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kalevalakryze · 1 year

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Giggledust

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Ahsoka Series Pairings: Sabine Wren/Shin Hati, Sabine Wren & Ahsoka Tano & Ezra Bridger & Shin Hati & Hera Syndulla & Jacen Syndulla Characters: Sabine Wren, Shin Hati, Ahsoka Tano, Ezra Bridger, Hera Syndulla, Jacen Syndulla, Chopper Warnings: Non-Consensual Drug Use, NSFW themes (Non-explicit), Ideology of Death, Addiction, Child Trafficking Notes: For Whumptober Day 6, Alternative Prompt, Prompt: Drugging (Alternate Prompt) Word Count: 2,970 AO3 Link: Here!

“I guess there’s a rumor about some kind of ‘First Order’ trying to rise from the ashes of the Empire,” Sabine explained as Shin, Ezra, and herself made their way through the streets of Mon Gazza’s underworld, past old pod-racing tracks and through overcrowded markets.

“I thought this was a New Republic allied world?” Ezra butted in, tripping over a Gungan’s outstretched foot as he caught up to Sabine and the silent wolf at her side.

Shin only turned to raise an eyebrow at the Jedi as he finally caught up, walking a beat behind Sabine, level with Shin. “Right…” Scratching the back of his neck, Ezra immediately perked up upon seeing one of the vendor’s stalls. “Hey, maybe it’ll be best to split up? Meet back in half an hour if no one finds the contact?”

Both Shin and Sabine shared a look at the suggestion, though Sabine pinching the bridge of her nose sealed the deal. “Just don’t forget the-” He was gone before she could finish speaking.

Sharing one last look with Sabine, Shin brushed off down a seemingly random alley, leaving the Mandalorian with her comms, and a well overused callsign.

Half an hour passed and she hadn’t had any luck, on her way back to the rendezvous, however, she managed to get a hit. The man was covered up well enough that she couldn’t make out any identifiers, but the twisting in her gut told her this stranger was something. “Hey, It’s a long way to Hosnian,”

Sabine wanted to sigh in relief at the curt nod of their head, watching as his hand disappeared into his robes; presumably for the data-tape, though she was met with a face full of powder. It was an absurd amount, finding its way into her system in her first breath, falling into the cracks of her armor and sticking to her suit. “Here! They’re here! The Smuggler!” He barked out, calling for New Republic security, who despite never patrolling these sections, just so happened to have a full squad standing by as Sabine was framed.

“Karabast,” She’d know the feeling of giggledust in her veins any day, had spent a good deal of time working with Ketsu handling all kinds of spice, under the guise of ‘building an immunity’. This was at a concentration and abundance that the two Mandalorians had never even had in one place at the same time.

The world around her came into such a razor sharp focus, she felt as if the world around her was pixelating. “Stop it right there!” A voice shouted, bringing a muffled giggle from the Mandalorian as he approached.

“What am I holding?” Her hands squeezed into fists, lucidity failing her as the drug fast-tracked into her system. A stun shot moved towards her, seemingly in slow motion, allowing her to jump out of the way and bring it to hit a civilian. “Oh! Stormtrooper Academy, huh?”

Scrambling to get up, The Mandalorian took off, tripping and stumbling, yet still managing to keep several paces ahead. “Ah fuck fuck fuck!” Sabine breathed, brushing past people as she ran, unrestrained laughter bringing a wheeze to her breathing as her lungs constricted.

An invisible force yanked the Mandalorian from the side street, a tall, lithe body trapping her between the bricks as the stranger’s hand came to press into her mouth, muffling the giggling as Republic troopers rushed past.

In the dim lighting, Sabine could make out the dyed purple of Shin’s Padawan braid, and the little glint of beskar around their throat. “Kurs’kaded!” Her voice was muffled, until she dragged the flat of her tongue across the palm of their glove, earning her a crinkled nose and a grossed out expression.

“You don’t know where that’s been,” Shin deadpanned, wiping Sabine’s slobber off onto her cape. “You were not at the rendezvous, and then we watch you run from the Republic, what’s going on?” Pressing her hands into Shin’s hips and tugging the woman closer, Sabine busied herself with trailing her lips along their throat.

“Dunno,” She hummed against their pulse point, delighting in the way they shivered as she pressed a toothy smile against warm skin. “But there’s better stuff that could be going on,” Shin’s hand pressed into Sabine’s chest the moment the Mandalorian’s thigh slotted between their legs.

Silver met gold in a moment of terse understanding. “You were drugged,” She stated, wiping the sandy looking powder from the paint on Sabine’s armor.

“Fulcrum, Spectre five is compromised,”

“Copy Wolf One, moving in for pickup. Did you find the contact?”

“Bridger is engaging now,”

Comms went silent as Sabine blinked dreamily up at Shin, lips pulling at the corners as she fisted her hands in their tunic against their hips. “Hey, Shin, psst-” She whispered, struggling to lean up with the hand on her chest. “I know what they meant when they told me to hold on,” This time, the pull of Shin’s hips was halted with the other woman’s tensing form, pressing her back into the wall harder to stop herself from giving in, and turning Sabine’s smile into a dramatic pout.

“Shin,” A whine halted only by giggles at the sound of her own voice, somewhere in the haze that her brain had quickly turned into, Sabine had enough humility to cringe at herself. “C’mon, ‘Soka’s gonna be a minute, and you look really good-” Their brows furrowed as the Mandalorian slid back against the wall, dropping her body to her knees until her nose was brushing against the taller woman’s knee. “I’d never ask you for anything again, swear on my grave- oh! Swear on the graves of my buire!” The smile slipped from her lips as the arousal and giddiness were swept away as the pendulum swung.

“Though, they didn’t really get graves- They were probably hett’la , into nothing.” Tears stung at her eyes as the blonde gaped downwards at her, trying to process their best course of action with the wild change to Sabine’s mood. “Poof,” Her voice cracked, hands grasping at the blonde’s shins to ground herself to them.

“They died with family though- that’s good.” A sniffle as the fabric of Shin’s pants became wet with heavy tears. “The whole family, except me; that’s fine; I didn’t want to die with them anyways. They didn’t want me for so long- why should I?”

“Ahsoka,” Shin’s voice was equal parts relieved and strained as a figure joined them in the alley. “She’s been hit with spice- a decent amount of it,” Their nose crinkled again as Ahsoka joined Sabine’s position, kneeling at Shin’s feet, putting herself close enough to be in Sabine’s line of sight the next time watery golden eyes blinked open.

“Sabine, can I pick you up?” Ahsoka’s voice was gentle, reaching out her hand to the woman’s shoulder at the same time as their force bond.

“Yes please,” She whispered, though she refused to release her hold on the backs of Shin’s calves, still pressing her face into their knee as Ahsoka tried to work her hands away.

“Ad’ika,” Ahsoka soothed, reaching to brush her fingers through sweat and spice infused hair, nose crinkling as she caught the smell of the drug in the air. That wasn’t going to be fun for her immune system to fight through later. “I need you to let go, Padawan,”

With continued coaxing, Sabine’s hands were finally guided from Shin’s legs to Ahsoka’s neck, allowing the Mandalorian to wrap around her just as tight as she wanted. “Shin, clear us a path that won’t trigger the patrols,” Turning her head to talk into the comm on her wrist, she addressed Ezra. “Spectre six, meet us back home, do not bring the package straight home, I need you to make a pit stop,”

“Fulcrum, I think I read your mind already,” Ezra chimed in on the other end, a smile clear in his voice. “I’ll meet everyone back home, can’t wait!”

The push back to the ship was long and treacherous, with Sabine’s moods switching from laughing at the happenings around them, to hiding her face in Ahsoka’s neck and crying, to seeming perfectly normal the next moment, enough that she would often voice how much she hated this, until seeing something that made her laugh all over again.

Inside the T-6, Ahsoka managed to set Sabine on a risen bench, helping the Mandalorian as she fell back. “ ‘soka? My head hurts,”

“I bet, what did you take?” Ahsoka started pulling the woman’s armor away, holding out her hand to stop Shin when the wolf moved to help. “If she got on you, you need to change, you’ll be more sensitive to it,” They looked like they wanted to argue, looking down at the tunic, covered in the dusty brown substance. Nodding once, Shin slipped away to the crew quarters.

“Huyang, we’ll need to clean everything, they’ll all be at risk if this gets in the vents.”

“Of course, Lady Tano. I’ll get filter upgrades on the to-do list as well.”

“Thank you,” Ahsoka sighed, working on setting Sabine’s armor to the side, nose crinkling from the acidic smell of the spice. “That’s been cut,”

“Mmhmm,” Sabine grumbled below her, trying to shove her arm out of her flight suit without unzipping it. “Giggledust, can’t recognize the other one,” A harsh bark of laughter as the Mandalorian shook her head. “Should be able to, can’t. Hilarious,”

“Let’s go down the list, then.” Ahsoka helped ease the top of her flight suit off, stopping the spice from falling onto her underclothes. “Grab my shoulders,” Ahsoka helped Sabine stand, keeping the younger woman from spreading more of the spice as the human’s fingers dug into her shoulders. “Ryll?”

“Master, your shoulders are so-” Sabine snorted, almost doubling over were it not for the Togruta helping her out of her contaminated flight suit. A bout of giggles had the woman covering her mouth and turning her head, holding on to Ahsoka to keep herself stable. “No, I don’t think it’s any Prime Kessel strains; can’t mix them, or… I’d probably be dead.” Laughter died as quickly as it started.

“Fuck, Ahsoka,” The hands on her shoulders trembled until Ahsoka was rising back to her full height, steadying Sabine through another swing. “I hate this,”

“It’s glitterstim,” Shin called out as she exited the crew quarters, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. “That is why she’s swinging so wildly, though there is another I cannot figure out…” The blonde moved to settle onto the other end of the bench, brows pulled in concentration.

“Felucian?” Ahsoka suggested, helping Sabine back into the bench.

“No, I remember everything… too much,” Her elbows fell heavily onto the table, hands weaving into her hair to pull on short violet strands. “Spice is expensive and risky, why would they waste it on me if it wasn’t going to kill me?”

“If they got you addicted, then you, a key player, would be out of the game; they’re hoping you’ll try to chase this to your own demise.” Shin’s shoulders shrugged nonchalantly as Sabine groaned.

“Great, this is great,” Laughter, once again bubbled past her lips like glass in a hydraulic press. Ahsoka settled herself on Sabine’s other side, guiding the Mandalorian’s fingers from her hair before she could pull on it. “Fuck!” She shouted again, knuckles white as she grabbed Ahsoka’s hands with her own, squeezing as she tried to fight her way through the next swing as it burned in her veins.

“Engspice, fuck, fuck, and hey, guess what? Fuck!” Sabine’s legs bounced as she forced herself to focus through the painful mix of sharp and blurry of her distorted vision. “Engspice fucks a person, they get hooked until they die, and I can’t… Ahsoka if that’s what kills me? I’ll never see them again,”

Shin’s hand rested on the center of her back as her Moon swung, frowning at the sweat dampening her undershirt. “We won’t let that happen, me’suum’ika” “How many people get over a spice addiction on the other side?” Sabine spat hotly, resting her forehead against the table to avoid looking at either force-sensitive on her side.

Shin’s muscles tensed unexpectedly as the woman shrugged her shoulders. “Unimportant,” their legs crossed under the table, fingertips pressing into Sabine’s back before smoothing her undershirt out again. “But you aren’t alone in it,”

“First, however, we need to remove all traces from the ship, and get you sobered up,” Ahsoka chimed in, gently squeezing Sabine’s hands before letting go and rising to grab the Mandalorian’s armor.

Dramatically, Sabine let herself fall into Shin’s side, pushing her way up and under their arm to be in their personal space as Ahsoka and Huyang worked on getting the contaminated clothing out of the ship and cleaned up.

“What do you remember about the person who dusted you?” Shin questioned, begrudgingly allowing Sabine to press up into her side as another bout of unrestrained giggles passed tired lips.

“Kinda like you, when we first met; just a lot less pretty.” Sabine’s nose crinkled for a moment as she pressed the side of her feverish face into Shin’s shirt. “You smelled a lot better too, once I got past the burning insides thing-”

“What did he smell like?” Shin’s fingers brushed through the hair on the back of Sabine’s head, nails scratching against her scalp soothingly as the Mandalorian’s hand moved under the table to rest on the blonde’s thigh, the other supporting her head with an elbow on the table.

“Jealous?” The tensing of their leg under her hand had the purple haired woman laughing, massaging away the flexing muscle as she examined the new fabric beneath her fingers. “Your new pants are nice; would be nice on the ground though,”

“Sabine,” There was a warning in their tone, a sharp eyebrow raised as the hand carding through her hair tightened, pulling lightly on short hair and stopping only when the Mandalorian offered a lopsided smile in response. “It may help identify him, you know.”

“Of course I know that; there’s just some more important things on my mind, like me, you, my bevagol; no one else is in the ship right now,” Her hand pressed up higher along Shin’s leg, The hand in her hair tightened again, guiding Sabine’s head back enough until she was forced to let out a soft gasp, following the direction of the pull on her head.

“You will tell me what you recognized about this person’s smell first, then we will discuss.”

Groaning, Sabine shook her head free from Shin’s claws, slumping into their side like an angry toddler as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They smelled like sweat, like they really needed a shower. Like the sewers on Coruscant, that specific kinda acid they’ve got down there, but dusty enough that he could have come from one of the spice mines on planet? Or was that just the dust in my nose-”

“Unless the Imperials are employing the miners, now that the New Republic has control over the trade again.”

“The Imperial’s can’t employ anyone, the First Order can.” Sabine snorted, shaking her head as she forced her way into Shin’s lap, looping her arms around their neck and waiting until the blonde shifted to hold her Mandalorian close.

“Sabine-” Shin grumbled unenthusiastically, arms wrapping under Sabine’s thighs and around her back as she tucked herself into them. “Yes, The First Order,” A scoff as her chin came to rest upon the crown of Sabine’s head. “Though I would put it closer to an outsider, Imperials and the like have a distinct odor, no matter how long they’ve been in the system, if you did not pick up on it, it was either someone disconnected from the mission, or a mercenary.”

“And what does my ver’verd’ika think about it?” Sabine pressed her face into their throat, smiling as she felt more than heard the heavy swallow from her teeth so close to the pulse point.

“They’ll be connected somehow; The Empire cracked down on the spice trade to control it, and if your mark was willing to waste such an extensive amount to hit you with, they’ll have more, or the promise of another shipment.”

Ezra’s head poked into the ship as the sluggish gears in Sabine’s head started to move. “Hey guys? We’ve got a hit, black robes, vial of dust; they picked him up trying to nab a kid; Ahsoka’s running damage control, but Shin, we should keep an ear out in case he slips Republic custody,”

Sabine snorted as Ezra stepped into the ship the rest of the way, pulling off the cloak from around his shoulders as he dropped into the seat Sabine had once occupied, allowing the Mandalorian to push her legs out across his lap. “Aaand ‘soka thought you’d be hungry,” From the bag strapped to his leg, the Jedi retrieved three neatly wrapped crupa breast sandwiches. “Close to not being like, safe; but we’ve had worse,”

“Damn right,” Sabine grumbled, snatching a wrapped parcel from the table. As the Mandalorian and Jedi dug in, Shin reached out in the force, feeling for Ahsoka and any update she could get on the mission status.

The gray apprentice’s eyes opened at the tap of bread and meat against her lips. “I have a bad feeling about this,” they managed, before Sabine was urging them to take a bite.

“It’s not that expired, Kurs’kaded,”

Shin only hummed their response, there was no use in clarifying; Ahsoka would confirm for them if this new ‘First Order’ was dabbling on their attempts of forced child enlistment into their hidden forces; They’d have to trust that whatever was brewing, the force would see them through it.

Translations: Kurs'kaded - Wolf Me'suum'ika - Moon Bevagol - Dick

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hyliascommonwealth · 2 years

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Viri in an ugly christmas sweater I dont know why but I just think it'd look very cute hehe

"I only pick the finest Niche Ugly sweaters! It used to light up, but the battery died.. but uh. I love it!"

"This is definitely the best part of the Winter season! whatever America has going on with these God awful designs is after my heart!"

"Though I always prefer to wear Sweaters without Real Pants."

#viri #hws oc #zelda oc #oc #crossover oc #suggestive under the cut #nonexplicit

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squarebracketsmileyface · 3 days

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The gender exploration fic officially has a name now :D

It's gonna be "My Girl, My Girl, My Girl (You Will Be)" because Tim's Girl, Jay Will/could Be (eventually, they're working towards it slowly 💀) or just MGx3 (cos MG times 3 lol) for short because that's a bit of a long name and I really can't be bothered to write it out a bunch of times all the time but yay :D

I'm planning out the plot outline and chapters at the moment, which is going vaguely well, tho I'm trying to keep some kinda storyline behind it as well as it just showing what Tim and Jay get up to in their free time through August to December (cough cough their sex life through that time period). Figuring out how to keep the MH side of the story rolling is a bit tricky, because looking at the actual, irl entries, not a lot actually happens in those four months 💀

Like, Tim and Jay fight over that tape and stop working together. Jay tries to attack Tim in his home and gets ziptied. Tim goes to Benedict hall and hoody helps Jay escape. Jay goes to Benedict hall. And then it's entry 80 and Jay's dying.

Like. So little happens across all the entries uploaded, but I don't want to give them much less time and just have it that the entries were uploaded really spaced apart after the events in them happened all at once, because I wanna write a whole bunch of smut for them lol. I gotta give Jam an excuse to not just go straight to Benedict hall pretty much immediately, because like, currently? What's stopping them? Literally nothing. They could go there halfway through August and still be as well prepared for it as they were in actual MH.

They probably did go earlier than the entries were posted in irl MH didn't they lol. But I need them to have those four months to be all happy couple together, I need itttttttttttt. I also need them to have those four months so Tim can learn a bit about IIAB and knock some sense into Jay's dumb little "woe is me I am nothing but the victim" brain and set him on the road to realising that what he did was very not okay even if he genuinely thought he was in the right/doing that Alex wanted him to do even at the sacrifice of his own comfort.

COS THAT'S A THING TOO, so much of Jay's pushiness and all that in IIAB came from a place of him genuinely thinking he was doing something for Alex rather than subjecting him to it.

It feels like such a fine balance to make sure Jay isn't irredeemable. He's not malicious with anything, he's just scared of losing people by not giving them what they want, and scared of not knowing what to do to not lose someone new.

Was it stupid for him to try the choking thing with Tim when the first time he tried it caused the breakdown of his and Alex's fwb relationship? Yes. It was so fucking stupid. But Jay was scared and hey either it was going to be fine, or it'd drive Tim away rather than letting him be the one to leave and Jay was still rather in the mindset of thinking Tim would leave him at some point and he couldn't stand the thought of that. It'd be much less painful if he drove Tim away.

He still kinda thinks that honestly.

Doing that kinda thing to get what he wanted from Alex had worked and been 'fine' every time up until Jay actually put himself in harms way with it. So like, he didn't exactly put two and two together while he was freaking out a bit with Tim.

Also with how it went with Alex that last time, Jay was still vehemently ignoring that he was even somewhat at fault for that fwb relationship ending. Sure he knew he'd done something wrong, but he refused to figure out exactly what and actually think about what that meant for himself. Alex never told him what he did so it was a lot easier to blame Alex and hate him rather than actually look at himself and his actions. It was also easier to think of it more as Amy taking Alex away from him, or poisoning Alex against him than to think that he was actually the reason for Alex finally telling him to fuck off.

No one wants to think they've done that. No one wants to think maybe they pushed for something someone doesn't want to do a little too hard, and really really hurt that person who they care about deeply.

Then there's the whole thing that a lot of what Jay did in uni, he also wasn't super comfy with? He was just so completely convinced it was what Alex wanted because of all their previous interactions. Then he got it so in his head that when Alex said he *didn't* Jay just couldn't wrap his head around it and assumed Alex was making *himself* uncomfy in order to try and cater to Jay's crush on him, and Jay much preferred being uncomfortable himself than making Alex uncomfortable.

And that's what he saw it as. He saw it as him sacrificing his own comfort for Alex's a lot of the time. Like, yes. He enjoyed the rougher sex and all that and they had a lot of times that I haven't actually specifically written where they just had fun with it and enjoyed it a hell of a lot. Most of their uni relationship wasn't bad. Most of their uni relationship was just kinda fine. Not great, neither of them were completely happy with it, but it wasn't the level of toxic that it could be all the time.

#mildly nsft #as in. mentions sex a couple times in nongraphic/nonexplicit ways #marble hornets #marble hornets fanfic #mh sorry its locked #fic/series rated E on ao3 #in case anyone would prefer not to see that

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jankwritten · 8 months

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Jasico Bingo Challenge: Jason Remembers Nico

Sunlight streaks in through the half-open arena roof, bathing their section in warm, mid-afternoon gold. Jason, who has decided to spend their short mid-class break sprawled out in the dirt, basks in the warmth of it.

He’s hot from training, sure, and maybe everyone else is smarter for seeking shelter in the shade of the spectator stands, but something about the afternoon sun is like wrapping up in a blanket. A cozy, tingly kind of warmth.

Maybe, in another life, Jason was a child of Apollo. Wouldn’t that be something? Jason Grace: still a child of the sky, but without all the pressure. It sounds pretty nice, he won’t lie.

As the class murmurs in the background, Jason lets himself relax. Really, truly relax, starting with his shoulders, down his arms, his wrists, his knuckles. He loosens his back on a deep exhale, and down his legs, until he feels as boneless and one-with-the-earth as he possibly can.

A cool shade passes over him. It settles across his face, as if something has come by and blocked out the sun.

He peeks.

“You’ll get a sunburn,” Nico says, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

“And you won’t?” Jason closes his eyes again. Honestly, having Nico’s chilly aura nearby is kind of awesome when the sun’s this perfect. Yin and yang, right? Balance.

Plus, y’know, doesn’t hurt a guy’s pride to have the well documented people-avoider seeking him out. Even if it’s to save him from himself. Score one: Jason.

“My hair will spare my neck, I’m sure.”

Jason smiles. “I like your hair long, you know. I wish I could grow my hair out like that.”

Nico makes a scoffing sound, like he can’t decide if he wants to be amused or offended. Jason peeks again.

“Perfect Praetor Grace wants to look like an unwashed rat?”

“That’s not what I said. I said I wanted to grow my hair long, like yours.”

He watches Nico rolls his eyes and shake his head, but he doesn’t push the point.

Score two: Jason.

A breeze rolls in off the strawberry hills, bringing the scent of grass and summer in to mix with the kicked up dirt and metal of the arena. Jason lulls into it.

Gods, this is peaceful. It probably shouldn’t be, in the middle of teaching a class on self-defense. Jason’s always been a creature of habit, though, and battle was always an ironically safe space for him. Let out his aggression in a semi-healthy way, or something.

Back at Camp Jupiter, they would have him fight in the coliseum every so often, a demonstration of his power, his capability to lead. They called him ruthless. He only ever lost one fight, which earned the victor a massive wave of support when it came time to elect praetors.

It’s a strange memory, but one he smiles at nonetheless. Reyna was nothing short of vicious when they went toe-to-toe; she was the only person who ever fought the way Jason felt like he needed to, like it was sink or swim. Victory or death.

There was one match, after Reyna, after people realized that Jason could be beaten, where he accidentally let too much of that side show. When he threw down his sword and took his opponent to the ground to fight like the wolves did, in the grass with teeth and claws and the rest of the pack swarming around them, snarling their approval.

One face stood out in that crowd, afterward, of people stepping around him, giving him a wide berth while he scrubbed the blood off his mouth. It was a boy, wearing a too-loose purple shirt and a look on his face like he knew exactly what he’d seen. A boy with hair that turned brown in the light and eyes like nothing Jason had ever seen - not quite haunted, but certainly too old for the face they sat within. When the light hit them, it almost seemed to disappear.

Jason never spoke to the boy.

He opens his eyes again. Nico blinks down at him, his head tilted, eyebrows creased and mouth frowning.

Jason grins back. Nico’s eyebrow twitches.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Jason says. A lifetime ago, Jason singled out one boy in a crowd, and despite having forgotten, lost everything, built himself anew—here that boy sits. Shielding him from the sun. Still, somehow, knowing Jason better than he’s ever known himself. “I’m just glad we’re friends.”

“Ugh, gods,” Nico’s face goes pink, and his hands move, covering over his mouth and nose. “You’re worse than Will.”

“I’m doing my job well, then.”

Nico shakes his head, his hair drifting over his shoulders in the process, hanging in the air between them. Jason wants to reach up and touch it, fiddle with the strands like Leo does with Piper’s hair when they’re hanging out in the bunker.

“I should let you burn,” Nico says. He doesn’t move.

The victor in the colosseum would have shored up his walls at that. Closed himself off from the boy with underworld eyes. Heard nothing but the implication that Jason needs someone else to keep him safe, to keep him from getting himself hurt.

Maybe that’s why Nico never spoke to him, back at Camp Jupiter. Maybe that’s why Jason never got up the nerve to approach him. Too scared to let himself trust.

“I put my life in your hands,” Jason teases, crossing his arms behind his head.

The sun is warm on his skin. The chuff of Nico’s disbelieving, snorting laugh is warmer.

#jasicobingochallenge2024 #Jason Remembers Nico #fanfiction #tw for brief nonexplicit mentions of violence #i actually have different headcanons for Jason and Nico knowing one another at camp jupiter #but for the sake of this idea i wanted it to be more like. Jason remembers Nico from back then #but he knows that they wouldn't have gotten along back then. so he's more like. I do remember him and I remember *me*.#and we were so different then - him haunted and me feral - but then we trusted each other in ways we never could've as those people #and now we're here and i'm so so happy we're here. i'm so happy to let the past be the past if this gets to be the present.#WAHOO #jason grace #nico di angelo #jasico #(it's mostly implied but y'know you get the vibes)#pjo #hoo

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staycalmandhugaclone · 4 months

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Ode to Artists Pt 4 (Censored) - Click here for the explicit version

Part (4) of Ode to Artists, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Also, huge thank you to all the support when I was feeling overwhelmed the other day - not gonna say I cried, coughcough, but it really helped

Warnings: Heated kissing, sexual tension, reference to sex, profanity. I went through and remove about 6k words from the explicit version. There's still reference to the fact that it's a romance scene, but nothing explicit or specific.

WC: 2,295

There was no whir of machinery as the lift carried us high into the elaborate building; no shudder from overused gears catching between levels, and that quiet stillness only added to the tension in the air between us. Crosshair leaned silently against the wall, arms wrapped loosely about his chest with his visor trained unmistakably on me. Though I faced forward in some long forgotten bid to appear indifferent, I hadn’t been able to keep my gaze from wandering back to him with that same unspoken need, greedily taking in the elegance of his lithe form.

If there was some chime indicating we’d reached our floor, I didn’t notice it, only realizing we’d arrived from the subtle shift of his helmet toward the entrance seconds before it began to open. The hallway lay empty before us, though we still tread to the room I’d claimed just hours prior in carefully even strides.

My helmet crashed loudly to the smooth tiles underfoot before the door to the room had even closed, and his lips were on mine mere seconds later, his own helmet placed with just a touch more care on the half wall that his hands might be free to lock around my hips, wrenching me harshly against him. I could feel his haughty smirk as he kissed me, could feel that smile grow as I yielded beneath my own desires, fingers already tugging at his bandolier, and I nearly came undone at the deep chuckle the shook his chest. Maker, I was helpless against that flash of earnest glee, the untainted happiness that painted creases in the corners of his eyes.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” I murmured, delighting in the way my words made him pause, “how long I’ve wanted you,” surprise quickly ceding to something too soft for the veil of nonchalance he so often flaunted.

“Pretty sure I had you screaming my name just a few weeks ago.” His taunt left me biting back a shy grin as he finished freeing my arm of that dark plastoid, but I merely shook my head. Without a word, I brought my hands up, fingers trailing along his jaw until my palms rested against his cheeks, and I could only smile as he readily gave in to my gentle plea, head dipping to grant me the pleasure of his kiss once more.

Abandoning his earlier task, his arms curled around my waist, and I eagerly leaned in to his embrace, back arching forward just enough to remember the cursed layers of armor between us.

“How long?” He weaved the words into his kiss, hand dragging up my back to tangle in my hair.

“Mm… been thinking about you… for so long. That damn smirk of yours…” I admitted, and the flush that wanted to creep up my cheeks meant nothing beneath the hint of laughter catching on his breath. “But when you waited for me,” my voice faded into a whisper as I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, “when you held me like this,” again, my hands softly cupped his cheeks, touch delicate as though he might break beneath the slightest misstep, “and asked me to stay…” I didn’t need to explain further, to sow words together in some vain hope of describing just how thoroughly he ruined me that day. The way his grin fell, attention rapt on that long ago moment even as his gaze studied me as though he was memorizing every facet of my eyes left little doubt that he knew exactly what I left unsaid.

Without a word, he pulled me toward him once more, but there was something new in the way he touched me, lips an intoxicating flurry of gentleness and lust, embrace fueled by the same need that had left him near shaking all those months prior, and part of me wanted to ask if he’d been holding himself back for just as long. Had he entertained thoughts of following me into the storage room while the others slept? Contemplated excuses to get me alone with him during missions? Wondered over all the ways we might ignore the endless reasons this wasn’t allowed? One day, I’d ask him, but not that night. That night I didn’t want to think over moments I’d so nearly lost him in the past. I didn’t want to worry over what might happen in the future. That night, I wanted only to treasure every second that he was mine.

When I again reached for his shoulder pauldrons, he didn’t object, instead merely shifted to tug at his own gloves as well. I thrilled at the little bursts of static rippling through my chest, hands eagerly moving to his arms, his torso, tossing each article from him in the thrall of my impatience. He no longer offered any mocking quips, finally granting himself freedom to abandon his façade of haughty aloofness, hands expertly stripping the armor from my body faster than I could remove it myself.

The easy back and forth of teasing remarks and shameless pleas easily lulled me into a joyful haze amidst the shared hunger growing between us. He was gentle, and he was careful; and I would never tire of the thrill gleaned from the warmth and safety he filled me with.

When first I’d found myself trapped beneath the intensity of those golden eyes, when he glared at me with something far harsher than indifference and offered me not even the courtesy of curiosity, I’d felt resigned to whatever prejudice fueled his disgust, but the way he looked at me now, the softness in his gaze that left me bereft of the will to breathe lest I break whatever trance lulled us into that gentle quiet held no trace of long-forgotten resentment.

He said nothing, and I felt no remorse at the time lost in those moments of stillness, no impatience for the fulfillment of base desires so rarely satiated purely from the scarcity of such precious isolation. Nerves rejoiced throughout every inch of skin granted the ecstasy of his touch, that feral part of my brain preening at the safety of his presence.

As we lay in the midst of share passion, I thought he might continue to tease me; readied myself for some final quip about how willingly I succumbed to the depths of my desire, but when he spoke, there was no glimmer of fond mockery nor lilt of that unapologetic sass. I didn’t know what language it was, though I thought I recognized the gentle cadence occasionally shared between clones, and what words he whispered were too long to grant any hope that I might remember them absent even a base foundation of that elegant speech. Still, the way with which he spoke them, the reverent quiet that he fell into as the tantalizing rasp of his voice sent ripples of something far softer than heat and far more powerful than lust filled every aspect of my being until all I could manage in return was to murmur his name in a hushed psalm.

Veiled beneath the cover of night in that unnamed forest, when first we’d yielded to emotions too overwhelming to even feign understanding, his touch had been governed by a tense hesitation only just overcome by shared desperation. When, next, he touched me, it was with elated relief, rife with the blissful ignorance and candid pride innate in newborn romance. Now, however, as we lay together hidden from threat of discovery and safe beneath the certainty that, despite what cruelty awaited us in the coming days, despite the horrors we'd seen and the monstrous things we'd done, no doubt lingered between us; no whispered uncertainty for the sincerity driving hidden touches the instant proximity allowed, no question toward the passion fueling kisses stolen in fleeting moments of stillness. It was effortless in a way few things are. He moved and I knew exactly how to move with him. My lips parted, and he answered the unspoken plea without need for thought, cherishing me with his kiss and torturing me with his body.

I wanted to tell him I loved him, but how could such a simple word not cheapen the way my heart leapt at the warmth in his eyes, the glee that sent bursts of heat dancing atop my skin in the wake of his every caress, the wonder that left me stunned each time he smiled at me, rare moments in which those predatory eyes softened with a joy that just toyed with the edges of thin lips that, for any other, would sooner snarl than be even glimpsed showing such affection.

So I said nothing beyond the wordless cries of a pleasure until we sat gasping, my legs straddling his hips, locked in each other’s embrace for a far too-short eternity, treasuring the sharp tang saturating air left too humid in the fleeting space between us. He was the first to move, head shifting just enough to let his cheek whisper against me before dropping to lightly rest his forehead to mine. Mind yet floating in a gentle haze, I selfishly held him tighter. We’d never had that before – this stillness after screams of passion fell silent, a breadth of minutes or seconds or hours in which we could simply relish in the euphoria of skin on skin absent the frantic race for release, a moment free of thought that we might merely exist with each other and bask in unspoken adoration known only through the tenderness of feather-light touches.

Eager to savor that stillness, my hands dragged slowly across his shoulders, up his arms to flare across his chest, nails raking gently atop glistening, caramel skin until reaching the sharp line of his jaw. He shifted so slightly into my touch as I delicately cupped his cheeks that I found myself wondering if it had been an accident, a slip of his carefully constructed veil of indifference, but then he seemed to pause. I could feel his throat shift, swallowing back whatever reservations came so readily to him in the face of such a vulnerable intimacy. Chest swelling with a deep breath, he leaned fully into my touch, brows pulling almost nervously together above pointedly closed eyes.

Heart surging, I instantly sought out his lips once more, body curling subtly around him as though I might offer some comfort in the face of his uncertainty. It wasn’t with lust that I kissed him, nor was it fueled by joy or gratitude. It felt as though I was asking for something; begging, and when his embrace tightened around me, I held little doubt that he understood even when I didn’t, but the simple act of returning my kiss with that same unnamed desperation quieted my sudden flare of need.

“We should clean up.” He muttered almost reluctantly after several more seconds of blessed stillness. Fingers flaring greedily over the soft stubble just beginning to adorn his jaw, my head shook subtly to voice my refusal.

“Not yet.” I murmured, unsure if it was a plea or invitation. “Just for a bit longer.” His chest hitched softly with an airy laughter, but he made no move to untangle himself from me. “I want to stay like this,” I breathed, shifting just enough to press my lips to his cheek, and then to his brow, “with you,” and again against the delicate skin of one eyelid and then the other, and the way he slowly began to sink into me, shoulders falling, free, if only for those precious, fleeting breaths, of the crippling weight of responsibility and regret lingering just beyond the sliding door behind us, the way he let himself fade into the almost cruel temptation of impossible dreams woven through whispered wants that we both knew could never be was almost worth the impending whiplash of returning to a reality we would never be able to escape.

When he looked at me, head slowly tilting back just enough to meet my gaze, there was a quietness in his eyes that infected me so completely, even the air stilled in my lungs. I wanted to ask him what he’d said; what those elegant words he’d breathed against flushed skin had meant; almost desperate to hear what I found myself hoping them to be, but I couldn’t. He’d spoken them in a language I didn’t understand. That meant something. Whatever he’d said, he wasn’t ready for me to hear it. Not yet. But as he kissed me again, lips dancing so carefully against mine that I couldn’t silence the blissful moan, when he reached for me as though I were fire and ice and worth the agony of scalded flesh for each cherished caress, I knew that even his secretted words would pale beneath promises voiced only through silent touches.

A deep sigh fluttered slowly from my lips as his hands thoughtlessly roamed the length of my back, fingertips digging softly into skin still dampened with sweat, savoring that stillness for as long as I could.

“Think they have fresh sheets hidden somewhere?” Only after my heart calmed and the memory of life beyond that blissful moment no longer held such crippling weight did I release a deep breath and find the strength to pull away from him, if only enough to meet those piercing eyes.

“I think there’s an empty room next door, and we can let someone else deal with our mess.” Crosshair answered with that unapologetic, taunting monotone that instantly drew a quiet laughter from me.

“You’re awful.” I teased, feigning disgust, but he merely answered with a hum of agreement before stealing one final kiss and letting his arms slide away from me with a stifled reluctance.

Next Chapter

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shaydh · 6 months

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I've seen you posting a little bit mentioning the name, but actually who is Malus Darkblade? Where does one learn about him (in your opinion as a fan)? I'm genuinely curious (and fond of characters with edgy names)

Malus Darkblade is a dark elf from the Warhammer Fantasy setting! He has a daemon in him which gives him powers but is also killing him. Together they kill things and bitch at each other.

Malus starred in some comics and then later a five book series based off the comics by Dan Abnett and Mike Lee ( there was a book 6 but it’s written by someone else and it sucks, I have so many problems with book 6, don’t get me started). He is also a playable legendary lord in total war warhammer 2.

Basically read the first five books if you want to learn about him, they’re my faves and imo highly entertaining if you like villain protagonists. He’s edgy and Suffers throughout the series. He’s the most character ever. Perfect guy. Love him. I could go on about him for days but I won’t.

#shaydh replies #I really like Malus Darkblade in case you haven’t noticed #cws in the book for some mild gore and quite a bit of (nonexplicit) incest

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lemonluvgirl · 1 year

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Hugs! I think you’re great!!

You’re being hard on yourself, but your writing has brought me and others so much joy!!

Go reread your favorite fic you’ve written or sit down and write a fun piece of smut as a treat. 😘

Dear Anon, this sweet post completely inspired me to write this:

If someone had asked me to pinpoint the moment it happened, I couldn’t say.

All I know is that we went into the woods as two survivors who had lost practically everything, except the will to live.

I taught him how to fish, and hunt, and gather plants.

He taught me how to thatch the roof of the bombed out old house by the lake and how to seal the cracks in the windowsills, and how to shape clay and bake it into usable things. Like bowls and cups.

We taught each other how to carry on, and it was easier to face the silence, and the emptiness when you knew there was someone else facing it with you.

Those first few months were grueling. It was a race against time to load up on as much game and edibles as we could.

I had to build additional meat drying racks and Peeta had to build a smoker for all the fish we caught.

There was so much work, so much to do. I was the the more knowledgeable of the two of us. So I thought it was my responsibility to make sure we were prepared, ready for anything. I was gruff with him at first. All business and extremely irritable. He never took it personally. In fact he seemed to take it instride. He was good at turning things around. Seeing opportunities where at frist glance I saw problems.

Over time we started to do better, and we got along. We worked together as a team and found solutions to problems I never could have fixed on my own. It started to get easier, and when that happened, it was easy to forget about everything else.

Still, touching never came easy to me.

Not after everything I had lost.

So even though I felt like after two months I could name the number of freckles on Peeta’s face because his was the only face I stared at day after day, that didn’t mean I wanted to touch him.

Or him to touch me.

The only exception was when one of us was hurt.

Which happened with unavoidable frequency.

Cuts and scrapes and burns and insect bites had to be cleaned, and closely monitored. Infection was always a danger, even more so in the wild where treatments were few and far between.

I cleaned any wounds he couldn’t reach and he did the same for me.

His hands were so much bigger than mine. Calloused but warm everytime. He always gently bandaged me up and applied salve with a the lightest touch of his fingertip.

So featherlight I almost didn’t feel it.

I asked him once, how he had gotten his light touch and that night he explained about how he used to decorate the cakes at the bakery.

The sad, wistful smile and the suspicious sheen in his eye was enough to have me hurrying to close down the conversation.

Talking about the past never led anywhere good.

So I guess in all honestly there were two things I wasn’t very good at. Touching, and talking.

That first winter came and went and we scraped by.

It was uncomfortable being cooped up for long stretches of time, but we made do.

When lake thawed, and the snow melted, and all the world came alive again we were a few pounds lighter, and a few shades paler, but not much worse for wear.

Peeta immediately started building back up our woodpile, now that it was possible to spend longer amounts of time outside without freezing the tip of your nose off.

He started making plans to build more shelves inside the house so we could store more dried meat and food.

“Come next winter, we’ll be better prepared.” He said with determination.

I didn’t argue with him. Or tell him how I was used to losing much more weight in the winter time back when I lived in the Seam.

Spring, real spring made itself known a few weeks later. With soft showers springling over the earth and tender shoots bursting out of the ground, seaking the sun that had come out to play once more.

Giving life and ligh to a world that had had enough darkness for a season.

When the rains let up, I tugged Peeta out of doors with a grass-woven basket in hand and told him to gather up every dandelion and borage and wild bit of lavender he could find. And then I taught him that you could eat them.

Summer followed spring and brought a heat that was perfect for swimming.

Peeta admitted shyly that he didn’t know how to swim. So I spent the summer teaching him.

Long afternoons floating under the hot sun lead to a deep tan for me and a moderate sunburn for him.

I had to apply salve on the back of his neck, his shoulders, and the tips of his ears.

It wasn’t quite as difficult as I thought it would be.

In the fall season, at summer’s end, when the cold air blowing down from the mountains hit the still-warm water of the lake, a steamy fog would rise across the surface of the water. Enveloping the ground in a hazy mist.

It was easy to imagine we were the only two people left in the world on days like that. Maybe we were. The only thing we really knew for sure was there was no home to go back to. All we had was what was ahead of us and what we built for ourselves with our own two hands.

Every morning, no matter the weather, Peeta would go outside to check on the supplies, and if the woodpile were low, he’d set to work filling it up again.

I would watch him from the one intact window of the lake house as I sipped mint tea from a rough-hewn mug he had made for me out of clay. I’d watch him from the window, the only one we hadn’t boarded up in preparation for winter, and I’d hum quietly to myself, something with no words and no set melody. Just whatever came to me.

Peeta’s feet would be swallowed up by the mist and sometimes, depending on the thickness of the fog, his upper legs and hips would be too.

But not his torso. Or his arms. Or his face. Those were still visible. And my eyes would trace the way the fabric of his shirt stretched across his broad back. How his arms would smoothly and effortlessly swing the axe down. How sweat would dampen his collar and the ash-blond waves would stick to his forehead.

He made quick work of the wood most days.

He had strength in his hands. The kind that could inflict real damage if he were ever inclined. But I knew his heart was not inclined towards cruelty or shows of strength for showing off’s sake.

As much as he liked to joke, and play, Peeta was an introspective kind of soul. He had unspoken principles that he exuded. Things he never talked about but lived by just the same. He made them known in the way he spoke, in the way he walked, worked, and above all, in the way he cared.

For everything. For the house, and the things we filled it with. For the food and supplies we gathered. For the lake, the plants, and even the animals.

Everything had a place and a purpose and he learned how to live off the land with a quiet kind of enthusiasm and respect that surprised me. I had not expected him to adapt half as well as he did, and certainly not as quickly.

But after a few months, Peeta started to thrive.

He didn’t complain about the hard work, or the inconvenience, or the solitude.

He got up every morning and stepped outside the door and took a few seconds to just breathe.

And in those five seconds, he looked freer than I had ever felt in my entire life. And then he was ready to go. Ready for any task, any trek, any objective.

Except walking quietly. That was the one beginner skill he never seemed to master no matter how much he tried. But it was ok. I’m better at hunting anyway.

It was hard not to resent him just a little bit for enjoying the wilderness maybe even more than I did. Which was ridiculous, but I had a long history with these woods, and by all accounts, Peeta had grown up his whole life in town. It shouldn’t have been so easy for him.

And maybe I felt a little territorial at first. The woods were supposed to be my thing. My place. My sanctuary.

The woods had given me joy and adventure when I was a child. They had given me life when I was a young starving adolescent. And now that I returned to them a grown woman they were no less harsh or dangerous. But they were still stunning. They were still the place where I felt I could best be myself. Where I could drink in the clean air and expel any worry that didn’t have to do with hunting or foraging. Or making sure Peeta didn’t wander too far from camp when he went in search of new colors for his homemade inks.

I learned little by little to share the woods with him, in all their grandeur, in the same way, my father once shared them with me.

And in the quiet hours of the morning, I could get away with just watching him bask in their natural brilliance for a few minutes. Uninterrupted. Without self-consciousness creeping in because he was always too absorbed to notice.

So I was free to notice things about him.

Like how there seemed to be entire worlds hidden away inside of him. His eyes would take on a special look of focus when he examined a plant, or when he looked at a bird, or a rock, that I could spend hours trying to analyze, but never figure out.

Or how sometimes the autumn sunset would hit his hair just right and for a second it would look softly dazzling, with warm colors like a fading fire.

Or how when the weather was clear and the sky was cloudless, the lake would look like a pristine jewel so untouched and startlingly blue that the only thing more beautiful was the way it was almost an exact match for the shade of Peeta’s eyes.

Or how all the world was quiet when I watched his strong gentle hands at work. Chopping wood. Setting a fishing line. Hanging up herbs to dry. Painting spots of color on the back wall.

All the world felt new when I looked into his eyes.

And here, in the fierce wilderness where my father taught me to love the plants and the trees and every growing thing, I started to love the thing growing silently, steadily, between Peeta and me.

The night was full.

Full of the deep dark quiet that fell over everything that needed to sleep when the sun went down.

Full of the night time symphony of the wide wild woods we called home.

Bull frogs croaked, crickets chirped, owls hooted. And in the distance, wolves or wild dogs howled.

Peeta always made sure we had enough wood to feed the fire the whole night and I always made sure that the lantern was ready.

We kept the door barred, to keep out any unwanted predators.

But the only thing we couldn’t keep out completely was the dreams.

Dreams of a different life, full of the song of different voices, different faces, and life long since past. When I dreamed those kinds of dreams I often couldn’t fall back asleep. I knew Peeta had dreams like that too but after he tried to talk about it once, we got into such a big fight that he never brought it up again.

So, yes, the nights were full. But often they left me feeling empty.

He stopped pretending to sleep through my nightmares during that second winter. He started waking me before they could go on too long. Often he wouldn’t say anything, as he looked down at me, he’d just heave this big breath, like there was so much he could say, or maybe wanted to, but he wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear him say it. So he just stayed quiet. Propped his back up against the wall next to my sleeping pallet and just stayed. Watching over me.

I allowed myself to be sleepy, to let the exhaustion take over when he was near. I rested my head on his shoulder. Folded the old threadbare blanket I had salvaged from my old home over our legs, and closed my eyes.

The dark didn’t seem so dark and the nightmares didn’t feel so inescapable when he stayed with me.

We traded stories of our childhoods, never naming names but we both knew who they were about.

His favorite was the one I told him about two sisters who loved each other beyond measure and how they found ways to make each other smile no matter how poor they grew. He said he admired how tirelessly the older sister worked to provide for the younger, even going so far as to use her money from the first buck she ever shot, to buy her younger sister a goat for her birthday.

“Was the goat still wearing the pink ribbon?” He asked when I told him about how the younger sister used her healing knowledge and her goodness to bring the goat back from the brink of death.

“I think so.” I answer. “Why?” I ask, curious.

“Just trying to get an accurate picture.” He says.

He tells me stories about a little boy who grew up with two older brothers, who were always pulling pranks and getting into scrapes. He talks about how the little boy loved painting and art but hardly found the time or the materials to practice except on special occasions when someone would order a fancy cake from the family’s bakery.

Then the world would come alive for the little boy, who reshaped it into something beautiful with tiny images created out of sugar and fondant and food coloring.

But he had to be very careful not to waste ingredients or the fire-breathing she-dragon who ruled the kitchen would punish him for being wasteful. Often giving him only the stalest bread, the kind that was practically moldy, to eat.

“I always wondered if you ate cake and cookies everyday.” I admitted quietly, after his story was done.

“Oh, no.” He says, stifling a yawn. It’s late, and we’ve stayed up longer than usual, just talking. “Hardly ever, unless we got invited to the same celebration where the cake was being served. Practically everything we ate was stale. That’s why my father was so keen on buying your squirrels and berries. Sometimes that was the only fresh food we saw all week.”

He snuggles down closer, burying the side of his face against the side of my head. In my hair. I fall asleep dreaming about what it must have been like to have enough food but only be able to eat other people's leftovers.

One night he tells me the story about a little boy who fell in love with a girl who had a voice like a sunrise. He tells me about her mother and father who had a love so true that it crossed boundaries, divides, and prejudices just to exist. He paints the boy’s father as a footnote of unrequited love. And the girl as this beautiful free spirit who never looked at the little boy twice, at least not until they were the only two people left in the entire world—

“That’s not true.” I interrupt, voice thick and choking with emotion.

“Are you crying? Katniss, please don’t cry.” He pleads. “I’m sorry. I never should have brought it up. I know you don’t like talking about the past, and these kinds of things and —”

“But I did.” I protest. “I did see you, that day with the bread, and every day after that.” I tell him, tears streaming down my face.

“Did you?” he breathes, voice softer than a whisper. As fragile as the moonbeams floating through the open window. Then, in a stronger voice, “You don’t have to say that, to try and make me feel better. You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“I knew you were strong. You could throw a hundred-pound sack of flour over your head like it was nothing. Ever since 8th grade. You came in second in the wrestling tournament. And I knew you were smart and good with people. You always knew what to say in class and you had so many friends at school. I saw you, Peeta. I always meant to say thank you for the bread but—”

I’m cut off by him leaning in and resting his forehead against mine. I watch him take in a breath and heave it out. A light shudder passes through him.

“I never needed a thank you, for the bread. I never needed anything at all. I just hoped that it helped you in some way. And if it did, that was enough for me. Katniss I never could have dreamed that you’d notice all those things about me.”

He looks at me he’s just discovered something wonderful and completely surprising. He smiles that smile of his. The one that’s so genuinely sweet with just the perfect hint of shyness. That smile does things to me. It makes more words tumble out.

“I know a lot more now. You’re a painter. And a baker, even if the only bread you can make now is acorn flatbread. You never use berries to sweeten your tea, even when they’re in season. You always double-knot your shoelaces. You always sleep with the window open-”

His hands cup my face, his warm breath ghosts over my lips. He looks into my eyes for permission, but all I can think before I touch my lips to his, is that this would have happened anyway.

This is always where we were heading, Peeta and I.

Even if we hadn’t been the only ones left, we would have gravitated to each other.

Because I need him. I need him like air. Like water. And yet it’s more than survival. It’s more than just the way my body yearns, and hunger ignites in my veins in an entirely new way.

It’s the warmth and heat of being touched by someone that knows me, perhaps better than I know myself. He has memorized every facial expression and every errant sound from the grumbling of my stomach to the way I cry out for him in the dark.

But the sounds I make when he puts his hands on me, are not cries of fear. Distress, maybe, but only because I never, ever want him to stop touching me—ever.

And I don’t want his mouth to stop kissing me, except after he makes me fall apart with his tongue and then everything is just a bit too sensitive for a little while.

But that’s ok because then it’s his turn and oh, there’s nothing more beautiful than seeing the person who means the world to you come completely unglued at your touch.

Peeta’s never been as exquisite as he is when he’s completely bare and open to me, yearning, straining, for his peak. And even though it's clear that neither of us has very much experience with these kinds of things, what we do know is each other. Every breathy moan and deep sigh is a map to guide us to each other’s pleasure.

It may be new, and it may be scary at first, but it's us, and that makes it okay. To get lost in the sensation. To lose ourselves in each other, chasing the stars that burst beneath our very skin.

For all the thrumming pulse of passion that drives us, when it happens it’s still sweet, and slow. Like the bud turning towards the sun. The ice thawing from the tree branches. The animals coming out of their burrows and nests and waking up to a world of sunlight and possibility. It’s the thing that exists inside all creatures after they’ve braved the darkest of winters and come out the other side.

The feeling of death giving way to life. The past to the future. Fear letting go, and being replaced with something else.

The hope that life can be good again, despite our losses. That we can go on.

I know now that what I need is not the detachment of life without touch, severed forever from my past and divorced from the idea of family. I need the dandelion in the spring, the vibrant, enduring promise that dawn will come and make the world new, and us along with it.

What I need is him.

So when Peeta asks me in the morning if I love him, I say I do.

#thg #thg fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #lemonluvanswers #everlark fanfiction #everlark smut #nonexplicit smut #I wrote this for fun #self indulgent #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen

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themculibrary · 4 months

Text

Non-Explicit Femslash Masterlist 2

part one

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Summary: It’s been a week since Peggy saved New York from Dr. Fenhoff, and Dottie is loose in the big city. Regardless of Interim-Chief Jack keeping her off the Underwood case, her fraying relationship with Daniel, and the tightrope that she walks at home with Angie, she’ll find her. Peggy Carter always gets her girl.

Cat Got Your Tongue (ao3) - Meskeet peggie/angie T, 10k

Summary: There’s only two things Peggy’s currently certain about.

One, she’s in love with Angela Martinelli.

Two, she’s a cat.

(Or, the one where Howard Stark turns Peggy into a cat.)

Crescendo (ao3) - Becci Barnes (BeccEEE) natasha/maria G, 1k

Summary: When watching the concert of a famous pianist, Maria and Natasha start talking about music.

Turns out old hobbies die hard, and as they rediscover their passions they find common ground in unexpected ways.

i break wild roses (ao3) - halfmoonsevenstars peggy/natasha, peggy/angie M, 7k

Summary: It’s August 1950 and Peggy Carter, Director of SHIELD, is back in New York for the week, wrangling diplomats and soothing fractured bureaucratic egos by day. By night, Peggy goes out for drinks and dancing with Angie, but it’s a beautiful Russian girl she brings back to the hotel room.

i'm staying at my parents’ house and the road not taken looks real good now (ao3) - hannaenomia maria/natasha N/R, 22k

Summary: Natasha takes The Avengers to her family's farm to recover after their first run-in with the Scarlet Witch and promptly flirts with Maria Hill in front of everyone, whether she admits it or not. (Black Widow comes before Age of Ultron in this storyline)

kidnapped! (ao3) - Sartapaw92 kate/yelena T, 11k

Summary: Kate Bishop takes a break from her superhero duties for a while as she relaxes in her Apartment. Yelena Belova remains active in working for the ill-repute as she likes to be paid. At times, Yelena likes to mess with Kate, mainly over the phone. And at times Yelena likes to bring Kate to assist her with whatever task that Yelena has been given by her Mob Boss. The next job will be no exception.

Kisses Through the Decades (ao3) - aparticularbandit agatha/wanda, wanda/vision M, 38k

Summary: The world is full of various shades of grey – charcoal, smoke, silver, ash, pewter, steel, iron, and so on. For all the black and white, there is relatively little of that. Agnes’s hair trends as dark a grey as the world allows, but even it isn’t a pure black. The closest to that is the ribbon tied tight around her waist, accenting the narrowness of it, the hourglass shape of her. Wanda’s hands have found that waist far many times to count at this point, if only to usher her out of the kitchen when she’s stayed – not past her welcome, because that sounds rude, but…well, past her welcome.

Problem being, of course, that the more Wanda guides her by the waist out of the kitchen and through the back door, the more her hands find a proper place there.

no retreat, no surrender (ao3) - Haywire maria/natasha G, 7k

Summary: After the Avengers send Loki back to Asgard in Thor’s custody, Natasha and Maria run into each other and spend an unscheduled day together, changing their relationship in a fundamental way in the process.

Sun, Sea, And Sand (ao3) - Marv_aka_Kitten_Writes yelena/kate T, 5k

Summary: A day at the beach with Kate turns out to be surprisingly fun for Yelena. After all, what's wrong with sand, sun, surf and saying I love you?

The Sisterhood Of The Ruby Stilettos XXV: A Picnic With Peppery Potato Salad ;) (ao3) - BradyGirl_12 pepper/natasha G, 951

Summary: As spring blossoms, Natasha and Pepper enjoy a picnic in Central Park. :)

the sun and her flowers (ao3) - wandaverse wanda/agatha T, 10k

Summary: Months after Wanda leaves Agatha in Westview, she finds herself coming right back and they agree to a magical partnership. Over the coming year, Agatha comes to slowly fall for the miracle that is Wanda Maximoff. And so, she expresses her truest desires through the only way she knows; the language of flowers.

The story of how two lonely witches find healing and home in each other, told through 5 flowers Agatha gives Wanda and 1 she gives in return.

The Way I Loved You (ao3) - agayturtle wanda/natasha T, 3k

Summary: "It's 2am and I'm cursing your name..."

Wanda and Natasha's relationship didn't last longer than a couple of months, but Natasha can't help but wonder if they made the right choice when they ended things.

or The Way I Loved You by Taylor Swift but it's Wandanat.

this is me trying (ao3) - wlwromanoff (orphan_account) wanda/natasha T, 7k

Summary: i had a feeling so peculiar, that this pain wouldn't be for evermore

as natasha falls into a downward spiral, wanda is there for her.

violets & ink (ao3) - idiotlesbian wanda/natasha G, 6k

Summary: Wanda isn’t really enjoying life at the moment. She’s grieving her family and spends most of her time working in her family’s flowers shop to avoid her feelings.

Until she meets the tattoo artist from across the street, whom she secretly has had a crush on forever.

sad florist!wanda meets tattoo artist!natasha

Westview Holiday (ao3) - aparticularbandit wanda/agatha T, 3k

Summary: Wanda and Agatha exert a great deal of magic for a Westview celebration, and Wanda has an idea on how to cool down afterwards.

what they don't see (ao3) - acolonf6 peggy/angie, past peggy/steve T, 22k

Summary: Angie is convinced that her new next door neighbor is a spy, and is determined to find proof of such.

you're a sunflower (ao3) - inwelled (orphan_account) carol/maria, phil/nick T, 3k

Summary: The woman in the doorway is breathing heavily. Her eyes jump around the room until they land on Monica, Goose purring contently in her arms. They seem to skip right over Carol, too concerned with the little girl in the middle of the shop.

The face clicks in her mind and Carol freezes.

It can't be.

#themculibrary #marvel #mcu #masterlists #nonexplicit #nonexplicit masterlist

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dwtdog · 10 months

Text

*stumbles onto an open battlefield* DNF Week day 2 anyone ?

two fics for the price of one :3333

turn your raw desire to conformity - alpha dnf, and they were roommates

all i need is you - soft omega dnf, and nesting

#DNFWEEK2023 #dnf #dreamnotfound #dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #writing nonexplicit omegaverse is fun #my writing

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knownangels · 7 months

Text

even

wc: 5.3k

Benji has never once thought oh good, it’s over. Never once had the first breath of fresh air after a skirmish — fumes and smoke and the tang of something metallic in the back of his mouth, like he’d dusted them between his molars instead of shot them from the barrel of a gun— and thought: ah, it’s done.

For some soldiers, the aftermath is the end. When the relief washes in and the adrenaline dies and the help arrives. Benji’s the help. It’s a crooked, evil phenomena: dreading the end of a fight. Crosses his wires all up in a tangle; it makes him twisted and selfish, doesn’t it, that he dreads the pause in gunfire?

But that doesn’t mean it’s ever silent, after a fight. The explosions and drumbeat of bullets and clinking of mags and spent rounds — it covered the rest of the noise.

He keeps his cool, of course. Part of the job. But if there was ever a portion that tested and stretched the limits of his composure, it was the after-noises.

He’s never thinking ah good, it’s over. He’s thinking: aw fuck, here we go.

Benji has the misfortune of taking something to the shoulder. Well. Relative misfortune. The other poor bastard taking cover behind an upturned stack of crates with him is a bit worse off.

“Patch me up.”

Benji winces when he turns his head. It pulls something, tugs some muscle connected to the injury. Blood bubbles up between his fingers, soaks through his glove.

Not so much as what soaks through the infantryman propped beside him. It’s a pool between them, spread out like some uncrossable, ruby-shined sea. Within it, the reflection of the noontime sun transfixes Benji. That, or he’s getting woozy.

He’s silent a beat too long; the other soldier begins to panic. He twitches all over, like he means to move. To grab Benji’s arm, his vest. Maybe he thinks he does move. Maybe, in his mind’s eye, he’s shaking Benji by the shoulders.

Maybe he really does think Benji can help. Because this is the part of the battle — the after — where Benji’s job starts. Where the little red cross on his uniform becomes a beacon, rather than a scrap of fabric with a few stitches loose.

(Benji’s only loose stitches, ever. He prides himself on that.)

But no amount of tight stitching is going to help the other injured man. Benji’s got a through and through, nice and clean. He can tell, the way the wound aches. You get enough of them, wounds that is…well, you start being able to differentiate pain. Being able to tell the difference in missing flesh, the way nerves throb a specific way for a tactical blade’s slash or shrapnel aching deep. The absences feel different. Voids, and all that.

“Patch me up!”

Benji glances up from the nasty, serrated combat knife buried handle-deep in his solar plexus. When the other soldier screams it, his whole torso shudders. That’s how Benji knows what it’s hit — getting winded after a blow to the center of the chest is shit enough. This is a bit worse. It’ll be about now that he realizes he can’t pull another breath: on cue, the soldier’s eyes pop wide. His face starts to lose color.

Benji winces as he props himself up to a kneeling position. He lets go of his own injury, gritting his teeth until he swears he feels one chip.

“Rough way of it,” Benji croaks. He’s not sure if it’s from overuse or not speaking at all; he never knows what happens, in the midst of the during. He goes someplace else. Checks out of the hotel, so to speak. Benji laughs.

“What do —you— mean—?” The infantryman wheezes. Benji wishes he knew the man’s name. But they’re all cannon fodder. Frontline first in bastards, he and this one. His name isn’t known either, or else the man would have used it.

“You’re going to die.” Benji says. With his good arm (not as bad arm, he supposes, because he can feel a nasty fucking bruise blossoming in the crook of his elbow) he reaches across to pinch the man’s eyelids wider. His pupils swim, catching Benji only for a moment before they slip away.

“I’m —no. You…medic.”

“Got a basic med kit, sure.” Benji’s focus drifts back to the wound in his chest. The man heaves a breath — one of his last few — and shudders. Another spot, one Benji hadn’t noticed until just now and one that rests unfairly close to his heart, spits a stream of crimson.

“Hurts—!”

Benji tips the man’s chin up. His head hangs back loose on his shoulders. He shivers again. Somehow, hemusters enough strength to give Benji’s wrist a claw-like grip. Benji welcomes it: the sting of nails into skin distracts from the throb in his shoulder.

“Got painkillers, yeah.” Benji pats his cheek awkwardly. No matter how many times he finds himself in this position, this gunpowder-scented bedside with none of the cool depressed indifference of a hospital room, he knows he’ll never get better at the manner. It’ll eat at him something fierce, sure. He’ll sit up and remember the exact shade of silvery flecks in this man’s eyes. But easing their final closure with kind words or comforting promises or sympathy —

Nah. He’s shit at it. Always will be.

“Got painkillers,” Benji repeats, patting the man’s cheek to stir him a bit. “But it’ll have stopped hurting by now, right? By the time I give ‘em to you, it’ll be done. It’s good to go quick, mate. Promise. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes, sometimes. ‘Sides, you got your brain intact, lucky you. All those nice chemicals of your own’ll be giving you the trip of a —”

The man’s panicked expression slips into something peacefully slack. Doped up. Benji huffs out a laugh that, were it his first time in this exact scenario, might strike him as morbid.

“Lifetime. Aw, ‘pologies. Poor choice on my part.”

Benji makes quick work of the chain around the man’s neck. The little blue tags they kit each of them out with are cheaply made. Transparent, light-catching material, maybe resin, with silver etched letters and numbers. Benji has seen them shatter when dropped. Benji has treated a man who ran chest-first into a wall on leave, crunched his tags against his chest, and needed them fished out with a pair of tweezers. He hadn’t much appreciated the Operation joke Benji’d made, during.

He leaves one of the rounded rectangles in the man’s fist, which needs to be manually closed — so he can be identified, once clean-up touches down.

The other tag he slips into his pocket. It’s the first of the afternoon, the first of this after (Benji’s beginning), but it won’t be the last. By the end of the next hour or so, a half dozen of them will clink together. He might even forget they’re there; he might only remember to take them to his lieutenant, to be transferred to records then shipping then family, the next morning when he’s tossing his trousers into the hamper to take them to the wash on base so the blood from this man’s gaping chest wound which stains his thigh and seeps warm onto his skin can be wrung out and tint the water pink —

Benji blinks. With a gentle hand cupping the back of the dying soldier’s head, he guides that fluttering, distanced gaze down to his own. He holds up the single tag on its chain.

“Rough way.” Benji repeats. He is at his usual, habitual loss for what else to say. “We’ll get it to —well, whoever. Family, or —y’know. Whoever.”

He hopes the man doesn’t slip away to his hapless fumbling. Would be a particularly shit end to his already shit day.

Once the body has gone fully limp, Benji pushes himself to his knees. He does a careful check of his surroundings. Other bodies lie amongst the rubble, some out in the open, some groaning —or dying — from their injuries just out of vision.

Benji slips the tag into his pocket. He bites his glove off, velcro strap ripping loudly but not loud enough to drown the after-noises. The etched letters of this first man are a soothing texture beneath his swiping thumb. But he can’t make out the word they spell. He never learns the man’s name.

He doesn’t want to.

When he discovers, after a thorough assessment of the remnants of the firefight, that he is the last of this particular squadron alive, his hands only set to shaking a little.

Benji has not been in this position before. Their leader for this mission, a stalwart and square-jawed woman by the name of Jamison— or maybe Jemison, or Jamesson — lies in a crumpled heap behind the warm exhaust of a generator. The production facility they had been tasked with protecting had come under predicted attack, but it seems as though despite all her experience she had not been able to predict the nasty, forceful blow to her skull.

Her tags get tucked alongside the others. Benji is all too aware of his own, now. They’re nestled against his chest, digging in beneath the strap of his vest. He’s the only survivor. He needs to get a working comms established; their commander’s radio has been crushed by the same weapon that had made jelly of everything above the shoulders.

He’s the only survivor. He needs to find a way to share that information. He needs to find someone to share that information with. He needs to get back to base. He needs a shower. He needs sleep. He needs—

To pay attention.

His gut moves him. He has no control of his muscles, so it must be instinct. Instinct: one single breath to his right, behind a corner. Instinct: the swivel of his hip. Instinct, the steadying placement of one boot back, braced to mitigate the momentum that pushes him back as he catches a swinging weapon by its handle.

It’s instinct that uses both arms to yank his assailant off their feet. But it’s Benji, his shoulder and the pain that comes with this life-saving motion, who screams.

He stumbles with the shock of it. Like lightning. His palm bruises and cramps. HIs whole arm goes limp as it sizzles white-hot up his forearm, wraps his bicep, and settles like a shard of pure electricity in the oozing hole in his shoulder.

“Fuck!” Benji gasps as he falls. Embarrassingly, right on his arse.

“Fuck you!” The weapon-wielder yells back.

It shivers him with déjà vu.

Benji has the sensation of someone looming over him, someone holding him to the ground with a fist in his vest; he has the sensation of instinct and adrenaline seeping from him hand-in-hand. His gut coils weak once more, no longer offering him any help in the face of danger. He’s lost more blood than he realizes. And with that realization comes another:

He’s the last left. There will be no one to deny him painkillers. No one to joke about his assigned method of departure, rough way. No one to tuck his tag in his fist. No one to take it back to base, to identify be identified, to be sent home.

“Benji.” Benji says. He says it. Not instinct. It’s written on his tag. But he wants them to know.

There’s a long pause where he imagines the graceful arc of the weapon he’d briefly caught. He imagines it cutting through the air. He imagines whatever it is burying itself in his skull. Imagines the mess.

Benji blinks his eyes open (when had he squeezed them shut?) and stares, for a moment, blankly.

“Oh shit.”

“Oh.” He breathes. And then, for some reason, he smiles. “Oh shit.”

“It’s still cute.”

Benji’s scowl turns into a proper wince; Xavier winds the bandage around his shoulder too tight. He’s not as practiced at this — maybe not at all. And Benji had refused to touch the little bottle of painkillers in his kit.

It felt wrong. He — it just was wrong.

So he bites his knuckle the whole time Xavier tends to him. While the wound is cleaned, while its packed (squeamishly, which is admittedly charming), while a firm hand pulls the strip of white cotton tight, tight, tight.

“Sorry?” He’s still delirious. Head swimming from the blood loss, the wind-down of medical trauma. Of endorphins running out. Of—

(the flash of the warehouse, bodies strewn, guns smoking, the after-noises, the man’s rolling eyes)

“Your name.” Xavier insists. "It's still cute."

He looks no worse for wear; almost as if he hasn’t been in the midst of it at all, aside ruffled hair and a sweat-slicked face. There are circles under his eyes, but then again, Benji hasn’t seen a set without them in quite some time. He just hasn’t been close enough to the enemy (which is what Xavier is, his mind insists) to see how they’d been faring.

Not as bad, if Xavier’s chipper, toothy grin and color-flushed face are anything to go by. They’re not, Benji knows. He is by definition an anomaly. Not of this place, this world, and certainly not the standard by which other battle-pallid faces and distanced eyes should be judged against.

I need a fucking nap, Benji thinks, because his thoughts are rapidly unspooling. He keeps his mouth shut to keep them from escaping that way.

But Xavier nudges him. Friendly like, an elbow to his undamaged shoulder. It jostles enough to hurt, but its numb enough now that he can grit his jaw to it.

“Remember? We ran into each other before.” Xavier snorts. “You threw a gun at me. Kind of stupid.”

“Out of ammo.” Benji defends. “What else am I s’posed to do, I see a big bastard like you comin' at me?”

He pretends not to notice how Xavier’s chest puffs at that, even though it wasn’t a compliment.

“Run, maybe. Although that doesn’t always help.”

“Didn’t.” Benji says. He gestures at the massive gore-slicked hammer propped against a crate adjacent to the position they’ve taken; Xavier had pulled him away from the open-air warehouse floor into a smaller room. Managerial, if he were to guess from the monitors and upended bullet-riddled file cabinets. There are probably useful documents in there he ought to go through and save, bring back for intel.

But Xavier’s smiling. There’s something off about it, a twist that isn’t charming or jovial that hints at a dark few future hours; Xavier had been the only survivor of his crew, too.

“Well, us either. A few of those guys were assholes, though, so —“

Benji laughs incredulously at the awful implication of that.”What, so they deserved it?”

Xavier’s laugh smears right off his face. His eyes do a funny thing: distance and blur.

“Some of them.” He intones quietly, voice dark and monotone. Benji hasn’t known him long enough (doesn’t know him at all!) to determine if that’s uncharacteristic. Given their last encounter, it might be.

And just as quickly it appeared, its gone. Xavier straightens up to his full height, which is fucking up there, and snaps the clasp of Benji’s now-empty med kit shut. He pats it twice, pauses, pats it again. Then tucks it carefully inside Benji’s pack before zipping that shut, too.

“There we go. You’re all set.” He kneels down again. He’s so tall their faces don’t nearly align, but when he tilts his head its just about there. “Are you going to tell people I kissed it better?”

His breath drifts over Benji’s face. It smells sweet, like fruit flavored candy. It also smells like blood; he has a cut on the inside of his mouth somewhere that still leaks, turns the delicate pink between his white teeth a fresh, deranged red.

“I’m not going to tell anybody anything.” Benji says. He doesn’t say it because he’s nervous there’s a threat underlying a smile that is, by all visual clues, absolutely threatening. He says it because —

He says it because he wants Xavier to know he can be trusted. That this isn’t just another good deed, another favor. It isn’t happenstance. A moment of weakness; of mercy. Two’s a pattern. He says it because telling Xavier: if we see each other again —

No. He can’t say that.

Something beeps on Xavier’s person. He pats his chest, then his breast pocket. From there, he pulls a tablet. Or what looks like one. Its transparent screen is peculiarly thin. With the blue glow and digital beeps, Benji gets the impression that its technology is incredibly advanced. Futuristic, even. Certainly nothing he’s ever seen.

And that too is something he should act on: he should pull his side piece from its thigh holster and level it at Xavier’s pale forehead (where a cluster of freckles thins in the center, from brown to nearly his skin tone). He should pull the trigger. He should take the tablet, he should find out if Xavier has tags of his own, he should take the documents, he should turn them all in —

Instead, Benji reaches up and taps his knuckle against the back of the tablet’s screen.

“Tell your mum ‘hullo’ for me, yeah?”

Xavier blinks. And then he laughs, wild and delirious — just how Benji feels.

He has no need for them and has never believed in the workings of the universe to as enchanted a level as they require, but the fact that Benji makes it back to base is nothing short of a miracle.

A narrow escape of two enemy patrols. Sliding down a muddy hill (because of course the rain started up) into a drainage ditch. The ambient temperature isn’t too low, but Benji’s injured. And the water is thigh-deep. And the shock of it is enough that he gasps and goes cold all over.

And it should be there they find him, blue in the lips and gray in the face and dead, tag tucked in his own fist and thumb pressed so hard to the name it etches into skin instead of cheap plastic.

It is there they find him. He just isn’t dead.

His lieutenant claps him hard on the back. It’s his injured side. The gauze has, again miraculously, avoided soaking through with the disgustingly muddy runoff that coats the rest of him.

Perhaps because it was wound too tight.

“At ease, mate.” Quinn barks. The rest of the pick-up squad gathers around them. Some start to ask questions — who’s with you, where are the rest, where’s the commander, how’d you bloody do it, private? — but the lieutenant creates a barrier between Benji’s listless, tired gaze and the rest of them.

“Now how have you managed this time, Benj?”

He doesn’t know Benji’s injured. But the squeeze he puts to that wound on his shoulder feels deliberately harsh. Any other time, the informal touch and it’s proximity to affection might stir something in his gut. But whatever heat that could be there has been eaten up to fuel its instinct, instead.

Instinct that had saved him. Instinct that had wandered him blindly through the warehouse and right into the path of —

Benji doesn’t pass out until they have him on the medical transport. But he comes awful close to it then.

“Miracle, sir.” He chirps.

It turns out he has a bit of internal bleeding near his spleen. And a concussion. Shoulder-shot is baby shit, so some of the others say. Plenty of them are duty served enough to be ninety percent scar tissue. Benji doesn’t want to go that way. He’d like to be mostly intact when he goes. But more and more, he’s realizing that is a privileged afforded to very few in this line of work.

He spends four days in recovery. A week in post, another on desk duty. He eats up as much of the free time as he can doing things he ought to enjoy. Puzzles. Shooting the shit with some of the other injured, still recovering from missions past. Going over strategy and intelligence with the lieutenant, even though its not information he should be privy to and only knows because its offered under less than professional circumstances.

Benji thinks of the dead man’s rolling eyes on both of those occasions, when they come up.

“Sorry.” He pulls away, feigning a wince. The lieutenant’s quarters are darkened with only the orange glow of a distant desk lamp to illuminate them. Benji faces away from it; there isn’t enough light to show the deceit twisting that expression. “Still sore. Thought I could —“

“Tough through it?” Quinn finishes for him, broad chest under his palm rumbling with a laugh that he finds pleasant. It feels good to touch. To be touched; that’s why he’s here. It’s always why he is. Benji gets too much of the after-noise. The clutching of his wrists, of his vest. The begging. Patch me up. Patch me up.

That’s the real reason he returns to his own quarters, gut icy with something he’s scared to name.

“No need, mate. Go get your shut eye. Need you functioning anyway.”

Before he slips under his own covers, in his own room, Benji takes his tags off. The chain tinks against the end table’s edge, and the last thought he has before sleep pulls him under is a fearful one:

Don’t shatter. Don’t shatter. I don’t have tweezers on me. I can’t pull the pieces out. What if it cracks right along my name? Who will know?

He’s cleared for the next mission. And just like the previous, things go south very quickly.

Patterns, he’s thinking, lip tucked between his teeth as he patches up a particularly nasty gash. It’s not serrated, or else the damage would be worse — this one had been unfortunate enough to take the blade between clavicle and armpit. It will be a slow heal. It will sting like a bitch. Itch like one, too. But the wound’s recipient seems no worse for this shared information, when Benji informs him of it.

Benji wonders if Xavier is ever worse for the wear. If he’s capable. Even carved up, exhausted. Both of them separated from their respective squads, hunkered up in the same rotted-wood cabin in the middle of nowhere; he should be wary, tired, exhausted, teeth pulled back defensive.

Except when Benji had stumbled into the decrepit old shed, he’d only —

He’d only smiled.

(“Knew it. We were totally due for another one.”)

That jolliness has faded only slightly the longer Benji spends, carefully disinfecting the edges before pinching the skin together to stitch. He takes his time. He takes time he hasn't got to spare.

“Hurt?” Benji asks, eyebrows pulling in when Xavier shakes his head. “Mate, fuck off. Looks like it does somethin’ fierce. I’ve got pills—?”

Xavier squeezes his eyes shut. The smile slips and then plasters back in place, more plastic-stiff than a moment before.

“You nursed me back to good health, doc.” Xavier somehow manages to purr, despite his obvious state and rough-edged voice. “I’m okay. I can get back. We’re not even, though. So next time—“

“No.” Benji says. He isn’t sure what he’s denying; that they’ll meet again, that they’ll tend to something open and raw and bleeding on the other, that there will be a next anything.

There shouldn’t.

“But we’re two-one. You have to get me back.” Xavier sticks his lower lip out, puppy-eyed and sweet. “Just one more favor?”

Benji winds the gauze too tight around his midsection and yanks the shirt back down over his torso. He’s very professional about it. His gaze does not wander. He does not linger, does not press firm to heaving ribs and note the jump of Xavier’s body beneath him. Not just the movement of breath, a pained gasp, but — but —

“Fuck you.” Benji says, but it doesn’t have the intended effect.

Xavier just smiles.

“What?”

Benji isn’t in his bed on base. He sits upright, and the sheets drift off him like water. There and then gone.

He feels his lungs move, his lips part.

There’s a laugh on the other side of the room. He’s suddenly feverish. Sweat sticks to him, his chest heaving with desperate breaths. When a hand flattens to the center of it, right above his solar plexus, it slips like he’s slicker with something other than sweat.

“You woke up, like, all panicked. And went ‘who will know?’. Fucking spooky.” A laugh. “Weird.”

Benji opens his eyes, then. Except — he’d noted the clock on the wall, the second pair of shoes kicked off by the door to his room, so his eyes had already been open…hadn’t they?

There are no windows in his room on base, just four bland gray walls. But he feels a breeze — a stirring of fabric, like curtains in the summer—-

Benji sits up again. His head swims and everything goes funny, colorful.

“What?”

He glances to the side. He’s not in his room. He’s not in his bed, on base. He leans over the side of the mattress. The sheets slip from him like water, and pool on the ground.

Benji realizes he rests on a shitty, thin futon. Right on the ground. It’s been nudged into the corner of the room — the room being a spare. Mostly empty, devoid fo decoration in a house that shares both those qualities. He hasn’t had the time to do much with it, other than agonize over the debt he now runs with his sister.

Debts, the thought drifts airily around him like a physical thing. Two-one. Patterns.

His head swims when he turns it the opposite direction, towards the window on the north side of the room. He’s not on base — there are no rooms. He’s in the house, and he’s with—

Xavier stands against the sunlight that pours in. He fades at the edges, wispy and gold, shimmering like a cartoon oasis. When he finally stands in front of Benji (head tilted and towering, like that high-noon triage in the warehouse weeks ago), he plots out the light. And as he drops to his knees, scooting so that Benji has no choice but to lie back against the mattress, the room is less bright than it was a moment before.

“You talk in your sleep.” Xavier says. He reaches towards the back of his neck, triceps flexing in a distracting enough manner that it draws Benji’s focus there. He pulls a black, sweat-slick shirt off himself slowly; Benji is incapable of doing anything but watch as each pale inch of skin is revealed.

“Do I?” He asks, throat dry.

“Yeah. Wasn’t expecting it.” Xavier smiles and leans over him, braced on stiff arms. He winces; the pull of his brow is cute. “It’s cute.”

Benji laughs. His hand is suddenly full of warm, smooth skin. Xavier doesn’t look pained this time, as he slides that hand up and down prominent ribs. The gnarly blade has barely left its mark; where it had torn him open, there’s barely a scar.

“We shouldn’t. We probably shouldn’t.” Benji says. It stirs a strange feeling in him, something close to familiarity.

“Not your type?” Xavier laughs. It’s that mad and unhinged thing. It doesn’t quite fit the moment. “Bullshit.”

Benji hasn’t the brain power to react to the ego-driven quip with anything but a gasp. Xavier flattens over top of him, a graceful roll of their bodies together. The sheets are back on him; Xavier pulls them off, the last barrier. He’s warm against Benji, pressed chest-to-chest. Smiling that quirked, strange smile. Not soft at all. Benji wonders if it ever softens — and then he wonders nothing at all.

They’re kissing — in the middle of it, suddenly. There’s no build up, but it feels languid as though they’ve been doing it for some time. Xavier’s broad hand, fist clenched like it had been around the handle of that hammer, rests on his chest. The other has wedged between their bodies, is nudging the sheets off, is pushing Benji’s sleep pants down his thighs, is —

Xavier stops kissing him, pulls back just enough to pant against his face. He smells sweet, like he’d just had his body weight in candy floss before they’d gotten to this point. Up until this point, he’s been kissing close-mouthed and shy. But when their cocks touch, squeezed sweetly in together Benji’s hand now, not his, the force of those kisses becomes something else entirely.

The more their hips rock together, skin dragging deliciously, the firmer Xavier’s mouth. He skates kisses across Benji’s jaw, leads teeth down his neck, and then stops to press his forehead to Benji’s chest. To watch.

“Guess I am, huh?” Xavier pants. His voice is soft and humored. Benji laughs about that, shaking his head — that’s something about the other man he’d noticed right away. The sweet, boyish hint of ego laced in every word.

It’s sticky and hot, sweat on his temples and dripping onto Benji’s chest, his cheek. He licks his lips and tastes salt. Tastes metal. When Xavier throws his head back and moans softly, his teeth are bloody.

The beginning of the orgasm tightens his stomach then, a warmth spreading in a swirl beneath his belly button. His thighs flex, calves squeezing enough that a cramp zips up his leg.

“Two-two.” Xavier sighs, face buried in his neck. His hand has wedged between them again, is pulling Benji just the way he likes, with the grip and rhythm he prefers when he’s close, he’s close—

Being pulled from the dream is a fist to the gut.

Benji jerks awake with a noise that startles him even more.

His shoulder is still tenderly healing, and now it’s properly sore: that arm is lifted at an uncomfortable angle, maybe has been for awhile. His fingers are tight in his hair, fisted in a clench so severe the joints ache. Benji has little to no warning as both consciousness and orgasm split him in separate, abruptly dizzying directions.

“Fuck,” he grunts, a soft whine slipping alongside the shocked expletive. It’s a longer one than he’s used to; it leaves his hips twitching and abdomen heaving for a good while after the last bit of release cools on his stomach.

He lays there, breathing hard, staring up at the perforated ceiling of his room on base.

Benji turns his head to the side. His tags rest in a tangled heap; he’ll have to pick the knot apart at first-call breakfast. In the dark, he can’t make out the letters of his name. He knows they’re there, etched into the rectangle.

He doesn’t drift off again for another hour. He’s too awake, once he’s pulled himself into the bathroom to wash off the mess, once he’s pulled the scratchy sheet off, once he lays there, shivering and staring up at the ceiling.

The lack of tiredness starts to frustrate him. Benji reaches up and squeezes his shoulder. To the healing divot of new, pink skin Benji presses his thumb, harder, harderharderharder. Until it hurts, until it’s electrifying, until he has to scowl and shut his eyes and think of something else to distract. Some way for his mind to wander around the pain, some distraction—

Benji relents his grip. He turns onto his uninjured side. He dreams of curling into a ball on his thin futon in an otherwise empty room.

He gets exactly four hours and eleven minutes of sleep. His eyes are red-rimmed and underscored with purple shadows the next morning, when he sits across from his lieutenant, when he is briefed on another mission

I need to pack extra in the kit this go around, Benji thinks, blinking sleepily. Just in case. Really. Just in case.

The lieutenant, perhaps mistaking his tired stare for something of secretive interest, smiles back at him. A second later, a slip of paper is passed beneath into his stiff fingers. Benji unfolds it across his lap to read:

functioning?

When his eyes lift, the lieutenant’s sear into him. Benji lifts a flat palm and wiggles it.

So-so.

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #val au #<- new core au we're reworking hehe #also mentions of violence/gore/brief and nonexplicit illusions to self harm behavior #you know. the benji special.

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