#reminder that I do have comms open I can’t find the post buT

[ososull]

Character art commission for @2-many-fandoms-2-count of the fabulous Widget! Had so much fun with this ⚙️🔧

[thepartyresponsible]

a comment on the playing with puppies fic reminded me that i actually wrote a little more for that universe. so here’s more of post-hydra shield agent bucky barnes, from clint’s pov this time.

there’s some violence in this one.

                                                       - - -

Clint doesn’t believe Barnes is human until he sees him scared.

Over the past handful of months, he’s seen him bleed plenty, which, in retrospect, should’ve been enough to prove the man wasn’t running on motor oil and circuits. But he always bled wrong. Like he was bored with it, uninterested, just spilled coffee and raindrops.

Once, after a job, Barnes stood on the sidewalk and wrapped his bloody hand in his shirt before he got into Coulson’s car. He left his face bleeding freely. By the time they got to SHIELD, there was blood halfway down his chest and none on the upholstery.

As far as Clint can track, the mess only matters if someone else will have to clean it up. Otherwise, it’s all autopilot. The bleeding stops when it stops. Barnes doesn’t seem to feel any particular way about it. Doesn’t seem to feel at all.

The fear, though. He feels that so much that Clint can feel it, clear across the street in the stupid jogging outfit SHIELD gave him. One glance at Barnes’ face, at the awkward angle of his body, the frozen way he’s holding himself, and Clint’s pulse kicks up like someone just yelled bomb.

Barnes is standing completely still. There’s a look on his face like someone’s cutting him open, but the guy he’s staring at isn’t doing anything. There’s no weapon in his hand. He’s just talking.

“Something’s weird with Barnes,” Clint says.

Coulson hates the way he talks on comms, and Clint expects a quietly frustrated request for more information. He doesn’t expect the tension in Coulson’s voice when he says: “Do not approach. We’re sending a team.”

There’s a beat of silence. Clint’s pace falters.

“How many of them can you see?” Coulson asks.

But he only sees one.

“It’s just some guy,” Clint says. His feet move themselves. He’s crossing the street at a light jog, flipping off the cars that honk, rightfully, at the pedestrian who just loped out in front of them.

“Barton,” Coulson says, “do not approach.”

But Barnes’ eyes flicker at the sound of the car horns. For one second, he’s looking right at Clint.

Clint’s never seen that kind of fear outside of animals and small children. It’s blind, stupid panic. It’s a mouse stuck to a glue trap, a kid hanging from a third story window of a house on fire. That’s drowning fear, bedrock fear, the kind that can’t get deeper.

It would make Clint sick to see on anybody. But seeing it on Barnes scares the hell out of him.

“Barton,” Coulson’s saying, but Clint can’t hear him over the sound of the blood in his ears.

The other guy hasn’t seen him. He’s still looking at Barnes. He’s smiling, toothy and eager, and, when he speaks, Barnes’ eyes drag back to his face like he’s fighting the pull the whole way.

Clint doesn’t know what kind of words can do that to a person, especially someone like Barnes. He’s got no interest in finding out.

There’s a coffeeshop one storefront up from where Barnes is frozen solid. Little bistro tables set out on the sidewalk, couples on midmorning dates and students hunched over laptops. They’ve got mugs, real coffee mugs, made of heavy glazed ceramic. Clint grabs one – mostly full – as he breaks into a sprint.

The splash of hot coffee across the man’s face turns his words into a garbled yelp. The smash of ceramic to the jaw turns that yelp into a scream.

The mug shatters, but Clint’s still got a jagged shard in his hand. He tackles the guy to the ground, smashes and stabs what’s left of the mug into his mouth and jaw and face until it’s nothing, just powder and the slick arch of the bloody handle.

Around them, people are screaming. The man on the ground is making a wet noise in the back of his throat, choking on a soup of coffee and blood and ceramic and teeth.

He’s not saying anything, couldn’t form words if he tried, but Clint still palms his forehead and smashes his head back against the concrete, just in case, just as insurance. He slumps to the ground, dazed or unconscious.

“Barton,” Coulson’s saying in his ear.

Clint’s fingers are buzzing like he’s been licking electrical sockets. Panic always did make him jittery. He kneels up far enough to roll the man over, props his head on his arm so the blood will run out of his mouth and not down his throat.

He did more damage than he meant to. He doesn’t want to kill him. But he didn’t know Barnes could be that scared. Could be scared at all, really.

“Shit,” Clint says. He holds the guy down for another second, for five more seconds, but he doesn’t move. He climbs to his feet. The crowd has flocked away, most of them grouped across the street, laptops and purses abandoned.

Barnes is standing in the exact same place. He’s staring at Clint. His eyes are empty like a bad painting, like somebody’s photocopied driver’s license photo. It’s eerie, sure, but soothing anyway. Barnes looks like Barnes again.

Clint shakes out his hands. There’s blood everywhere. There’s blood up to his elbows.

“Um,” he says. “Coulson?”

“Status report,” Coulson says. He sounds out of breath. He sounds like he’s been running. Or yelling, maybe.

“I kinda,” Clint says. “I think I broke some guy’s jaw. Maybe a few times.”

“Barton,” Coulson says, “you need to get out of there now.”

“No,” Clint says, “that’s what I’m saying. I think I got---”

The shot takes half the guy’s head off. Overkill. And Clint, who just completed some coffeeshop sidewalk dentistry, feels qualified to pass judgment on what constitutes overkill.

He’s moving before he’s thinking, diving backwards, rolling away. Barnes grabs him by the thin strap of his stupid tank top, hauls him to his feet, and then they’re off and running, zigzagging toward cover.

It’s a recon mission. Clint doesn’t have his bow. Barnes has a sidearm, though, tucked under his sweatshirt. When they’re crouched behind a truck, scanning the rooftops, looking for the shooter, Barnes shifts his body between Clint and the open air, moves like he’s going to block bullets with his ribs.

“Hey, Coulson,” Clint says, “someone’s shooting.”

“Yes,” Coulson says, “I am aware.”

Barnes leans up, takes a shot.

“You good?” Clint says, craning his neck back to check Barnes’ face.

There’s nothing there.

“Hey,” Clint says. And then, “Barnes?”

Barnes doesn’t answer. When he leans up, he takes four shots, aim shifting. Two targets. He keeps one hand on Clint’s shoulder, fingers wrapped in his shirt. Not like he’s trying to choke him, but like he wants to keep ahold of him, just in case he has to drag him somewhere.

“Coulson,” Clint says, staring into Barnes’ face. “Something’s still weird with Barnes.”

“Does he know who you are?” Coulson asks. Immediate and insistent. Which implies that Clint is something Barnes could forget. Like that’s a legitimate risk nobody told Clint to watch for. Like Coulson’s been sending a man who sometimes forgets who his allies are into combat.

“Hey, Barnes,” Clint says. “You know who I am?”

Barnes’ gaze flickers to him. His lips push together and then draw down at the corners. He frowns for a second and then he crowds him, still doing that weird body shielding maneuver. “Stay down,” he tells him.

“Okay,” Clint says. Because, whoever Barnes thinks he is, he’s clearly decided he needs to look after him. And Clint’s seen Barnes in action enough to consider that a blessing. He knows damn well it could’ve gone a lot worse. “Coulson,” he says, “how’s that evac team coming?”

[unchataparis]

A Review of Destruction

Fun fact of the post! The English lyrics of the opening song are "In the daytime, I’m Marinette, just an ordinary girl with an ordinary life. But there’s something that no one knows about me yet, 'Cause I have a secret", but the French lyrics are "Je m’appelle Marinette, une fille comme les autres. Mais quand je dois lutter contra les forces du mal, je devien-", which translates to 'My name is Marinette, a girl like any other. But when I have to fight against the forces of evil, I become–" and the chorus comes in with the resonating MIRACULOUS LADYBUG call.

"Ladybug, once I get that last Miraculous, you’ll disappear forever", Gabriel says in his evil monologue. Chat Noir goes back to not existing.

Another rational decision to ask Orikko immediately to grant Gabriel the power of time travel. Orikko’s powers are so bizarre, both Orikko and Ziggy’s powers are bizarre. They suit Marc and Nathaniel, since they are both artistic creators given the power of limitless creation, but these powers encroach a little too much on Ladybug’s territory. The two of them combined, technically could create their own Lucky Charm.

They’re doing a great job of irritating Gabriel.

How does a Holder have such oppressive powers against their Kwami? Who made this rule? Does the Holder have control over the Kwami because they possess the Miraculous Jewel? How does a human-made jewel have sun a reign over a formless concept?

That’s clever! Going around the restriction by forcing the Kwami to tell Gabriel where Ladybug lives. Reminds me of a similar get-a-round that happened in Vampire Academy.

Sabine has real snazzy pyjamas.

This episode on nonsense filler Latin.

So, Kwami can lie to their Holders.

Props to Alya for reacting so quickly.

Alya’s interruption is a good idea. Normally, Monarch would’ve been quicker to doubt and less likely to accept the fact that Marinette knows nothing but the keychain. But with his position outed and Ladybug likely on her way to apprehend him from terrorising random innocent citizens, he doesn’t raise as much questions and just want to get away.

Miles Morales.

So both Phillippe and Véronique, Véronique more, were in on the plan to help Ladybug.

This was a pretty solid strategy. Restrained, caged in, can’t risk making any hasty movements unless Monarque want the power of unlimited destruction coursing through his veins.

Ladybug bothering to explain how she knew Monarque was on her trail significantly reduces risk for Marinette.

The American dub focuses heavily on the characterisation that Monarque is a moth. The French dub refers to him as "papillon" only.

The only mistake Ladybug and Chat Noir made was underestimating the depths of Monarch’s desperation.

That really was a solid plan. Usually with Miraculous tactics, I can point out obvious fallacies or much sounder routes which would be ignored in cartoon settings in favour for pizzazz. But, here, I couldn't find a single foul in the plan to criticise. And Monarque could only get out by dealing himself the final damage.

I would not have felt any guilt in this scenario at all. As far as I'm concerned, Monarque dealt himself the blow.

Someone bothered to throw in "Lady Ice", but not the rest of the sentence? What’s going on? This is something so easy to do. Are the animators prevented from doing anything that’s not directly related to the plot?

The ribbon animation in this scene was great! They were bouncing and fluttering with Ladybug’s movements, I can’t remember if that has ever happened before.

All these events happened in one day? So, the true reason why Gabriel agreed so easily to Adrien wanting to quite modelling isn’t because he does want Adrien to have a shot at autonomous freedom or because he could just digitalise his son, but because he’s dying and wants to right all wrongs?

This episode really does set up the rest of the season, just like its predecessor. It introduces Gabriel's new facets of power. I don’t think there any special reason why Gabriel re-made the Miraculous into the shape of rings – there’s no link meant to Chat Noir, to clarify – it’s just the easiest way for a man like him to carry around 16 Miraculous without being too obvious about it. The next time Marinette spots him, she could point out, "why are all of your new jewellery the same exact Miraculous I lost?", but a really easy in-universe explanation could be that Gabriel manufactures faux-Miraculous jewels, like Lila’s fox pedant. Gabriel is supposed to be an avid Ladybug supporter. 

The audience comes to understand how Tomoe and Gabriel’s collaboration came to be –

And Gabriel has a new Miraculous Box and transformation. The over-wrapping lace is certainly – a unique touch. I like his previous Monarch look better, but this ingrain the more sickly aspect of his villainousness. His appearance oozes venom and tainted desire. It’s curious how Gabriel has blue pupils now. His 'Miraculous Box' is very personable, a ferris wheel cage, trapping hope like he traps the joy of his son. If Gabriel doesn’t have rights to it, he’ll just steal and build his own to contain it, basically. Very capitalistic mindset. Suits a fashion mogul.

[hackedmotionsensors]

GOD SORRY LMFAO

I’M SORRY I’M RUNNING BEHIND AGAIN ON OPENING COMMS.

They’ll be open...probably tomorrow morning. I’m trying to use Ko-fi’s commission form so everything is nice and neat but I’ve not done this before so its kinda confusing lol 

Actually honestly its pretty clean and has lots of little add ons and stuff that make organizing things really nice but I’m not sure how things will look on your end or how they’ll look on my end when a comm comes in so if I goof something up on the first part I’m so so sorry lol

Also I know I was REALLY lowballing sketch coms before but I can’t afford, nor do I have the energy, to do 15$ commissions for sketches. So the base price for a black and white bust sketch will be 30$. Thats still really low all things considered but I want to make things ...cheap and fast and also...worth my time and energy. This is a reminder that that price is EXTREMELY low and that artists who charge a more sensible price than that are not over charging. I’m lowballing bc I’m fuckin broke lol

If that price is too high even little donations help me out in the long run so if you want you can leave a donation for as little as 3$? 6$?Just remember to leave a comment that its a donation so I know its not a request

I also have a few new rules so please be mindful of that. ↴

I’d say the most important rule is do not message me on any platform BUT ko-fi and if you commission me please check your ko-fi messages. Most likely I won’t have anything to say unless you’re sending me references. I have my DMs off on all platforms and I don’t really want to use my email unless I’m sending something to you. Ko-fi will be the only way to contact me and for me to contact you.

The other important one will be no real people. I’m sorry I feel uncomfortable drawing a real person being it you, your auntie, or an actor you like. (If its like...a live action character that’s different bc I’m just gonna make them anime anyway lol)

The other OTHER new rule will be I have to limit what I can draw from marvel. IT’LL BE IN THE POST but basically I’m still under NDA. You’re probably okay to ask for stevetony....bc they’re dead :)  (Also my crew was well aware of my ST shipping lol)   But you can dm me first to ask what is probably okay. I know i get a lot of BuckyTony which isn’t my thing but I know you guys are thirsty. But since Bucky is still in the current mcu I don’t know...if I’m allowed. Things like Billy, Tommy, Teddy....probably fine if its comic book based. Its WEIRD lol There’s a lot of grey and I just wanna be able to get hired again yknow?? lmfao Absolutely NO spider-man at all. AT ALL. I’m not risking it. 

Unless you were one of my crew members then (how’d you find this account???) ....i’ll just dm you privately lol

So yea if you’re interested in MCU, since I know a lot of people originally followed me for that....you gotta let me know first before sending your comm request in...I THINK?? I don’t exactly know who gets what first on the commission thing on ko-fi. 

and then the usual rules like please no gore, please no NSFW (spicy is fine but not explicit), Maximum 2 characters, try to keep them simple bc they’re sketches not fully rendered pieces, Furries are okay but not recommended (I’d rather send you to a furry artist with comms open since I’m primarily an anime artist ...more or less lol) , PLEASE be mindful of things that might make ME uncomfortable. I’m very VERY open minded and most things DON’T bother me but remember I’m not really an open NSFW artist or kink artist or anything like that. I know I can come off as really wild or loose minded (????) in terms of shipping but there’s been a few times I’ve felt really uncomfortable with comms and I just did them anyway bc I needed the money. You can always ask me ahead of time if you’re really unsure. When it comes to shipping what you might think is comfortable might make me VERY uncomfortable. 

lol THIS WILL ALL BE IN THE POST SORRY TO DUMP HERE  lol but i have more text space here

So yeah I need to make a graphic and then it should be up tomorrow.

[wolf359transcripts]

Wolf 359 Season 1 Episode 8 - “Box 953”

[intro music]

Welcome to Wolf 359.

Eiffel: [sighs in irritation] Hey everyone. This is the audio log of Communications Officer Doug Eiffel. It’s day five hundred and twenty-five of the Hephaestus mission. If this recording sounds slightly... different from my usual logs, it’s because today, I’m not broadcasting from the comms room. I’ve relocated to the station’s storeroom for today’s session. Just... y’know, it’s always good to... get a change of scenery, and if you get to avoid Commander Minkowski and her undying self-righteous fury, all the better. We’re having another one of those days at the station, dear listeners. A bad day. And I mean, you know me. I’m the very picture of courage in the face of danger, and all that, but trust me – in this case, discretion is the better part of valor.

[announcement chime]

Minkowski: Crew of the Hephaestus. This is Commander Minkowski. As I know that you are all keenly aware, it is time for our quarterly talent show. I know that you’re aware of this, because it has been clearly marked as compulsory in the station calendar for the past two weeks, and because I have been posting regular reminders throughout the station. And because I told the both of you today at breakfast. And at lunch. So, imagine my surprise when I got down to the cargo bay, and neither of you were there. I can only assume that it’s because you’re putting finishing touches on your acts for today. Which is nothing if not commendable. But don’t push it. I’m making this announcement from the comms room, where I can’t help but notice that you’re not, Eiffel. I’m just going to assume that it’s because we narrowly missed each other, when I was coming up here, and you were going down. And by the time I make it back to the cargo bay, you’ll be there. Ready to enthusiastically dazzle us with some talent. One that does not involve smoke rings.

Eiffel: [under his breath] Fascist.

Minkowski: Same goes for you, Dr. Hilbert. This is a mandatory event. So don’t make me come and get you. We’re going to boost morale, we’re going to bond as a crew, and we’re going to have a great time doing it, even if I have to drag both of you kicking and screaming into it. Minkowski out.

[announcement chime]

Eiffel: Drop the mic, why don’t ya. Y’know, it’s bad enough when she makes us do something just because it’s military protocol, but I think she actually really cares about these talent shows. But friends, they’re a few dramatic poetry readings beyond my breaking point. I can deal with the bad food, the low shower pressure, and lack of Simpsons reruns around here. But I have my limits. It’s either not smoking, or Sylvia Plath’s Lady Lazarus. Not both of them together. So, until this whole thing blows over, I’m gonna be luxuriating in the remotest, darkest, hiding-spottiest corner I could find in the entire station. You know what the scariest part of all of this is though? For once, Hilbert and I actually agree on something. If anything, I think he might hate Minkowski’s little talent shows even more than I do. In fact, let’s see how the enemy of my enemy is doing.

[open intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Hey Dr. Hilbert, how are you doing? Looks like the witching time of night is upon us, eh?

Hilbert: One moment, Eiffel. Delicate process, time is of the essence.

Eiffel: Yeah, no kidding. Sounds like Hurricane Minkowski’s on the move. You holed up somewhere yet?

Hilbert: Nyet. I have reconsidered that strategy since our confronts this afternoon. Have decided to tackle problem... more directly.

Eiffel: Oh?

Hilbert: Upon further reflection, I remember that I do in fact possess many talents, among them biochemistry.

Eiffel: Already I don’t like where this is going.

Hilbert: Well, I’m now putting the finishing touches on a rather powerful concoction. I will submit this to Commander Minkowski as my entry for the talent show, claiming that is a... combination nerve tonic, energy drink, and breath freshener. That, however, will be a clever lie!

Eiffel: What’s it actually do? Turn her into a frog?

Hilbert: Nothing so elaborate. Just powerful sedative and narcotic. It will knock her out for the next twelve hours. Plenty of time for the talent show window to elapse, and allow us to focus on our real work.

Eiffel: Y’know, Doctor, you can’t solve all your problems by knocking someone out.

Hilbert: People keep saying that, and yet, my problems keep going away.

[a droplet falls into liquid and fizzing begins]

Hilbert: There, completed. Stand by Eiffel. I will report once the situation has been neutralised.

Eiffel: Godspeed, Doc.

[close intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Well, until we get a confirmation that the coast is clear, let’s just lay low, shall we? Y’know, I’ve never really paid attention to this storeroom before. It’s always just kind of been... here? We’ve never really needed anything from here, and... yeah, I don’t even know if I’ve even been in this room before. There must be hundreds of crates in here. They’ve all got a number printed on the side, and the Goddard Futuristics logo. They’re the corporate sponsor for this mission, so uh I guess they’re using this as... free storage space? What the hell are they even keeping up here?

[crate opens]

Eiffel: What the – Looks like this entire box is just... full of... dolls. Just those... weird, Russian dolls that you can open, and... there’s like a bunch of smaller dolls inside of them? Only, um. None of... them... have eyes. It’s just... a bunch of weird, eyeless Russian dolls. I’m just gonna leave this one alone.

[crate closes]

Eiffel: Well, that was really weird. Let’s see... hm... how about... box 239?

[crate opens]

Eiffel: Hm. Well, this one’s just full of pieces of paper. [rustling paper] Just a... big pile of... What? [chuckles] “Dear Santa, for Christmas this year I want a Harley-Davidson remote contr-” Holy crap. This is where these letters end up? Conspiracy revealed! Now I kind of need to see if this huge one has Santa in it or something. Box 56. Okay, let’s see.

[crate opens]

Eiffel: Holy crap. You guys! There’s a cannon in here! Why is there a cannon in here? W-What practical purpose, could a cannon possibly serve in outer space? I don’t – I [clicks] – Oh, wait a minute. I think I just saw – Yeah yeah yeah, okay.

[rustling paper]

Eiffel: There’s a manifest by the door that says what’s in each of these crates. Jeez. How long is this thing? Let’s see, let’s see... Box 217 has one thousand, three hundred and forty-six red L-shaped Lego blocks? Which first of all, why would anyone want that many L-shaped blocks? L blocks are useless.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: Box 300 has the individual pieces, for three full suits of armour, near mint condition? Never know when you might need one of those.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: Box 552 apparently has the... partial skull of unnamed megafauna specimen 58. Whatever that is. Oh, and there’s a note. “Please handle with care, and with a... vague feeling of existential dread”? Well, at least they’re specific.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: This is some Raiders of the Lost Ark level stuff here. [turning pages] I mean. I wonder if the Ark of the Covenant is tucked up under a yeti skull, or a scale model of Atlantis, or something.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: Um. What? [clears throat] I’m sorry listeners, I just – There’s a box that’s – It says here that box 953 is... “Reserved for Douglas Eiffel. Do not open under any circumstances”. Um... What?

[open intercom buzz]

[Minkowski singing “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” in the background]

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel.

Eiffel: Can you hang on a moment, Doc?

Hilbert: [whispered] No, I cannot! Eiffel, situational norms here are catastrophically far from the stability of hanging!

Eiffel: Really? That’s nice.

Hilbert: [whispered] No, it’s not! I- I’m not sure what’s wrong, but my compound did not render the Commander unconscious! Instead, it just triggered some sort of... impaired euphoric effect on the subject.

Eiffel: Oh cool.

Hilbert: [whispered] No! It is not cool! It is diametrically opposed to cool! Eiffel. You do not understand – there is singing.

[Minkowski finishes singing and hiccups]

Hilbert: [whispered] This is an emergency! We require immediate assistance!

Eiffel: Sure sure, whatever you say.

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel!

Minkowski: [slurring] Hilbert? Who’re you talking to?

Hilbert: Oh um...

Minkowski: [slurring] You should... no talking. You should be focusing on making pirate costumes for the show! [gun racking] Shouldn’t you?

Hilbert: Y-Yes, Commander!

Minkowski: [slurring] Swashes and buckles, Hilbert! Swashes... and buckles. [hiccups] Alright. One more time from the top, Hera!

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel! Please hurry!

[close intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Why... Why is there a box that says “Reserved for Douglas Eiffel” up here? Like, does that mean that... whatever’s in the box is stuff for me? Or... is it that... I’m the one that – Where the hell is this box anyway? Alright. One second, dear listeners, l-let me see if I can find this thing. I’ll be right back.

[intermission music]

Eiffel: Hey again. So. I’ve spent the past two hours tearing this place apart, but I still haven’t been able to find box 953. I’ve found all sorts of other weird crap up here. Including the shrunken heads of Paul Harding, MD, and Associates. So, y’know, ew. [shuddering inhale] I’m still not sure where – Hang on. I think I – I think I see it. That’s definitely a nine, and a five, in that big box back there. One moment. Lemme check that out.

[open intercom buzz]

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel! Whatever action you’re taking to save me, you must hurry! Things have taken a turn for the worst. Commander Minkowski has demanded I make her ice-cream for the conclusion of the talent show. I tried to explain that I don’t have the necessary ingredients, but she just fired a shot past my head! I’m not sure if it was a warning shot, or if she just missed! I’m doing my best to create an approximation of ice cream, but, I fear what will happen when it fails the taste test! You need to do something before it’s –

Hilbert: Oh! Commander! I did not see you there!

Minkowski: [slurring] Did I – I didn’t tell you to talk to anyone, Doctor. I thought I told you to make ice-cream.

Hilbert: Oh yes, Commander.

Minkowski: [slurring] Good, good. Ice-cream is good. You know why, Hilbert?

Hilbert: W-W-Why? Commander?

Minkowski: [slurring] Because... I scream for ice-cream. I scream for ice-cream. You scream for ice-cream, right Doctor?

Hilbert: Of course! Of course I do.

Minkowski: Of course you do. I scream, you scream. I scream, you scream. We all scream for ice cream!

Hilbert: [muffled screaming]

[close intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Hm. Nope. Turns out that was box 957. Nothing in there, except for some old Farmer’s Almanacs, and some diaries belonging to someone called Victoire Fourier. Think it’s time to call in the cavalry. Hey Hera, can you hear me?

Hera: Yes, I can, Officer Eiffel. But can this wait for a moment, I’m trying to learn my lines.

Eiffel: Lines? Oh god, tell me you’re not getting sucked into Minkowski’s crazy talent show thing.

Hera: Pirates of Penzance is a classic of 19th-century comic opera. And sure, Isabel isn’t the biggest role in the play, but it’s a start!

Eiffel: There’s many things going wrong with what you just said, but I so don’t have the time right now. Listen, multi-task for a moment.

Hera: Eiffel, I’m always multi-tasking.

Eiffel: And help me out here. Do you have the storeroom manifest knocking around in your head somewhere?

Hera: Of course, basic item description and organisational imprint for all... one thousand and thirty-seven crates.

Eiffel: Okay. What can you tell me about number 953?

Hera: One second. [pauses] Um... Not much, it says it’s reserved for you, but... beyond that the records are blank.

Eiffel: Nothing else?

Hera: Not in my internal banks. Let me access the central memory banks on the Hephaestus compu-

Hera: [mechanically] Error. Inappropriate security clearance. File access denied. File access denied.

Hera: Ugh, god damn it.

Eiffel: You okay?

Hera: Yes. No. I hate when that happens! Do you have any idea how annoying it is to get kicked off a thought when you’re halfway through having it? Now I’m going to have a headache for the rest of the night.

Eiffel: So, you can’t tell me anything else?

Hera: No. There’s information in the system, but I don’t have the –

Hera: [mechanically] Error. Inappropriate security clearance. File access denied. File access denied.

Hera: Ugh!

Eiffel: Woah woah woah, don’t make yourself short circuit. Stop trying to access that file.

Hera: Easy for you to say! You try not thinking about something sometimes, see how easy it is. [sighs] I think I would need Commander Minkowski’s security codes to get that information.

Eiffel: Ugh, yeah, well that’s not happening any time in the near future. Could you at least tell me where this box is?

Hera: Oh. That I can do. It’s on the far side of the store room, right behind box 102.

Eiffel: Hera... What are you talking about? There’s nothing there, just – H-Holy crap. That’s box 953? I thought that was part of the wall!

Hera: Nope. That’s the one you’re looking for. [pauses] Uh, listen Eiffel? I’m gonna go. Commander Minkowski’s running me through the cues for the Act 1 finale, and I should really give her my full attention. Well. Full-ish attention.

Eiffel: So that’s box 953? [pauses] Um. It’s different from the other boxes. First of all, it’s... it’s large. I believe the technical military term is ginormous. You could probably fit an elephant in there. And it’s made out of some kind of black metal. And all the other boxes are restrained, but this one looks like it was bolted in place. How the hell do you even open this thing? Oh, I see, there’s a groove right there and, a hinge next to... this label that says “Keep closed at all times”. So. I-I guess this section just... swings outwards. Ah! And it’s cold! Box 953 is really, really cold, dear listeners. [exhales] Um. A-And there’s a sound coming from inside the box, it – it’s like this... humming. That kind of comes and goes.

[faint humming fades in]

Eiffel: It... kind of sounds like... [nervous chuckle] I almost said it sounded like a heartbeat, but, well, that would be crazy. That would be completely impossible and insane, right, dear listeners? Right?

[long pause]

Eiffel: I guess I could go. You know. L-Leave this alone. Walk away, get some coffee. Maybe see if I can get choir part in Minkowski’s musical extravaganza without getting shot in the face. [pauses] Nah, who am I kidding? I’m gonna go now, dear listeners. I’m gonna go... into box 953. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when I do. I don’t know what exactly is... reserved for me in there. But it seems like something I should know. I need to know. Okay. I’m leaving now, dear listeners. I’ll see ya on the other side.

[box opening in the distance]

[fizzling, then huge rolling explosion and shattering noise]

[sharp static burst]

[static burst]

Eiffel: Listeners, I’m back. I’m back not from the inside of box 953, as I’d hoped, but rather from a long series of complications. It’s been a... long, painful, frankly annoying three hours since I last talked to you. And a lot’s happened. I tried to open box 953. But I found that the lid had not only been set in place, but actually bolted and riveted to the box. In lieu of superhuman strength, I decided to get a crowbar from engineering. I’m guessing I must have only been out of the room for... like a minute or so, before Commander Minkowski came in. Apparently, she was looking for me because she needed a second pair of eyes to tell her if the prop sabre for her Major-General costume was a bit much. [inhales] I... [exhales in frustration] may have... forgotten to put the lid back on box 56. That would be the one with the um, cannon? Well, in her... let’s call it excited state, Commander Minkowski decided that a cannon would be just the thing to liven up the end of the second act of the play. So she decided to test it by drunkenly lighting the fuse, and blowing a hole in the station’s hull. Like you do. Between the air catching fire, and the depressurisation of the storeroom, and – Y’know what, let’s just say that by the time we got her back into the main structure and sealed off that room, practically all of the crates had left the building. And few minutes later, they’d fallen into a decaying orbit around the star! And a few minutes after that, they were incinerated into a pile of ash. Box 953 is gone, dear listeners. It’s gone, and I never found out what was inside of it. Once again, our quarterly talent shows have taken something away from me. Something that I can never, ever get back.

Eiffel: [breathes deeply] I guess I should be... grateful. Commander Minkowski only suffered minimal burns and frostbite injuries, and... once whatever crap Hilbert gave her wears off, should make a full recovery. I guess... I even have new stuff to tease her about, now that she’s unleashed her inner Bob Fosse. And I suppose there’s something to be said about the fact that we didn’t lose the entire station from that hull breach. That we didn’t all die in a blazing inferno. Or suffocate in the blackness of the void. Or freeze to death.

Eiffel: [angrily] But I really wanted to know what was inside box 953, dear listeners! I really wanted to know! [pauses] Ugh, thank god this day is over. From the communications room of the USS Hephaestus, this is Doug Eiffel signing off. Goodnight.

[outro music]

This has been Wolf 359, written and directed by Gabriel Urbina. The roles of Eiffel and Hilbert were played by Zach Valenti. The role of Minkowski was played by Emma Sherr-Ziarko. And the role of Hera was played by Michaela Swee. Original music by Alan Rodi, and audio recording by Jared Paul. Tonight’s episode featured “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” from Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan. If you enjoyed tonight’s episode, please consider taking a moment to leave a review on our iTunes page. It’ll only take a moment, and unlike Minkowski’s talent show, will really help to boost morale amongst the crew. Visit us at wolf359.fm, or follow us on Twitter at @Wolf359Radio for more information on our show.

Transcript by @saltssaumure.

[book-of-baba-fett]

Passing Time - Hunter x Fem!Reader

In between jobs on Ord Mantell, you meet a mysterious man named Hunter who’s more than willing to help you kill some time.

AO3 link

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, bar hookup, oral sex (fem receiving), thigh riding, vaginal and anal fingering, light degradation, light spitting, light biting

Notes: hit 99 followers on the same day as The Bad Batch finale so I thought of a little Hunter smut as a treat. This was my take on@delusionsxfgrandeur ‘s Redefining smut challenge!

Word Count: 2.2k

Cid’s bar is as seedy as ever, with grime covering every surface including the glass you’re drinking from. You examine the glass, twirl around the brown liquor, then pour it down your throat figuring the alcohol must work as a disinfectant. You just finished a drop off for Cid and are hanging tight while your astromech works on some maintenance for your ship. The droid was going to comm you once everything was flight ready for your next job, but for now you’re trying to to find the best way to way to kill time. And the ache in between your legs reminds you that you can’t even remember the last time you had a good fuck.

Scanning the room, you realize there’s not much to work with. Just a weequay and an ithorian, both obviously intoxicated as they argue over a game in the corner. Otherwise the place is empty, except for a man sitting on the other edge of the bar. By the Republic issue armor he wore, you could assume he was a clone but he was unlike any clone you had seen before. There were some basic facial similarities, but he wasn’t identical to is countless counterparts. He had long dark hair, that curled to his neckline, kept away from his face by a red bandana. What captures your eyes is the skull tattoo covering half his face; you can’t help but lick your lips when you wonder how far it goes down his body.

“Hey Cid,” you wave down the Trandoshan. “Another round for me, and a drink for the man down the end of the bar too.”

“Huh, Dark and Broody?” Cid questions you, a confused and judgmental look on her face. “Sheesh, kid, I guess everyone has their own type but fine.”

Cid hands the drink to the man, who looks around the bar surprised until his eyes found you. He cocks a brow, and he lifts the drink up to you. You mirror his movements and you each take a sip at the same time. He slowly rises from the seat and stalks his way towards you.

“So you must be Dark and Broody?” You extend your hand to him. The man let’s our a soft chuckle.

“Did Cid tell you to say that?” His low and husky voice asks before he properly introduces himself “It’s Hunter, and I must say you don’t seem like Cid’s usual clientele.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.” You smirk at him. He must be another bounty hunter under Cid’s employment, you think as you notice how armed he is. He leans on the counter next to you, and you don’t fail to notice the way his eyes drift up and down your body. If he’s in your line of work, maybe he’s in the same need for some relief as you are. You shift in your seat, painfully aware of your growing arousal as you and Hunter make small talk. You had your fair share of lovers, but there was something about his magnetic ruggedness that intrigued you. That and the fact that he seems reluctant to give you any information about himself, but that wasn’t too uncommon in your line of work. But you don’t need his life story, you just need him to satisfy your itch.

“So how’s the men’s room here?” You ask.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ahh, it seems you’ve broken his tough guy facade to earn a flustered look on his face.

“The men’s room,” you repeat. “The last time I was here the women’s door wasn’t working properly and when you closed it you were locked in or you had to keep the door open. And I’m really looking for some privacy and no interruptions, so I’m curious if the men’s room will work.”

You down the rest of your drink, licking your lips as you finish, carefully keeping eye contact with him as you do. You watch his face process your words, his pupils expanding in his dark eyes and the corner of his lips on his tattooed side rises as he realizes your meaning.

“I think it’ll do just fine, I can show you the way?”

“What a gentleman,” you tease, taking his hand.

***

Your hands are on each other the second the door closes behind you. His grip on your plush ass, pulling you tighter to him. Yours find their way through his curls, tugging his hair as his mouth meets yours in a needy kiss. His large hands travel up your curves, until they reach your head and cup your face as he pulls back from the kiss.

“Such a dirty little thing aren’t you?” He rasps out. “Going into a filthy bar bathroom with a man you don’t even know?”

“What can I say? I like things a little messy.” You glance at him through heavy lashes as you grind against his codpiece.

“Open your mouth.” He orders, the deep tone in his voice going straight to your core, where you already feel your arousal dripping from you. You follow his command, just for him to spit in your eagerly awaiting hole. He groans as you close your mouth and swallow it. You bring your lips back to his as you make out with him again.

One of his hands leaves your face so it can trail down your waist and under your top, roughly groping your breast. You let out a soft moan into his mouth as his thumb flicks over your nipple. You feel him smirk against you, as he adjusts his ministrations so he’s lightly pinching your pebbled nipple. Your head involuntarily tilts back at the please and his mouth connects with your now open neck, his teeth nipping at your sensitive skin.

You stumble backwards under his exploring hands, your back hitting the bathroom door behind you. Hunter uses this to his advantage, and grabs hold of your hip with one hand while the other continues its squeezing of your breast. He brings a leg in between yours and presses it against the apex of your thighs. You cry out as you finally have some friction against your aching core. You instinctively grind on his thigh; the crease of his armor and the seam on your pants combining to rub against your clit in the most addicting way that you can’t stop yourself. Your hands reach to his shoulders as you balance yourself against him.

Hunter watches, eyes blown out in lust, as you use him to chase your own needs. The hand on your hip assists your movements, making you gyrate faster and faster into the man. Moans are rolling off your lips, and your head snaps back against the wall as you feel the tightening coil of an approaching orgasm in your stomach.

Hunter bends down to nibble at your earlobe, his warm breath panting against your skin as he whispers, “Such a sexy thing, riding my thigh to get yourself off. You’re almost there, aren’t you? Dirty little slut. “

You whimper against him, your eyes shutting so you can focus on your impending climax. A harsher bite on your neck makes you yelp, and your eyes snap open to see Hunter staring at you.

“I asked you a question, be a good girl and answer me."

Your mind stutters for a moment before his harsh gaze reminds you of what he asked you. “Yes... I’m so close!” You gasp out at him, as you continue humping his leg. He smirks as his smoky eyes stay locked your face, watching every reaction as you build to your peak.

“Go on them, cum for me.” You cry out on his order, and his mouth clamps down on yours so he can muffle the sound to avoid being discovered by the few patrons in the bar. Your orgasm rolls through your body, your hips unrelenting in their thrusting on Hunter’s thigh as you ride out the waves of bliss. Once your movement slows, Hunter pulls back from kissing you to examine you in your post ecstatic state. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed and eyes drooping; you’re the sexiest thing he’s seen in a long time. And he wants to make you do it again.

He removes his gloves as he shifts his thigh out from under you, making you slump against the wall. You sigh, feeling him drag a hand over your covered center. He groans, feeling the wetness seeping through your pants from your previous orgasm. His fingers fumble with your buttons, then he roughly pulls the pants down and over your ankles. He presses his face against your panty covered mound, inhaling deeply as he’s intoxicated by your arousal. Looking back up at you, he licks a long strip over your panties, circling around your hidden clit. You moan from the overstimulation as you grip the door handle behind you, your legs still feeling like jelly and struggling to hold you up.

Sensing your predicament, Hunter slides your panties down your legs and removes them, tossing them in the pile with your pants. He then props one of your legs over his shoulder and presses a hand against your abdomen to hold you upright.

His warm breath wafts against your sensitive skin as he separates your folds with two thick fingers. His tongue slowly peaks out, teasing your swollen clit with delicate flicks. You groan as you feel the warm wetness of him lapping up the release of your previous orgasm. Once he’s sure you’re past the point of overstimulation and ready to go again, he attacks with more fervor.

Your head snaps to the wall again as he starts devouring you with a renewed intensity, his lips closing around your clit as his tongue rapidly circles and flicks it. He switches up the rapid movements with broad, strong strokes against your pussy, making your hips arch into his face to push more pressure from him. He hums into you as you moan above him, the vibrations adding to the euphoric sensation of his tongue against you. He’s a quick study to your body, following any hitch of your breath or moan to follow what you like and return to those sweet spots over and over again as he enjoys you.

You feel a prodding at your entrance as he pokes one large finger into you, your hips keening against him as you allow him to push deeper into you. With a gasp, you feel him add a second finger into your tingling pussy. He groans, watching your cunt grip his fingers as he pushes them in and out of you.

“So wet for me, mesh’la.” He growls dipping his head back to lap at your clit while he fingers you. Matching the pace of his hand and mouth, you feel the tension of another orgasm building up. His fingers crook inside you, pressing against that hard to reach spongy spot inside you.

“Yes, right there!” You cry out, begging him not to stop. He focuses on hitting that spot with every thrust of his hand. He brings his other hand around to your ass, squeezing your cheek and bringing you closer to him to ravage. Your breath leaves your body in wanton moans as he brings you closer and closer to the edge again. The hand on your ass slides inward, until you feel a single finger circling around your other entrance.

“Hunter!” You yelp as the finger pokes in, teasing along your sensitive entrance. Your head flops down so you meet his eyes, a devilish, lustful darkness taking over them as he continues eating you out while fingering both of your holes. His pace in in your cunt increases, finger bending and stroking you just where you need him as he wrenches your orgasm out of you.

Toes curling, head snapping back, and eyes rolling into your head: you cry out. Your body tenses, your legs quake and you would fall over if it were not for him holding you up. Your pussy pulses as you release, the waves of ecstasy overpowering your body. Hunter works you through your release, removing the hand from your ass to keep you steady. He softly laps at your folds and slows the push of his fingers in you until he feels your walls stop pulsing then he removes them.

He rises off his knees to kiss you, his mouth glistening with a mixture of your release and his own spit. You lean into the kiss, one much softer than the ones that started you escapades. You curse to yourself when you notice your comm going off.

“That important?” Hunter grumbles against your skin, his lips dragging along your cheek.

You groan, realizing it’s your droid letting you know your ship is ready to go. “Sadly, it is.” You had wasted to much time before starting your next job. You look at him with apologetic eyes, your previous experiences with men leading you to think he might be angry about your lack of reciprocation. To your surprise, he grins and holds up his hands as he steps away.

“No worries, I get it. Duty calls.” He hands you your pants from off the ground, you mumble your thanks, looking around for your underwear when you realize he’s twirling them in his fingers. He smirks at you before he sniffs them and places them in a compartment on his belt. “Hey, if you want these back you’ll just have to find me next time you’re back on Ord Mantell.”

[divine-mistake]

it's just a curve upon the lips (a kiss)

Summary: “Did it really look like I needed your help?”

“Yes. Horribly.”

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), possible TFATWS SPOILERS, strong language, canon typical violence, fluff, humor, established relationship, idiots in love, is this a john walker hate fic?, totally not divine's normal bag of tricks

Word Count: 4500

A/N: Well, I have 0 patience so I am posting this fic this morning. This fic was written for @kitkatd7 and her 600 follower writing challenge! The prompts I used are bolded. Congrats again lovely 💖 hope you are doing swell and that you enjoy this! Thanks for hosting!!

main masterlist

Bucky’s going to kill you.

Or, more realistically, he’s going to kill John Walker. Not that it’s really Walker’s fault that you’re in the predicament you’re in. Well—okay—he’s not faultless. If anyone ruined this mission first, it was Walker. All you’re doing is trying to save it.

But being pressed up against the wall of some dirty nightclub in Madripoor, John Walker’s lips inhaling your own, his hand wandering dangerously close to your ass where he could easily slip his fingers up the hem of your dress and feel that you aren’t wearing panties, well, that’s gonna be a hard one to explain.

It all started when you were born—

But more seriously, it started in New York, when Sam Wilson showed up on your doorstep with a new mission.

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, don’t make me beg!” Sam’s standing in front of you, hardly out of the entryway, giving you the big puppy dog eyes as if he’s asking for something simple, like taking you out for a milkshake. Or jetting you off to Italy for a long overdue vacation. Or, fuck, anything but whisking your boyfriend off to Madripoor for an off-the-books mission.

You stare at him, hard, for five seconds. Then you point to the ground beneath your feet.

“Beg,” you command.

He recoils in absolute shock, mouth falling open, and then his lips pull back to reveal a set of pearly teeth bared in a cheesy grin.

“Damn, Barnes,” he says with a whistle. “You better watch your back or I’ll snatch her up, quick as can be.”

Not even moving from the couch he’s lounging on, Bucky throws his hand up in the air, waving lazily at Sam.

“You couldn’t handle her.”

Your head falls to the side, eyebrows raised, as if you’re taunting him— waiting for him to say something. Sam’s mouth shuts with a click of teeth and he gulps. With a smile, you narrow your eyes into a glare.

“Fair point,” he says.

“I’m serious,” you tell him, arms crossed over your chest. “If you want him, you better start begging, Wilson.”

Sam purses his lips, like he’s seriously thinking about it, and lets out a loud sigh. He’s folding. But just as he’s about to concede, you hear the squeak of your old couch crow and then two large hands, one warm and one cool, fall upon the sides of your jaw, tipping your head back.

Bucky looks down at you sternly. “Baby,” he warns.

You huff, pouting a little. “Really?”

The corner of his lips curl. You hate that he’s tall enough to tower over you like this, the bastard.

“Really,” he says, and leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Your eyes flutter closed and you sigh, melting back into him. When you open them again, Sam has his gaze averted, almost embarrassed, like he knows he’s intruding on an intimate moment. As if he hasn’t seen you wrapped around Bucky like an octopus, making out with him as soon as he got home from Riga. It makes you snort.

Bucky’s hands fall from holding your face and wrap around your middle. “So what’s the plan?” he asks, squeezing you gently. “And why is it off record?”

“Got a lead on one of the Power Broker’s old friends,” Sam says, suddenly snapping from Goofy Sam into Captain America, face set stoically, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Why do we care?”

“‘Cause Walker’s already there.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around you until all the air is pushed out of your mouth in a wheeze. You’ve become a squeaky toy, and you’d take a minute to snark at him about it if you could breathe, but you manage to slap your hands against one of his wrists. He lets you go instantly, cursing.

“Shit, sorry doll. Sorry.” His hands soothe over your sore skin. “What do you mean Walker’s there? In Madripoor?”

Sam gives him a curt nod. “He’s gone rogue—not that anyone’s surprised. But we’ve got to intercept. Or at least go and clean up the mess he’s about to make.”

“No,” you interject. “Nuh uh. No fucking way, Samuel. No.”

He frowns at you. “We don’t have much of a choice.”

“The hell you don’t! Let Walker get himself in trouble, who cares? He isn’t your responsibility, and he sure as hell isn’t Bucky’s—who is on a strict pardon, might I remind you.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need him, girl.” For what it’s worth, Sam looks apologetic, and like he means that, but all you can feel is the frustration and anger at what Walker’s done rising up in your body. Stealing the mantle from Sam, calling the love of your life an asset, disrupting his therapy, being a smug asshole, the events of—of everything that happened in Riga.

Bucky and Sam share a look that you don’t really catch, and then Bucky is pulling you toward the living room and spinning you in his arms so you’re smushed to his chest. He takes your face in his hands again and forces you to look at him as you twine your arms around his waist.

“Hey,” he calls gently. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s Walker,” you stress. “And Madripoor. And the Power Broker and you’re gonna get in trouble, Bucky. You might be a free agent but you have to be responsible.”

“You know this is my job. And you know Sam’s not gonna let me get into trouble. So what’s really wrong, baby?”

Sighing, tears starting to sting the backs of your eyes, you bury your face in Bucky’s chest. The softness of his henley catches a stray tear that you blink away as you nestle there and he curves his hands around your back to pin you against him. He smells clean, a little like pine and something smoky.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper. “You just came home.”

“Baby.”

Bucky pulls you up to meet him, his lips pressed against your own, a little chapped and familiar. It’s gentle and slow, not all-consuming, but a reminder of how much he loves you. His thumb swipes over your cheek to snag a runaway tear and wipe it away. He kisses you like he’s saying, I’m home. You’re my home.

When he pulls away, he’s not smiling, but his brow is furrowed like he’s pained. There is so much fondness for you in the blue depths of his eyes, so much love in the way he caresses your skin with his calloused fingers.

“Come with us,” he says, softly and in love.

And in the background, Sam Wilson shouts: “What?”

That’s how you find yourself in Madripoor.

Now, how you got yourself in this slinky black dress and a pair of stilettos, about to infiltrate a seedy nightclub in the middle of Low Town with a certain rogue John Walker—that’s a whole different story.

It’s a short one, really. You touched down in Madripoor, Sam found Walker making a mess of things as per usual, and then they were left with one single lead: Matthias Crowley. And, unfortunately for you, Crowley knows everyone’s face who is sitting in this town car on their way to Vanish, the club he frequents.

Except for yours.

Bucky is sitting beside you in the back seat, trying to angle a comms device into your ear. But his hands are fumbly, nervous, and yet again he ends up missing his mark.

You hiss in pain as the unit is jammed against the cartilage of your ear and Bucky curses.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “Your ear is just so small.”

“Give it to me,” you snap, a little harsher than normal, but he’s been at it for a few minutes now and just won’t let you do it. With a sigh, Bucky drops the piece into your awaiting palm, and within the next few seconds you have the little black device squished into place. In the darkness of the club, it won’t be visible.

“Sorry,” he says again, looking at you like a kicked puppy. You lay your hand on the cut of his jaw, nails scraping over his skin in a manner that makes him suck in a breath. A preview of later.

“I’ll be fine, babe. I promise.” You curl your lips in a smile. “Don’t worry so much.”

Bucky’s hand falls upon your own, squeezing your fingers. “You’re my best girl,” he tells you.

“Onlygirl.”

“I can’t help but worry. If you get hurt—”

“You don’t have to worry, Bucky. She’ll be with me, after all,” Walker says from the front seat, glancing at the two of you in the rearview mirror. Sam just sighs.

“And now I’m even more worried,” Bucky says, loud enough for Walker to hear. He takes both of your hands in his and presses kisses to your knuckles. “Promise me you’ll be safe, doll. That you’ll listen to all our directions. And that you’ll call me if you need me.”

“It’s going to be fine,” you reassure him, but he squeezes your hands again. “I’m not going to risk ruining the mission.”

“Fuck the mission,” Bucky grits through his teeth. “Madripoor is dangerous. Promise to call me if you need me.”

“Bucky—”

“Promise,” he pleads, his blue eyes all big and wide and worried, and you can’t refuse him.

“I promise.”

He gives you one last, lingering kiss in the backseat of the town car, nearly pulling you atop his lap like he can’t fathom not feeling you against him, and then Sam’s pulling up to Vanish and Walker is calling your name.

The plan is fairly simple. God, isn’t that what they always say though?

You cause a distraction. Spill your fruity drink on Crowley’s lap, get a little teary, show a little cleavage (you left that part out when Bucky was listening), and hold his attention long enough that Walker can sneak up onto the top level and into Crowley’s rented room. There, he’ll knock out the guards and break into the room to get the hard drive that everyone’s ninety-five-percent sure has info on the elusive Power Broker.

And, spoiler alert, most of this does not end up happening.

“You little whore!”

One of Crowley’s bodyguards, or shooty-guys, whatever they are, jesus, has his hand threaded through your hair so tightly it burns. You’re on your knees in front of the man himself, the strap of your silken dress falling off your shoulder, as the bodyguard dude is pulling your head up by your hair to look Matthias in the eyes.

The man himself, blond and kind of thinner than you thought he would be, leans forward in his seat to get a closer look at you. He’s kind of got a stick bug vibe. Like, Bucky could probably crack this man’s spine over his knee.

You feel a giggle try to worm it’s way out of your mouth and you clench your teeth together so hard you draw blood from your tongue.

“Do you even know who I am?” Crowley seethes at you, eyes narrowed into slits.

“No,” you stammer out, pulling out the doe eyes and the wobbling lip—the innocent angel face you tend to use when Bucky’s pissed at you for something you definitely knew you shouldn’t be doing but you did anyway because you’re a brat sometimes.

Men in love are the weakest link, you swear.

Crowley looks over you, gaze roaming up and down your body, and you squeeze your thighs together because you are definitely not wearing panties under this dress and, well, you aren’t looking for anyone to get a glimpse of that except for a man with a metal arm.

But Crowley mistakes it for something else, and a smirk breaks through his lips.

“You’re pretty,” he regards you, “for a whore.” Ouch. “Take her upstairs and I’ll deal with her later.”

Oh fuck. You really, really hope that Walker is up there and has the hard drive already. But as the bodyguard drags you up off the ground and toward the stairs, the pounding of your heart gets faster and faster and you’re pretty sure you’re sweating and wow, no one said that missions were this scary.

But you’re not about to call Bucky yet. Walker can get you through this. Probably.

In complete silence, the shooty-guy who definitely has a gun in his hand forces you up two flights of stairs and into a long, dark hallway. The only light is a flickering row of yellowed-out bulbs hanging haphazardly from the ceiling.

And, maybe it’s all the horror movies that someone likes to watch on movie night or something, but you get this horrible sinking feeling that you’re going to die in this ominous hallway, so you decide to act before you get dragged off to Crowley’s room.

You jerk to a stop, digging your heels into the stained carpet. Shooty-dude was not expecting that. He falters just enough that you whip out your leg and aim for the backs of his knees. You reach for the gun. Wrist in hand, you point it up, up, up at the ceiling. Dude lets your hair go to grab you. You send your head back with the force of a thousand suns, hoping it breaks his nose. Too short—clips his chin. Now you’re dizzy and your vision is going black at the edges.

His wrist slips your grip because you don’t know how to fight. Bucky taught you about twenty things and you remember exactly three of them—backs of the knees, head butt, and, oh, right.

You take your palm and shove it straight up into his nose. He dodges.

Shit.

And then, very suddenly and out of nowhere, bodyguard shooty-dudey is literally ripped away from you and thrown onto the carpeted floor, and Walker is on him. A sickening crack of his neck is all you need to hear to know it’s over.

You slump against the wall of the hallway, panting, looking at him.

“Did it really look like I needed your help?”

“Yes. Horribly.” Walker wipes a bloodied hand on the bodyguard’s jacket, glancing back at you. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you reply. “Did you get the drive?”

He swipes a black box out of his suit jacket, shaking it at you, and you nod.

“Then let’s get the fuck out of here,” you say, still trying to catch your breath. You press the tiny button on your comms device. “On our way down.”

A voice crackles to life. “You okay?” Bucky sounds worried and it makes you smile.

“Yep.”

“Good. Take the back entrance out of the club. Sam’ll pick you up. You’re doing great, baby.”

“This mean I’ll get a reward, Barnes?”

He laughs into the comms. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, doll. Be safe. I love you.”

“Love you more,” you tell him, and then you and Walker are on the move, out of the dingy hallway and toward the exit.

“So,” Walker starts, his voice still kept to a low rumble. “You and Bucky, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“Okay then.”

Thankfully, the rest of your trip is silent, because not only do you want to punch Walker in his stupid face every time he opens his mouth, but also because you hear the sounds of footsteps approaching, along with a familiar voice.

“Hope he tied the little whore up for me. Easier to fuck ‘em and kill ‘em like that. She didn’t seem too feisty though. Maybe I can keep her.”

You curse, grabbing Walker. Think fast, think fast, think fast.

“I need you to cover me,” you hiss. “Need you—God, can you work with me here? I need you to—”

Walker is very heavy and very uncooperative, you realize, as you pull him to the shadowed corner of the stairwell and try to arrange his limbs around you. He’s not very quick on the draw, lumbering and looking down at the stairs where the voices are floating up from, and at this point, you need to find whoever tried to make him Captain America and slap them in the fucking mouth.

Finally, you duck down and slam your back against the wall, pull Walker atop you, and take his face and slam his lips to yours.

And boy, it doesn’t take him long to get into the swing of things.

So yeah, in hindsight, you probably should have thought more about how your broody boyfriend was going to react to this. But also, your life was kind of on the line, and you really really really did not want to screw this mission up. It was bad enough that it was off the books thanks to Walker—no one but Torres would know where you guys were if you happened to die—but ruining the mission might mean that Bucky would be back on the chopping block.

It’s his job, you know. He’s a free agent, you know. He’s Sam’s partner and Sam won’t let anything happen to him, you know.

But also you’re just a tiny girl in a big world who shelves library books for a living. The only reason you know any self-defense is because your boyfriend is a reformed assassin. It’s like you’re living a double life. And, for god’s sake, he’s out there saving the world and shit. The least you can do is not fuck up one mission. Just one mission.

But man, Walker’s lips kind of taste like flat beer.

It’s enough that Crowley and his men brush past the two of you with little but a sneer and a shove of Walker’s back, who stumbles right into you, but you keep moving your mouth against his because you still hear them walking, and walking, and walking, and you aren’t ready to die but Walker’s nose keeps bumping yours and you haven’t kissed anyone besides Bucky in like three years, so this is super unpleasant.

And, god, if Walker’s hand doesn’t quit moving up your thigh, under the hem of your slick black dress, you’re going to have Bucky break his fingers.

In warning, you nip his bottom lip, and Walker pushes harder into you, caging you against the wall. As his fingers approach your hip, where he definitely will realize you aren’t wearing underwear, you slap his hand down and send your knee into his junk. He grunts into your mouth, but takes the hint.

Sam’s voice comes alive in your ear. “Where are you two?”

You don’t hear Crowley’s footsteps anymore, but you count one, two, three more seconds and then shove Walker off of you. He falls back, catching himself on the stair railings, wiping his mouth with a dopey look on his face.

“Damn,” he says, grinning.

You press your comms unit. “Ran into trouble. On our way now.”

“You good?” Sam asks, and this time, Walker chimes in.

“Better than good,” he replies, still staring at you.

“Gross,” you spit, then you’re breezing past him and rushing down the stairs.

He trails behind you, too close, and part of your brain reminds you that he has to stick close to you because it’s a mission, but another part of your brain is screaming that he’s acting like a puppy dog and not like you kissed him to save both your asses.

“Why are you even with Bucky? I don’t get it,” he murmurs in your ear—the one without your comms device—and even under the loud music of Vanish you can hear him.

“You don’t have to,” you snap back at him. “Our relationship is between us. Get lost, Walker.”

The door is right there. You can see it now as you slip past sweaty, drunk, dancing bodies. You just have to get out that back door and Sam will be waiting to pick you up, just like Bucky said.

But Walker’s hand slides over the silky fabric of your dress and his arm winds around your waist.

“But that kiss,” he says, near dreamy. “And Barnes isn’t your type of man.”

You turn back to glare at him. “Didn’t your wife leave you or something?”

His eye twitches. “C’mon,” he says. “I think we’ve got real—”

Before he can finish, you reach the exit and burst through the door and out into the back alley, the smell of rotting garbage, old piss, and blood filling your nose. Frankly, you prefer this trash over the trash spilling from Walker’s mouth right now.

But Sam, unfortunately, is nowhere to be seen. Immediately, you go to press your comms unit to find out where he is, but then Walker’s hand falls on your shoulder.

The next thing you know, your back is on the brick wall of the alley and Walker’s hands are on either side of your head, trapping you there. It doesn’t scare you in the least bit, even though you know it should, what with the fact that he’s a super soldier too. But your super soldier will come kick Walker’s ass, you know for certain, so there isn’t even an ounce of fear in you. Only anger.

“Get the fuck off of me,” you grit through your teeth.

“Just listen to me for a second,” he says.

“No!” You move to duck under his arm, but Walker grabs you and holds you there.

“I’m not asking.” He takes your chin in his hand. “I just want to know why you’re all over Barnes. He’s barely a person. Probably not even a good partner, if I had to guess.”

“Fuck you.” You gather the saliva in your mouth and spit directly at Walker’s lips.

The way his face contorts into fury, shadowed by the darkness of the alley, his eyes lit up by the neon of Madripoor, makes him look like a feral animal. And now you’re scared.

You saw the videos from Riga. You know what he’s capable of.

His grip on your chin tightens considerably, fingers digging into your jaw, and try as you might to swallow it, you whimper in pain. Walker tilts his head to the side, watching you, a tight smile finding its way onto his mouth.

“Is he better than me?” Walker demands. “You’d rather a brainwashed, broken super soldier than a decorated one?”

You try and speak but you can’t open your mouth. God, you’d give anything to tell him how much of a piece of shit he is, in fucking gory detail.

Like he’s reading your mind, or maybe he just wants you to stroke his ego, Walker’s grasp loosens only slightly, the pain still searing through your bones. But it’s enough that you can move your mouth, if only a little. It’s enough.

“He’ll always be better than you,” you manage to say.

Oh god. This is going to hurt.

You shouldn’t, you know, but you close your eyes anyway. Maybe it’ll help the pain of it. With a deep breath in, you steady yourself and wait for whatever Walker’s about to throw at you.

But nothing comes, and then suddenly his pressure is gone and you hear the familiar—god, thank god—sound of a nearly-silent metal arm invades your ears and your eyes pop open just in time to watch Bucky kick a heavy boot straight into Walker’s middle, the force throwing the blond across the alleyway.

You scream his name at the very same time that Sam rounds the corner, shouting, “If you kill him, they are not gonna give a shit about your pardon!”

Sam stops, takes one look at you, and his eyes widen.

“Are you okay?” he asks, taking a step toward you.

You point your finger at your boyfriend who is currently lifting Walker up by the goddamn neck—with his flesh hand, just to make a fucking point—and about to smear the poor dude’s guts across the brick.

“Stop him!” you yell, and Sam jumps into action.

“You think you can just touch her like that?” Bucky roars, slamming Walker back into the alley’s wall. “You think you that’s fucking okay? You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Walker tries to defend himself, stumbling onto the ground as Sam pulls Bucky off of him.

“Pardon,” Sam keeps repeating. “Conditional pardon. A very conditional pardon, Buck.”

“Her comms were on, you moron!” Bucky yells back, but ultimately lets Sam drag him away.

Your fingernail scrapes over the device in your ear and—lo and behold—the button had gotten stuck.

“You touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you, Walker.” Bucky is downright seething, anger rolling off him in tangible waves. “Pardon or no pardon, I will fucking murder you if you even look at her ever again. You think the Raft is bad? I’ve had much worse.”

“James Barnes!”

In an instant, Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, and then he’s rushing toward you. In barely two long strides he’s scooping you up in his arms and off the brick you feel indented in your skin, and he’s rubbing and soothing your hair and your back and your face and—goddamnit, Bucky Barnes—your ass, too.

“Baby,” he breathes, as if he hasn’t breathed in a millenia. “You okay?”

“James fucking Bucky Barnes,” you huff. “Right now I don’t even know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge.”

Bucky peers down at you, looking over you like he’s trying to make sure you aren’t bruised or scraped anywhere and that you’re really okay, and once he’s satisfied with that, a charming grin breaks through his lips.

“Can I pick?"

“Fuck you.”

You grab onto the collar of his leather jacket and pull him down upon you, and as if his lips were made for yours, as if he was made for you, your mouths slot together in a perfect kiss.

He tastes faintly of smoke and a little like blood, something you’ve become used to at this point. And his nose never bumps yours. Bucky knows exactly how to angle his face to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping between your lips as you let out a quiet moan of perfection, and his hands don’t wander. They only press into the small of your back so he can feel you against him.

Nothing like Walker. Only Bucky.

You pull away, gasping for air, and Bucky finds the crook of your neck and shoulder. He plants kisses up and down your neck as he holds you, your knees going a little weak, and you turn to find Walker.

He’s standing at the end of the alleyway, staring at you with a look of pure disgust.

You mouth one word to him before Bucky is calling you baby, grabbing your face, and kissing you again.

Told you.

[kpopxx]

Spy Games [Chapter 1] : More Than It Seems

Characters: Twice Momo, Male Reader

4579 words

Authors Note: This is literally the first fiction writing I have done since I was a little kid writing stories about a town full of hamburgers. I was inspired to try my hand at writing by the plethora of amazing kpop smut writers out there right now, but by @lockefanfic​, @nsfwtwicecatcher​, @nsfwflint​, and @ggidolsmuts​ in particular. If there are any similarities between my writing and theirs, please forgive me as I’ve spent more hours than I’d care to admit “researching” their work. 

One thing that amazes me is how the hell everyone cranks out thousands of words with such frequency, as this post isn’t even 5k and it took forever to write. I can’t begin to explain how much respect I have for all the authors out there who can write so much and maintain such high levels of quality.

As a new writer, I welcome any and all feedback! Feel free to drop me a line if you have any critiques, or if you just want to chat!

***

“Coming up on the target now.” 

“Roger that, remember the office is on the top floor. Let us know when you’re inside. And remember, no elevators...” teases your handler, Choa.

“Thanks for the reminder,” you reply sarcastically.

You survey the skyscraper against the night sky--it would be impressive if it weren’t one of a hundred just like it downtown Seoul--and wonder what you had done to deserve getting the short end of the stick. Of course, you knew there was a reason to avoid the elevators: they sat directly in front of the building’s concierge and the cameras in the lobby, while the stairwell lay in a remote part of the first floor. The logic behind your impending hike didn’t make the reality any less abhorrent.

“Meanwhile, Seolhyun gets to infiltrate an organization in the Caymans. Just my fucking luck.” you grumble to yourself.

“Oh, stop whining, you big baby,” says Choa, reminding you to keep your thoughts to yourself.

You sneak past the lobby and towards the back of the floor you find the entrance to the stairwell in a poorly lit area.

“Beginning my climb.” you report, shaking out your legs as you prepare to go up.

“Sir, I-I’m getting some interference over comms,” chimes in the timid voice of the girl you knew to be your newest team member, Yoo Jeongyeon. “It could just be local chatter, but I want to make sure it’s not someone trying to listen in.”

“Probably nothing to worry about, but we’ll let you know if there’s anything you need to worry about.” Choa assures you. 

As you climb up the stairs, you wonder why anyone would want to listen in on this particular mission. This was a run-of-the-mill operation to investigate money laundering at an accounting firm. You’d infiltrated foreign governments, broken into and bugged the offices of billionaire CEOs, and tailed enemy agents. You could understand people wanting to hear those comms, but this? Either someone wanted something to listen to as a sleep aid, or this mission was more interesting than it looked.

A tip had come in through one of the new girls at the Intel Desk reporting that there was some fishy activity related to organized crime going on at the accounting firm. This was routine and you’d gone on dozens of similar recon missions before: break in, find suspicious intel, get out. But if someone wanted so badly to hear what was going on, the new girl may have stumbled onto something worthy of a promotion. Hayoung, you think her name was. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair along with her well-endowed physique reminded you of a young mother, but her mature beauty belied her young age. You had caught yourself more than a few times fantasizing about her in your off hours…

You stop mid-way in the stairwell, scolding yourself for losing focus. Too often over the course of the last year you found yourself fantasizing about the women in your life. Sure, before the incident with Eunha you had sexual thoughts about your coworkers--you were surrounded by beautiful women, after all. But recently you noticed that your life was increasingly preoccupied with sex: both in your thoughts and the real-life exploits you carried out. 

Much longer than a few minutes later, you reach the 63rd floor out of breath and sweating, wishing more than ever that it was you and not Seolhyun lounging on the beach. You take a moment to compose yourself before peeking out into the office floor to see if the coast is clear.

“We may have a problem, boss. Jeongyeon looked into the comms disturbance and someone much more sophisticated than the average joe is definitely trying to tap in,” Choa says. “Jeongyeon’s kicking their ass right now blocking their access, but there’s only so much she can do alone. Eventually we’re going to lose control of this channel.”

“Dammit. I knew something was off with this op,” you grumble. “If they want to listen in to whatever I find, it must be important. We’ll go dark. Recon says this should be a quick in and out anyways. I’ll tag you once I’m out.”

“Be careful. Signal us if anything goes wrong. Just don’t do anything stupid.” replies Choa. 

“What do you think they pay me all this money for?” you tease, wanting to put her nerves at ease. “See you on the other side. Over and out.”

You could hear the concern in her voice. Even though keeping you safe was part of her job, you knew she cared about you. You also knew as well as she did that anything could go wrong even in the five minutes it would take you to break in, especially when it appeared that someone knew exactly what you were doing.

You switch off your comms link and head out the door and into the office.

It looked exactly as you expected--rows and rows of non-descript cubicles, with a princely office lined with glass walls occupying the far corner. Jeongyeon had retrieved the floor plan by hacking into the building’s security database earlier in the week, and you knew after her effort tonight in detecting and fending off the comms interference that Choa would want you to acknowledge the work the new girl had been putting in. She certainly was more skilled than the five previous team members you’d fired after Eunha, but you found it difficult to bring yourself to praise her. The Ops Officer position she occupied was a sore point for you, after all.

You deftly pick the lock on the corner office door and immediately sit down in front of the terminal on the desk, logging in with the security bypass Jeongyeon drew up. 

Again your thoughts drift to Eunha. Eunha was your longtime Ops Officer--highly skilled, you trusted her more than anyone. It also helped that she was your fiance. It made you sad to think about her; about what could have been, what should have been. Over the past year, you were constantly reminded of her absence by the utter incompetence of her replacements. You suppose it was nice that at the very least, Jeongyeon didn’t give you many opportunities to bemoan her performance in the same way--to remind you of Eunha.

You shake your head, compelling yourself to rise out of your funk and get on with the mission.

As you scroll through files, you stop on one with a familiar signature. Reading its contents, your eyes open wider--suddenly you understand why someone would be interested to listen in to your communications. You quickly save the file to your flash drive and stand up to leave, only to be startled by a figure in the doorway.

“Care to tell me what’s on that?” comes a familiar voice from the darkness that you knew to be Hirai Momo’s. Momo was an agent for a foreign espionage agency--you had as friendly a rivalry as you could have when working for different governments. 

“What was the point of trying to hack our comms if you were just going to show up and ask me that?”

“I had no intention of coming until you decided to ghost your girlfriends,” teases Momo. “Besides, I like showing you how much better I am at sneaking around.”

Momo flicks on the light and she comes into focus. The Japanese government made a good decision when they hired her, you think. She was built for the job of a seductive spy. Her perfectly toned legs had a lovely sheen all the way up to her short skirt, while her cleavage suggested that her tits were ready to burst out of her tight, patterned blouse. Where most of your attention was drawn, however, was her lustrous blue hair, which fell to her shoulders.

“I may actually need your help with this, once you see what’s on it,” you say, nodding your head at the flash drive.

“Oh, so you’re willing to give it to me? I thought I was going to have to fuck you for it,” she says sarcastically. You knew behind the humor was more than a nugget of truth, though. Sex had been the primary vehicle for information trading with Momo over the years. You decide to test your reading of the situation.

“Just because I need your help doesn’t mean I’m giving it for free…”

Momo brings her thumb to her mouth and bites gently as she ponders your not-so-subtle proposition. She takes her turn to look you up and down, making you feel more than a little self conscious in her gaze of judgment. After so many years in the dangerous world of espionage, there were only a handful women who could make you feel so small. Then again, Momo was no regular girl. 

Once she’s satisfied she has properly appraised your worth, Momo lets go of her thumb and straightens her blouse.

“Fine,” she says matter-of-factly, “let’s get to it,” unbuttoning her blouse as she walks towards you.

You are surprised by the lack of fight she put up, but you thought it best to keep that to yourself. Her tone reminds you of a business meeting--that is, if you hadn’t seen her pull her top off as she approached you. She sits in your lap on the chair, wrapping her arms around your neck as you meet her lips for a kiss. Momo’s mouth was familiar to you, introduced to you many times throughout your career. It seemed like every time you ran across her you had sex. One thing you adored about your relationship with her was that it was absolutely without strings attached. You fucked for work, but just because it was part of the job didn’t mean you both didn’t enjoy it. 

Momo, however, was loath to admit the pleasure she got out of her liaisons with you. Call it pride, call it being professional, whatever--Momo refused to act like sex with you was anything other than work, no different than working in a spreadsheet.

You feel her reach down to your pants, quickly unbuttoning them as she sinks to her knees in front of you. You smirk--her eagerness to please you betrayed her air of ambivalence.

Momo wastes no time getting down to business. You are certain the Japanese trained her very well in tender foreplay, but it seems she doesn’t care much for subtlety at the moment. Instead, she utilizes a more direct method to extract your pleasure--one that must have required its own fair share of training--as she spits on your cock before immediately forcing it as deeply in her mouth as she can take it. One, two, three bobs is all it takes for her to reach the base of your cock, her nose buried in your pelvis.

“Fuuuck me, that’s good,” you groan as you hold her head in place for several seconds, and Momo replies in turn with a cough that spits a healthy serving of saliva on to your cock. You release your grip on the back of her head to give her a chance to breathe, but she surprises you when she simply continues to work her mouth on your increasingly saliva-drenched cock, swirling her tongue around your base. Most of the other women you had slept with in recent months would be gasping for air by now, but Momo’s demeanor was cool, calm, and collected. Almost as if she was reading your mind, Momo paused her slurping and pulled her mouth off your shaft--but not forgetting to continue stroking it with achingly deft corkscrew motions.

“What’s the matter? Girls in your department not able to take care of your cock like a real woman?” Momo clicks her tongue and grins. “I’ve told you for years, you’d never be treated so poorly if you came to work for a professional outfit like ours.”

“Shut up and suck my cock.”

Momo shrugs, and gets back to the task at hand. Slobbering even more as she takes you into your mouth again, you pause to thank your lucky stars that you had a job that paid you in part to fuck women like Momo. You gaze upon her face, which has become just as messy as your cock. Momo’s sloppy blowjob has not only left liberal amounts of spit on your cock, but on her face as well--with strands of her blue hair plastered to her cheeks. Even though you thought it impossible, you feel your cock get harder at the sight of Momo’s messy face.

For several minutes, Momo continues inhaling your cock as you find yourself nearing the point of no return, you yank Momo’s head off your throbbing cock in order to prolong your session. A bit too forcefully, it seems, as Momo falls over onto her side.

“What the fuck!” yelps Momo as she picks herself back up, glaring at you. “I suck your cock and you thank me by throwing me on the ground?

“I didn’t mean to, I’m just not ready to cum yet. We both know you would’ve ignored me if I had asked you to stop.”

“I guess you’re right about that,” Momo replies sheepishly. You knew from previous run-ins with her that she loved nothing more than swallowing cum. Even though you had just denied her that favor, you were already thinking about how to make it up to her in a few minutes.

“How about I repay your kindness? Get up on the table and let me eat you.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. I’ll get up on the table, but you’re going to fuck me.”

“Someone’s eager to see what’s in this thumb drive,” you tease, inadvertently reminding yourself that this was a transactional liaison. You suspected that Momo’s interest in you extended beyond her desire for the information at hand, and part of you yearned to take her outside of the confines of work. You’re skeptical such a day would ever come, however, given how ambitious Momo was. 

You knew her story--she applied for a job in the Japanese spy agency several years ago, making it all the way through the process before being cut at the very end. She ended up receiving an offer shortly after one of the other finalists died in a ‘training accident’, but Momo lived with a chip on her shoulder ever since. She lived and worked with a pathological drive to prove the agency wrong in their original decision to cut her. Already the youngest lead operative in her country’s history, she had an eye on the directorship and seemed destined for it. So, you supposed, it was nice to be able to fuck her before she became famous.

Momo hops on up on the desk, hiking up her skirt to reveal a delicious-looking blue thong that matches her hair. She looks behind towards you with lust heavy in her eyes as she pulls her thong to the side, revealing her glistening pussy--already dripping, you noted.

“I don’t have all night.”

More than happy to oblige, you line your painfully throbbing cock up with her pussy and you can feel the warmth radiating from it. You take a second to appreciate Momo’s incredible physique as your hands graze downward from her upper back, to her hips, and finally to her ass. As you rub it, you cannot help but appreciate how sublimely taut it is. 

“Jeeze, you act like this is the first time you’ve seen a woman naked,” Momo jabs, interrupting your reverie.

You are starting to get annoyed with Momo’s demeanor. It was nothing new, really--she always carried an air of superiority--but it nonetheless grates on your nerves to see her be so dismissive. You are mature enough to understand that at least a part of this aggravation had to do with the fact that you knew Momo slept with plenty of men for work. Not so mature, however, to be able to stifle the primal urge deep inside of you that wanted Momo to see you as the best of all her lovers. More than ever, it seemed that sexual vanity mattered a great deal to your self-confidence.

With a renewed sense of purpose and your cock in hand, you enter Momo slowly with a long stroke until you fill her to the hilt. In unison with your initial insertion, Momo lets out a whine that crescendos as you bottom out.

As you begin to thrust in and out Momo settles in and widens her stance ever so little, which has the added benefit of allowing you to go even deeper into her warm, wet pussy. Momo was not a girl of surprises. Her face was gorgeous, capable of angelic beauty and fiery lust. Her body reflected the many hours she spent in the gym with ample breasts, insanely tight abs, and a toned ass to match. Her pussy feels exactly as sublime as her beautiful face and incredible body suggested. The perfect combination for a woman who used her body to seduce and take advantage of brainless men. You decide to push out your mind the realization that at this very moment, you are in fact one of those men.

You wanted to make sure Momo felt each and every drive into her hot flesh. Momo continued to moan quietly, each breath punctuated with a new thrust and the sound of your skin meeting hers.

“Looks like someone’s gotten real quiet all of a sudden,” you say, noticing her haughty attitude had subsided as pleasure took you both over.

“Oh, get over yourself,” Momo says, looking back at you with rekindled determination in her eyes, “you’re no better than half the guys I’ve been with. I’m here for the file, not for whatever you call this.” She cooly turns her head to face front again, leaving you seething.

Your twinge of annoyance was now a bubbling boil.

You slow down before withdrawing your cock from her warmth--Momo lets out the faintest whine of disappointment, betraying her dissatisfied front.

Just as Momo turns her head again to complain, you quickly slam your cock deep inside her. Momo yelps, and you notice her eyes bulge as you move your hips in a circular motion with your cock filled to the hilt, scraping deep inside her pussy. After several seconds of this you grab a makeshift ponytail out of her hair and yank backwards, causing her to gasp and arch her back instinctively. As much as she bothered you with her air of indifference, you had to admit that the image in front of you was the stuff of dreams.

Taking advantage of the highly erotic sight before you and the increased leverage offered by your grasp of her hair, you began to truly fuck her with quick and powerful strokes.

“Take it, Momo,” you grunted, beads of sweat beginning to form on your forehead.

Momo said nothing, emitting only breathless gasps from her open mouth. You noticed that their intensity was gradually increasing, so you increased the speed of your shaft penetrating her young, sinful body. You knew she was enjoying this, but you wouldn’t be satisfied until you broke her facade. You wanted her to lose herself to you.

You speed up even more, and the volume of your skin slapping together increases as her pussy drips wetter and wetter, mixing with your leaking precum. You are slamming your cock into her now, and Momo has to grab on to the table to steady herself. Slowly but surely her pretense was crumbling.

“You want it, don’t you Momo? You want more?”

“Fuck yeah,” Momo gasps hoarsely, struggling to speak with her hair being pulled, “Give it to me...o-oh...fuck, give it to me!”

Satisfied that she had succumbed to her pleasure, you relax your grip on her hair slightly and lean over to growl in her ear.

“I’ll give it to you. I’m gonna make sure you remember this, make sure every time you’re with another man you wish it was me.”

Momo acknowledges your promise with a deep groan, giving you great pleasure as you resumed fucking her gorgeous body.

Your eyes drift downward to her glorious ass, now shining with sweat and jiggling violently with each crash of your cock inside her. Inspired by the sight, you release her hair and put one hand on her hip and begin striking her ass with your other. Momo shrieks in surprise, but quickly looks back at you with lidded eyes while biting her lip to tell you she wanted more.

Again you oblige, and it was quickly becoming clear that lust and pleasure were staging a coup of Momo’s senses. She’s making lots of noise, but nothing intelligible. Nothing but guttural moans interspersed with high-pitched squeals. You continue spanking her ass, alternating cheeks--noticing a deep pink beginning to form on both. She’d most likely be dealing with soreness for several days after this, you think.

“You wanna cum, Momo? Cum for me, I know you want to.”

“Mmmmm...Ah, ah, AH! Unggghh,” comes Momo’s response.

“Come on Momo, fucking cum baby...cum all over this cock,” you shout, sincerely hoping there was no one working in an adjacent floor to hear.

“FUUUUCK!” Momo screams eloquently, suddenly dropping her head as her body begins convulsing. You knew what to expect having slept with her before, but you are nonetheless surprised to see how completely overtaken her body was by pleasure. Her upper body jerks spastically as her legs tremble with your cock plunged deep inside her pussy, all the while letting out a high-pitched whine that turns into a soft whimper. Just a few minutes before she was defiant and happy to throw insults at you...now she was a mewling, writhing mess incapable of speaking. The dark, primal part of you is satisfied by her tacit recognition of your talent.

After a short while, Momo begins to compose herself and lifts her upper body from the table. You take it as a sign to slowly resume taking your cock in and out of her. You decide to give her now glowing pink ass a rest and caress her back, tracing long lines with your nails.

“Mmmmm, that feels good,” Momo says, her eyes still closed, “you fuck me so good.”

You slowly begin ramping up the pace, rolling your hips with each stroke. You want to make sure your cock pleases every inch of Momo’s pussy, and make sure it craves you when she’s alone at night. 

After several minutes of this tender, softer version of lovemaking, Momo comes back to her senses. She arches her back again and turns her head to gaze in your eyes as you continue to take her. She begins to move her ass back and forth on your cock in unison with your own strokes.

“Oh my god, you feel so good in my fucking pussy! Every...fucking...stroke!” Momo gasps, the final words punctuated by the force of her majestic ass crashing against your cock.

“You’re a bad girl, Momo,” you tease, “you like being taken and shown who’s boss, don’t you? You like me grabbing your hair and slapping your ass?”

“Yes!” she gasps, “Yes I love it! Mmmmm...I want you to fuck me until you cum. Fuck me until you cum!”

There was no command in the world easier to follow.

Satisfied that you had fulfilled your vain, immature desire to see her acknowledge your skill as a lover, you now focus yourself on extracting pleasure from the young woman beneath you. You settle into a pace with rough strokes, fiercely pounding her over and over. Your pleasure rises with each thrust, aided not only by the mindblowing caress of her pussy, but by the incredible sight of Momo on all fours before you moaning with each strike of your cock inside her.

“Fuck Momo...I don’t think I have much longer, I’m gonna fucking cum so hard!”

“Yes,” comes the response from Momo, “Yes, yes! Fucking cum baby, I want your cum so bad!”

A few more thrusts and you can feel the point of no return coming. For a brief moment you contemplate cumming inside Momo, to truly claim her. You quickly reconsider, wanting to give her what she truly wanted--to swallow your load.

And so, you quickly withdraw your cock from Momo’s now sopping wet pussy and she instinctively turns around and drops to her knees on the floor. Stroking your cock with great fervor, her mouth wide open begging for what was to come.

“Please give me your cum, please, please! I want it...I need it! Cum for me!”

Your head tilts backward as a long groan escapes your lips. Your cum explodes from your shaft, shooting long, thick ropes of semen into her mouth and onto her cheeks and nose. Over and over, your cum splashes on her beautiful face until you finally reach the end of your orgasm, panting and exhausted. Momo’s face is a pornographic picture of lust, her eyes rolled back in pleasure as she swallows the mass of cum you deposited in her mouth.

“I fucking love your cum,” Momo says as she wipes the remaining cum off her face with her finger and promptly brings it to her tongue before swallowing it down as well.

“I’m glad we were both able to get what we wanted,” you say, struggling to catch your breath.

“Speaking of getting what I wanted…” Momo says, nodding her head to the part of the floor where the USB drive now sits, evidently thrown from the table during the session that had just taken place.

“Right,” you say, suddenly remembering you’re here for work, “make a copy and let’s get out of here.”

“Great,” says Momo, still on the floor with a satisfied smile of content on her face, “Hey, I meant what I said about having you join our team. As much shit as I give you, we could really use someone with your talent.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m better off staying put. Don’t think the Korean government would let me live if I tried defecting.”

“Probably true,” says Momo as she begins picking up her clothes, “Never hurts to ask, though.”

***

A few minutes later, you and Momo had both gotten dressed and copied the file onto a drive for her. Momo disappeared into an adjoining hallway and you set off to traverse the stairwell again. As you prepare yourself for the descent, you also steel yourself for the repercussions of giving the intel to a foreign spy agency. With the information you saw in the file, you knew the Japanese would have to be looped in sooner or later. If it was going to happen eventually, you thought it made the most sense to entrust that intel to the agent on the other side you knew would make sure things got done correctly. As logical as it seemed to you, however, you knew it wouldn’t be taken well back at the office.

You click on your comms link, now knowing there’s nothing to fear. 

“Hey Choa, I’m on my way back to the rendezvous.”

“Oh thank god! That took forever, I was about to call for a tac team!” Choa sighs with audible relief, “I take it you got everything you needed?”

“Got more than I needed, actually,” you say, nervous about Choa’s reaction to what you say next, “Listen, there’s one small thing you should know...”

“You did WHAT?!”

[vibesandwonders]

a tie that binds

Rhodey looks between the two of them; both grinning with unsettling glee. They barely waited for him to retract his helmet before making their request.

“How did you even know I can legally—”

“We’re past that.” Sam interrupts, he’s bleeding from a cut above his eye. Bucky notices it with an eye roll, and, —quite literally— slaps a bandage on it. “We just wanna know if you’ll do it.”

“And if you say no we’ll post about it.” Bucky adds. The buildings behind them smoke. Local authorities had been given the all-clear and are already raiding and arresting. “Instagram and Twitter will come for your ass.” He says with scary confidence.

Rhodey’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “You serious?” He asks.

“As a heart attack.”

“As the fuckin’ grave.” They answer in a horrifying tandem.

“Right here?” He watches Bucky move a knife from the inside of his wrist to his ankle for no visible reason. Sam’s only half-listening as Torres and Doppler give up-to-the-minute updates on the situation post-raid.

“Why not?” Buck asks.

Rhodey gives a half hearted gesture at their surroundings.

“We were gonna do a big thing.” Sam says, by way of explanation, “You know, invite all of our closest friends.”

“Enemies too.” Bucky adds, “Give ‘em a solid chance to take a potshot. Maybe take a couple of them down, kind of a two-for-one deal.”

“Wedding present to each other. Good shit like that.” Sam finishes. “But then Barnes here took an armor piercing round to the shoulder.” Bucky turns and shows the massive tear in his jacket on the vibranium arm side.

“And we figured. Life is short,” Sam says.

“—And you are hot.” Bucky quotes with a cheeky tilt to his mouth.

“We’ve been watching Doctor Who ,” Sam explains quickly to Rhodey.

“It’s been around almost as long as me.” Bucky says proudly. “I get to explain pop-culture references to Sam.”

“Research for the time/universe bullshit.”

“Timey-wimey—”

“ Please stop ,” Rhodey begs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And frankly, I don’t want you to explain.” He adds quickly. “I like not being a nerd-ass virgin.” Cuts himself off when he suddenly remembers that he’s somehow officiating their wedding; and has very-recently been witness to their oblivious R-rated behavior. A muscle in his eye twitches.

Sam blinks, then plows ahead unbothered. “Might as well make it official while we’re both young and have all our pieces.”

“Mostly,” Bucky reminds him, waves casually with his prosthetic, waggling his fingers dramatically.

“Fuck you, jackass.” Sam mouths happily. Bucky flips him off.

“Ya’ll got a real messed up thing going.” Rhodey says, reminding them that he’s definitely still in the middle of all this.. “But uh congratulations, I think, Future Wilsons? Barneses?”

There’s the pop of gunfire in the distance. All three heads snap that way, three sets of hands going for various weapons.

“So you’ll do it?” Sam asks, when a quick radio signal indicates that the situation was safe again. They can see the glow of some sort of magic still inside the building.

Fucking multiverse.

“I mean…” Rhodes sighs. “Yeah.”

Sam nods. “You mind if I facetime Sarah and the kids?”

“You’re kidding right?” Rhodey knows the answer. “She can’t be a witness if she’s not physically present—”

“Yeah.” Bucky acknowledges, “We know. I googled it.”

Sam looks pleased and surprised. “When?”

“After we finished clearing out the cult members inside the entry-way.” He shrugs, “There was a lull.”

“I knew getting you that phone was a good idea.”

Rhodey clears his throat. Bucky throws up his hand, “Yeah yeah, I remember, witnesses. Uh…” He looks around, makes eye-contact with a helmeted figure; rattles off something in quick, confident hungarian. Sam fights the urge to find it distractingly hot and fails. The man in SWAT gear stops, halting the prisoner in front of him. Rhodey and Sam wait for the conversation to end. Bucky’s speaking fast and grinning sort of sheepishly. There’s a quick bark of laughter from beneath the helmet.

“He says he’ll witness.” Bucky says.

“I now pronounce you husband and hus—”  There’s a breathtaking flash of color that they’ve all begun to recognize as magic and/or multiverse fuckery, of course,  it comes from over where the Multiverse cult had been performing their ritual, cutting off Sunny’s quick, joyful cheer. She’s holding Alpine and waving her little paws in her little videochat square. Zahra adds something over comms in persian and it makes Bucky blush.

“Ah fuck.” Sam murmurs, “Can’t give us five goddamn minutes to get hitched?”

Bucky squeezes his hand. “Could just let Strange and his people handle it?”

“Look at you acting like you wanna miss out on all the fun.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Sarah?” He says to the screen that the hungarian SWAT officer is holding. “We gotta go."

“Be safe you two,” she says all pixelated. “Or I'll kick your asses.”

Bucky waves and thanks the soldier who hands him his phone and kisses them both unexpectedly on the cheek.

Rhodey watches the whole thing in barely suppressed horror and fascination.

“You ready Cap?” He asks. Sam’s wings unfurl next to him. Torres is saying something about a big-ass, post-wedding party when they get home.

“You two have rings? Or is this uh, a purely gentleman’s handshake kinda deal?”

Sam scratches his head. “Well, uh—”

Bucky shyly pulls a small box from somewhere and tosses it to Sam. “I mighta called in a favor with Shuri—”

Sam opens it, finds a slim band made of a familiar gold metal. Bucky pulls his glove off and wiggles his fingers.

“Figured this’d be easier,” he says. Pointing smugly at the link of metal that had been swapped for gold on his left ring finger. “She took one outta my hand and made yours.” He adds. “I’ve just been uh, waiting for the right moment.”

“Ya’ll done?” Rhoday says tiredly.

Sam winks, pulls Bucky in for a kiss that makes Rhodey groan with annoyance and avert his eyes; slips him a little tongue just to be annoying. Torres (and the rest of the Little Howlers) whoop over the comms. He pulls back. Both now a little breathless, can’t resist, goes in for another. Shorter. Sweeter. The edge of Bucky’s mouth quirks up.

He tilts, looks a little past Sam’s face, pulls a pistol and fires a shot off behind them. Rhodey watches a figure fall from a hidden vantage point too-far for any normal human to hit. The barrel smokes softly.

Sam’s eyes darken, mouth dry. He swallows.

Honestly. Murder Husband hot.

Husband.

And there are no other thoughts for a solid 5 seconds.

“We are in active combat.” Rhodey reminds them, mostly for his sake. They separate hesitantly.

“Don’t do any dumb shit and make me a young widow, okay Barnes?” Sam calls over his shoulder, and then he’s blazing toward a wide wall of shimmering power starting to erode and expand out of the building. Bucky rolls his eyes at Rhodey and takes off running, calling after the winged silhouette.

“It’s young widower asshole.”

I'm on ao3 too :)

the series here

[angstsfordays]

Beautiful Pain (2)

Chapter Two- Here I Am

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced! Reader

Summary: Post-Blip, you started to feel lost when most of the Avengers team are gone. Coping with your loss, you still find hope in the connection with your remaining friends. However, it is not easy as everyone is trying to figure their lives after the Blip.

Having a long history with Bucky ever since you both saved each other from Hydra, you were still glad you had Bucky after all this time. However, as you try to give Bucky space to find himself after being pardoned for his past, you start to wonder if you should ever cross the line of friendship before it’s too late.

That thought might have to be put on hold though, when you, Sam and Bucky find yourselves having to deal with threats that continue to rise in a post-Blip world.

Chapter synopsis: Shocking news brought you and Bucky back together with Sam. You three find out that a new threat arises in a post-Blip world.

Warnings: A bad word or two or three because come on, John Walker is in this chapter.

Word count: 4.5k

Notes: This chapter is nothing too crazy but warming up as it delves into the tv series' storyline. Here you can see how the reader's character plays out in the storyline.

I started a tag list for this series! Let me know if you want to join in with a message or comment in the chapters!

Leave a like, reblog or comment to let me know what you think! 🥰

Previous: Prologue | Chapter One |

Next: Chapter Three

-------------------------//---------------------------

Bucky promised to make your coffee while you went to take a shower after you came back. Switching off the hairdryer, you placed it back in its place before stepping out of the bathroom.

Perking up at the sound of the television, you made your way to find Bucky sitting on the floor. Seeing he made no sign of acknowledgement at your presence, you looked up to see what he was so entranced at.

Eyes averting to the screen, you saw a man being interviewed at what seemed like a stadium in the background. Scanning over his features, you quickly noticed the familiarity in his suit and how he was supposed to remind you of someone you held dear in your heart.

The caption that appeared on the bottom of the screen only added on to confirm your suspicions. A sudden rush of emotions started to wash over you like a huge tide.

Disbelief. Outrage. The nerve.

You glanced over to Bucky who was sitting still with a disbelieving look when the announcer asked her next question.

“Did you know Steve Rogers?” Before you knew it, you already started to shake your head in disapproval as the man, John Walker started to respond to the question.

He spoke of how he closely followed Steve’s career as an Avenger and drew inspiration in his work from Steve, citing him as a role model. Nodding in satisfaction at John’s answer, the announcer continued. “You’ve always wanted to be a hero?”

John Walker answered that he liked that his job would help to make people feel safe. He added how Steve was someone who was able to accomplish that and gave him hope.

While his answers sounded pleasant enough, you couldn’t help but feel displeased with it. His next sentence only served to make you feel worse.

“Even though I never met him, he feels like a brother.” John Walker could have chosen any other words. Mentor. Role model. The fact that he said brother like as if he wanted to draw some sort of association to Steve felt wrong.

You immediately kneeled down to Bucky’s level and waited for him to look back at you. Bucky shook his head while clenching his jaw tight.

“Buck….” Whispering his name gently, you hoped to get him to open up on what he was feeling.

“This is just wrong. I can’t believe….how could Sam even-” Struggling to put together his emotions properly, you gave him a soothing rub on his shoulders to ease his flustered state.

“I know, I understand.” You went ahead to embrace him in a side hug. Bucky leaned in and rested his head in the crook of your neck, relishing in the comfort you were giving to him.

“We need to talk to Sam.” He gave you an affirmative stare before you nodded in agreement.

-------------------------//---------------------------

Waiting around absent-mindedly at the hangar, you were brought back to focus when you heard Bucky speak up and already walking towards Sam.

“Shouldn’t have given up the shield.” You could hear how Bucky was trying to hold in his distaste and quickly followed behind him.

“Good to see you, Buck.” Sam acknowledged him in response. You could tell that Sam was trying to avoid the topic of conversation as he continued in his tracks only to stop when his eyes met yours.

“How’ve you been doing?” Sam took a step forward to give you a quick hug and you grinned at the sight of your friend.

“I’ve been good, Sam. How about you?” You asked to which he said he was doing alright.

“You still not tired of him?” Sam made a quip and you bit your lips to prevent a burst of laughter from coming out. You nervously glanced to see Bucky not looking one bit amused by the exchange and averted your eyes away.

“This is wrong.” Bucky tried to bring up the topic again to which Sam tried to put down. He remarked that he was now working and whatever outrage Bucky was having had to wait.

They continued their argument as they bickered back and forth about their views on John Walker becoming the new Captain America. Even saying that in your head left a sour taste.

Sam tried telling Bucky that there was nothing he could do to rectify the situation. He gave the shield away to the government and it was no longer in his hands. Retracting the decision simply cannot be done.

You understood both of their perspectives and you couldn’t take a side entirely. Yes, you all felt the heavy emotions about having Steve’s legacy just handed over to someone who you weren’t even sure was deserving of it. John Walker might be an exemplary soldier but he wasn’t the one that Steve chose to take over him.

Then again, you recalled how Sam was still unsure if he could leave up to Steve’s legacy and even remarked that the shield didn’t feel like it wasn’t his own, but someone else’s. You were sure that it was definitely not an easy decision for Sam to make and he wouldn’t have made it if he knew what the government had decided to do with the shield once they had their hands on it.

You winced at the heated exchange as your friends continued to assert their points. Sam had enough of the conversation and stressed that he now has work that he needed to attend to. Bucky scoffed at how Sam could even disregard the matter but Sam went on to tell you two about an online group called the Flag Smashers that seemed to have connections with rebel organisations across Europe.

He had intel from Redwing about their last known location and that was where he was heading to. Bucky gave a disapproving look and talked about his mistrust of the tech.

Even though Bucky was dear to you, you couldn’t help to sigh at how stubborn he is.

Sam went on to say that he wants to check if this group could be part of the Big Three. Bucky gave a confused look before asking what’s that. Sam looked like he couldn’t believe what Bucky had just said.

The two continued to have another exchange, but one that you now observed to be light-hearted and displaying their child-like tendencies only when they are around each other. You shook your head and just thought, men.

Sam decided he didn’t have time for any more banter and made his way to the plane with Bucky insisting on going with him. Well, guess that’s where you’re heading then.

-------------------------//---------------------------

Somehow, Bucky managed to get his hands on a tactical jacket and suited up. You looked down to your tailored suit, one that you often wore as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. It was not the most mission friendly, but it will do.

It had been an hour since you have boarded the plane but Bucky and Sam had not spoken since. You found yourself to be the buffer between the two and couldn’t help but feel a little awkward.

“Hey Y/N.” Your head tilted up from looking at the ground when you heard Sam calling for you.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry, I haven’t been in touch but what’ve you been up to lately?”

“Oh, not much. I recently reached out to Wanda, wanted to see how she was doing.” Sam nodded in understanding before continuing to ask if you had found any work. You weren’t sure where to start because you didn’t know how to.

Given your condition as an enhanced and recalling your last meeting with someone from the state office, you couldn’t find do much without getting on their radar. You were lucky you still had some money left to tide you over but you honestly do not know how you were ever going to get a proper job.

“I’ve been volunteering with a social service centre.” You answered after taking some time. When Sam gave you a surprising look to your answer, you started cracking your knuckles- a habit you had when you got nervous. Sensing your nerves, Sam decided to withhold himself from prying further.

“That’s nice to hear. An unexpected career change but it’s a good job.” He tried to reassure you.

“Yeah, I’m still not sure what I want. You know after everything that has happened.” Sam did not say anything else but just nodded in agreement.

You suddenly felt a hand on yours and looked to see Bucky glancing at you with slight concern. You tried to muster up a smile to show that you were alright.

Looking down to the ground again, you missed the intense staring contest that started between the two men as Torres announced the one-minute mark before drop-off. When you heard the plane door being opened, the two men went forward to get their comms.

Bucky passed you yours before turning to ask Sam on what’s the plan. Sam kept silent and Bucky scoffed at the fact that Sam had none.

“No, you can’t call me that.’” Bucky retorted when Sam called him Buck.

Sam questioned why not and claimed that you and Steve could call him that.

“Steve knew me longer and I actually like Y/N so she can call me that. Steve also always had a plan.” You took a double-take at what Bucky just said and tried not to overthink. He only meant you were tolerable in his eyes compared to Sam.

Sam could not deal with Bucky’s attitude before walking off to the door and countering that he indeed had a plan. When Bucky asked once more about it, Sam just leapt off without a reply.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky asked Torres for the parachute but was told that there wasn’t any. Bucky stalked off towards the door and claimed he didn’t need one anyway. Torres gave him a second glance and asked if he was sure.

Bucky affirmed that he was fine and then proceeded to tear off the sleeve of his jacket. You had to control yourself from laughing out loud at his dramatics and he glanced back at you.

“Buck, you know I can help you down-” You tried to convince him before he jumped off first and you heard the yelling after.

Letting out a groan at your stubborn 106-year-old friend, you rested your hands on your waist as you looked out the door over the landscape.

“Mam?” Torres looked over at you in curiosity.

“I’m not that old, Lieutenant.” You grimaced at how he addressed you even if it was a sign of respect.

Huffing out a sigh, you thought here goes nothing.

Fisting your hands by your side, you took a deep breath and channel your energy towards your palms. Fanning your hands out, Torres was taken aback when energy flames emitted from your palms and you used it to propel yourself off the ground and out of the door.

It has been a while since you flew and you took a moment to steady yourself before trying to look for where Bucky landed.

You could hear Sam talking to Bucky on the comms about his less than graceful fall and couldn’t help but giggle before finding your way to the building with Bucky. You had to stifle your laughter when Bucky tried to swipe Redwing off as his irritation grew.

Once you met up with Sam, he went to note that the people you were after were in the building. Your friends being the ‘friends’ that they were started to clash once more about how to go about this mission.

Bucky went to use his expertise as an assassin to assess the situation and stealthily walked ahead first. Sam was amused at how he came out as a white panther after his time in Wakanda to which Bucky corrected as white wolf.

Sam gave you a confused look to which you shrugged your shoulders in response. It was a story for another time.

The two of you caught up to Bucky faster than he thought. When the two started bickering again about the next course of action and trying to one-up the other, you had enough and placed your hands over both parties mouth to shush them.

“Enough the both of you, I feel like a kindergarten teacher with two children engaging in childish conflict.” You hissed to show your annoyance at the both of them. Seeing you this upset got Sam and Bucky to take a step back and tone it down.

When you let go of your hands, you expected them to behave but they continued to stare at each other. Bucky wanted to quickly proceed while Sam wanted to wait it out. Their bickering caused a slight commotion and you were suddenly wary that you might have alerted the group of your presence.

All three of you stood still before observing that it was all still good. You heard someone instructing the group to get a move on and Sam used Redwing to check that there might be a hostage on board.

Once you heard the vehicles rolling out, all of you sprang into action. You and Sam took to the air while Bucky went full speed ahead on the grounds. Everything happened so fast all at once and before you knew it, Bucky opened the doors of the truck and spotted the hostage. He noted that medicines and vaccines were in the truck.

As you processed the information, you could hear him talking to the hostage before you heard the loud slam next.

You saw Bucky suddenly got shoved back and slammed into the front of the truck that was following behind. You noted a redhead woman who put on a mask and then the other two men who hauled Bucky up to the roof of the truck.

Seeing that both men whom you assumed were incredibly strong to hold Bucky down, you went for those guys first while Sam took care of the woman. You tried throwing a few punches at them but they barely flinched.

You turned your back to see Sam being thrown off to the next truck by the woman and another huge man with shoulder-length hair going for Sam. Who were these guys and how did they have such strength? It was almost like they were….

Your next thoughts were interrupted when you sensed a fist coming your way to which you dodged. You tried to hold your ground by avoiding the attacks. They keep coming relentlessly and you knew you couldn’t hold back. You had to use your powers now.

Channelling your powers to your fist, you sent a blast of energy to knock down the two men that held Bucky down. The woman turned to look at you in surprise at the sight of your abilities.

You wanted to go for the man that was about to attack Sam before you heard the sound of metal clashing. Your head tilted up to see a helicopter with someone peering down. He swooped down onto the truck and you immediately recognised who he was.

Why was he even here? You briefly thought before you turned your focus to the fight. John Walker proceeded to use the shield almost effortlessly to knock down members of the Flag Smashers before introducing himself. His partner followed after. They both claimed to help before everyone started to focus on their own fights.

You used your powers to knock people over and fend yourself. In the midst of all the actions, you noticed that Bucky got knocked down and was holding onto the bottom of the truck, avoiding to fall flat onto the road surface. You wanted to help him but got stopped by the man with shoulder-length hair.

You raised both hands surging with flaming energy and saw how he stood still for a moment. You believed that he was more hesitant knowing you were an enhanced individual.

“Be warned, this might leave a burn.” You were nice enough to give a heads up. Before he could take another step further, his companions took you by a chokehold. You grabbed onto the person’s arms and gave them a slight burn.

The person exclaimed in pain and let go. You saw that Bucky and Sam were nowhere in sight while John Walker’s partner was out. Another person came for you and you let out a burst of energy that blinded everyone in their surroundings with its sheer brightness.

You saw how everyone hunched over and the shoulder-length haired man started backing down and it led to him leaning over to almost fall off the truck.

On instinct, you went over to grab his hand. Even though he was the enemy, you didn’t want to take lives unnecessarily. You felt him grabbing onto your arm tightly and pulled him back up by having your right arm blasting energy to weigh you down on where you stood.

He managed to recover and you left him be. You looked over to see John Walker taking on the redheaded woman but to no avail as he got shoved off the truck and landed on the front of a car below.

Seeing that you were the only one left, you gulped as you realised you were outnumbered. Should you even take the risk? Before you can think of your next actions, someone came up from behind you again and you quickly turned to intercept.

What you lacked in strength, you made sure to utilise your powers. You managed to slam the person down in a chokehold which you learnt from Natasha and aimed a fist that was covered in energy flames.

You heard a loud ‘NO’ and before you realised you were picked up and dragged off to be thrown off the truck. Quickly gathering your energy to soften your blow, you barely floated off the ground as your energy acted as a cushion to lift you off the surface.

Letting yourself stand steady on the ground, you didn’t give John Walker and his partner a second look before you flew off to find your friends.

-------------------------//---------------------------

When you found Bucky and Sam, they were huddled together in a flower field. The two of them looked more irritated than ever. You gave both of them a hand and pulled them up. You gave Bucky a glance over and noticed he had a bruise forming near his eyes.

He shook it off like it was nothing and asked after you. You reassured him that you were alright, just a little worn out. You asked after Sam and was glad to know he did not sustain any major injuries.

The three of you decided to make your way back on foot. The road ahead looked far and Sam started to strike up a light-hearted conversation with Bucky. You quietly listened in as you were too tired to even bother participating.

You smirked at how even though Sam was trying to tick Bucky off, you knew he only had good intentions to check on Bucky’s state of mind.

Bucky ignored whatever Sam said and then noted that there was a need to find out where the group back there got their super serums from. Sam couldn’t fathom how eight super soldiers were on the loose after eighty years.

You chimed in that you thought that the super-soldiers were eliminated in Siberia years ago. As you three were figuring out, you heard a vehicle coming from behind you. You saw it was John Walker and he stopped slightly ahead to open the door for you three.

You were almost slightly tempted to save your aching legs if not for the fact you weren’t so keen on him.

The men were all in a discussion about the group and you could all confirm for a fact that they weren’t part of the Big Three. In fact, they had to be super soldiers. John Walker proposed to work together but Bucky wasn’t having any of it.

“Just because you carry the shield doesn’t mean you’re Captain America.” Bucky shot back harshly. John Walker with that thick skin of his brushed it off and countered that he was more than qualified.

You could not stop yourself from intervening this time.

“Being Captain America is more than about just being a good soldier! There’s a lot more where it comes from.” Sam and Bucky felt the emotions from your statement, knowing that it wasn’t just out of distaste for the new ‘Captain’ but of how you really felt about Steve’s legacy.

Hearing your words, John Walker let out a sigh before continuing to persuade everyone again. He claimed that it was still a long way to the airport and that you should just accept the ride. Asking the driver to stop the vehicle once more, you, Sam and Bucky gave each other another look before you all hopped on.

Sam went in first. Bucky was ahead of you but stopped short before holding your hand to help you up. You took the seat next to Sam and Bucky took his place beside you. Looking across John and his partner who you remembered was Lemar from earlier.

Everyone started discussing about the Flag Smashers and what their purpose was. You listened in until you heard something from John that made you livid. He remarked how the serum doesn’t exactly have a great track record and meant no offence as he glanced at Bucky.

“Offense is already taken! How dare you-” You burst out before being motioned to calm down by Sam. Bucky was moved that you stood up for him.

“Woah easy there.” John tried to look innocent before Sam interjected and continued on the topic of the Flag Smashers. You learnt that John and Lemar managed to track you three by hacking into Redwing. They were acting on behalf of the government to keep things stable while resources were being managed, claiming there were violent revolutionaries happening post-Blip.

John went on to propose that you, Sam and Bucky should team up with them but Bucky flat out refused in a second. Lemar then went on to quip that all of you weren’t really handling it well until they stepped in.

“Y/N.” You scrunched your face in response when John called you like a familiar friend.

“I have only seen you from your profile but I must say I am glad to finally meet you. You look even prettier in person.”

If looks could kill, John would be dead a hundred times over under Bucky’s death stare.

You wanted to blanch at John’s word but controlled your expression. You tried to return a polite smile as he continued on.

“Why didn’t you accept our offer to be recruited to our team?” You gave a bewildered look before realization dawned upon you. The government official from that time wanted you to join Walker?

“What is he talking about, Y/N?” Bucky perked up at the new information and you looked over nervously, unsure what to say.

“When we were first brought together, we wanted to recruit Y/N here to be part of the team. We see her as a great asset given her powers and abilities. It would be amazing if we have her on our side.” You looked over to see Bucky literally looking like he was going to combust.

Bucky really hated the word asset, knowing that was how he was addressed back in the days. The word had a connotation of objectification and he was mad that John actually used it to describe you. You were more than that.

“Yeah, you should join us. We could really use your help. You were literally the last one standing with the Flag Smashers back there!” Lemar egged on.

“When was this?” Bucky asked with a tinge of hurt in his voice. He couldn’t believe you didn’t tell him about it at all.

“It was several months ago Buck, I refused their offer straight out.” You answered him before looking straight at John and Lemar.

“I did not want to give them a chance to exploit me for my powers. I know your type. You claim to appreciate what I can offer but I would never be free of my own will.” Your words were sharp and laid with revulsion.

“They only seek me to control me, they are afraid of what happens if I am left unsupervised.” You added with finality. You spared no sugar-coating and everyone kept silent for a moment.

This was the price to be someone like you in this world. Even when you know you won’t do anything out of turn, the government bodies would never trust you.

John pretended to clear his throat before speaking. “Y/N. I can assure you that I will do my very best to make sure that does not happen if you join me. I will speak up for you.”

No, you won’t. You can’t. You wanted to shoot back.

Bucky placed his hand over yours and held onto it as his way to show his care. He then went to ask again who Lemar was and Sam chimed in that he needed to know more. When Lemar gave his alias, that tipped the iceberg for Bucky before he called for the vehicle to stop.

He then immediately stepped down and started stalking off. John tried to call after Bucky and talk sense into him but of course, Bucky didn’t care for it.

He then went on to try to tell you and Sam that he wasn’t trying to be Steve or replace him and that he just wanted to be the best Captain America he could be.

You scoffed out loud at his words as it only served to rile you up. His next sentence took you off the edge.

“It’ll be a whole lot easier if I have Cap’s wingman by my side.” Disgusting. Does he even know what he was saying? You look over to see Sam in disbelief and you felt angry for him.

“It’s always that last line,” Sam said before you and he proceeded to step down from the vehicle.

“Eat shit, John.” You spat at him before you turned your back. You couldn’t go before you showed your loathing for him. Sam clapped your back and shook his head to tell you that Walker wasn’t worth it.

-------------------------//---------------------------

It was tense on the way back, but it was now for an entirely different reason compared to the first time. Sam checked in on you and Bucky to which you reassured him that you were alright.

“Let’s take the shield, Sam,” Bucky spoke up for the first time since the flight back.

Sam countered that it was not something that could be done simply and reminded him of a past similar event. The shield was technically government property and there was no way we could take it back without starting something.

Sam recapped how Sharon, Steve and he became fugitives and how he never wanted to live that life again. You couldn’t say anything to that knowing you managed to get a free pass in Wakanda alongside Bucky.

You all had no information to start with regarding the super soldiers but Bucky claimed otherwise. There was someone that Sam and you should meet.

-------------------------//---------------------------

That's it for chapter 2! I figured it will get too long if I cover the whole of ep 2 so I stopped here! We continue off on the next chapter! 😆

Tag list:

@tanyaherondale @spookycereal-s

[starilicious]

der lagi lekin (hunter x force-user!gn! reader + ep. 8 fix-it)

》 summary: tbb episode 8 fix-it featuring a force-user reader who used to be a jedi. reader is a part of tbb and in a relationship with hunter, but the squad–nor hunter–knows that reader is a force-user. (disclaimer: all of this was written before episode 9 was released! see a/n for an explanation ^_^) (another disclaimer: if you want just the hunter x reader comfort, please let me know and i'll finish it up and post it!)

》 word count: ~8k (yeah, it's a lot LOL)

click here to read on AO3

》 warnings: in-universe swearing, mental breakdown, some slight sensory overloads, pretty mild panic attack, light canon-typical violence, angst + some comfort, survivor's guilt from surviving order 66, no use of y/n, slightly plot heavy because i got way too carried away in writing (whoops?) [if i should add more warnings, please let me know!]

》 spoilers: major ones for tbb episode 8 "reunion"

》 a/n: okay look, i gotta confess: this wasn’t supposed to be an episode 8 fix-it. really. i’m actually glad cad bane won because we get to see that the clones don’t always win every fight... i think it makes for a better and more complex story. anyway, i started out writing just reader and hunter comfort after episode 8 ended. but i’m weak for omega because she reminds me so much of my younger siblings and i ended up writing a wholeass fix-it to save her (even tho cad bane is a downright badass). i kind of liked what i did with building up the plot so much that i might continue this story of force-user!reader with tbb. but that’s a tangent we can deal with later. if you would like a part two with the hunter x reader comfort this was originally intended to be, let me know!

as i said in the summary, i wrote all of this before episode 9 came out–just be aware of that. because it’s so long, it took me a while to edit, which is why i’m posting after ep. 9 was released. but without further ado, i hope you like it! <33

》 misc. notes:

• title of the fic is from the hindi song "der lagi lekin" from the film zindagi na milegi dobara. i linked the song in blue and linked the english translations in green in case you're curious! it's not necessary to listen or understand the song, but i thought it went well with the fic :)

“Everybody get down!” Wrecker yells. You and the squad immediately do as he instructs, diving towards the ground and covering your head. Stars, I hope this works.

The charges the six of you placed around the gigantic cone that surrounds the core cylinder explodes in a deafening blast. You curl into the tightest ball you can manage, breathing so hard that the HUD inside your helmet temporarily fogs up. Metal shards of the explosion rain down on you hard.

For a moment, it seems like nothing happened. But then you hear the telltale, ear-grinding creak of the durasteel and the squad is roughly catapulted forward from the force of the cone beginning to fall down.

You struggle to stand up as you lurch this way and that, trying to regain your balance and stabilize as Tech calls out, “Hold on!”

You quickly glance at the rest of the Bad Batch, trying to see if any of them were hurt. Other than the absolutely terrified look on Omega’s face, all is well considering the circumstances. The metal groans and begins its descent, taking your feeling of being grounded with it. The weightlessness is uncomfortably familiar to say the least, but you ignore it as the six of you scramble to hold on to the side of the cone. You certainly did your fair share of acrobatics back in the war, but feeling it hum around you...it’s too much. It’s too much. You elect to push it back into the depths of your brain. But it doesn’t leave.

It never really does.

Omega’s anxious whimpers come in faintly through your thick helmet and you whip around, frantically trying to find where she is. But before you can find her, the cone lands vertically on its head and the force is so violent that your stable hold on the durasteel is broken. Panicked, you quickly fire a grappling hook towards the ledge where you were previously hanging on. The hook catches and you stop abruptly, the jerky movement almost wrenching your arm out of its socket.

You look down to see Omega falling from someone’s grip and into Hunter’s arms. You can barely tell where anyone is thanks to the lack of light and the incessant motion.

The cone begins to topple onto its side and suddenly, your wire snaps from the tension. You let out a scream of surprise as you plummet downwards, wind rushing past your helmet. ForceIdon’twanttodieohmyMakerohno–

But you never hit the ground, instead being flung sideways as the cone tears into two. On trained instinct, you tuck yourself into a ball to try and roll in order to break your fall instead of using it. That time is long gone.

You land with a sickening thud and hiss in pain as your back hits the metal hard. You hear something crack, but whether it is your armor or something internal, you have absolutely no idea, and don’t have time to check before you black out.

✧✦✧

You jolt awake, a sound making its way into your consciousness. Finally, the damn place stopped moving. You take a few minutes to try and relieve the painful pressure in your chest, reaching up to rip your helmet off because you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe.

You tilt your head back as you struggle to take in air and let the adrenaline subside. You hear voices in the distance and you strain your ears to pick up on the sound as you quickly check yourself over. As far as you can tell, nothing major is broken, and at this point, that is all that matters. Though, your head is pounding, and for more reasons than one

“–nter.. port side... what… status?”

You can’t tell who is speaking, the message too far away for you to hear. But the bits and pieces are enough for you to know that it’s someone from the Bad Batch and that you weren’t unconscious for long. You stand up and dust yourself off before slowly walking to where you believe the origin of the sound is.

“–engine… got company.” A blaster sound and then an explosion rings through the quiet.

Your eyes widen and you quickly pick up the pace, getting your blaster ready as you pick your way through the sharp metal that is jutting out from the ground.

You click on your wrist comm. “Echo, you there?” A faint crackle before his voice comes through, but the signal is scratchy. You frown in frustration.

“–are you? Hunter is... port side,” Echo says and you smack your commlink to try and get the electronics to work, but it’s no use. The device is broken, most likely from the fall, you deduce.

“Meet… Marauder.”

You don’t bother to answer, knowing Echo would probably not even be able to hear what you had to say anyway. Without a signal booster or repeater, there’s no way you can get your transmission across the channel frequency.

It takes a few minutes, but you eventually find the night sky of Bracca blinking down at you at the end of the ripped off cone. You run out to find that you’re in the middle of where the cone broke in half. Okay, new plan. I need to find Hunter. Hunter will know what to do.

You scan your surroundings. The HUD isn’t picking up on any lifeforms near you, and you realize with sinking dread that you have no more options. Whichever piece you climbed through to get to your squadmates, it would take too long for you to search for them since you don’t know their coordinates and your comm isn’t working. Frankly, the Empire–Crosshair–would find you first. You have to use it.

You have to use the Force.

A wave of nausea overcomes you at the mere thought of it and you sway. In an attempt to ground yourself, you tear off your helmet to breathe some fresh air and end up keeling over as the bile rises in your throat. Nothing comes out. You can’t tell if that’s a positive or not.

You could have saved them. Someone. Anyone.

It itches at you in the back of your head, wishing to be let out of its cage. But you can’t. You can’t do it. What’s the use anyway? All you would be doing is saving yourself. The choice of surviving it all has haunted you ever since. Your head pounds in agony.

You saw it happen. You could have helped them. And you ran like a coward. Only ever concerned about yourself.

You inhale sharply as the scene flashes before your eyes, clones shooting at you and the other Jedi. The blaster fire. The confusion. The screams.

How pathetic.

The last statement, an echo of Crosshair’s words, bounces around in your brain. You clutch your head as you let out a heartbroken sob, knee deep in the dirt and metal and grief. Tears create clean tracks down your face as you finally break down, the flood of emotions bursting the dam open. At this point, you don’t know if the emotions are yours or the ones you previously felt through the Force, all of them swirling and blending into one. The bottled up anguish merged together when you attempted to cut yourself off from the Force after the clones–your friends–attacked.

The pain of their death is perhaps the worst of all. Horror courses through you as you finally process your friends and mentors dying around the galaxy, their deaths, their distress, their fear reverberating heavily throughout the Force. Each one cripples you further as you once again struggle to breathe.

It feels like light years pass when you finally calm down to a practically numb state of being. The scenes stop replaying behind your closed eyelids and the echoing shrieks die down to a faint, hollow whisper. You’re suddenly exhausted, limbs heavy and energy sapped. It was almost relieving to finally let the Force once again flow through your body, your nerves lightly tingling with potential despite how tired you feel. You collapse onto the ground and try to recenter yourself.

But despite finally acknowledging the loss, it doesn’t feel right. You didn’t get to say goodbye. You hadn’t been able to even think about them, much less honor them, too focused on going on the run to concentrate on anything beyond the next day’s survival. Even once you joined the Bad Batch, you were paranoid about their chips, about your friends turning on you at any moment. You were always extremely reluctant to engage in the Force, even at the worst of times.

With a start, you realize that you don’t need to worry about your squadmates. Their inhibitor chips are now gone. You… you are safe.

You let out a shocked laugh as it sinks in. A glimmer of hope, of peace. I’m safe.

You sit up then, criss-crossing your legs as you survey the broken landscape of Bracca. Despite the planet being a graveyard, you feel lucidly alive. Perhaps something died in you, that wretched day. But something else, slowly but surely, began growing in its place. It’s meek, but it’s there.

You let out a breath and close your eyes, reaching for the Force like it’s an old friend. It accepts your invitation with hesitation, joining hands with you as if you did not try beating it to death for days on end. You sink into the gentle lapping waves of the Force, extending into it and widening your scope.

There’s something that lurks beneath the surface, in the deep. Dark and sinister and so utterly painful. It calls to you, quiet and low. Enticing. Tempting. And something in you knows that it’s the reason for your previous life’s demise.

But you can feel Hunter’s–and Omega’s, you realize–presence near you in the Force. Even with your relatively damaged connection to the Force after Order 66, the Bad Batch’s Force auras were something you could always hone in on. You let yourself direct your focus to the duo, letting their emotions be your beacon to the acceptance of the Light side of the Force.

In a split second, you decide to not dive deeper into the Force. This isn’t the place nor the time to discover what is prowling in the endless yawning of the Force, to discover why everything happened. So you direct your concentration to the beings on the planet, feeling and breathing your way through the Life Force.

You freeze. There’s something here. No… someone. Your eyebrows furrow as you divert your attention away from your friends and other organisms to the peculiar source. Something about this person strikes you as familiar.

Your eyes snap open and you gasp. I’m not alone. A Force-sensitive. Someone survived. Giddy beyond belief, you snatch up your helmet and begin trekking your way across the wreckage in the opposite direction of Hunter and Omega before pausing. Whoever this person is doesn’t know about your presence on the planet.

And despite the fear you felt emanating off of them in the Force, you somehow knew they were safe, at least for now. And they would remain so if you have anything to say about it. Maker forbid anything that jeopardizes this person’s fragile safety. After all, you know best what it’s like to constantly flee scene after scene.

Staying away is the best thing to do. I’ll come back for you, whoever you are.

You double back and make quick work of getting across the debris as you focus your concentration on Hunter’s and Omega’s Force signatures. As you get closer to the port side, you hear Omega’s high voice. Through your HUD, you can see her small form. You grin. She disappears then, and on closer inspection, you figure she jumped through some broken cargo doors.

The entrance she and Hunter took is too high for you to jump up to, even with the aid of the Force. Combined with your wariness of probe droids, you decide to take a different route from the right side, climbing up the broken ship. The slick oil mixed with the water still present on the metal makes for a difficult trek, and you slip more times than you would like to admit.

Hunter’s gruff voice floats up towards you and you scramble the last few meters to the edge of a hole in the ceiling before pausing. The Force is itching at the back of your head. Something’s wrong.

You peek over the edge of the giant slab of durasteel that created the hole to see bodies in white armor littered everywhere–clones, you realize. Your heart pangs in sadness at the sight.

Slightly to your right, a blue figure and a techno-service droid stand in front of a ship and a frightened Omega stands behind a defensive Hunter. Your mouth drops open. Kriff.

Cad Bane.

A memory from near the beginning of the war hits you in full force. You and Anakin had taken some time on Coruscant to catch up with each other after you passed your trials and were promoted to Jedi Knight. He told you about a mission where he had to stop a bounty hunter who successfully stole a Jedi holocron. You remember how surprised you were when you heard the bitter disgust in Anakin’s voice. The ruthlessly cunning bounty hunter not only threatened to kill Ahsoka, but he murdered Master Ropal.

Judging by the looks of it, Hunter doesn’t know who he is. If the Anakin Skywalker had a difficult time with Cad Bane, there is no way in sithhell Hunter can take him on, even with his enhanced senses. Frankly, you seriously doubt you can either, especially with how rusty your Force skills are now. And that means this isn’t going to end well.

You watch carefully as you tune into the conversation.

“Ain’t you smart?” Bane smirks. “The kid’s got it all figured it out.”

“You’re in trouble now!” the droid exclaims, pointing at Hunter and Omega. You grit your teeth in annoyance.

“Who hired you?” Hunter asks. Stalling. Not a bad move, Hunter.

“Son,” Bane sighs, already done with the brief conversation. “That’s confidential information. Now hand her over.”

Omega stays behind Hunter, taking a knee as Hunter walks forward protectively. You bristle. How am I supposed to help from up here?

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Your eyes drift over the scene in a panic and you take in the fallen clones again. An idea pops into your head. It is desperate, but at this point, you don’t have much of a choice.

Bane mimics Hunter’s movement, walking forward and putting a hand near his belt. The tension is as thick as duracrete.

“That’s unfortunate… for you.”

You grab the long barrel piece from your belt, fitting it over your blaster hurriedly as the showdown begins. Out of the corner of your eye, you see them staring each other down and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Men.

During the war, Crosshair helped you re-engineer your weapon so you could put together various pieces in the field to make a blaster gun that loosely resembled his own sniper. Seeing the clones reminded you of him. A wave of sadness washes over you, but you shake your head. Now is not the time.

You screw on the telescopic sight and set up your makeshift sniper. You peer through the viewfinder and find Bane’s chest. Your finger tenses over the trigger.

You let yourself sink deep into the Force, let it guide your actions. Inhale. Exhale. I can do this. As you relax, the mellow warmth you missed so dearly washes over you, gently eroding the torment in your mind and heart, guiding your focus to the here and now. Trust in the Force.

Wait.

Wait.

Now.

You fire two bolts straight into your target the same exact moment Bane and Hunter shoot each other. Hunter’s shot hits the droid, breaking off its leg. Bane’s shot hits directly in Hunter’s chest, as yours did Bane. Both men immediately fall backwards and slam into the ground.

“My booster!” Oh. So not a leg. Got it.

“Hunter!”

Kriff kriff kriff. You jump down nimbly from your hiding spot in the ceiling and immediately sprint towards the duo. Is he dead? You would unapologetically release sithhell on Bane if he killed the man you love.

Omega panics as she tries to wake Hunter up, continuously calling his name before taking a glimpse of her surroundings. Before you can react, she grabs her bow and pulls it taut, aiming at you. She looks petrified.

“Whoa! Omega, it’s me!” you exclaim, holding your hands up in surrender. She takes a moment to actually look at you before sagging in relief. Suddenly, the droid comes speeding out of nowhere and Omega shoots, the energy bolt whizzing past your waist and straight into the droid before it can attack you from behind.

The shot rings true and the grumpy robot falls. You turn around to grab at its exposed parts under its head and yank them out to make sure it can’t power on again.

“Thanks, Omega. I owe you one,” you say and Omega gives you a proud smile.

You place a comforting hand on her shoulder before kneeling down to shake Hunter awake, but it doesn’t work. You take a moment to analyse Hunter’s Life Force. It’s a bit dimmer, but it’s constant, meaning he’s out cold and doesn’t have the life draining out of him. You let out a sigh of relief. He’s alive. You glance back to see Bane still not moving. Good.

“What’re we gonna do?” Omega whispers as you both peer down at Hunter. His armor is smoking from Bane’s blaster shot and you exhale through your teeth, trying to come up with a plan. You slip off a glove to check Hunter’s pulse–it’s strong. You don’t want to leave Omega alone, even if Bane is unconscious, but you aren’t sure you have a choice.

“Well we can’t carry him to safety, neither of us are strong enough for that,” you think aloud, gears churning in your head. You would have to wait for help, even if you were sitting ducks.

Briefly, you entertain the thought of taking Bane’s ship. The only problem is you don’t know what trackers or other gadgets are in there–it’s too costly of a risk and a price you weren’t willing to pay. You sigh, resigned.

“Omega, you try to comm the others and see if you can wake Hunter up. I’m going to go inside this guy’s ship and see if I can find something that can help us. We have to get out of here before the bounty hunter wakes up,” you instruct and Omega nods, youthful determination flooding back into her eyes.

You leave her to it, walking cautiously towards Bane’s ship. You look down at him. His armor is smoking in two places from the shots you fired. Based on what you see, he’s still unconscious, and his Life Force reflects the same conclusion. How long that would remain, you don’t know. Which means you need to work fast.

You board the ship while you remove the sniper attachments from your blaster and clip them back onto your belt. You keep your guard up as you look around. No droids. Guess that techno-service droid is his one and only.

In an effort to slowly re-familiarize yourself with the Force, you send out a quick pulse through it to see if there are any lifeforms aboard the ship, relaxing when you find none. You rummage through all the cabinets that you discover, looking high and low as you try to locate something of use. The secret compartment in the cockpit proves to be the fruitful reward to your search. With a wave of your hand, you unlock it with ease. Bingo.

Credits. Bags of them. And they’re unmarked creds, which make your score even better. Hopefully, it would be enough to pay off your debt to Cid and give the Havoc Marauder some much-needed upgrades.

Usually, you would feel bad about stealing from someone, but considering this was a bounty hunter – Cad Bane, no less – you figure you can risk treading the grey area of your moral code.

You grab as many bags as you’re able, stuffing them inside your backpack and clipping the rest onto your belt. At this moment, you’re incredibly grateful to Tech and Echo for designing a sturdy utility belt that fits you well. The standard ones were for clones and you definitely were not a clone.

You exit the cockpit and head to the second level of the ship to see if there’s anything else you can find. A stack of crates sits in the corner across from what you assume to be a prison. You scrunch your nose in disgust as you open one to find medical supplies. Bacta patches and gel, vitapaste, rations, water, gloves, sanitary napkins–it was all there. Delighted, you close the crate and click the repulsor to make it levitate. Oh how you love technology.

You turn around and walk back up the stairs to leave the ship. You freeze at the exit ramp. You have got to be karking kidding me.

“Sorry lil’ lady.”

Cad Bane stuns Omega in front of your eyes before rounding on you and immediately fires. In a desperate attempt to save yourself, you throw your hands up and the honeyed power of the Force rushes through every fibre of your being. The blaster bolts slow down to a snail-like crawl and your eyes widen. How did I…?

Never mind how you argue with yourself. Time to get out of here!

You tiptoe around each bolt, the effort of keeping them in stasis becoming more difficult with each passing moment. You grit your teeth as your arms shake, but you keep going until you are finally off the ramp. You lower your arms and the energy hits the inside of the ship, spazzing out the blinking controls inside.

Bane turns to you in surprise, astonished at how you’re suddenly in front of him. You don’t give him the luxury of processing the event and immediately punch him in the face with as much strength as you can muster. Bane pitches backwards and collapses onto the ground, just as he did the first time. You grab your stun blaster and shoot him as extra assurance. You really did not want this to repeat again. Hopefully he never wakes up with a memory of what I just did...

“Now stay down,” you mutter to a knocked out Bane, cradling your now injured hand. You have no idea how Wrecker ever does this because wow your hand is killing you.

You have to say, you’re pretty proud of yourself for being able to render him unconscious not once, but two times. You wish you could tell Anakin–the thought saddens you. He’s probably dead too.

With that vividly cheery thought, you stagger back from the ramp in exhaustion, weary from the sudden surge of the Force still ebbing and coursing through your body.

None of the Bad Batch knew you used to be a Jedi–not even Hunter. It was something only a few of your closest Jedi friends and the Jedi Council knew about.

But after what happened today, with Rex helping your squadmates get their inhibitor chips out, with you finally letting the Force in… maybe it is time to tell them. The secrecy wouldn’t be needed anymore now that you were sure you were safe around your friends. But clearly, the universe wanted to throw a nasty vibroblade in your plans by knocking Hunter and Omega unconscious and having the best kriffing bounty hunter in the galaxy be hot on your heels.

You take a few seconds to get your breath back and regain your mental energy. You aren’t out of the woods yet. You run inside Bane’s ship to grab the crate of medical supplies before sprinting back out towards Hunter and Omega.

You lean down and pat Omega’s cheek gently, trying to wake her up, but she’s out cold. Why is everyone around me unconscious? Frankly, you’re equally amused and terrified by the situation laid out in front of you.

You sigh, looking around to see if you can find some cover. There’s a giant sheet of durasteel to your left, big enough to act as a barrier in case trouble comes knocking. You bend down and pick Omega up before placing her down cautiously, leaning her small body against the metal. You repeat the action with the crate you found.

The third time proves to be much more difficult. Hunter certainly isn’t as muscular as Wrecker, but he sure as sithhell isn’t as light as Omega. You tap your foot nervously, trying to figure out a way for you to lift him. Yes, you could use the Force, but you don’t want to alert the other Force-sensitive on the planet. If they knew about your existence, it could put them in danger, and that was the last thing you wanted.

Giving up, you place your hands underneath Hunter’s armpits and effectively drag him all the way over, propping him up as you did Omega. You cringe at the sound of his armor grating the floor. There are sure to be dirty scuff marks on it now. Sorry Hunter.

Just as you’re about to sit down next to him, heaving deep breaths from the exertion, you pause. A warning is practically blaring in the Force and you tense, urgently trying to figure out the cause.

“Not again,” you mumble under your breath. You can’t handle any more action today. With Hunter and Omega both down, and your extreme fatigue from engaging in the Force, you don’t know how much of a fight you can put up. Not to mention you never trained as a soldier. There was a reason why you left the military planning strategies to the Bad Batch.

You hold your blaster close to your chest as you scan the environment. Bane is immobile and so is the dismantled techno-service droid. So what’s wrong?

Ten nerve-wracking seconds pass before you get your answer. Clone voices waft up to your hiding spot and you bite your cheek in frustration as your head continues to pound. Your headache still hasn’t stopped.

There is no way you can fight them all off, especially if Crosshair is with them. They are too far away for you to get a read on how many there are, and frankly, you’re much too scared to even peek around the durasteel to count.

One of Tech’s previous statements floats through your mind. About three attack shuttles worth.

You can feel your heart thumping wildly in your chest, blood rushing through your ears as anxiety ties your stomach into knots. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, Ican’tdothis.

You take deep breaths, doing your best to clear your mind and focus. You had to do this. There is no other option other than surrendering or dying. No, damnit, you would go down fighting until the Life Force left you.

You peer just past the edge of the metal to see at least twenty clones heading your way. Certainly not ideal, but you bide your time. If you started shooting now, you couldn’t use the element of surprise to your advantage and they would easily overwhelm you. But once they’re close enough, you hope you can at least take a couple out before having to resort to using the Force. It isn’t ideal, but it’s all you have.

Honestly, you don’t know if you could get out of this one alive, much less protect Hunter and Omega too. Maker help me.

It throws you off when they finally come into sight–you see how plain the clones’ armor looked without paint. You never really noticed it before since you were always running for your life in those circumstances. But now that you think about it, you are so used to seeing bright blue or green or yellow that the alabaster white just seems so… odd.

“Looks like a big fight happened here.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. All these men are dead.”

Now.

You whip your body around the metal and immediately begin shooting as fast as you can pull the trigger, trying to make every shot count. The troopers hesitate for just a moment, most likely due to their surprise of you being there. But that second is all you need.

You take out the three men closest to you before jumping back behind the metal as their barrage of fire rains down on you. You do your best to shoot back and manage to take out one more clone, but they’re beginning to gain too much ground too fast. I can do this. I have to do this.

As far as you can tell, Crosshair isn’t with the clones attacking you, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t set up shop somewhere nearby, waiting to shoot you.

You shudder. It’s a chilling thought.

You grab one of your last detonators from your belt and hurl it as far as you can. The rapid beeping rises quickly in pitch before the charge explodes. Anguished cries reverberate throughout the area, and you briefly feel sorry for having to take such drastic measures as you feel their Force signatures dim swiftly. But you don’t have a choice.

Peeking around the corner, you count around eight to ten clones down. Not bad considering the circumstances.

You continue shooting as much as you can but now the troopers are much too close for comfort and you’re feeling overwhelmed. The durasteel you are using for cover isn’t meant to take this kind of damage, and the integrity of your shield is quickly waning as told by the constant creaks and groans. You don’t know what to do. Will we make it?

In your haste of shooting first and panicking later, you don’t notice Hunter groaning, finally waking up. And before you have time to even glance at him, the familiar hum of the Havoc Marauder and its lights shine down on you. Your sag in relief. Looks like Omega was able to comm them after all. Never before have you been so glad to see the beat-up hunk of junk. (You would never say that to Tech though–the Marauder is his baby, his pride and joy.)

Echo, Wrecker, and Tech all race off the ship, guns ablazing. Wrecker and Tech stand guard, serving as cover fire while Echo bends down to help you out.

“Hunter, wake up!” Echo hisses and smacks his helmet lightly. Hunter mumbles in pain as he starts to move, trying to look around as his HUD boots back up. Seriously? Now you wake up? you think sarcastically. But you’re much more relieved at the fact that he has actually woken up.

“What happened? Where’s Omega?” Wrecker bellows, worried.

“She’s right here, I’ve got her!” you shout back at the same time Echo says, “He was shot in the chest plate.”

You pocket your blaster and gather the young girl in your arms with every last bit of strength you have left. You aren’t strong enough to hold her in one arm and shoot with the other. That is much more up Wrecker’s alley.

“We have to get him on board!” Tech exclaims as he helps Echo support Hunter. You pick Omega up in both arms and bolt for the ship as fast as you can while yelling at Tech to grab the crate of supplies.

“Incoming!” Wrecker calls out as a fresh wave of troopers advance towards the six of you. You grunt as you deposit Omega in a chair near the controls before pulling out your blaster and helping Wrecker shoot down the men racing towards you.

“Got him. Tech, fly us out of here!” Echo commands while Wrecker makes a gesture for them to get on the ship faster. Hunter stumbles as he does his best to upright himself.

“Go go go!” Wrecker exclaims. Tech shoves the crate next to Omega’s seat and makes a beeline for the cockpit as you continue shooting, moving to the side to make space for Echo and Hunter to come on board. Wrecker quickly climbs in right after them and the ramp closes shut.

Tech immediately pilots the Havoc Marauder up and away from the scene. You vaguely hear the sound of blaster fire hitting the bottom of the ship while you drop your blaster on the ground and wrench Hunter’s helmet off in a panic. You take his face in your hands as you scan him quickly, trying to figure out if he’s hurt or not.

Hunter bats your hands away. “He... he took Omega,” he says and you shake your head. Wrecker pipes up from behind you to respond.

“Who? Crosshair?”

“The bounty hunter,” Hunter mutters as he rubs a hand over his face. Before Wrecker can answer again, you step in.

“No, he didn’t. I took him down. And no, he’s not dead,” you tack on quickly when you see Echo open his mouth. Echo shakes his head fondly and you just grin at him.

“She’s right here,” Echo says instead, pointing to Omega’s sleeping figure. Hunter turns in surprise to see that his brother is indeed telling the truth.

“How...?” Hunter’s voice trails off. Echo and Wrecker look at you expectantly, and Hunter follows suit. You sigh and take off your helmet, setting it down on the ledge next to the controls. You don’t look at them.

“It’s a long story.”

You don’t have a chance to elaborate any further because Tech walks in, interrupting the conversation.

“I’ve made the jump to hyperspace. There was a cruiser in the atmosphere, but I was able to quietly go past them by disguising our ship as a bounty hunter’s. They didn’t interfere. I put in the coordinates for Ord Mantell. I estimate our time of arrival to be five hours and thirty two minutes,” Tech reports and Hunter nods while you voice your thanks.

“Looks like we got time!” Wrecker says cheerily, pulling out an extra chair. Tech looks to you in confusion.

“Did I miss something significant?” Tech asks, concerned about the information he did not receive as he adjusts his goggles. You shake your head but now, all eyes are back on you.

“She was just about to tell us how she saved Omega,” Hunter supplies helpfully and Tech nods in understanding. He grabs a chair as well and sits down, interested in hearing what you have to say.

You look around the room, realizing you can’t get out of it. You are exhausted and just want to sleep but based on the looks you are getting from the boys, there is no way you can leave without giving a sufficient answer.

You sit down on a chair in between Omega and Echo and begin explaining.

“When the cone fell, it separated. I got knocked out when I hit the ground, but I don’t think I broke anything,” you quickly reassure as Tech grabs a datapad to scan your vitals.

“After I came to, I tried comming Echo, but my commlink was broken – I could only hear bits and pieces of what he said. There were some voices near me so I just followed them and–” you pause, not sure if you should tell them what happened. What you experienced, what you found out. “–I saw Hunter and Omega. The ledge I found was way too high for me to jump to, so I climbed up the side of the wreckage to see them and the bounty hunter facing off,” you say, choosing to leave the detail out. It was too personal. You still needed time.

All of them are listening intently, hanging on to every word you’re saying. Hunter’s gaze on you is heavy and loaded with questions. Tech is still tapping away on the datapad, but you know you have his full attention. Multitasking may not be possible for regular humans, but it definitely was for Tech.

“When I saw the bounty hunter, I knew Hunter wasn’t going to win,” you mumble sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. Hunter winces at your statement and you rush to explain why.

“Hunter, you have to trust that I genuinely don’t doubt your abilities. You are much more of a soldier than I will ever be. But this bounty hunter is one of the best, if not the best in the entire galaxy. He’s gone against the Jedi, and won. Based on what Anakin told me at the beginning of the war, Cad Bane is ruthless. He tortured Master Ropal and killed him. Believe it or not, I think he tried to abduct Chancellor Palpatine. Even Anakin had a difficult time fighting him.”

A tense quiet settles over you all as you mentally revisit your conversation with Anakin, and later with Ahsoka. She told you how it was one of the first times she was genuinely afraid that she was going to die, or at least get hurt very severely.

Echo’s rough voice shakes you out of your reverie. “How do–did you know General Skywalker?” he asks, clearly confused at how you referred to him on a first-name basis. You mentally facepalm yourself. How did I forget he served as part of the 501st? You feel incredibly stupid.

You could make up a lie, of course, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Hunter’s enhanced senses and Tech’s vitals scan could probably pick up on your biological signs, not to mention you would feel terribly guilty about not being honest. I promised myself I would tell them…

You blow out a nervous breath, deciding to at least give them something. They deserved that much.

“I’m–well, I was a Jedi,” you admit, staring down at your feet. You can’t bring yourself to look at them, feeling almost… ashamed.

The boys are shocked into silence and you cringe. There was probably a much better way for you to say that, but now it was out there. Yet the pressure that had been weighing down on you since you let the Force back in didn’t lessen.

“What?” Wrecker questions, thrown completely for a loop. “You’re a Jedi?”

Before you can answer, Tech pipes up. “When I reviewed your medical data, there was no note about an elevated midi-chlorian count or any sort of connection to the Force. Additionally, there is no documentation of you serving as a General or a Commander during the war in the Republic military records. How were you a Jedi? And why aren’t you one now? You used past tense in your sentence,” Tech adjusts his goggles as he attempts to register this new information that conflicted with his previous knowledge.

You sigh, drumming your fingers on your thigh. “I left the Jedi Order before the war ended. I promise I’ll explain everything in detail later, but for now, you have to understand that I’m just a Force-user. I trained as a Jedi, but I’m not a Jedi, not anymore,” you clarify, lifting your head up to make eye contact with each of them.

“Aw man, that’s so cool. You have to show us your cool mind tricks sometime!” Wrecker smiles and you agree to his request. It warms your heart to see him so excited.

“It makes sense. You must have seen the regs turn on the Jedi but didn’t know why. When you started traveling with us, you didn’t know if we would turn on you too, even though we’re not regs,” Hunter realizes, and you nod in affirmation. You’re secretly relieved by the fact that he doesn’t seem angry, just… just thoughtful.

“And then when I saw what happened to Crosshair, I knew I couldn’t risk ever telling any of you. But when Rex told us about the chips…” you trail off.

Echo picks up your sentence quickly. “You figured out you would be safe with us if we got our chips removed. No wonder you were so insistent on following what Rex said.”

You smile at the last part, a bit embarrassed. He wasn’t wrong. You were probably even more insistent than Rex was on telling them to get their inhibitor chips out. Better to be safe than sorry you told them. Though at the time, you hadn’t even thought about how removing their chips would impact you and your abilities. You were too focused on keeping the Force out of your body to entertain that thought.

Wrecker suddenly gets up and gathers you in a bone-crushing hug. “Well you don’t have to worry now! We got those stupid chips out of our heads, which means I promise we won’t kill you!” he says cheerfully and you can’t help but laugh as you hug him back, the knot in your chest beginning to unravel. You could always count on Wrecker’s wonderfully big heart to raise your spirits.

“You’re right, big guy. It’s honestly a relief. One less thing I have to worry about.”

Wrecker lets go of you and you pick up where you left off. “As I was saying, Cad Bane isn’t a bounty hunter we can take lightly. Crosshair helped me re-engineer my blaster to turn it into a pseudo sniper with attachable parts during the war. Because I was so high up, I could get a clear shot of Bane. From that vantage point, I shot him at the same time Hunter and Bane shot each other.”

Echo’s mouth drops open. “Damn.”

“What I didn’t expect was for Hunter to be rendered completely unconscious. So I told Omega to try to comm you guys while I went on Bane’s ship to see if I could find anything. And I did.” You pull off your backpack and dump out the contents. Bags of credits come tumbling out. You unhook the few bags on your belt and toss them into the pile.

“Bane had a secret compartment with a lot of credits. So I took them and that crate I yelled at Tech to get,” you explain as you reach into the bag to show off the Imperial credits.

Tech’s eyes widen as he lifts up a bag to inspect it. “I will have to calculate how much you took and mark it in the inventory, but based on my initial deduction, this may be enough for us to upgrade the Marauder and provide sustenance for at least a few months.”

“Nice one!” Wrecker compliments and you grin in response. “What’s in the crate?” he asks, walking over to lift up the top.

“Medical supplies. We barely had any left so I figured I might as well take that too,” you shrug as Hunter gets up to join Wrecker to peer at the contents.

“What happened after that? You said you told Omega to comm the others, which means she was awake. Did she get hurt while I was out? Is that why you look so exhausted?” Hunter inquires, astute as ever.

You bite your lower lip. “When I was getting off his ship with the goods, he had woken up again. Before I could do anything, he stunned Omega and then immediately shot at me,” you pause, wondering if you should elaborate on how you got out of the situation. You decide to come clean on this part.

“I… I don’t know how, but I was able to stop the blaster bolts and keep them – and Bane – in stasis with the Force. The problem was that it took a lot out of me. After not really using the Force for so long, my energy reserves were pretty much gone,” you sigh, absentmindedly rubbing your arms. Your muscles are still sore from the event.

“After that, I punched him and knocked him out again. I dragged you and Omega away from the ship so that I could protect you, and I ended up using that giant piece of durasteel as cover to fight off those clones. Then you guys came and rescued us and that’s that,” you finish, suddenly fatigued from the conversation. You slump back into your chair, perfect posture be damned.

“Wow,” is all Echo says, surprised by your strength. It took some serious stamina to be able to withstand so much for so long. Echo remembered seeing Commander Tano and General Skywalker be exhausted after some especially intense missions where they constantly had to use the Force.

“Yeah,” you mutter, massaging your dominant hand. It is still throbbing from the mean hook you threw at Bane. You don’t have any regrets. You glance at Omega’s sleeping figure and soften. The things I would do for this girl.

“Looks like I taught you well!” Wrecker laughs and you smile. When you first met the Bad Batch, Wrecker took it upon himself to teach you basic self-defense and how to overtake an opponent intelligently. Even though you already learned how to fight as part of your Jedi and military training, you couldn’t say no to him when he looked so excited. But it paid off because he’s right. Wrecker did teach you well.

“You did. You basically saved my ass out there with your amazing teaching skills,” you chuckle, glancing down at your hand. You think you’ll probably have to cover it in bacta gel to speed up the healing process before having yet another realization. (You seem to be having a lot of those today.)

I can just Force-heal. Before, you couldn’t Force-heal because it would look suspicious if something healed too fast. But now that they know, you don’t have to solely depend on medical supplies anymore.

Tech, as always, is right on cue. “Is your hand alright? For you to render Bane unconscious must have been no easy feat. Not to mention that according to the medscan I just took, you have a mild concussion, most likely due to your fall. I can run a medical diagnostic test to start and then run more specific tests to combat your pain...” Tech mutters the last part to himself, brain running light years faster than his mouth as his fingers fly over the datapad.

You debate it for a moment before nodding. “That would be great, Tech–thanks. But right now, I’m exhausted, so I’m going to go and crash in my bunk. Wake me up if I need to punch someone again,” you joke before shuffling away from your squadmates. You ruffle Omega’s hair affectionately as you pass by her and pick up your blaster from the ground before climbing down the ladder. You don’t notice Hunter’s troubled gaze or how his Force signature sours a bit as you leave.

You quickly clean up and throw on some bacta patches on a few nasty bruises. You sit down on your bed and pull the privacy curtain before deciding to open up your secret compartment next to your mattress. You stare down at the objects, the only things you have left as a reminder of the past. You reach down for one of them, about to touch it when you stop.

You shake your head and shut the drawer. Deciding to finally, finally hit the hay, you’re out like a light as soon as your head hits the pillow. Dealing with the Force and healing yourself could be done later. Not even your constant pain and crippling worry about your family friends could keep you up any longer.

please consider reblogging! it really helps me and is super encouraging ^_^

[theywillcower]

hiiii can i just say i love ur writing and i always get excited to see you post >w< and im also probably gonna be the fifth cypher simp in your inbox asking for nsfw hcs abt f!ckin while on a mission

My blog is a haven for Cypher simps, as @runeterrankhaleesi is a haven for Yoru simps

WARNINGS: NSFW

Cypher absolutely would fuck you on a mission. The adrenaline rush with getting the kills, how hot you look all disheveled... can you really blame him?

He'll make things hell for you. First, he'll turn off all the comms except for between you and him. Dont worry, he can still hear the others and communicate if necessary, but he doesn't want anyone else to hear your moans. Those sounds you make are only for him.

He'll start off easy, dirty talking you slowly. Where he's positioned, he can see you, but you can't see him. Letting him get all the pleasure of watching your cheeks heat up and eyes narrow.

"Rahim! Not now!"

"Darling rose, is there ever a proper time?"

"Your lips pressed to that gun barrel as you're aiming... there's something better you could kiss."

"Your cheeks are so flushed, little one... let me remedy that."

"You're panting like an animal being hunted. Or maybe, you're in heat."

All the while you're looking around, frustrated AND horny now, trying to find him, when all of a sudden:

"So slow on the uptake, little one... must I do everything?"

His arms snake around your waist, pressing you back against him. You can feel his hard on straining even through his pants and coat, and at one point he must have pulled his mask up

Because the feeling of his lips on your neck is driving you insane, nipping just slightly as he slides a hand into your pants, still gloved.

"Come on, darling... you don't want to put on too much of a show, right?"

Cypher loves quickies, like I can't stress this enough. He definitely gets off on the thrill of almost being caught, and he gets horny on a hair trigger.

He'll pull your pants down, spit on his fingers and work you open, gently, but with an eagerness and urgency that reminds you he really wants to get his dick wet.

Loves loves LOVES pressing his hand on his partners mouth to keep them quiet. Theres something about the control, how his fingers vibrate with your moans and whimpers

He presses you up against a wall, fingers in your mouth as he pushes his cock into you, growling about how tight you are, on a mission no less.

Quick, shallow thrusts. Much about the end than the journey.

When you've cum, he can cum, pressing your body as tight against him as he can. You can feel warmth inside you, his cum dripping out when he withdraws quickly.

With a cheeky peck on the cheek and an "Until next time, darling", he's off, leaving you bright red and shaky legged, thinking about how you'll get him back later.

[mqgriett]

Paring: Tech x Fem!Reader

Warning: light smut and a little blood

Summary: of course things would go wrong right when you were so close to having him

Notes: this is a part 2 to “Princess” please read that before going into this one! also EEK I haven't posted in a while!! I have spring break next week and then online learning the week after so I should be able to upload more frequently!! Stay safe everyone please!

Oh stars this felt perfect. The feeling of his soft lips on yours, the way he gently tugged at the waist of your dress, his cologne, everything. When he finally pulled back you felt drunk with lust, the small residue of your lipstick on his lips only making it worse. Without your heels on you were reminded of how short you were next to him, your height diminishing by at least three or four inches.

Tech subconsciously bit his bottom lip, subtly looking down the top of your new dress. His hands were still placed just above your ass, an animalistic feeling cascading onto him as he locked eyes with you. He kissed you again, less sweet this time, and practically dominated your mouth with his own. The few times you pulled back for a bit of air, he would suck the tender flesh of your neck and whisper things that had flooded his mind for far too long.

“I’ve waited so- so long to do this.” He whimpered pathetically, cursing himself for how small his voice was in the moment.

It drove you mad how timid, yet rough, he was right now. You could hardly stand it, and the mere thought of him being this helpless when you were only kissing made your mind wander to the most sinful places.

You gently pushed him backwards, hands trailing down his collar bone to unbutton his black jacket. His breath staggered, fingers desperately trying to find the bottom of your silk gown as you continued to walk forward.

The backs of his knees hit the side of your bed, causing him to fall onto his back. You didn’t hesitate to immediately crawl on top of him, sitting directly where you knew he would feel it most. Tech let out a pitiful moan and threw his head back, back arching at only the feeling of your heat on his clothed hard.

You started at unbuttoning his shirt, your fingers shaking from pure excitement. He grew tired of waiting, that animalistic urge making its way back down his body. Grabbing the opened section of his shirt, he basically ripped the last three buttons off. You hummed in delight as he sat up and held the small of your back to ensure you wouldn’t fall.

All it took was one slow and hard grind of your hips for him to hopelessly whine, “take it off, please for maker’s sake take it off.” He groaned the last word, his hand pawing at your clothed ass.

Knees still on either side of him, you sat up and held your dress with the opposite arms. It was halfway up your torso when a ringing went off in Tech’s ear.

Hunter’s voice brought him down from his lust-drunken state, “Main floor’s been breached! Tech where are you?”

Tech raised a finger to his ear, pressing down to reply, “third floor, in the room. She’s still getting, Uh-“ He looked down at your bare thighs, “getting dressed.”

He heard a few shots echo from Hunter’s line of the comm, “Tech you got klankers heading up to you from the south stairs, get her outta here before Kraken finds her first.”

“Copy that Sarg.” Tech said sternly.

He selfishly took one last look at you on top of him before gently pushing you off in a hurried manner. “Main floor has been breached by a droid squad. Got a few heading up here, we need to go. Where’s the closest exit?” He asked, buttoning up his shirt where he could.

“The gardens, there’s a secret stairway that leads down from the balcony.” You replied swiftly, opening your bedside drawer and lifting up a tube of lipstick. The action unlocked the cabinet underneath the drawer, allowing you to type in correct code into the beskar safe.

The robotic clanking of droids making their way up the stairs could be heard through the wall, which was not a good sign considering the walls were thicker than those of the Jedi temple; meaning, there were at least a hundred of those robots.

“Hurry.” Tech stated quickly. You snatched your weapon from the safe and ran past him, grabbing his wrist tightly in the process.

As soon as you two were in the hallway, the droids had successfully managed to get through the locked doors. Tech fired a few shots at the front ones, not noticing that there were B2 droids behind the B1s.

You spun around just in time, the red plasma bullet hitting the bright blue blade of your lightsaber. It deflected it, firing back at the B2 and hitting him in the center of the chest.

“Go!” You shouted, blocking a few other shots from hitting him. You held the lightsaber in a backwards grip, swaying it from side to side to keep a steady momentum going.

Your bare feet smacked against the cold marble floor, making you slide almost every time you turned a corner. Even through the chaos, you found a moment to share a smile with Tech.

“This a little more familiar?” He heaved, both pistols waving in the air as he sprinted. The top of his shirt was still open, his hair a pure mess. If you weren’t on the brink of being kidnapped and/or killed, you would’ve thought he was hot.

Taking the final turn, you busted through the doors to the large balcony garden. The cold wind made your shoulders shiver, your braided hair falling loose. You made a beeline for the control panel, slamming your shoulder into it after it refused to open. It sliced your skin open, a small line of blood beginning to trickle down your arm. The staircase began to appear from the wall, each stair seemingly growing from the castle’s exterior.

Then it stopped.

A gunship full of B1s landed on the opposite side of the doorway, Kraken walked out behind them. Your shoulder had its own heartbeat, an indescribable pain shooting out your neck.

Tech pressed his fingers to his ear, “Sarg, we could use a little backup.”

Blasts from the other end is all he heard for a moment, “we got our own problems here, Tech.”

Dank Farrik, it was truly just the two of you now.

The battle droids started their first wave, Tech and you with your backs pressed together. A few BXs leaped from behind, landing strategically in front of you two.

One Of them lunged for you, latching onto your ankles and pulling you to the ground with a swift hit. You yelped, your shoulders hitting against the stone floor with an indescribable amount of force.

That same BX reached for your knees, starting to drag you towards the gun ship. You writhed and kicked, nailing it in the center of the head; as it went soaring to the ground, so did the bottom of your gorgeous dress. It left a long tear from your right knee all the way up to just below your left hip.

A string of cuss words left your mouth, your lightsaber blade hissing back out of the hilt as you cut the legs off of a few B1s reaching for you.

Tech lifted you up from under your armpits, immediately returning to battle afterwards. He fired straight for the heads of the droids, the two of you back to back as you destroyed each robot coming near you.

“Do you remember that mission on Felucia?” Tech heaved, “the one where that ancient tribe thought the yellow B1 droid was their leader?”

You slashed the heads off of the three enemies closest to you, your shoulder beginning to ache more with every swing. “Now’s not the best time to be all sentimental.”

“Think about that mission. What we did that day, you and I!” He shouted, the circle of droids tightening with every passing second.

You quickly scanned your memory, finally realizing what he was insinuating. Turning to face his back, you cleared enough room to get a running start. Tech ducked, just low enough for you to jump off of his back. As you soared through the air you spun around, reaching your hand out and carrying Tech through the atmosphere with the Force.

You landed smack down on your ass, the wind being knocked out of you while Tech landed with ease on the ground.

The droids turned back around, looking straight at your new location and positioning to attack again.

Just when all hope seemed lost, a 212 gunship landed behind the enemy's line, a plethora of troopers filling out and blasting the remaining separatist dummies.

You sighed of relief, your entire body seemingly having its own heartbeat. “I haven’t... done that,” heave, “done that much since we were last together.”

Tech helped you up again, snaking an arm around your waist after seeing the damage done to your right leg. That BX droid must have scratched through your skin while ripping your dress, a thin trail of blood trickling down your thigh.

“We need to get you to the ship.” He said lowly, “between both those cuts you could bleed out.”

You shook your head, “you know that they need help in the main room. You know that.” Your words were sharp and painful to huff out.

“You are my only priority right now.” He countered, bending down to scoop you up under your knees.

Pushing him backwards, you took in a deep breath, “We’re going back down to the ballroom. That’s an order.” Your bottom lip quivered, the aftershock of the plasma hitting your leg finally catching up.

Although he meant it in a much calmer way, his next sentence was tinted with something more sinister, “you’re not my Commander anymore. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

“Tech. We are going back to that ball room!” You turned and made your way towards the doors.

He grabbed your uninjured arm, “I can’t let you bleed out and die right in front of me. We need to get to the Marauder.”

Internally, he knew how stubborn you were, and that you would go by yourself if needed. The look you had confirmed his thought, your brows arching and eyes hardening.

“Fine.” He heaved, “fine.”

You nodded, already halfway through the door once he had agreed. The rest of the 212th troopers could handle themselves, but only the maker himself knew what was going on down in the ballroom.

The guests had been evacuated by the majority of the troopers who had previously been in the large room, leaving very few to battle the rest of the klankers still trapped inside.

Of course, Crosshair had somehow managed to smuggle his gun inside. You knew he would, he didn’t go anywhere without it, just as a safety measure. Hunter had resorted to his singular vibroblade while Wrecker only needed his strength to smash the droids together.

As you observed the scene in front of you, Tech tore the sleeve off of his white undershirt and swiftly tied it around your thigh. You raised an eyebrow at him, his face communicating a look of “I had to do something”

You reignited your lightsaber, the sudden pulse against your hand sending vibrations all the way up and down your body. Your weapon stabbed through the stomachs of every droid in your path, this pattern continuing until you reach the rest of the bad batch.

“Just like old times-- Commander.” Hunter smiled, a break in the sentence as he pried his knife out of a droid.

You smirked, gripping the hilt of your saber with both hands, “some things never change, Hunter.”

He returned your devilish grin with his own at the sound of his name, not hesitating another moment before launching his blade across the room.

Within ten minutes of continuous fighting, every droid was broken and dead. Not even a second after, Tech had you in his arms. Your vision was beginning to go a little starry, everything becoming a small blur.

As you zoned in and out of consciousness, you caught snippets of conversations being held. The majority were just Crosshair and Wrecker questioning why Tech’s top few buttons had been ripped off.

Tech set you down on the bench inside the cockpit, immediately barking out a few commands to Hunter for medical supplies. A needle pierced your arm, an echo of Tech’s snapping fingers causing you to slip in and out of your dazed state.

The anesthesia kicked in, your eyes shutting completely. Tech carefully sewed the gash in your arm shut, along with the one in your leg.

“Hunter.” He said softly, not wanting to wake you.

Hunter, knowing what he was on the verge of asking, replied instantly, “I’ll comm into Cody. Let him know what happened. You stay with her.” He tipped his head towards the other two, “both of you with me. Check for anyone else in the room who may have hid.”

Crosshair and Wrecker answered with a nod, following behind the Sargent.

Tech quietly sat next to you, gently lifting you up and setting your head on his lap. He lovingly stroked your hair back, allowing his head to touch the back of the cold bench.

He didn’t even realize that he fell asleep until the other three returned.

Luckily Wrecker had already taken a picture.

[cake-writes]

Drift (Part One)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Story Warnings: Age Gap (not huge because Reader’s in her early 20s but it’s very present), slight DD/lg undertones (no D/s dynamics), Borderline Personality Disorder (Reader), Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (Bucky), Fluff, Slow Burn, Violence, Angst, Eventual 18+

Exerpt: It does feel kind of nice, having him look after you like this – having a more experienced agent take care of you. If you weren’t so completely fucked up right now, you’d be mortified. It’s your first mission, for one, and for two, you barely know him. Hell, you still call him Mr. Barnes, but here he is, saying honey and sweetheart to make you feel a little better.

A/N: my hand slipped 💀

You’re fresh. Green. Not yet a ‘real’ woman, but no longer a girl; somewhere in that topsy-turvy place in between where you’re still unsure of yourself and your purpose in life. You haven’t yet had the success that comes along in your twenties because you’ve been too wrapped up in your studies, too wrapped up in academic achievements to focus on other things. 

And because of that, you haven’t been exposed to real failure. Not really. Not yet.

A new recruit, straight out of the Academy. Top marks in all of your classes. Excellent in theory, untested in practice. Training only. It makes sense that you’re a prime candidate to poach for the compound, but you’re still so young.

Too young. Innocent. Incorruptible.

At first, anyway. It doesn’t last long.

Your first mission breaks you in – shatters your wrist and your confidence when you get a taste of real failure. It’s nothing like a bad grade on a test, nothing like the embarrassment of getting too drunk in public, but tangible, acrid, dark. The taste burns acidic on your tongue, a bitter contrast to those sweet childhood dreams you’ve been chasing since you were a little girl. 

Cotton candy justice.

Now you’re in limbo, drifting away with the chilly spring breeze. The stars shine brightly overhead, and you stare up at them, dazed and confused and no longer sure of your place in the world.

There’s the Southern Cross. How pretty. How unfamiliar.

What country are you in again?

Bucky swears low and rough over comms, but you hear his voice sound from a few yards away, too. You don’t bother to turn your head because he’s already at your side, kneeling down beside you, snapping his fingers in front of your sight line. “Come on. Hey. Look at me.”

Unfocused. Unresponsive.

The moon’s full tonight and so, so bright. You just can’t look away.

“Shit,” he swears again, a little louder this time. “Agent down. Conscious but unresponsive.” A brief pause as he checks for a pulse on the dead body at your feet. “She already took out our target.”

“Looks like the new girl’s got some skills,” comes Sam’s wry joke crackling in your earpiece. “Headed your way with evac.”

You want to laugh, but all you can focus on is the coppery tang of blood in your nostrils. It’s not yours. You shot the target of this mission at point blank, but not before he snapped your wrist like a twig trying to wrestle your handgun from you. Not before two accidental discharges very nearly cut through your abdomen. Not before he slammed you to the ground – slammed the back of your head into the pavement.

The memory makes you shiver. Or maybe it’s the breeze.

Bucky’s hand comes to rest on the side of your face, then, to offer some semblance of warmth, and your eyelids flutter shut. He feels good. He feels warm.

“Hurry up,” Bucky orders, but he sounds a little more distant, now. “She’s in rough shape.”

Sam says something else on comms, and you don’t quite understand the words anymore. They sound blurry, almost like you’re underwater. 

You’re drifting along, drifting away—

Until Bucky jars you awake with a startling pat to your cheek.

“Hey.” Sharp words draw you back into the present, but they hold none of the bite he uses when addressing Sam. “I need you to stay awake for me.”

A groan bubbles forth from your lips when you somehow manage to pry your eyelids open again. It’s probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Your entire body is begging for you to sleep, to rest, to never wake up again.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know,” Bucky murmurs, voice soft with sympathy, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I know you’re tired. Does anything hurt?”

You mumble something indecipherable; it’s meant to be a ‘no,’ but that’s not how it comes out. Pupils dilate further over half-lidded eyes as you stare up into sudden blackness.

What happened to the stars? What happened to the moon?

With a grunt, you try to move— try to push yourself up in a panic.

Something’s wrong. What happened to the sky?

A whimper escapes your throat when you put pressure on your broken wrist, but Bucky’s quick to put a stop to any unnecessary movements. 

“You’re okay,” he soothes, easing you back down onto the ground and the cold, coarse gravel digs uncomfortably into your back. “You’re doing great. Just stay still, okay?”

“I can’t—” Things are starting to feel a little less blurry, now.  “The stars—”

A gasp for air. A stuttered breath. 

Panic.

“Breathe,” Bucky reminds you, but when your breathing only goes shallower, he adds gently, “Here. With me.”

His deep breath prompts your own, and after a couple of seconds, he exhales. You can’t help but follow suit, because his presence just commands you to listen. Gentle authority. Another breath and you follow along again, and again, until you’re not hyperventilating anymore. 

You don’t know how long it takes, but it’s like magic. 

Only when you’re sufficiently calmed down does he try for an answer. “What about the stars?”

You’d almost forgotten.

So you blink your eyes open again in search of the night sky, but everything’s still dark.

Panic starts to set in again, and in a fit of desperation, you reach your hand out for something, anything tangible to grasp onto. It’s the one with unshattered bones and unshattered hope, extending towards the sky like you can just turn the lights back on with a switch on the wall.

You can’t. It hurts.

Another breath. In. Out. 

It’s not so calming this time.

Bucky takes that same hand into his and brings it to his chest, where you can feel his steady heartbeat under your palm. It’s soothing. It’s grounding.

It’s not enough.

“I can’t see,” you finally manage in a delicate rasp. “I can’t see anything.”

Bucky’s grip tightens just slightly, and then he’s on comms again. “Damn it, Wilson, still waiting on that evac—”

“Am I— Am I dying?” you ask quietly, and you hear the sound of your own voice in your ear echo through Bucky’s open mic. You don’t sound like yourself at all, but fragile, scared, broken. Like a child. Like a little girl, and that’s exactly how you feel. A sob finally escapes. “I’m— I’m scared, Mr. Barnes—”

“You’re gonna be just fine,” he reassures you, gently, leaning forward to cup your cheek with his free hand. “You’ve got a concussion. Can you remember your training?”

Think back to the Academy. 

Thinking makes your head hurt, though, and you wince. 

Vision loss is a symptom. Memory loss. Drowsiness. Headache.

You let out another whimper, then, as the splitting pain finally makes an appearance; it spreads like wildfire from the back of your head through the rest of your skull, a searing headache that makes your wrist feel like nothing in comparison. Even the memory stings. 

Comms crackles to life again – Sam’s just a couple minutes out, now. “Keep her comfortable,” he instructs. No jokes this time.

As if you could be comfortable—

“Screw you,” you groan in agony, but Bucky’s words echo back: You’re gonna be just fine.

“Let me have a look, okay?”

Bucky’s voice is still so soothing, almost like a velvet blanket lulling you to sleep, and you can’t help but make a sound in the affirmative. He’ll take care of you. It hurts, but you’re not alone.

That’s when he releases you to gently palpate your scalp. It hurts to move, and your arm goes limp without his support; your fingers quickly ball in the fabric of his shirt to keep your hand where it belongs. And then they tighten further, when he locates the very obvious goose egg at the back of your skull.

“There it is,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but he follows it with, “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here soon.”

“But it hurts—”

“I know.” He slowly starts to stroke your hair, meant to distract, to comfort, and it’s effective. “The adrenaline’s worn off, honey. It’s gonna hurt.”

It does feel nice, having him look after you like this – having a more experienced agent take care of you. If you weren’t so completely fucked up right now, you’d be mortified. It’s your first mission, for one, and for two, you barely know him. Hell, you still call him Mr. Barnes, and here he is, saying honey and sweetheart to make you feel a little better. 

You can’t deny that it’s working when you find yourself leaning into his touch.  It still hurts, but this is... tolerable. It might even be nice. 

Just a little.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you mumble.

He stills for a moment, but at your insistent tug on his shirt, he continues to stroke your hair – and you sigh.

“Oh... That feels nice.”

It’s a good distraction from the awful pain, too.

“Must not be hurting too bad anymore if you’re making jokes,” he comments after a beat, but he doesn’t stop again. Instead, the next little while passes in near-silence – a pained whine here, a comforting, “shh,” there, until your evac finally arrives.

“What the hell, man,” Sam says in annoyance as he straps you down to a board. “’Rough shape’ my ass. She looks like she got hit by a train.”

“I can still hear you,” you chide, “and I think I look pretty good.”

Another joke, because they both know you can’t see.

Sam snorts. “That’s a good sense of humour, new girl. Don’t lose it.”

The straps stop coming, then, and you tense up in alarm when you don’t know what’s happening – at least until Bucky speaks softly into your ear, “You’re gonna have to let me go now, sweetheart.”

It’s whisper-soft – secretive, almost – and you realize, then, that you’re still holding onto his shirt. You’re too young, too green, so much that you’re holding onto him like a lifeline. 

That’s when the mortification sets in.

Your grip immediately goes slack, and the heat rushing to your face spurs on an even worse headache as the two of them load you onto the Quinjet. The only thing that keeps you awake this time is the stupid banter between them – but knowing Bucky is there is what makes you feel like everything’s going to be alright.

Part Two

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Beneath the Surface: A Retelling of “The Frog Prince”

If I’d had any choice, I never would have taken the underground train. I had accompanied Roger to a political summit in the city of Roshen, but spouses leave after the opening speeches, and since I couldn’t leave Roger without the hovercar, I had to use public transportation. The train--built by the natives decades before humanity absorbed Arateph into the Interplanetary Coalition--was a horrible excuse for technology. It rattled me to my destination, jolted me into an underground station, and left me so shaken that I could feel my bones clattering as I climbed up the stairs to the street.

The crowd surged around me as I emerged onto the sidewalk. There were far too many tephans. You know what Arateph’s natives look like—almost like humans, but it’s an unsettling almost. Their eyes just slightly too high on their heads, their ears just slightly too far back, and hands (ugh) split into only three fingers and a thumb. Like a person shaped by a sculptor with a hazy memory of how humans look. I can take them in small doses, but in groups? My skin was crawling. I powered through the crowd as quickly as possible and tried not to let any of them touch me.

I sped several blocks away from the train station before I realized I was nowhere near my hotel. The buildings in this neighborhood were old, made of crumbling stone bricks that had been stacked by physical labor rather than printed by machine. Half the windows were made of colored glass, and half of those were broken. Garbage rustled in the gutters, holes marred the concrete sidewalks, and all the signs were written in an unfamiliar alphabet. I was, somehow, lost in a tephan neighborhood. And not a nice one.  

I turned in circles, trying to figure out which way I’d come. Tephans watched me from storefronts and doorsteps and alleyways, and I kept walking to prevent them from figuring out just how lost I was. I was Priscilla Overton, wife of a Coalition finance minister, pillar of this planet’s elite—and human. Some groups violently opposed human rule, and tephan attacks against humans were on the rise. Who knew what these savages would do if they knew how helpless I was?

I rushed through narrow, dark streets until I reached a wider thoroughfare--a residential area with slightly less grimy apartment buildings. Still not a nice neighborhood, but not a place where I suspected otherworldly rats would tear the flesh from my bones or criminals would murder me for my technology.

I pulled my datapad out of my purse to look for directions. Dead.

I unfolded my wristcomm and tried to call for help. No signal.

I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a frustrated scream. Why did these things happen to me?

I stormed further down the street, cursing Roger for ever bringing us to this planet. We’d been happy on Earth. Comfortable. Respected. With no chance of wandering into streets where aliens stared at you with their off-kilter eyes. The rewards we got for helping to civilize this backward planet weren’t nearly enough to make up for this torture.

I turned a corner and found myself in front of a long, low yellow-brick building with dozens of small windows. The window boxes had flowers in them—fist-sized bundles of tiny red and gold petals. Not something you’d find on Earth, but...nice. Nice enough to pull me down from my fury and make me think I could give my wristcomm another try.

I powered down the wristcomm and stood next to a pink metal lamp post (Arateph has strange color trends) while I waited for it to restart. A metal grate was below my feet. These primitives still used storm drains! I shouldn’t have been surprised, since the road clearly wasn’t made of Draincrete, but it was still jarring. Living on Arateph was a strange combination of living on another world and living in the backward past.

My wristcomm buzzed, still powering up. I was ready to explode with anxiety. There were tephans straggling by—not many of them, but too many and too poorly dressed for my taste. To calm myself, I played with my wedding ring—a gold band with a spray of amethysts and pearls. The ring had been in Roger’s family for centuries. Some days, it felt like my last tie to a familiar world.

I kept my life on Arateph as Earth-like as possible, but it could never be the same as living on Earth. Alien things always lingered at the edges. Trees that turned purple in autumn instead of familiar orange. Toothy red-and-purple-feathered birds that rooted through the trash and woke me with their awful screeching. And around every corner, people who looked like grotesque parodies of my own kind. An entire world conspiring to make me constantly aware of how far I was from home.

My sisters were going about their own lives on Earth, and the few times we could afford appointments at synced comms stations, we found little to talk about--we literally came from different worlds. If Roger and I ever had children--doubtful but possible at our age--our families would only know them as data-images.

This was why I hated being alone on this wretched planet. Gave me far too much time to think about these things.

My wristcomm chimed—finally awake. I unfolded the screen and attempted to bring up my list of contact codes. I found Roger’s; he’d be in the middle of a meeting, but I couldn’t help that. I pressed the code and waited.

A discordant note sounded. No signal. I threw down my hand in frustration. My ring flew down with it. The golden band slipped off my finger, tumbled toward the ground, bounced off the edges of the grate, and fell into the drain.

I gasped in horror and fell to my knees. It couldn’t be, not now.

The ring sparkled in the sunlight, caught on a lip where the structure of the drain met the tube of the deeper pipe. I put my purse on the ground and slid my arm through the grate, but my arm got stuck just above the elbow. The ring was still a foot beyond my reach.

I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. After the day I’d had—lost among tephans, fighting faulty technology, no hope of help from people who looked like me—this was the last straw. This planet had taken me from my home, my family, my friends, everything familiar, and now it was taking my one reminder of it all. Anybody would have cried.

Long before I felt any relief, a harsh voice broke through my sobs. “Are you finished yet?”

I looked up, furious at whoever was rude enough to interrupt my misery.

A tephan girl sat in the stairwell of the long yellow-brick building next to the gutter. I yelped and reeled back, tears still flowing. Have you ever seen a tephan child? They’re ten times worse than the adults; all their slightly-wrong features stretched even further out of shape, their eyes big and bulging in their heads. This girl was gangly. Her skinny limbs dangled out of baggy green clothes, and a wild brown bush of curls frizzed around her face and over her eyes. By human standards, I’d have judged her to be about twelve years old (though I have no idea if these creatures age like humans). By any race’s standards, she looked positively feral.

I couldn’t believe the creature had spoken to me. “Did you say something?” I asked.

She held up a thick book, bound human-style but with blocky tephan letters on the cover. “Can you cry somewhere else? I’m trying to read.”

She spoke Anglese with only a lightly slurring tephan accent. Somehow, this child spoke the Coalition’s language better than most of the tephan diplomats at Roger’s interminable meetings.

In my shock, I blurted, “How do you know Anglese?”

The creature rolled her eyes. “I go to school. With humans and everything.”

Roger hadn’t been in favor of the integration policy, but it apparently had some benefits. Or would have, had I any interest in talking to the child. Before I could decide if I wanted to reply, I glimpsed the ring again and burst into another involuntary round of tears.

The girl closed her book with a sigh. “What are you crying about anyway?”

I couldn’t tell her that I was crying because of her terrible, technologically backward planet and all its inhabitants, but I had to talk to someone and it was so good to hear human words, even from an alien’s throat. I pointed to the drain. “My ring,” I gasped. “It fell...”

She picked up her book, scrambled down the stairs, and peered in the drain. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re making that much noise over that?”

I drew back my shoulders and snapped, “It’s an irreplaceable heirloom! Centuries of human history! You can’t get those stones anywhere but Earth!”

“Then you should have been more careful with it.”

That made me want to scream, but before I could gather enough breath, the child gathered the book to her chest and turned away. “Can you at least try to keep it down?”

As the girl sat on the building’s stone stairs, the wind tore a scrap of paper out of her book and sent it fluttering. She reached up and snatched it out of the air. My gaze fell on the girl’s arms—long, lanky things that were thinner than human arms. With four-fingered hands that could easily slip between the bars of the grate.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Little tephan girl! What’s your name?”

The girl cast me a dark, distrustful expression, but she finally intoned, “Tanza.”

Not bad, as far as tephan names went. I could pronounce this one. “Tanza,” I said, “Do you think you could reach it?”

The girl shifted her hand behind her back, her face becoming a hard mask. “What do you mean?”

I pointed to her, rambling in my excitement. “Your arms are thinner than mine. Just as long. You could probably reach...”

Her brow furrowed.  “You want me to dig in a sewer?”

“Not a sewer,” I said. “A storm drain.”

“Still dirty.” She looked at the storm drain with narrowed eyes.“If I get it for you, will you go away?”

I wanted nothing more. “Immediately.”

"What'll you pay me for it?"

I felt like I'd been hit by a train. "What? Who said I'd pay you?"

The child pointed one long finger at the storm drain. “If I get dirty digging in there, it’ll be my tenth laundry demerit and I don’t get supper. I’m not doing it for nothing!”

The building behind her held one of the few signs I’d seen with Anglese translations beneath the tephan words: Alogath Charity Home for Unwanted Children. I could see why this child was unwanted.

“I don’t carry cash,” I told her.

“Do you have a credit stick?”

I put a protective arm over my purse. “It’ll be deactivated the moment you touch it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need the whole stick. Just buy me something with it.”

A truck—a noisy, clanking tephan thing that actually rolled on the ground—roared past us. The glimmer on the ring shifted closer to the drain pipe. If I didn’t act fast…

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“A lot of things.” Her eyes went blank as she stared at imaginings only she could see. Finally, she declared, “A meal at the High Palace.”

She really said that! As if it were a reasonable request! I don’t know how this urchin even knew about human restaurants, much less the finest of fine dining establishments.

“That’s ridiculous!”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I lose a meal, you buy me a replacement. That’s fair.”

“Do you know how much a High Palace meal costs?”

“A lot less than it’ll cost you to replace that ring.”

I growled in frustration. The child had me backed into a corner and she knew it. I shuddered at the thought of taking this…thing into the sparkling society of a High Palace dining room.

I pointed a fierce finger at the child. “Only if you give me the ring immediately. Understand? There’s not a place on the planet a creature like you could sell it without suspicion.”

“I don’t want your ring. I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. And you’ll live up to yours, or that ring’s staying where it is.”

Of course I couldn’t really take her to the High Palace, but one more street-rattling truck could take the ring forever out of anyone’s reach. I’d have agreed if she’d asked for a hovercar.

“Fine!” I shouted. “I’ll buy you the meal. Just save my ring!”

The child placed her book on a clean patch of sidewalk and returned to the edge of the street. I snatched up my purse and stepped aside while the girl laid face down in the gutter. She slid her arm through the grate, all the way up to the shoulder. I held my breath for an eternal moment and didn’t release it until the girl emerged with a ring of gold and amethyst in her hands.

The ring sparkled merrily at me, grimy but whole. I snatched it from Tanza's hands and tucked it into an inner pocket of my gray blazer. I wouldn’t wear it again without resizing it—and not until I was in a neighborhood where I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen from my finger.

The child picked up her book and looked at me expectantly. Demandingly.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted. She was a complete stranger. I’d made the promise under duress. Not a court in the universe would hold me to it. What right did a tephan child have to make such ridiculous demands of a woman of my stature?

“Thank you,” I said. “You did a very good thing.” Then I sped down the street.

The creature was right at my heels. “The High Palace is the other way.”

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. I walked faster.

She yanked at my arm. “You promised me a meal!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t get you into the High Palace.”

“A human lady dressed like you? You could get me in if you wanted to.”

I yanked my arm away from her. “What a pity I don’t want to.”

She gave a feral yowl. I started sprinting—or as near as I could manage in the heels I was wearing. The girl kept pace with me. I was a foot taller than her; why couldn’t I outrun her? Could I lose her in her own streets when I was lost myself?

Just when I thought I’d never be able to escape, I rounded a corner and saw the green-and-silver uniform of a Coalition policeman. My heart soared as I raced toward him. Help, protection, guidance, all only a few steps away. Something wonderfully human in this alien world.

“Officer!” I shouted to his retreating back. “Please, I need help!”

The officer stopped and raised a hand. A four-fingered hand. When he turned around, his face had the skewed proportions of a tephan face.

I nearly screamed. I’d stumbled into a nightmare.

The officer said, with the crisp diction of a tephan overcompensating for an accent, “Have you a problem, morik—madam?”

I’d heard that a few tephans had been admitted into the police forces, but I’d never thought I’d meet one. This tephan was young. Wiry and blond. Almost insignificant-looking if it weren’t for the uniform and the stolen sense of authority. Would he help a human?

Tephan or not, he had an obligation to assist the public. “Officer,” I gasped. “I need directions to the nearest train station. I’m trying to get home and this child is harassing me.”

The girl stormed up to him and shrieked, “She’s a liar!”

She shouted a stream of gibberish, and it wasn’t until the officer responded with similar sounds that I realized they were speaking the tephan language. Flowing, musical vowels were interrupted by harsh consonants, like rocks in a river. The sounds sent chills down my spine that only grew fiercer as the officer’s expression grew darker.

When the girl finished, the officer looked at me, not like an innocent victim needing help, but like a criminal who needed hauling to one of their barbaric tephan jails. “You have wronged this girl.”

I lifted my chin. “She’s lying! I’ve done nothing to her!”

“She claims she rescued your ring in exchange for a meal at the High Palace, and you are attempting to break your word.”

“I owe her nothing!”

“Did you promise her a meal?”

I threw out my hands in frustration. “It’s not like we had a contract or anything!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your promise means nothing without a legal document?”

“She had no right to hold me to a promise. I was desperate!”

He put a brotherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And she was kind enough to help you.”

I scoffed. “For a heavy price.”

The child shouted, “It’s one meal!”

The officer examined my face carefully. “You are Priscilla Overton, are you not? The wife of the finance minister?”

My jaw dropped. I’m prominent enough in human circles, but I’d never dared to consider that my face was known among tephans. It terrified me, but I knew it could be my ticket out of this. “I am, and when my husband finds out about how I’ve been treated—”

“Your husband is not a popular man. Not among tephans.”

I had never cared about Roger's reputation among the tephans. These primitives didn’t know what was best for their planet. But that wasn’t something I could say when I was alone in a strange neighborhood with two of them.

The officer continued, “It will not help his reputation if his wife is known as a promise-breaker.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you threatening me?”

He leaned toward me and said in low tones, “I am helping you.” He gestured to the street around us. “Do you think I’m the only one who heard the girl’s story?”

I shuddered to see a handful of tephans staring at us from among the crumbling buildings.

The officer said, “The Coalition doesn’t care much for tephan opinion, but if there is enough outcry against one man, even a human representative can be released from his job.”

At first, the thought lifted my spirits. Sent home! To Earth! It was what I’d wanted from the moment we’d stepped foot on this planet. But sent home in disgrace? Roger would have no future in government after such a public failure. It would mean everything we suffered here would be for nothing.

I asked the officer, “You really think they’d protest? Just because I didn’t bow to a child’s ridiculous demands?”

“If a person can’t keep a promise made to a child, how can anything they say be trusted?” His tephan gaze raked over me, like he was dissecting my inner thoughts. “Your people may have different ideas, but tephans still value virtue.”

How dare he—this puffed-up primitive in a human position of power—accuse humanity of being inferior?

My opinion didn’t matter. These creatures thought it a matter of morality that I feed this ragged brat finer cuisine than their planet had ever produced, and nothing I could say would change their minds. Now it seems ridiculous to think that those tephans could ruin us, but in that moment, alone in those unfamiliar streets, seeing how these two strange aliens teamed up against me, I could believe their kind capable of anything.

I looked down at the child. Her big eyes. Her frizzy curls. Her long limbs clutching the book to her chest. The grimy, bog-green clothes that fell short of the wrists and ankles. The smug smirk of a spoiled child who knew she was about to get her way. I had never loathed anyone more in my life.

“Do you have a name?” I asked her. “I’ll need a full name for the restaurant register.”

“I told you,” she said, as though she’d expected me to remember. “It’s Tanza.”

“What’s the rest of your name?” Most tephans I’d met had at least three or four names and were obnoxiously eager to explain them.

The girl's face darkened like I’d offended her. “Just Tanza.”

The officer looked at her with new pity, and even I understood why. You know how important names are to tephans. One name was a badge of dishonor--forever marking her as a child who’d never been claimed by any family, who’d never been given anything beyond the minimum necessary label. Tanza would have felt the shame of that, and I wasn’t quite so surprised that she’d turned into such an irritating little brat.

But I had no room for pity. “Do you have anything better to wear?”

She tugged at the cuffs, trying to stretch them over her arms. “Just more green. And all in the wash. Laundry demerits."

The officer said, "It'll do." He knelt in front of the girl, then looked at me and held out a hand. "I'll bet a fine lady like you carries all kinds of cleaning tools."

I sighed and handed him the nanocleanser from my purse. I showed him the power button, then he waved the metal wand over the stains on Tanza’s clothes. After a few seconds, the stains evaporated and the dirt from the gutter fell away as dry sand.

“Good as new,” the officer said, while Tanza gaped at her freshly-cleaned clothes. These primitives were astounded by the simplest things.

The child brushed through her wild curls with her fingers, swept them back over her shoulders, then stood with her hands at her side and feet apart, as if presenting herself for inspection.

I sighed. “I guess it’s as good as we’ll get. Let’s get this over with.”

Tanza tucked her book beneath her arm and her eyes sparkled with victory.

I looked balefully at the tome. “The book’s coming with?”

“Well, I can’t leave it here.”

I considered insisting that she take it back to the home, but I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Bring the book.”

I was seriously planning on entering the dining room of the High Palace with an alien who thought the proper attire included a set of green work clothes and a giant book. I had gone insane.

The officer stepped aside and gestured for both of us to walk past him. “I’ll escort you there.”

And there went my last hope of escape.

#

The officer escorted us through winding streets, side alleys and dried up canals until we finally crossed a bridge into a civilized portion of the city with human-designed buildings. One sprawling building of white stone-print bore a black sign with elegant script that proclaimed it The High Palace.

As we approached the building, Tanza suddenly skittered across my path. I almost tripped over her feet.

I glared at her as she fell into step on my right side. “What are you doing?”

She glanced warily to the street corner. “Kids from school.”

I glanced back and saw a pre-teen human boy with short black hair and immaculate clothing. He leaned against the corner of a building while he spoke with a handful of human friends. Well-groomed, friendly, human—why couldn’t that child have rescued my ring? I’d have been glad to take him as a guest to the High Palace.

As I engaged in fruitless wishes, the human children disappeared, and I arrived with my tephan escorts at the entrance doors of the High Palace. Wide glass windows showed a sparkling three-dimensional display of Old Paris in springtime. Tanza studied the images of bakeries and floral shops and fluttering Earth songbirds, as if attempting to dissect the technology. The few people passing by looked askance at the tephan pair with me.

Tanza asked, “Are we going in?”

I looked back at the officer. He just smiled at me and waved us toward the door.

I took a deep breath, put a hand behind the girl’s shoulders and pushed her inside.

The interior was a vision of white and cream: pale artwork on the walls, a glass fountain trickling crystal-clear water, rugs in intricate shades of vanilla, beige and ivory upon white marble floors.

The street sounds disappeared when the door closed behind us. No foot traffic, no rumbling vehicles, no screeching of alien animals. Just the hush of quiet voices, the gentle strings of a European symphony and the trickle of the fountain. It was like we'd stepped into a different world. My world. Except for the alien next to me.

The host standing guard at the dining room entrance stared at Tanza, then looked at me with the horrified compassion of someone trying to tell you there’s a wasp on your shoulder. “Madam, are you aware…?”

The only way to get through this with any dignity was to brazen my way through it. “I’d like a table, please. Two seats. For Priscilla Overton and guest.”

I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “Your guest? You mean she—?”

“Is my guest. Is that a problem?”

He stared as if incredulous that I didn’t know the problem. I didn’t even blink.

Finally, he put a stylus to his datapad. “Does this guest have a name?”

The girl stood as straight and dignified as I did. “Tanza.”

He poised his stylus over the datapad. “Anythin—”

“Just Tanza.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he set his stylus aside. “Two seats for Priscilla Overton and…Tanza.”

The host led us into a blindingly beautiful dining room. A full wall of windows overlooked a river that glittered in the afternoon sun. The other walls were meshed with holonet that made the room look like a small nook in a formal European garden, with the tables and chairs surrounded by roses, tulips, lilies, and a thousand other flowers whose names I’d forgotten in my years away from Earth. Real potted plants scattered among the tables added to the reality of the image and the string quartet played some of the finest music from Earth's history. The room was a bastion of civilization in this barbaric world. A taste of home. It was more filling than any food could be.

The host led us to windowside tables with an excellent view of the river. My heart lifted. Prime seating—a sign of my place on this planet, which not even a tephan could take away. And it was flanked by two potted gardenia plants that would screen my guest from the handful of other diners.

I took the right-hand seat and motioned for Tanza to take the chair that sat closest to the shrub. Its branches brushed her as she sat down.

The host left us as a waiter handed us our menus. As Tanza sat down, she reached toward the branch above her head, plucked a single white gardenia blossom, shoved it in her mouth, and began to chew.

I froze in terror, then glanced at the waiter. Had he noticed?

If he had, he’d been well trained. He didn’t even stumble in his recitation of the day’s lunch specials.

“Would you like a few minutes to make a selection?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, waving him away before my guest could decide to take another nibble of the greenery.

He bowed and vanished toward the kitchen.

When he was gone, Tanza spit the flower into a gold-embroidered napkin and wiped her tongue on the far corner. While her mouth contorted in the most disturbing shape, those tephan eyes glared at me. “That’s not a spiceblossom bush.”

“No,” I said, my tone stretched with scorn. “It’s a gardenia. And the blossoms aren’t for eating.”

She wiped her tongue on another corner of the napkin. “Why do they put flowers by the table if you’re not supposed to eat them?”

“For decoration,” I hissed. “And if you can’t behave in a civilized manner, we’ll leave this restaurant, promise or no promise.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t know all the fancy human rules of eating.”

Her sarcasm made my blood boil—until I saw her blush. She was prickly, yes, but unless I was very much mistaken, she was embarrassed. Now she was lost in an alien world, and I’d experienced that sensation too recently not to feel a little sorry for her.

But only a little. She had demanded this, after all, at great expense to me. Let her suffer the consequences.

“Rule one,” I said. “Don’t put anything in your mouth unless I tell you to.” I tugged her napkin out of her four-fingered hands before she could run it across her tongue again. “That includes napkins.”

With the napkin gone, Tanza's tongue was on full display in front of her chin as she kept the taste as far out of her mouth as possible. I don’t know if you know this, but tephan tongues can stretch further and thinner than human tongues, and this child made hers come almost to a point. I couldn’t look at that for the entire meal, but I couldn’t have the child destroying all the table linens either.

I waved over a waiter carrying a carafe of water, and I pointed him to our empty glasses. He leaned over our table and filled my glass almost to the brim. Then he turned and saw my guest—her pale skin, green clothes, those big eyes and that long, thin tephan tongue. He yelped, recoiled, dropped the carafe, and knocked over my glass. Water flooded the table and spilled onto my lap.

The child yelped, shouted something in her alien language and scrambled to pull her book out of the path of the water. An old man at the next table dropped his fork and stared at her. Fortunately, the few other diners in the room were too far away to see.

I hushed the child and found myself in the strange position of apologizing to the waiter while I was the one standing drenched. I didn’t know what reznat meant, but I was sure it wasn’t a nice thing for a tephan to say to her waiter.

“Could we...” I asked as I ran the nanocleanser over my clothes, “have another table?”

“C...certainly, madam,” he said, looking at Tanza as if waiting for her to pounce. I half-expected it myself, from the fierce way she curled around that book.

Once my clothes were dry, the waiter brought us to an empty table nearer the center of the room. No window view. No shielding plants. But it was further from the kitchen—where I was certain all the servers would be gossiping about us as soon as this klutz left us.

Once we were settled with new water glasses and dry menus, the server scurried away as if the girl were a poison frog. Tanza muttered alien words while she brushed water from the edges of her book, and gulped water until she got the taste of the flower out of her mouth. Then she glared at me and reverted back to Anglese. “He almost wrecked my book.”

After watching her lug that book around for an hour, my curiosity—and frustration—were mounting. “What’s that book about, anyway? And why are you willing to curse out waiters over it?”

“It’s a biography of Queen Marastel.” She set the book deliberately on the table, and looked around the room as if daring waiters to spill more water on it. “And it’s mine. I finally have a book of my own, and I don’t want it wrecked by an idiot with a water pitcher.”

The book was thick. What I’d seen of the print was small. It was not a children’s history book. I hadn’t expected this grimy alien child to be the biography type. Was there a developmental disorder that gave children irrational attachments to academic texts?

“Who is Queen Marastel?” I asked.

Tanza showed me the book’s cover. It had a picture of a young tephan woman—in her mid-twenties, to my human eyes—with a pale, narrow face, and deep eyes. The woman's dark hair was covered with an elaborate system of veils, and she wore a dress covered in so many white jewels and so much gray and white beadwork that I almost couldn’t see the ivory fabric underneath.

“Her,” Tanza said. “The last queen of Arateph.”

“Arateph had queens?” I asked in surprise. They hadn’t had queens when humanity had found them. It must have been part of their history.

I’d never thought of this planet as having a history. If I’d considered it at all, I suppose I’d assumed that they’d been muddling along the way we’d found them for the last few centuries, waiting for us to show up and drag them into modern civilization.

Tanza said, “The planet was ruled by a monarchy until about forty years before the Coalition showed up.”

“The whole planet?”

Tanza sat straighter and her diction became crisper—she looked like a little lecturer at one of those cultural symposiums that Roger and I always had to make appearances at. “After Kepha joined the other eleven kingdoms, the entire planet was united under the monarchy for three hundred and fifty-eight years.”

Not just a monarchy, but a planet-spanning monarchy. Such a thing hadn’t happened in all of human civilization, and these people had accomplished it when they were still on their home planet, believing themselves alone in the universe. I hadn’t thought such an archaic form of government could rule an entire continent without overextending itself, yet it had ruled their world for centuries. For the first time, I found myself wanting to learn something from the tephan people. How had such a government come about? How had they managed it?

Why did the woman on the cover look so sad?

I didn’t ask any of these questions because just then, a waiter appeared—not the water-spilling one, thank goodness. (I didn’t trust my guest to look at that one without throwing something at him.) This one was older, with crisp lines in his clothes and face. He looked like he could have won a staring contest with a statue—perfect unshakable professionalism.

“Are you ready to order, Madam Overton?” He didn’t even look at my guest.

Tanza’s eyes brightened as she picked up the menu, flipping through the pages to examine the options.

I asked her, “What you want to eat?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never had human food.”

My jaw fell. “You wanted to come here and you didn’t even know what you wanted to eat?”

She gave me a withering stare, as though I was the stupid one. “I wanted to try it.” She closed the menu. “Besides, you said I can only eat what you tell me to eat. So what am I allowed to eat, Priscilla?”

I picked up the menu and realized with horror that I didn’t know the answer. What could tephans eat? Were there foods that were delicacies to us and poison to them?

I asked the waiter, “Do you have any suggestions?” I doubted these people served many tephans, but food was their area of expertise, and we were on Arateph.

The waiter looked at Tanza for the first time. “I’ve heard that people of her...race...are rather fond of the amphibian.” He pointed to an entry on my appetizer list. “The frog legs are popular. And a specialty of the chef.”

I hadn’t eaten frog in years. But if I could choke it down for Roger’s political dinners, I could manage it to satisfy a petulant tephan child. “We’ll have that.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else?”

I didn’t want to give Tanza any more chances to upset the wait staff. “No. Just get us our food as soon as possible.”

As the waiter walked away with our menus, an afternoon crowd filled the dining room; within a few minutes, we went from being nearly alone to being surrounded by other diners. I could tell by the sideways glances that most of them noticed my tephan guest. And I could tell that Tanza noticed them. She sat silently at first, growing more and more tense as we all tried to ignore each other, but when a bald man at the next table stared at her for several long moments, she finally snapped.

“Can you stop it?” she barked at him. “You’re giving me the shivers.” The man, red-faced, studied his menu as if his life depended on it.

Tanza turned back to the table, muttering, “You humans look so creepy when you stare.”

I was too stunned to scold her. I’d never considered that the distaste for the other race’s looks went both ways. If she’d lived her life in a mostly-tephan neighborhood, a human face would look just as slightly wrong to her as a tephan face did to me. It sounds strange, but the idea that she found us ugly made me like her more. It certainly made her more relatable.

But I couldn’t have her making a spectacle. “Please, don’t bother the other diners.”

She seemed ready to protest, but I spoke before she could argue. “That woman in your book. You said she was the last queen of Arateph. What happened?”

Her eyes lit up, rude diners forgotten, as she flipped open the book. “Revolution. The People’s House took over and had her and the king executed.”

I shivered. “So violent. And so young to die.”

Tanza gave me a confused look, then glanced at the cover and understood. “Oh, that’s from her first years as queen. She was almost seventy when she died.”

I pictured the woman on the cover with hair turned gray, but the same dark, sad eyes, facing an angry mob as they led her to the scaffold or the firing squad or however these people killed their leaders. It was brutal, but humanity had often been equally brutal, so I couldn’t dismiss it as their backward alien culture.

Tanza flipped through the pages. “They say she was weak and self-absorbed, but this book gives her more depth.” She looked at a page near the cover. “Verai’s a good scholar. Uses lots of primary sources. Very readable.”

Now that her interest was unleashed, Tanza talked on and on, taking me through an alien history, the tale of a queen beset by tragedy upon tragedy as she helped her husband rule a crumbling planet and struggled to produce an heir. All the scholars at those Coalition events were nowhere near as enthralling as this alien child sharing her favorite book.

As fascinating as the story was, I was even more entranced by the pictures—dozens were embedded through the text. Tanza condescended to turn the book around so I could see. It was grandeur like I’d never seen, buildings in alien colors and shapes and patterns, but bringing to mind the grandest palaces in human history, from Versailles to the Forbidden City to the red spires of the North Martian Emperor's summer home. The people in the pictures wore elaborate, brightly-colored clothes, and feasted upon vast tables full of unfamiliar food—including blossoms from the potted trees next to the tables. No primitive civilization could have created such a culture. No wonder this alien urchin was enthralled, and no wonder she’d seized the chance to attend the closest modern equivalent to such feasts that she knew of.

The return of the stone-faced waiter snapped me back to reality. He planted himself next to the table, passing blank-faced judgement by how thoroughly he didn’t look at the book or the way we bent over it. Face burning, I sat back in my chair and felt ashamed to be caught hanging upon an alien’s story like a dim-witted child.

Tanza swept the book under the table and sat primly as the waiters placed the food in front of us. First a gold charger, then the crystal plates bearing the food—ten frog legs, crisply fried in butter and lemon, dotted with parsley and surrounded by a handful of greens.

Half a dozen nearby heads surreptitiously craned in our direction.

The waiters set a similar platter in front of me, and after I’d arranged my napkin on my lap, I thanked the waiter, picked up the silverware, and began to cut the meat.

Tanza watched me carefully as the waiters left. She picked up her silverware, examined it closely—did tephans even have silverware?—and tried to imitate me, but when she touched the food, the prim little professor became the feral street child again. She still used the silverware, but that was her only concession to decency as she gobbled her foot, downing the frog legs almost whole. The butter sauce ringed her mouth and splattered on her clothing. She made the most inhuman snorting noises as she swallowed.

Now everyone was staring—the red-faced man at the next table, his three dining companions, the ten people sitting at the other nearby tables, the waiters who'd halted on their way to the kitchen. People murmured to their companions. Diners flagged down waiters and asked discreetly if there was something that could be done.

My face burned in embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop the girl. With all these eyes watching me—watching me, Priscilla Overton, entertaining an animal at the finest restaurant in Roshen—I couldn’t even speak. I wanted to sink into the carpet. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to run from the restaurant, flee from this planet, and return to comfortable, civilized Earth. But mortification left me paralyzed. I just sat and did nothing as Tanza devoured her food and licked every last drop of sauce from the plate.

Finally, she dropped her plate back on the charger and leaned back with satisfaction. Her big tephan eyes were bright. “That was amazing.” She licked all eight of her fingers, so lost in the euphoria of her food that she was unaware of the horrified crowd surrounding us. She looked at my plate with confusion. “You’ve barely touched yours.”

I let my fork drop to the tablecloth. “I’m not very hungry.”

Her eyes brightened. “Can I have it?”

“No.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “You can’t waste food. At least try to eat it.”

After that display, I’d never be able to stomach another frog leg. “It doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Then I’ll eat it.” Before I could react, she leaned across the table, speared a frog leg with her fork, and was chewing it before she settled back in her chair.

I wanted to scream. I could have tried to correct her, but I had no idea where to begin, and by now, it was far too late.

The stone-faced waiter leaned over my shoulder. He was pale and his eyes were wide—apparently there were some things that could rattle him. “Madam, if you cannot eat your food here, we can send it home with you.”

He was offering me a doggy bag. The finest restaurant in the city, which usually recoiled in horror from such vulgar practices, was so desperate for me to leave that the staff were sending me home with leftovers. I was, in effect, being kicked out.

I didn’t even care. “Yes, thank you.”

In seconds, another waiter appeared, carrying a green box that had probably held some kind of produce in the kitchen, repurposed into this restaurant’s first take-home container. I sat in silence as they poured the frog legs into the container, then I handed them my credit stick, and when I examined the payment screen of their datapad, I added on a gratuity that cost twice as much as the food did. Perhaps with a tip like that, they’d let me show my face here again. At the moment, I doubted I’d ever want to.

I gathered my purse and stood. That creature gathered her ridiculous book and followed me, smiling, out of the dining room.  

When we reached the lobby, I thrust the box into the child's hands. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

The girl's eyebrows rose. “You don’t? Are you sure? It’s really good.”

“I think it appeals more to tephan tastes.”

She thanked me as though I’d given her all the jewels that the queen on her book was wearing, then tucked the box under one arm and the book under the other.

I put a hand behind her shoulders and pushed her out the door. When we emerged onto the sunlit sidewalk, all my frustration exploded.

“There!” I snapped, giving her one last push beyond the awning of the restaurant. “You’ve had your meal. Take your food and go!”

She stumbled forward, then stared at me in bewilderment. “What set you off?”

My laugh was tinged with hysteria. “What set me off? Maybe I’m just a little peeved at being disgraced in front of some of the richest people in the city by a tephan who gobbles her food like an animal.”

She stood with her mouth open, struck speechless. Those big green eyes showed surprisingly human-looking hurt. “Was it that bad? I know I’m not fancy, but...”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice all those people staring.”

The creature turned red. She stammered, “I thought it was because I’m tephan. You told me not to bother them.”

I couldn’t bear to have that creature looking up at me with those big, sad eyes. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Maybe in a few years they’ll let me dine there again.” I pushed her steadily but firmly away from the restaurant. “I have more than paid you in full. Thank you for saving my ring. Goodbye.”

Still looking baffled, the girl trudged away from the restaurant. I walked in the other direction.

My anger started fading the moment the child was out of my line of sight. Each step away from the restaurant felt like a step back into a normal world. There were humans around me. I could read the signs. I even knew how to find my way to the train station. I’d be back at the hotel within the hour and I could pretend that this whole horrible afternoon had been a bad dream.

Light footsteps skittered behind me. A green-clad tephan child with a book and a box appeared to my left.

I yelped and reeled back. “What are you—?”

Tanza fell into step beside me. “I’m really very sorry for embarrassing you. I need to make it up to you. Let me show you the way to the train station—”

My previous anger felt like a candle flame compared to the volcano that those words set off within me. “Leave me alone!” I towered over her in my fury. “I gave you your meal! I fulfilled the promise! Now leave!” I stormed away, but at the first sound of footsteps behind me, I whirled around. “I swear, if you take another step toward me, I will see you arrested!”

The child’s face hardened into the petulant mask that I recognized from my first sight of her from the gutter. “Sorry for helping.”

“Helping,” I mocked. “Your help comes at too high a price.” I gave a short, cynical laugh. “I see through your plan. You think you can trail after me demanding handouts all day. Well, I have had enough.” I secured my purse over my shoulder like I was holstering a weapon. “Get out of here!”

Face white and lips tight with anger, Tanza bowed her head and turned away. I strode away in triumph.

An old man looked at me sideways, shaking his head. I made it to the end of the block before the guilt hit me. The old man had reason to disapprove. Tanza had made an offer of help, and I’d responded by screaming at her in a public street. Perhaps she had felt remorse. As embarrassing as it had been to be seen with a girl who ate like an animal, how much worse would it feel to be the one who’d done it? I thought of those pictures in that book of hers. Would I have fared any better at a tephan feast?

I turned around. “Tanza, wait—“

“Hey, Tanza!”

The voice, coming from the other end of the block, was louder, harsher, and younger than mine. A crowd of boys stampeded down the sidewalk—all humans, about twelve years old, and led by a boy with slick black hair and gray and white clothes in the latest crisply-cut fashions. The children Tanza had noticed when we’d first arrived at the restaurant.

Tanza—standing near where I’d left her—tried to move away from them, but hesitated when she saw me standing at the other end of the block. In seconds, the boys had her surrounded.

The ringleader prodded her shoulder. “Escaped from your cage, Tanza? What are you doing among civilized people?”

His yellow-haired friend poked at the box of frog legs. “Looks like she’s looting houses.”

Tanza yanked the box away. “I’m not a thief!”

The ringleader tugged at the book under her other arm. “That’s a big book. Still playing at being smart, small-brain?”

Tanza pulled it back. “Don’t touch that!”

One boy pried up her arm while two others slid the book away from her. “Ooh, it’s a small-brain book!” the ringleader said in mock delight. He flipped through the pages with dirt-stained fingers. “It’s even written in their pretend letters.”

Tanza snarled, “Give that back!”

He slammed it shut and pulled it toward his chest. “Why? Scared it’s too complicated for me?”

“It’s mine!”

He looked at it thoughtfully. “Is it, though? I don’t think a charity case like you can afford a big book like this.”

“It’s mine!” she repeated, nearly shrieking now. “Teacher gave it to me!”

“Bet she stole it,” said a voice from the crowd. “She’s just a grubby little nameless charity house thief.”

Tanza, driven past the breaking point as the ringleader held the book just beyond her reach, shrieked in outrage and pounced. She tore at the book while the boys yanked it away from her. The individuals disappeared into a storm of arms and legs and paper. Five against one. I watched in terror for a few moments before thinking to call for help. I had my wristcomm. I could hit the emergency button….

It was over before I could lift my wrist. Tanza was sprawled across the sidewalk, surrounded by the shredded, dirty pages of her book. Her box had been torn open. Fleshy frog legs were scattered on the ground as though the animals had been thrown against the wall.

The boys, barely scuffed, loomed over her, mocking. They lifted the empty binding of the book like a trophy, cheering over it and slapping each other on the back. Then, satisfied with their destruction, they ran off the way they came, leaving their victim on the ground.

Numbly, I shuffled toward her, feeling lost in a different sort of nightmare--one where I was one of the monsters. Those boys had been waiting for her. If she’d had an ulterior motive for coming after me to apologize, she had been hoping for protection, not handouts. And I’d thrown her to the wolves.

Tanza pushed herself onto her knees and pulled the pages toward her, like a mother hen gathering up chicks. She looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her, eyes wide and glistening, her face slack with horror. Her emotionless mask was gone. She pressed an armload of shredded pages to her chest, curled into a fetal position, and cried.

Curled up like that, face and hands hidden, she didn’t look like a tephan. Not like the rude negotiator at the gutter. Not like the little professor or even the animal at the table. She was just a friendless little girl, surrounded by the wreckage of her most prized possession.

I thought of the last time I’d seen her lying in the street, arm threaded through a storm drain while she reached for my ring. The ring was in my pocket, safe and whole. How had I thanked her for her service? Tried to duck out of the promise, treated her like a savage, screamed at her in the streets, and left her at the mercy of bullies.

The ring I loved so much was one of dozens that I’d brought from Earth, and my day had been destroyed at the thought of losing it. This book was the only one she owned, and it was gone forever. I couldn’t imagine her distress.

How had I thought her the savage?  

My stomach twisted with loathing, and for the first time all day, it was directed toward myself. I could fool myself no longer; I’d done nothing to be proud of today.

But that could change.

Approaching Tanza with soft, careful steps, I crouched next to her. “Tanza?” I brushed a finger across her shoulder.

The girl recoiled from my touch and turned away. She came up on her feet, but stayed scrunched into a ball, protecting her pages and hiding her red eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Her voice was thick with tears. “Go away.”

I grabbed one of the pages. “I can help—“

She whirled her head toward me and snapped, “I said go away!”

I stumbled back, and for a moment I was ready to do as she wanted. This was not my problem and she didn’t want my help.

Then my good sense returned, and I barked, “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to leave a child in the street.” I started gathering pages. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

I looked around for help. The crowd had merely started taking a wider berth around us, but after a moment, I saw the green and silver flash of a Coalition policeman’s uniform—on a policeman with tephan hands.

I’d never thought I’d be glad to see that officer again. I waved toward him, shouting, “Officer! Please, can you help?”

My voice startled the officer, and his surprise turned to concern as he neared and saw the devastation. He crouched next to us and asked me, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I said. The twist in my stomach reminded me that those words weren’t the complete truth, so I amended, “I didn’t destroy the book. There was a group of boys...”

The officer had already turned his attention to Tanza, speaking low-toned words in their tephan language. When they finished, his demeanor toward me was less hostile but more disappointed.

“Now you want to help her?” he asked.

That now was an accusation that cut like a knife. I deserved it, but I met his gaze boldly. “Yes,” I said, daring him to deny me.

He spoke a few more words to Tanza, then told me, “Gather pages.”

He helped Tanza to her feet while I gathered what I could of the paper. Torn edges, smeared alien words, and pictures of long-dead royals who stared at me with accusing eyes. The queen providing food to the poor, shelter to the homeless, clothes to shivering orphans. She’d done all that and wound up executed; looking at Tanza and the tephan officer, I couldn’t help wondering how much worse they thought I deserved.

#

When I’d gathered all the pages I could into a crinkling, crunching mess, I followed in silence as the officer led us along the route we’d taken, every block seeming as long as a mile. When we reached the familiar yellow building where everything had started, I gave the pages to the officer, and he motioned for Tanza to go toward the stair of the building.

“Is there anything else I can do?” I asked Tanza, almost desperate.

Tanza just turned her head away.

“I think you’ve done enough,” the officer said. The words were soft, but I heard the condemnation in them.

I shouldered my purse more firmly, avoided Tanza’s eyes, then asked the officer, “Can you tell me where to find a train station?”

The officer pointed down the street in the opposite direction from where I’d originally approached the building. “The nearest one is just beyond the Killing Square.”

The words shocked me out of the numbness I’d been feeling. “The what?”

But the officer was already rattling off directions, and I was too busy memorizing the steps—left, then right, past the purple tower, turn two blocks after the bridge—to ask what exactly a Killing Square was. I didn’t think a uniformed police officer would purposely send me to my death, so I assumed something had been lost in the translation.

“Thank you, officer,” I said when he finished. Then I looked at the girl and added, “Thank you, Tanza.”

Tanza's green clothes—now scuffed from battle—hung loosely off her slumped shoulders. After a long moment, she raised her head and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. “Goodbye,” she said.

Her tone meant, “Good riddance.”

My pride flared at that. I thought I'd been rather compassionate--helping her gather the pages, hailing the officer, even trailing her all the way to her home to make sure that she arrived safely. Surely she could show a little gratitude.

But as I walked through the narrow, battered streets, it was my own rudeness that haunted me. Snatching the ring from her fingers as though afraid she'd contaminate it. Fleeing from her rather than fulfilling the promise. Leaving her to fight five against one when a moment's action on my part could have saved her. All day, I'd thought myself better than her because I was human, but my actions had been inhumane.

I tried to put it behind me. There was nothing else I could do. The book was gone, beyond repair. Tanza probably never wanted to see me again. It was best to move on and forget all about the tephan girl and the dark-eyed queen that so fascinated her.

Then I turned the corner and came face to face with Queen Marastel. A picture on the gray stone wall, larger than life, showed the woman whose face I’d seen a hundred times in Tanza’s book. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized. The image was a photo, more or less, but not like any photo or holo-image I’d ever seen from human technology. The colors were more muted than reality, while a strange vibrant shimmer added depth to the image, so it looked as though I could walk inside the pictured scene with a little effort.

The queen’s hair had gone completely gray, her jewels were gone, and her vividly colored gowns had been replaced by a white fabric sheath. What I noticed most were her eyes—they were striking in most of the book photos, but here, her gaze knocked the breath from me. Surely no human gaze could show that much sorrow.

How was she here? Would this queen haunt me wherever I went on this planet, reminding me of my sins against the child?

I noticed a small plaque next to the picture, with a tiny Anglese translation at the bottom, which explained that the image showed Queen Marastel in front of this very building, moments before she was led to death in the center of the square. “Oh,” I said aloud, turning slowly to examine the streets and buildings around me as understanding struck. “The Killing Square.”

This was the center of the revolution that had ended this planet’s monarchy. It was a hauntingly bland neighborhood; no sign of the violent destruction that Tanza had told me of, not after more than eighty years’ worth of repairs.  But pictures and plaques decorated almost every building I saw, telling the story that time had erased. Seven brothers from Kepha stood scarred but proud before a jeering band of executioners. A red-haired older woman tried to cheer up three children as armed rebels escorted them all to prison. The king himself stood tall and white-haired, every line of his face showing his fierce love for his planet even as his people tried to kill him.

I could list examples all day, but I could never make you understand the feeling of being there, gazing at these people in the moments before their deaths. They were young and old, tall and short, had hair and skin in every imaginable shade. They came from regions I hadn’t known existed--desert wastes and mountain ranges and snow-covered tundras. These people had families they’d hated to lose, homes that were as familiar to them as the cottage by the Atlantic had once been to me. They’d made mistakes and suffered for it. They, too, had regrets.

Fear, anger, hatred, love, bravery, cowardice--every possible human emotion filled those alien faces, and it didn’t take long for me to stop seeing them as alien at all. They were people, who’d lived on this planet just as I did, who had loved it the way I’d loved Earth.

I’d never even wanted to know about this world before, but now I was desperate to understand every story these pictures presented. Without Tanza’s book providing context, would I even have paused to look at these pictures? Would I have cared about these people? I doubted I would have. Tanza's childish enthusiasm for a book had upended my world--as I’d upended hers.

With that thought, I found myself back before the picture of the queen. Her sorrowful eyes pinned me in place. It seemed, to my overworked imagination, that she was disappointed in me.

I glared at her. “What else do you want me to do?” I demanded. “What’s done is done. I can’t fix it. I don’t even know what book it was.”

In that hall of death, it seemed a pitiful excuse.

I tore my eyes away from the picture, and my gaze landed upon a door I’d wandered past in my history-induced daze. It was brown and wide, with a sign above proclaiming it the entrance to the Museum of the Alogath Execution Center. I wandered toward it, then froze in my tracks only a few steps away. Next to the entrance was a window—and through the window, I saw books.

This was a museum! Museums—even tephan ones—had gift shops! If there was one place in this world that sold books about Queen Marastel, it was likely the museum that displayed her face on a public street.

I raced into the building, almost giddy, and found the shop just beyond the main entrance. The tiny nook held pamphlets and trinkets, and at the front of the room, a big, silver BookVend machine printed and bound volumes with lightning speed.

I raced through the door. The tephan woman behind the counter dropped her book in surprise as I leaned, panting, against her counter.

The woman asked in smooth Anglese, “Can I help you?”

I stood up and tried to look less like a maniac. “Yes,” I said, in my best politician’s-wife voice. “I need you to help me find a book.”  

#

The door to the charity home loomed large in front of me. I hesitated with my hand before the door. Was I doing something stupid? The freshly-printed book under my arm might not change the fact that the child would want nothing to do with me.

This wasn't about me. I had to try.

My knock was answered by a pale, knobby tephan woman with wisps of blond hair hanging around her face. She stared when she saw my face and clothes. “Madam?”

“Excuse me," I asked, "but does a girl named Tanza live here?”

The woman's eyes glazed over as she struggled to translate my Anglese.

I tried again, speaking more slowly. “Is Tanza here?”

“Tanza…” She trailed off in confusion before her eyes lit with understanding. “Oh!” Gently, she corrected, “It’s pronounced Tanza.”

It sounded exactly the same to me. I was starting to believe those people who said tephans could speak and hear sounds that humans couldn't.

The woman called into the building, and after a storm of voices and footsteps, a slight tephan girl in green clothes came to the door, her curls making a curtain over her still-puffy eyes.

Tanza scowled when she saw me. “What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to apologize,” I said. “For what happened. How I treated you. You saved my ring and I treated you like an animal. That was wrong.”

Tanza crossed her arms. “Glad you noticed.”

This child kept finding ways to irritate me, but I swallowed my words before I snapped back in response.

I pulled a book from under my arm. “I know this doesn’t erase what you went through, but I wanted to undo some of the harm that I’ve done today.” I handed her the book, which had the same cover as the book she’d brought to the restaurant. “This is for you.”

Warily, Tanza examined the queen on the cover. “It looks the same.” She flipped through the pages, and her eyes brightened. “It is the same!”

“I printed a new copy. There’s a BookVend down the street. You rescued my ring; it was only fair that I replace your book.”

"Yes, but I didn't think..." She examined the book in amazement before turning that astonished gaze upon me. "This is really mine? To keep?"

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Tanza clutched the book to her chest and smiled at me, positively radiant. That smile transformed her from a feral orphan into a polite little princess.

I couldn’t keep from smiling back.

“Thank you,” Tanza said. Then she saw the other book under my arm. “What’s that one?” she asked, as though hoping it was for her and not daring to ask.

I pulled it out and showed her the cover. It showed the same image of the queen, but this time above an Anglese title—The Queen of Sorrow. “The Anglese edition,” I explained. “This one’s for me.”

If I’d thought she was happy before, it was nothing compared to her radiance now. “You’re going to read it?”

I shrugged. "I couldn't resist. You made it sound so interesting."

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Wait until you get to Chapter Five. That’s when she first meets the king, and you would not believe the uproar it causes."

She set down her book, grabbed mine, and started flipping through the pages, desperate to show me the start of the story.

From down the hall, an adult voice barked, “Tanza! Don’t bother the woman. I’m sure she’s busy.”

Embarrassed, Tanza closed the book. She pushed it back into my hands. “Sorry. I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“I don’t mind. You’re an excellent instructor.”

Her eyes brightened with hesitant hope. “I could show you more. If you want.”

“I’d be grateful.”

Tanza called over her shoulder. “Garsa! Can I have a visitor in the study room?”

The tephan woman appeared in the entryway. She blinked, taken aback. “As long as she leaves before supper."

Tanza looked up at me. “Do you want to stay?”

No tephan had ever asked me that question before. In all my time here, I’d been an outsider. An invader. I’d never had the desire to be anything more. But those words, coming from Tanza, felt like a welcome.  

I was glad to receive it.

I put a hand on Tanza’s shoulder and smiled. “I’d love to.”

[miracle-sham]

Crack Your Bones and Say Those Lies.

| {Jasonette July 2021, Saturday Challenge 3: And They Were Roommates} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [Spotify Playlist Link] |

———

| After getting roped into the Vigilante life by Chat Noir, her friend and partner in crime, Maladroit tries her best to help fight crime to make the city a better place, if only Red Hood and his gang would stop causing problems. |

| Or alternatively, Marinette and Jason are roommates with secrets. Both have huge crushes on each other but more importantly, both are trying to juggle moonlighting as their secret identities. However, when watching the nightly news together, everything changes. |

| Word Count: 5,014. |

| Warnings/Tags: No Miraculous/Different Powers Au, Roommates, minor gang mentions/Red Hood is a gang lord, gun violence, Vigilantism, Identity Shenanigans/Mistakes, Miscommunication, some emotional hurt, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, and Domestic fluff. Also Oblivious, Protective, & Mutually Pining Marinette and Jason. |

———

| A/N: Hey! Sorry this is nearly a week late but where I live got hit with a nasty heatwave and I was barely able to write from sheer exhaustion from the heat. But on a happier note, I'm so glad I've finally been able to write and post a proper Vigilantes au (as in like Spidey style vigilantism with homemade gear and all!) Because that kinda Vigilante au especially combined with roommates is my favourite trope ever! Well maybe joint with Dragonrider AUs, but still! I've had multiple Vigilante Aus sitting in my notes and drafts so it's brilliant to finally release one into the wild! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

———

It's Friday night, and Maladroit and Chat Noir are midway through their usual patrol of their slice of territory in the city.

“Race you to the billboard!” Chat Noir calls out, snickering in an almost cat-like-chitter as he launches himself forwards. Swinging over Maladroit's head with his grapple, he lands on the next roof ahead, in a perfect three-point landing.

Maladroit giggles, “Oh, you're so on!” She grabs her grapple and shoots. Swinging after him and onto the same roof. She instead, dive forward rolls for her landing and uses the momentum to propel her into a run.

Losing his lead due to the momentum loss of the three-point landing, Chat Noir vaults over a roof vent.

Forced to swerve to the side, Maladroit barely dodges a massive puddle of rainwater on her side of the roof.

Neck and Neck, the two raced across the rooftop. Closer and closer to the billboard they raced.

Nearly there! She thinks, c'mon! Reaching an arm out to slap the billboard—

Bzzt!

“Eep!” She yelps, startled by the buzzing crackle of her earring-comms. Unintentionally, she accidentally veers to the side and crashes straight into Chat Noir's side.

They collide with a loud thud, and two of them crumple into a pile.

“Graceful as ever, Mal.” A voice teases over her earring-comms. “Joking aside, didn't mean to spook you, sorry!”

Maladroit groans, “thanks,” and gingerly extracts herself from the vigilante limb pile.

“Gamer!” Chat Noir cheers, having heard him through his own disguised comms. “Got any crimes for us to fight tonight?”

There's a chuckle over the line, “Lucky you should ask, Chat, I do happen to have found some villainous plans for you to thwart.”

Chat Noir cracks his knuckles and stretches. “Oh? What are they?”

“Two which are time-sensitive.” Gamer adds.

Maladroit stifles a squawk, “Two! That are time-sensitive?” Her voice goes up a pitch on the last word, making it sound like a question.

“Uh-huh.” He confirms. “Chat Noir, there's a break-in at a jewellery store two blocks over from you. I'm sending you the directions now to your phone.”

Chat Noir does a two-fingered salute to the nearest security camera. “Got it, G! Detective Noir is on the case!”

“And Maladroit, we've got reports of sightings of Red Hood outside his usual area. By the Warehouses on fourth. There are no security cams around there so I've got nothing but rumours to go on. See if you can check it out and find out what he's up to.” Gamer informs her, sounding slightly irritated at the fact he's got little information to give her.

Maladroit nods, grumbling slightly. “When isn't he up to something.”

Slinging an arm around her shoulder, Chat Noir grins like the Cheshire Cat. “C'mon, Mal! It'll be a quick sweep and nothing will turn up like the last twenty times we've gotten this kinda tip-off!”

“You owe me ice cream from André's when we're in civvies tomorrow!” She huffs. “I made us macarons last time!”

“I haven't forgotten!” Chat Noir protests. “Anyway, see you tomorrow if we don't catch each other for the end of the patrol?”

Maladroit nods. “Yep! See ya later Minou!”

The two split. Chat Noir dashing after the directions, and Maladroit swinging towards the warehouses on fourth.

———

Breathe, Maladroit—reminds herself, perched on the rafters in one of the warehouses on fourth. Staring at the blood-red glowing mask of the red hooded villain, who happens to be oh so creatively named the 'Red Hood', leaning on the balcony railing on the opposite side of the warehouse to her rafter, and presumably glaring up at her.

“It's you again, Maladroit.” He growls, distorted by whatever voice modifier he's got wired into his mask.

She can't help but wince at the reminder of the word she had accidentally said the first time she had ever helped Chat Noir fight crime. Which irritatingly enough, stuck as her vigilante name. Especially since her second attempt at a name, Ladybug, didn't stick. She frowns beneath the black and red spotted bandana covering her mouth, and tightly grips her bladed yo-yo—with piano wire instead of string—of the same colour scheme.

“What are you planning, Red Hood?” She spits out, voice also modified by her bandana, a tad too grumpy and bitterly for the awkward-but-smiley "persona" she's supposed to act like (although it's not so much of a persona when that's just how she is almost all the time). But in her defence, she's had a rough day at uni, things have been awkward at home because of her crush on her roomie lately, and more importantly, Red Hood's lackeys have been a pain in the neck for the past week, so her reaction is more than warranted.

He has the audacity to laugh. “What makes you think I'm going to tell you, Pipsqueak?”

“Well,” Maladroit huffs, “I was hoping you were feeling considerate.”

Red Hood shifts his shoulders. “Aww, sorry Pipsqueak. I'm not feeling particularly considerate today.” In a split second, he slips both guns from his holsters, spins them, and shoots.

Maladroit squeaks, instinctively tugging on her power, and dives off the rafter to dodge the shot. “Rude!”

She's just able to shoot her grapple off and swing up to another metal beam.

“How the fuck do you keep dodging my shots?” He snarls, gesturing at her with his guns in short angry-looking motions.

In response, she throws her yo-yo at him, tugging on her power again. The yo-yo spins through the air, slashing through the Red Hood's jacket sleeve and slicing a deep groove into the gun, then rewinds on the wire back to her. “What makes you think I'm going to tell you, Bullet Boy!” She parrots back, cheekily.

“Hey!” Red Hood snaps, aiming another shot at her.

Tugging on her powers once more, Maladroit yelps as she swings to yet another metal rafter beam in order to avoid the shot. “Your aim sucks!”

“Fuck you!” He retorts, firing off four more shots aimed at her head.

There's a horrifying moment as she barely manages to tug on her powers in time. The bullets barely skimming past her hood, one even tearing the fabric slightly.

“Mal!” Comes Gamer's terrified voice over her earring-comms, “I need you to pull back immediately! Red Hood and his gang have been spotted nearby and Chat can't get to you in time to back you up if you do get into a fight!”

She raises a hand to her earrings and quietly laughs hysterically. “Little too late for that, G! I'm uh currently staring… face to gun to him”

“Oh, fuck!” Gamer responds, voice going up a pitch. “I'm contacting Chat now. Try and get out if you can but prioritise not getting yourself killed, please!”

Red Hood fires his guns again. “Eyes and ears on me, Pipsqueak.”

Squeaking yet again, Maladroit desperately tugs on her power once more and swings to another rafter. Her heart thunders in her chest as loudly as his gunfire. She spits out a frantic, “no promises!” to both of them.

“I've informed him, your backup is on the way.” Gamer tells her.

The main warehouse doors clatter open with a resounding slam! Followed by the stomping of multiple pairs of boots storming inside.

Maladroit waves at Red Hood, the quiet terrified hysterical laughter practically bubbling out of her mouth. “Haha, well I'm afraid that's my cue to Bug Out!”

“Oh, I don't think so, Pipsqueak.” Red Hood taunts, shooting six bullets at her, rapid-fire. “I ain't finished with our convo yet.”

Squeaking for the umpteenth time, and really just giving him even more reason to keep giving her that stupid pipsqueak nickname, she riskily shoots her grapple, aiming and swinging towards the warehouse's large balcony windows.

“Get the fuck back here!” He snarls, voice deepening with fury. Pausing to reload before firing off more shots at her with abandon.

Maladroit wriggles midair, tugging on her powers to try and dodge the shots. She curls into a dive forward roll as the grapple forces her to land onto the balcony. The same one that Red Hood has been stood on this entire time. Oh, help me! She thinks, eyes widening behind her makeshift red with black tinted lenses, goggles-slash-domino mask.

He aims his gun at her once more. “Move and you fucking die, pipsqueak.”

Putting her hands in the air, she swallows a gulp of air. Her body armour is padded beneath her red, and black spotted, hoodie but it isn't bulletproof. And she can feel the straining exhaustion of overusing her powers clawing at her.

They're at a standoff. Still as statues, the both of them. It's almost poetic how they parallel each other. He's got his gun aimed at her, whilst she's desperately clutching at her grappling hook gun in one of her raised hands. Both donned in red. Both committing crimes in the eyes of the law. Two sides of the same coin, one and the same.

Maladroit feels sick to her stomach, staring down the barrels of his guns. Ever so slowly, she tugs on her powers. The window a little bit behind her creaks quietly enough that Red Hood doesn't seem to notice beneath the clamour of his gang doing whatever it is they're doing below.

She counts her breath and tugs on her power. A minute passes with no movement, no words, nothing happening on the balcony. Out of the corner of her eye, she can just see that it's now open enough that she should be able to make it out unscathed. Or at least mostly unscathed.

Closing her eyes, not that he can see, her power snaps. Instinctively she doubles over and slaps a hand over her mouth. Barely in time as a stifled scream is yanked from her throat, leaving her panting for breath. Her knees crash onto the balcony flooring. A bullet whizzes past her neck.

“Shit. What the fuck was that?” Red Hood grumbles, sounding genuinely concerned. He storms across the balcony towards her.

Maladroit can't help but flinch, bodily throwing herself back as far away from him as she can. Mind racing in panic.

He stows one gun back into a holster then reaches a hand towards her. “Hey, hey, hey. Calm down.”

“Gotta go! Bug-bye!” She squeaks out, wrenching on her power with all her remaining strength, and bolting for the window.

“I think the fuck not! Fucking pretending to be hurt.” Red Hood barks, ripping the gun back out of its holster.

Narrowly dodging the spray of bullets shot at her, Maladroit dives through the window and fires off her grapple. Safely swinging far away from the warehouse.

———

Carefully Maladroit drops with the ease of far too many nights of practise, onto the fire escape outside her bedroom window. She crouches and lets the shadows of the night hide her form. Creeping closer, she checks the windowsill for any marks or signs of tampering but it all comes away untouched. Content with her quick security check, she fumbles for the disguised piece of string wedging the window ajar in a way that's barely visible unless you know where to look for it. Got it! She thinks to herself, grabbing ahold of it and prying it, and the window above it, up and open.

Slipping through the open window, she sits on the sill to rip her thankfully not-too-dirty studded steel-toed boots off. Picking them up in one hand, she wiggles the rest of the way into her room and immediately resets the security measures, yanking the curtain down for privacy.

Maladroit then shuffles over to her bed. Tikki—her gorgeous fluffy red and dark brown miniature dachshund—blinks sleepily up at her, from the dog bed next to it. The puppy yaps in greeting before snuffling and curling back up to sleep.

She coos at the cuteness before continuing on. With the other hand not carrying the boots, she pries the blanket covered duffel bag out from underneath. Wrestling to unzip it in one janky and awkward motion, grunting slightly at the exertion. The metal of the zip digs in but the discomfort is mostly mitigated by the padded gloves and wrist guards she's wearing. The easy to clean plastic bag designated for temporary storing of her boots is dragged out of the bag and said boots are tossed in without a second glance.

Huffing, she starts to take the rest of her cross between mostly homemade and refashioned sports kit vigilante gear off. First, tugging down the hood of her hoodie and unclipping the black scrum cap hidden under it. It's dumped unceremoniously into a secondary plastic bag in the open duffel bag. After that, Maladroit removes the black neck guard and pulls her makeshift goggles-slash-domino mask over her head. Those too, are dumped into the other plastic bag. Then she unties the bandana with the nose guard underneath, from around her mouth and nose. Unsurprisingly, they're also dumped in the bag.

Next, she undoes the velcros on her red and black padded gloves, black wrist guards, as well as black elbow, knee, and shin pads. Also dumped into the other bag. With the outer protective wear removed, Maladroit pulls her hoodie over her head. Continuing on, she peels the padded rugby body armour and shorts off, and then the thermal under-armour. All dumped into the third and final plastic bag. “I swear,” Maladroit mumbles to herself, “getting changed out my gear never gets easier. And to think back when I had my last P.E. lesson at school, I thought I'd never have to touch this kinda kit ever again. Rip me.”

Lastly, Marinette—no longer Maladroit seeing as she is no longer in her vigilante gear—throws on her running-to-the-bathroom spare bathrobe to cover herself. She hastily shoves the three plastic bags into the duffel bag and kicks it under her bed. Purposefully leaving it unzipped but quickly fixing the blanket covering the bag, so that she can more easily grab her kit to clean everything later, whilst keeping it sufficiently hidden.

With that mostly taken care of, she nabs the mouthguard case, some clean pyjamas, and dashes out of her room—clinging awkwardly to the bathrobe. She hops in the apartment's shared bathroom, the rest of the place is silent, meaning her roomie, Jason, must have gone out. Still, Marinette locks the door regardless. If there's one thing she's learnt in her foray into the nightly masked vigilantism, is that one can never be too careful.

“Shit! Nearly forgot to take this out.” She grumbles to herself, just as she was stepping into the shower. Prying the mouthguard out of her mouth as she shuffles over to the sink, she gives it a quick rinse under the tap. Followed by a thorough scrubbing with her toothbrush and glob of toothpaste. She pops it into the mouthguard case and leaves it on the side of the sink for now.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Marinette finally allows herself to indulge in a good half an hour-long hot shower to get the grime from a night of crime-fighting off of herself.

She's only just drying off her hair, having already changed into her pyjamas, when the blare of the TV echoes through the apartment. Tensing up, her anxiety runs wild. It's what they get for living in the cheaper but slightly dodgy apartments where the walls are thin and the doors are thinner. Grabbing the mouthguard case, she wraps it up in the bathrobe and peeks out the bathroom door and looks down the hall into the open plan kitchen lounge. Jason's back, he's sitting on the sofa watching the TV.

Shoulders untensing, she finished drying her hair and heads out into the hallway. In place of a greeting, she exclaims, “oh! Jason, you're back!”

Jason flinches slightly and looks over his shoulder back at her. “Yeah, a friend had an emergency so, y'know.”

Immediately, concern wrenches at Marinette's heart, “oh no, I'm sorry. Are they… okay?”

He waves a hand in a so-so gesture and clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. They're fine now.”

“That's good!” She says, nodding, as she makes her way fully into the lounge and the TV catches her attention. “Oh is it nearly the eleven o'clock news already? I need to watch this! Alya texted me earlier saying I have to, and she sounded really excited!” Glancing down at the bundle in her arms and flushes red. “Actually, I'll be back in a second!”

“I'll yell as soon as it actually starts.” Jason offers, smiling warmly at her.

Marinette just misses the smile, rushing back to her room, and throwing a quick, “thanks,” over her shoulder back at him.

Also missing his smile turn fond and the good-natured roll of his eyes at her antics.

Barely half a minute passes before she's bounding back into the lounge, with a sleepy Tikki at her heels. She plops herself down on the sofa next to him and hopes the blush on her face could simply be mistaken for the flush of running about like a mad thing instead. Tikki whines until Marionette picks her up and lets her on the sofa with them, padding over to the furthest corner to curl up in.

Jason points to the pink floral steaming mug on the coffee table, right next to his Pride Prejudice and Zombies themed mug. “Whilst you were in the shower, I made us both hot chocolates with marshmallows, my granddad Alfie's recipe.”

“Oh!” Marinette responds in pleasant surprise. She turns to him and positively beams, eyes shining with happiness. “Thank you so much, Jason! You're always so thoughtful!”

He blushes and rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “Yeah, well, I thought it's only fair since you normally make 'em. And I visited Alfie recently, and I promised to get you his recipe to try, so I thought it'd be a nice surprise for once!” He pauses and points at the big bowl also on the coffee table, “also I cooked us some popcorn.”

“Aw! Thank you again! I really appreciate this!” She scoops up the hot chocolate with slight reverence and takes a sip. Immediately her face lights up even more in joy. “Oh, this is delicious!”

Jason chuckles, “isn't it the best! I'll pass that onto Alfie though, he'll be glad to know you like it so much. Speaking of which, he's gonna give making them a try next time I'm up since I wasn't there long enough this time. Would you fancy coming with me to see him, then?”

Her eyes widen and her heart stutters in her chest, feeling close to bursting from happiness. “I'd love to! Do you have a date when you're thinking of going up?”

He nods. “Yeah, maybe around—”

But he's interrupted by the starting audio of the eleven o'clock news.

They both immediately shut up and watch the screen intently as the news anchors appear on the show. The starting discussion is somewhat boring, talking about the local billionaire Wayne-or-something business and a related upcoming charity event of some sort.

Marinette doesn't pay attention to it, but she does catch Jason wrinkling his nose and scowling at the conversation.

Luckily, the topic shifts quickly enough. “And now, over to our newest reporter, Alya. We hear there's been some rumblings regarding the conflict between local vigilante Chat Noir, his sidekick Maladroit, and the gang controlled by the infamous Red Hood himself.”

“That's stupid,” Jason grumbles, “Maladroit is a fully-fledged vigilante in her own right and not just the catboy's sidekick. That's like saying Nightwing is Batman's sidekick!”

Marinette frowns, very touched by his words and trying her damnedest to appear nonchalant. “I don't know… from all the-uh news clips, Maladroit seems like Chat Noir's sidekick to me. She's always hovering nervously near him like a strong wind would spook her.”

“C'mon! She's been reported to have held her own against Red Hood on multiple occasions, alone!” He argues, sounding rather offended on her alter egos behalf.

Scoffing, she shakes her head. “Clearly that's because he's going easy on her! He's never directly shot her, according to the reports clearly, he's soft on her!” The lies taste bitter on her tongue.

Jason splutters and flushes bright red, turning away from her slightly. “W-well that's obviously a testament to her skill and not Red Hood's mercy! He's always reported as being a merciless killer, why'd he be soft on her!”

“I don't know!” She makes a dying-choking noise as she flushes even more red than earlier. Shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth to avoid having to respond any further.

Luckily, the news shows pans over to Alya standing in front of a screen showing a recorded feed of a warehouse. Not just any warehouse, but specifically the one on fourth that Maladroit had faced Red Hood in less than an hour ago.

Marinette feels her pulse quicken at the reminder of the close shave she'd had.

“Hey wait a second, those warehouses don't have security cameras at all? How'd they get this footage?” Jason complains, eyes narrowed at the TV.

It feels as though ice has been poured down her spine at his words. She freezes, body stiffening in shock. He's right… G said there's none because that's why he asked me to check things out. The only people who'd know this are Chat, Gamer, myself, and Red Hood and his gang. She swallows thickly and tries to subtly side-eye Jason. Oh no. I've been crushing on my roommate who works for Red Hood's gang? Oh god! The friend with the emergency was referring to Red Hood calling him into work!

She can't help but inhale a shallow panicked breath. He could've been one of the lackeys shooting at me and Chat this past week. Or, or I could've hurt him with my yo-yo. Or—

Jason turns to fully face, clearly registering the blatant panic on her face. “Hey, hey, hey, Marinette, you're okay, you're safe. What's wrong?”

“Are you working for Red Hood?” Marinette blurts out, accidentally, the words pouring out in an unintentional panicked rush. “Are you in his gang?”

He jerks back, fear, confusion, and hurt crosses his face. “Wh-what? What makes you think that?”

“His gang was just in that warehouse, and you were out on an emergency for a "friend". And how would you have known unless you were there tonight and working for his gang?” She chews her lip forcefully and winces as the taste of iron floods her mouth.

He reaches towards her, eyes widening concern.

She flinches back, suddenly reminded of how similar this is to that moment with Red Hood on the warehouse balcony.

Jason jerks back as if her flinching burnt him. Raising his hands, he leans away from her to give her some semblance of space. “Fuck. Look, I'm not going to hurt you! Have I ever hurt you whilst we've been roomies?”

Nervously, she shakes her head.

“I really care about you, Marinette. Hell, we've lived together for nearly a year now. I would never hurt you, okay! I promise.” Tears prick in his eyes, and he grimaces slightly, lowering his hands to rest on his lap. “Yeah, I uh, I'm working for him. But I do everything I can to keep work from following me home. I didn't tell you because I never wanted to scare you.”

Guilt gnaws at her. “I'm sorry! I shouldn't have judged. I—” She takes a shaky breath, “I really really care about you too. I'm just worried, what if Red Hood, or even Maladroit, or any of the other vigilantes hurt you? What if you get hurt in one of those gang wars?” Her words aren't lies but they're not the full truth either.

He sighs, “I can't promise I won't ever get hurt on the job. Maladroit and the other vigilantes do a lot of good but Maladroit especially is far too nice to hurt any of us. I've uh, seen her fight some of the others gang members, and been fought by her too. And out of everyone against the gang, she's the one who leaves us with barely more than a scratch at worst.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Most in the gang really respect her for that, y'know.”

Marinette's brain feels like the windows shutting down sound. “Oh. Oh.”

Sheepishly, he smiles half-heartedly at her. “Yeah.”

“So, is that why you were so adamant she's a fully-fledged vigilante in her right?” She asks, feeling bashful yet honoured whilst completely surprised.

Jason clears his throat and glances away. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh.” Her brain rewinds a moment. She splutters for a second, desperation racing through her. “Wait, she's fought you!?”

Full-on grimacing, he nervously laughs. “Left but a scratch!”

“Are you misquoting Monty Python right now? Oh good gods, that's the knight who says that after getting his limbs chopped off!” Marinette exclaims, looking every bit as horrified as her tone of voice conveys.

“Seriously, I've never gotten worse than a couple of minor cuts and bruises, I'm fine!” Jason reiterates.

She frowns and gingerly shuffles across the sofa closer to him. He keeps leaning back away, so she physically throws herself at him, pulling him into a tight hug. Incidentally burying her face in his shirt. “Okay, okay. Just, please let me know next time you get hurt. I've a friend who lived in a bad situation before, so I know how to help patch up minor injuries. Promise?”

Jason stiffens at the hug and slowly moves one hand to cup the back of her head whilst wrapping the other around her back. He shuts his eyes, cocking his head back and sighs. “Alright. I promise I'll tell you. And I'm sorry for keeping something this big from you. As I said, I was worried you'd be scared of me or that you'd get dragged into gang-related shit because of it.”

“You don't need to apologise.” Marinette mumbles in response, “I get it. I really do understand.” She bites at her sore bleeding lips again in guilt, her secret identity left unspoken on her tongue.

He shrugs, “so uh. I'm guessing you're still happy to stay roomies then, right?”

“Of course!” She responds without missing a beat hugging him even tighter.

Eventually, they release each other from the embrace to finish their now lukewarm hot chocolates and popcorn. The news continues playing, no longer forgotten in the background as the two try to act as if nothing has changed.

———

Jason collapses onto his bed with a heavy sigh. He pulls out his phone and rings a number on autopilot.

The dial tone plays as the line connects. “Hey, whaddup Jay?”

“Holy fucking shit balls, man.” Jason groans. “I fucked up.”

Roy hums, “like need help burying a body fucked up or what?”

Jason groans even louder, smushing his face into his bed covers. “My roomie is smart, right. I accidentally let a tiny detail slip when we were chatting whilst watching the eleven o'clock news as usual. And she now thinks that I'm in Red Hood's gang.”

There's a long pause, before Roy bursts into raucous laughter. “Holy shit, I'm dying! She's not wrong!”

“Yeah. I know. She ain't right either though.” He grumbles in response. “She was absolutely terrified when she realised. Nearly had a full-on panic attack and everything.”

“Oh fuck.” Roy helpfully says.

Jason grunts in agreement. “She was also real concerned that Red Hood or the vigilantes have hurt me.”

“Well, that's better?” Roy offers, sounding rather unsure of his own words.

“Yeah but she's taken thinking I'm some low-level member of my gang this badly, how the fuck d'ya think she's gonna take finding out I'm the big bad Red Hood himself?” Jason sighs. “I don't want to ask her out without her knowing this, 'cause it could endanger her.”

Roy hums again, “well, you've been roommates this long already and she's been completely safe from the Vigilante-Gang life so far.”

There's a gentle thump as Jason lifts his head and throws it into the sheets again out of sheer frustration. He relents, reluctantly. “That's true…”

“See. And since it sounds like she's not planning on moving out, clearly she doesn't mind living with you. Just ask her out to dinner already.” Roy adds, cheerfully.

Huffing, he rolls over on the bed. “I'm starting to feel like those weird girl slumber party ads with the creepy phone-a-boy games.”

Roy wheezes, followed by a thudding noise and the distant sound of his cackling.

“Wow. And to think I called you for help. I'm offended.” Jason goads with no bite, waiting a few seconds to hear Roy's response but it's just more laughter.

He rolls his eyes and ends the call, not like Roy will mind. Throwing an arm over his face, Jason barely refrains from grabbing his pillow to scream into. He doesn't, obviously. Because the walls are thin enough that Marinette might hear him and he's worried her enough this night as is.

Sighing like a lovesick protagonist in a period romance novel, Jason moves his arm to run his fingers through his own hair. A date. Just gotta ask her at some point, to dinner at a fancy-ish restaurant. It'll be fine, what's the worst that can happen?

Her terrified reaction on the sofa flashes through his mind, followed by the reminder of how small and scared Maladroit had seemed when she had fallen to her knees on the warehouse balcony. There was no way that she was faking the pain, like he'd initially thought. She had practically staggered in her mad dash to escape. And there's no way for me to find out whether she got to somewhere safe afterwards. God, she could be lying dead in some dank alleyway for all I know right now. Fuck, I hope she's okay...

He groans in distress and shifts in place. Already feeling like he really won't be getting any sleep at all tonight at this rate, thanks to his concern for those two.

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little fic! Comments, Likes, and Reblogs are much appreciated! |

| I decided to go close to canon for names this time, hence why Chat Noir remains unchanged but Max is Gamer (because A. that was his Akuma name, and B. he's like Player from Carmen Sandiego in this, couldn't help myself), and Marinette is Maladroit (from the first thing she calls herself in Origins). |

| Oh, also whilst it's not explicitly stated in the text; Marinette/Maladroit's has the power of luck/being lucky, Chat Noir has the power of being unlucky, and Red Hood has "Perfect Aim" aka he's a hitscan. Which is why Maladroit is able to dodge his bullets by making herself "lucky enough" to dodge in time. |

| Also feel free to send me any comments with any questions you have regarding this fic, I'll be more than happy to answer! |

| @jasonette-july-event |