your eyes as you heard him coming back, “Drink this Angel.”

He had a glass of water in his hand, holding it in front of your face.

Your mouth instantly became dry, “Why?”

Ren rolled his eyes, “I can see how chapped your lips are from here just take the water.”

Sitting up again, wincing at the pain, you propped yourself up on the headboard. Grabbing the glass from his hands and slowly sipping. “Good girl, now let’s talk.” He sat back down on the bed, careful not to touch you. Ren ran a hand through his bedhead, sighing as you backed further into the wall. “Before you freak out, I did this for your own good.”

You clung to the blanket again, “What did you do Ren?”

He reached out, stopping when you backed away again. You didn’t want his hands to touch you, afraid of what you might feel. What you might say when he does, how you would betray yourself for falling for him when he was so clearly capable of hurting you.

“You have to let me touch you, I won’t hurt you.”

You scoffed, “Yeah like I’d believe that.” You hopped off the bed, stepping on wobbly legs. Holding your blanket to your chest. You instantly felt dizzy when you stood up, like your body was shutting down all over again. Your vision was spotting, only making it to the couches when you felt Rens arms surrounding you.

“Stop moving, you’ll hurt yourself,” he whispered in your ear.

You threw your arm back, smacking the side of his head, “Let go of me! I don’t-I don’t need your help.”

Smacking him again and again, whatever was on your side was throbbing now with every movement. His arm was trying to keep a loose grip but you kept squirming away from him.

“Angel, stop moving!”

“No!” you sobbed, tears streaming down your face again. You wanted him to let you go, let you fall to the floor, and be at peace. Away from the monster who chained you last night.

“(Y/N)!”

You clenched a fist, swinging up at his jaw. Although you were exhausted and sleep-deprived, you could feel the click of bones smashing together. He fell back from you, hands covering his own face, allowing you to fall on your butt to the floor. Chest heaving, you cried into your blanket, desperate for relief from the aching of your body and soul.

Above you, you heard silent sniffles. Followed by Ren taking a deep breath and probably rubbing his nose on his shirt, “Please. (Y/N), please let me help you.”

Looking up your eyes locked. No longer were they dead, but full of sadness. Regret, pain, just like your own. They were bloodshot, like he had been crying for hours beforehand, his under eyes were puffy and bruised. Ren sniffled again, reaching out a hand to you.

Staring back and forth, the hand and his face, you were torn. An unspoken bond between you two had been severed, and now you were faced with the aftermath.

Slowly you raised your own hand to his, studying how small and delicate it was compared to his palm. Veins scattered across your own skin, discoloration at the wrist, while his own were powerful and callused. Years of work and determination between each muscle, fingers cradling your own. He gently tugged your hand, silently asking you to try and stand up. You raised to your feet, swaying slightly. Ren leaned into you, careful that you wouldn’t fall again. Pulling you back towards the bed, both of you sitting in front of the other.

You redacted your hand once you were settled, holding again to the blanket. Ren brought his hands to his lap, studying his own wrists. Flexing and stretching them in and out of fists before he spoke again.

“Yesterday,” he sighed, “Thing’s got a little out of control.”

You nodded.

“And it is not my fault that you wouldn’t behave and listen to me…”

“So you’re blaming me?” you scoffed.

“Yes.”

You moved to get up again, but Ren’s hands shot out to stop you, “No no no, I’m not blaming you. Please don’t move.”

“I needed you to understand your place in all this…” he looked down at your side.

“And what is my place Ren,” you whispered.

“It’s with me. (Y/N), it’s with me, now and forever.”

You shut your eyes, tears forming once more.

“What happened Kylo?”

He got up, hoisting you into his arms in a bridal carry. Walking to the bathroom. Kicking open the doorway and settling you on the ground between him and the mirror. He said nothing, just grabbed the hem of your shirt and tugged. Understanding what he wanted you lifted your shirt off, closing your eyes, afraid of what you might see. He let out a deep breath, fingers lightly trailing up and down your spine and over towards the affected area.

You opened your eyes and gasped.

You looked terrible.

Your hair was in a knotted mess. Someone, hopefully Ren, had tried to put it in a bun last night but instead maybe tied it in a bow? Your face was splotchy and red, eyes bloodshot like his. Your lips were pink and swollen, puffed up on the inside from the gag being in. Eye makeup smeared across your cheeks and down to your neck.

Your eyes scanned yourself in the mirror, slowly moving towards your left side. Film, you saw a film on your side. Almost like a saran-wrap texture across your skin, taking up the lower portion of your left rib cage and waist. You lifted your arm, revealing the source of your pain.

Gasping, you instinctively went to touch it, Ren grabbing your wrist before you could. You had a tattoo.

Not just any tattoo, but a name. Written in his own handwriting, across your ribcage. The ink was slightly bleeding, along with your skin attempting to pucker under your movements. It was an elegant tattoo, simple and beautiful. If it weren’t for the demon who gave it to you unwillingly you would’ve loved it. But the demon was standing behind you, staring into your soul. Holding you hostage for the second time.

“Why,” you croaked out. Not moving your gaze from the mark.

He swallowed behind you, “You forced my hand.”

“Excuse me?”

Ren stared at the tattoo, his left hand coming across the film. Slowly tracing the lines of his own name, like he had never seen the words before. “Now you’ll never forget how much I love you.”

The words fell on your ears like a curse. All the blood rushing to your head. You felt like you were going to pass out, jerking away from him but he held you still. Breathing menacingly behind you, ready to eat you if you denied his declaration. What kind of sick and twisted game was this? It was fun when you two were fooling around but this, this was wrong. He belonged to someone else and now, now he had gone too far.

He spun you around, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “You’ll never forget that you belong to me, and me alone.” His hand locked on your jaw, forcing you into a kiss. Angry and passionate between both your lips, you tried to back away. You needed air or something to get away from him. Just so you could clear your head. He wouldn’t let go, causing you to sob against him. He pulled you into his chest, pressing your head to listen to his heartbeat. You cried into his shirt, staining it with your tears.

Lifting you to the sink, standing between your open legs he massaged your scalp. Allowing you to cry into his hands. He didn’t try to stop you, only coaxing you to let it all out, reminding you to breathe when you started hiccuping. You weren’t sure how long you cried, but he never left you. Never stopped holding you, kissing your forehead, whispering how much he needed you during the process. Despite his continued movements, your head was pounding. Crying, followed by anxiety attacks and more crying was not giving you the best start to your day. You needed water, a shower and to sleep.

“Please, please stop,” you begged him.

Ren stopped his movements, “What do you need, Angel?”

“Can we shower, and go home?” you heaved, “Please. I need to go home Kylo.”

“Okay.”

-----

Ren showered you, dressed you, and drove you back to the apartment. Neither of you saying a word to each other. Allowing the comfortable silence to bathe the both of you. Once you pulled up to your house he was at your side once more, opening your door and holding your hand up the stairs.

Inside your living room were 6 bodies, hovering over the coffee table. Each one grumbling and laughing with one another like they belonged there. Ren cleared his throat, “We’re back gentlemen. You may resume your posts.”

“Yes, Mr. Ren.” they all spoke in unison. Not one of them looked at you as you clung to his side. Not wanting to get into a petty argument with Ushar or Vicrul after your difficult evening.

“Let’s get you to bed okay, Angel? I have to tie up some loose ends back at the office but the Knights will be here watching over you.”

“Oh, okay,” you whispered. Slowly walking up the stairs. Since your shower, your tattoo has become itchy and hurt even more. Ren wouldn’t allow you to remove the film, telling you that the artist demanded it stay on for another week. That way the skin wouldn’t get infected. Although you hated the tattoo, the last thing you needed was to end up with an infection with your boss’s name on your ribcage.

Ren pulled back the sheets, being sure to guide you to your preferred side of the bed. He tucked you in and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at you. “What are you looking at?”

He sighed, “Just you (Y/N), always you.” he leaned in and gave you a kiss. Getting up and shutting off the lights to your room. Leaving you alone to feel the repercussions of his actions.

TAGLIST: @finn-ray-nal-beads @kirah36 @morby @clumsycopy @onlykyloscenes @candycanes19 @desiraypark @princss-bucky @ghoulian13 @swiss-mrs @douglasdriver @direnightshade @sydneyssmut

#adam driver #kylo ren #kylo x reader #modern kylo ren #kylo trash #Clyde logan #flip zimmerman #charlie barber #phillip altman #toby grisoni #jamie massey

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

steady, love (chapter 1)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed (tm) with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

WARNINGS: description of panic

Chapters 1-5 now up on ao3 (same username)!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

---

Dusk is beginning to fall.

Glancing at the clock, Jon realizes with a start that it has been almost four hours since they left Martin’s apartment for Daisy’s safehouse, with him driving Martin’s car. When he first pulled out into the streets of London, Martin had had to guide him softly through the city as Jon’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He had been so gentle, even through the exhaustion that had forced Jon to be the driver in the first place.

“It’s alright, Jon. You’re doing fine. Just take a deep breath.”

“I haven’t driven in years, Martin! I could have hit that person a-and—”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t, Jon. You’re okay. Everything will be alright once we get out of the city. I promise you’re alright.”

Jon smirks and half-chuckles at the memory. Martin had been right, of course, as always. He began to relax as soon as they got out of London and onto the relatively empty highway. Martin had closed his eyes soon afterwards, and was still curled up on the passenger seat beside him, as much as possible for someone so tall as Martin. Glancing at him now, with his head tipped against the window, Jon sees him repeatedly half-open and close his eyes, muttering indistinctly as he does. He’s not sleeping, not really, and Jon knows it—whether it was a lingering effect of the Lonely or his own mind preventing him from drifting off, Jon did not know.

Martin’s dark curls are now streaked grey and white, and his face ashen. These things are the immediate effects of the Lonely, to be sure, but Jon has been worried for much longer about Martin’s physical state. He has lost significant weight in the past months, his clothes now hanging loosely from his frame. Of course, Jon can empathize—he has become almost skeletal in the wake of resisting his…hunger. And the distinct lack of Martin’s fussing about his human eating habits has not helped.

There is something that I missed. Something I could have done.

Sighing, Jon’s eyes drift back to Martin as he begins to stir. He appears agitated, brows furrowed and limbs pressing his body away from Jon, further into the solidity of the door. Jon furrows his own brows in concern, half-lifting his left hand to press against Martin’s forehead, which has become increasingly covered in sweat. He thinks better of it, afraid to startle him, and pulls his hand back. But as the minutes pass, Martin’s agitation only seems to grow, his movements growing more distressed.

How can I calm him? Jon wonders, eyes flitting around the car for something he could do.

They land on a dusty stack of CDs that Jon had grabbed from Martin’s apartment at the last moment, out of a desire to somehow bring back the old Martin— the one who loved “lo-fi charm” and romantic poetry. He grabs the top album and quickly pops it into the CD player.

A soft, yet driving rhythm begins to play from the speakers, and Jon quickly lowers the volume to an ambient level, anxiously hoping that he did not wake him. On the contrary, Martin’s movements have slowed, his brow unknitting little by little, and his limbs unfurling. With a soft smile that lasts just a bit longer than is probably safe to look away from the road, Jon shifts in his seat and turns his eyes back toward the growing dark.

A few hours later, and it seems that Martin has truly fallen asleep, to Jon’s relief. They had stopped at a petrol station some ways back, where Jon had gently shaken Martin awake and asked him if he needed anything. Martin had entered the shop for a bit, and when he returned, he had, of course, offered to drive. Jon unequivocally refused, citing both the intense black under his eyes and the way he swayed slightly as he returned to the car. No, Martin would not be driving tonight. Jon had downed something with enough caffeine to revive the dead, stretched his aching muscles, and pushed on.

Martin now has his head tipped back against the seat, his face turned slightly in Jon’s direction. A bit of drool seeps from the corner of his partially-open mouth, and his deep breathing has settled slowly into soft snores. Jon is desperately glad that there is no one (save the Watcher) to see his foolish grin at the sight of his…whatever Martin is to him, now.

It should feel complicated, Jon thinks, but it just doesn’t. Not at all.

The CD has once again come to an end, and Jon reaches forward to start it over again. It is quite late in the night now, and while he is grateful for the background noise, he does not particularly care what that noise is at this point. And Martin is not awake to complain about the monotony of it all. So, for now, monotony suits Jon just fine.

As he skips back to the first track, however, Martin jolts awake without warning, letting out such a terrified cry that Jon himself yelps and swerves off the highway. Trying to regain control of the car, he throws his left arm across Martin’s chest as he slams on the brakes.

They both sit there for a moment, panting wildly, before Jon lowers his arm and looks at Martin, eyes still wide. His breath is not slowing at all—in fact, it appears to be picking up, rather ragged and shallow. Swallowing down his own shock, Jon chokes out his name.

“…Martin? Are you alright?”

Martin does not answer, instead leaning forward to press his forehead against his palms. He squeezes his eyes closed and breathes shakily—in through the nose, out through the mouth—in an attempt to slow down his breathing. Not sure what to do, Jon puts the car in park and places a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder, speaking softly.

“Martin? What can I do?”

Martin flinches slightly at the contact, and Jon removes his hand quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, never taking his eyes from Martin and trying his best not to feel hurt.

Martin shakes his head, then lifts it, finally turning to look at Jon.

“It’s alright. I’m alright,” he rasps, his voice uncharacteristically rough. He clears his throat and continues, reaching a bit into his normal register.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, Martin, it’s not your fault.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Without another word, Jon pulls the car back onto the road, and Martin leans against the window once again. Even with the music, Jon can hear his labored attempts at measured breaths, and watches his leg bounce anxiously from the corner of his eye.

“Only thirty more minutes, Martin. Will you be alright?”

Martin does not reply, merely nodding and curling up tighter against the window.

The second Jon parks, Martin bolts out of the car.

Jon, slightly stunned, remains seated for a moment, once again swallowing hurt he knows is misplaced. He then drags his stiff form from the car, joints protesting at every move, and walks around to the boot. Grabbing their bags, he watches Martin in his peripheral vision, pacing and running a hand through his hair. Wanting to give him some privacy, Jon averts his gaze and takes much longer than is necessary to unpack. He briefly considers lighting a cigarette, cursing himself for bringing them along at all.

He is not left in this state for long, however, as the gravel crunching beside him alerts him to Martin’s return. He moves to lift his backpack, but stops, straightening up to his full height and meeting Jon’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, Jon, I just needed a moment,” he says lowly, his voice still unusually gravely and thick. “Are you alright? That’s a long way for one person to drive.”

“No need to apologize, Martin. Really, I’m alright as well.” Offering a smile, Jon chuckles. “As you know, my primary hobby involves focusing intensely for long periods of time, so…I was well prepared.”

Martin does not laugh, staring into Jon’s eyes vacantly for a moment before dropping his gaze and lifting his bags. Jon’s chest aches as he follows suit.

I miss him.

I miss him and he’s right in front of me.

They walk up to the front door together, which Jon then unlocks.

Inside, they find much of what they expected—a quiet, unassuming place with the smell of dust in the air. Both men drop their bags inside as they close the front door, flicking on the lights and moving to take a closer look around. Jon sighs and turns on the kitchen light. Dust everywhere, a few ungodly spiders of course, but it does look—a bit homey, after all. Or perhaps that’s his imagination, which is unhelpfully feeding him an image of Martin cooking breakfast, humming pleasantly, while Jon sits at the kitchen table, doing homework with their son…

Jesus, STOP it, Jon thinks, closing his eyes and shaking his head as if clearing water from his ears. Just STOP. Focus.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Jon moves on from his visions of blessed and impossible domesticity and opens the cabinets, looking for anything he might cook for dinner. Or, perhaps breakfast? But the cabinets are, unfortunately, bare save for some dishes and a half-finished bottle of whisky. A single glass sits next to the bottle. Jon reaches out for it carefully, holding it like some precious thing.

Oh, Daisy. I’m so sorry.

His eyes beginning to sting, he stares at the glass until a sound from the hall startles him back to the present.

“Martin?”

Upon receiving no reply, Jon sets the glass down and moves toward the source of the disturbance. Light from the open door of the bathroom pours into the hall, Martin’s shadow stretching tall across the wooden floor. Turning the corner, Jon sees him, staring into the mirror, hand clutching his white-streaked hair and beginnings of a beard with panic in his eyes.

“Martin…”

Jon reaches out his arms, intentionally staying within Martin’s eyeline—a wordless request for permission to touch him. Martin indicates no awareness of Jon’s presence. Jon opens his mouth to ask him again if he’s alright, when Martin’s breath hitches, and he doubles over, leaning heavily on the sink. His breaths begin to come in rapid and shallow once again, and Jon sees his knees beginning to buckle.

“Woah, woah—Martin! Easy, easy…”

Jon reaches out then, supporting him as much as his slightness will allow, and guides him gently to sit on the floor, back against the wall. Martin immediately pulls his knees upward toward his face, elbows resting atop them and face in his hands as he continues to gasp for air.

“Hey, hey, easy now, easy…” Jon continues softly, placing his left hand on Martin’s knee, reaching the right toward his face. He desperately wants to ease Martin’s anguish, to hold him, to—

“NO!” Martin yells sharply, and Jon throws his whole body back against the sink. Between pants, Martin continues shakily, “No, I-I—can’t—I’m so—s-so—so sorry.”

Jon’s heart is beating out of his chest, both from the shock of Martin’s yell and the prospect that he might have just made things worse. He freezes, wide-eyed as Martin curls in on himself further, the gasps coming faster, wheezing, desperate. He has to do something.

Moving slowly, Jon scoots from where he sits against the sink to the opposite wall, next to Martin, careful not to touch him. Leaning his left side against the wall and tucking his legs to right, he swallows the lump that has formed in his throat.

“I’m here, Martin. I’m right here. You’re not alone. I’m right here with you.”

At this, Martin’s gasping breaths begin to slow for just a moment, before turning into body-wracking sobs.

“I’m s-sorry J-Jon—god—I’m sorry—"

Jon does begin to weep then, silently, still whispering words he hopes are comforting in as steady a voice as he can muster.

After several minutes, Martin’s breaths really do begin to slow, and he returns his deep breathing techniques, Jon praising him all the way.

At last, wiping his face, Martin lowers his hands from his face and closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the wall.

“Thank you, Jon. I’m sorry you had to see that,” he whispers.

Oh, Martin.

“It’s alright. I want to be here for you, Martin. I-I am here. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Scrubbing a hand across his beard again, Martin continues, voice still wobbling.

“It…it was just bit of a shock to see my own face. I didn’t realize how…how much I look like him, now. With all this.”

He motions at his white hair and beard.

Jon leans his head against the wall, his gaze never leaving Martin’s face.

“I…I’m so sorry, Martin.”

Martin exhales forcefully, a ghost of a smile playing on his face, unless Jon is imagining things again. He reaches his hand nervously toward Jon, eyes fixed on the ground. Jon gapes at the extended hand for just a moment, before taking it quickly, almost desperately, in his own. Martin begins stroking the back of Jon’s hand with his thumb, and Jon’s heart melts completely into the floor.

They stay just like that for several minutes before Martin scoots closer to him. Jon shifts so that his body is parallel with Martin’s, their legs knocking together. Jon turns to look at Martin, whose gaze is still on the floor.

“You’re nothing like him, Martin. Not at all. And…I’ve got an extra razor if you want to get rid of the beard.”

Martin does smile at that, letting out a quick exhale of a laugh, and finally meeting his eyes. Jon, for his part, feels dizzy with relief. Then Martin brings their still-clasped hands to his lips, kissing the back of Jon’s palm, and Jon thinks he might actually lose consciousness. Martin lowers his head onto Jon’s bony shoulder, and Jon is all too pleased to nuzzle his chin into Martin’s soft curls.

Several minutes pass, just breathing, each taking comfort in the other’s presence. Jon’s thoughts gradually extract themselves from the constant train of Martin on my shoulder Martin on my shoulder and return to his former task, which was to get some food into Martin.

He presses his lips to Martin’s hair briefly, and lifts his head.

“Do you think you could eat something?”

Martin, his head still resting on Jon’s shoulder, scrunches his nose at once, seemingly nauseated at the very thought. Jon kisses the top of his head once again, and returns to coaxing him.

“I know. But I really think we should try. God knows we both need it.”

Martin’s face shifts from apprehensive to something nearing distress at this. Jon notices this at once, immediately softening his voice and carding a hand through his hair.

“What about some tea? And maybe a biscuit or two, if you feel up to it.”

Martin seems to ponder for a moment, then lifts his gaze to meet Jon’s at last, a small smile on his face.

“Yeah, I think I could manage that.”

Jon returns his smile before getting to his feet slowly, his knees popping in protest. He offers a hand to Martin, who takes it, and stands. To Jon’s dismay, Martin sways for a moment as he gets to his feet, and his arms immediately reach out to steady him.

“Easy, Martin!”

Martin lets out a soft “Woah” and leans back against the wall, eyes closed for a moment. Jon’s hands stay firm beneath his elbows.

“Are you alright?”

Martin hums in response, opening his eyes blearily after a moment.

“Let’s go,” he nods.

Jon wraps one arm around Martin’s back as they walk, keeping the other firmly planted beneath his elbow, and deposits him in one of the kitchen chairs. Martin lets out a long sigh, and Jon turns to fill the kettle and retrieve Martin’s tea and biscuits, which he had swiped from his apartment, just in case. With all his puttering done, Jon turns back to face Martin, leaning back against the countertop. Martin has placed his elbows on the dust-covered table, and is massaging his temples with his hands. His face has gone ashen again, the perspiration coating his forehead. Jon’s brows knit together in concern.

“You…don’t look well, Martin.”

At this, Martin picks his head up from his hands and gives Jon a smile, a bit of a forced thing.

“I’ll be alright Jon, really. You’re fussing.”

“Hmm.”

Jon immediately turns around to investigate the cabinets again, hoping to find medicine for the fever he’s almost certain is plaguing Martin, knowing he will find nothing.

The kettle whistles, and Jon pulls some mugs out of the cabinet, wanting to choose the perfect mug for Martin’s sacred ritual. He selects a pastel green mug, remembering Martin’s love of plants, and pours them both a cup. With no small measure of dismay, he realizes that he hasn’t the faintest idea how Martin takes his tea. His chest aches. His body aches with the weight of it. There’s no choice, he has to ask him now, when it is far, far too late to do so.

“Martin? I am so sorry but how…how do you take your tea?”

Martin lets out a humorless laugh, which turns briefly into a cough. When he speaks, however, his tone is gentle.

“Is there any honey?”

Stupid, obvious. He’s losing his voice, damn it.

“Y-yes, of course, here—” Jon quickly places Martin’s mug in front of him, along with the honey he swiped from his apartment and a stirring spoon. Martin regards it all with a soft smile, and Jon turns to his own tea, adding a bit of sugar. He opens the packet of biscuits and spreads them on a plate, then places them on the table as he sits down. Martin eyes the biscuits warily. Jon sighs.

“Martin, you’ve got to eat something.”

“I know,” Martin replies a bit testily, rubbing a hand across his forehead. Jon looks down into his mug.

“No, I…I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.”

Jon looks up, smiles.

“I know, Martin. It’s alright.”

He reaches for a biscuit, dips it in his tea, and eats. A few moments later, Martin follows suit, albeit a bit more slowly. Jon watches him carefully as he takes a bite, and then dips the other half of the biscuit back in his tea, popping it in his mouth.

Conversation becomes easier now. Martin even lets out what sounds suspiciously like a full laugh when Jon recounts a tale of the Admiral ruining an entire stack of statements. Between the two of them, they finish the plate of biscuits rather quickly. Each of them notices that some color has returned to the other’s cheeks, and are delighted to see, for a moment, a restoration of joy.

The laughter fades into a warm and comfortable silence, and Jon eyes the empty plate of biscuits.

“Do you want anything else to eat, Martin?”

Martin snorts. “Do we have anything else?”

“Hmm…not really.”

“Then I suppose not.”

Jon stands from the table, collecting the plate and the now-empty mugs, and places them in the sink. He then turns to where their bags sit at the front entrance, and starts to pick them up. Before he can do so, a hand tenderly grabs his wrist.

“Jon.”

He looks over his shoulder to see Martin, his gaze intense, full of effort to convey the depth of his meaning.

“Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.”

His eyes are brimming now, and with a soft smile, Jon reaches up to wipe it all away.

“It’s nothing at all.”

Martin smiles back, then collects his bags, following Jon upstairs.

They stop in their tracks, staring at the unsettling problem before them.

There is only one bed.

After a few moments of silence, during which both curse themselves for blushing so furiously, they begin to speak over each other.

“I can take the couch, y—”

“NO, Jon no no—”

“I-it’s not a problem, you—”

“No, Jon, I think it’s—”

“You need the rest, and I—”

“Jon, wait.”

He does.

“I…I think it’s just two twin beds pushed together.”

“…oh.”

“Yeah.”

A moment’s pause, and then Jon speaks nervously.

“Do you…do you want to pull them apart?”

Another pause.

“…no.”

They turn to look at each other, soft smiles returning to their faces. Jon approaches tentatively, only moving in such a way that Martin can clearly see him. He reaches a hand up to rest on Martin’s upper arm, and the other to where Martin’s curls hang down over his brow, brushing them back, then resting his hand against Martin’s cheek.

“Your hair’s gotten long,” he speaks softly.

Martin places a hand on Jon’s waist, so utterly gently, as if he doesn’t really believe he’s there. Encouraged by this, Jon moves closer, his own hand moving from where it rests on Martin’s arm down to his waist. Martin smiles lopsidedly, tenderly, then cards his finger through Jon’s disheveled, graying waves, like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He pulls Jon forward so that his face rests against his chest.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he hums lowly, the vibrations from his chest radiating throughout Jon’s body. Jon smiles against his chest, then pulls back slowly, his arms still resting on Martin’s waist. Martin is looking at him with more love in his eyes than Jon has ever seen, and he makes a decision.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, lifting himself to his tip toes.

Martin flushes all the way to his ears, and stammers hurriedly.

“Y-yes, yes plea—mmm”

Jon doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #sickfic #hurt/comfort #tw panic attack #my writing

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just-mirko · 4 years

Photo

BINARY

BNHA HACKER AU - CHAPTER 6

MASTERLIST

Mirko x F!Reader

Warnings: Blood, Me calling out all of you readers as bottoms.

WC: 2.1K

She gazed at my face with indistinguishable emotion. Her teeth were barred in a mix between a grimace and a smile. The blood that was smeared beneath her mouth where I had injured her; the red blood matched her wild eyes.

“I win,” She said quietly...

Her breathing was slowing, though I still could not distinguish between each of our pants. Blood rushed to my head, making me feel hot, cold, and everything in between. My gaze was fixated on the small stream of blood making its way down her chin, next to where the previous blood had been smeared in a weak attempt to get it off her face. Looking up from the corner of her lip, our eyes met, and for a second, we both stilled. The ringing in my ears got remarkably silent. I could only image the same was happening for her.

The corner of my lips tugged into a small smile and her grip on my wrists weakened the slightest bit, letting blood flow back into my aching fingertips. My muscles relaxed a small amount, no longer having to strain to keep them from being stretched too much.

A small pause was shown in her features. For a moment Mirko seemed open and free. It was a short second though, and that look glazed back over. I was met with the same eyes I always saw behind the silver mask.

She rolled from atop me with a thud and laid on the sparring mat next to me. Her presence was quiet, but reassuring: slightly cocky as well, seeing as she totally wiped the floor with me. The only good hit I managed to get was a throw towards her jaw, and even then, she only flinched when it drew blood. Even on the hard mat my limbs felt like jello as I melted into the floor. Oh, what I would give to just fall asleep right now. I have not been that active in so long. Our fight was less than 5 minutes but was so filled with movement and pain that my energy drained quick.

“Has everyone completed their first match?” I heard Nezu say. To me, it felt like I was hearing it from underneath 10ft of water. Falling into the deep end.

“Yea” A chorus of voices responded, some sounding worse for wear than the others. Mine was one of the worse ones. The back of my throat was scratchy. Some other students brought water bottles with them, but I hadn’t even brought mine to the academy.

I guess I should buy a new one later. I silently noted.

I sat up, into a crossed leg position on the mat. My back instantly slouched over from the soreness in my muscles. Staying upright was a struggle.

“Well…” Nezu began, his finger tapping his lips. -Nose? I do not know mouse terminology- as he pondered the next words to say. “Your matches weren’t terrible I guess, but it was far from proficient.”

I was dazed and looking around at the other students. A smirk could not help but make its way onto my face when I saw that hawks was missing one of the larger feathers on his wing. One feather we even stuck in the ceiling. Ha! He constantly gazed back up at it, willing it to fall down, but It was wedged there.

“Some of you have sustained a few bruises, and sores, do you have any injuries that require immediate attention?” He asked, scanning the room looking for students in pain When his gaze landed on Mirko.

“Are you still bleeding?” He asked inquisitively. He knew it wasn’t a major injury, but whatever he had planned next wouldn’t suit well if she just kept spilling her red blood cells everywhere.

“(Y/N)” Nezu called cheerfully with a slightly mischievous undertone.

“Take her to the common room, there is a first aid kit near the doors in. Do try and help her with a band aid or two.”

I was about to speak up when he beat me to it,

“You wont miss anything, we will just be giving feedback on the fights that happened with everyone’s partners.”

I looked towards Mirko. She brought a finger up to her face and rubbed her lip lightly, checking for blood. It came back red. The liquid was seeming to slow down though, but the amount of slowly drying blood smeared across her jawline and dribbling down her neck wasn’t a good look. Well god, it did look really hot on her, but I could imagine the taste of iron was something she wanted to get out of her mouth.

Gesturing her head towards the door, Mirko stood up lightly. Her recovery was amazing. So soon after a fight and she was already as energetic as ever.

She reached out to me and I took her hand, when she pulled me up, I could feel a few joints in me leg pop uncomfortably. The would definitely swell up a little by tomorrow.

We walked through the exit doors silently, not wanting to disrupt the rest of the class more than we already had. The hallways were so dark compared to the bright penthouse training area lined with windows.

The ride down the elevator was nothing short of awkward, I stood an arms distance apart in the corner, my head filled with so many thoughts that I could not translate into words.

“I’m sorry for punching you like that” I sheepishly mumbled quietly. It’s my fault that she had to miss a portion of class. On the first day at that. I should’ve aimed for her shoulder or something.

Her white ears twitched towards me.

“Hey, it was a good punch Bunny, kind of deserved it after I pinned you that roughly... Hey are your wrists okay?” She said the last sentence quickly. Maybe she was afraid that got hurt.

“I’m okay!” I quickly respond, moving my arms straight in front of me to show my hands. I rolled them a little to show each side and prove they were nothing more than a little red.

I said with a smile, “They are barely sore anymore.”

She took one of my hands and gently turned it over, looking at the join and checking for what I assumed was bruises. Satisfied that there were no injuries. She let out a small sigh, though she still held my hand carefully. The tips of her nails tickled lightly against my palm.

Under my breath, in the lowest tone possible, I quietly admitted to myself.

“Hey, it’s not like I didn’t like it”

“Did you say something?” Mirko’s voice was eerily calm. Its not like she heard it though: she probably though it was just talking to myself.

The elevator ride down to the common room ended when a small ding resonated into the metal box. We stepped off and opened the large wooden doors.

I told her to go sit down on the couch while I fished for the first aid kit.

I found it in a small shelf under a box of medical tape and gauze.

“Got it!”

I walked towards Mirko, holding the box in my hands, wondering where to place it. I settled on the coffee table. Both of us were silent as I sat right next to her. I was not aware of how close I sat, until I turned to her, alcohol wipes in hand, less than a foot from her face.

I froze in place and my heartbeat picked up. I took a gulp and gently took her face in my hand before beginning to remove some of the dried blood. I was nearly eye level with her chin when we were both sitting down, so it was easy to avoid eye contact. While I focused, I got into a sort of trance. I was trying to be as delicate as possible as to not reopen the cut, though some of the blood was tough to remove

Once that was over, I just had to apply an antibiotic cream, then a band aid.

I put a bit of the ointment on my thumb then placed my hand on both sides of her face to make sure she did not move. Carefully, I brushed the bottom of her lip with my thumb, making sure to get the wound, and a little bit of the area around it covered. Her face was so warm under my touch, and soft too. Each small exhale made a little puff of warm air fan across the fingertips, sending shivers down my spine.

Lastly, I unwrapped the band aid and positioned it over her face before tapping it down and making sure it stayed on.

“How much do you know about rabbits (Y/N)?” Mirko’s voice was no louder than a whisper, and our faces were so close that every word she said was clear.

“Not that much more than the average person.” Why was she saying this suddenly? Did she have magic healing powers with her quirk? Was she allergic to the ointment or something? Was she just being a pretentious little bitch like hawks?

“You see bunnies have really good hearing.” Wait oh god. Did she hear me say that? Was that why-

My mind quickly went to what I had said 5 minutes ago in the elevator.

Under my breath, in the lowest tone possible, I quietly admitted to myself.

“Hey, it’s not like I didn’t like it”

“W-what do you mean by that Mirko” I said, and I could feel my face heating up. She noticed it too and chucked to herself. It was a deep rumbling sound that would have made me feel calm in any other situation.

“Nothing, just thought you would want to know.” A grin was back on her face, flashing sharp canines, the last thing you would have expected on a rabbit quirk holder.

“Hey, stop doing that you’re going to reopen the cut” I said and lightly punched her shoulder. I did not want all my work to go to waste. My hand went back up to the band aid on her face and my finger grazed the size of her lip.

“My parents always kissed my boo boos (injuries) when I got hurt” Mirko said boldly, and my hand froze up next to her face. Was she implying. No. no no.

I wasn’t going to kiss her. If It was on her hand maybe if she insisted but right under her lip… No (Y/N) pull yourself together.

That cut was so close to her mouth and I could not I don’t. That would just be so embarrassing and I-

“Hey (Y/NNNN), You spaced out a little bit” She teased.

“N-no I-I can’t” Did she really have this effect on me? One second, I was bold and brash, but the second she calls me out on saying that I enjoyed having her top me. (If you are reading this fanfic this applies to you. Do not lie to yourself. We all want to be topped my Mirko).

“Aww but how else will I get better” Her face tilted down towards me, and the slightest bit closer.

“Just a little peck would make all the pain go away”

She was reading me like an open book. Pressing all my buttons. Everything I said she was right through. Oh she definitely deserved the punch.

“I-“

My voice stopped when I felt a light brush on my side next to the top of my hip bone. One of her hands was delicately just waiting there, barely making any movement. Maybe if I just leaned in, her fingertips would connect, trace gentle shapes in my side while-

Both my hands were close to my chest. I was rubbing my fingertips together in a slight fidget though. All my anxiety was shown to her.

Her other hand- her left hand- reached up towards my cheek, though she was not touching me, just like on my hip. She wouldn’t do a single thing till I did something first.

With a tiny smile she remarked “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“Why are you so scared?” She asked.

Her nails contacted my hip and my check, though she still, wasn’t touching me.

“Maybe you want me, to make the first move-“Her eyelids closed slightly while she looked down at me fondly.

Each word I wanted to say did not come out. Because in my head, I was saying she was right.

#bnhabookclub #mirkobnha #miruko #mirukobnha #bnhafanfic #bnha mirko #bnha x reader #bnha au #hacker au #mirko x reader #rumi usagiyama #rumi usagiyama x reader #xf!reader #just-mirko #justmirko #mha #binary #peghawks2020

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snarkythewoecrow · 4 years

Note

Dialogue prompt for Tony and Peter - “Nothing doing, kiddo. Reye’s Syndrome is the last thing you need.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the first part of the prompt was supposed to be. I thought it might be a typo, so I just used the second line. It turned out to be a fun, light sickfic. Hope it’s close to something you wanted :) special thanks to @red-leafy and @workadayfan for their help. I would still be staring at the screen without them

Peter didn’t think he could get sick. It had been years since he had something more substantial than a sniffle, but now it was like his body was making up for lost time.

He was absolutely miserable. His body ached, each muscle and joint making itself known. His head hurt, and there was building pressure in his sinuses that made him feel like his eyes were going to pop out. And to top it all off, he’d come down with whatever virus this was on his road trip with Tony. They’d been planning this for months, and now it was ruined.

It was supposed to be his last hurrah with his mentor before college. They were going to drive around the country over the course of two weeks, stay in fancy hotels, and visit things like the biggest ball of twine and going to pet alligators in Arkansas.

The trip was supposed to be fun, but somewhere between Ben and Jerry’s Flavor Graveyard and the mini Jurassic Park in Connecticut, Peter had come down with something that could only be described as the plague. He felt awful, and even without a thermometer, he knew he was burning up.

Tony was driving them to the next hotel, already having called Bruce to ask for advice. His recommendation was rest and fluids. Peter was down for that. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his head felt fuzzy. Sleep would be a blessing.

Peter finished his bottle of water, sticking the empty container back in the cupholder. He groaned, his headache pounding.

“How’re you holding up?” Tony glanced at him, his mouth turned down.

Peter laid his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. “I’d kill for some Tylenol.”

“Have you checked the glovebox? There might be a few packets of something.”

“I looked before. The only thing in there are dubious-looking ketchup packets.”

Tony huffed, then looking away from the road for a second, he dug in the center console. “I swear I had something in here.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark. Can we just stop at a gas station or something? They’ve got to have something.”

Tony turned his attention back to the road. “Yeah, I’ll get off at the next exit, and we’ll see what we can find. Try to rest until then.”

“No problem there. I’m too tired to do anything else.”

Peter drifted off, dreaming of dinosaurs and balls of twine. Someone jostling his shoulder woke him up a little while later, and he blinked, looking around in a daze. He rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

“Speedy Gas. I need to fill up, and hopefully, we can find something to make you feel a little better.”

Peter hummed in response, unbuckling his seatbelt. His nose twitched, and he tried forcing air through the swollen passages. It didn’t work. “I’ll go check out the store. Do you need anything while I’m in there?”

“One of those Starbuck’s Double Shot Expresso drinks, mocha flavored. Here take this,” Tony said, passing him a black card. “Get whatever you want.”

Peter nodded, hand moving to the door. “Be right back.”

Peter searched the store, but he could only find a single packet of aspirin. It wasn’t likely to do much for him, but he bought it anyway, along with Tony’s drink and a water for himself. He hadn’t eaten since that morning, but he wasn’t hungry. He felt too miserable to eat.

After paying for everything, he took his haul back out to the car and met Tony, who had just finished pumping. Peter slipped into his seat, tossing their empty bottles from earlier into the back. They’d been throwing their trash into the backseat for the whole trip. The trash heap had begun to encroach on the front seat. Peter shoved it back and then turned back around. They could clean the car later. Tony had said it was about being a free spirit or something. Peter just thought they were both lazy.

Setting the new drinks in the cup holders, Peter glanced over when Tony got back in the car. The man eyed the backseat with a frown.

“I think there might be something growing in there.”

Peter huffed. “You think? At least it doesn’t smell yet.”

Tony sighed, starting the car. “Maybe we should take some of the worst garbage out at the next hotel. Did you get something for your headache?”

Tony still hadn’t pulled away from the pump. He reached across and pressed his hand to Peter’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Peter grunted, holding up the packet of aspirin. “I got this. It should help.”

Tony’s brows pinched together, then he snatched it from Peter’s hand. “Nope, none for you. Sorry.”

“What? I’m sorry but wasn’t that the whole point of stopping? You just said it. I’m burning up.”

Tony’s eyes squinted as he read the back of the packet. “Just like I thought. Reye’s syndrome is the last thing you need right now.”

“Reye’s what?” Peter asked, feeling way too sick for this shit.

“It’s a syndrome kids can get from taking aspirin when they have a fever. Something I learned after we had Morgan. Sorry kid. I can’t risk it.”

“You know I’m like eighteen. I’m not a kid anymore, Mr. Stark. I’m legally an adult, in fact.”

“Sorry, not risking it. You can wait until we get to the hotel, or I can look for a Walmart, whichever comes first.”

Peter sank back into his chair and sighed. He didn’t have the patience for this. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift as the car pulled back onto the highway.

They did, in fact, stop at a Walmart, and Tony went inside to find medicine. Peter waited in the car, radio on in the background, the pounding of his head almost matching the music's rhythm. Tony wasn’t long. When he returned to the car, he had two bags full of every cold and flu medicine they had in the store.

Plopping the bags on Peter’s lap, Tony sat in his seat and turned to Peter, grabbing one of the bags in peeking inside. Peter watched him with a grimace, feeling too crappy to comment.

Tony made a triumphant noise and then pulled a bottle of what looked like watered down grape juice out of the bag. It wasn’t juice, though. Peter wasn’t that lucky.

“Pedialyte,” Tony announced, as he used his teeth to peel the plastic safety label off. Then he uncapped it and held it out to Peter, who frowned.

“Uh?”

“Drink up,” Tony shoved the bottle at him, and Peter instinctively grabbed it, holding it close to his chest with both hands. “I talked to the pharmacist. This should keep you hydrated.”

“It’s just a cold,” Peter deadpanned.

Tony scoffed. “Just a cold, he says. You’re burning up, Pete. This is definitely falling into flu territory. I should know. I’m a doctor.”

“Of engineering.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. It’s all the same, or it should be.”

Peter sighed. He really didn’t feel up to this conversation. Changing the subject, he nudged the bags on his lap and said, “Can I at least have some medicine now?”

Tony grabbed one of the bags and dug into it. He pulled out some cold and flu liquid gel caplets. After tearing open the box, he handed Peter two. “I want you to at least drink half of that.”

Peter rolled his eyes, popping the pills into his mouth and washing it down with the salty-sweet liquid. His face pulled into a grimace after he swallowed. “This is terrible.”

“It can’t be that bad. It’s made for kids.”

“It’s like lightly salted diluted Gatorade. In no way is it good. If you make me drink this, I’ll puke.”

Tony eyed him. “Half.”

“None.”

“A quarter of a bottle, and I’ll let you pick the music for the rest of the trip.”

Peter considered, glancing down at the offending bottle of Pedialyte in his hand. “For the whole trip? Not just today?”

Tony huffed. “Yes, the whole trip if it makes you drink.”

Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually won, but he sighed and brought the drink to his mouth, chugging down a quarter of the bottle in a few giant gulps. His face twisted once it was all down. He recapped it and tossed it to the floor by his feet.

He felt too tired and crappy now to listen to the radio, but if he felt better tomorrow, it would be worth drinking it. There was only so much classic rock Peter could listen to.

“How long ‘til we get to the hotel?”

Tony glanced down at the GPS. “About an hour.”

“Mm, all right. I think I’m gonna catch a nap. I think the cold medicine is kicking in.”

Tony hummed in response but otherwise didn’t say anything. It felt like Peter had a heavy blanket on him, weighing him down. His limbs protested when he adjusted in his seat to get more comfortable. His sinuses were still clogged, but there was a slight lessening of pressure, so he had hope he’d be breathing better soon.

Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the seatbelt and let himself fall asleep.

With any luck, he’d feel better tomorrow. If not, he was sure Tony would take care of him. It wasn’t like they had a shortage of medicine. Even though he was sick, he still tucked the memory of the day away as a good one. It might not be the road trip they’d planned, but it wasn’t half bad either. Maybe they’d still get to pet an alligator.

#peter parker #tony stark #mcu #marvel #sickfic #snark writes

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