#i s’posed to be washing the floor

[sixhours]

One Day at a Time - Chapter 5 - Labor

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel Miller x f!OFC, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, SMUT, gratuitous smut, dubious consent (drunk sex), unplanned pregnancy, fluff, references to past miscarriages, angst, hurt/comfort, romance, age gap (~21 years), childbirth, fluffy baby stuff, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

Charlie and Joel find a new routine, stumbling around each other in the early days–passing each other in the hall with stilted greetings, overly polite glances, two lone wolves sharing a den.

The hardest part of having her around is her insistence on doing things . He finds the laundry hamper in his bathroom empty, the dishes washed and put away in the cupboard, the floor swept and the bookshelves dusted.

“You don’t need to clean up after me,” he grumbles after finding a bunch of his shirts folded and pressed and stacked neatly on the bed in Ellie’s old room. “Didn’t ask you here to be a maid.”

“I have to do something,” she says from her place on the couch. “They have me on reduced hours. All I do is water plants and sort donations, and there are only so many books to read. At this rate, I’ll be halfway through the library by the time the kid is born.”

“That’s the point. You’re s’posed to rest,” he says.

“I haven’t bled in three weeks,” she says. “The kid’s fine. I’m fine. A load of laundry isn’t going to kill us.”

He winces. “Don’t say it like that. And I can do my own damn laundry.”

In a vain attempt to get her to stay put, he brings home stacks of DVDs from the library and makes movies a nightly routine. If nothing else, it keeps her off her feet for a couple of hours, and he already knows they have similar tastes. Sometimes Ellie joins them, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, and their weird little arrangement feels almost familial.

On one such night, Charlie is fast asleep when the movie credits roll. Ellie bowed out halfway through, claiming she couldn’t take the cheesy dialogue for one more second.

Charlie’s head is propped on a pillow next to Joel’s thigh, and he resists the urge to push an errant strand of silver hair out of her eyes. Instead, he draws a fingertip down her cheek until she stirs.

“You missed the best part,” he murmurs. “And you’re droolin’.”

“Mmm.”

She wipes a hand across her mouth and blinks up at him. It’s a long, lingering look that has him brushing the hair from her eyes after all, eager to have an excuse to touch her, if only for a second.

He realizes with a dull sense of shame that he wants to gather her in his arms and carry her to bed. The liquor that put them here may have acted as a lubricant, but at a different time, under different circumstances, he would have tried to get her to bed regardless.

The thought is pushed roughly aside as he stands slowly, stiffly, stretching through the low-level ache in his back, ignoring the creak in his knees.

He puts out a hand to help her up and she takes it, using it as leverage to hoist herself off the too-soft couch, overcoming her unfamiliar extra weight. Her hand lingers in his once she’s up, just a second too long, and he feels that familiar spark of heat low in his spine.

He fakes a cough and takes his hand away, grateful she can’t see the flush creeping up his neck in the low light.

“C’mon…let’s get you to bed.”

He plods up the stairs behind her, purposefully looking at his feet instead of the sway of her hips ahead of him.

“G’night, Joel,” she yawns, lingering in the doorway to his bedroom.

Christ, even her yawn is cute.

“Night,” he grates out, ducking into the spare room and closing the door behind him. He’ll wait until she’s settled, then he’ll go to the bathroom down the hall and take his second shower of the day, because there’s no fucking way he can jerk off in Ellie’s old room.

It’s different from what Joel remembers. There is no attempt to outfit a nursery, no crib or cradle to put together, no paint swatches smoothed onto the walls. There is no discussion of names, of gender, of a future beyond the current day; just a nightly mark in his pocket calendar, one more day in a long countdown. He doesn’t know if it’s a shared fear of losing the pregnancy or of making it too real; probably both.

Instead, they refer to the baby as a fruit, based on the list in the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” book that someone, probably Maria, dropped on their doorstep.

“How’s…is it Avocado?” he asks, returning home from patrol. Tommy must have pulled some strings with the council because he’s been put on daytime shifts only, no overnights, and nothing longer than six hours.

“I think it’s Pepper now. No…wait,” Charlie frowns, reaching for the book and flipping to a dog-eared page. “We’re up to Sweet Potato.”

He wrinkles his nose. “How is that a fruit?”

“I dunno, but it’s making me want fries.”

He does his best to stifle the urge to follow her around and pester her to eat, to drink, to relax, but tonight the question slips out before he can stop it.

“You hungry? Did you eat?”

“I was joking,” she sighs, and he catches the tail-end of an eye roll. “But no, I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Heard it’s pizza night at the caf. Prob’ly still have the good stuff if we go now. No mushrooms.”

“Sounds like heartburn waiting to happen,” she smiles. “But sure.”

They walk to the cafeteria together, a diversion from routine. Except for their nightly movie dates, they keep separate schedules, more like roommates than future parents.

”So, uh, you didn’t tell me before. How’s ‘Sweet Potato’?”

“Active,” she says, rubbing her stomach. “At least I think it’s the kid. Could be gas.”

He snorts a laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It feels like…bubbles. Like fizzy bubbles, popping,” she says.

He nods. “You’re, uh, what, twenty weeks? Halfway.”

“You’re keeping track,” she says appraisingly.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Her lips quirk in a smile. “I’m not.”

He’s managed to keep his head down and avoid the rumors, but he feels eyes on them when they enter the cafeteria together; the old man and the reclusive widow. It’s almost enough to make him turn around, but her hand is suddenly warm in his, steadying him.

“Maybe we should give them something to talk about,” she whispers, arching an eyebrow.

“Pretty sure this is ‘something’ enough,” he says, gently poking at her stomach with the edge of his tray.

They find a table in the corner, someplace Joel can keep his back to the wall and glare at anyone who offers more than a sideways glance. Normally the caf’s pizza is good, but tonight it tastes like cheese-covered cardboard. He’s head down, focused on cutting up his food into little squares when a familiar voice pipes up.

“Hey, lovebirds!”

He looks up to find Ellie standing at their table, holding her tray and grinning.

“Not gonna interrupt your date, just wanted to say ‘hi.’ I’m eating with Cat and Dina,” she nods to the other side of the room.

“S’not a–”

“Have fun,” she chirps. Then she’s gone.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pushing his food around on his plate. “She’s…a lot.”

“How’s she dealing with all this?” Charlie asks, gesturing between them.

“Same way she deals with everythin’,” he snorts. “Bein’ a wiseass.”

Charlie looks over her shoulder to where Ellie is now laughing with her friends.

“How’d she end up with you, anyway? You’re a bit of an unlikely pair.”

“Made a promise to a friend,” he says roughly. “Then she…stuck.”

“The unwitting father,” she says, smiling a little, then frowns. “I used to wonder what kind of mother I’d be…before this. Now I just hope we make it out of this pregnancy alive.”

“You will,” he says quickly because he can’t bring himself to imagine the alternative. “And you’ll do fine. The first years, it’s mostly just about keepin’ ‘em alive…stop ‘em from doing stupid shit.”

He’s watching Ellie as he says this.

“Then you love ‘em and hope for the best,” he says softly. “Not much else to it.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Charlie says curiously, and a pit of anxiety burrows deeper into his stomach. Sometimes he forgets she doesn’t know about Sarah.

“I took care of Tommy,” he explains, flushing. “Our folks weren’t, uh, around much. It was just me an’ him for a long time.”

She nods. She’s finished her pizza and he’s still moving his around on his plate. He pushes his tray over to her.

“Here. M’not hungry.”

“You sure?”

He nods, and she takes the tray and picks up one of the tiny pizza squares he’s carved out, popping it in her mouth.

“Well, she seems pretty happy, all things considered,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “You must be doing something right.”

He winces, thinking of Ellie’s dead weight in his arms and the despair in her eyes when he couldn’t tell her the truth.

“M’not so sure about that.”

The moan drifts across the hall, and Joel is out of bed and at her door in an instant. He’s only half dressed, hasn’t even put a T-shirt on. Ellie hasn’t had one of her nightmares in months, but he’s operating on pure instinct, something drilled into him from the time Sarah was a baby. It’s a honed reflex; he does it without waking, without thinking.

He stops at the threshold, blinking away the sleep before he can knock on the door to his bedroom.

His bedroom. Ellie sleeps in the garage. Charlie is here now, not Ellie.

Another low moan, a gasp…a sigh.

His face gets hot as he realizes what’s happening. He stands frozen in the hall, her breathing carrying through the door. Panting, another moan. Arousal sends a tight knot of heat to his groin.

Fuck.

He turns on his heel, eager to put space between them, to give her some privacy, but his foot lands on the squeakiest floorboard, the one he’s been telling himself he needs to nail down before someone trips on the damn thing, and the sound is unmistakable and deafening.

All sounds from his bedroom cease with a tiny gasp.

Shit shit shit.

He’s fixed in place. There’s the sound of her soft footsteps on the other side of the door, the creak of the knob as it opens.

“Joel?”

He turns around, fists clenching at his sides. “Sorry…I thought you were, uh…sick.”

She’s watching him intently, silver eyes burning into his in a way that takes his voice. She’s dressed in a thin tank top and underwear, the fabric clinging to her skin, dewy with sweat from the heat of the summer, or from…other things.

His brain goes fuzzy.

The lacy edge of the tank top barely covers her, swollen as she is, breasts and belly normally covered by an oversized button-down. His eyes are drawn to the naked swell of her abdomen over the crease of her thigh.

Then she’s reaching toward him, and he catches her wrist before her palm makes contact with his bare chest, but just barely. The heat radiates off her and he feels every single degree of temperature.

“I…should go,” he murmurs, but his throat has gone dry and it comes out as a croak.

“Joel–”

He’s still holding her wrist when she moves toward him and presses her face to the center of his breastbone, her breath like a blessing on his skin. He can’t stop her, can’t turn her away, even as his hand holds her wrist steady and apart, the rest of her slides against him. Her forehead presses at the spot under his chin.

It’s so slow–so painfully, breathtakingly slow, this connection.

“We–” is all he can get out when he feels her lips on his chest, an open-mouthed kiss to his pec, and he shudders. Her tongue peeks out, lapping once at the tender skin, tasting him.

His other hand cups the back of her bare neck, intending to pull her away, but he’s entranced by the softness at her nape, the warmth of the skin, the way the muscles and bones shift under his palm. She has deftly extracted her wrist from his grip and is holding the hand that was meant to keep her at bay, fingers laced together and tucked between their bodies like a secret.

She tips her head back, waiting for the last vestiges of his control to break. It’s her eyes that do it, silver and shining with want…and sadness.

I’m here, I’m here, you can have this.

Oh, he really should turn away.

He kisses her like it’s the first time because he can’t remember the first time; only that it put them here. Maybe it hadn’t been the alcohol after all, because he’s lost himself to the first sip of her mouth. She tastes like chocolate, sweet and rich and deep, and he is so achingly hungry when she licks the taste of herself into him.

She’s pulling him, or maybe he’s pushing her, guiding her to the bed. His bed. Where she’d been touching herself not moments before–

He groans and separates himself from her just as she sinks onto the mattress.

“I need…I need a minute,” he gasps. He feels insane, primal, out of control. He needs this to just slow down and give him half a second to think, but he can’t fucking think because the blood is no longer answering to the part of his body that controls decision-making.

Charlie gets to her knees on the bed, swaying a little as she adjusts to her burgeoning center of gravity. “You asked how you could help. This is how. You can be with me.”

“Is that…really what you want?”

She blinks at him, slow and measured. Her voice shakes. “I want…I want to forget, just for a little bit. I want to…pretend.”

“I’m old enough t’be your father,” he grits out, even as he’s drawn to her, even as his hand finds hers and closes the distance. He watches their fingers entwine as if enchanted, her narrower ones sliding between his thick ones, the clutch of her nails skipping across the ridges of his palm.

“But you’re not my father,” she says evenly.

“The midwife said no–”

“It’s fine,” she soothes, placing his hand on her waist. She’s so fucking close and she smells like sex.

“Please.”

The catch in her voice dissolves what’s left of his restraint and his arm slips around her more fully, pulling her into him, his hand finding the soft skin under her tank top. He holds her close, feeling the thrum of his pulse at his throat when she kisses him there, licking at the scruff of his beard.

Then she’s urging him onto the bed, straddling his hips with her own, draping herself over him, her skin melting against his like warm honey. He feels feverish with want, with need, so lost in the sensations he’s denied himself for months that he might as well be drunk for all the control he has.

He nuzzles at one breast, cups the other, dark-tipped and heavy in his palm. She arches and whimpers when his thumb grazes a nipple, keens when he licks and licks and sucks it into his mouth, feels the pebbled skin tighten under his tongue.

She sits up on her knees, urges his boxers down over him before he fully realizes what she’s doing. He tries to still her with a hand to her hip.

“I don’t wanna hurt–”

“You won’t,” she says, and then she’s pulling her underwear aside and sinking on his length with a gasp and a whimper, fingers gripping his chest to steady herself as she rocks against him, taking him inside with slow, careful thrusts. A groan wrenches itself from his throat and he has to stop himself from thrusting up into her.

“There, there,” she whimpers, finding the right angle, pressing against him, rolling her hips until his cock is stroking and hitting that spot over and over. It doesn’t take long until she’s panting, whimpering, please, please, yes there, please, as she uses his body to climb higher.

He’s murmuring now, soft words of encouragement and praise and nonsense at her throat, her neck, wherever his mouth can reach. He doesn’t stop even when she kisses him, rumbling into her mouth, laying the words against her tongue with his own like an offering, yes, baby, just like that, so good, take it, take it, I got you, take it.

She comes with a final roll of her hips, pressing him inside her as deep as she can and grinding against him with a wail. He feels the pulse and flutter of her contractions around him, her eyes clamped shut, blunt nails digging into his shoulders. Her lip quivers and she lets out what sounds like a sob.

She slides off him with a whimper, tucking into the crook of his arm.

“Just…a sec,” she breathes.

He’s dizzy with her scent, her touch, still not entirely sure how they got here…again. But now her fingers are skating over his stomach and down, taking him in her hand and stroking him, watching his face.

“You don’t…have to,” he grits out, rolling to face her and edging backward to give her space. But she’s shimmying out of her underwear and hooking her leg over his hips, pulling him closer. She reaches between them to stroke his cock through her folds, then urges him inside with a sigh.

Pleasure sinks its hot tendrils into him as she rocks against him, her face pressed to his chest, soft panting at his collarbone. His free hand roams the landscape of her body, the hard swell of her womb pressed into the softness of his stomach, the weight of her breast in his hand.

He feels her fingers at the base of his cock, slicking herself, and his hand follows, covering hers.

“Show me,” he whispers.

She does, and he picks up her rhythm, swirling the pad of his finger around her swollen clit, yes yes, like that, more . He’s surprised when she comes again almost immediately, so sensitive, clamping tight and nipping at his clavicle. She grips his hip and grinds against him, forcing him to fuck her through it until he’s cresting.

“Gonna…soon…” he pants, trying to pull out, but she locks her leg tighter around him.

“Inside,” she whispers, grabbing at his jaw and pulling his mouth to hers.

He groans, pulling back to see her face. “You sure?”

“S’the worst that can happen?”

She looks down at them, at the swell just above where their bodies are joined, and then tilts her chin up and grins, a coy, fucked-out smirk that makes his cock ache and kick and throb inside her.

“Oh…oh fuck ,” he whispers, and then he’s pouring into her.

Her hand is splayed on his cheek when he comes to, her eyes closed, nose pressed to his jaw.

“Y’okay?”

“Mmm,” she sighs, a tiny, breathy little thing. She’s already half asleep.

“Should I—“

“Stay,” she murmurs, leg still locked around him.

He does.

[lazywonderlvnd]

Hi, if you are still taking prompts; A magically powerful Harry not noticing that his magic does things to make Draco happy. This can be pre-relationship or established relationship. Like it starts of with his tea being exactly as he likes and always the right temperature. Then evolves to rooms changing colour or weather changing or people being unable to invade Draco’s personal space due to an invisible barrier or something ridiculous. Btw Draco doesn’t notice as well.

anon.....you really killed me w this one. i’ve been so emo over this wyugeahrwiw might end up writing smth longer tbh bc this concept is literally the only thing that matters to me!!!!!!! i hope u enjoy i had so much fun with it ❤️❤️❤️

“Harry, you do it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“We’re fucking watching something, Draco!”

“So just pause it!”

Harry grabs the pillow on his lap and slams it onto the sofa next to him. Hermione can see dust rise in its wake. He pauses the telly. 

“Are you doing it?” Draco asks hopefully. Harry scowls at him. 

“Well you won’t shut up until I do, will you?”

“Definitely not.”

Harry disappears into the kitchen and Draco sits there looking smug.

“It’s kind of sick how you get off on bossing him around,” says Ron, his tone one of simple observation. His fingers are idly playing with Hermione’s hair, but she doesn’t think he notices he’s doing it. 

“If I’m not mean to him a few times a week I break out in a rash, Weasley,” Draco says blithely. “Besides, he makes it perfectly. I don’t know how he does it, it’s always exactly the right temperature and sweetness and all that. I s’pose his years as a house-elf for those Muggles gave him plenty of time to perfect the art.”

“You’re a twat,” says Ron. “And my mum makes tea better than him.”

“Well you’re just a pitiful little mummy’s boy, aren’t you, Weasley? We can hardly trust your opinion.”

“Hark who the hell’s talking,” Ron scoffs. “Least I’m not twenty-three and still calling my mum ‘mummy’ like the world’s biggest bloody ponce.”

Draco splutters but before he can retort Harry’s coming back into the room hovering four cups of tea that float placidly to each of them. Draco looks exactly like a satisfied cat as he takes his and Harry drops back down onto the sofa next to him. Not too close, but certainly not too far, either.

“Literally exquisite,” Draco declares after he’s taken a sip. Ron rolls his eyes.

“It’s just tea, Draco,” says Harry, and he grabs for the remote to turn the film back on. “You’re such a demanding little brat. Merlin’s fucking tits.”

But Draco looks happy and Harry looks suspiciously content as well. Ron turns to her and makes a silent gagging face. Hermione snorts and puts a finger to her lips. They’ve decided not to say anything yet.

*

“Wasn’t this place a lot … uglier last time?”

“What?” Harry says absently. He’s not listening — he’s got all his attention zeroed in on a stack of parchment he’s holding. They’d only barely dragged him along to lunch; earlier the captain of the English National Team had apparently owled him a great number of brand-new Quidditch plays and required Harry’s extensive thoughts and notes before their next practise, which was tomorrow morning. 

“Uglier,” Draco says emphatically, and Ron mutters something she doesn’t catch. “Remember? The walls were that tragic egg-yolk colour.” He shivers. Hermione thinks it might have been an honest-to-god shiver of revulsion. She also thinks she knows what’s happened, even though the extent of it surprises her.

“Maybe someone heard you whingeing and changed it,” Ron apparently can’t stop himself from saying with a snigger. Hermione elbows him hard and he shoots her a glare, mouthing, he doesn’t know!

Harry would usually be the one to take the lead and get them a table when all four of them go out to eat together but today he’s too wrapped up in his Quidditch plays, so Ron steps forward and does it, which makes Hermione’s chest flutter pleasantly. He’d blush down to his bones if she ever said it aloud but he’s quite capable of being a leader in Harry’s absences. 

“Whatever happened,” says Draco pointedly as they’re led to their table, “it’s a great bloody blessing, I was genuinely unsure I’d have the mental fortitude to survive another assault like that on my delicate senses. And, I mean, this —” he gestures to the walls, which are now an admittedly pleasing dark teal above a white trim “— is stunning. It’s my favourite colour.”

“Is it? So weird they picked your favourite colour completely by coincidence,” Ron says, and Hermione elbows him again. Draco notices nothing and neither does Harry, although he does finally set the plays aside once they’re seated at the table.

“Are you complaining about the wall colour again?” he asks drily. They would both be extremely displeased to know they sound like an old married couple. Draco snatches haughtily at the paper napkin on the table and unfolds it to place over his lap. The first time he’d ever done this at a regular, decidedly not upscale restaurant Ron had taken it upon himself to spend the entire meal adopting a posh accent to match Draco’s and saying things to the waiter like “Don’t you have crystal?” while holding up a glass cup full of Pepsi and then commenting “These aren’t real silver, you know” after making a show of inspecting the titanium utensils. 

“I can complain about hideous design choices if I want to,” Draco tells Harry with his nose in the air. “Thankfully they’ve rectified it this time.”

On the other side of the restaurant, Hermione sees two employees talking, one of them gesturing at the wall with utter bewilderment. She doesn’t point it out.

*

“Twelve o’clock,” says Ron, nodding past Draco’s shoulder. “Some bloke staring you down hard, Malfoy.”

Draco looks excitedly behind him, but what Hermione takes more notice of is the way Harry’s face falls a little. She can’t help but wonder if he even realises it’s happened. She’s almost certain he’s aware of his feelings for Draco even though he still hasn’t said anything to her (and she’s been waiting months now, the effort of holding her tongue growing only more difficult by the day, and she knows Ron’s always seconds away from shouting at him) but she doesn’t think he knows how obvious he is. Draco doesn’t seem to know either, but she thinks that’s because Draco feels exactly the same way. She’d have called them morons, but she remembers too well how long it had taken her and Ron.

“What the fuck, Weasley,” Draco hisses, turning back around with a scowl that makes Ron laugh and Harry perk up again a little bit. “He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks.”

“Now, now,” says Ron, “mustn’t judge books by their greasy covers.”

“Then you go shag him if you think he’s so fit.”

“Maybe I will,” Ron says airily, as if he really is considering it, and Hermione can’t help chuckling and kissing his cheek. Then his expression changes to one of wicked amusement, which makes all of them look round to see the bloke coming their way. Hermione glances at Harry to find that — oh yes, he looks flustered and vaguely upset.

“Hullo,” says the greasy bloke to Draco as he comes up beside him at their table. He’s really not terrible-looking, but if she’s learned anything about Draco in the last couple years it’s that his standards amount to models and Harry Potter, so this man has almost no chance.

“Hello,” Draco drawls, reminding her fiercely of his younger self at Hogwarts. “I’m not interested.”

“Right little narcissistic bugger, aren’t you?” the man says. And now, finally, he’s begun to look as revolting to Hermione as he’d done initially to Draco — a repellent personality can do that. “Maybe I just wanted to come and have a chat.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at any of the rest of us?” Ron asks, sounding halfway between amused still and a little put off.

“Can you leave, please?” Draco interjects, cringing away from the man encroaching slowly on his personal space. And suddenly, as he looks on the verge of antagonising Draco further, he shifts his feet and slips, landing right on his bum with a yell of surprise. All four of them get to their feet to see, but there doesn’t seem to be any liquid or even slimy food for him to have tripped on.

“The fuck ...?” the man says, getting back to his feet. But when he moved towards Draco, he only slips again, on absolutely nothing at all. Something clicks and Hermione looks at Harry: he seems as confused as anyone else (if obviously pleased).

She looks at Ron then, who catches her eye and lifts his brows like he’s thinking the same thing.

Draco’s suitor gets up once more and steadies himself, looking a bit dazed. Some deep animal instinct seems to tell him to stop trying, and with a wary glance at Draco he finally leaves.

“Well that was a bit of a fucking scene,” says Harry. Draco, coming out of his own startled daze, laughs.

“Yeah,” Ron says sarcastically, “wonder what could’ve possibly happened.”

*

“I really thought it was going to rain,” Draco mopes where he’s standing at the window. It’s grey outside but it definitely doesn’t look like rain and Draco appears so upset about it that Hermione actually feels badly, even though she’s quite glad for the clear weather. 

“Just shut the curtains,” Ron suggests from his place on the floor. He’s sorting through Harry’s collection of VHS tapes, trying to decide on a good Halloween movie. Not that he’s ever seen any of them, and Hermione suspects he’ll end up choosing whichever cover he likes best.

“It’s not the same!” Draco wails. “The thunder and lightning is all part of it, you uncultured pillock! The atmosphere is all wrong.”

“It’ll be just as good when we shut off all the lights and draw the curtains,” she assures him, but it doesn’t remove the look of disappointment from his face. It’s a pouty sort of thing that echoes the brattiness of his youth; she imagines a five-or-six-year-old Draco giving his parents similar looks when he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

 At that moment the front door opens and Harry walks in carrying two grocery bags, one of which contains alcohol, which Hermione can tell by the way the plastic is bulging around the cans.

“The fuck are you all doing here?” he says by way of greeting.

“You said eight o’clock, fuckhead,” Ron tells him without looking up. “But it’s fine, I’ve had time to pick a film and Malfoy’s had time to moan about the weather.”

“What’s wrong with the weather?”

“I wanted a storm!”

At that exact moment, a flash of lightning lights up the sky behind Harry where he hasn’t even closed the door yet. Seconds later a downpour begins, and then there’s a rolling crash of thunder.

Hermione’s eyes widen and once more she finds Ron’s gaze, who looks about as shocked as she feels. Draco, meanwhile, has his hands over his mouth and looks like a child on Christmas morning.

For the first time since his magic had begun picking up on Draco’s wishes and granting them of seemingly its own accord, Hermione sees Harry look suspicious. He peers behind him at the storm suddenly raging outside his house before slowly closing the door. When he turns back he looks directly at Hermione, who looks away quickly.

They set up the food Harry had gotten — all kinds of Halloween-themed sweets — and once everyone has their drinks (“Make mine,” Draco tells Harry, “you do it best”) and is comfortable on the two sofas in the room (Harry and Draco are, as usual, as close to each other as they can get without actually touching) they start the movie: The Thing, which Harry swears is one of the greatest horror films of all time.

Funny thing is, an hour and a half into it she looks over and, with a jolt, realises the two of them are kissing half-covered beneath a blanket. She elbows Ron, who positively beams when he notices.

“Fucking finally, dear sweet Merlin,” he whispers, the sound muffled by the continued rain and thunder. “I nearly hit him upside the head when he made it rain, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Shh!” Hermione hisses, though she’s smiling. “They’ll hear you. We’ll rag him about it tomorrow.”

A soft sound of laughter comes from the other sofa that Hermione identifies as Draco’s, and when she risks another peek after a moment she sees that Harry has a hand on Draco’s jaw, and that he’s smiling.

[adhduck]

AT LAST, AFTER TWO MONTHS, I HAVE CONQUERED IT. Chapter 4 of But I Can Hope How This Will End is finally finished, and besties...I really thought it was gonna be happier sdjfkldk. But! Yearning! Lots of yearning! Literally like 9k of it oh my god how did this chapter get so long

AO3 

CW: canon-typical blue vein talk/anxiety; blood mention; quarantine; slightly graphic medical examination and first aid (including needles/stitches); non-sexual nudity; alcohol consumption (for medical purposes)

And With Time For the Wounds We Can't

Zolf watches Wilde for a few minutes, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest, before deciding he’s stable enough to be left alone while Zolf cleans up, preferably before someone shows up at the inn and starts asking about a crime scene.

He cleans the trail of blood Wilde left first, thinking about how helpful it would be to have Prestidigitation right now, and washes off the knife, then sets it with Carter’s collection before he can start to wonder whose blood was on it.

Once that’s done, he rummages through Wilde’s closet until he finds some clothes Wilde can take on and off easily but won’t be too heartbroken about getting bloodied. They aren’t the most fashionable, but don’t seem to clash at least, so hopefully Wilde won’t mind.

Zolf drops them by the door and goes to make food, at which point he remembers he was halfway into that very task when Wilde got back. Thank the gods nothing caught on fire. As the soup gets up to a boil, he slices into a new loaf of bread, then debates whether to add some vegetables on the side before deciding it’ll be too overwhelming.

It's as he’s ladling the soup into a bowl that Barnes returns with supplies. Carter fills him in, so at least Zolf doesn’t have to relive it all quite yet, but Barnes still gives him that damned look when he walks in. The one that says, I know you’re the one who’s hurting most, even if you won’t acknowledge it.

So bloody what if Zolf acknowledges his hurt or not? He doesn’t need a…a Conversation about it. He just needs to fix it.

Barnes is the one who takes Wilde the change of clothes and food; a small part of Zolf protests that he should be the one taking care of Wilde, but he pushes it down. They all care about Wilde, not just him; and besides, the others haven’t even seen him yet.

When Barnes returns, though, he seems a little on edge, and so does Carter when he goes to check on Wilde a couple hours later. Zolf can’t tell if it’s the usual blue vein anxiety, and they both claim Wilde’s wounds don’t seem any worse, so when he goes to bring Wilde dinner and do the first check, he’s understandably nervous.

He finds Wilde is sitting at the edge of the cot, legs stretched out in front of him and gaze set determinedly on his hands. It might just be the lighting, but he seems to be shaking slightly.

Zolf swallows. “Uh, hey. Brought you dinner.” He pushes the bowl through, and Wilde pulls it towards the cot with a foot. The bowl from earlier is still there, too, barely touched. He doesn’t look up.

“How are your injuries?” Zolf tries next, hoping that’s objective enough to not scare him off.

“Same as this morning,” Wilde says; he’s clearly trying to move his mouth as little as possible, which garbles his words a little, but Zolf pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Better than being worse, I s’pose. Are you….” He hesitates, but damn it, haven’t they made it this far? “How are you?”

“Just told you, didn’t I?”

“You know what I meant.” Wilde offers only a shrug, and Zolf sighs. One more try, and then he’ll stop pressing. “Wilde. Look at me.”

It takes a moment, but Wilde finally relents and meets Zolf’s gaze. He’s got the same look he has during interrogations, aloof and assured, which would be more convincing if he didn’t also have fresh tear tracks down his cheeks.

“What is it?” Zolf asks, shuffling to sit on the floor instead of hovering awkwardly above him.

Wilde bristles. “Tensions are always high in quarantine, you know that.”

Not like this. Not you. “You—if it’s your face, it’ll be fine. I’ll patch you up properly soon as you’re out.”

“If I get out.”

He’s right, but Zolf still has to fight the urge to argue about it. “The meeting, then? We’ll figure somethin’ out, you know that.”

Wilde shifts, drops his gaze somewhere to the left. “I know.”

Zolf shouldn’t ask. He absolutely should not ask. “What happened there?”

There it is—Wilde flinches, which pulls at his makeshift bandaging and makes him wince, too. “I told you, it went wrong. Shouldn’t be hard to guess from there.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t help us know where to go from here. Were you ambushed? Did you talk at all before it happened? Was it the Douglas guy who did it, or someone else? When—”

“Zolf.”

It’s incredibly quiet, for how much pleading Wilde fits into the word, and Zolf pulls up short. “I just- they could’ve followed you, or poisoned you, or—” Realizing he’s starting to blabber, Zolf stops and tries again. “Okay, uh, how about this: do you think we’re safe for now?”

“You shouldn’t trust what I say, you know.”

“Wilde.”

A sigh. “Yes, I think we should all be safe for now. Or, well, safe as we ever are.”

“All right. All right, good. Then—then the rest of it doesn’t matter right now, yeah? We don’t gotta talk about it.”

Wilde closes his eyes tightly, pressing his lips together just as they start to tremble. For a moment, it seems he might say something, but he just nods and pulls himself up, leaning heavily on the cot as he starts to undress.

Ah, yes. This part.

Zolf’s never quite understood the way some people look at bodies; how he’s supposed to translate muscle and skin and veins into hunger. Different bodies can be interesting, yes, and nice to look at, to touch. But they rarely spark something in him, no matter what level of dress or undress.

So when Wilde presents himself for inspection, Zolf doesn’t feel a sudden rush of desire or a building warmth in his gut like the hero in a Campbell might. Mostly what he feels is worried, eyes catching on the jut of Wilde’s ribs and how his knees are already beginning to tremble. There’s also, weirdly, a little relief—not just because Wilde’s skin is mercifully clear of veins so far, but because of how he stands so unafraid before Zolf, so uncaring. Like this invasion isn’t an invasion at all.

“You’re good,” Zolf says after Wilde turns around. “Do you need anything else from me? More blankets? Somethin’ to read?”

Wilde shakes his head, reaching for the shirt. “Not ready for a Campbell yet, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

It wasn’t, mostly, but Zolf rolls his eyes as if he’s been caught, knowing it might make Wilde smile. (It doesn’t, but just barely. Zolf counts it as progress.) “All right. I’ll see you in the morning then, yeah? Get some sleep. And- and eat, too, if you can manage it. It’ll help.”

“All right, Zolf.”

The lie is obvious, but Zolf lets it be and stands to leave; at the same time, Wilde drops onto the cot, bringing them almost eye to eye. Their gazes hold for one moment, then two, and maybe it’s the worry pressing against Zolf’s chest, or the hope pushing just as fiercely, but for a moment, Zolf is completely overcome with the desire to hold Wilde’s hand.

It’s just a moment, of course, and he can’t. But the wanting – that urgent, useless wanting – doesn’t ease when Zolf turns away and climbs out of the cellar. Doesn’t even ease when he gets into bed, weathered and raw and confused.

If he’s infected, and he dies, Zolf thinks—stops, forces himself to be honest. If I have to kill him. What am I supposed to do with this then?

He’s awake for hours afterwards, and even then, sleep takes him before he finds an answer.

For a procedure designed to last a week every time, quarantines never go at the same pace. Zolf’s first one felt like a lifetime, being unused to so much time forced to be still, and with the memory of Mr. Ceiling’s tunnels far too fresh in his mind. Now, it’s not too bad as long as he stays occupied, so he reads as much as possible and does puzzles when his brain can’t handle any more content.

When Carter’s in there, it tends to go fast, if only because everyone takes turns keeping him occupied so he doesn’t give into the temptation to escape out of boredom. Barnes is best when there’s someone else there, and worst when he comes back directly after a fight—can’t quite shake it off, which makes him seem not himself, which in turn leaves everyone on edge. During those weeks, only Carter goes to see him, and Zolf can hardly rest until the week’s over.

Wilde has quarantined the least of everyone, and always as a precaution rather than genuine worry of infection, so the background thrum of anxiety has been able to stay just that: background. So to say this week goes slowly is…well, for lack of a more poetic phrase, it feels like saying the ocean is big.

For one thing, Wilde can’t even get the semblance of physical rest quarantine usually offers. He has to stitch up his own face the second day, which is absolutely brutal and yields less than ideal results, and they realize immediately afterward his bandages will have to be undone and redone every day for the checks to be accurate. He also can’t eat most foods with the stitches, so Zolf makes separate meals for him three times a day only to retrieve them a few hours later, hardly touched.

None of that is what makes the quarantine so long, though. Zolf would prefer that, to just be sleep-deprived and overworked and incredibly bored by the paperwork he has to do in Wilde’s absence, but no, it’s long because – gods help him – Zolf misses Wilde. Misses him in the kitchen when no one saunters in just to be a nuisance; misses him in the hallway after dark when there’s no work to drag him away from or late-night drinks to lure him towards; misses him when he’s right goddamn in front of him. It’s long because now he knows it’s not just trust he feels when he thinks of Wilde, not just care, but want.

“Gods,” Zolf mutters, trying to focus back on wrapping the anakyu maki. Him, Zolf Smith, wanting. It’s not exactly something he’s built for; no room for want in all the disasters he’s found himself in over the years. There’s just what he needs, and what needs to be done. The closest he’s had is hope, but they’re not quite the same either: hope is something to work for, a goal for everyone to benefit from. Wanting feels…too close. Like clothes tailored for his height but not his size.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now, because there are hours of work to be done between now and seeing Wilde next, so what Zolf really wants is to focus.

Once he’s finished wrapping the sushi, Zolf plates them on the counter with some wasabi, soy sauce, and ginger and yells for Barnes and Carter to eat. His own portions he takes to Wilde’s study; he has some files to look over, and there’s no way he’ll be able to stay awake unless he’s also eating.

With Wilde’s hesitant permission, Zolf has gathered all the paperwork and notes related to the disastrous mission to review. Thus far, they’ve all been incredibly boring, which has caused Zolf’s reading-for-pleasure brain to go at an absolutely glacial pace. There are pages and pages of notes that could be summarized to “this was a dead end,” and so much bureaucratic nonsense built in even now, at the end of the world.

If it weren’t for Wilde asking Zolf to look over it all ‘just in case,’ he’d probably have given up long ago. As it is, he decides to make it easier on himself by temporarily skipping to the stuff he finds most important, even if it’s out of order. There’s a small part of him that feels like he’s intruding by looking through Wilde’s saved communications from Mr. Douglas, like he’s a teenager rummaging through love notes, but he knows that’s not what’s happening. This is for a mission, and besides, Wilde wouldn’t have put anything in with the files he didn’t want found. Certainly wouldn’t have given Zolf access to them.

He skims until he finds the intel Douglas offered and cross-references it with Wilde’s notes and research. It all checks out, which bothers him for a reason he can’t quite place, and quickly decides is better left alone. The letter then moves into a final paragraph of typical polite nonsense, and Zolf is ready to go on to the next thing, but his eye catches on the last line.

I know it may be hard to trust me, with everything happening, but I promise you won’t regret it. And won’t it be nice to see each other again, Oscar?

“Again?” Zolf says, already reaching for the next letter without thinking of how this is perhaps verging into intrusion territory. It starts off with some drivel – received your last correspondence, glad you agreed, sending this post haste, blah blah blah – and then there, tucked in Douglas’ response about where to stage the meeting:

If all goes as well as I hope, you could always plan on your journey being a day longer. There are lots of lovely inns we can hole up in for a night, get to know each other again. You’ve been so lonely, I’m sure, in the midst of this touchless scourge—

Zolf slams the paper on the desk, feeling vaguely ill. Well, shit. Does he need to be worried about this, about Wilde having some sort of past with this man and never mentioning it? Should he dig further in case their relationship has compromised more than this one lead? The idea makes bowline knots of his stomach, but it might be necessary; better to pry than risk the whole mission. And Wilde didn’t tell him he couldn’t read this—though, to be fair, if Wilde had told Zolf not to read something, that would’ve sparked all sorts of suspicion bells. Still under quarantine, and all that.

That reminder makes Zolf’s chest feel a few ounces too heavy, so he decides this dilemma can wait until tomorrow and goes to find Barnes and Carter. They’re not in the kitchen – the food is all eaten, half-rinsed plates stacked in the sink – or either of their rooms, which leaves the makeshift training room.

As expected, Zolf hears the light clink of metal as he approaches the door, the huffs of adrenaline-labored breathing. He slips inside, sees they’re in the middle of a one-on-one, and leans against the door to watch.

Barnes and Carter are easily the most interesting combo for training: opposite fighting styles, badly hidden competitive streaks, and a deep knowledge of each other’s tricks. Barnes’ blows are heavy, but his feet are light; years of living on a boat have made him balanced, ready to shift at any moment. He doesn’t let his anger or frustration make him careless, either, at least not in training.

Carter, on the other hand, is…unpredictable. He has magic, but loves to make his opponents forget it, relying mostly on his knives. Since he’s usually up against either a sword or a glaive, this means lots of distractions – aborted lunges, constant movement, sometimes even just standing and taunting – but against Barnes, who knows him better than maybe anyone, he has to get more creative.

Barnes attempts a clean thrust as Carter considers; the other man dodges to one side, landing heavily on his right leg, and hisses in a rarely voiced moment of pain. He broke his leg last mission, Zolf remembers, didn’t have enough magic to get it fixed until he made it home. Spent a week leaning on his left leg too hard until that started acting up too, then spent a rather miserable week not allowed to run or train.

Unsurprisingly, Barnes also remembers that, and for half a second, it shows: his gaze flicks over Carter in a flash, looking not for weak points but a sign they should tap out. Carter seems fine, though—or at least, the way he hooks an ankle around Barnes’ and knocks him flat on his back makes Zolf think so.

Carter brings a knee to Barnes’ chest, blunted knife tapping lightly against his throat. Zolf can’t see it, but he knows the man is grinning like mad. “Gotcha.”

Barnes huffs but makes no move to push Carter off. “Menace. ‘S a low blow to make me worry for no reason like that.” He frowns. “Unless—?”

“No, all good,” Carter assures him, getting to his feet and helping the other man follow. “Sorry, though. To make you worry.”

“Just for a second,” he says, cupping the back of Carter’s neck good-naturedly. “And it’s a good tactic, anyway. Found a weak point.”

Carter touches Barnes’ raised arm, very lightly, and Zolf decides he should probably insert himself now. “Mind if I go next?”

Neither one flinches at his voice; probably noticed he was there, then, or maybe they’re just talented at their jobs. “Course not,” Carter says. “I’ll step back this round, give Barnes a chance to prove himself again.”

“Oh, sod off,” Barnes says, nothing but affection in his voice; Carter grins and strides off with the high shoulders of someone who’s won a game with very few stakes and quite a few rewards.

(Zolf’s stomach clenches.)

Sparring with Barnes requires most of Zolf’s focus, and he settles into the rhythm gratefully. Against a man who’s both lighter on his feet and more trained with his weapon of choice, Zolf’s only real advantage is that Barnes has to change the angle of his swings to account for Zolf’s height. They’re both aware of this, though, which means Zolf needs to use some misdirection himself.

“How’s the paperwork going?” Barnes asks, parrying away Zolf’s opening strike. Either he’s not been training long or it hasn’t been particularly tiring, because he’s quick as ever.

“Fine,” Zolf mutters. Barnes does an experimental feint, testing the waters, and Zolf pushes the blade to the side, careful not to leave an opening. “Boring, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Zolf swings for Barnes’ knees, forcing the man to jump backward with a slightly awkward parry, but he’s already recovered before Zolf can take advantage of the moment. “Also annoying.”

“No wonder Wilde’s in charge of it,” Carter says from the sidelines; Zolf and Barnes both huff a fond breath of agreement.

They trade a few more blows, easing into a steady back and forth. Zolf keeps Barnes at bay with his longer weapon – mostly, at least; the bastard’s been spending too much time with Carter, getting sneaky – and Barnes waits patiently for every opening. Being defensive fighters, they spend a good few minutes without any taps when they normally would’ve had two or three by now. Probably time to speed it up a bit, then.

Zolf lunges forward before he can overthink it, aiming for Barnes’ dominant side; even through the slight surprise, Barnes goes to parry instinctively, and Zolf changes direction to get him in the stomach, just above where his shirt is buttoned at the navel. There’s a small wince – it won’t cut him, but it’s still an impact – and then Barnes relaxes out of fighting stance.

“Really need some armor there, Barnes,” Zolf comments, rolling his shoulders with a wince of his own. He’s not actually old, just white-haired, but sometimes his body doesn’t act like it.

Carter boos lightly from the side, and Barnes rolls his eyes. “Hasn’t killed me yet, but I see your point.”

They get into a rhythm after that; sometimes with Barnes winning, sometimes Zolf. Carter cuts in occasionally, but mostly seems content to watch as he practices his knife handling—and to objectify them both, apparently, considering the teasing little whoops he gives when Zolf takes off his shirt, or when a glancing blow pulls at Barnes’ collar and exposes a shoulder.

The side commentary should probably be annoying – would’ve been, a year ago – but Zolf enjoys the light teasing, the easy mood they manage despite the lingering…everything.

It’s not hard to tell, either, that Carter’s trying to fill the ever-present gap they all feel with the sort of jokes that make Zolf’s ears go hot. He doesn’t quite manage it – who could ever take up as much space in a room as Wilde? – but Zolf appreciates the effort anyway. Even if it makes him wonder if Sasha would like Carter now, or if Hamid would try out a physical weapon for the sake of more social time. If he’ll get a chance to ask Wilde if he wonders about things like that, too, whispered under the protection of dim lamplight and a bottle pressed quickly, carefully, against his mouth.

Day four is always the hardest day for quarantine checks, in Zolf’s experience. Far enough along to start expecting signs of infection to appear, but too far from the end to feel any sense of relief if none are visible.

Should be too far from the end to feel hope, either, but, well. He’s gotta feel something, and he’s not ready for despair.

“Hey, Wilde,” he says, ducking in with food in hand. Wilde’s facing the opposite direction, shirt lying at his hip; Zolf sees the muscles in his neck and shoulder blades tighten at the greeting, then release.

There’s another moment of silence before Wilde turns, broken leg stretched out awkwardly as he shifts at the cot’s edge. His face – or what’s visible of it, anyway – is perfectly devoid of emotion. “Mr. Smith.”

Zolf hasn’t slept nearly enough to deal with this right now. “Oh, fuck off.”

There’s no witty retort to that, just an awkward silence where Zolf’s waiting for one, so he pushes the plate through before he can get too swallowed up in it, focusing on the gentle clatter of ceramic against stone. “You eat any of what I brought you last time?”

Sighing, Wilde reaches with his foot to push a bowl from the side of the cot into view. The only indication it may have been touched at all is a dirty spoon balancing atop it, a line of soup spilling over the side. Zolf looks between it and Wilde’s face, that raised chin and those high, proud shoulders; knows there’s something like shame tucked behind that armor.

None of it is surprising, but that doesn’t stop the wave of emotions from cresting and crashing in his chest: he wants to get angry, and he wants to make it better, and he wants to leave, and he wants to not see his friend’s ribs pressing against his skin anymore, and—and he wants, and it’s fucking exhausting, so he tries to focus on something easier.

“Gonna start not doing your paperwork,” he says, pulling new bandages from a coat pocket and sliding them through as well, “if you don’t finish my work.”

Wilde scowls. “Don’t joke, Zolf, that paperwork might be extremely time-sensitive.”

Gods, the things this man says sometimes. “And you eating isn’t?”

Wilde blinks, realizing his mistake, and goes to scrub a hand across his face before he remembers he can’t. “The paperwork is- never mind. Anyway, it’s not as if I’m…spiting you, or something, by not finishing meals.” Zolf raises his eyebrows a little, and Wilde adds, “I’m not! Honestly, one would think you’d trust me with that much by now.”

Zolf, not being trained in hiding his emotions, winces at the mention of trust. “I don’t think you…I mean, it’s not like I think…gods, never mind, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not, like, you’ve gotta bloody eat and stuff, but I’m not…I’m not mad at you, or somethin’. Well. Not much, anyway, just- yeah.”

That gets a tug at the corner of Wilde’s mouth. “Quarantine just isn’t very appetizing a time, I’m afraid.”

“You’re not good at eating outside of it, either,” Zolf points out. He tries to keep his tone light, just the same harmless prodding they do all the time, but it comes out sounding like a scoff, and he watches a shutter go down over Wilde’s eyes. Dammit.

“I’m not sure there’s an ‘outside’ of quarantine anymore,” Wilde says, gaze drifting to the side. “Not since we came to Japan. The cell, the inn, the village—it’s all the same. Just waiting for the week to end.”

Zolf really doesn’t like the way Wilde says end. “I mean, the inn’s a lot less shite than the cell, so that’s a difference. And I can actually treat your injuries properly once you’re out.”

“If,” Wilde reminds him, and gets to his feet. “Well. Time to test it, I suppose.”

He takes off his trousers and bandages with little ceremony, so Zolf does the check with the same lack of show. No signs of infection yet; he lets the hope rise momentarily into his throat, then swallows it back down with a reminder they’re only halfway through.

And even if the week ends with a heavy sigh of relief, he can’t help but wonder if he’ll really get Wilde back. There’s something…cold about him, something very far away despite the fact they’re maybe ten feet apart. It doesn’t feel like the infection, but it scares the hell out of Zolf anyway.

“I,” he starts, without really meaning to. Wilde pauses from where he was starting to rewrap his leg; it’s swollen, clearly needs better medical attention than what it’s getting. “I know we’re waiting to debrief until the end.”

The next pass around Wilde’s knee is definitely a bit too tight. “Yes. We are.”

“And that’s smart, I’m not- it’s the right call. But….” Zolf swallows. He hadn’t actually meant to bring this topic up, but he’s in it now. “I read the letters.”

Wilde flicks his gaze up, and if they hadn’t been spending practically every day together for months, Zolf would think it was casual interest that flashed across his features. “That is what I asked you to do, yes.”

“Well- I ain’t read all of them yet. Most of your paperwork is bloody boring.” He gives half a second for Wilde to snort, but there’s only silence. “I- you know what I’m talking about here, Wilde.”

With his leg fully wrapped, Wilde is forced to look Zolf in the eye, and to his credit, he does so with very little hesitation. “I thought you agreed debriefing was best saved for after.”

“It is, this isn’t—I’m not asking for a- a report or somethin’. I just…. You don’t have to tell me, I wouldn’t force you even if I knew how the hell to do that. But he- you knew him. Cared about him, from what I can tell.”

There’s that familiar tic in Wilde’s jaw. “I did.”

“So why didn’t you tell us about it? I would’ve thought you would be all for, I dunno, keeping our bias out of things.”

“It didn’t seem relevant,” Wilde tries, but gives in as soon as Zolf starts glaring. “I made a mistake, all right? I thought I could trust him, and I let my emotions get involved in the work, and I’m paying for it. I know it’s hard to believe, me not being perfect, but even the greatest must fall.”

“That’s not—” Zolf sighs. “I’m not tryna accuse you of somethin’, this isn’t a trial, I just- it was just weird, for you. Usually you’re the one wanting all the- oh, I don’t know exactly how it goes, but you know, the checks and the proof. This one was different. And I- I trust you, right, you got good instincts most of the time, so if he’s different, there’s gotta be a reason, and I just—”

He loses track of his words then, mostly because he’s not sure he actually does care why Wilde didn’t tell them, or if it matters. Gods know he’s let people down because of his own baggage. He just…this seems to matter to Wilde, and so it matters to Zolf, too. But he never knows how to go about it the right way. Whenever he tries, he ends up either not making sense or making it worse.

Still, he doesn’t wanna let that stop him from trying at all, so he swallows hard and tries again. “I just—”

“Bosie.”

Zolf blinks, thrown. “What?”

“That’s what I called him. Bosie.” Wilde inspects the surgical wrap in his hands as carefully as if it were a shard of glass. The weak lighting glances off his torn cheek, leaves the rest of his face in shadow. “You would’ve hated me even more, you know, if you knew me when I loved him. Like I was with Bertie, but irredeemably genuine about it.”

There’s a pause, so long Zolf wonders if he should cut in, but he doesn’t know what the hell to say anyway, so it’s just quiet for a while before Wilde breathes in, long and heavy, and says, “I killed him. When he attacked me. He’s dead.”

“…Oh.”

Wilde laughs, short and pained and halfway to a breathy sob before he wrangles it in. “Indeed.”

“Wilde, I- d’you—”

“I think I’ll manage the rest of the bandaging without guidance,” Wilde interrupts, his voice abruptly casual. “If I muck it up, I’m sure you’ll tell me in the morning.”

“I—yeah. I’ll do that.” Zolf hesitates; clearly this is his sign to get the hell out, but it’s harder than it should be to leave. “I’ll see you then?”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Wilde deadpans, spreading his arms wide.

“Yeah,” Zolf says, trying not to wonder too much about the hint of a smile on Wilde’s face. He’s been doing far too much wondering lately. “Yeah. See you then.”

The usual protocol is to have a different person do the checks each day – better to have more than one set of eyes on the situation, especially when those eyes are decidedly biased about what they want to see or not see – which means Barnes and Carter are in charge of the next two days. They’re both terse when Zolf asks how Wilde is; apparently the man’s even stiffer with them than he is with Zolf. Which makes some sense, he supposes, considering he’s never taken Wilde’s shit. He’s had more experience prying the bastard open.

Still, Zolf goes down the cellar steps at midnight on the final day with his heartbeat in his throat. If the veins decide to show up now, he is going to…well, have another crisis of faith, probably. What comes next, gods, he really is something.

Wilde is visibly nervous when Zolf comes in, which ruins any hope he had of seeming casual about the whole thing. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

For something so important, this check feels like any other. Zolf traces the curve of Wilde’s neck, his sinewy arms, the jut of his ribs, his hair-covered legs – sees nothing amiss, tells him to turn – and now the broad expanse of his shoulders, the dip in his spine, the tension in his thighs down through his calves.

“You’re good,” Zolf breathes, already fumbling for the cell key.

Wilde hides his face behind long, shaking fingers as a broken little laugh escapes him. “Fuck.”

Zolf unlocks the door, managing to catch himself before he goes inside and his legs go dead. “You should probably put some clothes on.”

There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of Wilde’s mouth, and fine, Zolf’s heart does a little bit of a flop at that visible bit of Wilde-ness, whatever. “Not enjoying the show?”

“I know the people at the bar won’t.”

Wilde huffs, clearly not agreeing with that assessment, but redresses anyway, a bit rushed with his eagerness to get out of the cell.

Once he’s clear, Wilde lets out a long, satisfied breath as if the air is different, even though he’s had the cuffs on this whole time. Zolf sucks in a breath of his own, feeling way too much clambering around in his chest. “Let’s get you to the baths, yeah?”

Wilde narrows his eyes, clearly torn between another undressing joke and interrogating Zolf on why he thinks Wilde needs a bath so badly. Zolf just smirks and guides one of Wilde’s arms over his shoulder, wrapping his own arm across Wilde’s waist and securing it at his hip.

Getting up the stairs is slow, but not nearly as bad as the going down had been, so Zolf counts his blessings. When they get to the living area, Carter is pacing anxious circles around where Barnes is sitting on the couch, taut as a drawn bowstring; once they see Wilde, both of them visibly relax.

“Good to see you both,” Wilde says, just a little hesitant.

“Good to see ya,” Carter echoes. He comes up to touch Wilde’s shoulder, offering one of those bright, impish grins of his, then turns and heads off. Barnes just nods, smiling, and follows.

“Always to the point, those two,” Wilde murmurs.

“Yeah,” Zolf agrees, “’s why I can stand them most of the time.”

Wilde pinches his shoulder. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that implication.”

Zolf just shrugs innocently, letting the beard hide his smirk, and leads on.

The bath’s already prepared; Zolf had filled it with near-boiling water just before he went down for the check, so it wouldn’t get cold too quickly. Wilde eases into the seat beside the tub, unbuttoning his shirt with a grumble about how he just put it on, while Zolf hovers awkwardly a few feet away.

“Your leg should be fine submerged,” he says, “though you might need help getting in. ‘S not good to get that gash wet, though, especially when the water’s going to get dirty.”

“Really aiming for a weak point with the hygiene today, Mr. Smith,” Wilde says idly, muscles dancing as he pushes the shirt off his shoulders. “Can I wash my hair still?”

“Yeah, if you’re careful. I- I could help, if you needed, but I thought you might—er, I just know I like to have a bit of time, after quarantines. Get settled in by myself.”

Wilde nods with a faint smile. “Some alone time might be nice, odd as that may sound.”

“Yeah. Okay, good. I still gotta do a proper medical check on you afterwards, though, so when you’re done just—holler, or somethin’? I’ll be outside.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, course. Um, then I guess I’ll just—oh, wait, you need to get in first.”

Wilde snorts, a little bit unfashionable with it, and says, “That would be a helpful step, yes.”

He finishes undressing, then allows Zolf to pick him up – a bit like when this whole mess started, except instead of a blanket there is quite a lot of skin – and get him over the edge until he can steady himself with his arms and good leg. Slowly, Wilde sinks into the water; he’s forced to sit with most of his chest out of the water, since the tub isn’t very long and he can’t bend one of his legs, but he still sighs a little in relief, tipping his head against the copper edge.

Zolf backs quietly away, letting the image of Wilde close-eyed and content reassure him as he goes to find a new pair of clothes and a Campbell to pass the time.

He settles on Passions of the Sun, dragging a chair a few feet away from the door and opening to a random dog-ear. It’s the scene where Jennifer follows Richard into the (frankly ludicrously sized) bath, because of course it is. Zolf skips to the scene by the fire instead, grateful no one can see his blush.

Twenty pages later, Wilde calls him back in (he almost doesn’t hear it at first, actually; the plot’s just getting into an interesting turn). He finds Wilde reclining with his eyes closed, damp hair clinging to his jaw and adjusted so his feet rest on the bath’s edge and his chest is nearly submerged. The murky water laps gently over his shoulders as he shifted, humming something indiscernible.

“Go all right?” Zolf asks, which is a stupid question, but it’s already out of his mouth, so.

“Didn’t drown, if that’s what you’re asking,” Wilde says, opening one eye to watch Zolf’s approach. “Figured you would be a bit put out if you didn’t get to be the one to do it.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Zolf snorts as he grabs a towel, “and besides, I wouldn’t’ve done it in water this dirty. I had standards.”

“Had,” Wilde echoes. He pulls himself back up to a sitting position, then frowns. “I’ll admit I forgot about the ‘getting out of the bath’ part of this operation.”

Honestly, so had Zolf, but it’s not too bad; they mostly just do what they did before, but in reverse and much more slippery. Zolf’s front is halfway drenched by the time he gets Wilde into the chair with a towel, which he expected, but he still grumbles a bit about it on principle. (The eye roll Wilde gives when he does is a bonus, though.)

Once Wilde’s dried enough to not be uncomfortable, Zolf says, “Okay, need to do the medical stuff now. You all right if I touch you—and no, not like that.” Wilde raises an eyebrow, still ready to make some vaguely lewd comment, and he adds threateningly, “There’s plenty of clean water I could get to drown you in.”

Wilde sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. Do as you must.”

In the six or so months they’ve been working together, Zolf has never done a medical check-up on Wilde. He’s rarely in the sort of physical danger that requires one, and is far too skittish to corner without a reason greater than “because I want to make sure you’re not secretly dying, you stubborn git.” Which means, now that he’s got the chance, Zolf is going to be thorough.

The cut is his biggest concern, of course, so he checks that out first. The stitches Wilde did must not have been tied off properly, because they’re not actually holding the wound together, just sitting there as the skin inflames around them. Zolf winces; he’ll likely have to redo them, and this time with greater risk of infection. He holds Wilde’s face still with one hand as he gently prods at the skin around the wound, feeling for any pain or abnormalities, and thankfully finds none.

“I’ll have to do the stitches again,” he says, mostly managing to sound clinical instead of apologetic. “Might have some infection starting, too, I’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

Wilde makes a noncommittal hum in response, the sound buzzing slightly in the tips of Zolf’s fingers. He tilts Wilde’s head a little to check his eye dilation; his pupils are a little larger than he’d expect, but not to the point of worry.

Zolf feels Wilde swallow against his fingers, and he realizes rather belatedly how this must all look—Wilde, naked save for a towel across his lap and the cuffs on his ankles, and Zolf, looking right into his eyes as he holds his chin. It makes Zolf’s throat feel as if he’s taken a long swig of whiskey right from the bottle; he swallows hard against it, releasing his grip and leaning a few inches back into safer territory.

Once he feels a little steadier, he checks Wilde’s lymph nodes, mostly just as a formality – Wilde’s voice is the one thing he always takes care of – and does a quick glance over his chest and stomach for any new issues. The shallow cut on his ribcage is mostly healed, though he traces over it just to make sure there isn’t any lingering pain, as are the other few scrapes Wilde gathered on his way home.

“Anything hurt, other than the obvious?” Zolf asks, tapping lightly on Wilde’s stomach and listening carefully for any odd noises. His skin is warm, the gentle rise and fall with his breaths almost soothing, like when Zolf used to sit on the shore to watch the tide.

Wilde huffs against Zolf’s prodding. “I’m fine.”

Most likely a lie, but he’s at least not in immediate danger, so Zolf lets it be and moves on to Wilde’s leg. A gentle prodding shows that while the bone definitely fractured, it didn’t break apart, which is a major relief; the inn lacks the sort of specialist tools he would need to fix something like that. The area is swollen, too, but the swelling itself doesn’t seem to be extra painful, so Zolf won’t need to drain it for now. He grips the back of Wilde’s calf gently to test the range of motion—not much, considering Wilde winces the moment he goes more than an inch in any direction, but that was expected.

“All right, that’s the looking part,” Zolf says, leaning back. “Do you want me to do the healing bit magically, or would you rather keep the cuffs on?”

Wilde considers for a moment, fiddling with a corner of the towel. “We can’t be sure our location won’t be compromised if they can cast on me again.”

Zolf nods; he’d expected that answer. “Would you rather be in here, then, or your room?”

“Oh, here is fine, I don’t really care.”

“All right.” Zolf hands Wilde his shirt and sorts through his perhaps excess of medical supplies. They don’t have enough plaster or time for a cast, so he just rewraps the leg and makes a temporary splint, taking down measurements to create a better one soon. Once that’s done, he supports Wilde’s weight as he gets into his pants and trousers – loose-fitting, for obvious reasons – and sits him back down for the stitches.

“Now this,” Zolf says, brandishing a bottle, “is actually for drinking this time around. Just a bit, though, to ease the pain. Don’t want you to get sick.”

Wilde grins and takes the bottle from Zolf without asking, downing a healthy swig before offering it back. “I’m assuming you aren’t having any?”

“Not if you want this to go well,” Zolf says, waving him off. “Ready?”

Wilde nods, already looking a little distant; he’s always been a bit of a lightweight, with how little he eats. Zolf turns Wilde’s head slightly to get a better angle and cleans the area with an alcohol-soaked rag – Wilde hisses, but doesn’t flinch away – before starting the slow process of cutting away the old stitches and pulling them free. Then he has to clean the area all over again, checking if the skin can handle more trauma right now, and decides it can.

“Okay, proper stitching bit now. You need a break?” Wilde takes another long swig of alcohol and closes his eyes, which he supposes is answer enough. “Right then.”

He threads the catgut into the needle, clamps that with his forceps, and brings the point up to Wilde’s cheek. He wishes he could hold Wilde’s hand for this, or at least his face, but he needs both hands, so he just breathes in and out, slowly, and begins.

It’s not as brutal as when Wilde did it, but with the skin already raw and inflamed, it’s not as painless as Zolf hoped either. Wilde shakes a little with the effort to keep his face still, keeping both hands fisted in his shirt and holding his breath each time the needle is about to pass through. The alcohol is kicking in, at least, and Zolf's hands are steady, so it seems they might manage all right.

Which is part of why it’s surprising, when the first tear rolls down Wilde’s cheek. Zolf brushes it quickly away before it can get into the wound, dutifully ignoring how Wilde’s closed eyes flutter with the nearness; as he’s tying off the next stitch, he has to wipe away two more, one on each cheek. There’s no indication from Wilde the process is getting more painful, but the air around them is becoming thick enough to choke on, and Zolf doesn’t know how to ask, or if Wilde wants him to. So he takes a leaf from Wilde’s own book and starts filling the air with noise.

“There’s a scene in one of the Campbell books,” he says, “where they do something like this.” Wilde’s eyebrows lift, just enough for Zolf to know he’s listening, and he continues, “Not the worst portrayal I’ve seen, medically speaking, but it’s clearly just the lead-up to the, ya know, the rest of the scene, which. I guess Campbell’s never gotten non-magical sutures, because there’s nothing particularly…sexy, or whatever, about that.”

“I bet I could make getting stitches sexy,” Wilde murmurs at a break in the rhythm, and Zolf snorts.

“Well, I hate to hurt your ego-” Wilde rolls his eyes- “but you’re not managing that right now.”

“That’s because you haven’t gotten to my mouth.”

To be fair, Zolf’s brain tells him unhelpfully, there’s a bit of a precedent for that. He’s only sort of thought about kissing Wilde since that first time—it tends to get jumbled up with the other thoughts, of holding Wilde until he falls asleep, or making him laugh over breakfast, or waiting impatiently next to him while he finally reads When Passions Collide. But Zolf does think about it, and he'd really rather not be thinking about it right now, when Wilde is about six inches away, so he swallows and says “You’re not gonna enjoy when I get to your mouth" and continues on.

Stitching the corner of Wilde’s lip is indeed as painful and unsexy as the rest of it, and when Zolf finishes the last stitch above his chin and leans back to check his work, he sees not a figure of desire but a very, very tired man. Wilde’s not even trying to hide it, or at least not doing a great job of it (Zolf doesn’t know which worries him more), but at least the stitching seems okay—not too pretty, but it should hold. Gods know he doesn’t want either of them to go through this again.

“That’s everything,” Zolf says at last. “You’re, er, all good to go.”

With a burst of energy Zolf was not expecting, Wilde claps his hands together and stands; he wobbles a bit, but steadies himself before Zolf can offer support. “Back to work, then.”

The only reason Zolf’s eyes don’t roll into the back of his head is because they physically can’t. “No, you’re going to rest.”

Wilde frowns. “You’re aware I just rested for a full week, correct?”

“That’s not—” Zolf starts, then sighs heavily, rubbing a hand across his face. This man. “It’s practically the middle of the night, and you’re injured. Just go to bed, and we can go over stuff in the morning.”

“I need to look back over my notes then, make sure—”

“Wilde. I managed to pick you up, and I can hold you down, too. Go to bed.”

Wilde blinks, something oddly vulnerable and searching in his eyes, before that familiar smirk appears—or tries to, anyway. It goes a bit crooked with the stitches, making Wilde wince a little, but he presses on. “Is that an offer?”

The benefit of a long beard, Zolf has learned, is it hides things like a flush crawling up one’s neck. “Fuck off.”

“Okay, is that—” Zolf swats Wilde’s arm, and he relents, hands raised defensively. “All right, all right. I can tell when I’m being told no.”

“Can you?” Zolf asks, and Wilde swats him back lightly. “All right, come on, we don’t have a cane your size yet, so you’re gonna need to use me until we get one.”

With a long, put-upon sigh, Wilde allows himself to be drawn back against Zolf’s side, and they get him down the hall to his room. The moment he’s within range of his bed, Wilde flops onto it without undressing, face scrunching inelegantly as he yawns.

Deciding it would be a bit much to tell Wilde to at least get under the covers, Zolf rubs his hands together and says, “Er, so. Good night.”

“Mmhmm,” Wilde responds, already half asleep by the look of it. He moves his hands to his stomach, long fingers twitching as if following an inner rhythm, and somehow that’s what makes Zolf remember Wilde almost died a week ago—could’ve died by Zolf’s own hand, if they’d been less lucky.

It feels important, that Wilde knows how relieved Zolf is to be lucky. That he’s glad Wilde’s back, and not just to get out of doing some paperwork, but because he wants Wilde around. Needs it, maybe.

“I, uh,” Zolf starts, but his throat closes up on him. He swallows, opens his mouth to try again, and realizes Wilde’s breathing has evened out, lips parted slightly and head tilted to one side. Asleep.

“And you wanted to stay up,” Zolf mutters, unable to stop his huff from melting into a stupid, fond little smile no matter how dangerous that little bit of honesty feels. He grabs the blanket from the chair, tucking Wilde in carefully like he’s done a few times by now, and shifts the pillow slightly for better support. A lock of hair falls over the stitches with the movement, and he brushes it behind Wilde’s ear; he doesn’t stir, but he does seem to lean into it, a barely-there movement for a barely-there touch. It makes Zolf feel like he’s underwater, but in a good way, he thinks.

He allows himself another moment to simmer in that feeling, warmth curling in his chest just to the left of where he feels the pull his magic, before he blows out the light and goes to get some rest of his own, closing the door quietly behind him.

It’s not until lunch the next day that it happens. At breakfast, Wilde is largely his normal self, apart from the fact he came down to join them at all. He doesn’t eat much, but he does manage to make a pun about porridge that makes Zolf’s ears burn, and he waits for everyone to finish eating before he jumps into mission debrief, and Zolf is feeling genuinely hopeful about it all.

(Wilde does admit he agreed to meet Douglas in part because he already knew him, though he doesn’t say how well. Zolf doesn’t clarify.)

Zolf brings lunch to Wilde’s office a few hours later, hoping it will inspire him to eat if he doesn’t have to leave his work, and also wanting to double-check measurements so he can get started on a better splint. He cracks open the door to find Wilde, as expected, elbow-deep in notes and papers, flicking back and forth between them the way Zolf imagines a mad scientist might if they were on the verge of a breakthrough.

That makes him think a little too much about Paris, so he clears his throat and says, “Hey, brought you food.”

Wilde barely glances up from his work. “Not hungry.”

“Wasn’t an offer,” Zolf responds immediately, walking up to the desk. There’s no open space to set the plate, so he starts to shift a pile of papers over, and Wilde practically growls at him.

“Didn’t I just say I wasn’t hungry?” he snaps.

Zolf blinks, taken aback by the sudden burst of anger. “And didn’t I just say this wasn’t a choice?”

Wilde sighs, long and annoyed. “Listen, I have a lot to catch up on, I don’t have time to take a break right now.”

Zolf frowns. “’S not a break, Wilde, it’s eating.”

“I’m not a child, Mr. Smith, I can take bloody well care of myself,” he says, finally turning to look Zolf in the eye.

He looks…infinitely worse than he did at breakfast, somehow, despite none of his physical features changing. It’s that damned wall again, Zolf realizes, back up like he hasn’t seen since they fled the infection in London, and his stomach rolls over with worry.

“Part of my job is literally to take care of you, Wilde,” he says, trying not to let the rising frustration and worry leak into his voice.

“Well, it’s unnecessary,” Wilde retorts, “and I’d appreciate it if you did quite literally anything else right now.”

Okay, that saps up Zolf’s patience right quick. “What the fuck’s up with you right now?”

Wilde gives him the sort of glare that could probably win awards, in another life. “What is ‘up’ is that I am trying to get back on track with work that could quite literally be the difference between saving the world and ending it, and you’re wanting to…to play bloody doctor-patient.”

“Again,” Zolf says, voice rising, “that’s literally my job.”

“Your job is to save the world.”

“And you’re not part of the world?”

“That’s completely beside the point. We have to think much bigger picture than individual people—”

“The world is individual people—”

“—and, quite frankly, Mr. Smith, you need to realize that you can’t save everyone.”

That one…that one hits like the crumbled roof of a tunnel, pinning Zolf to the ground before he’s even processed the fall. The thing is, he already knows he can't save everyone. He's known it since that first and only night in Prague; since Sasha's illness and the fall of Mr. Ceiling; since he came out from the rubble and Feryn didn't. But for Wilde to say it now, after Zolf spent a week terrified he was going to lose someone else, after they've spent all this time pushing forward on the notion they can at least save everyone they can? To say it when Zolf still stupidly, furiously wants to hold him?

Belatedly, Zolf realizes that he’s breathing too hard, that his hands are clenched to the point of pain; that Wilde is watching him like he’s waiting for the eruption.

It's possible that’s what Wilde is hoping for, actually, and gods, part of Zolf wants to give into it. But no matter how angry he is, he still cares, and no matter how much Wilde hates it, Zolf knows him. Which means he knows this is just another way for Wilde to protect himself, and that underneath the bluster and the dismissal and the cruelty, Wilde is scared. Not that Zolf is going to hit him, or that he’s said the thing that will ruin the team forever. He’s just fucking scared.

It's difficult, to make a breath go in and out evenly, but Zolf forces it anyway. He pushes aside some papers before Wilde can stop him, setting the plate down with the sort of finality that says there will be consequences for moving it again.

“I’ll be back with dinner,” he says, and starts to walk out, but pauses at the door. “And Wilde?”

Wilde doesn’t look up, but Zolf can see his jaw clench. Stubborn bastard, he thinks. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. “What, Mr. Smith?”

“Fuck you.”

He closes the door before he can see Wilde’s expression, but he can hear Wilde as he curses under his breath. He can’t make out the words, but he swears it sounds – and Zolf might just be going soft here – a little bit fond.

[jpoakbrook]

TECH AND FORTH

one shot: part of a series called "Madam To'Low's House" where the reader is a worker at a galactic brothel whose specialty is listening to her client's problems. Stories are out of order and consequential.

NSFW: Smutty as FUCK, boiiiii.

summary: you're a worker at an inter-galactic pleasure house. the bad batch are regulars. this is your 2nd time with tech, but he's emotional today.

You burst into the room with wide, frantic eyes as you took in the scene. The goggled clone was hyperventilating as he clutched his chest, tears streaking down his face. He looked up at you with a look of pure fear and anguish. The girls were all backed away from him, and you motioned for Garnett to step forward. “Give him room and bring him to mine. He’s not dying,” you said firmly.

“Are you sure?” a skinny thing squeaked at you. She was still new here, and it was clear that this would’ve been the first one to die in front of her. As morbid or gruesome as it was, it wasn’t rare for it to happen. Sometimes, the clientele got a little too excited.

“Yes. He’s just having a panic attack and needs to calm down. My room, Garnett, thank you,” you nodded. The bothan male scooped Tech into his arms with ease. Tech was slender but tall, so seeing him curled up in the burly, furry man’s arms was almost comical, especially since he only had on black shorts at this point in the evening. He couldn’t take his liquid chocolate eyes off of you as Garnett carried him out and to your room on the 2nd floor. “Take the night, Marlow,” you said and handed a bundle of credits over to the girl, who nodded.

“Uh, Shira was here, too. I don’t know where she went,” Marlow added.

“Find her and make sure she knows she didn’t kill him. He’ll be fine. I promise,” you said and handed her another stack of money for the other girl. You had forgotten that Tech was a fan of at least 2 girls at a time. He tended to find the most pleasure when he got to see his toys in play, and 1 girl just simply didn’t have enough holes or nerve points for what he wanted to test out.

You left the girl and made your way out to the bar. Madam To’low was standing behind the wooden countertop, pouring drinks into glasses. There was one for you, which she gently pushed across the bartop. It was your favourite, a tall glass of Phattro, and you downed it in one go. Madam To’low’s eyebrows raised with your gulps, and you slammed the drink on the countertop, only for her to fill it up from the pitcher she had ready.

“Gonna be a long night, isn’t it?” she asked as she checked the schedule on her datapad. Your last client had left just minutes before Marlow had pounded on your door, and you were slotted for a midday visitor tomorrow. With Tech in your room, there wasn’t really going to be time to really rest.

“He’s in a bad way. Dunno what’s going on, but I s’pose it’s something to do with Hunter not being here,” you mentioned. You had seen the Marauder when it landed, as you were leading your client into your room, and there was a notable lack of the long-haired leader of Clone Force 99. But then your client gave you those pouty lips that said she wanted all of your attention, and you weren’t able to investigate it further.

“They said he got stuck on the med bay, sent them out here to relax after a mission,” To’low said to you as she handed you a tray with your glass, an empty glass, and a pitcher of Phattro. You nodded in thanks as you took it into your grasp, taking in a deep breath. “You got this, kid,” To’low assured with a smile. You smiled back and nodded, making your way up the stairs to your room.

Your room was one of the larger ones in the House. You had started off in a shared room, then gotten your own small space after your first month, then by the end of the 3rd month, you moved into this room that has been your own for the last 8 years. Your bed had washed out, horizontal, wooden slats for the head and foot boards, and it sat against the left wall. Neatly pressed and tucked in white and grey sheets adorned the top of it. There were 4 large, white sleeping pillows there, none decorative and two on each side. There was a nightstand on both sides of the bed, each hosting a lamp with grey shades. To the left of that, along the wall that the entrance door was on, was a grey sliding door closet. Between the closet and the door was a makeup station of white wood. It was neat and orderly, though there were a couple of scarves you hadn’t put away from your last client sitting on top of it. The mirror was lined with bulbs, but it was turned off at the moment. There was an open area between the bed and the seating area, where you did your morning stretches. The seating area usually had 3 seats of choice: a long couch, a love seat, and an armchair. The armchair was missing today, as you had sent it in for repairs and reupholstering. In the middle of these seats was a coffee table. In the corner beside the long couch was a small, open kitchen, a door there leading to a private ‘fresher. Next to that door, along the right wall, was a fireplace, a TV hanging above it, and it was still left on, playing some soft music from a playlist you had made. The walls were a pleasant pale blue at the top that faded to a dark grey at the bottom. The fireplace was red brick and blazing. Your room was neat, orderly, and surprisingly cozy due to the candles that littered the furniture and the stringed lights that draped around the ceiling.

Tech had been placed on your bed, and he was sitting up with his knees curled up to his chest and his head tucked in his arms. A deep frown pulled at your lips as you set the drinks down on the coffee table and made your way to the clone.

“Tech,” you whisper, your voice gentle and oozing the love you held for the man. It pained you to see him in such a state. You lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he jumped at your touch. He looked at you with wild eyes, and you frowned before gently pulling his goggles off to rest on the bed beside him. He allows you to, and he stares at you with deep lines around his eyes where his goggles usually sit. You move to sit in front of him, legs dangling off the bed, and he allows you between his spread knees. You gently wipe away his tears and run your hands through his hair in long strokes upward, running to the back of his head, and then back and forth again. Your hands run across the shaved sides of his hair and then through the longer locks on top, and you start to pepper his forehead with light kisses. His eyes closed and he let the feeling wash over him. You don’t say anything until his short, sharp inhales are calmed down to regular breaths with the occasional hiccup.

“Hey, love. How are you?” you coo as he relaxes a little. He opened his sad eyes to look at you, and he shook his head a little.

“Hey, cyare. I’m…” he started before trailing off. You didn’t often see Tech at a loss for words, and you had to say, you didn’t care for it much. You loved how chatty the man was, and he always had a throng of facts for you to learn. Some of these facts you actually applied to some of your other clients, whether it be a distraction or an actual tid-bit that’s relevant to them. Tech was always excited about something he was working on or something he was learning. That brain of his was always craving more and more information. You knew it was part of his mutation, but it seemed like he was more enthusiastic about learning things than some others would’ve been.

“Hey, you don’t have to say anything,” you shushed him, stroking his cheek as you did. He leaned into your touch, raising a hand to lay on yours as he held it closely. He smiled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon. I need a soak, and I think you could do with one.” You slipped your hand out of his and tugged on one of them for him to follow you. He scooped his goggles into his hand before allowing you to drag him to the ‘fresher.

You had personalised your fresher when you got the big room. It was just a shower, a sink, and a toilet before. Then you broke down the walls, took up a small portion of the room, in order to make room for a massive, corner tub. There were large windows overlooking the scenery and sky above. The view into the refresher through these windows were slightly obscured by plants and bamboo trees that grew along them. There were glass panels that sectioned off a rectangular area next to these plants, also covered with their own vines and flowers to obscure the inner area from the doorway. This was there your open shower was, with the only entrance into the rectangle being a turn from the bathtub. Your toilet sat in its own little corner, blocked off by half-walls and potted plants on top of that. Your vanity sink was a two-fer, and the flat, sink-length mirror above it showed you all of your flaws in the morning. There were candles stationed around the room, but none were lit. The soft glow from paper lantern string lights was enough for the room, as they dangled from the ceiling and along the windows and glass. You didn’t spend much time with people in here as you usually preferred to wind down on your own.

You dropped your robes onto the pale blue rug without ceremony; Tech had seen you naked before (and a lot more than just your naked body). Even through his anxiety, you could see his eyes trace over your body. He scrutinized you with every ounce of calculation he possessed, and you were sure he was thinking about all the different ways he could please you. But today was your turn to please him.

You moved to the tub and started running a hot bath, being sure to add a small amount of lavender and chamomile syrup to the mix. As the scents flowed into the room, you moved back to Tech, taking his hand in yours, and pulling him into your embrace. He didn’t fight the hug. He actually leaned into it, melted into your arms, and his hands grasped at your back tightly. You just held him, stroked the back of his head and his shoulders, and wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t long before you felt his shoulders shaking as he started to cry again. You gripped him tighter. He was clinging to you, but he couldn’t stand anymore. He dropped to his knees in front of you and wrapped his arms around your hips, burying his face into your sternum and abdomen as he sighed heavily. His tears were still flowing, but he seemed to be more relaxed in your grasp.

“C’mon, babe. I need to clean and warm up,” you whispered and tugged on his shoulder. He stood up and let you pull his undershorts down. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, but that wasn’t to say you weren’t pleasantly surprised by it nonetheless. You dropped your robe to the ground, making sure to take his hand in yours again, and helped him into the tub. You knew he loved doing the touching when it came down to it, but you also knew he loved to be touched otherwise. A stroke of his cheek, a brush of his hand, a kiss on his shoulder; he was putty in your hands.

“Were you able to de-stress with the girls at all?” you asked as you reached onto the stand beside the tub and turned on the speakers to mirror the TV you had (accidentally) left on in the bedroom.

“Didn’t get that far,” he muttered. You turned to look at him and sunk down into the water until it covered your shoulders. There was still a bit to go before you would turn off the water; you liked being able to sit up and have the water minimally touch the underside of your breasts.

“Was it related to the girls at all?” you asked. He shook his head. “In relation to performance?” He shook his head fiercely. “Hunter?” That seemed to freeze him. You ran a hand over his thigh, gently, before running it slower and massaging the tension in the muscles there. Your smile was as gentle as your voice as you soothed him. “Hey. It’s okay. Let’s just enjoy the bath, okay?”

He sunk lower into the water to mirror you, his eyes raising to focus on your face. You smiled and lowered a little to take some water in your mouth. He furrowed his eyebrows, lip curling a little. “That is incredibly unhygienic, cyare,” he said. You just smiled and spit the water at him in a strong stream. It hit him square in the face, and he blubbered indignantly, sitting straight up and out of the water while raising a hand to frantically block what he still could. You broke into a giggle, watching him swipe at his face. He looked at you in shock, wondering what the kriff you were thinking, but he couldn’t help but break into a laugh as well. Your giggle was infectious.

“That’s disgusting,” he commented.

“Yeah, but you laughed,” you pointed out. He paused, unable to argue that, and motioned with his hands for you to come to him. You did, moving slowly through the water, and he pulled you into his lap. His hands settled, clasped on your hips, and she took a moment to bask in his grasp. “Hey.” He looked at you with half-closed eyes, exhaustion starting to settle on him as his panic receded. “Let me love you tonight, okay?”

He took in a deep breath and nodded. You smiled.

You moved to straddle his waist, facing him. You reached to the side to turn off the water, and the room was quieter now. Soft music kept it from being silent, and it was relaxing in the lowlight. Your hands moved over the muscles of his abdomen, up over his chest, dancing over his shoulders, and dragging down his arms. He let his head fall back, eyes closing, as he rested it on the edge of the deep tub. You smiled and started to massage the clone. Your fingers beat patterns into his forearms. You massaged tension from his shoulders. You felt him melt beneath your touch.

“Stars, Tech, why are you so beautiful?” you ask softly as he relaxed. He smirked a little and opened his eyes to peer at you curiously. He looked youthful and partnered with his eager knowledge, many mistook him to be naive or innocent. You knew from first hand experience that he was neither. A bit dense sometimes, but he had textbook knowledge of literally anything.

“Because I am a mistake. A deformity,” he responded like it was fact.

“Hmm… A deformity for sure,” you say and narrow your eyes as you scrutinize the man. He grows visibly uncomfortable under your gaze as you seemed to focus on a spot on his forehead. “Only way to explain how stupid you are.”

“I am not stupid!” he bristled beneath you.

“Then don’t call yourself a mistake,” you snap back, eyes narrowed but staring into his hazel hues now. He frowned lightly at that.

“But I am. That’s why I’m part of the Bad Batch. We’re all mistakes,” he explained. You roll your eyes and pinch his cheek. “Ow! Cyare!” He cried as he rubbed the spot, eyebrows knit.

“Don’t want pinches, don’t say stupid shit,” you mutter, and he clamps his lips shut. He definitely didn’t want more pinches. “You’re not a mistake, Tech. If you were, they would’ve gotten rid of you, like they did the defected clones. You were an accident for sure, but not a mistake,” you said with a shake of your head. “And I refuse to sit here and listen to one of my great loves be called a mistake.”

He smirked at that and muttered, “Accidents and mistakes are the same thing.”

“Not to me, they’re not. An accident is something that just… happens without meaning to. A mistake is something you regret. And I can’t imagine ever regretting you, Tech.”

His eyes soften at your words, and he sighed heavily. It was a sigh you were familiar with. Finally, he was going to tell you what was wrong. It was the sigh of someone who decided that holding themselves together wasn’t worth the effort and pain anymore. It was one of your favourite sounds in the world; coming from the batch, it was music.

“I made a mistake, mesh’la,” he whispered. You didn’t say anything, instead turning your attention back to his muscles like you intended to tenderize him with your fingertips. He pressed into your touch, and you worked a particularly nasty knot out of his left shoulder. He closed his eyes again and there was a small hitch in his breathing before he spoke again. “I got Hunter seriously injured.”

“You didn’t hurt him,” you pointed out.

“No, but my incompetence did,” he snarled. He kept his eyes closed, but his eyebrows were knit together now. There was a frown on his lips. “I didn’t do the research necessary for the mission. I thought I had, but there were things I forgot to look up, forgot to memorise. And… Hunter paid for it,” he said. You didn’t say anything, but there must’ve been a look of confusion on your face because he took one look at you before diving into an explanation.

“We were on a mission on a rain forest planet. Our objective was simple: recon on an outpost that was rumoured to be smuggling droids onto civilian-type ships. Easy enough, so we were confused as to why I sent us. I thought I looked everything up that I needed to; the climate, the winds, the foliage, the type of natural predators. I spent the entire prep week and part of the flight there just reading and learning. It is a fascinating planet, cyare. There’s a flower there that blooms only once every 10 years, and only when it’s raining. But when it does, it stays in bloom year round. It’s a gorgeous thing.” There were stars in his eyes as he gushed about the flower. But then they grew dark again. “Anyway… I overlooked something about the landscape. And Hunter got stuck in a patch of fast-sinking metal ore. It looked just like the rest of the charcoal path, but he almost fell through immediately. We were trying to pull him out, but it was like he was dangling in the middle of a tornado; almost impossible. We got caught out there, and it was a firefight while also trying to keep Hunter alive. It’s a miracle we made it out. Echo dug him out as Wrecker pulled, Cross gave them cover fire, and I… I felt useless,” he said.

“But you weren’t,” you said. You knew that he may have been a brilliant strategist and information technician, but you also knew he was fully capable in the field. You were often recanted tales of their missions, and he was nothing short of badass in all of them as well.

“I froze, cyar’ika. I just… I froze. And it took a slap from Wrecker to knock some sense into me,” he said. Your eyebrows raised in surprise, and he laughed a little. “Hunter’s orders,” he reassured her. “But for a while, I couldn’t think. All that I could focus on was the fact that I didn’t know about the sinkhole.”

You grabbed a bottle of body wash and poured a little onto your white loofah. The ointment was a pale green, and it smelled like cucumbers and sea salt. You ran it over his body, gently scrubbing the man. He kept talking.

“I just can’t stop thinking about how… maybe if I had been prepared, maybe if I just read more, then maybe Hunter wouldn’t be sitting in a med bay with 4 blaster holes in him and a bruised bottom half,” he sighed. He took the loofah from your hands, to your surprise, and he ran it over your skin. Up and down your arms, across your shoulders, back and forth in a slow and steady rhythm. His eyes were on you, but his mind was lost in memories and pain.

“I can’t stop thinking that… he almost died because I wasn’t ready. I didn’t do the one thing that was supposed to be my specialty. I didn’t do the one thing that makes me different from the others. It’s the one thing that makes me, in your words, an accident rather than a mistake.” He huffed at the thought of it, the loofah making its way over your back and along your spine. Then he moved it to your front, and his hands were gentle as he scrubbed. Despite fondling your breast, there was nothing sexual about his touch. It was a gentle and thorough search to ensure he cleaned every part of your body. It seemed to relax him. It was something he knew he could do. The loofah dipped farther down, travelling down your stomach, and you were a little shocked at the abrupt way he dove it between your legs. “Lift, cyare,” he commanded with a focused gaze. You did as told, and he made sure to clean between your thighs well, cleaning himself while he was down there.

“I… I need to learn more. I need to make sure that nobody else gets hurt because they’re relying on me to do something, something I should’ve been doing, and I didn’t do it correctly,” he finished his little rant, handing you the loofah back. You set it off to the side and started to drain the tub, taking his hand to lead him to the shower. You turned on the water, and it rained down on the two of you from directly above. He seemed to be surprised by the appearance of it. Probably used to the ones that come out of the wall, but you had insisted on an overhead sprinkler like being caught in the rain. He pulled you close, seeking your warmth and the comfort of your skin on his. You smiled and ran your hands over his body, wiping away suds and bath soap. He was so much taller than you, the same height as that lanky sniper, so you motioned for him to stoop just a little. He looked behind him and folded down a bench that folded up and down with chains. He sat down, being the perfect height to look you straight in the chest.

“I don’t know how much more you can learn, Tech,” you said and grabbed your bottle of shampoo. You massaged it into his hair, feeling the soft locks give way beneath your fingers. He leaned into your touch, loving the way you massaged his scalp. “You already know so much, and I hear you do an insane amount of research already.” From the others, but most notably Cross. You had been playing a drunken game of sabacc with the clones, and Cross went on a long rant about how Tech was “all research, no fight”. He had yelled about how he just “needs to kriffin’ do it, stop overthinking so much”. It was pretty amusing at the time. Who knew it would come in handy now?

“Not enough. Not enough to stop them from getting hurt,” Tech pouted and stood up to shampoo your hair for you. You smiled in thanks, and it was oddly intimate for the clone to touch you like this. His lithe fingers worked skillfully through your hair, pulling through the strands with ease. He was concentrating so hard on making sure he was doing it correctly. You couldn’t help but giggle at him. “What?” he asked, but you shook your head and refused to elaborate.

“You can only read so much, bud. You could know every detail of a place, but it’s never going to prepare you for the actual experience,” you said. He narrowed his eyes on you slightly, sure to ask you to explain, so you just did. “I knew this job was going to involve sex. Right? Like, that’s pretty brain-dead. But nobody prepared me for all the different things people like to do. Or the different species I’d meet. Or how I would actually end up listening to people so much.” You shook your head with a little laugh, and he moved on to the conditioner.

“I knew, from that first night, that Madam To’low intended for my specialty to be listening to people’s problems, letting them vent, and maybe offering an encouraging word or two. I knew that was my purpose in this House. I knew exactly what was expected of me… but knowing I was going to listen to people and actually listening to them are two very different things. I can’t imagine that yours is much different than that,” you say as he washes out the conditioner from your hair as well. After your hair and body were clean, you shut the water off, and you stepped out onto a bamboo mat. You offered him a towel, which he wrapped around you, much to your surprise. He dried you carefully, gently, and he allowed you to do the same to him.

“But your job is listening to people. My job is knowing information to keep my brothers and I from dying,” he said after you led him out of the ‘fresher. You motioned for him to sit back on the couch, and he did so as you poured him a glass of Phattro. You grabbed your own and joined him.

“Yeah, that’s true. And that’s something I’ll never be able to understand,” you say, taking a long drink from your glass. You loved this drink, truly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s theory versus practicality. You can be as prepared as you want, Tech, but something’s going to go wrong. You can’t learn everything from a book,” you said.

“But I can learn enough to not put them in danger!” he insisted. You shook your head to him.

“Tech, cyar’ika, listen to me.” You set your glass down and grabbed his face between both hands, smushing his cheeks as you stared him directly in the eye. “You can’t beat yourself up over something that already happened. Okay? And you can’t expect yourself to learn everything going forward. You have to be reasonable. You’re just one person.”

“A person whose sole job it is to know things,” he insisted, though a bit muffled and warped from the smushening. You huffed in irritation and let go.

“Well, if you want to know things, then know that I am annoyed,” you muttered and poured yourself another drink. You stood up and went to your closet, sliding one of the doors open to grab a robe from within. He was still sitting naked while you wrapped yourself up in a pale pink, silk robe. You sat down at your makeup station and brushed your hair, a little rougher than you should’ve, but Tech was being a stubborn osik head. He appeared behind you silently, and his hands rested on your shoulders as he bent down to kiss your cheek. You started at him through the mirror, only partially irritated now.

“You’re right,” he whispered, and you knew how hard he had to bite down on that pride of his to say so. “I’m sorry.”

You turned in your seat to look at him, a faux glare on your face as you crossed your arms. “Right about what?” you demanded. He sighed and sat on the bed behind you, leaning back on his elbows.

“I… I can’t expect to learn everything about a mission before we go. That’s ridiculous. That’s just… me being unreasonable,” he said slowly. “You’re right that I have to accept that the mission is over and thinking about what I could’ve done is doing nothing but driving me crazy.” You opened your mouth to speak, but he held a hand up. “And I know, you’re right. You’re right that I should go easier on myself and not expect so much, especially since the others think I’m doing a fine job. And Hunter isn’t even mad at me.” You nodded and went to speak again, but he just kept going. “And yes, I know that I do tend to take these intellectual failures harder than any other ones, especially when it results in an injury. So I will do better about not beating myself up over it.”

You weren’t going to say so much, but he did the talking for you, so you weren’t going to complain.

“Did I… did I get it right?” he asked, his voice small and searching for approval. How could you stay aggravated when he sounded like that and looked at you with those puppy dog eyes of his? You smiled and nodded, standing up to crawl onto him on the bed. You nudged his legs with yours, and he moved to lay on the bed properly.

“You did. And now, you get a reward,” you muttered as you straddled him. His mood shifted from seeking approval to excitement at a surprise yet to come. Your lips started at his earlobe, your teeth nibbling gently, as your tongue traced over the soft skin. He was immediately captivated. Your lips kissed a path from his earlobe, over his jawline, up from his chin, before finally taking his lips with yours.

His cock twitched beneath you.

You started off slowly, a gentle press of lip to lip, before letting that melt into a capture of his lower lip between your teeth. The nibble was gentle, teasing, before you kissed him again, this time with your tongue knocking and asking for a dance partner. He was happy to oblige, his fingers finding home on your hips. Your tongues danced while you ground against his cock that was growing between your thighs. You could feel your slickness growing, rubbing against his soft skin. As your heat grew, so did his erection.

You pulled away from his kiss, making him whine though it quickly turned into a gasp when your teeth found his neck. Your bites were a little more on the rough side of gentle. His hands made quick work of taking off the robe you had just thrown on. You smiled and shrugged it off, tossing it over the edge to the ground. He smiled and went to sit up, but a firm hand on his chest kept him laying down. His eyebrows rose.

“You’re getting a treat for learning, Tech. Learning that you can’t do everything. So, now, you get to do nothing,” you whisper. He seems confused, his head tilting to the side in that quizzical look you loved on him. You smiled and explained the rules as you moved his hands from your hips and to his sides. “You don’t get to touch me, or I stop and start over. You don’t get to buck beneath me, or I stop and start over. You don’t get to move, or I stop and start over. Understand?”

“I don’t like this game,” he muttered.

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But you have to learn to be okay with not being in control,” you say and press a kiss to his forehead. “Do you understand the rules?” you ask again.

“Yes, I do,” he muttered, clearly disgruntled. You laugh. You don’t care.

Your lips find his collarbone, placing kisses there that start at the top of his sternum and go to his shoulder, before you drag your tongue back along the path. Tech watches you with hungry eyes. Your kisses travel down his chest, stopping at his left nipple. You tease it with your tongue, swirling around it before taking it into your mouth to suck just a little too hard. He hissed in pleasure, back arching to push his chest against you. You stop your movements and raise an eyebrow as you looked at him. He looked at you in surprise.

“You know the rules, Tech,” you admonished him softly.

“Even that?” he asked in shock. You smile and nod, moving back to his ear. This time, you spend a little more time on his neck. He grabs your hips instinctively. You stop and lightly correct him again. By the time you start at his earlobe again, you can feel his cock throbbing beneath you. You make it past his nipples this time. He lets out the smallest squirm as you kiss his hip bones. He inhales sharply when he realises his mistake, and his fear is so cute that you pretend not to notice the squirm. As you continue your path, he sighs in relief. It doesn’t last long. Your kisses and tongue tease the insides of his thighs. His eyes are squeezed shut as he focuses on not moving. You smile and sit up.

“I think we can call that a check point, yeah?” you ask.

“Stars, please,” he begged. You smile and stand up, telling him not to move an inch as you go to grab your drinks. You allow him to sit up and down his glass as you slowly sip yours. You watch him carefully, drinking in every edge and curve of the man, and he is almost impatient in getting started again.

“Lay back,” you order. He complies immediately, but this time, you kneel between his legs, spreading them with your knees. He watches you, pupils blown.

“Remember the rules,” you warn him with a little smile before placing your first kiss just above his cock. It twitched in response. You smile as you go along, placing kisses all around his cock but not touching it. Your lips trail down the inside of his left thigh, and the first bite makes him gasp and buck. You smile and pull back. He quickly lay still again, and your kisses started at the bottom of his stomach once more. He is more prepared for the bites on his thighs this time, but he still has minor flinches now and again that you conveniently don’t notice.

After he was achingly hard, after you could see the torment on the poor boy’s face, you decide to get to where he needed to be touched the most. Your lips press a kiss to the head of his cock, and he sucks air in through his teeth. He was watching you now, anticipation drumming in his chest with every moment that passes. You gave it an experimental lick, and he doesn’t move. You swirl your tongue around it, and he groans but doesn’t move.

“Very good, cyar’ika,” you praise him with a smile. He smiles back, but it’s strained. He needs a release. You slowly slip his head between your lips, keeping your tongue active on the underside of his cock, and he raises his hands to grab your head. You cock an eyebrow at him, not moving, and he remembers rule #1. He presses the back of a fist to his lips, and the other hand grabs a fistful of your sheets. You smile to yourself and slowly move down his cock a little. He groans and partially moves to sit up before falling back on the bed. He didn’t buck, though, so you knew he remembered the rules well. You decided to have a little fun.

Every time you moved down on his cock, you pulled back up to the tip, going back down to where you were, and you did this three times before going down a little more. He bucked only once, when you were about halfway down his shaft, and he was gasping for breath when you went back to kissing his thighs. He learned quickly, and he did his absolute best to not move his hips beneath you. You finally rewarded him by sliding all the way down his shaft until you were kissing the base of his cock. He cried out in pleasure at the slow way you moved, and you infuriatingly slowly bobbed on his cock.

“Fuck, mesh’la, please.” He was almost sobbing at this point. You smiled wickedly and moved faster. His legs were active, bending and straightening, but he didn’t buck. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t move from his spot. He was being so good. You wrapped your hand around his cock and rubbed him as you pulled off to speak.

“Think you’ll be able to cum with these rules?” you ask.

“Fuck, elek,” he groaned in desperation. You smiled and nodded.

“Good.” Your lips replace your hand, and you attack him with a passion. Your lips squeeze around him, your tongue dancing on the underside, and your throat accepting his length with ease.

“Cyare,” he warned. You tapped twice on his thigh as an okay, and he hissed a moment. You felt his shaft harden, his balls tighten, and he cried out as he came. He did astoundingly well to not buck beneath you. You forgave the small movements he made. You drank his seed down, loving the way the salty splashes took on the fruity flavour of the Phattro. You chose the drink because it was your favourite, but also for it’s fast acting effects on such things. You knew you were going to suck Tech off tonight.

“Cyare, please,” he panted. You raised your eyebrows as you drank more alcohol. Your head was starting to feel muddied and, partnered with your excitement, you were burning hot. You looked back at him, and he was still fully erect. Your eyes widened.

“Fuck, Tech, still? Guess you get your pick then,” you say, curious as to which one he’ll choose. He smiled and quickly knelt, pulling you to him and kissing you deeply. You love the way his taste mingled with the drink. You were left wanting more when he broke the kiss away, and he turned you to face away from him. He pushed down on your upper back, and you smiled as you assumed one of your favourite positions. He lowered you down to rest on your forearms before kissing a line down your spine. You didn’t stop the moan that dragged from your lips. His hands moved underneath you to grope the breasts you denied him from touching, fingers pinching your nipples harshly. You hissed at the mixture of pain and pleasure.

His hands moved to grab your hips, and he didn’t want to wait any longer. One hand guided his cock to your entrance, and you were so ready for him that he sunk in to the hilt with ease. You moaned at the way he filled you, and your eyes rolled back at the feeling. He didn’t have any toys with him today, but you didn’t mind. You always wondered what he would do without them. Now you knew. He started to move slowly at first, teasing you the same way you did him. He dragged out slowly and sunk back in just as slow. It was infuriating, and you were wiggling your hips to demand more.

“Easy, cyare,” he hissed, sensitive still. You took in a deep breath, which was released in a gasp when he thrust into you suddenly very harshly. His grunts of effort accentuated each of his hard thrusts, and you cry out in response. He slips a hand beneath you, and you’re not sure what he’s aiming for since he’s very much missed your clit. But he pushes up on your abdomen, and suddenly you can very much feel him inside of you.

“T-Tech?!” you cry out, and he just chuckles lowly in your ear. He’s now bent over you, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your ear, as he holds you closely. It’s like you denied him touch, so now all he wants to do is touch you.

“Do you like that?” he asked, but he knew the answer. His fingers press up in a specific spot, and he tilts his hips just slightly to thrust in just right. You’re seeing stars; you can’t find your breath. He chuckles in your ear again.

“I’m not going to hold on much longer, mesh’la. Join me,” he mutters as he licks your earlobe. You nod, eyes squeezing shut as your mouth drops open. He smiles, his own eyes closing, as he rests his chin on your shoulder. His thrusts become more erratic, and you can feel he’s dancing closer and closer to the edge. He presses up on your abdomen, and you are falling off the edge.

His name fumbles on your lips as you see white light. Your body convulses and shakes around his cock, and you haven’t felt such a sweep of warmth through your body before. Your orgasm sends waves of sparks through your veins, all brought on by his cock and a well placed hand. As you squeeze around his cock, Tech gasps and cries out in your ear, and you feel him cum deep inside of you. His thrusts are spastic, and he finally buries himself in deeply. He holds himself there a moment before collapsing on you. You love the weight and heat of his body on yours.

His hands travel up your arms, his fingers tangling with yours, and after he’s caught his breath, his lips are on yours. After a kiss, you look into his eyes and see a relaxed Tech, at ease in your arms… well, on top of you, anyway. He pulls his softening cock out of you and moves to lay beside you.

“I have to go clean up,” you say when he tries to pull you into a hug. He carries you to the ‘fresher, and you’re always amazed at the lithe clone’s strength. He carried you back to bed, as well, and he finally pulled you to him when you turned the lights into sleep mode. He ran his fingers through your hair, stroking the silk strands he loved so much, and he whispered sweet nothings in your ear. You loved it when he spoke Mando’a to you. All of the clones, not just the Batch, usually did after sex, and it became one of your favourite comforts in this universe.

“Thanks for helping me learn tonight,” Tech whispered in your ear. You smiled and pressed a kiss to a spot on his chest in front of your face, moving back to resting your head there. You had a hand stroking his belly as he talked. “I… I appreciate you comforting me.”

“Thanks for the orgasm,” you mutter in reply. He laughed and kissed the top of your head.

“I love you, mesh’la. Sleep well,” he whispered, his Mando’a slurring as he started fading off to sleep.

“I love you, too, Tech. See you in the morning,” you whispered in response and made sure your alarm was set before letting yourself drift off to sleep in his arms.

[boarix]

Wraith in the Ruins: A Fallout 4 Story Part XXIII

Deepest Dark

Trigger warnings: canon violence/language/drug, alcohol and gun use. Mature/sexual content

Please enjoy!

…..

Strong was tireless in his pursuit. On and on he ran after Radiance; his single-minded grim determination cast out on all sides of him acting as a shield. So much so that even the wild and nasty denizens that lurked in the swamps to the south of Boston dare not interfere.

This time he would catch her!

This time he would wrap his hands around her slight form and twist the life from her.

This time he would destroy her and his Alpha would be whole again.

This time…

…..

…..

“MacCready…”

“AND WE WASTED ALL THAT TIME LOOKING FOR YOU!”

“Mac, I’m sorry I made you worry…”

“YOU’RE SORRY?! WHAT THE HECK WERE YOU THINKING?”

Wraith was regretting her decision to walk into Sanctuary straight through the front gate rather than sneaking to her office. MacCready had seemed to materialize from nowhere to lecture her on personal responsibility and accountability. Worse still, the synth child that Father had made for her was holding onto the sniper’s ragged coattails; timidly peaking at her from around the irate merc. His perfect, little face - that looked so much like Nate’s - had a heart-melting combination of fear and hope that had her breathing heavily and fighting the urge to run, “I was thinking I needed some time…”

MacCready had started to lose his momentum as his anger at her absence transitioned to elation at her return, “Time?! Time… yeah, I s’pose you might. But that does not excuse you from not tellin’ anybody where you were!”

“Dogmeat knew.”

The child giggled and MacCready glanced down at him, “I thought you were here to back me up, traitor.” He responded in kind when the boy stuck his tongue out at him, “Hancock is a wreck, you know?”

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize to me.”

“I… I’m…”

He gestured toward the community showers and sighed again, “Look, jus’ go talk to Sofie then go take a shower ‘cause you reek, then come back to the house and eat with us.”

It honestly stung to have him tell her that she smelled, “What’s wrong with my shower?”

“There’s a pile of soiled clothing in it.” Shaun, his face angled low in shyness, spoke mostly to the street, “Mr. Sturges got called back to The Castle before we could finish any of the washing machines.”

“Laundry? Oh, I see.” Wraith wanted to ask him about a billion questions, but couldn’t work any of them past her lips, “I will… go do those things then.”

Her meeting with the ghoulette was very brief as it seemed that Sofie’s lack of an external nose didn’t preclude her from smelling. She handed Wraith a holotape and suggested she “review it at her convenience”, by which she meant “someplace else”.

Curie spotted her through the clinic window on Wraith’s way home and ran out to greet her, “Oh Madame!” She embraced her before holding her out at arm’s length, ��Have you been drinking enough water?”

“Oh, baby bir… sorry, I meant Dr. Curie…”

“Oh, no, Madame. I much prefer the familial nickname you have given me.”

“You don’t find it disrespectful?”

She pondered this for a moment, “Do you respect me, Madame?”

“Of course!”

“Then for you it is not.” She gave Wraith a gentle shake, “You have evaded my question. When was the last time you drank water and ate something?”

“Define ‘something’.” She patted Curie on the back affectionately, “Don’t worry I think the boys plan on making me dinner.”

Curie made a face, “Monsieur MacCready’s cooking is very… utilitarian.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘bland’, baby bird.” She glanced around, “Have you seen Danse lately?”

“Non. Monsieur is not very social; he spends a great deal of his time in his apartment when he’s not with a work crew.”

“I see…”

Wraith put any thought of Danse to the back burner as she stepped through her front door. Dogmeat was in the hallway waiting and gave her an enthusiastic greeting. She plopped down on the entryway floor to give him a hug, “Hiya, puppers doggo!” She felt another presence looking at her and glanced up the stairs. To her surprise, she matched eyes with the biggest housecat she had ever seen, “Holy cow!”

The great cat was jet black and looked to weigh at least thirty pounds. Their amber-yellow eyes seemed amused and held an obvious intelligence. So much so, that when they gracefully descended the stairs, Wraith felt an unreasonable embarrassment at not knowing how to address them.  

“That’s Panther.” Shaun’s voice was soft, “Well… that’s what I named it. Doesn’t it look like a panther?”

“Yes.” Wraith tried to do better, “They sure do, honey. Where did you find them?”

Having finally achieved some semblance of a conversation, Shaun’s face lit up, “Oh, I’m not certain, but Mr. MacCready had said that it wasn’t here before I… arrived.” He pet the cat vigorously and it bumped his knee appreciatively.  

Wraith smiled at his formal way of speaking, “Well, they definitely seem to like you.” She reached down to pet the cat as well.

This is nice. Not a uncomfortable silence. Perfectly normal interaction between you and your… My…

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Wraith was dangerously close to hyperventilating but didn’t want to distress Shaun, “Ihavetogotothebathroom…” She ducked into the restroom off the hallway and sat on the floor.

“Mom? That toilet doesn’t work right now.” He knocked on the door, “I’ll… I’ll go get Mr. MacCready.”

After a few minutes she could hear someone slide their back down the other side of the door to sit on the floor, “Mac?”

“Yeah. The kid looks like he wants to cry. What happened, you still smell that bad?”

She smiled in spite of herself, “You’re hilarious. No, I don’t know how to… I have to accept the fact that that child thinks that he’s my son, but my son is… my son is…” Her head swam as she gulped air.

MacCready opened the door, took off his hat and handed it to her, “Here; breathe into this. I don’t have a bag…”

She set the hat over her mouth but almost immediately recoiled and involuntarily held her breath before letting it out in an explosive blast, “GAAAK! Mac, whoa…geerk…”

“Well, it helped, anyway.” He gave her a devilish grin and sat down next to her.

She sat, quietly counting breaths, “Thank you, Mac. Not… for the hat, but thank you for taking care of Shaun.”

“No problem. I’ve been taking care of kids since I was a kid.” He bumped his shoulder into hers, “Always liked kids better than mungos anyway.”

“Better than… what? What’s a ‘mungo’?”

“You. You’re a mungo.”  

Wraith managed to hold herself together through dinner and over the next few weeks she spent as much time working on projects as possible. The wall around Sanctuary was her main focus and she worked herself to exhaustion daily. When MacCready started fussing at her about boredom she redirected him to setting up his sniper school schedule and had him write her a wish-list of materials. Aliquoting resources and settlers, she distracted him further by putting him in charge of construction of the gun range and converting one of the warehouses to a munitions workshop.

Codsworth dutifully tended to Shaun, but soon voiced his concerns over Wraith’s lack of involvement, “The young lad is lonely, mum. Even with the cat and dog, he still needs a gentle word from you. There aren’t any children here for him to play with, unless you count MacCready… The boy’s quite savvy when it comes to technical things, perhaps he can work with you on a project?”

“The Peabodys should be moving here soon so Billy will be here. Oh, and I planned to have Shaun help Sturges when he got back…” She practically ran away.

His eyestalks drooped as he watched her, and he muttered to himself as he floated back to their house, “I think you know that’s not what I meant.”

It was well after midnight and most of Sanctuary was sleeping, but not Wraith. Working as quietly as possible, she was rearranging supplies in her new workshop next to her office. She had finished enclosing what used to be the carport the day before and in her mind she was making real progress. Truthfully, she was just moving the same boxes back and forth ineffectually.

She felt him even before he had a chance to speak, “Something I can help you with, Deacon?”

How the heck did you get in here?! I didn’t hear the door!

“You’re not supposed to notice me. Perhaps you’re not aware, but I’m very, very good at sneaking around. Kinda an expert. It’s a point of pride for me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He chuckled, and stepping out from around a stack of crates, he pulled his shades down to look at her over the top of them. “You didn’t listen to me.”

“Why start now?” She frowned at him, “About what?”

“You said you weren’t ready to rejoin polite society, so I told you to go to Goodneighbor. You didn’t.”

“That’s not exactly what I said. I’m doing okay…”

“Nope. I’m also a master on ‘not doing okay’.”

“I have a ton of stuff to do…”

“You can have someone else move these boxes from the right side of the room and back.” He sat on the workbench, deliberately in her way.

She blinked at him, “Was… was I doing that?”

He gave her a double thumbs-up, “Sure were, boss!”

“Deacon, I can’t keep running away from Shau… my problems.”

His demeanor abruptly changed, “What’s going on with the kid?”

“I can’t take having him call me ‘mom’.”

“Not much you can do about that…”

“Isn’t there?” She hadn’t meant to sound accusatory, but that’s how it came out, “Can’t Amari…”

“You are not seriously thinking of resetting that child, are you?” When Wraith didn’t immediately respond he let his tone sound harsh, “It’s not like you to be so fickle. If you didn’t want him you should have left him with us.”

“It’s not that I don’t want him!”

He pretended not to care about the tears welling up in her eyes, not to care about how great and obvious her pain was, “You know they aren’t unfeeling dolls! You can’t mind-wipe him just because you don’t like something he’s doing. You are not Father.”

“But I’m not ‘mother’ either, goddammit!” She was breathing hard, “I need him to know the truth. I can’t take the lie!”

“What is the truth, Whisper?”

“I care what happens to him, and he is a child of my son’s making. He’s closer to a grandson.”

“You’d be okay being called ‘grandma’?”

She blinked away tears and wiped her nose on the back of a flannel sleeve, “I think so. It’s pretty accurate. I am, like, a bazillion years old.”

“Whelp,” He clapped his hands together, “like I said; onward to fabulous Goodneighbor!”

…..

…..

“Deepest dark? Hmm…”

“Most likely the location of the artifact…”

“I bet it’s Dogmeat…”

“We should try the memory lounger again…”

“What happened with the memory lounger?”

After Mama Murphy had read them her vision and signed off, there had been a few seconds of total silence as the group digested her words. Hancock, Nick, MacCready, Deacon and Jack had all spoke in unison, and then the others - apart from Jack - collectively turned on Deacon for his suggestion.

Hancock wasn’t the loudest, but his threat carried through all the other calls of protest, “I’m going to stick that machine so far up your ass, you’ll remember your first ever shit! We went through this already!”

Deacon backed away, “If she can remember where she put it then we’ll be able to see…”

“NO!”

Deacon threw up his hands in the face of unanimous opposition, “Fine! Fuck!”

“As I was saying, I think Dogmeat knows where it is. She tells him everything.” MacCready nodded in agreement with himself.

“I second that notion.” however, Danse was looking closely at Hancock, “You think you know, don’t you?”

The ghoul cocked his head slightly before narrowing his eyes and placing a thumbnail to his mouth, “Hmm…”

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Hancock.”

“Don’t rush me, Nicky.” He took a deep breath in before fanning his fingers and letting it out in a blast, “She might not love me as much as the dog, but she’s told me one or two things here or there. And we’ve been all over ‘here’ and ‘there’…”

“Monsieur Hancock! I shall very nearly have a fit! Finish your thought, please.”

“Okay, okay.” He looked to Valentine, “Name the deepest, darkest, dampest hole in the ‘Wealth.”

“If this is a euphemism for…”

Hancock grinned, “Naw, I’m talking about the well at Dunwich Borers.”

While the others worked out the logistics on the trip to the quarry, Curie went back down the stairs to check on Wraith and to a lesser extent, Infamy.

The glowing one had regained consciousness, but when they made the attempt to stand, their obviously broken leg buckled under them and they crumpled to the floor in a ragged heap, “Fucking BITCH!”

“Do you require a bone set?” Curie had already moved to their side and offered them her arm, “I’m quite adept.”

“Might as well. It’ll be harder to kick Radiance’s fungus-ridden ass if we’ve only one good leg. Hahaha.”

“You are not discouraged by today’s failure?”

The ghoul gave her a sideways look; trying to decide if she was razzing them, “Nope. If anything this little display was due to the fact she views me as a threat. And of course she does! I am a mighty Necromancer! The most powerful of the five of us.” Regret passed briefly across their luminous face, “Four. There’s four now.”

Curie was finished by the time the rest of the household trouped down the stairs, “Has a plan been established?”

“Me an’ Deacon are going to take Nicky home and pick up the dog. We’ll trek up to Dunwich from there.” Hancock had real concerns that Deacon would make another attempt at the memory lounger if he was left without his supervision.

Curie glanced back and forth between the spy and the ghoul, thinking what an odd pairing it was, but politely keeping it to herself, “I will send a supply request along with you, if you do not mind. I also need an engineer to come and check on the fridge here.”

“Will do, doc.” Hancock stabbed a finger at Infamy, “You good or you done?”

“I’m fantastic, lover boy. Nothing like a broken leg to give one a deeper under-stand-ing. HA!”

Strong returned before Hancock’s group left and was in a foul mood. Radiance had once again slipped away from him and even MacCready couldn’t console him. He decided the safehouse wasn’t big enough for his anger - too many fragile humans - so he went out into the swamp again to tear up the sad remains of trees and throw them around.

…..

…..

Hancock was talking quietly with Shaun; his honey-over-gravel voice somehow soft and calming. Dogmeat was leaning on the sad child and would occasionally nuzzle his small hand for pats. After a heartbreaking session with Dr. Amari, the group headed up to Hancock’s apartment at the Old State House. The ghoul had made sure there was food and had already arranged rooms for them at Hotel Rexford for as long as they needed.

Wraith sat a little apart from them next to Deacon on the couch. She had her back to him and was curled up with her chin resting on her knees, watching them. Exhausted, her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, “Is he going to age, Deacon?” She spoke softly, “Is he going to grow, or has Father doomed him to life everlasting as a small boy?”

“I honestly don’t know, Whisper.” He took his sunglasses off and rubbed his own weary eyes, “But, if his growth rate is anything like a normal ten-year-old, his pants will be floods before you can blink. Just, maybe, don’t start the hallway growth chart yet.”

“He won’t even look at me.” She put her hand over her mouth and tried to calm her breathing, “I should feel better, right? He knows the truth… and… I got… what… I…”

Deacon reached out and took her hand without thinking, “Hey! Look at me.” He pulled her around to face him, “You’d never be able to build anything with him the way things were. I know you feel like it was all for you, but having you in his life will be beneficial for him too.” He gave her a crooked smile, “The best relationships are those that are built on a foundation of trust.”

“How did you say that with a straight face?”

He waggled his ginger brows at her, “Practice makes perfect, boss.” He looked over her head to make sure that Hancock was still keeping Shaun occupied, “What’s your next move?”

“We’ll stay here for a couple of days then I think I’ll take him to Diamond City. We can work on Home Plate together, just the two of us… well three if you count Dogmeat.”

Deacon stood, yawned and stretched with exaggerated arm waving, “HEERAWWW! I have had just about enough of all of you.” He walked past Shaun on his way to the door, tousling his hair, “Except you, kid. You’re a barrel of monkeys.”

Wraith smiled at his back, “Thank you, Deacon.”

“No problem, boss. I’ll catch you on the flip.”

Shaun waited until the door had shut behind Deacon before whispering to Hancock, “What’s a ‘barrel of monkeys’?”

“One thing I’ve learned in this life, kid: don’t ever take anything that man says seriously.”

Over the next month, Wraith and Shaun cleared and organized Home Plate. The awkwardness between them soon lessened after they spent time working and talking - truly living - together.

Wraith had it in mind that the large, warehouse-like space would be perfect for a Minutemen base, “I should move the Radio Freedom station from the Upper Stands here too.”

It didn’t take very long for Shaun to make friends with the other children in town, and after a while Wraith broached the subject of him attending school there, “It might be fun for you to all learn together.”

Shaun was excited but worried about the logistics of it, “How would that work? It’s too far away for me to commute from Sanctuary every day.”

“Piper and Nat said you could stay with them, if you wanted.”

He watched Wraith silently with his large green eyes for a moment but when he finally spoke he cast them downward and it was directed at the floor, “Won’t you miss me?”

Wraith immediately dropped the box she was holding and ran to embrace him, “Oh, honey, of course I would! You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I just think it would be good for you to have friends your own age…”

“And what age is that?” He sniffled.

Wraith teared up too, “I’m sorry I don’t have better answers for you.” She held him for a while and they both cried.

Before she moved on from the city, Shaun had Wraith commit to a regular visiting schedule and agree that he would come and stay in Sanctuary on breaks from school. The Wrights seemed enthusiastic about the arrangement but Wraith suspected it had more to do with Piper feeling like she - and everyone else in the Commonwealth for that matter - owed the General of The Minutemen every concession.

After settling Shaun in with the Wrights, Wraith stepped out the door of Public Occurrences to a very pleasant surprise. Sitting on a bench directly across from the doorway was Hancock. He had one leg up crossed at the knee and his head was bowed - tricorn obscuring his face - reading a newspaper balanced on his lap.

Feeling he was being stared at, he glanced up at her. The look of relief and genuine happiness on her face very nearly took his breath away. He was relieved as well; that his scaring would hide his blush. Rising smoothly to his feet, he smiled smugly at her and raised a hairless brow, “Well, look who it is.”

She laughed, “That’s my line.” She nodded at a nearby security officer, “Anybody give you lip?”

He scoffed, “Naw. They know better, these days.” He reached down to pat Dogmeat, “Hey there, puppy.”

“So what’s up? Did you need something of me?”

“It’s not about what I need, sister.” He made a show of folding the paper and tucking it under his arm, “The news today might suggest that some of the people are sufferin’ for lack of aid and others might benefit from a good ass whuppin’. Seems to me there was a settlement of yours calling out to Radio Freedom for the Minutemen to save them from the raiders at Dunwich. We could take a looksee and arrange a pleasant little mix of both.” He offered her a hand, “How ‘bout it, want to raise a little hell with me?”

She took his hand and let him lead them out of the city, “God yes!”

…..

…..

Wraith managed to look concerned when Infamy returned to void, “Well, looks like you survived. That’s something. I guess.”

“What’s a good toss between friends?”

“Still, I take that as a win, even though she almost got me to tell her where the artifact is.”

The glowing one shook their head, “No my barbaric friend, that was really your friends you disappointed by assuming they were Radiance’s manifestations. Ha! Hancock especially was heartbroken. You know,” They set their fist under their chin and batted their eyes at her, “he’s rather emotionally fragile for a grizzled ghoul.”

Wraith decided not to rise to their baiting, “I can’t seem to overpower her! I’m clearly at a disadvantage without my own piece of the artifact.”

“What is this thing you are all so covetous of? Hmm?”

Wraith shrugged, “A pain in my ass, mostly. Jack Cabot says it’s alien technology, but all I really know for sure is it’s dangerous. It gives you telekinetic powers, and a bad attitude.”

“I’ll say!” They cocked their head at her, “And yet, you have a piece of it? Don’t want to use it, though? Hmm, why would that be?”

Wraith gave them a cold look, “As you said, I’m already a barbarian.” She sat down in the empty space before flopping over to her back, “No, it’s out of the question. We have to figure something else out. I feel so cut off! I need Hancock and Valentine to brainstorm with me.” She suddenly sat bolt upright, “The memory lounger! Maybe if… The last time they tried to use it there was another ‘me’….”

“Thinking you can beat her with numbers?” They shook their head, “Multiple facets of you are still all just you. Hate to say it...”

“No that’s not what I meant. I can brainstorm with myself.”

“Seems egomaniacal, but who are we to judge?”

“Tell them to hook me back up.”

“That might be something I can arrange, now that the naysayers are leaving for a bit.”

“Naysayers?”

“Hancock mostly. Seems he didn’t enjoy hearing you scream in agony. Go figure.”

“Where is Hancock going? Doesn’t he know he’s just as much a target as me? He needs to stay wherever Strong is…”

“Tut-tut, Wraith,” They shook a finger at her, “you know I have no say when it comes to that old prune. All my words might as well be farts in the wind.”

…..

“What is it, boy? Timmy fall down the well?” Deacon frowned at the dark pool of water as memories of drowning swirled through his mind.

Hancock, frowning as well, removed his coat, folded it carefully and set his tricorn on it. It was when the ghoul started to remove his boots that Deacon, holding his arms out to block him, stepped between him and the well.

“You aren’t seriously thinking of jumping in there, are you?”

“Yup. Move.”

Deacon laughed, “As convenient as it would be for me if you drowned, I’m pretty sure Wraith wouldn’t be very happy. MacCready probably shoot me just ‘cause I was here and let you.”

Dogmeat reached up and very gently took Hancock’s right hand in his mouth, whining unhappily. When the ghoul tried to pull away, the dog tightened his bite.

“Ouch! Okay, okay. So maybe swimming around in pitch darkness isn’t a great idea. I’m kinda losing it here, fellas. We are definitely on to something and I don’t want to go home empty handed.”

“You keep trying to go cave diving and Dogmeat will make sure you go home one handed.”

“Alright! So, what do you suggest?!”

“Wraith’s just about the only one who’s capable of diving down and pulling anything up. We need lights and… air...” Feeling defeated, he trailed off.

“Like a diving suit.” Hancock dropped his head slightly, hand in Dogmeat’s mouth, and was still as he tried to remember where the last time he saw such a thing. Deacon jumped slightly when his head snapped up, “Got it!” He patted Dogmeat with his other hand, “You can let go now, puppy love. Everything’s copacetic.”

Deacon had to jog slightly as the ghoul speed walked toward the exit, “Now where’re we going?”

“It’s a surprise. Don’t you just love surprises?”

“I really don’t.”

…..

The memory lounger created a pyramid-like viewing screen in the prison void of Wraith’s mind: granting the white expanse flashes of color as she spun through her memories looking for versions of herself that might help her. Infamy, clearly bored, fidgeted just at the edge of her vision. Although she was grateful that they were able to convince Curie that she actually wanted to be hooked back up to the lounger, she would have preferred to not show the ghoul all of her private moments.

They yawned, “There’s a lot of sex stuff in here.”

“Probably because I’m trying desperately not to think about that.”    

“Oh, I know that one.” They waved a finger at one of the screens, “What’s this redhead’s name?”

“Hmm? Who what now?”

Infamy pointed, “That redhead.”

“That’s Cait. She’s a friend… captain of the Hounds…” Thinking of Cait, a whole new set of memories flashed across the void, “Dang it!” One memory lingered on the TV-like prism that showed Cait and Wraith in an intimate embrace.

“Friends, huh?”

“Look, if you’re going to be an ass, then get out.”

“Just saying, I don’t usually kiss my friend’s…”

“Oh, grow up. It was a good time.” Now focused on sex, a brief medley of her life’s sexual experiences played out on the screens. Embarrassed, she was able to wrench control and change the channel by thinking of early memories of her grandparents.

“Lots of good times.” They danced away as Wraith swatted at them. “Do you even know which of you you’re looking for?”

“At least one me where I was both strong and sane…”

Abruptly, a young version of Wraith materialized behind Infamy. She wrapped her arms around their waist, dropped her hips, deadlifted them while twisting and threw them both toward the ground.  Landing on top of them, the teenager shouted triumphantly, “Ura-nage!” before rolling off of the stunned glowing one and offered her hand to help them up.

Unhurt - apart from pride - the ghoul stared at the offered hand as if it were a viper, “What the fuck is this?!”

The teenager stuck her tongue out at them, “Don’t be a sore loser.” She turned to Wraith, “You are being so dense; you know what to do. Just don’t wanna, I guess.”

Lanky, with an enormous head of fluffy chestnut curls, Wraith judged her to be the seventeen year old version of herself, “What am I missing?”

Good lord, I looked like a dandelion.

Younger Wraith clicked her tongue at her, “D. E. N. S. E.”

“Wolf, please be helpful.”

“Ugh, you sound just like mom.” Wolf rolled her eyes and put her hands on her narrow hips. When she spoke, she bobbed her head, as if using her bouncing hair to punctuate her admonishment, “You want more power, right? Use. The. Artifact.”

“Absolutely out of the question; that thing will turn me into an uncontrollable…”

“Oh, cause you are soooo in control now.”

“She’s got a point, my very scary friend.”

“You walked all the way from Vault ninety-five to the Cabot’s and from there to Diamond City and from there to Dunwich with that thing in your pack and not once did you think about raging around the Commonwealth tearing shit up. And don’t say you did, ‘cause I know better. So there.”

“So, what? I just trade one master for another?” Wraith placed a palm across her own forehead, “I just stab the damn thing in my head like a goddamn unicorn and it’ll all be fine?!”

Wolf rolled her eyes again, “No, stupid, you have Sturges make a headband or…”

“A crown!” Infamy crowed triumphantly, “The Barbarian Queen verses the Queen of the Monsters. Ha ha!”

“Plus, you had the thought yourself that it lies and is probably easier to destroy than it tells you. Use it for this then grind it up.”

“Or, give it to me and I will use it to bring Atom’s Divine Providence down upon all the non-believers! BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Wolf wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brow, “I don’t think She would like that very much.”

Infamy became very still, “Who…”

“You know who.”

Wolf’s clothes, skin and hair began to darken and her features became obscured. Soon she appeared as a dark, ghostly silhouette of a woman. Slowly she raised an arm and pointed at Wraith. When she spoke, her voice echoed, as if calling out from some ethereal plane, “Heed The Harbinger.”

Infamy cried out and dropped to their knees.

…..

“Look, I’m not going to send someone down there without running tests!”

“What’s the matter, Sturges, not confident in your welding skills?”

The Minutemen’s chief engineer ignored Hancock’s jibe, “I have no earthly idea what pressure that two hundred plus year old suit is rated for. Having no idea how deep the well...”

“Sacrificial well.” Deacon offered helpfully.

“The what?!”

“Yeah, isn’t that place supposed to be haunted?”

“Ghosts aren’t real, MacCready.”

“Fellas, I can’t see your faces over the radio like this. Y’all best not be pulling my leg!”

“The ghost factor aside, wouldn’t it be better to mod a suit of power armor?”

Danse knit his eyebrows, “It would sink like a stone and the operator would drown.”

“Not if we mod it, tin can. That’s what modding means.”

“I do not have the expertise necessary to offer an educated…”

“Nothin’ wrong with a little experimentation.” Hancock clapped his hands before rubbing his palms together, “Now… who’s going to fight with me that I’ll be the one to pilot…”

“ABSOLUTLY NOT!”

Curie came up from the basement to see what the yelling was about and was brought up to speed by Deacon. For his part, the spy had his own ideas on who should go and opened his mouth to put in his vote but was beaten to the punch by Danse.

“I am the logical choice,” his voice was only at conversational volume, but both combatants ceased their squabbling to turn and look at him, “I am the most capable power armor operator in the group.” He looked at Curie apologetically.

Determined to dive despite his being terrified of drowning, Danse now joined in the fight. Deacon opened his mouth, but was too slow once again. Dogmeat was barking his opinion as well, adding to the overall volume of the battle.

This time it was Jack Cabot who called the room to order. He grabbed a couple of pots from the kitchen and banged them together until the room paid him attention, “Well, I guess my mother was on to something; that does work pretty well.”

“What, Cabot?” Hancock was pretty well worked up and the strength of his question made the scientist take a step back.

“This is all well and good, Hancock; the retrieval of the artifacts remains. But once obtained, what are you planning on doing with them?”

“Well, for starters, considering all this mess can be traced back to you, I’m going to shove it up…”

“Before you delve into proctology,” Infamy had been standing, un-noticed, in the radio room doorway, watching the argument with no small interest, “The Harbinger has an opinion to share.”

“The who?” MacCready narrowed his eyes.

“Wraith.” Deacon grimaced after he spoke, feeling like he had revealed too much, and making sure not to make eye contact with Atom’s Assassin, he pushed past the glowing one and made his way down the basement steps.

If they linked Deacon with Harkness, the ghoul didn’t ask any follow-up questions, and instead simply led the rest of the companions down the stairs to stand before the cage.

Wraith was sitting cross-legged on a couch cushion and looked weary but alert. “Sit down for a minute, everybody.” She smiled wanly as she waited for them to get comfortable, “I’m not going to hug anybody because I don’t know how much time I’ll have before Radiance pushes me back down and takes over. I need to know what your plan is to see if it meshes with mine.”

“It’s good to hear you being you, sunshine.” Hancock wanted badly to reach out to her but stopped himself. He outlined, without revealing the location, how they planned to collect the artifact remnants.

“Okay, so you figured out where? Good on you.”

“Mama Murphy helped. Dogmeat too.” MacCready had pulled the dog onto his lap and was hugging him tightly to try and keep him from going to Wraith.

“Mama… Oh, I see.” Wraith rubbed at her eyes, “Who’s taking the plunge?”

“I am.” Deacon’s voice carried a note of finality that not even Hancock could argue against, “I’m the only one here with nothing to lose.”

”Stop being such a drama queen.” Wraith smiled at him, “You told me you were going to start a maid service after you retire. You’ll have plenty…”

Deacon abruptly stood up and smiled grimly down at her, “You. All I have is you, now. So, I’m going to save you. Even if I have to pass through the center of the earth, looking for something I’ve never seen, in total darkness.”

“No, there should be…” Wraith paused as she remembered something from a dream that seemed so long ago, “a glowing mushroom...” She stood up as well and leaned against the bars, eyes glazing over, “I think it’s supposed to be you… I’m sorry… I’m losing…”

Dogmeat wriggled free and rushed the bars to lick frantically at Wraith’s hand. He whined unhappily until she crouched down to snuggle him. The contact bolstered her resolve and her voice steadied, “Bring it to me when you get it. Have Sturges make it into a headband and bring it to me.”

“But, Madame, what will you do?”

“What I do best, baby bird.” Her green eyes flashed fire, “Fight.”

…..

It took longer than anyone would have liked, but finally, the dive-capable power armor got a green light from both Sturges and Danse. Hancock was oddly insistent that he would accompany Deacon on his way to the dive site, and had Danse lend him his less conspicuous T-60 suit for the journey. Danse and Sturges donned Dragoon armor for the trek as to further enforce the facade that they were just another long patrol unit.

“You look nervous.” Hancock was practicing his knife trick while in the armor as he watched Deacon suit up.

Deacon rolled his eyes and shook his head, “No kidding? With you waving a knife around; what have I to be worried about? Not sure how to be confident…”

“Heh. Just do what you do best: lie. Lie to yourself that…”

“That everything will be fine? That this whole fiasco isn’t just an enormous, unmitigated cluster of fucks?!”

The ghoul smacked him on the back hard enough for him to lurch forward, “Atta-boy!” He took his helmet off and matched eyes with the spy, “I need you to be successful. As many times as you’ve saved us in the past; this is the time that counts.”

Deacon straightened his spine. Hancock knew exactly what to say to him, and his acknowledgement of Deacon’s past contributions to Wraith’s inner circle bolstered his resolve and he continued his equipment check with steady hands.

There were safety contingencies: the modded power armor was attached to a pulley system and Deacon was assured that after thirty seconds of non-responsiveness, he would be hoisted to the surface. The life line also would allow him to descend slowly. He would be able to give them a second by second recount on all he was seeing thanks to an interwoven communication line that was housed in the same armored tube as his air hose. Equipped with the strongest headlamp they could find, the diver was the safest they could possibly construct within their narrow deadline.

Nice and safe.

“Nice and safe. Nice and safe. Nice and…” Deacon’s voice increased in octave as well as speed the further he descended, “Niceandsafeniceandsafe…”

“Just breathe, soldier. We are standing by to pull you up if you need us to.”

“I’m… NOT… a soldier, Danse. GHAAAA WHAT THE FUCK?! No… no it’s just my own, stupid arm. Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ!”

“How’s the pressure feel? Your eyeballs staying in place?”

“My what?! Why would my EYEBALLS… bad… NOT CORRECT… never… applesauce…”

Hancock narrowed his eyes at Sturges, “Did he just say ‘applesauce’?”

“He sure did.” The engineer shrugged and tried rather unsuccessfully to look unconcerned, “But, it’s Deacon. I don’t know the man well… but…”

“MY GODDAMN LIGHT WENT OUT! GHAAAAAhurk…”

“Deacon? Hello? Damn. One. Two. Three…”

…..

In a forgotten church, in the Glowing Sea, Our Lady of Perpetual Radiance - as she was so dubbed by Harkness - sat on a dais, raised for her by her entranced Children of Atom. She had nearly the entire complement of the Crater waiting on baited breath and seeing to her every whim.

Strong had doggedly chased her for miles through the wastes, but she had finally given him the slip and taken refuge in the mostly buried building. After waiting him out for a few days, she re-emerged with a few of the local ferals in tow, and made a bee-line for the center of the Children’s cult in the Commonwealth. As she moved she called more ferals to her and sent the first intrusive thoughts to ground zero. Calling, promising, and cajoling all to join with her. Upon reaching the Crater, Isolde resisted for what can only be described as a herculean amount of time, but even she submitted to the poison sirens call. Her army grew to a monstrous hoard as she continued to glide back and forth through the Sea; calling, promising and cajoling.

Now the church was surrounded by a massive host: The Great Army of Radiance the Monster Queen.

“Now, it’s time we retrieve our crown.”

.....

Thank you so much for reading! Like what you read? Looking for more? Please see my pinned master link post. As always, if you have any questions/comments/concerns please feel free to drop me an ask. Anon too. I would love to hear from you. =^..^= 

[bevioletskies]

how sweet it is (to be loved by you)

summary: Although he would never admit it, Apollo really wants to impress Klavier by making dessert from scratch for their first date at his apartment, despite his complete lack of baking experience. With the help of his overenthusiastic sister (and no help from his mischievous cat), Apollo thinks he just might be able to pull it off.

word count: 4.8k | read on ao3

a/n: For @klapollo-week, day four of seven (prompt: "cooking"). All seven of my fics take place in the same continuity! However, each can be read as a stand-alone, with the exception of day seven being a sequel to day five.

This fic takes place at some distant point in time after Spirit of Justice where Apollo and Trucy have learned that they’re siblings, but doesn’t reference any specific plotlines otherwise. Fic title is from the song How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) by Marvin Gaye.

“Don’t look at me like that, okay? I can feel you judging me, and I don’t appreciate it. I swear, I-I know what I’m doing! But it doesn’t help with you staring at me like you just know I’m gonna screw up!”

Mikeko blinked. “Mreow.”

“Polly, are you talking to your cat again?” Apollo turned to see Trucy walking towards him with huge bags of flour and sugar in her arms.

“Just a reminder - his name is Mikeko, and he’s an asshole,” Apollo grouched, hurrying over to help before she could drop everything on the floor. The last thing he needed was to get white powder stuck in his kitchen tile grout, again. There was a reason Ema wasn’t allowed to bring her forensics kit to his place anymore. “He peed on my rug the other day. I thought he was sick so I took him to the vet, and nothing. He’s an asshole.”

“You talk about your cat like you talk about your boyfriend, and I dunno which one’s worse,” Trucy mused, elbowing him playfully. “Though obviously, you love ‘em both, since that cat tree over there looks like it costs more than your TV. And, y’know, the fact that you asked me to help you bake for him! Er, your boyfriend, not your cat.”

“You don’t say,” Apollo said dryly, hoisting the bags onto the kitchen counter. “Klavier has an insatiable sweet tooth for a guy with a six-pack. I blame his parents and their baking habits.”

“C’mon, you love his parents,” Trucy giggled. She hopped onto the counter, nearly knocking the flour over in the process. Apollo shot her a dirty look that she blatantly ignored. “So, what’re we making? I’m surprised you asked me to help and then didn’t tell me what we were gonna do!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Apollo sighed, smoothing out the wrinkles in his apron. “We’re making, uh...bienenstich, or bee sting cake. It’s one of his childhood favorites, apparently; it’s got vanilla cream and…” He paused to glance down at the recipe on his phone. “...‘a crunchy caramelized almond topping’.”

“Sounds yummy!” Trucy replied, idly swinging her legs back and forth. Mikeko seemed very interested in chasing her untied shoelaces. “Seriously, though, why did you ask me? I mean, when I first started living with Daddy, I learned how to cook pretty fast, but I never really learned how to bake.”

Apollo softened. “I just wanted to hang out with you, Truce. That’s all.”

Trucy folded her hands over her heart. “Aww, Polly!” She then grinned devilishly. “Of course you did.”

“Now you’re an asshole, too,” Apollo informed her, kissing her cheek before turning back to the other side of the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Mikeko, sitting in his sink, lounging lazily across every last mixing bowl he’d just washed. “Mik, what the hell - you were just on the floor a second ago, you - ”

“Meow,” Mikeko interrupted, his tail swishing nonchalantly through the air.

“...cool, cool.” Apollo wiped his hands, then proceeded to lift Mikeko right out of the sink and deposit him onto his cat tree. His paws were still damp; he mewled in protest. “Well, this is going about as well as I expected.”

“I’m excited,” Trucy offered, still beaming. “Let’s go!”

_____

Once Trucy found the appropriate playlist to blast on her phone (“Any performer worth their salt knows they need good background music, Polly!” “But...this isn’t a performance. Also, this is more Maroon 5 than I’m comfortable with.”), she got to work on re-washing the dishes Mikeko had ruined while Apollo shuffled around the kitchen, grabbing the rest of the ingredients. He’d bought quite a few items he didn’t usually have in stock, having next to no experience with baking. The recipe claimed bienenstich was easy to make, though he had his doubts when it came to his abilities - and his luck.

“So, how’ve you and Klavier been?” Trucy asked, drying the last of the spatulas. “Things must be pretty good if you’re baking for him.”

“Good, definitely good,” Apollo replied. “We’ve had a couple of hiccups, but nothing we’ve had to worry about, y’know?”

“Gee, how romantic,” Trucy drawled. “I was hoping for something juicier than that, Polly! Have you had any fun dates lately? Cute moments? Nice gifts? It sure was nice of his mom to send more apple strudels to the agency the other day!”

“Are you my sister, or a tabloid reporter?” Apollo flicked a spray of flour onto the front of her apron, ducking before she could retaliate. “Well, we had a good time at his parents’ house the other day. I made pretzels with his mom, and his dad had a ton of podcast recommendations for like, nerd stuff. We, uh...we even talked about Mom for a bit. They wanna meet her someday.”

Trucy’s eyes widened. “Really? When’s that gonna happen?”

“Not sure,” Apollo admitted. “But hey, do you wanna join us when it does? They’ve been dying to meet you, too.”

“Like you have to ask!” Trucy said brightly. She took a moment to methodically spread out all of their equipment across the kitchen counter, smiling in satisfaction when she was done. “There - we’re ready to go. What’s the actual first step?”

“The dough, it says,” Apollo said, turning back to the recipe. “We’re s’posed to mix the dry ingredients and wet ingredients separately. Although I guess the actual actual first step is measuring the ingredients.”

“I’ll do dry, you do wet,” Trucy replied, passing him one of the mixing bowls. “Y’know…‘cos you're such a wet blanket and all.”

Apollo blinked. “...okay, wow. We’re here to bake a cake, not roast me.” Trucy giggled mischievously, then got to work on measuring out the flour, sugar, yeast, and salt. Apollo, meanwhile, started with pouring the milk - easy enough - then stared at the egg carton and sticks of butter sitting in front of him. He’d never been intimidated by either before, but right now, he found them oddly daunting.

“Polly, are you trying to perceive the ingredients or somethin’?” Trucy asked, rapping her knuckles against the side of his head a little too sharply for his liking. “The cake isn’t a lie, you know.”

Once again, Apollo found himself looking at her incredulously. “Wha - th-that joke is older than you are!” Then, a brief swish of movement over Trucy’s shoulder caught his eye. “Wait…” Sitting on the opposite counter was Mikeko, who was innocently sniffing the bag of sliced almonds. “Mik - ”

“Mrrh,” Mikeko purred, his tail perking up at the sound of his name. He then flopped onto his side, rolling over to present his belly. “Mrrh?”

“Don’t ‘mrrh’ me, get away from there,” Apollo huffed, flapping his hands in Mikeko’s direction. He seemed unmoved. “Do you want me to lock you in my bedroom? Really? Is that what we have to do?” Sighing, Mikeko got up and hopped down from the counter, sauntering off to the living room with a sulky grimace. “Thank you.”

“You really do act like he’s human,” Trucy commented, watching Mikeko go. “Mr. Edgeworth’s like that with Pess, only he’s way nicer to her than you are to Mikeko.”

“Probably because Pess doesn’t sit on his chest in the middle of the night while he's sleeping and make him think he’s having a heart attack,” Apollo said wryly, reaching for the sticks of butter. If he let them sit out for too long, they were going to start melting. “How’s that whole...thing going, anyway? I feel like Mr. Edgeworth’s been visiting the agency a lot lately...only, nothing ever seems to happen.”

“Story of their lives, according to Ema and Aunt Maya,” Trucy said, rolling her eyes exasperatedly. “At this rate, I’m gonna get married before Daddy does!” She then smirked. “Or should I say, you’re gonna get - ”

“Hey, l-let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Apollo protested, his cheeks reddening. “How’s it going with the dry ingredients?”

“All done!” Trucy chirped, tilting her bowl slightly so he could see. “Wait, you still haven’t done the butter or eggs yet? Apollo!”

“Yeah, yeah, I was kinda busy dealing with that jerk over there.” Trucy glanced across the way to the living room; she could’ve sworn Mikeko was sticking his tongue out at them. Apollo then pushed the butter towards her. “Here - you do the butter, I’ll take care of the eggs.” The two of them worked in silence for a minute or so, the only sounds in the apartment being the crinkle of the butter’s parchment paper and the tap-tap of the eggs against the mixing bowl. It didn’t take long before their silence was broken. “...shit.”

“Eggshell?” Trucy guessed without looking up. “Sheesh, you really did need help. Here, give it to me!”

Apollo nudged the bowl in her direction, defeated, then wiped the sweat off his brow. “Damn, I didn’t think I was gonna be this bad! I made bread and pretzels with Klavier’s mom, and that went pretty well.”

“I bet it’s ‘cos she did most of the work,” Trucy teased. “Wait - Apollo, there’s more eggshell in here than actual egg!”

“I…” Apollo paused. “...have no excuses.” He then groaned. “Ugh, we still have so much left to do! This cake better be worth it.”

“It’s more like if you think your boyfriend’s worth it, and he is, isn’t he?” Trucy finished fishing out the last of the eggshells, then poked Apollo’s side with her yolk-covered finger. “So c’mon, let’s keep going. We mix them together, right?”

Apollo smiled softly. “Yeah. And hey, I’m...I’m really glad you’re here, Trucy. Thanks for helping me out.”

“It’s just baking, Polly, you don’t hafta be so dramatic,” Trucy said, though she was beaming regardless. “Now move it, or this cake’s still gonna be in the oven when he gets here!”

_____

A little over two hours later, Apollo jumped up from his couch at the sound of his doorbell. His face brightened when he saw Klavier on the other side of the door, dressed casually in an oversized hoodie and joggers. Klavier had been so particular about how he’d dressed for their first few dates that Apollo was always happy to see him in more relaxed attire. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Klavier raised an eyebrow. “You always greet me in the strangest ways, schatz. Did something happen, are you okay?”

Apollo let out an internal sigh of relief; Klavier had yet to notice anything off-putting at all. “No, no, I-I’m fine, just - i-it’s been a long day, and it’s good to see you. I mean, it’s always good to see you - usually good to see you, depending on what’s going on, ‘cos not gonna lie, you still pull the most inane crap in the courtroom, but, uh. It’s good that you’re here. Hi.”

Klavier’s eyebrows remained raised. “...hi. Anyway, I brought dinner and dessert.” He lifted the two bags he was carrying so Apollo could see. “As it turns out, our favorite Taiwanese place was having a promotion. Spend thirty dollars or more, we get free tofu pudding. Achtung, I love a good deal!”

“That’s not what your bank account says,” Apollo teased. “And, er, that’s great, and we should definitely eat it while it’s fresh, but I actually made dessert for us, too.”

“Really?” Apollo was starting to think Klavier’s eyebrows were never going to come back down. “What did you make?”

“No spoilers,” Apollo said, tugging on Klavier’s sleeve. “C’mon, get in here before my neighbors spot you. I swear, I heard one of them blasting Love With No Chance Of Parole the other night. If they find out you’re my boyfriend, I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

“Finally starting to recognize my songs, are you?” Klavier chuckled, stepping into Apollo’s apartment. “I’ll make a Gavinners fan out of you yet, baby.” He then looked around, curious, as he took off his shoes. “Your place doesn’t look nearly as bad as you made it sound. It’s...charming.”

“Real diplomatic way of saying it looks like crap,” Apollo said wryly, closing the door behind him. He was well aware of his peeling wallpaper and cat-scratched furniture, his dusty windows and his water-damaged ceiling. “Wait until you have to use my bathroom. I swear the sink is haunted.”

“How comforting.” Klavier’s eyes lit up at the sound of tiny little feet padding over in his direction; he crouched down so he could be at eye level, one hand outstretched to beckon him closer. “Why, guten tag, kätzchen! I’m so glad I finally get to meet you.” Mikeko stopped dead in his tracks, eyeing Klavier up and down warily. Then, without another sound, he turned and walked away, tail swishing pointedly in the air. Klavier looked up at Apollo dejectedly. “Ach, what did I do?”

“Mikeko only likes me and tolerates Trucy,” Apollo shrugged, trying not to laugh at Klavier’s miserable expression. “I wouldn’t take it personally. C’mon, let’s eat!”

“I’m going to take it a little personally,” Klavier muttered under his breath, following Apollo across the open living space. It wasn’t long before they were set up at the dining table, working their way through their Taiwanese beef noodles, fried chicken, and scallion pancakes. Apollo hummed happily as he ate; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was or how difficult baking could be until now. “So, how was your day?”

“Didn’t do much,” Apollo said, shrugging. “Since it’s my day off, I just kinda - y’know, played video games, watched some TV. Re-organized my bookshelf for the millionth time. I still haven’t decided if my brain likes it organized by author, title, genre, or color.”

“You also made dessert, apparently,” Klavier replied. “Are you really not going to tell me what it is?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, and even though my cat’s an asshole, I prefer him alive,” Apollo said, playfully nudging Klavier’s leg with his foot. “You can wait thirty minutes, can’t you?”

“Ach, the suspense,” Klavier laughed. “Fine, fine. Can I at least ask why you decided to bake for us?”

“It’s the first time you’ve been to my place, so I figured I’d do something nice,” Apollo said, sniffing very slightly. The smell of burnt sugar was starting to waft into his nose; he crossed his fingers underneath the table in the hopes that Klavier couldn’t smell it, too.

“Er - are you okay, Apollo?” Klavier asked, lowering his chopsticks. “You’re...sniffling. I didn’t accidentally bring some pollen in here, did I?”

“Sniffing, not sniffling,” Apollo corrected. “There’s a difference. And nah, it’s nothing. Just wasn’t sure if Mik might’ve peed somewhere...as he does.”

“Ah, cats,” Klavier said, nodding sagely. “Don’t tell your kätzchen I’m more of a dog person, bitte. We’re already off to a bad start as it is.”

“Brave of you, saying that out loud,” Apollo remarked. “If Mik comes after you in your sleep tonight, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Klavier turned to look at Mikeko, who was currently on the kitchen counter, scarfing down his dinner. He lifted his head to make direct eye contact, chewing menacingly all the while. Klavier shuddered. “How about you, what were you up to today?”

“The most boring prosecutor’s office meeting ever, not that that’s anything new,” Klavier sighed, turning back to face Apollo. “And I had no cases to prosecute, so I spent my day wishing I was here instead. Even if you and Mikeko weren’t around, I’d rather watch your wallpaper die a slow death than listen to Herr Payne whine about his life while we’re all waiting for the coffee maker. I don’t see how it’s my or Herr Blackquill’s fault that he hasn’t had a raise in over ten years. If all he can brag about is making new defense attorneys cry instead of actually doing his job, then he should be grateful he still has a career to begin with, ach.”

Apollo blinked. “...huh. I guess I never really thought about the kind of office politics you have to deal with. Meanwhile, the only thing I’ve had to deal with lately is Athena nearly breaking Trucy’s finger during an arm-wrestling match.”

Klavier winced, popping a piece of chicken in his mouth. “Is that something that happens often?”

“More often than it should,” Apollo replied sagely. Klavier wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or slightly terrified.

After they finished dinner, Klavier insisted on helping Apollo with the dishes, seeing as how there was a huge pile of them in the sink, almost none of them from their dinner. Some were splattered with cake batter, others with vanilla cream. Thankfully, Apollo had already rinsed all the pans and utensils he’d used to make the topping, or else the sliced almonds would’ve given him away entirely.

“No peeking in the fridge or you’re not getting any,” Apollo warned, waving a spatula in his face.

“Are we talking about dessert, or...something else?” Klavier blinked innocently when Apollo continued to glare. “Ja, ja, I hear you.” He then paused. “Can I at least speculate? I have an educated guess.”

“You have zero patience sometimes,” Apollo complained, knocking his hip against Klavier’s, though with their height difference, it was more like his hip against Klavier’s thigh. “Let’s finish up here so you have nothing to complain about, alright?”

As they puttered around the kitchen together, Apollo had to subtly, but constantly direct Klavier away from the oven before he could see the remnants of a burnt pan still left on one of the stovetop elements; he hadn’t had enough time to completely scrub them away, though he had gotten rid of the worst of it. For once, he was grateful Klavier favored heavy scents, which seemed to be masking the smell for him.

“Mrrp.” Just as Klavier was drying the last of the plates, he felt something weaving between his ankles. “Mreow?”

“Have you changed your mind about me, kätzchen?” he asked, delighted. Mikeko aggressively smushed his face against Klavier’s calf in response. Apollo watched them both in amazement. “Is that a ja or a nein?”

“Mrrh,” Mikeko rumbled.

“Oh, this is definitely a trap,” Apollo warned. “He probably wants something from you, so don’t fall for it, Klav.”

“You talk about him like he’s an unruly witness on the witness stand,” Klavier said, amused. “He’s just a sweet little kätzchen, what could he possibly - ” Mikeko sneezed, violently.

“There it is,” Apollo sighed.

Klavier winced at the wet spot Mikeko had left behind on his sweatpants. “Achtung, gesundheit!” He then chuckled, shaking his head as Mikeko wandered off, clearly pretending nothing had happened. Either that, or he was embarrassed, though Apollo suspected it was more the former than the latter. “Like human, like cat, I see; it’s allergy season all around. Is it my cologne, do you think?”

“Might be,” Apollo shrugged, wiping his hands. “Okay, you big baby, are you ready for dessert now?”

“You’re acting like I’ve talked about nothing else,” Klavier protested, wrapping his arms around Apollo from behind and burying his face against Apollo’s neck. He then began pressing slow, deliberate kisses along the length of Apollo’s throat. His nose was momentarily filled with the scent of Klavier’s aforementioned cologne, the scent of sandalwood instead of burnt sugar. “I would love to have dessert, baby.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Then we can eat what you made after.”

“Why am I dating you,” Apollo groaned, lightly shoving him away. Klavier snickered, hopping up onto the kitchen counter. “Sheesh, you’re like a cheap Hallmark card and a bad pick-up artist at the same time.”

“Is there such a thing as a good pick-up artist?” Klavier mused, still grinning. “Anyway, I’m serious. Let’s see what you made for us, liebe.” Apollo felt oddly nervous as he opened his refrigerator and carefully pulled out the covered tray from the top shelf. He set it down on the counter, right beside Klavier, then went to grab plates, forks, and a decent-sized knife. “Ah, a knife! Was my prediction correct?”

“Can you let me live for two seconds, please?” Apollo grumbled, softening when Klavier leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “Okay, okay, careful around the guy with the knife in his hand. I-I’m gonna take off the cover now.”

They both held their breaths just as Apollo lifted the tray cover, as overly dramatic as it sounded. The sensation was stupidly similar to how they felt during a particularly stressful trial. Klavier’s eyes widened at the sight before him. “...bienenstich?”

“Wait…” Apollo leaned closer. “...what happened?!”

The state of his bienenstich was...questionable, to say the least. To start, the caramelized almond topping, which had hardened nicely in the refrigerator earlier, now looked like it had been through an earthquake, full of little holes and fissures. The thick layer of vanilla cream between the two layers of cake was oozing out the sides, having somehow melted since Apollo put it in the fridge over an hour ago. Finally, most of the bottom layer of cake was soggy and crumbling apart, clearly thanks to the melting cream.

“You gotta be kidding me!” Apollo exclaimed, setting the knife aside and hurriedly digging his phone out of his pocket. “Here, I took a picture earlier, i-it - it looked perfect, I-I made sure of it - ”

“I’m sure it did, Apollo,” Klavier said gently, rubbing his shoulders in sympathy. “Let’s see your picture, then.”

Groaning, Apollo held his phone up to Klavier’s face. “Seriously, look. I took so many photos, I was gonna send ‘em to your parents and thank them for teaching me the basics...I even made the topping three times ‘cos I burnt the first two attempts!”

“Is that what that smell was?” Klavier shrunk at Apollo’s venomous expression. “Sorry, baby, I just - I didn’t want to say anything in case it was, you know, a weird apartment smell.” He then perked up. “But if you ask me...looks have nothing to do with taste. That goes for both food and people, apropos, though I consider myself blessed that you’re the very best of both.”

“Har, har...also, ew,” Apollo added, wrinkling his nose. “Well, let’s hope you’re right.” With renewed vigor, he picked up the knife once more and carefully cut two modest-sized pieces, transferring them to their respective plates. He passed one plate to Klavier, then, after they exchanged nervous looks, they both took their first tentative bites. “...oh.”

“See? It’s just as I said!” Klavier declared, grinning victoriously. “I’m not going to pretend it’s the most perfect bienenstich I’ve ever had, but - it’s good, Apollo. It’s really, really good. I wouldn’t have known it was your first attempt if I hadn’t seen it. Even then, it’s hardly a disaster. Just a bit, ah, lopsided.”

Apollo was quiet for another moment or so, letting the taste linger on his tongue. The texture was a bit odd, thanks to the half-melted cream and the soggy cake, but it was just as sweet and satisfying as he’d been hoping it would be. “...huh. So I guess we didn’t accidentally swap the salt and sugar like I thought we might’ve done.”

“We?” Klavier echoed as he took another bite, more generous in size this time.

“Yeah, Trucy came over to help me. Guess I forgot to mention that,” Apollo added. “We haven’t had much time to hang out outside of work stuff lately, so...I thought it’d be a fun afternoon thing. Kinda turned into a nightmare instead? Like, the smell of burnt sugar is everywhere for a reason. Don’t look inside my oven, please.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Klavier laughed, delighted. “I can only imagine what went on before I got here, achtung.” It wasn’t long before he was scraping his plate clean; he was still eyeing the rest of the cake hungrily. He turned when Apollo made a mild noise of disgust. “Ah - what happened?”

“What always happens around here.” Apollo plucked a tiny, but obvious cat hair from the end of his fork. “At least I didn’t eat this one. I think I’ve consumed more cat hairs than I’ve had paying clients.” He then looked at Klavier with raised eyebrows. “You’re not expecting another piece right now, are you?”

“I like bienenstich, okay?” Klavier said defensively, though he finally got down from the kitchen counter so he could put his fork and plate in the sink, dropping a sticky-sweet kiss on Apollo’s cheek on his way over. “Danke, baby, that was really good. Can I take some back with me, bitte?”

“Of course, babe. I’m certainly not eating the rest of it by myself,” Apollo snorted, finishing off his own piece. He put his dishes in the sink, taking a moment to rinse off his and Klavier’s plates, then let out a relieved sigh. “Well, at least it tasted good, even if it looked like crap.”

“I know it’s pointless, saying this to you, but - don’t worry so much, hm?” Klavier wrapped his arms around Apollo’s midsection; before Apollo knew it, he was being lifted and set down onto the counter, right where Klavier had been. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, bringing his hands to rest on Klavier’s shoulders, his legs wrapped loosely around Klavier’s waist. “I’m impressed, liebling, I mean it. I know Mama’s been teaching you how to bake, but for you to do it on your own time for us to enjoy...I should really step up my game here, don’t you think?”

“Hardly,” Apollo said, dropping his head to Klavier’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to Klavier’s neck. “Thanks, Klav. Glad you liked it.”

“Bitte schön,” Klavier replied, gently lifting Apollo’s chin so he could kiss him properly. They both tasted like vanilla and honey; Apollo pushed Klavier’s hair out of his face so it wouldn't run the risk of getting sticky. Mere seconds later, they were interrupted by a tiny, impudent meow. Sighing, Klavier reluctantly broke away so he could stare down at the culprit by his feet. “Can I help you, kätzchen? I thought we were cool...until you used my sweatpants as a tissue, that is. These are Moncler, I’ll have you know.”

“Mreow,” Mikeko trilled, tail thrashing violently against Klavier’s leg. Shaking his head in amusement, Apollo got down from the counter so he could pick him up and cradle him, rocking him back and forth like a baby. “Mrrp.”

“I’m kinda curious to see if he’ll let you pet him,” Apollo said. “You wanna try?” Klavier lifted a cautious hand, then slowly began petting Mikeko, taking care not to disturb the sleekness of his long, thick fur. Klavier let out a soft laugh when Mikeko began to purr, his eyes closing contentedly as he smushed his face against Klavier’s hand, just like he’d done to his leg earlier. “Hey, would you look at that - it’s a not-Christmas miracle!”

“I feel as if I’ve been blessed,” Klavier chuckled, rubbing Mikeko’s ears for good measure. “Have I passed your secret test somehow, kätzchen? Am I a good partner for your papa?” Mikeko mewled happily.

“I can’t believe you didn’t even do anything and he already likes you,” Apollo sighed. “Mik, I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I can’t tell if you want him to like me or not,” Klavier said dryly, dropping a kiss to the top of Mikeko’s forehead. Mikeko’s purr only seemed to intensify. Apollo rolled his eyes; now Klavier was just showing off. “So now that all of our bienenstich excitement is over, should we put a movie on, maybe try a small bite of that tofu pudding? I have a desperate need to cuddle after the day I’ve had.”

“Day you had?” Apollo echoed, neatly depositing Mikeko back onto his cat tree. “You said you had a boring meeting and no trials. How bad could it have been?”

“I had to listen to Herr Payne gush about his wife that definitely exists,” Klavier bemoaned, lifting the back of his hand to his forehead as if he were about to faint. Apollo was sure if he rolled his eyes any harder, he would sprain something. “Herr Debeste kept asking to borrow a pencil for some reason. I’m serious, baby, don’t laugh at me, he kept knocking on my door every thirty minutes - ”

“The only baby I see around here is you, baby,” Apollo teased, prodding Klavier in the chest. “But fine, fine, I hear you. You go sulk on the couch and pick out a movie while you wait. I'm gonna put the bienenstich back in the fridge and send your mom my pre-disaster pictures. Maybe she’ll have some advice for my next attempt.”

Klavier perked up. “Next attempt? You mean you’re going to make it again? Ah, ich liebe dich, mein schatz, mein süßer, mein - ”

“Oh my god,” Apollo groaned, sighing. “Maybe, okay? Maybe. I’m not making any promises, I don’t want my apartment to permanently smell like burnt sugar hell.” Still, Apollo found himself biting back a smile, kissing Klavier briefly before lightly nudging him in the direction of his living room. “...and I love you, too. Dork.”

_____

a/n: Welcome to my fourth entry for Klapollo Week 2021! Continuity-wise, this is the sixth of seven fics, but again, there is no need to read the others to follow each fic on its own. Mikeko being a jerk who only likes maybe three people at a time is one of my favorite random headcanons! I know I set a lot of my fics in Apollo's apartment (or Klavier's), but one of the main reasons that I do is for Mikeko and Mikeko alone. If you're looking for a Mikeko-centric fic (kind of), if you could read my mind is one of my favorite short-ish fics that I've ever written.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs would be much appreciated. Hoping you’re all safe and healthy and doing well ❤️

[4point7]

THWACK - A Negan One Shot

Summary: a load of words slung haphazardly together to create a modern masterpiece. Written for @negans-lucille-tblr​ 6K Roll The Dice Challenge using the prompt “ I'm a slave to your games. I'm just a sucker for pain “.

Characters: Negan x Reader (ft. Floral Wallpaper)

Rating: 18+ but maybe less than 98

Warnings: All the warnings. Don’t read this if you get offended by anything typically Negan. Floral Wallpaper.

Word Count: 1,963 

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sound of the clock echos through your mind. It suffocates your thoughts as it reminds you of the monotonous grind of time. Every "tick" amplified through the dark. The space between each one extending for eternity as the silence between them crashes through you like unrelenting waves on a crumbling cliff face, slowly beating away at your resilience. The rest of the community sleeps blissfully as you lay there, your consciousness unwavering.

Tick.

You roll on to your side and open your eyes, staring blankly at the wall. The floral wallpaper, once pristine, now peels away slightly at the seems, unveiling the illusion of perfection, breaking the once perfect pattern.

The luxuries of the past have long been abandoned. What's the point in keeping the inside looking nice any more? Compared to the horror that lies in the world beyond the mildew covered window of The Sanctuary, the room you're in, even in this state, IS luxury these days. You only need to see a couple of Walkers have their heads smashed in to be cleansed of material desires and become satisfied with basic needs being met.

Another tick of the clock calls an end to the time you're willing to designate to falling asleep. You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed, exposing them to the chill of the air that your bed sheets were protecting you from.

You feel the layer of dust and dirt on the soles of your feet as they connect with the cold floor. You reach to grab your clothes from the chair next to the bed and pull them on, taking the time to dust the debris from your feet before donning your boots.

You open the door, trying to muffle it's creak by pulling it softly and slowly away from the latch before stepping out into the hallway. You would rather not wake anyone. People would get suspicious if they saw someone walking The Sanctuary grounds in the early hours of the morning.

You make your way along the corridor to the door that leads outside and gently push it open. The cool breeze from outside washes over you, almost through you, as it breaks into the corridor. You take a deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs, calming you, if just for a moment.

The door comes to a stop with a soft thud, fully revealing the early morning landscape. The trees and buildings in the distance consumed by a mist that spills onto the roads towards you.

As you step out, gravel crunching underfoot, a glint catches your eye. You follow it to its origin, finally laying your eyes on the steel barb wire coiled tightly around a baseball bat, like a snake wrapped tightly around a branch. It's doing no harm where it is but anger it and it will bite! Lucille, resting by the man himself, Negan.

You wonder if you can back away, sink back into the darkness of the doorway but it's too late, even though he isn't facing you, you know he knows you're there.

He stands, leaning on a barrier, his folded arms resting along it supporting the weight of his upper body, leather jacket taught across is broad back. Lucille stands propped against the barrier beside him, perfectly inanimate yet still so menacing. It's like the bat had a presence all of it's own, bringing fear to many while being nothing more than a prop to the horrors of it's master.

You have wanted to be this close to Negan for such a long time but now, in his presence, you freeze. Just standing there taking him in, feeling your heart thump harder in your chest, adrenaline surging through you.

"You just gonna stand there pissin' your pants or are you gonna join me?" His deep voice startles you for a moment, you weren't expecting him to speak. You walk over and lean on the barrier next to him, staring out into the mist.

You sense him turn to look at you but you don't dare look back. Not yet.

"So... who are you?" He says in a gentle deep drawl.

"I am Negan", you respond, now turning your head to look him, traces of a smirk lining your lips.

He chuckles and looks back to the landscape. "Holy shit balls, we got ourselves a joker!"

You don't take your eyes from him, taking in his profile. It's not until you're up-close like this that you can see his imperfections, the lines starting to creep across his skin, breaking the perfect appearance, reminding you of that floral wallpaper.

"What the fuck are you doing awake at this time, Comedian?"

"Can't sleep", you respond.

"Huh. No fuckin' shit!" He pauses for a beat and you say nothing. "Me either."

"Why?" You pry and he lets out a sigh.

"Could you fuckin' sleep if you had to do the shit that I do? Smashin' dead fuckers' heads don't make my prick hard, Joker! Smashin' livin' fuckers', even less so but some fuck's got to protect and lead this community. They haunt me. Every one of the cunts marchin', around my fuckin' thoughts like they're on parade. That's why."

It's an honesty you weren't expecting from him. You had always been sold this fearless, unfazed persona yet here before you stood a man troubled by the actions of his past. Almost broken. For a moment you let yourself pity him.

"Does nothing ever help distract your mind? Help you sleep?" You ask.

"Fuckin' my wives! At least, it used to. But knowing their just fuckin' me out of fear has started to take the shine off the pussy, if you know what I mean? Shit! I wanna slip my cock down the throat of a fucker who wants it, not just because they feel obliged. Then I might have the release I need". His hand slips down and gently caresses the handle of Lucille as if unconsciously.

You're so close to getting what you have wanted for a long time and you know you can get it if you play your cards right.

"WANT ME TO GIVE THE OLD CODGER A DAVID BLOWIE?", you exclaim.

"Oooh err, yes please, if that's okay with you, like? If you like don't mind and stuff and that?" He says back in a melancholy tone not far from how a school boy might ask for his ball back when he kicked it into his neighbours garden.

"You want to?"

"WANT TO? I'D FUCKING LOVE TO!" you whisper. "GIMME THAT WONDER WURST!"

You drop to your knees. Ouch! You think. You should have gotten down gently. Why the fuck you decided to drop so hard no one fucking knows.

You undo his pants revealing his big, flaccid whopper. "It's flaccid." You say. "Yes" he replies.

You stick out your tongue and touch the head of his penis with it as though your testing an ice lolly to see how cold it is. THWACK! His instant erection ploughs into your chin, essentially upper cutting you, and knocks you over. His meat looks like a big fat sausage that's about to explode. You get back to your knees and take his shaft in your hand. "Hey ho, here we go, yo!", you sing into his flesh stick like it's a microphone, before... boom! You slam that happy package right on down your gob hole! Your head smacking back and forth like your headbanging to a heavy metal track. Your throat is making noises like a fucking plunger making hard work out of a toilet or some shit. Like gluh, ung, gug, guh, glug, guh, guh, guh, gug, gluh, ug, ugh, glug... ... guh, gluh, uh, ugh. You had to stop in the middle there to take a little breath. You are human after all.

Anyway your smashing his trouser snake and shit and he fucking loves it and all that and he is like "yeah, yeah, ooh, fuckin' yeah" and shit. Drool is all puddling on the floor beneath you and all that and like splashing all over the place, you know. Like, step off Shamoo, people need to be careful of MY splash zone! And you like grab the shaft in one hand and the balls in the other and stuff and your like working it like that. Your tongue giving it the biggun on his nut balls. Like slip, slop, lollipop mother fucker. Better tongue action than a fucking ant eater. You pushing your tongue down his urethra and give a good old lick all up in there. Then you start slurping on that junk like a fucking kid trying to get the last of their slushy. And his eyes are popping out his head and shit and he's like "Holy shit balls, joker this is a damn acceptable level blow jay." And you like slap it on your forehead and shit and like maybe prod yourself in the eye with it a bit, I dunno. And you like slap it and he looks at you like "uh okay, I s’pose" and then you slap it again because fuck it. And back in the face opening it goes. Plunger noise returns. And he maybe grabs your hair or maybe not, maybe if you're into that and you're not but maybe you are. And he is all like, "I'm going to do a cum" and you're like "pardon?" And he's like "I'm going to do a cum" and you're like, "sorry what?" And he's like "I'm going to..." and you stop sucking and are like, "I'm so sorry, I can't hear you over the racket". He's like, "ever so sorry, I was just letting you know, I was going to do a bit of a cum" and you're like, "Right you are, Sonny Jim" and stick his whoopsie back in your cock pocket of a mouth. Then all of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, *pew, pew* he does a bit of a cum in your throat making you gag. Then like a fucking fireman's house, white spaff juice sprays out of the end sending you flying backwards as he drenches you with his load. Like DRENCHES you. When he is done, you pull a hanky from your pocket and wipe the corners of your mouth. You have some class after all.

You get to your feet and walk back over to him, a twinkle in your pink eye.

"Thanks Joker, that was okay, I really fuckin' needed that".

You blush slightly and lean in for a kiss. As your faces connect you take his lip in between your teeth and hold it there. You hold it there until you feel it go slack in your grasp, until his eye's glaze over and then you pull out the knife you had plunged into his throat, his blood starting to gush over you. His body goes limp and falls to the floor with a thud. The vibration knocks Lucille from her perch and she falls across his slumped body. You wipe the blood from the knife on your shirt and place it back through your belt, behind your back. You had finally got what you had come for and you didn't care what it took to get it. You didn't fear the walking dead but you did fear what someone might do to you if they found you like this so you decide it best to head off. You step over Negan's lifeless body and start your walk home. After all, people will be waking up soon and it's a long walk back to Alexandria.

... oh yeah! You sing "I'm a slave to your games. I'm just a sucker for pain" as you walk off or something.

[nightwingshero]

WIP Saturday

I was tagged by @chyrstis and @scungilliwoman thank you, lovelies!!! Honestly, I’m so damn behind on my tag games...I’m so sorry, I’m getting there. 

Tagging: @strafethesesinners @water-writings @simonxriley @playstationmademe @witchofinterest @xbaebsae @dieguzguz @tommymillers @smithandrogers @shellibisshe @fadedjacket and whoever else would like to share! Sorry, my brain is fried and I can’t think of any other tags, but if you do it, please tag me! I would love to see your amazing work!!!

I’ve been doing a lot of Dragon Age, MCU, Arrowverse, and some other stuff (becuase I’m all over the place), so here yah go!

Dragon Age: Athera and Evune in the Exalted Plains before helping Solas’ spirit friend, after Haven fell. 

“And you’re okay with all of this?” Evune asked as she stepped on a boulder, looking down below us as a few halla settled down for the night. “You seem a bit…off.”

Glancing over at her, the arms around my chest tighten as they remained crossed. “It just…feels a bit odd. Everything seems so...quiet and open here.” Evune threw back her head, laughing a bit.

“Welcome to the Plains, darling.” She smirked a bit as the shadows of the fire from the camp behind us flickered across her face. It made her dark eyes look like the night sky, almost terrifying yet beautiful. It’s almost odd to me how the eyes show the kind of person you were on the inside, because I knew it was a pure representation of who she was. Even if she didn’t want to admit it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I…I don’t know what you want me to say.” I murmured, glancing behind me at the others. Blackwall carving something with his knife as Varric lounged next to the fire, watching it as he lowly spoke of stories of his travels. Solas, only a little further from the fire than Blackwall, sat quietly, stoically as he listened, whether to Varric or us, I wasn’t sure. “Being the First is…” I glanced back down below us, the moon full and lighting the plains in front of us as the creek ran not far from our camp. “I didn’t think I’d have to do it; I didn’t think for a moment that Isha would…”

“Die?” Evune offered as she watched me carefully, her sharp eyes taking in everything and reminding me of the hunter she became once she joined our clan. Andruil’s vallaslin was more than fitting for her, even as a rogue. It was moments like this that made me more grateful to have my cousin by my side.

“I went to the Conclave because I needed time to think, I…I didn’t want the responsibility that came with being a First. I don’t know if I want to be Keeper when Deshanna steps down.”

If I was expecting a shocked reaction from her, I would have been disappointed. It was as if I had just told her the sky was blue, the only movement from her was the slight arch in her brow as I glanced over her. “I hope you’re not expecting me to overly surprised by this, Athera. You jumped at the opportunity when everyone was ready to let me scout it out.”

“And ended up with more responsibility than before.” I laughed humorlessly. “Just think Evune, if Isha hadn’t died, if I hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to run from the weight of being the First, you could be Inquisitor right now.”

“In what world would that be reassuring, Little Fawn? Me and Fen’an leading this little pack of warriors? You and I both know that the right person was there for that. Don’t haunt yourself with those kinds of thoughts, you’re the leader because you’re meant to be.”  

MCU: Steve coming back in Infinity War

“Ross.” Rhodes sighed. “We gotta take this. Rayna, I’m sorry—”

“Do it.” She replied as she stood straight, her head high. “Let us see what he has to say to this now that Tony is missing.”

The malice in her voice made Rhodes and I exchange a look before he turned to the screen and accepted the call. The blue hologram of Secretary of State and the conference room he was in filled the space as Bruce went to the next room, an old flip phone turning in his hands. Rhodey crossed his arms as he took him in, Rayna leaning against the bench—her magic making a coffee mug disappear and reappear. “Mr. Secretary, how can we help you?”

“Well, Colonel, as you can tell, we have a problem.” He replied, barely looking up at us him and his men shuffled through his papers. “Mr. Stark is gone, we need to assemble who we have left.”

“To fight a spaceship that’s no longer hovering over New York City?” Rayna asked and I threw her a look as he sighed.

“To fight off whatever threat we have.” Ross snapped. “What information do we have?”

“His name is Thanos.” Rhodes replied. “He’s…looking for some—he’s looking to destroy and take out half the universe.” Ross took a moment to glance at us, and I swallowed as his eyes flitted to me momentarily.

“And how do we know this?”

We both hesitated before I decided to come clean. “Dr. Banner has…returned. He was on the ship when Thanos attacked Thor…he’s gone.” Another sigh came from him as he handed something to one of his men, a few exchanging glances as Ross spoke.

“So Dr. Banner has conveniently returned with news and you’re telling me we lost the Asgardian?”

“That Asgardian risked his life to try and save us.” Rayna snapped as she shoved off the workbench, making some tools fall and clatter on the floor. “We would do well to take heed of the warning.”

They glared at each other as the tension became worse and I moved, grabbing her arm. “Rayna…”

“Stark is missing, Secretary. I suggest you begin being more cordial to the allies you do have left.” She replied, venom dripping from her words as she walked away, joining Banner in the next room. I threw Rhodes a look before following suit, staying close to them as they stood off to the side, Banner now rubbing his face a bit as he paced slowly.

Seemingly unaffected, Ross continued. “Still no word from Vision?”

Peaky Blinders: Dahlia finding out Alfie is alive

“There are binoculars on the table there, Mr. Shelby. He insists you admire the view. He will be with you shortly.”

I say nothing, don’t dare turn away from the sea as the breeze hits my face. He joins me with binoculars in his hand as the sound of her gathering a tray can be heard. If I had to guess, I would say perhaps tea. How wonderful would it be, to just sit here on a beautiful day and a cup of tea, reading and watching. I allow myself to wonder what it would be like to leave everything behind for this. I hadn’t had peace in so long, I feared I would never know it again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve travelled.” I say, breaking the silence as Tommy holds the binoculars up to his eyes. “So bloody long. The horrid woman would constantly make us travel; tutors changed frequently. Honestly, Tommy, it’s a wonder I had learned anything at all.” I scoffed.

“Mmm. Woes of the upper class.” He mutters back.

“Yes, I s’pose that’s one way to say it.” I sigh before looking over at him. “But you always say we’re better than them, Tommy. You said it about the Russians, even with Luca…you said it, and you say it now with the politicians. Thomas…our values as a family…we’re above this. We don’t believe in this. Please. I need to know if this man can help us.”

Tommy drops his hand, turning and looking at me when the sound of footsteps are heard. “Business first, Dahlia. Remember, business first.”

I go to retort, to ask him again, but I don’t get the chance.

“You out there, Tommy!” A male voice called, and I felt it then, a chill run through me that had little to do with the breeze. My heart squeezed as I stared at Tommy.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Tommy—” I breathed out.

“I was just having some oil rubbed into the bits that really hurt, mate. What do you think of that view, eh?”

I knew that voice. I knew that fucking voice. Tears welled and I fought like I never had before, refusing to cry. Tommy won’t look at me as he steps forward, and I am desperate enough to even contemplate clutching onto his sleeve, but don’t act on it.

“It’s Margate. What can you do?” Tommy replied as the placed the binoculars on the lounge. I watch as the man cuts the music I had barely noticed and turns.

Far Cry 5: Wren’s Cleansing and spitting water in John’s face

“This one?” a male voice echoed as I fought against heavy eyelids to see a blurred night sky. I saw a man in the corner of my eye with a wool sweater and messy hair, pointing to something on the ground.

“No. This one.” Another male voiced, his voice deep and well-spoken. Had it been any other situation, I would dare say it was soothing.

The scruffy man found his way to me, leaning over as he studied me with confusion. “Doesn’t seem very worthy.”

“It is not for us to judge.” The other man came into view, and he was much more put together than his companion. His dark hair was neat, and beard trimmed. He donned a trench coat, giving him an air of importance. “Deliver her unto the waters. The Cleansing begins tonight.” The grungy man reached for me just as I faded back to blackness.

“The water must wash away our past.” A voice echoed and I stirred. He was muffled and I couldn’t place the odd sensation as I began to become aware. It was as if my head was buried beneath sand. My body began to protest, my chest burning, and it was only then that I had realized I wasn’t breathing at all. I was fully awake now and staring at the face of one of the men I had seen earlier, holding me down beneath the water. “We must expose our sins. We must atone…” The man pulled me forward through the surface of the water. I took a quick breath, my gasp only audible between me and my new friend. I finally was able to take everything in. It was night, obviously, and we were on the bank of the river. My head was still screwy from the bliss in my system, but I could make out the lace in the trees and the van parked underneath. But it was the man standing before us that had my attention. John Seed. I recognized him from the intel Dutch had on him at the bunker and the broadcast. Not to mention the pictures and billboards he had all over the place. His trench coat was gone, showing the blue button up shirt and black waistcoat he wore underneath. The others were being walked to him as he read from a white book, his thumb rubbing a symbol on their foreheads. “For only then may we stand in the light of God and walk through his Gate unto Eden.” He said as he marked the last person, before he turned to me and closed his book as I was escorted to him.

“Not this one.” He said as he studied me for only a second, but it felt like forever. His eyes drew me in and I almost squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze. It pinned me to my spot in the river as he handed his book off to my Baptist Buddy. “This one’s not clean.” His was low, mesmerizing. It was honey, just enough of a hint of danger to pull you in, making what he did catch me off guard completely. His hands were on the base of my neck, his thumbs only applying a slight pressure to my throat, almost teasingly. He put more pressure into his palms against my collarbone, forcing me underwater once more. My gasp of shock forcing water in my mouth this time. I thrashed against his hands, but it was no use. He was immovable, a marble statue against my paper-thin attempts against him. My hands tried to pull at the rolled-up sleeves in panic, and he finally pulled me up.

“Ahhhhh.”  He sighed at first, but then my rage overcame me. Out of spite, and for the actual need to dispose of it, I spit the water that had flooded into my mouth in his face. There was a moment of dead silence as his men stood in shock and fear, waiting to see what their Baptist would do. John closed his eyes for a second as I could see the rage cross his features. But as soon as it came, it was gone. His eyes opened again with a mix of malice and taunting, and tsked at me with smirk as he shook his head. “Shhhh.” I clawed at his arms as he went to push me down again, until a voice made him stop dead in his tracks.

[little-ligi]

Febuwhump - No.26

No.26 - Recovery Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1848 @febuwhump​

Follow on from no.21 (Torture)

Lancelot woke violently, wrenching his mind from the nightmare with a yell. He could still hear Gwaine’s terrible screams echoing in his head; despite being safely away from their torturers and back in Camelot, he’d never be free from that torture.

He dragged his eyes open as a hand gripped his uninjured one. Merlin was perched on the side of his bed, leaning over him with a worried smile. He pushed Lancelot’s sweaty hair off of his forehead, cupping the side of his head.

“Gwaine?” Lancelot rasped, trying to push himself upright.

“He’s alright,” Merlin soothed, continuing to stroke Lancelot’s hair, effectively holding him down on the bed at the same time. “He’s getting better every day.”

With a barely contained whimper, Lancelot sagged back into his pillow.

Continue reading on Ao3, FF.net or below! 👇

He knew Merlin had cast as many healing spells on Gwaine as he could. He’d wanted to do more but Gaius had cautioned him against trying, not wanting Arthur to get suspicious if Gwaine healed too quickly. The best he could do was make sure there’d be no lasting damage.

“I need to see him,” Lancelot asked, coughing against his dry throat. Merlin’s mouth turned down at the corners as he very slowly helped his friend to sit up, holding a cup of herby smelling water to his lips. Lancelot sipped it, tasting the familiar bitter tang of willow bark.

They had been back in Camelot for three days, holed up in the physician’s chambers to recover from their awful ordeal. Lancelot was in Merlin’s room, the familiar surroundings helping to calm him whenever his mind wandered back to the torture cell. Merlin sleeping on the floor beside the bed also helped. Gwaine was on a cot in the main chamber so he was never too far from Gaius if needed. Lancelot hadn’t had a chance to see him since they’d been brought back.

“Gaius says you shouldn’t be up yet,” Merlin started, putting the empty cup back on the bedside table.

“Please, Merlin.”

Lancelot’s chest constricted and suddenly he found it hard to breathe. He needed to check on Gwaine. He needed to see for himself that his friend was alright. That the injuries he had suffered under torture were healing. That his beautiful gregarious spirit had not been broken.

Before he knew it, he was gasping, panicking, overwhelmed by the memory of Gwaine’s screams, the sound of his bones breaking and his shoulders dislocating as the crank of the Rack turned. Merlin’s bedroom faded out of his sight as blackness swarmed over his vision. He moaned, tears spilling from his eyes, pain washing over him as if he could still feel the torturer’s tools on him.

He thrashed, trying to get away, to get to Gwaine, to…

“Lancelot!”

Warmth spread across his chest, a friendly, comforting warmth that reminded him of safety, and home. He latched onto the feeling, pulling himself back like a drowning man kicking for the surface. His eyes focussed onto two golden pools of light in front of him and gradually he managed to break through the darkness in his mind enough to see they were Merlin’s eyes.

“Hey, hey, Lancelot, it’s alright.” Merlin had a hand on Lancelot’s chest, magic radiating from it, grounding him.

Lancelot gulped, a sob breaking free from his trembling lips. Merlin gently pulled him to his chest, mindful of his heavily bandaged torso and splinted left hand.

“Merlin,” Lancelot breathed into the soft red neckerchief his face was buried in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Merlin said fiercely. “Do you think you’re strong enough to get up?” Lancelot nodded shakily. “Come on, I’ll take you to see Gwaine.”

Putting an arm around Lancelot’s back, Merlin helped him scoot to the edge of the bed. Wincing, he swung his legs over and put weight on his aching feet. He swayed slightly, but Merlin’s strong hands on his back and chest held him up as he took a deep breath and stood.

Ever so slowly, and leaning heavily against Merlin, he limped to the steps and down out of Merlin’s room. Gwaine’s cot was beside Gaius’s workbench, and Lancelot almost fell as he tried to hurry towards it. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying when he saw Gwaine.

His face was a mess of bruising, one side of his beard shaved away so a poultice could be spread over a large slice down his jaw. There were bandages wrapped around his head. And even more over his torso. Both of his arms, which had been dislocated at the shoulders, were bound down over his chest to hold the newly realigned joints still, one strapped with splints to correct a break as well.

Gaius was mopping Gwaine’s sweaty brow but looked up when Merlin helped Lancelot closer to the bed.

“Lancelot!” The physician quickly got up from his chair, beckoning for Merlin to lower Lancelot down into it instead. “Why are you out of bed?”

“He needed to see Gwaine,” Merlin said and Lancelot caught him giving Gaius a meaningful look.

“He is strong, he will recover from this,” Gaius said confidently, his hand gently patting Gwaine’s chest.

“L’nce…” Gwaine’s eyes cracked a little open and he groaned heavily, trying to roll to his side to face Lancelot. Gaius held his chest, preventing him from moving and he screwed his eyes back up in pain.

“Try not to move, my lad,” he said quietly.

Lancelot reached forwards, his own hand landing on the opposite side to Gaius’s, his frantic fingers tracing the edge of a bandage. Gwaine gave an exaggerated wince and a groan and Lancelot withdrew his hand quickly.

“Gwaine! I’m sorry, did I –” he began, worry thick in his voice but he broke off when a tired grin spread across Gwaine’s bruised face.

“Got ya,” he said wryly, his voice hoarse but tinged with mirth. His eyelids peeled open again, and Lancelot could have wept at the spark he saw in the green eyes. Merlin gave a slightly watery chuckle beside Lancelot.

“I’ll get you some more tincture for the pain,” Gaius said, smiling down at Gwaine then giving Lancelot’s shoulder a squeeze as well.

“How are you, Gwaine?” Merlin asked, sinking to his knees beside Lancelot’s chair, his elbows resting on Gwaine’s bed.

“’ve been better.” He kicked one leg sluggishly, hissing in pain. “You, Lance?”

Lancelot frowned and shrugged. “About the same.”

He tentatively reached a hand out again, letting it hover over Gwaine’s hand, which was tucked under his chin due to his arms being strapped to his chest, but this time not touching.

“Please,” Gwaine whispered, nodding slightly against his pillow as best as he could.

“I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“I was messing with you, Lance. It didn’t hurt,” Gwaine said with a hint of bravado. Merlin scoffed, clearly seeing straight through his lie. “Alright, it did hurt, but not that much,” he conceded.

Lancelot didn’t move his hand until Gwaine tried to lift his own fingers, brushing one against Lancelot’s palm. The tips of his fingers were carefully bandaged, covering the raw skin where his nails had been ripped from them, the same as Lancelot’s own hands. He curled his fingers gently around Gwaine’s and Gwaine gave him another lopsided grin, wincing as it pulled the cut on his jaw.

“Glad we got out of there,” he said roughly. “Not our best quest.”

Lancelot couldn’t stop the small snort of laughter that broke from him, even as tears welled in his eyes again. “That’s putting it mildly.”

He felt Merlin’s hand pressing warm against his lower back as he ducked his head to wipe the tears from his face.

“We’re gonna be alright?” Gwaine asked, a small shake in his voice, like he was worried about the answer, his eyes flicked to Merlin, then up to Gaius as he came back over with a small cup.

“You should both make a full recovery,” the physician assured him.

Lancelot chewed his lip. Recovery could not come soon enough, for he wanted nothing more than to see Gwaine up and about, swinging his sword or playing a joke on Arthur. To give him a hug without the worry of hurting him. And for himself; he hated being stuck in the physician’s chambers, unable to do anything. Unable to be useful to his king and his friends.

Lancelot relinquished his hold on Gwaine’s hand as Merlin slid a very careful hand underneath Gwaine’s head, apologising when he groaned and screwed his eyes shut in agony. He lifted him fractionally, enough so that Gaius could spoon the pain relieving potion into his mouth, letting just a tiny amount trickle between his lips each time. Gwaine winced with every swallow, but by the time he’d finished the cupful the pained creases in his brow had eased a little and his breathing was less haggard.

“Thank you,” he muttered to Gaius. “Don’t s’pose I can have some ale now?”

Gaius gave him a look that was half fondness and half reproach, going back over to his workbench and stirring something.

“I have some poppy laced wine for you later, Gwaine, but it’ll send you to sleep, so I’ll give it to you after the king has been down to see you.”

“Arthur’s coming?” Lancelot asked, trying to straighten in his chair.

“As soon as he’s finished his council meeting,” Merlin said with a nod. “In fact I’d better go and tell him you’re both awake, he’ll want to wrap the meeting up and get down here.”

“Merlin, no,” Lancelot protested weakly. “Not if he’s busy. His duties are more important.”

Merlin gave Lancelot a look that said he was being too self-deprecating as he bounced to his feet.

“You’re two of his favourite knights – not that he plays favourites, of course,” he added with a grin, already halfway to the door, calling back over his shoulder. “He’ll want to be down here to see you both. He’s been to check on you several times in the last two days, but you’re usually asleep.”

Lancelot pulled a face; he didn’t feel like he’d slept at all, what with the nightmares, and the pain, but Merlin was gone before Lancelot could argue.

“You alright, Lance?” Gwaine’s quiet voice drew his attention back down to his friend and Lancelot gave him a weary smile.

“Better now I know you’re recovering.”

He shifted his hand up to the side of Gwaine’s face, letting his fingertips push the hair away from his cheek. Gwaine rolled his head towards Lancelot, effectively trapping his fingers under his head so his cheek was cupped by his palm. It stung fiercely where his nail-less fingers pressed against their bandages and down into the pillow, but Lancelot wasn’t going to move. He let his thumb rub over the shell of Gwaine’s ear where it poked out under his bandages. And for the first time since they had been captured he felt content in the knowledge they were safe.

[ambertea]

the photograph

Ten struggles to move past Rose after Doomsday. (Hurt, no comfort.)

(Read on AO3)

The TARDIS door swung shut, and his head weighed heavily against the wood.

The past week had been a blur of activity. Searching for something he knew was impossible – a way to crack through to a parallel universe without destroying two worlds at once. When he had finally given up on that, he’d spent his time in a desperate rush to try and talk to her, at the very least, to give her the goodbye he’d denied so many others.

After that had come Donna and the Racnoss, and he had been almost relieved to have a reason to push her out of his head. He hadn’t had to face the burning sickness in his gut, or the deep, heavy longing weighing down on him like a boulder.

Now—finally—it was time to grieve. But he couldn’t.

Seeing her crying in front of him so openly – hearing her I love you – and being unable to return either had been an all-consuming pain, a slap to the face, a kick to the gut. Somewhere along the way, though, the feeling had simmered, leaving him with only all-consuming exhaustion.

After Gallifrey had gone, something precious had been ripped from his brain. It was like losing his hearing – or perhaps more than that, as though his ears still worked but the rest of the world had grown utterly silent. Now, aching as he did, he thought he might have a matching wound across his chest.

Sighing, he turned and walked up the ramp, flicking some buttons on the console panel. The TARDIS was unnaturally still, her own grief gentle but devastating. He looked around and paused.

What was he supposed to do now?

For lifetimes, he had spent the time in between adventures in the library, blonde hair tickling his nose. He could just keep going – look for another planet, another time – but something about that felt disrespectful. He owed her his pain, at least. Really, he’d never given her anything else.

Purple was blurring in the corner of his eyes, and he groaned and stared towards it. Her shirt. Wandering over, he held it gently in his hand and tried not to think of the last time he’d seen her in it.

“What do you think?” She asked, spinning into the room. He froze.

She still had on the same shirt as yesterday, held tightly by a dungaree dress. Long boots slithered up to her knees, clinging to her ankles and exaggerating the length of her legs. Three buttons – one more than Cassandra! – had been pulled apart across her chest, cleavage peaking over the denim. If she so much as very slightly leaned forwards, he may well have an aneurysm.

“Bit…blue.”

She frowned, looking down at herself. “It’s my favourite colour.”

“Favourite colour? Humans are ridiculous.”

She laughed and then quickly ran away, her boots thundering across the grating. His hearts calmed down, just a little, but then she was back, her massive red rucksack clutched in her arms.

“You help me choose, then.” She said, unzipping the bag and rummaging through. He leaned back on the console and snorted.

“Rose. I am a 900-year-old Time Lord. I am not here to help you with your fashion.”

“Alright, so I’ll just stick with what I’m wearing.”

He gulped.

“S’pose I can help. If you really want.”

She rolled her eyes and threw a few tops across the floor, and he stepped closer to inspect them properly. The majority of them he had seen before, each one a different memory of a time he’d been left tongue-tied.

“What’s that one?” He asked, pointing towards a magenta top he had never seen before. She held it up to herself and frowned down, eying the crown painted over the chest. He nodded approvingly, positive that this, at least, would cover…. everything that needed covering.

“I think mum got it for me at Primark…” she looked at it doubtfully. “You like it?”

“Love it. Now hurry up, we’ve got places to be.”

She giggled, her fingers fiddling with the top of dungarees until the buttons popped open.

“What are you doing?” He choked.

She grinned. “Changing my top.”

He nodded quickly, his hand brushing through and then gripping at his hair.

“Yep, right, course. I’ll just, uh—” he spun away from her teasing smile.

His eyes fixed upon the TARDIS wall, and he tried his very best not to think about her with her top off.

“Alright, safe now.”

He turned back and groaned internally. How did she do this?

Bounding up the console, he flipped some buttons and switches at random, looking down at them mindlessly.

“What do you think of this? Will it do?”

Absolutely not.

“In the late 1970s? You'd be better off in a bin bag…”

He was standing outside her room.

The top was clutched in his hands, his arm tight and tense. It couldn’t stay in the console room forever. He may as well hang a banner over the struts, paint big black words declaring that she was gone. It had to be hidden away, along with the rest of her, and then could close the door on the happiest chapter of his life for good.

But first, he needed to open the door. Which was proving difficult.

His hand reached forward and hovered in the air. The doorknob glared out at him, shiny and menacing. He had faced down Daleks, Cybermen—the Devil himself. He could do this. With a grunt, he pushed the door open.

His legs stepped forwards as if separate from his brain – kicking away the clothes scattered across the floor. Rose’s room had always been an absolute state, but homely in a way no other room in the TARDIS had ever managed. Her life was scattered across the photographs hanging on the walls, precious ornaments she had collected strewn carelessly across her desk.

His shoulders tensed and then slumped. He could feel her.

She was here in this room, her presence dawdling in a way he had never fully understood or believed in. Her spirit lingered over her dirty makeup brushes, raced through her stack of grimy teacups, settled along her unmade bed. She may as well have been standing in this very room, just out of his eye line.

Trembling, he collapsed onto her covers and bowed his head in silent prayer.

He yearned for his earlier dullness. Whatever this was—this swirling vortex of misery and self-loathing—was clutching at his lungs, squeezing at his throat. Tears dripped down onto the duvet, and he wiped them away, sniffing.

A gleam of light dazzled in the corner of his eye, and he turned towards her bedside table. A metal-framed photograph of the two of them. He reached out, cradling it in his hands, and gazed down at their flushed, happy faces.

“Rose, we can’t take a selfie in the 50s.”

She pouted, juggling her phone between her hands. “They won’t even know what we’re doing!”

“Humans have been taking selfies since they were barely more than apes.”

“But not on a phone!” She exclaimed. “They’ll just think we’re…leaning close.”

He snorted. “That’s scandalous enough.”

Rolling her eyes, she put her phone back in her jacket pocket. He leaned against the wall and watched the street, trying to keep his face fixed in a pleasant smile.

The image of her, faceless, was still vivid in his brain. To see her without her usual vibrant expressions had been harrowing, like losing her whilst she stood right in front of him. For a second, he didn’t think he would ever smile again.

“You alright?” She said, shoving into his shoulder with a bit too much force. Her heels toppled, and she began to fall, and he quickly grabbed her before her face collided with the pavement.

“Those things,” he accused, pointing at her shoes “are dangerous.”

“And a bit painful.” She grimaced. “Pretty though, don’t you think?”

In truth, he’d barely glanced over her shoes, but nodded all the same. He still couldn’t get over her looking like this—it reminded him of the first time he’d seen her dressed up, a lifetime ago. He had been awed then, and he was awed now.

“Not great for running, though.”

“Nah, but we’re done for the day, aren’t we? We saved the day and all that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We saved the day, did we?”

“I was definitely an important part of it.”

He hummed, crossing his arms. “Seemed to me like you were just standing about.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t do everything, can I? Spotted the TV thing before you. Anyway, we’re a team. We do things together.”

“So did we save the day when we met, then?”

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “That was definitely me.”

He drank in her joy thirstily, letting her calm strength wash over him until he felt a bit lighter. The tables were being cleared away, and a few merry couples had taken to slow dancing across the road. He glanced at Rose and saw her eying them wistfully.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I guess we can take that selfie.”

She squealed, her phone instantly out of her pocket, and wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him closer. Her cheek was pressed up against his, soft and warm. He grabbed her waist and pulled her tight against himself, grinning along right with her.

She looked down happily at her phone, angling it so he could peer along with her. He looked absolutely besotted. But then, so did she.

“Would you do me the honour, Dame Rose,” he asked, bowing towards her and offering his hand “of this dance?”

“Sir Doctor, I believe I will.”

He hadn’t intended to return. The first time had been an allowable weakness, a natural stage of the grieving process. Going back felt wrong somehow, even inappropriate. He had never shared her room during her time with him, so what right did he have to it now?

But there was another woman on the ship, and if there was anything Rose had taken issue to, it was that. Especially with the way Martha had looked at him—no, that wouldn’t have pleased her at all.

He poked his head around the door, feeling oddly like he was intruding on the empty room. Stalking over to the bed, he picked up the photo of her on her bedside table. His fingers traced over the lines of his face, trying to call back the feeling of her skin.

He desperately wanted to know how she was doing, where she has. One part of him hoped she would forget him altogether—a bigger part begged her not to.

“I got a new suit.” He told her, nodding down to himself. “Blue.”

A knock rapped upon the door and he shot up, dropping the photograph. He cracked the door open slightly to see Martha looking at him curiously.

“Sorry—just wondering where the kitchen is?”

“There,” he nodded behind her, quickly instructing the TARDIS to shuffle the rooms. “Goodnight.”

“Is this your room?” She asked, and he ignored her, shutting the door behind him.

He hurried back over to the bed, inspecting the frame for any damage, but it was unharmed. Sighing in relief, he put it back carefully, and laid down, staring at it.

“It’s okay. It’s just one trip.” He whispered to her, feeling a bit silly but needing to say it all the same. “And I told her your name, just like you wanted to me to.”

She smiled back, frozen and wordless.

“Mickey all settled in?”

She collapsed onto the sofa and sighed, her eyes inspecting his face. He steeled himself. He had been waiting for this – for her to explode over Sarah-Jane and Mickey and his harsh words outside of the chip shop. It was why he had hidden away in the library, behind dense shelves of books. But as always, Rose had found him as if by instinct.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re--what?” he spluttered.

She kept her eyes on the carpet, hands twisting anxiously around in her lap.

“I shouldn’t have said—what I said, earlier. I was just being stupid.”

“Not stupid.”

“Okay, naïve, then. I just thought me and you were…” she glanced up, eying him carefully. “I don’t know, special.”

“Special.” He echoed, letting it bounce around his brain.

“And it just made me panic. And think about what happens when I die.”

“Well, that’s a way off yet.”

“Yeah, but it’s just like—who’s going to remember me?”

He frowned. “What?”

“I don’t really have friends on Earth anymore.” She said, turning to him and keeping her voice quiet. “There’s not even any records of my life from the past few years. I’ve got mum, but after that—” she fidgeted, casting her eyes down at her hands “I dunno. My whole life might as well have not happened. No one will remember it.”

“I didn’t forget Sarah-Jane.”

“You might as well have. How often do you think about her? Really?”

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling awkward.

“And now you’ve invited Mickey, which is fine—” she paused, taking a deep breath. “But it feels like even your memories of me aren’t going to be just me now. You’re going to look back and remember Rose-and-Mickey.”

“Instead of just you.” He said slowly.

“Well, yeah. And I know it’s selfish—”

“Not selfish.”

“—self-centered, then. But I kinda hoped you’d remember me.”

She fell back, as though winded from her own words, and he looked at her thoughtfully. Rose’s mortality was a subject he rarely allowed himself to consider, but when he did, he was usually focused on its effect on him. He had always assumed she was too young to think about it with any real unease. He offered out his arm and she quickly snuggled into him, face buried in his suit.

“When you…go,” he said slowly, the words painful on his tongue. “I’ll tell people. Promise. The whole universe will get sick of hearing about you.”

She snorted gently into his chest.

“I’ll write books, even. Poetry. Make some art.”

“More art,” her muffled voice reminded him, and he smiled.

“Some more art. A whole museum full of Rose.”

He pulled her into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around her back, and kissed the top of her head.

“I’ll remember you. How could I ever forget?”

“They’re back,” he said as he walked through the door. “They survived.”

He undressed quickly, his clothes piling on top of hers. He bounced onto the bed, gazing at her, lying on his front.

“Cult of Skaro.” He told her, brushing dust from the bedstand. “Dalek Sec turned human. Just like the Dalek you touched,” he sighed, looking down. “I tried to save him. I knew you’d want me to.”

Rose looked back at him.

“No, I’m all right. Well—” he hesitated. “A bit angry, maybe. Four of them managed to stick together. Why couldn’t we?”

He rolled over; eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I know. We got rid of millions of them. Stopped them killing everyone, that made it worth it.” His eyes twitched over to her, and then quickly away. “I guess.”

“I don’t think you have Daleks, over in that universe. Shouldn’t do, anyway, although really who knows where they manage to get to? But even if there is one over there, you should be able to sort them out. Right in the eyestalk, remember? Only weakness.

“Although knowing you, you’d have them charmed before it got to that. Offered them tea or something. Given it a hug. God, Rose—I hope you’re being careful over there. Joining Torchwood is great, but risking your life is less fun when it’s just you. You probably know that by now, you trouble magnet. But I couldn’t bare if it if–” he paused, aching. “Although, I suppose I wouldn’t know anyway.”

He pulled the pink covers up to his face, brushing them against his cheek. They smelt less of Rose now, after a week of his visits—he thought the TARDIS had probably washed them at some point, although he’d specifically asked her not to. Still, they were a comfort.

“When I first saw them,” he breathed. “I thought they’d come from the void. And I was horrified, of course. But not entirely. I thought, maybe—” he buried himself deeper in the covers, “but I guess not.”

“How did it feel?” She asked, her hand clutching his tightly. “Being a picture?”

“Sketchy.”

She looked at him sternly, ignoring his wide grin. He pulled her towards the cake table, but she tugged him back, her fingers digging slightly into his wrist.

“I’m serious.”

He gazed at her, wondering whether she truly wanted the answer. No, probably not. But her eyes were pleading with him, and she had just saved the day. Her wish, as always, was his command.

“Flat—no, I’m serious,” he said quickly, halting her open mouth. “Couldn’t really move. Couldn’t feel the TARDIS. Just stood there and…existed. It was terrible.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she tugged him a little closer.

“Those kids—”

“—are not okay, no matter how well they look now. It was like being trapped in my own brain. It was hard to work out what was real and what wasn’t. Even now—”

He stopped himself quickly, biting at the inside of his lips. She placed her hands loosely around his neck and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Feels real to me.”

He laughed. “Can’t taste pencil?”

“Well,” she said, pulling him closer still. “Let me double check.”

“Rose,” he breathed, stumbling through the door. “Rose—Rose—”

He staggered across the room, arms out and craving for her.

“Rose—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He had left her. Again. A whole year under the Master’s brutal torture, but the worst pain of all had been staying away from her for so long. He clutched at her, his eyes devouring her face, the cold metal cutting into his skin.

“I couldn’t—I didn’t believe it—he was alive, Rose, and he was—” he struggled through his shallow breaths, trying desperately to articulate, to make her understand that he hadn’t chosen to stay away. “Rose, I was trapped. I spent every second thinking of you.”

She was looking at him, unmoved by his rambling pleas. He pressed his head against her, eyes squeezed shut, begging for her to understand.

“I wouldn’t leave you on purpose, you know I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”

His eyes were streaming, but it felt so good to hold her close to him again. She was angry, she always was when they were separated, but she was here, and it was slowly relaxing him.

“I wasn’t the last. He was just hidden. I never thought—I was so alone,” he paused, smiling down at her. “Yes, I know. Apart from you, I meant. Does that even need saying?”

He ran his hand down his face. “No, I’ll be okay. I just needed to spend some time with you.”

He hugged her tighly, burying his face into her shoulder.

“How long did you wait?”

“5 and a half hours.” She gasped out, and he grimaced.

She was giddy with joy, and he realised suddenly just how frightened she must have been. What had he expected her to do, stuck on this space station? Wander around and hope one day he’d turn up?

“I’m sorry.” He said, pulling away. She looked down, but he pressed a finger against her chin, forcing it upwards. “Really.”

“It’s fine.”

He shook his head and stepped a little closer.

“I should’ve never left you. I never will again.”

He kissed her sweetly, and she stayed utterly still for a second before kissing him back enthusiastically.

They pulled apart and beamed at each other, their hands naturally gravitating together.

“We never did this,” she said, settling her head on his shoulder.

“What?”

“This,” she said, nodding at their clasped hands. “Us.”

He brushed the hair away from her eyes and then traced his fingertips over her lips. He had always loved these lips, loved the look, the touch—

“You never kissed me.”

He pulled his hand back and stared at her, confused. She shuffled out of his embrace, her sympathetic gaze grating at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. He had always been physically affectionate to her, every light touch a happy expression of love.

“You never told me that, either. Not once.”

He shifted in his chair, looking away.

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because I’m not sure you know.”

Martha left, and he thought maybe it was for the best. He had honestly liked Martha, found her intelligent and self-confident. But he knew she made Rose feel insecure, which was the last thing he wanted.

He spent his days curling up in her bed, chatting through their memories and finding joy in her smile. The universe had taken enough of his life. From now on, he would spend it with her.

“Doctor,” Rose said, settling heavily on the bed, “I’m worried.”

“About what?” He asked quickly, scooting up to her and taking her hand. She looked down at it with a frown.

“You’ve not eaten in a week. Not slept in months.”

He smiled. She was adorable. “You’re worried about me?”

She groaned, laying back. He mirrored her, studying her face.

“When was the last time you left the TARDIS?” She asked, and he frowned.

He’d forgotten he was on the TARDIS. He saw so little of it now.

“Are you getting restless? Because we don’t have to stay here. Maybe the library? You’ve always loved it.”

Her head towards him, and he was confused by the intensity he saw in his eyes. Maybe she was growing tired of his presence, sick of his constant rambles. He reached for his hair, nervous, and was surprised to find it down to his shoulders.

She reached towards him, and he stole her into his arms, trying to rub some warmth into her cold body.

“What about past the library?”

He frowned. “The console room?”

She groaned and rolled into his chest. He rubbed her back, trying to comfort her.

“What about the garden? We could plant strawberries for the summertime. Strawberries and ice cream for lunch, every day. Like a children’s book.”

“Why don’t you go outside, to plant strawberries?”

He pushed her away from him, bewildered, staring up at her with furrowed eyebrows. “Outside?”

“Grass. Sky. Stars.”

He let her fall beside him and stood up, angry.

“We can’t go outside. You know that.”

He glared at the wall opposite, his hands curling into fists. She brought this up so often these days, a constant argument that he never seemed to fully win.

“You need to,” she whispered behind him. “You need to go outside.”

He spun around. “I need to? By myself?”

She was very still on the bed, her eyes staring upwards blankly.

“Yes. God, Doctor, this isn’t you. When have you ever stayed still this long?”

He frowned at her. “But—we’re happy. Me and you, in the TARDIS. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She gazed up at him, looking pained. “Do you really think I would have wanted this?”

“Of course!” He shouted. “This is exactly what you wanted. Just me and you, no one else. Domestics. Love. All of that.”

“Love?” She whispered. “Is this love?”

He staggered back. He had always loved her, never faltering and never hesitating.

“What else could this be,” He asked, feeling tears rage in his eyes “but love?”

“Pain.” She whispered.

He fell back against the wall, sliding down until he was draped on top of the carpet.

“Pain?” He echoed, feeling an ache against his chest. “I pain you?”

“No,” she said from the bed. “No, never. But what about you?”

“Me?”

“How do you feel?”

He paused and took stock. Quite hungry, actually – and tired, which was unusual.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

She stayed motionless, and he stood up slowly, shaking the sudden fatigue from his limbs. She gazed up at him sadly.

“You need to move on. Get past me. Find someone else.”

“Someone else?”

He paced up and down the room, treading on both of their clothes.

“Snap out of it.”

He froze and turned slowly.

“Rose,” he muttered, “don’t.”

“I love you, Doctor.”

He stumbled slightly, exhaustion overtaking him. He sat down on the bed and froze. Slowly, he stood up and turned.

Her face was shattered across the bed.

“Rose,” he gasped out, his hearts racing. “No.”

“I love you,” she cried. He knew this—had always known this—but even now, saying his goodbyes, a flood of joy coursed through his blood.

He reached out to her and pulled her lips towards his. Her hands immediately went to the top of his head, grabbing at his head, moulding his body on hers. He clung to her back desperately, cursing their bodies for stopping them from moving even closer.

She pulled back, gasping for breath. He ran his tongue around his lips, tasting makeup and saltwater.

“I love you too.” He whispered into her ear.

He was on the floor, shards of glass scattered across his body. He brushed them off, slowly sitting up.

“Rose?”

The room was silent.

[vannahfanfics]

I’ve Got These Scars, But I Think They’re Pretty

Category: Angst, General Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Dabi

Additional Tags: Role Swap AU

The bright white waiting room hummed with hushed conversations of waiting patients, worried family, and chatting nurses. Dabi sat hunched in a chair, leg bouncing and hands clasped tight, but not because he was awaiting treatment. His aquamarine eyes scanned the room to observe the comings and goings, the brightly-colored spandex suits and the fluttering capes as the local heroes made their rounds visiting the various tenants of the pediatric intensive care ward. 

By all rights, Dabi should be among them— but he didn’t exactly fit the mold of hero , even if he was a member of a bonafide agency. With a quiet sigh, he sat up to observe the dark purple scars and silver staples adorning his marred skin. No, children shrieked and cried at the sight of him and his scarred body. He’d only undo the optimism the other heroes were instilling in the ailing children if he strutted around pretending like he wasn’t some kind of patchwork monster. 

Sighing heavily, Dabi leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands. 

It was times like this that he loathed his father the most. So easily, Dabi could have turned to the path of vengeance and brought retribution in the form of a fiery inferno, but he hadn’t. He’d persevered; he’d endured the trauma and abuse and his own goddamn skin melting off his bones as he lived in his own circle of Hell until Shoto came around. He’d overcome all the urges and temptations to become a hero— but he still couldn’t be normal . They always wondered in the back of their minds if he was unhinged or a villain spy because of these scars he was forced to bear. 

Dabi clenched his teeth and curled his fingers into his hair, fingernails scoring into his scalp as he struggled to reign his volatile emotions back in. Oh, how he hated Endeavor, but he hated himself more for slipping back into these spirals of thought time and time again. Frustrated tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he seethed in self-loathing and resentment and struggled not to let the negative feelings swallow him whole. 

I shouldn’t be here. 

“Hey, mister, are you here to get treatment?” 

Dabi jerked up with a small gasp as a sweet little voice yanked him out of his depressive spiral. He blinked rapidly, his teary eyes blurring his vision into hazy watercolors for a few seconds, until the form of a small child materialized into view. Her eyes were bright and wide as she regarded him curiously, a half-eaten chocolate bar in one hand and the other bundled to her chest in a thick cast. Gauze covered two-thirds of her body, making her seem like a little baby mummy standing before him. 

He straightened up in the chair and rubbed his sweaty palms across the fabric of his ripped jeans. 

“Oh, um… No.” 

“Are you visiting someone?” she asked, chomping down on the chocolate bar. Dabi grimaced slightly as she kept her stare fixed upon him while chewing open-mouthed on the sweet confection. It was a little unsettling, as he was so used to the wrong kind of stares; the little girl didn’t seem to register his scars at all, just gazing unblinkingly at him out of nothing but pure curiosity. 

“Um… Sort of. I’m with the hero agency visiting today,” he explained. The girl cocked her head to the side with a slow blink. 

“Then what’re you doin’ sittin’ out here? Are you tired?” 

Somebody come get this kid! Dabi thought as he shifted uncomfortably. Though he’d deeply desired for a kid to be able to converse openly with him like this, now that it was happening, it was such a foreign sensation that it was deeply unnerving. He cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced around to find someone who could serve as a decent excuse. Unfortunately, all the heroes were busy in patient rooms— leaving Dabi to fend for himself. 

“Look, kid, aren’t you supposed to be in a room somewhere?” he evaded. The little girl shrugged and took another bite of the chocolate. The piece broke off with a loud snap before she chewed avidly on it.

“Yeah, but I wanted some candy, so I took some of my allowance and went to one of the vending machines. I don’t remember what room I’m s’posed to be in, though, so now I’m lost.” 

Dabi had to snicker at her completely emotionless analysis of the situation. The tyke reminded him of Shoto, almost, with that dispassionate disposition and monotone voice. Dabi’s head lolled on his neck as he took another look around. The nurses and doctors were nowhere to be found now, either. Well, he thought as he pushed himself out of the chair, I guess I should do the “heroic” thing and escort her back to her room. 

“What’s your name, squirt?” 

“Katsumi.” 

“All right, Katsumi. Let’s go find your room, huh?” he said as he strode off. The girl obediently trotted to keep up, continuing to munch on her chocolate bar and smearing it a little across her lips. The ICU of the children’s hospital was the largest of the facility, so realistically, it could take a considerable amount of time for Dabi to find Katsumi’s room in the sea of beds. He slipped his hands in his pockets as he strolled along, icy blue eyes flicking between the name placards adorning the closed doors. Dabi was more than content to tread along in total silence, but the little girl— not so much. 

“Hey, mister, where’d you get those scars?” 

Dabi glanced down to see her gaping at the purple patchwork decorating the visible parts of his body. However, what startled him and stuttered his steps was the look on Katsumi’s face; rather than disgust, fascination adorned her features, and there was a strange sparkle in her eyes. He stood frozen as she tucked the chocolate bar under her armpit so she could run her fingers over the wrinkled, stitched skin of his forearm. 

“They’re burn scars, aren’t they?” 

Dabi’s expression softened as Katsumi’s eyes grew lidded. She ran her fingers over the marred areas a few more times, then reached back to claw at the bandages swathing half her body. “So when I’m all better, will I look like this?” 

Dabi’s throat closed up as he felt the oddest sense of shame washing over him. I shouldn’t be here, he thought again. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do as Katsumi studied his injuries and envisioned herself like him— barely held together by staples and prayers? He bit down on his lip as it grew hard to breathe, and once again, the hate began to well up inside of him, a geyser threatening to explode and arch into the sky in frightening brilliance. 

“Your scars are so pretty.” 

Dabi almost fell over. 

“Do— do what ?” he cried as he looked down at her in shock. Katsumi gave him a sweet, innocent smile as if what she’d just uttered wasn’t insanely weird. She shyly rocked her hips back and forth as she placed her hand on his arm again. 

“Purple is my favorite color!” she explained with a giddy laugh. Dabi’s face wasn’t sure what kind of expression to make, but it made something. He sagged in disbelief— and a whole lot of relief — as Katsumi continued to admire the disfigured skin painting his forearm. Her eyes were lidded again, but this time in a childlike hopefulness. 

“That’s what happened to me, y’know. A house fire,” she said and raised her arm as much as she could in the cast. Dabi refrained from contradicting her; it was easier for her to believe something simple like a house fire and not years on years of pushing his Quirk beyond his body’s physical limits. “The nurses and doctors are all super nice, but… I hear them talking about how it’s such a shame that I’ll be scarred for life, a pretty girl like me.” When she looked back up at him, tears bubbled in her eyes before rolling down her plump cheeks, rosy with life and pain. “I’ll still be pretty even with these scars, right? Right ? Just because I have them, people can still love me, can’t they ?” 

Dabi breathed sharply through his nose as he ran a hand through his dyed hair. Of all the things he’d thought would come of today, comforting a crying child in the middle of a hallway wasn’t one of them. Yet he couldn’t help but feel glad for it. This little girl echoed the same things he’d felt after his incident. 

At least, unlike Dabi, Katsumi had someone to put her fears to rest. 

“Of course they can,” he said as he crouched down. His coat brushed against the white tiled floor as he kneeled beside Katsumi and rested a hand atop her head to ruffle her hair. “If anything, the scars’ll make you even prettier. They’re a sign that you overcame everything and came out still standing, yeah?” Dabi was never the best with words, so he hoped that Katsumi understood. 

She stared at him for a moment, still sniffling petulantly. However, little by little, a smile wormed its way onto her face. 

“Really?” 

Dabi’s smile broadened and gave her hair another ruffle, making her giggle. 

“Really. Don’t listen to what those nurses say. Anybody who has any sense’ll know that those scars don’t make you anything less.” 

“Thanks, mister,” she preened, and Dabi swore the smile she gave him was brighter than the sun itself. As he stood, she lunged forward to take his hand and lace their fingers, still probably feeling a little emotionally vulnerable. Dabi didn’t make any move to rebuke her, only tugged on her slim arm so they could resume walking down the hall. Soon she was swinging his arm back and forth as she pranced along, much more animated and happy that she had been previously. 

Dabi felt a sense of pride welling up inside him, knowing that just a few words of encouragement had illuminated Katsumi so brightly. 

Suddenly, he was very glad he came. 

Eventually, they located Katsumi’s room. The nurse nearly bowled Dabi over when they meandered up, screeching at him about kidnapping and not listening to a damn word he had to say. Though Katsumi brightly attempted to explain that Dabi was a kind hero who had led her back, the nurse was about to call the authorities on him until Hawks sauntered up and slapped his gloved hands on Dabi’s shoulders to give her a brilliant grin. 

“It seems there’s been a big understanding. Ma’am, this is one of the heroes working at my agency, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t call the authorities on him.” 

The nurse dropped the phone with a series of confused sputters, pointing at Dabi as if that was all the evidence she needed. Dabi sagged into the bird-man’s grip, irritation bubbling up inside him. For a moment, he had forgotten how much of a ruffian he looked to the general populace. Hawks continued to diffuse the situation with practiced grace. 

“I know he looks like a thug, but I promise, Dabi here is a bonafide hero! He even brought your little lost dove back, yeah~?” 

“Yep! We had a great talk,” Katsumi chirped as she clambered back into her hospital bed. She finally remembered her chocolate bar and removed it from her armpit, frowning when she discovered that it was half-melted and squished. After scrutinizing it for a moment, she shrugged and chomped down on it. Dabi smirked as he watched her, very entertained. 

Hawks’ honeyed words had placated the nurse, who begrudgingly offered Dabi a half-hearted and wary apology. He shrugged her off and walked over to Katsumi, who was enjoying the remains of her chocolate bar. 

“All right, squirt. I’m off. Got lots of important hero business to attend to and all.” 

“Will you come back and see me?” she asked, looking up at him with a chocolate-smeared pout. Dabi snorted and pushed her head a little, making her laugh giddily. 

“Of course. I’ll see ya next week.” 

“Okay! Bring some chocolate bars!” 

“You got it,” he waved as he strolled out of the hospital room. Hawks followed suit after cheerfully bidding farewell to the nurse. They both sighed deeply as he closed the door behind him. 

“Well,” Hawks smiled as he strode up beside Dabi and nudged him with an elbow. “Lookit you, gettin’ friendly with the kiddos. I didn’t know you had it in ya, Dabs.” 

“Shut up, you great big chicken wing,” Dabi growled and flashed him a scowl. Hawks laughed good-naturedly, feathers ruffling in mirth. 

“Oh, come on now! It’s progress!” Hawks insisted. Dabi left him standing there with his arms held up like the great big winged moron he was. Hawks pouted and whined after him, but he continued off to the vending machines, suddenly craving chocolate. As the wrapped candy bar thunked down into the receptacle and he leaned down to retrieve it, a serene smile decorated his face as he caught the reflection of his scars in the glass. 

“Yeah, I’ve got scars, but I think they’re pretty!” He could just hear Katsumi bleating to the ignorant nurses. As he straightened back up with the chocolate bar in hand, he rolled up the long sleeves of his coat, exposing more of the purple patchwork skin to the cold air of the hospital. 

“Yeah. Me too, kid.” 

As he walked out of the hospital into the sunshine, he glanced up at the sky and smiled. 

I’m glad I came. 

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

[haikyuu-sickfics]

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Word Count: 1393

Koutarou’s tendency to get in trouble would be Keiji’s downfall.  Everyone on Fukurodani’s volleyball team knew how dependent the team's ace was on the second year setter.  The captain's dependency put a weight of pressure onto Keiji’s shoulders.  Pressure to perform well not only for himself, but for Koutarou, which in turn forced him to perform well for the entire team.  Luckily, Keiji thrived under pressure.  He had his way to deal with any situation, be it Koutarou’s emo mode, Koutarou getting an injury, or his personal least favorite; Koutarou catching an illness.  Fortunately, the last of those 3 instances happened very rarely, and even when it did happen, it was nothing too serious.   

Which is exactly why Keiji felt so panicked right now.

From the morning, Keiji had a sour feeling in his stomach, a feeling which seemed to perfectly resemble the pit he got in his gut every time Koutarou entered his emo mode.  All day, Keiji fretted over what the terrible encounter would be, and when.  Both of these questions were answered as Koutarou crumpled to the floor mid spike.  A low moan emitted from Koutarou’s throat as he wrapped his large arms around his abdomen.  Quickly, Keiji rushed over to Koutarou’s weak form.

“Bokuto-san, can you get up?  We need to get you home,” Keiji deadpanned, wrapping his arms around Koutarou to provide support.

A weak nod was all Koutarou expressed as he slowly made his way to a hunched standing position.  Coach Yamiji walked up, his attention caught by the small group circled around the ace and setter.

“Yamiji-sensei, Bokuto-san is unwell, may I take him home?” Keiji queried upon the new arrival.

“Ah, yea.  Make sure ya get outta ‘ere before he gets everyone else sick.  Stay safe you two,” Turning his head to Koutarou he added, “Get better soon.”  

With a clap, the coach directed the rest of the team's focus to himself, and Keiji continued the rough process of getting Koutarou outside.  After a bit of struggle, which was only worsened as a result of the pain continuing to bite at Keiji’s midsection, the two made it outside, and quite a distance from the school.  

-

“Do you think it worked?” Yamato asked Akinori back in the gym.

“Yea bro, did you see how good of an actor he was?” Haruki butted in, referencing Koutarou’s collapse.

“He was!  I just hope he’s able to get to the festival without getting yelled at,” Akinori added, voicing his concerns of Keiji getting mad at Koutarou for his bold plot to skip out on volleyball.  

The whole team, including the coach, was in on it.  The original plan was for Keiji to finally get a break from supporting the team, and who better to show Keiji a good time then Koutarou.

-

Back at where Koutarou and Keiji were walking, Keiji began to grow suspicious of how well Koutarou was walking without support.

“Bokuto-san, you don’t seem sick.  Were you faking?” Keiji asked, his face morphing into one of disapproval.

“Aka----ashi!” Koutarou exclaimed, walking around to face Keiji, “Of course, and I got everyone in on it!  I’m s’pose to take you on a break!” Koutarou confessed, grabbing Keiji’s wrist.

Despite any trouble being resolved, the awful feeling remained deep in Keiji’s stomach.  For the first time all day, he was able to really focus on the hot bubbling feeling, and able to realize it was something so much more than worry.  Nervous from his new findings, his initial upset over Koutarou’s lie almost dissipated. 

Pulling his wrist out from Koutarou’s grip, Keiji began, “Bokuto-san.  I don’t need a break, we should go back to practice,” he paused a couple times to lift his hand to his mouth and stifle bubbles of air rising up.

Koutarou took notice of Keiji’s awkward behavior, much to the dismay of the latter.  

“Akaashi?” Koutarou whined in concern, “Are you okay?” He did not get an answer.  Everything started happening too fast, Keiji felt his stomach start to ache far stronger than before.  His mouth began to salivate, and he clasped his hand over it in fear of making a mess.  Koutarou’s eyes widened as he lay a large hand across Keiji’s mid back.  

“I’m fine, Bokuto-san,” Keiji affirmed, swallowing down the excess liquid in his mouth.

Worry was still etched in Koutarou’s face, but a flock of birds overhead quickly caught his attention and soon enough, Keiji’s moment of weakness completely escaped his mind.  But for Keiji, the moment was far from gone.  The churning feeling had all but faded, and Keji began to find it difficult to even stand.  Fortunately for him, Koutarou was too caught up in the animals flying overhead to take note of Keiji’s struggle.

“Akaashi! Do you see them!  Do you see the birds!” Koutarou marvelled, eyes wide to the sky.

Keiji’s lack of response caused Koutarou’s attention to return to the second year.  Just as his head whipped around, Keiji’s knees buckled.  Quickly, the team captain threw his arm under his falling friend and helped to gently lower him.  

Saliva dribbled out of Keiji’s slightly ajar mouth as his stomach clenched.  At this point, Keiji didn’t even have the energy to reassure Koutarou of his well being, lie or not.  After a particularly hard clench, Keiji let out a loud retch, and his back arched in a way which forced him to place his hands in front of him in an effort to support the rest of his body.  Koutarou, not knowing what else to do, rubbed large circles on Keiji’s back and pulled out his phone to call for help.

They stayed in that position for a minute or so, Keiji trying his best to hold down whatever was trying so hard to force its way out of him, and Koutarou hovering at his side uncomfortably.  Finally, Keiji gave up, a loud belch echoed out of him, bringing with it a thin wave of vomit.  The grotesque taste it left on the setter’s tongue incited another, larger, wave.  Not much came up, as Keiji didn’t eat too much throughout the day- his stomach pains seemed to cause a lack of appetite.After the second wave, Keiji felt finished.  Pulling his handkerchief out of the pocket of his jacket, he dabbed his lips and chin.

“Let’s go Bokuto-san,” he deadpanned, slowly pulling himself off the ground.  Embarrassment caused heat to hug his cheeks, they weren’t exactly in the most private setting and Keiji could feel bystanders eyes burning into him.

Koutarou, not much knowing what else to do, obliged.  After about 3 minutes of walking, Keiji doubled over once more, letting out a loud retch as he did so.  Koutarou resumed his position at the side of Keiji, rubbing large circles onto the smallers back.  Keiji let out a couple more gags before a productive heave sent a small splash of bile onto the concrete.  At this point, Keiji’s throat was burning and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on his bed and fall asleep.  His legs felt weak and his vision was swimming.  Dizziness yanked at his limbs and swam throughout his core.

Taking a deep breath, Keiji began, “Bokuto-san.  Can you take,” but before he could finish his request, his vision went fully back and his knees buckled.

Panicked, Koutarou scooped his arms under Keji and lifted him up in bridal style.  It was an easy feat, Keiji was light and Koutarou was strong.  Surprisingly, despite the two being so close, Koutarou had no clue where his friend lived, so he began the long walk to his own house.

Keiji only stirred slightly throughout the long walk.  For this, Koutarou was silently thankful, it was safe to assume the former hadn’t been getting much sleep as of late.  It was a but of an inconvenience to Koutarou, his house wasn’t exactly close to Fukurodani, which is why he took the train everyday, but he knew this was a minor inconvenience in comparison to all Keji went through for him.  

Relief washed through Koutarou’s body as his house came into view.  Judging by how Keiji was still out, Koutarou was ready for one long night.  Letting out a sigh filled with many emotions, he fished his key out of his pocket, and unlocked the door, fully unprepared for the long night which awaited him.

[cowpokecorner]

Gonna Make Ya Squeal~ // Arthur Morgan and Micah Bell x FEM!Reader (Mild NSFW Warning!)

Foxy Outlaw here~! I just wanted to say something before I share this with y'all. I’m not always so great at writing or coming up with ideas, so I might not post things like this often. I will consider opening up requests for written Character x Reader stuff in the future, but for now that is not available. I hope you guys like what I wrote up here. It was just a quick thing I did for a friend a couple weeks ago. Enjoy~! :3 ============================================ You slowly open your eyes as a slight pain rings through your head. You look up a bit to find you’re in a dimly lit room and tied to a wooden post with a lasso rope. You don’t remember how you got here or why even, but your concerns about how you got here are quickly wiped away when you hear two people talking outside the door in a heavy Southern drawl. “Y'know ya didn’t hafta hitter over the head like that.” “Well how else was we supposed ta make sure she came with us?” “We coulda jus asked'er. I’m sure she wouldn'a minded comin’ fer a couple drinks.” “Relax, Morgan. I’m sure she’s fine. Besides, made it easier ta getter here, didn’t it?” The voices started out faint, but grew louder and closer as the conversation carried on. They were accompanied by some boot steps on a wooden floor before stopping outside the door, which was also where the conversation stopped. It was a short moment before the door opened. As a slightly brighter light washed over you, two men now appeared in the doorway. Both were dressed like Old West cowboys, one in red and the other in blue. The one in red stepped closer to you, his blonde hair and mustache coming more into view as he leaned down to tilt your head up with his hand. “Well good morin’ there girl~ Glad ta see yer awake~” He spoke in a slightly deep, husky tone that sounded as if he was trying to be seductive. The other man stepped forward and swatted the first man’s hand away from you. “Micah, would ya leave the poor girl alone! We didn’ bring her here t’mess around.” He carefully reached around to untie the ropes. He then held out a hand to help you to your feet, which you hesitantly took and stood. “Where…where am I…?” You spoke quietly in a bit of confusion.

Before the man who seemed to be the kinder of the two could speak, the one you have comed to understand was named Micah chimed in. “Yer exactly where ya need ta be right now, n’ that’s all ya need ta know.” His tone was much louder and more cocky now as he crossed his arms and smirked. The other gave Micah a look before looking back to you. “Yer back at our cabin fer now. We’re lookin’ fer some information, n’ we were hopin’ ya had it for us.” You bit your lip nervously. Information? What kind of information did they think you had? You weren’t the type to be involved in much of anything outside of your own personal hobbies and talking to a few friends. Honestly, the only reason you had gone out today was to buy some new art supplies, but you hadn’t even made it to the store before everything faded to black. “I-Information….?” “Oh come on, Morgan! Get on with it b’fore I take care of it!” Micah grumbled, growing annoyed with the delay. Morgan, or at least that was what you assumed his name was, shot a glare at Micah before once again looking back to you. “Well a friend of ours saw ya round someone we’re lookin’ ta deal with fer personal reasons. They tend ta be inta all sorts a trouble with the law, and they took somethin’ that belongs to'us.” You looked down at your hands as you figitted nervously. “I-I’m sorry… I don’t think I know anyone like that. M-maybe you have me confused with…s-someone else…?” ��Damn it, Micah!” Morgan turned around, stomping his foot slightly. “I told ya she didn’ look like the girl we were after.” “Well how the hell was I s’posed ta know?! She’s wearin’ the same damn clothes we was given as a description. Ain’t my fault.” Micah walked over to what looked like a relatively bare looking bed and sat down. “This is why I wonted ta talk to’er first. Now we jus kidnapped someone fer no reason.” The man in blue huffed as he started toward the door, stopping to turn back and look at Micah. Micah smirked a bit as he removed his hat and sat it beside him on the bare mattress. “Not exactly no reason at all~ We could… Y'know~” “No. No. No. Absolutely not, Micah. I told ya last time I ain’t gettin’ involved with yer sexual escapades.” Morgan shook his head, turning back to the door once more. Your eyes widened as he spoke. Did he just say what you thought he said? Did this man you didn’t know have certain…intentions…with you? You looked to Micah, blushing slightly when you caught sight of his face. Micah was staring back at you with narrowed eyes and a slightly crooked grin, but somehow it seemed oddly….arousing? Okay this was definitely out of the norm for you. “C’mon Arthur~ Let’s just have a little fun with'er~ Won’t hurt nothin’~” You quickly looked away to break eye contact only to see who you can only assume is actually known as Arthur Morgan looking back at his ‘friend’ with a questioned face. “Y'mean both’uv us. At the same time. Together. Y'know what Dutch’ll say f'ee finds out we did somethin’ like that, doncha?” Micah chuckled as he stood and walked back over to you, once again tilting your head up with his hand to look at him. “So don’t tell'im. Besides, look at how she’s lookin’ at me~ She clearly wants to~” Arthur looked over to you once more before sighing heavily. He brought his hand up to cover his face for a minute, pushing some of his hair back and sighing once more. As he did this he removed his hat as well, hanging it on the doorknob before walking back over to you. “How d’ya know she wonts it?” “Look atter face. Her cheeks are more flushed than yers when yer wasted.” He chuckled a bit as he brushed a hand across your cheek. Arthur grew quiet as he studied your body language. He leaned down a bit so he was closer to your ear, not wanting to be too loud for fear of someone outside the room hearing. “Wouldja be interested in foolin’ round with a couple a ol’ cowpokes like us~?” He seemed more into the idea as he spoke quietly. You’re entire face was hot with blush now. You felt as if you might pass out, but you kept yourself together and thought for a moment. You never really were one for sexual encounters, even with people you were close to, however…. These two were touching a certain nerve within you. Something about them made you want to comply, and you very slowly nodded before quietly squeaking out a couple of words. “U-um… I-I…g-guess s-so…” Micah let out a very sly and mischievous laugh as he leaned closer to your other ear. “Donchu worry girl~ We promise yer gonna love every minute of it~” Arthur straightened up and moved to shut the door before scooping you up and laying you on the bed. “I won’t let'im get too outta hand, Darlin’. Promise~” “Oh hush, Morgan.” Micah huffed as he picked up his hat and placed it on your head. He started to unbutton his shirt slowly now, Arthur doing the same. Even though Micah was a bit more on the rough side, Arthur made sure to keep him in check as the night wore on. You absolutely enjoyed yourself, even though you never would have pictured yourself between two men… Let alone being this close to just one.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Part 14

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 14: Something wanders into Alfie and Ella’s life. 

          Ella had never seen the sunset on a beach. She could recall a few times where she’d gone to the beach as a child. Most likely when they were traveling by caravan or maybe even the rare holiday. Somewhere off the coast of wales. But she remembered spending more time around ponds and lakes. The ocean was something so different.

           Living in a city of so many people, it was hard to get a good perspective on one’s impact. Especially since she was a part of such an influential family and living with a man who practically owned Camden. But looking at the ocean made Ella feel so small. Its absolute power and vast size were humbling, to say the least. She could be out floating among the waves and be completely lost within seconds. Just a little speck.

           And yet she felt like the world was pressing down on her shoulders. Why? Why was she standing, her knees buckling under the weight of all the responsibilities that weren’t her own? The guilt and consequences she didn’t deserve? Why couldn’t she handpick out all the things that were hers and let loose the rest? Cut ties with the burdens that did her no good? The burdens that others weren’t meant to carry.

           She could let them drift off into the ocean, never to be seen again.

           “You look a little lost, love.” Alfie murmured, bringing her back to shore.

           “Oh, I…” Ella blinked a few times and started to regain the feeling of the sand beneath her bare feet. “I was just thinking.”

           “’Bout what?” He wrapped an arm around her waist.

           “Don’t you ever want to stay here sometimes?” She glanced up at him. “Stay somewhere calm and peaceful. Somewhere no one will be able to get to you?”

           “S’pose everyone wants peace at one point or another.”

           Her hand moved to his chest. “But it could last. It could stay like this.”

           He frowned when he heard the desperation in her voice. The yearning for something that he was so unfamiliar with. Peace. “Ella, what were you thinking about?” He asked again. “What’s wrong, love?”

           “I’m just so tired. Being here, I feel like I can actually breathe. I love being in Camden with you but I still feel…lost. Don’t feel like I belong.”

           Alfie felt guilt pressing against his chest. He’d sensed her trouble faintly but hoped that as long as he loved her, he could ease that trouble. “I’m sorry, love if I can-”

           “It’s not a matter of what you can do to help it. Alfie, you’ve given me so much already.” She murmured and drew him closer. Her intention wasn’t to make him feel bad. All he’d done was treat her well and took care of her. “They’re my issues. Point is that being here with you, I’ve gotten some perspective. More than I’ve had in the last few months.

           Alfie’s forehead was creased with worry but he nodded, allowing her to continue.

           “We could be like this-stay like this. Stay here. I mean, what good is London to us, aye? It’s perfect here and we’d be so much happier.” She had effectively convinced herself over the last few hours that they had found paradise. No one would ever be able to find them or break through their wall of serenity. It was foolproof. How could anyone in their right mind ruin their happiness?

           “Love, as much as that sounds fucking amazing, it ain’t realistic, is it? C’mere.” He lowered himself onto the sand and held an arm out for her to join him. She cozied up to him even if he was about to break the bad news. “I’d love to just take all the money I have, right, and fuck off to some remote island with you. But we both know that it’d never work out.” He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’d miss your family.”

           “No-”

           Alfie held up a hand. “’Fore you say that you wouldn’t, think ‘bout it for a mo’. Do you really never want to see them again? I mean, honestly, El, I ain’t stupid.”

           She pouted and wrinkled her nose with a defiant sniff. “Don’t matter.”

           “We can come back here anytime you want, yeah? But you can’t keep running from things you don’t want to fucking see. ‘Cause one of these days they’ll catch up to you.”

           A chill went down Ella’s spine. They had already caught up to her. She was still caught in the middle between the man she loved and the family she vowed to be loyal to. “Okay.” She whispered.

           “Didn’t mean to make you upset-”

           She forced a smile and stood up. “You didn’t. Just tired s’all.”

           “Right, well.” He dug his hand into the sand to stand up with a grunt. “We can head off to bed. Always sleep better here, them waves are like a mother’s lullaby.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

           Ella disagreed. She didn’t sleep at all. Stared up at the ceiling with her hands over her heart. Sounds of the waves, Alfie’s breathing, and Cyril’s snoring were calming. But she couldn’t stop her thoughts from whipping up a storm. Turning her round and round until she was dizzy with anxiety and hurt.

           Soon, it became too much to stay lying in bed. So she did her best to quietly get out of bed and sneak past Cyril on the floor. She walked slowly through the cottage, her arms wrapped around her. The stars were easier to see. There were hardly any clouds in the sky and no pollution to blur the twinkling lights. She watched the sky for a little in the sitting room. The glass wall giving her a good view of where the inky expanse dipped into the ocean. The moon reflecting off every wave.

           Still uneasy, Ella continued her pacing. Passing by the bookshelf of picture frames and into the kitchen. It was a bit quieter on the side facing away from the ocean. In the front room, she could hear crickets outside in the garden. She paused for a moment and started to pick up on a new noise. Soft shuffling in the front lawn.

           Fear perked her senses and she took a step back. It could be any number of people who were willing to follow her to Margate and intrude on the cottage’s peace. Not ruling anyone out, she inched quietly towards the coat rack where her holster was left. She slipped the handgun out and cocked it.

           The noise continued and a soft whining began to move closer to the door. It was squeaky and almost sounded like the whimpers of a newborn. Ella drew back one of the lace curtains that faced the front step. It was too dark to see much but she saw the shadow of something small hobbling around in the lawn. It moved on all fours and she assumed it was a raccoon or fox. But the sounds were unlike anything she’d heard from a woodland critter.

           Almost grateful for the distraction, Ella opened the door. She kept her gun in hand just in case it was some sort of trap. The whimpering paused for a moment and the animal turned to look towards her.

           Ella squinted to try and see what the thing was, moving a bit closer with trepidation. Finally, she came close enough to see that it was nothing to be afraid of.

           Standing in the lawn was a puppy. One so small that its belly was grazing the grass. It whined and approached Ella.

           “What’re you doing, little thing?” She scooped the animal up with one hand. As she did, something wet and sticky touched her skin. It was then that she realized the pup was bleeding.

           Panicked, Ella rushed back into the cottage and turned on a light in the kitchen. Setting her gun aside, she held up the puppy to seek out its wounds. The poor thing was shaking and continued to cry helplessly. There was a gash on top of its head from where the blood had trickled.            

           “Alfie!” She called, not concerned with what hour it was. “Alfie, come quick!”

           The man woke in a disheveled state of alarm. He stumbled out of the bed with Cyril quick at his heels. “What, what?” He found Ella in the kitchen, still half-blind from sleep.

           “It’s bleeding, I dunno what to do!”

           Alfie rubbed his eyes and peered at the little thing in her arms. “Fucking hell, where’d you get that?” He asked.

           “He was out wandering in the yard, I brought him in and…” She held the puppy out to him. “Do something!”

           “Alright, alright, calm down.” He lumbered over and gingerly took the puppy from her hands. After examining the wound, he waved a hand towards one of the cabinets in the kitchen. “Get a towel will ya?” He walked over to the water pump and began carefully washing away the blood.

           Ella retrieved a hand towel and hovered nervously by his side. “Will he be alright?”

           “Yeah, nothing too bad. Already starting to close up. It’s a girl, also.” He informed her as he did his best to keep the squirming puppy still. After successfully rinsing off all the blood, he handed her back to Ella to dry off. Alfie washed his hands and shut off the water. “Must be a stray.”

           Ella wrapped the puppy up like a swaddled infant and held her close. “What breed’s it?”

           “Pitbull.” He answered and scratched his beard. “Sorta have a bad reputation.” With a yawn, he sat down at the kitchen table. “Were used in sport, bred to be vicious.”

           The slate-colored pup hardly looked vicious. She snuggled right up in Ella’s arms and her dark eyes began to slide shut. Exhausted from wandering around in pain all night.

           “Shouldn’t matter what breed they are, should matter who raises them.” She mumbled quietly. “A dog with a mean owner’s bound to be mean too.”

           Alfie watched as she inexplicably came enamored with the furry thing. “You gonna name her?”

           She looked up in surprise. “You mean you want to keep her?”

           He chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t see you ever giving her up. Might s’well name her so we can all go back to sleep.”

           “Oh, I…” Ella thought to herself for a long moment until she finally smiled. “There was a book that Ada used to read me. Silly little thing really. There was a character named Cyril so perhaps we should name her after another one of the children from the book.”

           Alfie looked amused at the prospect and nodded. The idea seemed to delight her so he wouldn’t deny her. “What were the other children named?”

           “Well, there was Hilary and Robert.” She frowned with a puzzled expression. “I can’t remember what the younger sister was named…but the older sister was Anthea. I always loved that name, wanted it to be my own.” Her cheeks went a little red. “But I think it’s perfect.”

           “Anthea?” He stood and gently stroked a hand over the dog, being careful of the injury. “Sounds like a very intriguing name for a mysterious little pup.” He agreed. “What’d you think, Cyril, aye?”

           The mastiff’s tail was wagging with uncertainty but he appeared pleased, albeit a little tired.

           “I suppose that’s a yes, then.” Alfie smiled and kissed Ella’s cheek. “C’mon, love, let’s get to bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

          Alfie offered to go into town the next morning. They’d have to get more puppy chow for Anthea as they’d only brought just enough for Cyril. And the mastiff was certainly not going to share with the little pitbull. Ella offered to go along and the two made their way down the dirt paths to the main road. Alfie holding Cyril’s leash and Ella carrying Anthea like a little babe.

           Alfie knew the town well. He knew some of the folks who lived there year-round but not very well. More often than not, he spent his time there at the cottage and only went to town if he absolutely needed something. But enough people were familiar with him and his reputation. The Jewish gangster from London who liked to take holidays on the shore.

           He was most acquainted with the older couple that owned a shop along the main road. A few years ago they had explained that they were going bankrupt because of the wife’s failing health. Alfie didn’t hesitate in the slightest. He stepped in and saved the store, all while ensuring the woman got proper care from a well-respected doctor. Ever since then, Margaret and Frank Robinson treated Alfie like one of their sons.

           “’Morning Peggy.” Alfie greeted as he walked inside, Cyril by his side. Ella had gone across the street to a boutique with Anthea, lured over by a few dresses in the window.

           “Alfie!” The older woman’s face broke into a smile. “Was wondering when you’d show your face this summer. I hope you haven’t been working too hard.” She scolded.

           “Found a better balance.” He admitted honestly. Ella certainly had given him a better balance. “You and Frank alright?”

           “Just fine, haven’t been coughing as much.” She began tending to a customer at the till. “Doctor in London’s done wonders.”

           “Good to hear, good to hear.” He let her cash out the man, heading back through the aisles.

           “Alfie, my boy!” Frank was stacking cans when he looked up. “I thought I heard your voice. But, eh, my hearing’s going so I thought it was just an illusion.”

           He chuckled and shook the man’s hand. “S’long as you can hear your wife, don’t matter do it?”

           Frank laughed and knelt down to scratch Cyril’s ears. “Hello, Cyril, look healthy, aye? Oh, Alfie,” He glanced up and pointed towards the counter where Margaret was making change for the customer. “Man over there’s lost a pup. Haven’t seen little pitbull ‘round have you? Think he lives by your cottage so it may’ve wandered over to you.”

           A shock went down Alfie’s spine. “I’ll talk to him.” He agreed and returned to the counter.

           The man by the till was just starting to take his bag of groceries from Margaret. He was a squirrely looking man with a thin mustache and shifty eyes. Not much taller than Alfie but thin as a stick.

           “Heard you’ve got a dog missing, mate.” Alfie’s voice was a bit louder than necessary, scaring the man who hadn’t heard him approaching.

           He turned and nodded. “Little pitbull, thirteen weeks I think.” His voice stammered under Alfie’s steely glare. “S’a blue-nose. Got a white paw.”

           “Hm…” Alfie pretended to think to himself, leaning back and forth on his cane. “Might’ve heard some scuffling ‘round my cottage. Anything else ‘bout it? I’ll keep an eye out for it.”          

           “Erm, she’s got bit of an injury on her head.” The man’s eyes averted, jerking to the side to avoid Alfie’s stare.

           “That right?” Alfie’s hand gripped tightly onto Cyril’s leash. He wanted so badly to beat the man into a bloodied pulp. But he wouldn’t bring that sort of chaos into the Robinsons’ store. “What happened?”

           A sour look crossed the man’s face. He clearly didn’t like the question. Maybe because he knew Alfie wouldn’t like the answer. “Does it matter?”

           His jaw clenched. “Nah, mate, guess it don’t. Where’d you live, I’ll bring the pup ‘round if I find her.”

           “Uh, sure…” The man gave Alfie his address, only half a mile away from the cottage.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           After watching the man skitter off, Alfie finished his shopping. Anger coursed through his veins but he did his best to keep it under wraps. He crossed the street to find Ella at the boutique.

           One of the shop girls at the counter looked alarmed when the rough-looking man entered with his massive dog. “Erm…sir, could you leave your dog outside?”

           Alfie didn’t even look at her. “No. El?” He called.

           A curtain covering one of the changing rooms was pushed back. “Are you done already? I’ve only tried on two dresses.” She pouted.

           He stopped in his tracks. She had on a black dress with a fitted beaded bodice and fringe that began mid-thigh and ended by her knees. She looked like a positively sinful angel.

           Ella saw the glint in his eyes and she smiled playfully. “D’you like it?” She turned around a few times to show off.

           “Like it? Love, it’s gorgeous on you.” He replied huskily. A hand dragged over his mouth. “You want it?”

           She bit her lip and nodded shyly.

           “Right, any others you’d like?”

           “Yes, but you can’t see anything else. They’re a surprise.” She warned and grabbed her purse out of the changing room. “Here, Anthea’s asleep.”

           Puzzled, Alfie took her purse and found the pit bull pup contently curled up inside, her head lolled out the side as if it were meant to be a dog bed. Simply put, Alfie would buy the entire store for Ella if she’d like. He’d get her a million puppies. And he’d get justice for her puppy. She was much more than a pretty face to him. She deserved respect and peace. And Alfie was sure she’d sleep much better knowing the son of a bitch who hurt Anthea suffered some consequences.

           While Ella changed back into her regular clothes, Alfie paid for her purchases. He didn’t even bat an eye at the price. She returned and took her purse and Anthea back. “What time’s it?” She linked arms with Alfie, pressing her cheek into his arm.

           “Um…” He checked his pocket watch. “Half-past noon.”

           “Are you all set here? I need to make a phone call soon.” The joy in her blue eyes faded.

           “Sure, love. We can head back home.”

           It was home. They had their home in Camden but Margate had already become a home to them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           “Do I hafta wait for my surprise?” Alfie gently set Anthea down on the kitchen floor, offering her a bowl of food. Cyril sulked behind him, even though he’d had his share.

           “Yes, until tonight.” Ella went into the hall, closing the kitchen door behind her to give herself some privacy.

           “Testing me patience,” Alfie mumbled to the dogs.

           Ella took a deep breath and reached for the receiver. Her hand trembled slightly but she pushed through and dialed the number. The brief wait for an answer was agonizing.

           “Shelby.” Tommy’s deep voice had become so foreign after her months away from him.

           “Tom, it’s Ella.”

           There was a pause as he struggled with the shock of her call. “El? Where are you calling from?” He thought the operator had said Margate but he was nearly certain Ella was in London with Alfie. Last he heard, they’d been living together ever since her release from prison.

           “It doesn’t matter.” She swallowed and curled the phone wire around her hand. “I need to speak to you.”

           “No one’s heard from you in quite some time.”

           “That’s not what I’m calling about.”

           “What’re you calling about then?”

           Ella’s stomach turned with anxiety. She was afraid of what she might hear. But the prospect of failing to get the information was enough to get her to press on. “I need to know why you had the family arrested.”

           There was a soft sigh from the other end of the line. “You’ve all been released, what’s it matter anymore?”

           His disregard made her grimace. “Because it was all very traumatic for us and I want to know what grand plan you had.” She demanded. “I think I’ve a right to know why you were so keen on sacrificing us. What’d you get in return?”

           “That’s information for those involved in the Shelby Company Limited.”

           “Don’t even start that fucking nonsense with me!” She snapped. “I’ve had enough with your behavior. Either you tell me or I swear to God…”

           “You’re threatening me now, El? Alfie rubbed off on you, aye?” Tommy’s voice filled with venom.

           Hearing him speak Alfie’s name with such distaste was enough to make Ella want to scream at him until the sun went down. Her body quivered with anger as she tried to hold back. “Thomas, tell me. I will not lose the man I love because of your insolence.”

           Tommy was confused. “What do you mean?” He asked.

           The image of Inspector Blackwell’s smug smile crossed her mind. If she needed to make amends with Tommy even for a second to save Alfie from arrest, then she would do it. “A detective from Scotland Yard has been threatening me.”

           Her brother pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ian Blackwell.”

           “He approached you as well?”

           “Yes. And you are not to tell him anything.” Tommy warned in a low voice. “I’m handling it.”

           As much as it angered her, hearing him say that was a little relieving. At least her brother could handle himself with police. “He’s going to arrest Alfie.”

           “And why should I stop him?”

           Ella nearly bit right through her tongue with fury. “Because I’ll never fucking look at you, speak to you, mention your name, or think of you.” She snarled. “For once in your life, stop thinking about yourself and think about the family you supposedly love.”

           Tommy was quiet for a while. “He won’t arrest Alfie.” He replied firmly. “But you need to call me if Blackwell ever approaches you again.”

           The fear on Ella’s shoulder released in an instant. “Thank you.” She said quietly.

           Her brother hummed an acknowledgment. “You’re alright, then?”

           Ella unwound the phone cord from her hand. She was eager to end the conversation and return to paradise with Alfie, Cyril, and Anthea. “Do you even care?”

           “Yes.”

           She frowned and lowered the receiver away from her ear. She held it over the hook, only inches from hanging up on him. It was reasonable. She could just end the call. End the discussion. End the line of contact between her and Tommy. But then she would just be using him the way he used her and the rest of the family. She always thought she was better than that.

           Slowly, she lifted the receiver back to her ear. “I’m fine, Tom. Better than I’ve been for a long time.”

           “That’s good.” Tommy cleared his throat. “That’s good to hear.”

           “And you?”

           “Busy.” The word was clipped and obviously there was much more behind the response. It was a clear indicator that things were not okay.

           “Alright-”

           “I’ve got to head off to a meeting, El. Thank you for telling me about the inspector.” He sounded as if he were ending a call with a business associate.

           “Okay.” She whispered and allowed him to end the call. She returned the receiver onto the hook and stood stock still in the hallway. Alfie was safe. Tommy had actually done her a favor. And now she could return to her life with her love without having any debts.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​

Tag list: @deaflikehawkeye​ @octaviareina​ @mylovelykelsifer​

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[that-wimpy-cowboy-doll]

5, 4, + 3 for the prompt meme. Taserbones or Wintershock 😁

CEO AU, meet messy, “I don’t even think I want to know.”

“Jesus Harold Mahogany Christ!”

Brock stooped to help up the woman he supposed he’d unceremoniously crashed into, and while the majority of the iced coffee she’d been toting had ended up on her blouse, he dabbed at the spots of it on the floor with the greasy rag on his toolbelt.

“My bad,” he said cheerfully, turning up the charm on the boyish grin that had fooled his ma more often than not when he was a kid.  “Damn, you, uh...really picked a bad day for the white button-down, huh?”

Shockingly, the woman didn’t seem to think he was very funny.  “Are you - my fucking - do you not watch where you’re goddamn going?” she snapped.

He would’ve been annoyed with her entitlement, had she not been close to vibrating with irritation...and as damn cute as she was when she got angry.  Somethin’ about the tight little pinch of her mouth and the flush in her cheeks...definitely not what he shoulda been focusing on in that moment.

“Hey,” he said, straightening up and fumbling through one pocket to see if he had any clean rags.  “I’m not the one prancin’ around without a lid on my drinks.”  When his fingers found something that wasn’t soaked in grease, he offered it to her, not exactly chomping at the bit to start dabbing at her shirt and earn himself a lawsuit.

She took it, the deep frown between her eyebrows only softening marginally before pressing the towel to her wet shirt.  “What’re you in such a hurry for anyway?”

“The bathroom above the boss’s office flooded last night.  I’m tryin’ to head up to replace the ceiling tiles before she gets in from that fancy vacation she was on.”

The woman paused her dabbing, her crystal blue eyes going wide as saucers.  “Come again?”

Brock chuckled.  “Literal shitstorm above the boss’s office.  No big damage to her place, but it smells like ass and needs new tiles.  Miss Lewis is s’posed to get in from her vacation…”  He glanced down at his watch - the digital numbers read 10:06.  “...in about four hours.  I’m plannin’ on fixin’ it before she even catches a whiff.”

She stared at him a moment, her hands hanging limply at her sides as though she’d forgotten completely that he’d just mowed into her.  “How did it - you know what, I don’t even think I want to know.”  She sighed, and resumed cleaning herself up with the sagging resolve of a woman defeated.  “This is what I get for coming back to work early.  I’m going home, tossing this stupid thing in the wash, and taking a nap until my meeting this afternoon.”

“Ma’am?” he asked, not sure why he’d lingered so long when it seemed she was grumbling more to  herself than him now.  Not that Brock ever knew when to give up a fight in the first place.

She looked him in the eye this time, all the fire faded from her eyes as her teeth worked over her lower lip.  “Jesus, I’m sorry for being such a dick.  Once you’re done with my office, I’ve probably got a ‘being in the wrong place at the wrong time’ bonus for you for dealing with my shit - literal and figurative.”

Brock frowned, the realization prickling at the back of his head.  “You’re the boss?  Darcy Lewis?”

Darcy picked her empty cup off the floor.  “Unfortunately.  Thanks for saving me from the poop, I guess.  I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Brock watched her turn on her heel and head back toward the executive parking lot, her head bowed as she fished for her keys in her purse and dropped her coffee cup into the trash.

When Darcy returned a few hours later, her office decidedly did not smell of shit, the tiles above her head as gray and pristine as if nothing had ever happened, and a sealed glass bottle of Starbucks Frappuccino from the cafeteria sat squarely in the middle of her desk with a sticky note on the lid.

Remember to close this one before you walk around the lobby with it ;-) - Brock

[flightofaqrow]

informant

qrow + Victor Alabaster ( @casketdweller​ )

“I’ve already been requested to track down a specific Faunus who stings, if you catch my meaning, and a little bird had told me you knew him. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask more about him.”

“…alrigh’, fine. i’ll bite,” qrow relents with greater gravity than the other gives someone who really shouldn’t be underestimated, “but i’d like t’know who this client’a yours ’s first. ‘sides someone cruel enough t’send ya anywhere near tha’ crazy joker.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Is this even going anywhere, or are we done here?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

clever fox must have thought a drunk man made for an easy target. or maybe he knows exactly who qrow branwen is, given the annoying air worn like a coat that he seems to know everything.

but not everything, or there’d be no reason for the subtle hounding. may not even know anything that really matters. qrow scoffs, slides his glass back and forth, slippery with condensation across the counter, and crimson eyes watch amber liquid wash around while ice cubes clink. there are things he knows, privy to only a carefully selected handful, and no amount of alcohol will have them slurring out.

truths too shady for even the slipperiest of scoundrels; better to cut things off at the head of what trail this conversation leads to. better to stay not knowing. go about petty little life as the other knows it, and leave qrow to live his. ( for whatever one could call wallowing in loss and misery and running from all his fears and own family to be living. )

different questions might produce different results, an exchange of different facts that don’t go down that rabbit hole, if still interested.

but qrow’s not the one to take first strike at this deal, and won’t be the one to carry it.

burns away bitter memories with a wash down of something even more bitter, then takes a breath.

“well,” he answers rough, and only spares a side glance to sharp corners of his eyes, “it cer’ainly seems like yer done, at any rate.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Easy target or maybe a potential client?

Victor hadn’t been entirely sure, but the fox Faunus had a delivery for him at either rate. But, given how their ‘transaction’ was going, he was getting less and less willing to pass it off. Especially given how the man dodged his inquiries and comments as if they didn’t exist. Hmph, humans.

Always thinking they were better or some such.

“I was feeling charitable.” He commented, picking up his own glass and studying how the leftover liquor left it with an amber colour. “I’ve already been requested to track down a specific Faunus who stings, if you catch my meaning, and a little bird had told me you knew him. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask more about him.” Shame, shame. Victor supposed he’d mention it off hand. “Said client even said they’d have information to pass along, but seeing as you’ve made it clear that you’re not interested; then I suppose after this drink I’ll carry on my way.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

charitable, he says. even as everything else talks about the job. but can’t say he doesn’t catch qrow’s full attention with that little tidbit. head turns in full to face him with opened eyes, pointed edges moving further out on the lines of his cheeks with far more seriousness.

“…alrigh’, fine. i’ll bite,” he relents with greater gravity than the other gives someone who really shouldn’t be underestimated.

finally gets to the point, but treats it like a game in patronizing words and tone, but maybe that’s just how this guy talks. though, the hurt’s already been done because qrow made that mistake once already; played around too much in their fight, not knowing just what that faunus and that stinger could do. a score to settle, but on another day - once he dared to show his cartoon face again, or once haven is officially safe.

this conversation would have been better to have earlier in the night, but ideal doesn’t exist in qrow’s world. another mouthful swallows and follows with sigh, “but i’d like t’know who this client’a yours ’s first. ‘sides someone cruel enough t’send ya anywhere near tha’ crazy joker.”

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“Mm, wasn’t anyone cruel or anythin’. A friend of a friend requested a favour. I’m only doing this because it’s so hard to get anywhere for the moment.” Long nails clink against the glass as the fox Faunus rolled it against the counter. “Men of iron are hard to find, but so are the kind hearts of those in green. Don’t you agree?” Cryptic enough, though Victor figured that the other Huntsman was smart enough to pick up the cues.

“I’m only here for the night,” A burner Scroll was placed by Qrow’s elbow. “That the information I’m supposed to hand over. Didn’t peek, scout’s honour.” He wasn’t a scout, but it didn’t matter now did it?

“So how about you tell me a pretty story, and we can part ways as if nothing happened?”

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gods, it’s like trying to have a conversation with Raven, and if qrow’s addled brain is reading the situation right, that’s one of the few people in his life left unmentioned. no idea who this man is, and yet the fox knows an uncomfortable amount of intel on himself.

he orders another round for them both. a show of good faith, a sign to stick around. …and a way to cope with yet another example of how life never did like to let him have the upperhand.

otherwise silent aside from an exasperated breath, and only in sliding aside an empty glass does qrow snatch the scroll up and stick it in his pants pocket to look at later.

later, once the screen wouldn’t be spinning from swimming vision.

a lean in closer lets on to the trust bought less by the other’s word, and more by association. qrow doesn’t have to like the guy to work with him under Oz. temporary contract or no.

“…wel’then. i c’n tell you a lil’ somethin’ about a tail. what part y’need to know?”

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He watched the drunk, sorrow, Qrow snatch up the burner scroll and tuck it away in a pocket. Hm, not entirely wasted then. Fascinating. Victor had, of course, heard of the infamous Branwen twins - who hadn’t? - and of their exploits, but nothing too concise. He was glad, at least, to have tempered his expectations.

What a let down.

Victor’s own tail twitched at his question, humming in contemplation as he took hold of the glass. A study of it, partially out of caution, partially due to contemplation. “Something for the client, I s’pose. They’re curious if you’ve heard anything regarding one of those fables.”

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qrow lets a lot of people down.

and that’s fine when he only has to answer to one. results matter more than other people’s opinions. the other man can give him piteous looks all night, and it’ll only make qrow like him less.

give him more of a reason to drink.

one less friend, and one more failure to forget. but the bartender trips on his way back and that next round ends up all over floor. the cost of qrow’s patronage might just outweigh the revenue.

he sighs, and sits back. still unsure of whether this guy talks in code because he doesn’t know what it really means, has to, or is just trying to be obnoxious. fable huh? there’s plenty of those, but qrow has a suspicion. and that at least takes them off the topic of Tyrian, “no’yet. bu’ we’re gettin’ close. tha’stinger set us back a’ways. …an’ another lil’bird iss’ill keepin’ ‘er secr’ts.”

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Chartreuse green eyes closed at Qrow’s words. So the assassin caused a set back, and one of the birds was keeping her secrets still. Well, in a way he didn’t have to really hunt her down, since the goal had been to find this one, not the other. However, Victor wondered if it’d be worth the detour…

                   … Maybe, not.

“I see. Well, in that case I’ve done all I can then.” The informant said, picking up the glass and taking the tiniest of sips from it. “I’ll be out of your feathers in a bit. I’d like to linger just a bit longer before I continue on. I’m sure you understand.” A smile was flashed to the Huntsman, and Victor turned his attention back to the drink.

“Unless you have anymore stories I might be interested in relaying…?”

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well, while they’re on the topic. while qrow’s already spilled.

fingerpads tap slow enough not to make any sound along the counter in the absence of a glass to hold, an emptiness within and without, and nothing delivered yet to continue to try filling it, and maybe qrow prattles in the space left. or because he’s not used to people lingering.

nor used to knowing his secrets before he says them. this clever fox really must have been trusted by Oz.

qrow doesn’t smile back, but he doesn’t glare anymore either.

he gruffs, “sure, wh’not. …think th’lion’s lost’is roar, an i’m startin’ t’think some pieces fr’m the board in this place’re missin’.”

he brings his other arm up, hands resting softly atop each other in front of him, while his gaze sinks to stare at them, “anyway, wha’s y’r name?”

hopefully that wasn’t a riddle or secret.

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Noted, noted, noted. Missing people and a cowardly lion, sounded like it’d been plucked from a faerietale. Heh. “Name’s Victor. Alabaster. S’pose that’s a freebie I can give.” The fox Faunus didn’t see the harm in it, figuring they may be in steady-ish contact. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He didn’t seem the type to like people lingering, and Victor didn’t blame him.

Lingering people always were the ones to keep an eye on.

Glass sat down, drink barely three quarters full. He’d lost his taste, and the bartender was looking at him in a way that told Victor he’d best consider an alternative place to hover. He flashed a grin at Qrow, “Should you need to pass anything else along, I’ll be in the area for a couple of days.” Couldn’t promise to be easy to find, though.

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“yeah, okay,” qrow mutters like it matters. he’ll remember the name like he remembers most of his confidants, but this one would eventually be gone, too, whether by choice because of his semblance, or by consequence of… his semblance. not worth making friends.

someone having the audacity to grin in the middle after exchanging such somber news makes him lift his glass for a good gulp while the other leaves his behind.

“nice t’meet’ya,” he says it with faded finality - more like a farewell than the opener of a relationship; doesn’t even look up until dull red eyes lift to watch the other leave.

Then goes right back to his drink.