#its a parody of let the bodies hit the floor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itsclydebitches · 3 years

Note

Until proven otherwise, my headcanon is that both Ironwood and Watts survived and are going to team up again out of necessity lmao.

HI, ANON. So let me tell you about how this simple, silly sentence sent me down a 4k writing rabbit hole. “Lol I’m going to write a little parody about that” I thought to myself and then somehow? It got serious?? I honestly don’t know what this fic is, but I’m chucking it at everyone anyway.

Also, I changed the whole “Atlas and Mantle are immediately submerged in water” plot point because it’s my coping mechanism and I get to choose the canon we ignore.

***

Once upon a time there were two villains having a Very Bad Day.

The first, Arthur Watts, had survived an explosion, being buried under rubble, and the threat of a ten-story drop only to find himself suffocating amidst a magically produced fire. A horrible way to go, all things considered. Painful, of course, but more importantly, no self-respecting man should die with soot on his clothes.

Or leave behind a charred corpse.

In fact, Watts had just begun to acknowledge the full indignity of his death when the momentum he'd felt — just there on the periphery of his awareness — suddenly ceased, Atlas crashing into Mantle and throwing him with a squawk in the process. His head took a nasty hit against one of the desks, the smoky gray of the room growing darker, and by the time Watts had come to, the fire had been replaced by water.

Ice-cold water, lapping up to his knees.

"Well," he said, lifting a sodden boot. "I suppose this is an improvement."

***

Elsewhere, James Ironwood — former General of the now sinking Kingdom of Atlas — was lying facedown on the stone of the outer vault, contemplating his choices. Upon reflection, no, he didn't regret what he'd done, but it would have been nice if things had turned out...any way other than this.

"Fuck," he said to the empty hall, enjoying the reverberation. He deserved that much at least.

In time, Ironwood was able to pick himself up off the floor, supported as much by the fact that he'd been knocked out by his own blast as his shaky, barely-there aura. Up the elevator running on emergency dust reserves, through the corridors that groaned ominously under damaged supports. Ironwood headed towards the military headquarters purely out of habit and as he did the sound of water grew stronger, almost like waves, until there was an inch of it across the floor, more trickling in from the staircase. Ironwood had been watching his boots splash with each step, almost mesmerized, and didn't look up until another pair unexpectedly entered his view.

Watts froze in the act of wringing out his pantleg, eyes wide. His expression, the water, how the hallway tilted downward at a slight angle... it all felt like something out of a dream. Ironwood just watched as Watts watched him, until his eyes traveled to the gun clipped on his belt. Ironwood hadn't even realized he'd picked it up.

"Here to kill me, James?" Watts said.

"No." He knew it was true as soon as he'd said it. The mere thought of starting another fight right now was... exhausting. "Do you intend to kill me?"

"Oh really. Does it look as if I'm in a position to fight you? Do use your head for once. I have no weapon, no aura — damn fire ate it all up — I feel as if I've swallowed a hot coal, I am wet — "

Ironwood turned partway through the ramble, meandering back up the way he'd come. He'd passed through two checkpoints before realizing that Watts was not only still talking, but following him.

"What do you want?" he asked, more to shut the man up than out of real curiosity. If Watts was capable of reading the difference between the two, he didn't show it.

"Cinder."

"Cinder?"

"I don't make a habit of allowing people to try and murder me without consequence, James!"

"She's gone."

"Yes, thank you for that stunning bit of info! There's no possible way I could have realized that for myself. What's gotten into you? They left us, fool. Salem, Cinder, Neo, Emerald, even your so-called allies... they all deserve the worst that we can grant them. Though right now, I'd settle for wringing that idiot Pietro's neck. Ten years I gave to that research and he rendered it obsolete with a single report, all because he wanted to play father to some stupid hunk of metal. I never would have gone to Salem if — " Watts cut off, hands balled into fists.

Ironwood just blinked dazedly, coming to a halt. He searched his uniform, the scroll he'd stashed there miraculously whole. Dimly, he registered that he should be feeling some sort of emotion right now.

"I can do that," he murmured.

"What?"

But Ironwood was already keying in the code, the desire to complete a task, any task, taking hold. Watts looked on, mouth twisted in a deprecating sneer.

"I already took out communications, in case you failed to notice."

"But not the trackers I had installed in my top scientists." Ironwood held up the screen where a small, red dot was blinking. "Pietro's still here. Looks like he's out near the mine with a second aura signature. If you want to...?" He wasn't going to finish that sentence.

"I see," Watts said in a tone that heavily implied he didn't. "And you'd just give me this information out of the evilness of your heart?"

Ironwood considered that. "I killed a man yesterday, tried to kill two others, and was ready to bomb all of Mantle to keep the rest of my Kingdom safe. I don't care what you do with the man who betrayed me."

"...fair enough."

Except after five steps Ironwood realized that Watts wasn't following him. He was looking down at his arms, still as a hunted hare.

"You put trackers in all your scientists?" he asked.

"A requirement I implemented after you went missing."

"Ah! Ingenious. Lead the way then."

***

The way led to the tundra, an environment that neither of them were prepared for. Watts was wet from the waist down and Ironwood had long ago learned that snow and metal didn't mix. Neither had the aura for the kind of storm that was raging either. Luckily, the panic of Salem's invasion had left plenty of vehicles to purloin and soon they were speeding East with the heat on, the faint beeping on Ironwood's scroll growing stronger.

He'd felt the impact of his city crashing down and the two of them had clamored out of Atlas' husk, dropping into rubble and cracking ice. Still, the true destruction wasn't evident until they were moving away from it. Through the rearview mirror, Ironwood could see pillars of smoke from fires that the water hadn't yet smothered, dark shadows that could only be grimm, and Atlas itself, plunged halfway into Mantle. It wasn't noticeable from this distance, but all of it was sinking.

"I was lucky," Ironwood said, his voice hollow. His eyes flicked back to the expanse of snow ahead of them. "If Atlas had tipped the other way, the vault would have flooded. I'd have drowned."

Watts snorted. "I'm lucky. That damned water put out Cinder's fire. I'd have burned."

Neither felt particularly lucky and for fifteen more minutes, neither was keen to discuss it.

***

Once upon a time, two heroes were having a Very Bad Day.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Maria paused in the act of bandaging Pietro's leg, mechanical eyes narrowing at the two figures that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Watts sucked in a breath at the duo. Ironwood gave a small, awkward wave.

Then he nodded his head at the scene: one old, exhausted woman and a paraplegic currently bleeding into his chair. "So... going to kill him?"

Watts ground his teeth. "Well now that just feels like a fool's errand. Look at him. He's pathetic!"

Pietro was slumped at an uncomfortable angle, sporting a gash in his leg and an impressive display of bruises across his face. Maria, in contrast, seemed to have only lost her hair tie.

"Pathetic?" she spat. "Your lackey did this!"

"Who?"

"Angry girl with the creepy arm."

"Ah, it all comes back to Cinder." Watts pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, thank you for recognizing that I was her superior, but no, I didn't send her to kill the likes of you. Must have done it on her own, the little idiot. Don't believe me? I was in jail at the time, if I recall correctly. Isn't that right, James?"

"You were helping me hack Penny."

Maria let out a skin-crawling cackle. "Why do you think the girl was here? She blew a hole in the bottom of Amity! Penny tried to hold us up, but..." she swallowed, still pressing against Pietro's leg, but turned warily towards them. "You hacked her? You did that? What precisely do you think happens when a man who never learned to apply aura as a shield crash-lands in this hunk of junk!"

"I expect most men in that position perish," Watts said smoothly. "The fool is lucky to be alive, but he won't be for much longer if you keep trying to staunch the wound with your soiled gloves. Move aside."

"Get away from me!"

"Oh, put your stick down, you old bat. I'm trying to help."

"Why?" Ironwood hadn't realized he'd spoken until Watts was glaring daggers his way.

"So I can kill him later myself!"

Still surreal. Still dream-like in its absurdity. Ironwood listened to the bickering between Watts and... Mary? Maria? He wasn't even sure. He wandered away, content to gaze out through one of the windows at his Kingdom. Or what was left of it. He idly massaged his left arm, trying to rid himself of a pain that wasn't there, and when the howl of a grimm reached them across the snow, he shivered.

His unlikely companions screamed at each other loud enough to reverberate through the whole building. There were the sounds of two bodies trading blows, but only for a moment. Pietro, voice groggy and high-pitched with terror, demanded to know where his daughter was.

"She's dead," Ironwood said. He didn't turn to see their expressions, didn't need to. "Winter she... she defeated me as the Winter Maiden. That can only mean one thing."

"One thing to you, perhaps." Ironwood did turn then, watching stoically as Pietro tried to right himself in his chair, Watts cursing as the leg continued to bleed. "Where is she? I want to see my little girl. I can heal her, fix her — " he broke off, doubling over with a cough that splattered more blood into his hands.

"Maybe you could have," Watts said, a cruel satisfaction in his voice. "If her little friends hadn't made her human."

Some of the pieces fell into place then. His Lamp, long missing, had apparently wound up in Neo's hands, then Salem's, before it was finally used by Cinder. Watts described — with immense pleasure — the plan the group had concocted and the wish they'd asked of Ambrosius. He'd been a bit preoccupied with bomb duty to learn the details, but he knew that Cinder lived and Ironwood, it seemed, knew that Penny had perished. What a tragedy. Do you know how to bring back the non-mechanical, Doctor?

Ironwood honestly thought the old woman was about to kill him, murderous intent put on hold only because Pietro collapsed then, curling in on himself as sobs wracked his frame. The only words that escaped the mess of tears were "Penny" and then "Maria," one hand reaching out blindly for comfort. Pietro found it, the two holding onto each other as Watts sat at their feet, grinning up at the display.

Ironwood thought only, So that is her name.

The other, crucial bit of info was that everyone was gone. Dead or evacuated, it didn't matter. As far as any of them knew, they were the last four in Atlas, with Salem on her way to destroy whatever kingdom next took her fancy. It was over. They'd lost. And despite the horror of it, the realization was oddly freeing too.

When Maria asked in a tone edging on hysteria what precisely they were going to do — because it seemed this was a "we" situation now — Ironwood suspected she meant in the short term. What were they going to do about their wounds? The grimm? Finding and reaching the others? But those were foolish concerns, the thinking of someone who'd never had a kingdom's life in their hands. Ironwood knew there was only one answer here, the same one he'd had from the start.

"You can do whatever you like," he said. The metal of Amity sparkled against the rising sun, leaving splotches of color behind his eyes. "I will defend Atlas."

Maria's mouth dropped open and Watts stared. Even Pietro ceased his crying long enough to suck in a breath.

"Defend it from what?" he asked.

Ironwood shrugged. "The grimm. Salem. I don't know. I don't care. To quote a former friend, I have never wavered in defending the Kingdom of Atlas against its enemies and I don't intend to start now. This is my city and I won't leave it."

"It's sinking!" Watts cried, overlapping with Maria's, "We need to help" and though so much softer, quieter, more innocent than the spittle Watts was scattering across the floor... that single word sank its teeth into Ironwood. The woman may as well have stabbed him.

"Help?" he said. "Help? I tried to help! Everything that I have done in the last two days — the last two years — my life! — has been to help not just Atlas, but everyone I feasible could. Don't talk to me about help when you and Ms. Rose did everything you could to stop me. I had planned to help the world and you all lied. You betrayed. You set your weapons against me and kept me from saving what parts of my Kingdom I could. Tell me again: what precisely did you do to help?"

He'd crossed the distance, one hand on his holstered gun and the other leaning against Pietro's chair, using it to leverage himself down into Maria's space. Ironwood didn't need to see her eyes to know the emotion they held.

"I," she spit, "didn't try to bomb a city."

And just like that the fight in him was gone. It had barely existed in the first place. Ironwood straightened, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet. "No. You didn't. So it's as I said, go help if you want. If you can." His gaze slid to Watts. "You were one of her men. That says it all." Pietro. "You helped them reveal Salem to the world. Will she have time to destroy the other kingdoms before the grimm do it first?" Maria. "And I don't know you, but you don't earn a prize like that without seeing combat." Ironwood lifted his metal finger, tapping it against Maria's goggles. She flinched away. "Can you honestly say you haven't made mistakes?"

"You and I are nothing alike!"

"I didn't say we were."

Ironwood turned and walked away, as steady as he could manage as the world grew a little darker, despite the sunrise. Behind him Watts' voice rang out like a shot.

"So that's it then? The captain goes down with his ship? You idiot!"

He paused. "Not quite. It turns out I'm not the only idiot around these parts. Ms. Rose left the vault open." One last turn to savor their shocked expressions. "That's where I'm going. There are still plenty of airships if you'd like to leave, but just remember: they abandoned you too."

Perhaps he should have been surprised that by the time his boots hit the snow, three more footsteps were sounding behind him. Frankly, in fourteen hours time Ironwood would barely remember their conversation, let alone everything that came after it. One of them drove back to the sinking city. Someone tested the ice before they cautiously crossed it. Someone else dispatched the stray grimm foolish enough to get in their way. Ironwood saw and heard none of it. He walked with the determination of a wind-up toy, wobbling now that he'd reached the end of his string. Cool blues, a shining gold, and then beautiful, miraculous grass. Ironwood ignored the murmurs of amazement behind him, dropping directly to his knees.

When his palms hit the ground, only one was capable of feeling how soft it was.

I need to update my arm, he thought, even as he curled into a ball and passed out.

***

When he woke they were already running out of time.

For the first two days Ironwood barely spoke to the others and thus he never quite figured out why they'd stayed. Had it been hopelessness? Spite? The all consuming thought that there was nowhere else to go? That Atlas, for all its rubble and slowly rising water, wasn't any different from what the rest of Remnant would look like soon?

Why not here then?

Especially when the vault, filled with wildflowers and an endless sun, made for such an enticing retreat.

"Soil's farmable," Maria said, running some of it through her fingers. It was a statement of fact, nothing more, and the three of them stubbornly ignored the implications of it.

"There's — " Pietro coughed, self-consciously clearing his throat. "There's plenty to salvage. Machinery to pull water from the humidity in here. First aid supplies. We could section off an area for our wa — "

Watts seethed. "If you finish that thought I will — "

"What?" Maria arched a brow. "Kill him? Like you've been saying for the last day?"

Day? Ironwood blinked. How long had he been out?

"I will!"

"Like you'd be able to. Just try it, beanpole."

They argued, and they threatened, but none raised their hands to one another again, and when they finally dispersed across the kingdom to collect what they could, none of the acknowledged what it was for.

Ironwood waded through the remnants of his home and didn't think about building another. Because the idea alone was absurd.

"Don't let the door slam shut," he'd said when they’d first left, nodding to the stone slab that had appeared after Penny had first arrived. Ironwood watched the three exchange glances, unsure if he was joking.

Fuck if he knew.

***

Those four days — or five, if Ironwood counted the one he'd lost — were conducted in a strange state of frenzy. None of them were in a position to be working on such a project, but when had the world ever cared for their needs? Pietro stayed behind in the vault, cataloguing what they'd found and making lists for what was still needed. His chair, while dynamic, wasn't meant for the sort of terrain Atlas had become and his wound was still healing.

He also seemed to appreciate the privacy, frequently mourning his daughter with an honesty that made them all uncomfortable.

Maria went off to do the Gods only knew what, disappearing for hours at a time, then coming back wet, cold, and carrying little. Though she always had information. Which parts of the city were too grimm invested to traverse, which were now completely underwater, which were too unstable as Atlas tilted like a ship, disappearing beneath the waves. It gave them all focus and, surprisingly, something like hope. Whatever else she carried was usually small, such as the seeds filched from the bio laboratories.

"Couldn't take them all," she said, critically surveying the land, "what with so many of the labels getting lost in the crash. Don't want to eat something your lot has experimented on."

"You should. If we're lucky you'll mutate into someone bearable." Watts, taking stock of the clothing they'd gathered, didn't seem to realize that Maria was flipping him off.

He went on a deep dives (sometimes literally) for salvageable tech, most of it of a practical nature, but other pieces... not. Nothing had shifted Ironwood's world view quiet like day two, walking in on Watts looming over Pietro, assuming there was another fight brewing... only to overhear them exchanging theories, the conversation filled with as many insults as legitimate claims. Still, the seeds of camaraderie were there, and were perhaps easier to grow than originally thought. After all, Watts had once been one of them and Pietro, for all his heroics, had once entered Ironwood's office with a manic gleam in his eye, rambling about giving an aura to a machine. Defense technology at its finest!

What was it Glynda had said? Ah yes, agreeing with young Ms. Nikos about how "wrong" it all was. But desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

They'd had that discussion, of course. Soon after Ironwood awoke, talk of Amity began again, this time about whether it was possible to send another message. With enough time and effort, not to mention luck... a short one, perhaps, and only sent to an individual scroll. But what was the point? Who would they call? When no one could — or would — answer that question, the idea was dropped.

In the days since, Ironwood had fantasized about messaging Glynda. One of the few who'd ever been a true friend, perhaps the only one left alive who might care that he was still among the living... if Ms. Rose's message hadn't killed that too. Not that it mattered. Even if Amity wasn't a hunk of metal gathering ice, Ironwood hadn't a clue what he might say to her.

Dear Glynda,

Thank you. Sorry. Good luck.

Sincerely,

General James Ironwood

P.S. If things had ended differently, I would have asked for a second dance.

How ridiculous.

So he walked the broken streets of Mantle and climbed the streets of Atlas, more and more of it disappearing every day. Their hoard grew though, born of not just military property, but personal belongings as well. It wasn't as if anyone was coming to claim them. Unless more magic was at work, both cities would be miles beneath the ice before anyone crossed the border again. Still, Ironwood would always pause before packing away what he found in the hastily abandoned houses. Bedding. Utensils. The literal shirt off someone's back. He'd changed into jeans and a thick sweater the second day, taken from a collection of civilian clothes he'd placed into a locker years ago and promptly forgot about. The uniform felt... obsolete now, no matter that his goals remained the same.

He'd encountered Maria on one of those trips, admiring a basket of yarn in some nameless Atlesian's living room. Her shoulders had tensed at his approach, but she just snorted at the sight of him.

"You knit?" he asked, unsure of what else to say.

"No."

"Crochet?"

"No."

Ironwood didn't know any other crafts that involved yarn. "Then why are you taking it?"

Maria hummed. "Just a thought. That I might, someday, try to learn." She shook a book she’d pulled from the basket: Knitting For Beginners.

A stray thought indeed. The thing they still didn't talk about. The closest they got was on the fifth night when an explosion sounded outside, massive enough to unsteady them even deep within the vault. By the time all four of them had made it out and onto one of the roofs, the sky had turned a sickly yellow, followed by black tendrils that raced, turning, back and around on each other until everything went dark. The only light came from what little electricity they had running on generators and a red aura, pulsing from the West.

From Vacuo.

Realistically, it might have meant that they'd won. It wasn't as if Ironwood had any idea what the death of an immortal witch looked like. But the night wore on and they had no idea because that unnatural, starless black never receded. In time, Pietro wandered off and returned with two bottles he'd pilfered from somewhere, cracking the tops off on the side of his chair and passing them around.

They still didn't say it aloud, though the sky and the alcohol said enough already. Ironwood kept his eyes on the watch his mother gave him, hours ticking by until sunrise was long overdue. Atlas felt even colder now and that red, seeming to inch closer, sent a different kind of chill down his spine. The grimm that still prowled below had taken off hours ago, summoned by some unheard call.

Ironwood downed the dregs of his bottle and threw it into the city.

"Come on," he said. Ordered maybe, or asked. He wasn't sure he knew the difference anymore.

Blankets. Glasses. As many non-perishables as they could find. Generators. Tool kits. The building blocks of renewable energy. Clothing. Decorations. Wood to build small, individual dwellings.

Watts hoarded laptops and a small mountain of batteries, never showing them what he was working on, intensely protective.

Maria grew obsessed with entertainment, snagging every book, game, and video until there was a veritable library piled on the grass. She kept muttering about deserving a real retirement.

Pietro built a shrine to Penny, a simple stone monument to the left of the doorway. He tended to organize their supplies there, occasionally reaching out a hand to brush the code he'd inscribed with a laser. Whatever meaning it held, Ironwood couldn't read it within the ones and zeros.

And he... he found a cat. His last day, picking his way across dwindling islands until his eyes found the small, electrical fire just out of the water's reach. The cat had wedged herself into the rubble above it, trying desperately to keep warm.

She was as black as the sky above them and Ironwood was sure, when he reached out, that she'd run, terrified of his prosthetic hands. They certainly weren't any warmer, but she weakly crawled into them nonetheless. Ironwood held her securely against his left side, where his heart and flesh were, and thought with an absurd, internal laugh that he'd at least saved one.

There was so much left to do still, but their time was gone. That evening, eating what little they had the stomach for, water began to pour from the vault's elevator. First a trickle, then a deluge, until there was a sizable waterfall to admire. Ironwood sat on the steps with his unnamed cat on his shoulder, watching inevitability creep towards him.

He could still lie though.

"There's still time," he said, addressing the three behind him. "If you head up the elevator shaft and down the west hall, you can still break the surface. Find one of the remaining airships. Fly away."

Watts scowled, avoiding his gaze. He remained leaning against the doorway though.

Maria and Pietro exchanged glances.

"I'd carry you," Ironwood offered to Pietro. They both knew it would be a death sentence with their combined deadweight, but he'd do it anyway.

"No," he said softly. "I did all I could already."

Maria. She was harder to read with those goggles, but it wasn't peace on her face. Guilt, more likely, but that had never stopped any of them before.

"It's damn cold out here," she muttered and marched back to the grass. Pietro followed her, Watts trailing not far behind. He turned back though.

"You coming?"

Ironwood didn't answer and eventually Watts left, heading into the meadow that stretched until you lost sight of where you'd been — and then reappeared there. A tiny pocket dimension, born of a magic now lost to this world. Ironwood figured that a bit of water and ice couldn't break it.

Probably.

He watched the flood cover the floor of the vault, then lap upwards, one stair at a time. There was a part of him, a part unimaginably tired, that thought he might just sit there. Keep rooted until the water was so high it was too late to do anything. That would be easy. Fitting, even. Shouldn't he go with his kingdom?

But then the cat — his cat — dug nails into his shoulder and Watts said something that made Maria screech. Ironwood sighed.

There were still things to protect, simple as that had become.

He turned his back on Remnant, now encased in an eternal night, and walked to the three who remained, cowering in an eternal day.

Ironwood allowed them one last choice and when they all nodded, he kicked the vault door shut.

#tw suicidal thoughts #rwby #fic things #rwby fic #Ironwood #Watts #Maria #Pietro #idk what this IS #post-apocalyptic RWBY I guess #with a side of questionable people not talking to each other #Anonymous

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abarbaricyalp · 3 years

Note

Hi! If you're still taking propmpts. SamBucky, sequel to Push All My Buttons. Established Relationship: Sam comes back home to Bucky after Riley gets shot down during a mission and is a complete mess. Bucky comforts him to his best ability.

Friend. Friend. Friend. Why.

This is a sequel to Push All My Buttons. You don't necessarily need to read it to read this. This one is certainly not the same kind of fic.

CW: Severe suicidal ideation, discussions of grief, loss, and trauma, discussions of suicide

Link in the reblog

Excelsior

Bucky had nine months with Sam and Riley before they shipped out with the wings. He and Sam had been sleeping together for that entire time minus three days and they’d been dating for about two weeks less than that. As Riley had always said, ‘When you know, you know. Even if all you know is that they’re an irritating little shit.’ Which is what he thought both Sam and Bucky were, especially together.

It had been a really good nine months.

They shipped out late afternoon on a Saturday and that was a very bad month.

Bucky wasn’t military and Rhodes had left with the project and taken on his duties again elsewhere. Stark, in his own haze of being left alone, did not fill Bucky in on any developments with the wings, if he was even asking Rhodes.

The only thing Bucky got was the occasional phone call or text, in which Sam could barely talk about anything to do with the wings. Well, those and the program Bucky had on his computer. It was just the monitoring datastream for the jetpacks, essentially a condensed readout of what showed up on the wristlets. BPI and vitals of the wearers, elevation, fuel reserves, GPS, temperatures, difficult to decipher radar readings.

Bucky kept up with the readings religiously. He slept in his office space more often than not and scrolled through the information every morning when he did leave. So he was there at 6PM when the reading came screeching in. It was nearly a year to the day that they’d shipped out. It was a Friday. Bucky was actually packing up to go home and shower for once.

The program lost its mind the same way the wristlets would be. EXO-7 Suit 2 had lost all BPI and dropped elevation until… It hit the ground and went off line.

Bucky was pretty sure he passed out because he opened his eyes and he was on the ground, staring up at the fluorescents. There was almost no way to know for sure which pilot was in which suit. Suit 2, the Redwing suit, was usually Riley’s, but there was nothing to say that Sam hadn’t grabbed it that night. It would be about 2.30 in the morning over there. Mission like that could’ve been last minute. Could’ve taken them right out of bed. They could’ve grabbed whatever was closest. And Sam and Riley shared everything down to toothbrushes.

Bucky could comb through the data from the minutes previous. Try to rationalize out the BPI readings and find patterns, but the point of it being Sam and Riley was that they were similar pilots. Their build, their resting heart rate, the way they jumped into action. It was like watching twins move. Their readings weren’t different enough to prove anything, even if Bucky could make his arms and hands work enough to scroll back.

The other suit was still online. It dove halfway down before stopping as the radar lit up with projectiles. Again and again, like a bird dashing into traffic for another’s dead body, Falcon tried to get down to Redwing against enemy fire.

Bucky snatched his computer from its dock and raced to the elevator. His hands were shaking so badly he hit a few numbers below. The elevator went up to 88 and Bucky jabbed the door close button over and over. 89. 90. 91.

Bucky burst out on floor 92, tried not to think about the fact that just looking at elevator buttons had made him start crying, and ran towards Stark’s workstation.

“Call Rhodes!” he shouted and didn’t give a shit about the tears in his voice. “Call Colonel Rhodes right now.”

Stark sprawled upright, having apparently been asleep, and reached for his phone before narrowing his bleary eyes at Bucky.

“Barnes? What’s going on?” he asked.

Bucky set the computer down on a mess of other electronics. “One of...one of… Fuck!” A sob ripped its way out of his throat and he angrily swiped the heel of his hand across his eyes. “One of the suits went down. Someone...someone…”

“Shit,” Stark said and grabbed the phone again. He scrolled through the data reports and flinched which made Bucky snatch the computer back to look at what he was seeing. It was the radar report for Redwing. A large, explosive projectile had been launched into radar zone just before the suit fell. Bucky dropped the laptop and it landed lid first in a box of papers but didn’t shut so he still saw the WARNING WARNING WARN--

“Rhodey,” Stark said. “Rhodey, what’s going on on that end? No, I said I’d stay out of it if-- I don’t care. I’ve got-- Rhodey don’t you--” He fell silent but Bucky could hear Rhodes speaking on the other end. Stark kept shooting glances at Bucky and flinching like he didn’t have control of his body. “Alright. Thank you. That wasn’t so hard. Yeah. Yeah. No, I won’t tell anyone. No, not even Barnes,” he said. “Yes, especially not Barnes.”

He hung up and then looked at Bucky. “I’m not telling you this. It wasn’t Sam.”

Bucky fell back to the ground, catching himself on his knees this time. His arms were too heavy to pick up and the tears were falling even faster now that he knew Sam was okay. Because if Sam was okay that meant that Riley… That meant that Riley… That meant that Riley was wearing the Redwing suit.

Bucky curled into himself on the floor and screamed until his throat went sore. Stark, bless him, did not try to comfort him. He fell forward enough to press his forehead to the tile and shouted again, banged his fists on the floor and then buried them in his hair instead.

He did not go home.

Stark gave Bucky a cot to keep in his office. Bucky learned to live on it while he stared at the computer screen. That night, Sam had given up on getting to the ground and had to retreat. The suit was taken off and it had been quiet since. That did not stop Bucky from staring at it. One night, it pinged a reading--something like 3 PM their time--and Bucky watched the jetpack get taken up into the air. Higher and higher and higher and higher. Higher than he’d ever meant for them to go. High enough that he started to worry for whoever was wearing it. They were running out of oxygen. It better not have been Sam.

Then the wings retracted and the suit plummeted. Bucky nearly knocked his computer over jumping up. There was nothing in the vital readings to suggest the pilot had lost consciousness or suffered any medical episode. They were just falling. And it wasn’t a mechanical malfunction. The wings had been pulled in.

The pilot was letting themselves fall.

It better not be Sam.

Bucky was really going to watch another one die. He was going to see Sam k*** himself.

The pilot opened their wings ten feet before impact and soared back up, looping around one and then landing heavily on the ground.

The wings came back off.

Sam did it four more times, once each night, before the wings came off and stayed off.

That’s when the GPS started to move.

Two days later, Bucky was at an airport.

It had been slightly more than a week since Riley died. Riley died. Riley died. The words were wrong in Bucky’s head. His tongue rejected them without even trying to say it.

Here’s what Bucky knew about Riley. He knew Sam and Riley had known each other since their first tour. He knew that they took their education leave at the same time, went to the same school, and lived together for the three years it took them to get a degree. He knew Riley knew Sam better than Bucky did. He knew Sam had a sister who loved Riley like another brother. He knew Riley loved Sam like his own brother and Sam loved him back.

He knew that in the nine months he and Sam had been dating, he’d really only give himself six, maybe seven of those because Riley got the rest of the time and half time for the months Bucky did claim. He knew Sam called Riley before he called Bucky when he was upset. He knew Riley was such a good fucking guy and so important to Sam that that didn’t even make Bucky jealous.

He knew that Riley didn’t like coffee unless it had been turned into a sweet drink and had whipped cream on it. He knew Riley was from the middle of nowhere and sometimes talked like an obnoxious parody of a cowboy when he was tired or drunk and definitely when he was both. He knew he was a baker. He knew he liked poetry. He kept books in his army bag.

But even if he didn’t know that and nine months worth of other things, the only thing he needed to know was that Sam loved Riley more than he loved breath in his lungs or wings on his back. He loved Riley to the point of giving up concert tickets because Riley got sick and couldn’t go. He loved Riley enough to listen to bad country music in the car. He loved Riley more than he loved sex, if the number of nights he cut out on dates or netflix and chill to pull Riley out of a bad decision was anything to go by.

Sam loved Riley, Riley loved Sam, and Bucky loved Sam so Bucky loved Riley.

And Riley was dead.

Bucky had paced a hole in the floor waiting on Sam. His flight had been delayed three times already and they were two hours past the first arrival time. Energy and despair and hurt thrummed through his body and Bucky couldn’t dispel it no matter how hard he tried. He’d tried to use the gym at the tower. He’d tried to run it off. He’d tried to eat. Tried to not eat. Tried to sleep. Tried to not sleep.

Okay, that one he didn’t need to try to do. He just didn’t sleep.

It remained, locked around his heart and his head.

Sam was coming back on his own. They apparently hadn’t been stationed with a real unit, so there was no one else to send home. Even if they had been with a real unit, Sam was the only one who needed bereavement. So there was no sea of camo or cropped hair to alert Bucky that Sam was coming.

One second he was alone in his grief, the next second Sam was stepping off the elevator. They met halfway across the floor. Bucky was surprised there wasn’t a noise as they crashed together, arms coming around bodies, faces pressed to shoulders, tears escaping again. Sam wasn't in his fatigues or civvies. There was nothing distinctly airforce about him, so they were just two men losing it in each other’s arms and no one knew the depth of it.

Bucky thought about apologizing but there was nothing to apologize for. There were no words to do so anyway. So he just held onto Sam, one hand coming to the back of his head to hold him close. Sam sobbed once, twice, and then collected himself.

Bucky had no idea how long they stood like that. He could’ve stayed for days longer. The hole in his heart was still very much so there. But the luggage turnstile next to them had turned on and off four times and Bucky really wanted to get home and cry in private.

“Baby, let’s go,” he murmured softly, kissing Sam’s chin and then his cheek. “Let’s get you home.”

“I-I-I need to get to our storage unit. I need to-to sort his things,” Sam hiccuped without lifting his head.

“Later. Not right now. You’re coming home with me, alright?”

Sam nodded and wiped his eyes on Bucky’s shoulder. He lifted his head and actually looked at Bucky for the first time all afternoon.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, brushing his thumb over Sam’s cheek to catch other tears.

Sam held his wrist and kissed his palm. “Hey.” He leaned down to kiss Bucky, tentative at first and then Bucky remembered that he’d thought it was Sam who’d gone down in Redwing for three minutes. He’d watched Sam free fall hundreds of meters to the sand below over and over. He’d almost lost him so many times. And Bucky crashed into him all over again and Sam pushed back. New tears fell, mingling together against their noses and lips and pressed cheeks.

“I can’t lose you,” Sam breathed into Bucky’s mouth. “Not you too.”

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” Bucky said.

Sam’s mouth slid off of his, anguish on his face again. His forehead leaned against Bucky’s temple. “He’s gone, Buck. I couldn’t even look for…”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and saw Falcon dashing through enemy fire. “I know, Sam. I know. You tried.”

“Not hard enough. I saw it on the radar before he did. I was going to call out but I…I didn’t, Buck. I didn’t say anything.”

Bucky had nothing to say to that so he wrapped Sam in his arms again. “Let’s go home, Sam. There’s nothing else we can do here. Just breathe for me. Come on.”

Bucky grabbed Sam’s bag and lead him out of the terminal.

Sam slept on the floor, which was fine by Bucky. Something about how beds were too soft. After a week on a cot, Bucky might’ve thought the same thing. So he shoved his coffee table out of the way and threw all the pillows he owned on the floor and laid down several blankets and they slept on the floor.

Sam barely spoke the next day.

He went through the motions of washing dishes after Bucky made breakfast. It was just cereal, so there was little to clean up. He turned on the TV and let it play a documentary about the oceans. It played all day. Over and over. Bucky was pretty certain he could ask Sam anything about it and Sam wouldn’t be able to answer. He ate barely half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. He read a book of poetry on the floor all afternoon. He ate dinner and Bucky washed the plates.

The second day was much the same, but then Sam was agitated. He flipped through shows and got mad when he couldn’t figure out what to watch. He slammed doors when he left rooms. He threw the pillows and blankets on the couch when he lost his phone, which he hadn’t been answering at all anyway. Bucky had left it plugged in on the arm of the couch. They skipped dinner that night and sat on the couch with the TV off and Sam laid in Bucky’s lap and cried again. They fell asleep like that.

The third day, Sam got up and made breakfast. It was cereal again. Bucky put on music. Sam washed the clothes in his bag. Handed Bucky a beautiful leather bracelet he’d picked up when they’d first landed overseas. Gave him another box and managed to say, “For the birthday he missed,” before he dashed to the bathroom and got sick. Bucky left the box on a bookshelf and went to Sam’s side, rubbing his back and massaging his neck. The gift was a jean and sheepswool jacket. They skipped dinner again.

The fourth day, they sat on the floor, staring at the bare couch. Bucky got tired of counting how many buttons had gone missing, so he said, “You have to talk about it.”

Sam choked but didn’t run for the bathroom. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sam, you can’t keep it bottled up. Listen, after I got back from…”

“You wanna talk about things we should talk about: how’d you lose your arm, Bucky?”

“This isn’t about me. And I was just about to tell you that when I got back from my mission, I had to do a shit ton of therapy. And I hated it. And it took me a really long time to start being honest, but once I did, it helped me recover more than getting a new arm did.”

“How’d you lose your arm?”

“I saw him go down. I saw all the readings.”

“That’s not the same thing. I watched my best friend…” Sam gagged again and brought his hands up to his mouth. Tears filled his eyes and Bucky was sure it was a combination of getting sick and being upset. “I watched him die. I don’t know why I even thought I could find a body. I could… Fucking pieces if I’d gotten to the ground. That would’ve been it.” Bucky flinched and Sam zeroed in on it. “That what you wanted to hear, Barnes? Is that what I needed to say to heal myself? My best friend is dead. Maybe his body could be cold before you ask me to fix myself.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s not what I was saying, Sam. Don’t attack me. I’m on your side.”

Sam stood suddenly, swayed on his feet, then found his balance. “I’m going to shower. Please just...give me time to myself right now.”

Bucky dropped his head to the couch.

The fifth day, they were both called into Stark Tower by Rhodes.

It was too early, Bucky thought, to ask Sam to do more debrief. It was too early to ask him to face the world. Bucky had laid on his sister’s couch for two weeks before he could so much as answer the door when he got back.

Sam was in a mood again. Actually, the mood hadn’t ever lessened from the afternoon before. It was back to the silent treatment and if Bucky did push him to say something, he’d be cruel and biting, over descriptive and intentionally mean. Nothing at all like Sam. Or maybe, just like him. This was, after all, Sam at his lowest. How was Bucky to know what that looked like? The only man who could’ve told him was dead.

Bucky had called ahead and had two of the strongest, plainest black coffees waiting in the lobby of Stark Tower for him and Sam. Anything that wouldn’t smell like Riley. They got into the elevator alone and Bucky passed Sam one of the coffees. The doors closed and before Sam could reach over and choose floor 92, Bucky selected 2 - 91.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam asked. It could’ve been a snarl if the day hadn’t already been so long. If they hadn’t already argued about Bucky wearing the jacket Riley had given him. If Sam hadn’t knocked a glass off the coffee table and shattered it on accident then cut his fingers picking up shards. If Bucky hadn’t slept in his bed like a normal person.

“We have to talk,” Bucky said.

“I don’t...fucking want to talk,” Sam said, trying to double click the floors like something said would unhighlight them. It didn’t. The doors opened on the second floor.

The doors shut. “I saw what you did the days after Riley died.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Sam snapped, like he hadn’t told Bucky this morning about the blood that had been on his suit when he landed.

“I saw you free fall. Over and over. I watched that, Sam.”

Sam’s jaw steeled and he stared at his reflection in the stainless steel siding. “I free fall all the time. It’s one of the things we learn how to do.”

“Not like that, Wilson. You went into the fucking atmosphere. There’s no telling what the wings would have done at the speeds you were clocking.”

Sam’s mouth remained a straight line.

“You could’ve died,” Bucky said to get it out there.

“Good,” Sam said, ripping off the bandaid.

The doors opened on the fifth floor. “Don’t,” they both said to the woman who tried to step in.

“I’m still here,” Bucky said.

“I know. And I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I felt that way. I’m sorry I still feel that way. I can’t make myself stop.”

Bucky swallowed hard and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Sam...I tried too, alright? You don’t… I haven’t told you the whole story about my discharge and I will one day. This isn’t the day for that. But my story isn’t clean. Not even close. And I tried it too. I thought that’d be a lot simpler than the bullshit I was about to go through. I thought it’d be a justice for the people involved in my story.”

Sam looked at Bucky sharply, eyes red, tears wet on his cheeks.

“It wouldn’t’ve been. So I need you to tell me what’s going on and how we can fix this.”

Slowly, the fight seeped out of Sam’s shoulders. Common ground at last. A shock to his system. A bitter, bitter win for Bucky for the time being. Sam sank down and stared at his coffee cup. “I’ve known Riley for over a decade. More than anyone else in my life who ain’t blood.”

Bucky sat beside him. The elevator stopped on three floors.

“I’ve known him for a third of my life. The first serious third. I think I grew up more with him than anyone I went to school with. I’ve never had to do this on my own. He was always right next to me. I haven’t made a decision without asking him since I decided to sign up.”

“So, poor track record of making your own decisions,” Bucky joked softly.

“I was going to let myself do it,” Sam whispered then. “I wasn’t going to pull the wings back out.” Bucky’s heart went cold and still in his chest before roaring back to life. “I’m sorry you could see the readings. I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not upset I saw it. I’m upset that you felt the need to do it.”

Sam looked over at him. “Sure, but let me ask, what stopped you from following through?”

Bucky stomach twisted painfully. It was his turn to get nauseous. “I didn’t want my sister to find me. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

Sam nodded. “If I know you might be watching those readings, I won’t be able to do it again.”

Bucky nodded and brought the coffee to his lips. It scorched his mouth and throat and he didn’t taste it all but the point wasn’t the taste. The doors opened on the seventeenth floor.

“We’re going up,” Sam said in a quiet voice.

The doors closed.

“He was my friend too,” Bucky said, voice raw. “You can talk to me about him.”

“I know that. I’m just not in the sharing mood right now.”

The doors opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. Opened. Closed.

“I fell off a train,” Bucky said. “I told you my SpecOps mission was in the mountains. I was knocked out of a moving train going around the side of a mountain and I… I’m not really sure how it happened. I might’ve reached out for the cliff face. I might’ve just hit it on the way down. I didn’t have my arm when I woke up on the ground.”

“Well, shit, maybe a bear ate it while you were out.”

“Nah, the doctors said it was too smooth. It was ripped off all at once.”

Sam flinched and then closed his eyes.

“I actually had a little bit left. I dunno, half of my upper arm, maybe. It was removed later. So, I guess it wasn’t that smooth and pretty. You know what I remember most?”

Sam hummed without lifting his head.

“I remember the jacket I was wearing. We’d been undercover when we were called into action. I was wearing a beautiful jacket that I’d picked up somewhere when the mission was still an adventure and not a nightmare. And I remember laying in the snow, looking at all that blood and my missing arm and being upset that my jacket had been ruined.”

Sam snorted and then lost the battle against sobs again. He set the coffee aside and moved over to hug Bucky, crying into his shoulder. Bucky wrapped his arms around Sam and kissed his hair. “We’re gonna get through this, Sam. You’ve just gotta trust me to hold you up. And you’ve gotta trust me to be on your side. I’m not gonna say shit to make you follow the rules or whatever. I’m gonna say shit that helped me, rules be damned.”

“I miss him so much. It’s only been five days. How am I supposed to go seventy more years without him? I’ve called his number a hundred times already and no one ever picks up.”

Bucky rubbed Sam’s back and nodded. “I know, baby. C’mere.” He pulled Sam more into his lap. Sam clutched at his shirt with trembling fingers “I’m gonna be right here. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I feel so fucking alone.”

“You’re not, Sam. I’m right here. I’m with you.”

Sam pressed his face further against Bucky’s neck and Bucky felt his tears, cool and heartbreaking. He didn’t have words. He just kept rubbing his hands over Sam’s back, kissing his temple and his hair and saying, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.” Hoping Sam would hear him through his grief and believe it.

He held him for forty more floors and they cried together. The elevator continued ever upwards. They pushed forward ever onwards.

“I’m right here,” Bucky said as the doors opened on floor 92. Sam nodded against his shoulder and slowly stood up.

Upwards and onwards.

#sambucky #sambucky fanfic #sambucky fanfiction #sam wilson #bucky barnes #the falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon #winter soldier #captain america #writing #i answer things

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retrievablememories · 4 years

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a strange love | yuta (m)

title: a strange love pairing: alien!yuta x black!reader genre: sci-fi/fantasy, fluff, angst, smut request: “I read a good chunk of your NCT work and really liked them. Would I be able to request a fic where a black female reader meets an alien (can be Yuta or Jungwoo) and they're both coming to terms that they're attracted to each other and have to come to terms with being attracted to someone of a different species? Can be smutty and don't be afraid to give the alien a less human biology if you don't mind.” word count: 13.1k warnings: alcohol use, cursing, near drowning experience, lots of mentions of water so this one might not mesh well with people w/ aquaphobia, non-human biology/body horror, extraterrestrial sex, lots of cum, oral sex (female receiving), tentacle dick, unprotected sex, creampie, please heed the warnings because this is an alien smutfic lmao a/n: giving the shape of water teas. i’ve actually never seen that movie 😕 but i will at some point. forgive me in advance for the nerdy references in here.

It’s funny how things happen when you least expect it. You never would’ve thought you’d be sound asleep when your entire world changed.

The night the UFO crashes in your city, you’re awoken by the tremors of its landing. The vibrations feel akin to an earthquake, and they make picture frames and other trinkets fall off your shelves and hit the floor in a clatter of noise. You jump up from your pillow at the racket, your heart pounding. You glance at the things lying on your floor and quickly register that the room—your entire home—is trembling.

There’s not much you can do at this point but ride it out, so you huddle down in your covers and hope the roof doesn’t cave in on your head. To your knowledge, your particular area isn’t known for earthquakes, which makes all of this even stranger. What could be causing one now? Is the world finally ending?

Eventually, the tremors stop. By now, your shelves have been emptied of nearly all their contents, but you’re still alive, which you’re grateful for. You wait a few more minutes to see if the shakes will begin again, but they don’t, so you climb out from the warmth of your covers to clean up your floor.

Police and ambulance sirens start blaring through the city not long after you get out of bed. That’s nothing unusual; there are usually injuries and casualties with natural disasters like these, and you expect many poor souls will be needing rescue tonight. You sigh and look at your closed blinds, watching them be sporadically illuminated by the lights of the emergency vehicles rushing past.

Once you’ve cleaned up your room and gotten back in bed, you think about checking social media for what people have been saying about the quake. There’s no doubt that the city’s residents have taken to Twitter and Instagram to document it. However, your eyelids are already starting to droop, and you’d probably fall asleep in the middle of scrolling, so you decide to tuck in and wait until morning.

Waking up the next day almost seems like a normal Sunday until you look at your blinds again and are suddenly reminded of last night’s flashing lights. Right. The earthquake. Throwing the covers back, you stumble out of bed to turn on your TV. You flip through the channels until you find a news station for your local area. You go to open the blinds, keeping your ears open for reports on the earthquake.

“Last night, we experienced unprecedented seismic activity throughout the majority of the city, caused by what appears to be an unidentified flying object, otherwise known as a UFO—”

Huh?

You turn to the TV, thinking this must be some kind of ridiculous hoax. You get ready to reach for the remote, thinking you must have turned it to one of those parody news channels by accident, but you freeze at what you see. Video footage of the city center—or what used to be the city center—plays on the screen. In place of the large historical monument that used to stand there, there’s a huge...silver and black spaceship. Or at least you think it’s a ship. It apparently sustained major damage in the landing, and now it looks more like a hunk of melted metal. The area around it has been blasted clear in every direction. Instead of green grass and pavement, there’s nothing but dirt.

The area is blocked off with yellow tape, though hundreds of people have gathered at the location to check out the object and take pictures and videos of it.

“What the fuck…” you whisper to yourself.

“We’re currently unsure where this UFO originated from, though we can confirm that it is not affiliated with any aircraft fleets owned by the U.S. military. Researchers and scientists from top universities across the country are being called in to assist in identifying this craft…”

“There’s no just way,” you mutter, grabbing your shower cap and pulling clothes out of your closet for your morning shower. “A UFO...guess that alien invasion is coming sooner than we thought.” You would like to believe it’s all just someone playing a terrible prank, but pulling off this level of theatrics is impossible.

After you get out of the shower and start making breakfast for yourself, you get a text from one of your coworkers, Alex.

10:30 A.M. Alex🍸 You seeing this shit on the news right now?

10:31 A.M. Obviously! It’s fucking wild. Do you really think it’s true? OR some elaborate government hoax? Anything’s possible. I’m betting “true,” but...

10:33 A.M. Alex🍸 I honestly don’t know. that’s why me and some of the others from work are about to head over there now. Wanna come?

10:34 A.M. The hell! I’ll pass. There could be all types of radiation n shit, I’m not tryna turn into the Green Lantern or the Hulk or somebody.

10:35 A.M. Alex🍸 lmFAO. Suit ypurself. If I gain superpowers don’t be surprised if I fly over to your house today.

10:35 A.M. You’re a mess. 💀

You spend breakfast watching more news reports and scrolling through Twitter feeds for firsthand information. People who visited the site, including your coworkers, have uploaded pictures of the UFO from various angles, inciting a frenzy of conspiracy theories and warnings that the world is about to end.

You don’t know what to make of the situation, but it stays on your mind throughout the day as you leave the house and go about completing your usual errands. The city center has been blocked off to all vehicles other than those belonging to people who’ve been called in to help, which means that traffic is sky-high everywhere else—even for a Sunday.

Sitting in a mishmash of cars, you roll down your window and sigh, looking out at the red traffic lights, and beyond that to the horizon. Things are about to get very weird for the next few weeks. Maybe months. You can only hope you’re prepared for it.

You don’t know why, but the air seems strange tonight.

It’s been 2 days since the UFO crashed. There haven’t been many more answers apart from what everyone already knows due to the ship’s destroyed state. The city has professionals out for that sort of thing, but they’re taking their sweet time analyzing the ship—though you can’t really blame them. Jumping straight into unknown alien tech seems like a death wish.

Your life has been pretty much the same as usual, though you know a few people at work who have been more directly affected by the events. One girl, Sooyoung, who lives in the neighborhood near the crash site claims the officials are thinking about having that entire area evacuate, though you don’t know why they’re beating around the bush about it if it’s true. Whatever radiation or chemicals they’re worried about has probably already leached into all the surrounding homes, and now you’re just waiting for someone to walk into your workplace with antlers or purple skin.

Admittedly, you’re morbidly curious about the case and what all of this could mean for Earth’s future, but you keep your fascination lowkey. You don’t need any of your coworkers thinking you’re the next alien-obsessed Mulder from X-Files. But then again, you’re not curious enough to visit the actual scene, so maybe you’re not the crazy one here.

You feel fine when you get home from work that day, but as you get washed up and settle into your usual evening routine, you can’t shake the eeriness gripping your subconscious. It’s not necessarily a bad feeling, either, just...foreign. Like an emotion you’ve never felt before, though you didn’t know there were even still new emotions to discover. Shaking your head, you figure maybe you should lay off the alien stuff for the rest of the week.

Before you head to bed that night, you go around the house making sure all the doors and windows are locked as you normally do. You pause at the backdoor for a reason you can’t explain, and the strange feeling grows stronger. At this point, you’re a bit frightened about what this is all about, but you can’t go to sleep without knowing. Curiosity takes over as you open the blinds and stare into the darkness of your backyard.

You don’t see anything right away. There are trees, bushes, your potted plants, and lawn chairs...everything looks normal. It’s only when you lean closer to the glass to squint that you see a figure lying in the grass. You jump once you catch sight of it, terrified that some monster or murderer has found their way onto your property. There was nothing there earlier when you closed the blinds, so whoever or whatever it is must’ve recently showed up.

You’re about ready to dial 911 when you realize the figure is curled in the fetal position and unmoving...almost like they’re unconscious. Or dead.

This is ridiculous. You feel like one of those people who always dies first in the horror movies because they went into the room the killer was obviously hiding in, but you’re overcome with the strong impulse to step outside. You grip the doorknob tightly, debating whether you should unlock it or not.

“...Fuck. Don’t let me regret this.”

You open the door with your phone in hand, the device serving as your flashlight. There’s still the screen door to get through, which you pause at for a moment. The figure remains unmoving even with the sound of the door opening.

“Hello?!” You call out to the individual, but there’s no response. Your phone’s light can’t reach them from there, which forces you to open the screen door and step out onto the porch. They’re still feet away, but from this closer distance, it seems like they’re wearing a sort of armor or full-body suit...maybe like a cosplay?

“Hope this isn’t some weirdo weeb passed out on my lawn…” you mutter, cautiously stepping onto the grass. As you approach, you can see now that the figure is likely male, though their back is to you so you can’t be totally sure. “Um, hello there? Can you hear me?” No response.

By now, you are only a few feet away from them. The person looks to be an Asian guy, with long blonde hair haloing his face. His features are angular and smooth, and he is indeed wearing some kind of body armor, its color unlike anything you’ve seen. Instead of being all one hue or even a few, it reflects the light from your phone and glows with a rainbow-like phosphorescence. The material itself looks translucent, but you can’t see through it; it creates a mind-bending optical illusion.

Your stomach suddenly drops to your feet. Is this who was in that UFO in the city center? It seems too out-there to be true, but your intuition is telling you otherwise. This can’t be fucking real.

You kneel on the wet grass next to the man and try to look for signs of life. You can hear his breathing, so he’s thankfully not dead. But he doesn’t look to be in good shape, either. He definitely won’t be able to get up on his own; he probably used the last of his energy to drag himself into your yard.

“Damn.” You turn the flashlight off and slip your phone into your sweatpants pocket. It seems like there’s no other options right now. You could call the police, but they’d probably accuse you of being in cahoots with this weird dude and drag you off to jail. Or they could cart him off for government experimentation, which sounds equally terrible. So with those things in mind, you gently maneuver his upper body until you’re able to hook your arms under his armpits and drag him towards your house.

You just really hope none of your nosy neighbors are seeing this right now.

He’s surprisingly light, and you get him inside the house fairly quickly. Once you’ve locked the door again, you pull him over to the living room so he’s propped against your couch. He still isn’t fully conscious, but his head and lips move as if he’s dreaming about something.

“What was that…?” You lean closer, trying to read his lips for some sort of clue. Surprisingly, you can make out the word water, which he mouths over and over again. “Water…” You run into the kitchen to pour a glass and bring it back to him, making sure not to spill any on the way over.

You press it to his lips, unsure if he’ll be able to drink, but to your amazement his muscles respond and he drinks quickly as you tip the glass. Soon, the water is all gone. You set the glass to the side with your palms sweating and watch as his face flutters even more.

“Can you...hear me?”

His eyes open only slightly. This movement seems to cause him some pain, though you aren’t sure why. Maybe he has a headache since he was dehydrated? You scramble to turn the overhead light off, not wanting to make matters worse. He still doesn’t try to open his eyes any wider, though.

“Who are you? Were you...did you crash here?” You feel a little bad about asking so many questions, but you’re dying for answers as to what the hell is going on.

The man licks his lips, and his mouth parts like he’s going to answer. But his throat is still dry, and it hurts to talk.

“...Shit.” You get him another glass of water and let him drink until it’s gone again. He seems a little better after that.

“Th-this...” He clears his throat a couple times and tries again. “This is E-Earth, right?”

Now you’re the one lost for words. Although you already figured he couldn’t be from here, hearing it out loud makes your blood rush and your heart race. “Um, yes...this is Earth. Was...the UFO yours?”

He sighs, and his head falls back against the couch arm. “Yes.”

“It’s destroyed,” you say, and then feel silly about it. “But you already know that.”

He doesn’t answer that. He just slowly glances around your living room instead, looking as if he’s never seen a stranger setup. The quietness is awkward, and you almost feel like he must be judging your taste for interior design. “Do you have a name?”

More silence. You decide he probably won’t answer until he finally says, “You can call me Yuta.”

“Yuta.” You tell him your name too, and he just nods, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t say much without prompting, which makes it hard for you to know how to approach the situation. You don’t want to overwhelm him with questions, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to speak unless you do. “How did you end up here? I mean, in my—uh, my yard?”

Yuta shakes his head and then winces. “I crashed, and then...I just ran. The ship was melting. I just ran. I hid...I went from place to place, hiding. Don’t know how I got here.”

You wonder how he made it all the way from the city center to your home without being spotted, especially with that armor. You can only conclude that he must be stealth at hiding. Or maybe someone did spot him and the feds are about to bust down your door any minute. You take a shaky breath and try to push that anxious thought to the back of your mind.

Suddenly Yuta fixes you with a suspicious glare. “Will you reveal that I’m here?”

You try not to get offended, because you’d honestly be thinking the same if you were a newly-landed alien in a foreign land. “No. I don’t have any reason to do that. I just want to help. I’m not looking to be on anyone’s 6 o’clock news or cheap tabloid. You probably don’t believe me, but you can have my word for it...if that means anything to you.”

He’s quiet again, though you can tell he’s still skeptical.

“Um, do you need anything? More water?”

He sits up straighter at the mention of that. “Water.” You reach for the glass again, but he frowns. “Not that. I need…something more than that.” He looks around again, but when he doesn't see what he’s searching for, he attempts to stand only to slump down again.

“Slow down there, I don’t think you’re gonna make it like that. Can I help?”

You end up slinging his arm across your shoulder and letting him lean his body against you while you lead him to the bathroom. That’s the biggest source of water in the house, and you assume he must be wanting a bath or shower or something. Even aliens have their hygiene needs, you guess.

You turn the bathroom light on and have Yuta sit on the toilet lid as you turn the bathtub faucet. “Is...this what you meant?” He nods, and you put the plug in and let the tub fill up.

“Just water. Nothing else. I need to recharge,” he says, and before you can ask what he means by that, he starts undressing in front of you.

At first, your reaction is delayed; you’re struck with surprise when you realize the armor isn’t actually a whole bodysuit, but more like...connected panels of material that can be taken off. You don’t understand the material at all, it doesn’t resemble anything on Earth you can think of—but of course, it’s alien tech. It conforms to his body as he’s wearing it but takes on a more rigid form once it’s peeled off, like actual armor.

Then, he gets ready to take the bottoms off and something finally clicks in your brain that oh my God he’s about to get naked in front of me.

“Whoa!” You spin around and cover your eyes for good measure, glad that your brown skin hides the way your face is burning right now. You step towards the open door. “Uh, I’ll just leave, sorry—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Um, what?”

“Doesn’t really matter to me,” Yuta says, pulling the last of his suit off. He steps into the tub and sits down in it, putting his hands underneath the stream of water rushing out of the faucet. The skin on his hands seems to ripple, like it’s readjusting itself, and the hairs stand up on the back of your neck at that. You forget to be embarrassed at his unclothed state as you watch it happen.

“What’s going on with that? And why did you need the water?”

Yuta splashes his face before answering, and he turns to look at you, the droplets of water sliding off the ends of his hair. “I’m part of a Water Race. Water is my home. Our bodies have adapted to be built for living in water, and it’s dangerous to be without it for too long.”

“Adaptation? But you look like a regular human.”

“It’s just a skin.”

“A skin?” You echo in horror, a sudden flashback to Silence of the Lambs popping into your mind. “Someone else’s skin?”

Yuta gives you a look that seems to say he can’t believe you’re asking such a stupid question. “No, it’s my skin. It’s just not my natural form.” To prove his point, he holds his hand out, and right before your eyes his human skin pulls back and morphs into something much more scaly and green. His fingers are actually more like talons, with long black nails on the ends, and there’s translucent webbing between each one.

You gasp and step back, trying to catch your breath at the sight of something so very not human. The skin reforms around his hand—you assume he has to be willing it with his mind somehow, because he doesn’t even move—and his digits look just as human as ever.

“How the hell do you hide your nails under there? Isn’t it just like...wearing a bodysuit?”

Yuta shakes his head. “No. Once the skin is on, it becomes...part of me. My hand becomes a human hand. I’m not hiding anything, it just is. It’s hard to explain.”

“Have you been to Earth before? Is that why you have a human skin, because...adaptation or some shit? This is all so wild.”

“I can shift into different skins if I want, if I gather enough genetic information on certain species’ inhabitants...but there are limitations.” That doesn’t exactly answer your question, but you figure maybe it’s best if you didn’t know. You can at least assume he’s been in contact with humans before.

“I see…” You fidget for a few seconds before speaking what’s on your mind. “Okay, one last thing...you said there are limitations. Does that mean you can’t transform into, like...a dung beetle or something?”

Yuta gives you another are you serious look and you put your hands up. “Just wondering. It was worth a try.”

You feel awkward just standing there, and you feel like maybe you should give him some privacy even if he doesn’t care much, so you leave the bathroom to find something for him to wear.

You’re not sure if you’ll find anything that fits him, so you end up settling on a light pink bathrobe and decide he’ll have to work with that for now. You slip back into the bathroom to leave it on the sink, averting your eyes from his nude form in your bathtub. “Um, here’s something to wear...not sure if anything else will fit, this is all I have for now. Sorry.” You don’t wait for him to respond— he probably won’t anyway—before slipping back out.

It’s nearing 1 A.M. at this point, which is late considering you still have work tomorrow. You sigh and curl yourself up on the couch, hoping you won’t have to stay up for very much longer.

You’re not sure when you drifted off or how long you were out, but you wake up to the sound of footsteps and see Yuta coming out of the bathroom wearing the robe you’ve given him. You have to laugh a little at the sight of him in the light pink material, though you think it suits him in a way.

“Yeah, you’re gonna need some clothes.”

Yuta raises his eyebrow. “I still have my suit.”

“Yeah, but...don’t you want something else to wear? Your ship is pretty much gone, so you’ll probably be on Earth for a while...and if you don’t want anyone realizing you’re not from here, you’ll have to wear regular clothes.”

Yuta visibly upsets at the idea of his ship’s destroyed state, even though he knows there’s not much he can do about it. “I guess. I shared which planet I was heading to before I left, but...Earth is a very big place. And my trackers were destroyed with my ship, so…”

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know how much comfort that can be. “We can look for some clothes tomorrow. It’s probably better for you not to leave the house right now, but...that’s what online shopping is for.”

“Online shopping…?” Yuta seems puzzled by the concept, but he doesn’t ask any further. Then he looks around the room again. “Is there somewhere I can rest?”

“Oh, yeah, follow me.” You get up from the couch to head upstairs where the guest bedroom is. The house isn’t huge—it was your grandmother’s before she passed it on to you—but it’s more than enough for you alone, and it should fit one more just fine. You open the door and turn on the light, illuminating the small room. “It hasn’t been used in a while, so excuse any dust. I can fix that tomorrow, but it’s getting late...” you stifle a yawn, “...so we should probably go to sleep now.”

Yuta looks at you and nods.

“Um, well...goodnight.” You wave at him from the doorway before closing it.

As you make your way down the stairs, a sudden weariness and apprehension comes over you. An alien in your home? Escaped from a recently crashed UFO? Wearing one of your bathrobes? You’re almost positive you haven’t thought this through deeply enough, but you’re in it now. Might as well see where the rabbit hole leads to.

The next morning, you prepare yourself to go to work like you usually do. For a while, the house is so quiet that you almost forget Yuta is there until you see him standing in the kitchen entryway, still wearing his pink robe, and you almost jump through the ceiling.

“Jesus, you came out of nowhere,” you gasp, holding your heart.

“Where are you going?” Yuta asks. He steps into the kitchen and tentatively sits down in one of the dining table chairs.

“To work,” you say, and then pause. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to leave a freshly-landed alien at home alone. “Will you be okay here by yourself? I could come over on my lunch break…”

“What am I supposed to do here the whole time?” Yuta asks, sounding displeased at the thought of being abandoned for hours.

“Well...you could watch TV? There’s the on-demand channel...the fridge is available for you too, just try not to clean out my—wait, do you even eat human food?”

Yuta shrugs, crossing his arms. “Not really. It’s not a big source of nutrients for us.”

You nod awkwardly. “Huh. Well, that’s...interesting.” The stress of the situation is already making your head pound and you haven’t even left for work yet. “Uh, yeah—I think I’ll just come over later and check in...come on, I’ll at least show you how to work the remote before I leave.”

You bid Yuta goodbye once you’re about to go, though you feel more than a little hesitant about leaving him there. There isn’t much other choice, though; you can’t afford to take a day off on such short notice.

The extraterrestrial sighs, sprawling across the couch and looking at the ceiling. The TV is already playing the channel you left it on, and Yuta turns to the screen and watches as a group of humans make weird food dishes he’s never seen before.

“This is stupid.”

The rest of the week with Yuta manages to be an adventure even though he never steps foot outside the house.

Yuta doesn’t take a liking to human food, which means he opts for spending most of his time in the guest bathtub instead, claiming that the water gives him more nourishment than meals can. You don’t know how true that is, but you’re not going to fight him on it. Less food you have to prepare, you reason...although you often end up making extra anyway and getting him to try a few bites. It feels odd to not see him eat.

Living with someone from outer space is not really as weird as you expected it might be, which surprises you. Yuta stays in his human skin whenever he’s around you, and you steer clear of the guest bathroom when it’s occupied lest you walk in on something crazy.

You’ve taught Yuta about new concepts he didn’t know before or wasn’t overly familiar with. He’s particularly intrigued with online shopping, and you ended up buying him a bunch of outfits that you both thought he’d look nice in. He doesn’t seem to be big on technology, which surprises you considering how advanced his UFO looked even its ruined state, but maybe human tech is more primitive than what he’s used to. He’s quite fascinated with the microwave, though, and how it can heat anything up in minutes.

With you uncovering new bits of information each day, you continually wonder how different his homeworld must be from the Earth. You can’t pull much out of him about it, for whatever reasons he has for keeping the information close, but you try to let him talk about it at his pace without pressuring him.

You could probably get used to living like this.

Maybe not your wallet, though. You’re definitely not loving how your water bill is going to look once it comes in the mail.

None of your coworkers or neighbors know—not that it’s any of their business anyway. You don’t know how long Yuta is going to stay, or what the hell you’re going to do when his people finally catch wind of his whereabouts and land a UFO in your backyard, but you figure you’ll get to that part when it comes.

On one Saturday morning, you wake up to the sound of tapping on your door. You try to ignore it, thinking it’s just some woodpecker setting up shop outside your window, but you’re proven wrong when the door swings open.

You pull the covers away from your face for a moment to see Yuta standing there looking at you. You stare at him for a few seconds before sighing.

“Why are you up so early? It’s the weekend,” you groan, pulling the covers back over your head.

“Why do you sleep so late?” Yuta retorts, still standing in your doorway. You don’t know whether he expects you to get up and do a trick, but it’s not happening. You peel the blanket away so it’s just below your eyes and look at him.

“What?”

“It’s not fun being here alone all day, you know,” he says, crossing his arms.

“So...what? Do you want me to play with you or something?” You can’t stop your sudden laugh, but you feel bad about once it’s out. He has just lost his ride home and has no foreseeable way back until someone notices his absence. Plus, needing to stay hidden and cooped up like a criminal can’t be enjoyable.

Yuta rolls his eyes at your response and starts down the hallway again, but you jump out of the bed and follow him. “Wait, Yuta, I’m sorry. That was stupid. I know it can’t be easy living like this. I’m not sure if I can make it better, but I’m willing to try.”

Yuta pauses in the hall and turns back to look at you. “I’m tired of being in here all the time....no offense. But there’s only so much I can take. I know I’m supposed to be in hiding, but it’s not like anyone can tell the difference. Even you couldn’t. Can’t we go out for one day?”

You think about it for a moment and figure he’s right. You both were trying to be overly cautious at first, but there’s no real way anyone would notice anything unless he shifted. “I guess we could...as long as we don’t go anywhere with a lot of water.”

“I have more self-control than that,” Yuta scoffs, though his words trail off as he’s already heading back to his room to get dressed.

You and Yuta walk around downtown for a little while, although you can’t shake the lingering nervousness you feel. You both decided not to head back to the city center any time soon; there’s not much left of the broken ship anyway, with scientists carting off pieces of it for research. Just as you thought. It’s too big to transport all at once, but you’re sure the remaining parts will be gone within the next couple weeks.

Yuta is continually surprised by how many new and unfamiliar things he spots along the way—things he actually gets to see up close and in detail. Kinda hard to focus when you’re running and hiding for your life.

Eventually, Yuta slows down as you walk past a small and colorful restaurant. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing up at the sign. You stop to turn around and see what he’s gesturing to.

“That’s just a hamburger joint...you won’t wanna go in there,” you say, raising your eyebrows. Because you don’t eat food. Despite that, Yuta still seems curious about the restaurant and he hesitates to walk away. Realizing that you aren’t going to get anywhere, you go to stand next to him and peer inside. There are a few people already inside, sitting at scattered tables and eating their food. “Do you want to go in, or…? ‘Cause you have to eat something if we do. This is your idea.”

“I’ll eat, let’s just go,” Yuta says, grasping your hand and pulling you into the restaurant.

You wave at the person behind the counter who greets you as you walk in, while Yuta is busy scanning every inch of the place. You let him look over the menu for a little while, but with so many options available he isn’t sure what to get—especially when he’s not sure if he’ll like any of them—so you end up picking for the both of you.

When you finally get your food, you take it to one of the tables. You watch attentively as Yuta takes the first bite of his hamburger, and you try to stifle your giggles as you watch his face go from nonchalance to bewilderment to shock.

“This is actually...good.”

“Wait, this is really the first meal you’ve liked? Are you saying my cooking is bad? Damn.” You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I’m not answering that.” Yuta laughs along with you, which is probably the first genuinely happy expression he’s shown since he’s been here.

Yuta has a very pretty smile, you realize. You’re a little taken aback by it. You haven’t seen much of it since you met him, but it’s here now and striking in its genuine quality. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside...which you mainly attribute to the satisfaction of doing something nice for someone else. Of course. Who wouldn’t enjoy a nice meal they didn’t have to pay for?

Things go smoothly for a while as you both eat and pretend to make boring small talk since you can’t talk about him being an alien in public. However, you feel sweat on the back of your neck when you see your coworker Alex walk through the door with his boyfriend. This city is too small for its own good sometimes.

You try not to call attention to yourself and Yuta, keeping your gaze on your food, but he spots you anyway and waves enthusiastically. Alex gestures for his partner to go ahead and order while he comes over to your table.

“Hey, Y/N! It’s great to see you! Too bad we missed you at the UFO wreck today, though; we went out again one last time before they take the whole thing away,” he rushes out in one breath. Yuta’s eye twitches at the mention of his ship, and you’re suddenly on edge, hoping the situation doesn’t turn sour.

“Oh, uh, wow, that’s...cool!” you choke out, pinching your straw between your fingers. Before you can think of a way to divert the subject, Alex turns to Yuta.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Alex! Who’s this? Your boyfriend?” The last few words are directed at you. Alex gives you a playful grin, and you toss him an embarrassed smile back.

“Uh, no, he’s my friend! Yuta.”

“Nice to meet you,” Yuta says, though you can recognize his tone is a bit dry.

“Pleasure’s all mine!” Alex’s boyfriend calls him from the other side of the restaurant, and he turns to respond before taking his leave. “Ah well, looks like we’ll have to cut it short, but it was so great to see you guys. Enjoy your lunch!”

You let out the breath you were subconsciously holding once he leaves.

“Boyfriend…” Yuta murmurs.

“What?”

“That would be really weird. Wouldn’t it? We’re not even the same species,” he says, lowering his voice. It’s not like you don’t agree, but you admittedly don’t appreciate the way Yuta screws his face up at the thought. You prickle with embarrassment.

You scoff, taking a sip of your drink. “Well I’m not exactly eager to date an overgrown fish, so…” You almost expect Yuta to fall into another one of his moods at your words, but he actually chuckles a bit, which surprises you.

“Then it’s mutual!” Yuta sticks his tongue out and you roll your eyes.

The warm and fuzzy feeling, you soon find out, is not a one-time thing.

You don’t quite know what to make of that. You wouldn’t like for Yuta to go back to his initial broody state, of course, but you’re starting to believe this feeling can’t just be attributed to your charitable actions. You can’t stop thinking about the more playful side of Yuta you saw at the burger place that day, and the way he’s been gradually more open with you since then.

Yuta usually spends his nights splashing around in the guest bathtub, but one night he wanders into the living room and sees you putting your afro in plaits. He becomes weirdly fascinated with the process, watching you carefully and asking occasional questions. Amused by his interest, you answer all his questions and even offer to let him do one section.

“It’s probably not the same, but I used to braid my friend’s hair often…” he says wistfully as he settles in behind you. “We did a lot of things together.”

Your ears perk up. “Oh? You sound like you were very close,” you say, resting your chin on your knees.

“Really close,” he affirms. His hands are gentle in your hair, as testament to his words. You close your eyes and relax into the sensation, and before you know it, that warmth is spreading through your chest again. You even allow yourself to wonder what it’d be like for him to do this all the time, tending to your hair and telling you about his homeworld, before you open your eyes again and quickly pull yourself out of that reverie. You probably shouldn’t get too used to this, you reason with yourself. “I think she’s what you’d call a mermaid...except the look is a bit...different.”

“Different?” you echo, wondering if you’ll get an explanation.

“They don’t have human arms or anything like that...it’s more like tentacles.”

“Ah,” you try to imagine that, though it’s hard. “That’s certainly unique.”

“Maybe you’d like it...my planet, I mean.”

“You think I would? Why?”

“I dunno, just a feeling…”

“If only I could breathe underwater,” you laugh. “You’d take me back, though? Hypothetically, of course. I’m not too human for you?”

“Will you ever let that one go? It’s probably the least I could do after setting up residence here. Maybe we’ll get you an alien costume, though, so you’ll fit in.”

“How nice of you to think of me in all my humanness. God, the universe is something else…”

You start when Yuta’s hands leave your hair. “I think I’m done?” he says, sitting back on his feet. You grab the mirror from the coffee table and look at the braid you let him do.

“Oh wow, it looks good.” You purse your lips to hide the grin about to break across your face. “Do you wanna do the rest?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“Go ahead then, my hands needed a break anyway.”

You sit back and let Yuta finish the rest of your hair, listening quietly as he tells you more about his friend from his homeworld. Her name is unpronounceable to you, but it sounds pretty all the same. They grew up together, he says, and have been on lots of adventures over the years, though he still keeps that same vagueness he always has when describing his life. He ends up getting you to tell him more about your life, which you do; you figure he probably doesn’t know a whole lot about you, either.

Yuta hands you the mirror when he’s done, and his head pops up next to yours in the reflection. “Good?”

“It’s great!” you say, and you really mean it.

You discover that, strangely enough, Yuta has an affinity for sci-fi movies. Go figure. He especially seems to like the campiness of alien films; then again, everything is campy to him because of how different it is from how extraterrestrials actually live.

You are in the middle of watching The Fly when it comes to one of sex scenes, and you try not to sweat. It’s always a little awkward to watch sex scenes with other people, but doing it with an alien gives the whole thing an extra layer of weirdness.

“Human sex is so funny,” Yuta says out of nowhere. You just barely avoid choking on your drink.

“Uh, o-okay. Do I want to know what that means?”

Yuta only shrugs and leans farther back onto the couch, looking completely unbothered about what he’s just said. “It just is.”

“...I’m sure your people must procreate some kinda way?”

“Yeah, but it’s not quite this. But when I’m in this form, I can do it as humans do.”

That makes you pause, and you’re not sure what to do with that information. Actually, your mind has already decided for itself and is trying to go to a place you don’t want it to, and you’re mildly horrified by that revelation. There’s no real reason why you should be curious about it. And yet...

“Hummm...have you done it before? In this form?” You keep your eyes glued to the screen, which is now showing a shirtless Jeff Goldblum doing acrobatics—but that’s still less awkward than looking over at Yuta right now.

“There was one time.”

There is a twinge of something in your chest. Fascination? Sure. Revulsion? Maybe not that. Dare you call it anything close to jealousy? You immediately throw that one out the door, sink further into your seat, and try not to think about what your life has come to.

“Okay, since you still won’t tell me directly if you’ve been here before, at least tell me this; did it happen here on Earth? With a human?”

Yuta shakes his head. “Some other aliens have weird fetishes. I only did it because she asked and was really adamant about it.”

“Ooookay, you know what…” You get up from the couch and walk to the kitchen, laughing awkwardly all the way. You don’t have any particular reason to go in there, but you have to do something with the nervous energy that’s about to make you jump out of your skin. You pretend to shuffle around in the fridge for a minute so you don’t look too silly getting up for no reason.

After taking a moment to calm down, you turn back to Yuta. “Okay. Hypothetically, if you wanted, could you actually…? With a human? In your natural form? Or would the parts be incompatible, or...”

“Maybe...I’m not sure. It’s not like I’ve ever tried. Why?” Yuta gives you a look that’s partway between curiosity and incredulity, and you wave your hand in dismissal.

“It’s just a question.”

Yuta leans forward on the couch, barely concealing his own amusement at whatever he’s cooking up in his mind. “Are you saying you want to try it with me?”

“You’re not funny,” you sigh, trying to ignore the way your skin is burning at that suggestion. “Remind me not to ask you anything like that again.”

When you get home from work one weeknight, you roll your eyes at the mass text sitting in your inbox, forwarded to you from Alex. Another after-work party, which means another event where someone will run through the sprinklers naked and everyone will pretend like they don’t remember it the next workday.

You don’t know how you’re going to get out of this one, especially with Yuta, who will likely want to go if he finds out, so you decide to just come out and say it and see what happens.

“Hey Yuta…” You slide up behind him where he’s sitting on the couch. “I just wanted to let you know I won’t be at home for a few hours on Saturday. I’m going to a party this weekend. It’s a friend’s party, someone from work.”

Yuta looks at you forlornly. “The same person we met at the restaurant?”

“No, but he’s gonna be there too. Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I really don’t know if it’s safe for you to go…”

“That’s not fair, the last time at the restaurant went well,” Yuta argues.

“Yes, but this guy has a pool and he’s a dickhead who likes to push people in and what if you get caught off guard and change unexpectedly?”

Yuta’s response is as straightforward as you expected it to be. “Then I’ll punch him in the face.”

You laugh at that and shake your head, coming to sit beside him on the couch. “Ugh. As satisfying as that sounds, I don’t need the extra stress of dealing with the aftermath. I don’t know, Yuta...do you think you’ll be okay? God, I feel like an overprotective mom or some shit.”

“Y/N, it’ll be fine, stop worrying. I can take care of myself,” Yuta insists, putting his hand on your shoulder and looking into your eyes. He’s a little closer than you anticipated, which makes your heart rate increase a little. You chalk that reaction up to his invasion of your personal space and shift away, groaning.

“Fine, I’ll bring you. But if shit goes down, I can’t promise an easy way out. Let’s just keep things lowkey, alright?”

“Of course I can do that! I’ve been doing it so far haven’t I?” he says, but somehow you’re not entirely convinced.

The party is filled with people you know from work and a slew of unfamiliar faces, probably your coworkers’ friends. It’s mostly a backyard party, like you already knew, although there are some people mingling within the house.

There are already a few people lounging in the pool. In any other scenario, it might be inviting to you, but now you just look at all that water with a looming sense of anxiety. Yuta sticks close to your side, saying nothing but studying everyone around him.

“Y/N!” your coworker David shouts from the backdoor of his house. He holds up his beer in salutation and you wave back at him, mildly annoyed that he’s brought everyone’s attention to you both. He hustles over to you and claps you on the back strong enough to make your bones rattle, and you wince. “Hey dude!” He reaches across you to pull Yuta into a handshake, and Yuta also winces when he grips his hand a little too tight. “Make yourselves at home, I’ve got everything you could ever need—including the booze and babes!” You both nod awkwardly before David goes off to greet someone else who’s just pulled up. You roll your eyes once he’s gone.

Yuta’s eyebrows draw together. “That was…”

“Annoying,” you finish for him.

“You don’t seem to like him. Why did you decide to come?”

“Workplace politics, if you’re the only one who doesn’t come it’s awkward, ugh. It’s just bullshit. Let’s not get into it.” You walk towards the house and Yuta follows, and you nod at a few people you know along the way.

You find Alex in the kitchen, where he offers to make drinks for you and Yuta. You cast a glance at Yuta, wondering if he’ll take up the offer; you have no idea how he’ll react to alcohol, or if they drink any equivalent of it on his homeworld.

“Um, I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh okay, straight-edge guy! That’s cool too,” Alex grins, making just the one drink for you. As you and Alex talk, the girl from your department whose neighborhood was about to be evacuated sidles up to your little group.

“I’ve never seen you before. What’s your name?”

“Oh...it’s Yuta.”

“Yuta? How cool, I’m Sooyoung.”

Little did you know that that one introduction would expand into them having a half-hour long conversation right there in the kitchen. You really don’t know how Yuta is pulling this off without spilling the beans, but then again, you do; he’s good enough at manipulating the conversation to make it seem like he’s sharing personal info when he’s really not. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that he throws in things you taught him every so often.

Alex notices your changing demeanor and follows you as you walk into the living room, finally exhausted with playing third wheel. “Hm, someone seems a little spicy.”

You cough. “I’m fine, it’s just cramped in there, David should really invest in a bigger house..this place could use a remodel.” You throw a glance around the living room, not wanting to see the mischievous look in Alex’s eyes.

“Well, remodel aside, it’s not really my business, but you certainly seem to have a little green monster brewing here.”

You give Alex a long look. “Don’t. He’s my friend. He’s not even—” You have to stop yourself before you expose anything, and you shift nervously on your feet.

“Not even what? Your type? I don’t know, he’s handsome enough to me. You can’t go wrong with a pretty boy. Don’t tell Xavier I said that, though.”

“Lord, let me get the hell out of here…” You leave Alex to cackle to himself while you go out into the backyard again, holding your drink and mulling around the edges of the activity. Too busy wrestling with your own emotions, you don’t realize how close you’ve drifted towards the pool.

“Hey, Y/N?” David says from behind you.

“Yeah?” You go to turn towards him, but before you can, you feel a huge shove from behind and the next thing you know your feet are off the ground and you’re in the pool. It all happens so fast that you can barely catch your bearings, and for a terrifying moment you’re convinced you’re about to drown.

The seconds feel like minutes, and you can’t even open your eyes to tell up from down. The next thing you register is an arm around your waist, and somehow you’re being pulled up even though you’re too panicked to even control your limbs. Your head pops above the water and you cough and sputter loudly, trying to take in air. You try to blink the water out of your eyes, though it drips off your hair and makes it even harder to see.

You’re still not sure what the hell is going on until you’re hauled out of the water and sitting on the ground. Someone hands you a towel, and you hear a female voice saying you’re such an asshole, David.

You wipe the water off of your face and then you’re finally able to see; Yuta is crouching in front of you, just as soaked as you are and staring at you with a worried expression. You look back at him, disoriented and a little dumbfounded at his still-human state.

“You didn’t…”

Even though you’re still trembling with the fear of almost drowning, you’re unable to look anywhere but at Yuta for that moment—at the pure concern on his face.

“Nice going, David,” someone else says sarcastically.

“It was just a bit of a prank! No hard feelings guys, come on. Y/N?” You realize David is standing on your left, and he tries to come closer, his hands open in an apologetic gesture. You jerk away from him, holding the towel to your shaking form.

“Get the fuck away from me. You’re a fucking idiot!” you shout. “All you do is ‘play pranks’ and then you wonder why no one likes you!” That draws a few barely concealed laughs out of the people standing nearby, though you don’t think any of it is funny. David steps back, unsure how to respond and looking truly embarrassed for once in his life.

Filled with anger, you try to get to your feet but you’re still unsteady. Yuta puts his arm around you again, lifting you up and encouraging you to lean your weight on him.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

You don’t have much to say on the way back home. You insist on leaving right away even though Yuta suggests you sit and wait until the tremors subside. He obviously can’t drive you back home, so it’s all he can offer, though it doesn’t make you feel much better.

The silence itself isn’t particularly awkward to Yuta, but he is uncomfortable anyway because he knows it stems from your own discomfort. At a red light, he turns to you.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, and then he speaks again. “I know you’re mad about the pool, but...it seems like there’s more than that. Did...you not like me spending so much time with Sooyoung?”

You scoff. “You can’t be serious. I don’t care what you and that girl do.”

“You’re not a very good liar.” You’re too worn out to argue, so you merely give him a sidelong glance. Yuta sits back in his seat and watches a few cars zip past, their tail lights looking like clashing stars against the night. He’s not used to so much...manmade stuff. There was his ship and his trackers, of course, but he still has a hard time adjusting to be surrounded by so much iron and steel. His own planet is ruled by nature, by the vast oceans in all their unpolluted original essence, but Earth—or at least this portion of it—is much, much different.

He means to glance back at you, but his eyes linger for a while longer than intended. He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because your outfit is a pretty color, or because the coils of your hair look shiny reflecting the light. He’s never put much thought into human beings before, and his limited experiences with them were mostly better left unremembered. Taking a human form was no huge deal for him; just a move that was necessary at the time.

But now, he’s seeing humanity—and most specifically, you—in a different light, and he’s uncertain what to do with this realization. People have feelings, thoughts, and dreams, like his own species, or like any other. He’s beginning to care what you think of him, how you react to him, even though he doesn’t know why this matters.

“You look pretty,” Yuta says. The compliment is the last thing you expected from him. It seems especially random after what happened at the party; here you are, soaking wet and incredibly uncomfortable. You’re a little late to put your foot on the gas pedal once the light turns green, and someone behind you honks.

“Pretty? I thought humans were weird to you.” Your mind goes back to The Fly and the subsequent conversation you had, and your hands tighten minutely around the steering wheel.

“You are. That hasn’t changed.”

“Good to know.” You don’t want to laugh, but this does make you crack a smile. “But...thanks. And...thanks for that, at the pool, you know. I should...probably trust you more.”

The rest of the ride is a little more talkative after that, and Yuta is happy that he could lighten your mood if even a little bit. Although he wouldn’t tell you, he’s becoming accustomed to your smile, and he’s more displeased than he thought he could be when it’s absent.

The thunder booms so loudly that it makes your window frames shake. It almost reminds you of the day Yuta’s ship fell out of the sky. You pull the covers tighter around yourself as if they alone could protect you from the storm’s fierceness. Storm clouds have been brewing all day, but the skies didn’t open until you and Yuta went to bed. Now, the rain and lightning is in full force. The rain pounds against your window, sounding more like hail or even bullets.

You’re startled for a second time when there’s a knock on your bedroom door.

“Come in?”

The door opens slightly and Yuta appears in the small sliver of space. “Sorry, but...can I sleep here? The storm...” He gestures to the window, where a crack of lightning strikes right after. He’s wearing a sleep shirt and loose pants, and his blonde hair is disheveled.

“Uh, sure.” You shuffle over to make room for him. “I guess this isn’t your type of water, is it?” He huddles underneath the covers with you, facing you with his arm tucked under the unoccupied pillow.

“Not when it’s so intense like this.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “It’s scary. Does rainy weather make you think of your homeworld often?”

“Often,” he repeats. “But...I think I’d be worse off if I weren’t here.”

“Here...on Earth?”

“I mean, here with you.”

“Oh,” is all you can think to say. It’s a surprisingly personal confession, though you are grateful you’ve become someone so important in his life already, even if it’s only because you’ve given him shelter. That familiar warmth spreads through you again.

Warm and fuzzies = gratefulness to a friend, the feeling you get when you pet a cute puppy. Right. It’s not the sensation you get when you think you might have feelings for your extraterrestrial friend, you try to convince yourself. “I’m...glad you’re here. Maybe not under these circumstances, but still.”

Yuta nods without speaking, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from you. You think he must be waiting on you to say something else.

“What?” you ask quietly when he keeps staring at you. “Take a picture, it will last longer.” Your joke does little to clear the air, and the tension keeps rising. You should probably be the first one to look away, to end whatever weird game this is and go to sleep, but you can’t. It’s unexplainable.

Yuta props himself up on his elbow, and you’re about to ask him where he’s going when he slips his hand onto your bare shoulder. You’re already covered by the blankets, but you suddenly feel even hotter with his hand on you, sliding up from your shoulder to the side of your face. “Y-Yuta…?”

You don’t know what to say or do, but you don’t object when he leans closer. Your faces are only inches apart now, like he’s hesitating and wondering if he should cross the line. The thunderstorm is intense, but this moment feels much more suspenseful than that could ever be. And then, it’s suddenly satisfying when his lips are on yours.

The kiss starts gentle. He’s careful as if he’s afraid to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable. It’s soft and sweet. Things get more heated when his tongue prods against your lower lip and enters your mouth. You don’t know when his hand made it from your face to your side, but he pulls you close with his fingers pressing into the flesh just below your breasts, and you tremble at the proximity.

When you pull away, both of you are breathing harder and unable to look each other in the eye.

“Should we be doing this?” you whisper.

Yuta shakes his head. “I don’t know. But it feels good.”

At those words, you pause for a moment before moving to kiss him again. His lips respond deftly to yours, his body crowding you in and making you feel hot and enraptured with desire from where you still lie under the covers.

His hair is very soft when you slide your hands through it, though you can’t push away the thought that suddenly manifests in the back of your mind. This isn’t really his hair, or his lips, is it? It’s all a mask to cover whatever is underneath, which is something you still don’t entirely know, yet are increasingly curious about.

Yuta’s hand drifts up just high enough to caress the underside of your breast—all still over the cover of your clothes. Abruptly, that thought forces its way to the front of your mind, making itself unavoidable, and you have no idea how to reconcile it. This is all so...very unfamiliar. And undeniably scary.

You pull away from him, your face creased with conflict, and his hand stills on your body. “S-sorry, I…um...this is...”

Subsequently, he pulls his hand away from you, though some part of you doesn’t really want that to happen. “I-it’s fine.”

You both settle back into the sheets, the tense aura from before replaced with one that’s thick with unease. The storm continues on outside, unknowing and uncaring of anything else but its own nature.

Though you would like to pretend it isn’t so, things become strained after the night of the storm.

You and Yuta don’t talk about the kiss. You expected him to say something about it that morning after, but he didn’t acknowledge it, and so you figured you just forget about it, too. What are you thinking, anyway? You’re literally from two different worlds. You don’t have the first clue about what a connection would look like between you, whether it be just sex or a relationship.

Why couldn’t you just fall for a coworker and have a bit of office drama like everyone else? Even that would be simpler.

Why did you have to let your thoughts get the best of you? You don’t have any answer for that, except for maybe your own need to come to terms with your attraction. People have never been very skilled at accepting others different from themselves, you know that much. But that usually counts for people of different ethnicities or cultural backgrounds, not two entirely different species.

You spend the whole week afterwards tearing your mind up with this monologue and trying to figure out what you should do next, because you’re quickly growing weary of coming home to a tense atmosphere. Alex can only give so much advice—not that you’d really tell him the entire situation—without knowing just how complicated everything is.

Where he used to hang out with you and help you with your hair, Yuta spends more time up in the guest bathroom again. You wonder if he thinks you’re disgusted by him. You’d probably think the same if he reacted the way you did.

Unbeknownst to you, Yuta is facing the situation with a similar amount of inner turmoil as you, wondering if he’s gone too far. He’s done many silly things in his life, but he doesn’t know how to undo this mistake. The mistake of kissing you? The mistake of seeing you as more than just another human? The mistake of knowingly flying in a faulty ship? Maybe all of it.

He feels guilty about freezing you out and pretending as if nothing happened, especially with all you’ve done to make him safe and comfortable in your home. But, at the same time, he is equally frightened to face you and discover the real reasoning for why you pulled away that night. Because you’ll never see him as someone you could like? Or maybe even love?

If that’s your truth, he’d rather leave it unsaid.

There aren’t many choices left but to face it. Whether this idea is smart or not is yet to be seen, but you suppose you don’t have many solutions left. And you are sick of being cooped up in the house.

“You sure this is safe?” Yuta asks as he stares at the scenery whizzing past. “You were all freaked out about me being near water before...now you want to go to a lake?”

You glance over at him. “Yes, it’s my parents’ lake property. It’s private, Yuta. No one will be there but us. I think we could both use a mini vacation this weekend, yeah?”

“I guess, sure.” Yuta shrugs. His demeanor is more closed off than it was before that dreaded kiss, but you can still tell that he’s interested in the idea of getting access to a bigger body of water, even if he doesn’t outwardly express it.

The lake house is two hours out of your city. It hasn’t been used much in the past few years with both you and your parents being busy with work and life, but if there was ever a good time to use it, it’s probably now. You just hope there aren’t any squatters of the furry variety; the last thing you need is to be fighting raccoons or squirrels after stepping through the door.

Luckily, there’s really no one but you two once you reach your destination. The lake is big and pretty like you last remembered it, sparkling under the sun and throwing the rays back in your eyes. Yuta is automatically captivated by it.

“Here it is!” you say, walking along the sand and spreading your arms out towards the body of water. “It might not be much compared to your homeworld, but I hope it’s enough.” You carry your bag up the stairs to the house and turn back to Yuta, who’s still standing by the shore gazing across the water. “You can go in, you know? Get comfortable!”

That seems to snap him out of his trance, and he turns back to you, following you up the steps. “Not right now...I’ll go later.” You’re a little disappointed at that, but you simply nod and open the door to go in.

You spend the day getting increasingly more restless as you and Yuta hang out together. You go on the pier, walk around the entirety of the lake, and even take your dad’s boat out on the water, but he still doesn’t get in.

You eat dinner together later that night, although you’re the one doing most of the eating, and there isn’t much conversation to be had. You’ve both run out of things to say that don’t center around the kiss or why he refuses to get in the water.

Yuta spends a few more moments watching you push your food around your plate before leaning forward. “Why did you bring me here?” he asks.

You sigh heavily. “Do you not like it?”

“No, I do, but…” he hesitates. “Can you answer my question first?

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, well. I brought you here because...I don’t know. I figure you deserve to have somewhere bigger to swim around in than my guest bathtub.” You laugh nervously.

He seems unconvinced. “Is that it?”

“I’d say so! Why won’t you even take one swim, is the better question? I want you to relax and be yourself.”

He furrows his eyebrows as if he doesn’t know how to reply. “You...aren’t you...repulsed by it? I just figured you wouldn’t want to see me in my natural form. Especially since…” He trails off at the end, and your palms sweat a little.

“No! I know I was weirded out at first, but...I-I guess that was the point of this whole trip, to show you that…” You grapple with your words for a moment, unsure if now is the time to fully confess what you’re feeling. “Look, I want to try, alright? I want to see it at least once. I want to accept you as a whole being, and that means, you know...all of you.”

Yuta smiles gradually at that, and you feel swept up with a sudden wave of affection you weren’t expecting. You are still a bit scared, but you don’t want to turn back now. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you reply, clasping your shaking hands together.

Yuta nods and stands up from the dining table, gesturing for you to follow him. It’s late now, with the moon shining brightly and the last vestiges of dark blue sky giving way to black. The air outside is cool, but not uncomfortably so. You follow Yuta to the pier and watch timidly, your stomach flip-flopping, as he sheds his clothes, leaving them on the wooden deck. Then he slips into the water, disappearing underneath its still surface.

You crouch down, looking intently at the rippling water and anticipating whoever is going to resurface. The sounds of croaking frogs and crickets press in from every side, ringing in your ears so loudly that it’s hard to think straight.

You gasp when Yuta lifts from the water, his human skin gone and completely transformed into something that’s more...amphibian, if that’s any accurate way to describe his appearance. His skin is still scaly and green like you saw that first day, but in the moonlight it seems to glitter and reflect a spectrum of colors like his armor did. There are two fins on the either side of his face, translucent and shining a pale green. They slowly move back and forth as he treads on the water, as if they’re conveying an emotion to match whatever he’s thinking, and you watch them in fascination.

Yuta floats on his back in the water, the long gills on either of his sides catching the moonlight. You watch in fascination as they move with his breaths. Using the pier post to keep yourself stable, you reach out to touch them. They’re slick under your fingers, but not in a slimy or gross way. Your hand drifts to the rest of his skin, across his torso and along his sides, and every portion has a strikingly smooth texture. His alien eyes stare at you silently as you do, glittering big in the moonlight.

“What do you think?” his voice is quieter than you expected, as if he’s afraid of your reaction. He doesn’t break his gaze, though, studying your face carefully.

“You’re...amazing,” you say breathlessly. “Incredible.”

His lips, which are green like the rest of him, form a small smile, and then he dives underneath the water. He does a few laps as if he means to impress you, his lithe marine form sparkling just below the surface of the water. You keep your hand suspended over the pier as you watch him, your fingers sliding against his body every time he passes by. You smile at his display, a laugh coming out of you at his impromptu performance.

When he’s finished, Yuta climbs up onto the pier with you and kneels in front of you, much like he did that day he saved you from David’s swimming pool. His feet are webbed like his hands. Droplets of water slide off of them onto the wooden boardwalk while others linger on the clear webbing like tiny jewels. Your hand is magnetized to his face, drawing across the scaly skin and tracing over his lips, which are just as smooth as the rest of him.

Before you can think twice about it, you lean forward and capture his lips with yours. Did you expect it to be fishy? Maybe. But it’s not that at all. He still manages to taste distinctly like Yuta, even though you’re not sure what that taste is. It’s a flavor that makes you feel...held. Yuta is surprised for a moment, but he responds to your kiss, one of his webbed hands inching close to your face. He doesn’t touch you at first, a little reluctant and yet wanting to let you lead the pace so he doesn’t scare you off.

You welcome his touch, carefully brushing your fingertips across his hand and bringing it to make contact with your skin. His own skin is still a bit cold from the water’s temperature, but it doesn’t bother you much.

The kiss soon grows more intense, and a mounting desire makes itself known in you. You won’t pretend like you’re 100% confident about all of this, but you don’t want to shun it anymore, either.

Yuta’s hand drifts to your neck, his long nails pressing into your skin ever so slightly. You dare to explore his body more, sliding your hands across his chest and over his side gills, feeling the way they contract under your hands, and farther down still. You haven’t looked down there yet, and you’re nervous over what you’ll find. But you keep going until your fingers meet something slick and hot and throbbing, seeming vaguely like a regular penis, though you quickly realize it’s more of a tentacle.

Yuta shudders and draws away from the kiss, and you feel alarmed, wondering if you’ve gone too far without thinking.

“If we’re going to do this, I should...probably shift back—”

“Don’t,” you blurt out. Yuta looks at you questioningly. “I...you should if it makes you comfortable. But...I don’t mind.” He’s quiet for a few seconds—seconds that feel much longer than they really are. You’re apprehensive of what he’ll say, but you keep your eyes on his face.

“Okay,” he agrees. “If you’ll accept me like this...okay.”

Neither of you bother with moving to somewhere more comfortable like the lake house or even the sandy shore. Instead, Yuta peels your clothes away right there on the pier, covering every new bit of flesh with his strange and lovely mouth, his head fins ghosting across your collarbones and breasts like moths’ wings.

You tremble and grow wetter under his soft caresses, which are much gentler than you’d initially expect with his sharp black nails. His hands leave streaks of water across your body, which cools your burning hot skin.

Yuta carefully maneuvers your lower body at the same time as he bends his graceful head, bringing your sex close to his mouth and licking deeply into you. Your back presses hard against the pier, the wood scratching your skin as you cry out into the night air.

“Oh God, Yuta!” You soon realize that his tongue is much longer than any human one, and it reaches to a spot deep inside of you that makes you twist around in his grasp, your fingernails scrambling for purchase on the surface below you. He uses his tongue to pleasure that spot continuously, drawing moans and ever more wetness out of you as if he were controlling the waves in the ocean.

You find yourself coming apart on his extraordinarily long tongue, your legs shaking and then going limp with the pleasure flooding through your body. Your breaths come fast and hard. Yuta lifts his head from between your legs and pulls you carefully into his lap so his slick tentacle is pressing against you. It’s not hard like a dick would be, though it is clearly responsive to your body, and you momentarily wonder if it can even go inside you.

“Is this gonna work?” you ask, a tremor in your voice.

“It will work,” Yuta replies, and you’re not sure how, but you decide to trust him on it.

It does, to your surprise. With your legs crossed tightly over his lower back, Yuta presses into you, wet and warm and very unexpectedly soft. It doesn’t feel like anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s not a bad sensation, though—far from it. His tentacle is similar to his tongue in how it flexes and throbs inside you, pressing tight against that spot again and making you shiver in his arms.

You both quickly find a rhythm that works, your bodies moving together in an otherworldly combination of two beings, two species, two souls.

Yuta’s long nails scrape gently against your skin as he holds your back, guiding you on his sex and pushing his hips up into you. You sigh into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, feeling the cool scales underneath your lips. You seek a firm grip on his slick skin, bringing your body as close to his as possible.

“Yuta…” You moan his name. His hand slides to the back of your neck so he can bring your face to his again, kissing you deeply. There’s a wet squelching sound as your bodies connect, Yuta’s tentacle slipping in and out of you and pleasurably stroking your walls.

“Y/N…” Yuta whispers into your soft hair, pushing into your spot repeatedly, his thighs tensing under you as his pace increases. You grip his arms as you feel your orgasm swelling up in your abdomen. You tip your head back and Yuta’s mouth goes to your neck and farther down, his heavy breaths warming your skin and making you overheat from the inside out.

You tighten and cum around him, your voice stuttering out of you in broken gasps as he keeps thrusting into you, drawing your climax out. He pulses inside of you, which sends little shockwaves up your spine; you know he’s probably close, too.

When Yuta comes, there’s a lot more of it than you expected. His cum overflows and drips out of you with a consistency like syrup and a transparent color like precum. It makes the inside of your thighs sticky and shiny.

Yuta pulls out, and more of his cum spills out of you, leaking onto his lap and staining the pier underneath you.

“That’s not gonna get me pregnant, is it?” you say quietly, half-jokingly.

“Probably not,” Yuta chuckles.

“Probably!?”

Yuta carefully gathers you in his arms and stands to his feet, walking you off the pier and back towards the lake house. Your clothes are still on the pier, but you’re quickly getting sleepy and aren’t very worried about it; you’ll get them in the morning.

“What happens now?” Yuta murmurs as he walks up the front steps. You already know he’s referring not just to your relationship in this present moment, but to every event that will make up your future. Does he need to continue hiding, or is it really safe? How long will this last?

You close your eyes, resting your head against his chest. “We stay together.”

Yuta’s arms tighten around you as a silent affirmation of your words.

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infini-tree · 3 years

Text

FANFIC: against all odds - part 2

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Summary: One time they dwell on the thought of being caught, and the one time they were. It all works out, kind of. (Piqua Mystery Dungeon)

A/N: ‘i make no promises,’ i say, immediately writing the third fic for this au in one week? have I ever mentioned that the first thing I made fancontent of was the first pmd game?

Also, this really is just an opportunity to practice writing more scenes with the boys and figure out their tone.

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George recalled a time when his dad called him precocious.

What does that mean, he remembered saying.

It means that you’re very smart for your age, his dad replied with a grin. You already get basic type matchups and dungeon theory better than most groups your mom’s mentoring in the guild she’s workin’ with!

The snivy had let out a laugh at the mental image of himself trouncing a bunch of grown-ups. Whoa, really?

Swear on the Lake Trio’s jewels, he said, putting up a hand to his chest, and he let out a little giggle as he lifted him up, up, up.

Experiencing the real thing was a bit of a-- well, maybe disappointment wasn’t the right word. Accurate, but not fitting. Tedious, maybe. The long stretches of nothing in-between took up more time than the actual dungeons themselves. He looked over to Harold, and he knew he felt the same.

The walk was silent and oppressive. George unfurled his vine-tie slightly and something fell out and onto his palm. It was a shiny half of a disc, but upon closer inspection its lustre had flaked away to reveal the clay underneath.

Sometimes he would turn the thing over in his hands, but if he had to be honest he had no idea why he kept the remains of the novelty hypno pendulum.

When the snivy first used it, he hadn’t expected anything to happen. He heard tales of the line being able to hypnotize its foes to sleep, and in the more outlandish stories suggest them to do something. Ultimately, it was a desperate act, and maybe that desperation was the thing that made it work.

It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that happened to them, but it had the distinction of being one of the first.

The latest strange thing was the quiet. Him and Harold knew Krupp-- knew how to get under his skin in record time, how to avoid him, the works. They knew how explosive his temper was-- even for an ice-type!

They also know that he was at its worst when he was quiet, so when the abomasnow didn’t react to the bombshell that was being Captain Underpants, it was... unnerving.

For the past few minutes, the boys were giving each other a Look, nudging the other into asking what was on both of their minds. Eventually, hesitance wore into mild frustration. George sighed, then pointed a glance Harold-wards that meant you owe me before breaking the silence with a long “Uuuuuuuh...”

“Yes?” Krupp cut in.

The snivy flipped the pendulum piece to his other hand. “Aren’t you mad?”

“About what?”

“About, you know-- hypnotizing you?” When no answer came, he prodded with, “Being Captain Underpants?”

The pine needles on his arm adjusted themselves in agitation. The snow on it sloughed off at the sudden motion and the boys had to step around the snow drift that was now on the middle of the road.

“You are mad!” Harold interjected.

The abomasnow’s tail slammed to the ground. “Of course I’m mad.”

“What he means is, we kind of expected, I dunno, yelling?” George explained. “Something about how we’re literally the worst-- anything!”

His pace slowed down. Krupp finally looked back at them for the first time since they explained the whole thing, but the expression was all wrong. His brow was more pinched in confusion than frustration. “What, you want me to yell at you?”

“No, but we’re kind of expecting it and would like to get it over with,” the snivy said with a shrug.

The temperature dropped several degrees. There was the frustration. Harold brought himself closer to George, and he leaned into the fluffy warmth.

“Get it over with--” Krupp spluttered. “We are literally being hunted down by every team this side of the region. Someone claiming to be one of my students from the future is spearheading that hunt and not only are pokemon listening to that, but he ripped my guildmaster title from me in what is essentially a forceful takeover.”

A thin layer of frost began forming on the path.

“I’m sorry I’m not dedicating every moment of my time being the World’s Worst Guildmaster, but some of us here have priorities. Like, say keeping himself and two children from not dying on his watch? From not getting caught?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what they’re going to do to us if they catch us?

“I know those idiotic comics were a parody of the actual stories, but do you know what you’re parodying in the first place?” Puffs of frost breath punctuated each breath. “I know neither of you like applying yourselves, but you have to be at least a little aware.”

Harold had taken to picking at the ground with one of his front hooves. George traced a digit over the edge of the broken piece anxiously. Neither of them spoke up.

“Are you satisfied with that lecture?” And just like that, the frost started to melt. It slowly got warmer. “Because I’m not.”

(The boys never liked the quiet in general. Maybe that was why they were always so offput whenever he was.)

_____________________________

It wasn’t long before Krupp and Captain Underpants started talking. They kind of expected that. More often than not, they would wake up to scratching noises as one of them tried to write in the dirt with one of their pine needles.

What was more surprising was how quickly they had compromised on the whole switching thing.

“I’m good at fighting, and Guildmaster is good at planning travel stuff,” Captain explained as he floated them over to where the stairs were. “Neither of us are good at puzzles, but at least we haven’t encountered any!”

“Just like that?” Harold tilted his head.

The abomasnow ground his teeth in what was his attempt at a grimace. It looked weird on his face. “He said it was a matter of practicality, and working with what we’re good at makes sens-- ACH!”

His body tensed up in pain, and he instinctively held them closer to protect them. Harold began to struggle in his tight grip, eyes darting in every direction to figure out what had hit them.

“Captain? What’s wrong?” Panic began to creep into George’s tone.

“Hey, guys,” a familiar voice cut in.

George and Harold paled at the sight of Erica clambering up on the abomasnow’s shoulder. Even in the gloom of the dungeon, the violet crest around her neck glinted.

And Captain was going down, down, down. They braced for impact.

_____________________________

Erica, out of the boys’ circle of friends, was one of the ones who was more in-tune into their misadventures and ready to lend a helping hand. Erica was also the scariest guildmember-slash-student they’ve ever met; she had a cool head and popped up where you least expected.

It was honestly no surprise that out of everyone, she was the first one who cornered them, and right between the stairs out of this place, too!

“What did you do to him?” Harold yelled, nudging the abomasnow to his feet.

Captain looked, for a lack of a better word-- terrible. He looked like one more hit would do him in. While landing face-first would definitely leave a mark, they knew him long enough that it shouldn’t leave him straining.

And that’s when George finally noticed what was in the axew’s hands. In one hand was the three-pronged pounce wand that brought her up there with them, whining as the last vestiges of its power left it. In the other, the spiked two-edged wand also making a dying down noise-- it was most likely the thing that brought them down.

“Relax, I just didn’t want you guys to immediately fly off.”

Still, there were more pressing questions, like, “Why are you helping Melvinborg?” George made a face like the name was as bitter as the duosion’s personality.

“We all... kinda got no choice,” Erica replied with the nonchalance of listing off the day’s errands. The only thing that betrayed her was how she gripped the now-defunct wands in a vicegrip. Then, belatedly, “Sorry.”

“Wait, wait, wait, um-- uh--” Captain rushed forward in front of them, his arms spread out to protect them despite his fatigue. His face was scrunched up in the way he does when he was overthinking and none of them could tell whether it was because of the abomasnow’s fatigue or because he really didn’t know that he settled on, “Before you, uh-- take us in-- Plungerina can we talk, one human-turned-pokemon to another?”

To Erica’s credit, she was only tripped up for a moment before she steeled herself for a bit of improv. “Sure, right after I catch you.” She lunged forward and--

Tripped. Somehow. She poked her head up to look at the one entrance to the room, then seeing that no one was there, she opened her backpack and threw a box at their feet.

“Oh no, I am petrified,” she said, practically announced for all the floor to hear. Then, in a more regular speaking volume, “I hope they don’t take the care package I dropped that has supplies and letters from their friends and family.”

There was a moment of silence as the three of them processed what she said. And when they did, George put it in his satchel. “I... thanks, Erica.”

“You’re not welcome, because you stole from me, remember?” she said with a conspiratorial wink. She turned her attention to Captain. “You got one question before the rest catch up.”

“Do you know what they’re going to do to us once you turn us in?” The abomasnow was concerned, to put it mildly. But his tone reminded Harold of the same one he had when he asked long ago where dad went. Naïve, but you knew deep down.

Considering his talks with Krupp, he probably knows in some capacity.

“I figured you’ve been in tough scrapes like this, but I suppose maybe not?” His arms lowered. Harold looked at him worriedly; his pine needles were still shot up and pierced through his cape, despite the lull.

The axew appraised him for a moment, and she noticed the needles, too. “It’s weird to see you think this hard about anything.”

The boys grimaced at how blunt she was, but its definitely crossed their minds.

“It’s weird to think hard about anything!” Captain laughed.

“To answer your question, no, I don’t,” she frowned. “Knowing Melvin, and by extension Melvinborg, it’s probably something else than the, uh... standard. You know how he is with tinkering dungeon items to be more potent.”

And just like that, Captain’s cheery mood was back, even if it was a little more sedate than usual. The needles settled to its more natural position. “Okey-dokey, thanks Plungerina!”

All four of them tensed up at the sudden sound of shouting.

“Time’s up,” she gave a half-smirk half-smile. “Also, there’s a petrify orb in the package. Gotta make this look convincing, you know?”

“O-- oh!” George floundered for a moment before opening the box and taking it out. It let out a low hum.

“Don’t expect this to be a repeat thing,” she added, in the tone of voice that mean to definitely expect it. She stared at him, sensing his hesitance. “Relax, I’ll be fine-- the other teams are coming up and will bring me back first before getting to you. It’ll buy you a bit more time.”

The snivy was still a bit unsure about the whole prospect, but he held it high anyway. It flashed and it froze Erica in place before disappearing in a puff of smoke. And then they ran for the stairs.

(And then they continued to run.)

#mellsian fanfics #captain underpants #piqua mystery dungeon #me holding up the three (3) fics i made for this au in just a week: LOOK AT IT #its rambly but i ltierally wrote this in a day. WACK #i probably should have rewatched tetocu for this but SSSSSSH

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celestias-right-hoof-mas-au · 3 years

Photo

WARNING: As I mentioned in the previous chapter, this story is based on an adult parody of MLP called The Mentally Advanced Series. I would encourage that if you had not watched it to do so to get a grasp of the world in which this takes place. Many of the jokes, lore, and otherwise are in reference to MAS, not just simply My Little Pony. I have also made a supercut that includes every reference and appearance of Celestia in the series. In case watching the entire MAS series maybe too time consuming. If you find Celestia, or other canon characters, used in crude and unpleasant depictions offensive, this is your warning. However, I would appreciate that you take a look anyway with an open mind.

Celestia Supercut Link

< Previous ☼ Next >

Days passed with bootcamp still on the horizon. Valiance’s mind was evermore focused on the possibility of becoming one of Celestia’s finest. In preparation for her big day, and to calm her nerves, Valiance exercised vigorously. Not a morning passed where she didn’t run, strength trained, or practice the little amount of spells she knew.

A blaring ringing stirred Valiance awake from her slumber. She groggily reached her hoof to tap the all too familiar alarm clock before rubbing the sleepiness away from her eyes. With a deep breath, and a small rocking of herself, she was up and out of bed in a jiffy. Any residual tiredness she might’ve felt was quickly washed away with an ice cold splash of water and the freshness one gets from brushing their teeth.

As Valiance stretched about her stiff muscles before her daily morning run, she halted to a stop. Her ears flicked back and forth when met with a low rumbling noise in the distance. The once peaceful silence of the cool early morning was violently shattered as a loud explosion rang between the buildings. The birds outside screeched and scattered away as the sky blackened with an ominous cloud. Valiance rushed towards the window and peered out to see what was happening.

"What in Equestria was that?!" Valiance gasped. Had something gone wrong with the weather production? That thought was immediately thrown out the window when the storm cloud began to speed towards the castle, appearing sentient in nature. Squinting her eyes, Valiance's jaw dropped at her revelation.

It wasn’t a cloud at all, it was a swarm made of thousands of invaders. Their porous chiton and glass wings left no room for doubt.

“Changelings?! I thought Celestia had them all eradicated?!” Valiance exclaimed as she grabbed her helmet. After a brief moment to change into her armor, Valiance unsheathed her weapon, an ornamented halberd, and rushed outside. Chaos flooded the streets of Canterlot as ponies desperately attempted to evade the parasitic menace. The empty husks of what was once the good ponies of Canterlot were scattered in the streets.

Valiance shuddered and cut through an alleyway. There, she witnessed the horror of the changeling's feeding habits. The creature huddled over an unconscious pony with its tongue like proboscis sucking the fluids out of its victim's neck. It has been said that the changelings could survive solely off of the emotion of love. However, there was no evidence of that as far as Valiance saw, and she had no intentions of finding out such rumors.

The amber glow of her magic slowly powered up and took possession of her halberd. The creature’s unblinking eyes snapped onto Valiance’s position, before the changeling soldier could even react, the long piercing thorn of Valiance’s weapon ripped into its skull like a hot fork stabbing into butter. Its back leg and wings twitched as the rest of its body slumped over and detached itself from the pony beneath it. Valiance rushed over towards the victim, who she could now see was a stallion, and looked him over to inspect the severity of his injuries.

The pony wore heavy darkened bags underneath his eyes, protruding cheekbones and colorless cracked lips. Despite his gaunt appearance, Valiance noted his pulse was still relatively steady and his breathing wasn’t too faint. She concluded that the stallion would survive and hid him behind some trash bins so no other changeling would find him before he woke.

In no time at all, Valiance had reached the castle grounds. The front gates were left open and unattended. The quietness in that moment was eerily contrasted by the screams in the distance. Without hesitation, Valiance sprinted into the grounds with a burning spirit and a molten heart.

"Help! Anypony, please!" Shrieked a pink and raspberry pony as she was being roughly carried away by a pair of changelings.

Higher and higher they climbed into the sky when suddenly, one of the changelings let out a guttural screech. Valiance's halberd embedded into the stomach of the changeling with a sickening crunch.

With its comrade dead, the remaining changeling released the little unicorn from its weakened grip. The unicorn screamed and shut her eyes as she plummeted towards the ground, but instead of crashing to her death, her body came to a sudden stop. Slowly peeking through her glasses with persian blue eyes, she found herself encased in amber magic.

But to her surprise, her gaze was not met by another carapaced equine, instead, she was met by an enormous pale mare. The stranger's body and face was obscured by a strikingly unique set of armor she had never seen from any of the castle staff, or Canterlot for that matter, and although intimidating, she felt comfort from the mysterious horse who was protectively holding her away from the monster with glazed compound eyes. Gently, the pony found her footing on the cool grass and the magic slowly faded away.

“Go, I’ll keep him busy while you escape.” Valiance ordered.

“W-well what about you?!” the pink unicorn replied in desperation.

“There’s no time, get somewhere safe. I can handle this.” Valiance implored with a more stern tone. The small pony hesitated momentarily and adjusted her glasses. Then, she made a break for it, ashamed of abandoning her savior.

The remaining changeling, knowingly outmatched, let out a piercing shriek. The familiar buzzing of changeling wings came from all directions as reinforcements surrounded Valiance. It did not matter, however, as Valiance made short work of them all.

Once her adversaries had been disposed of, Valiance made her way to the front of the castle. Though she had no idea how the changelings accomplished it, they had blown a massive hole where the entrance to the castle would be. Inside wasn’t much better, with the changelings’ filthy webbing covering the walls and ceiling. Before she could continue onwards she noticed very subtle movement coming from the larger mountains of webbing. Using the spear tip of her weapon, she carefully cut open one of the mounds. When suddenly, a guard’s head popped out from inside. The royal guard let out a choking gasp, desperately coughing for air as he violently wriggled from the grotesque wrapping.

“Oh thank Celestia, you found me! I couldn’t imagine the meal they’d make out of me if you hadn’t come!” The grey stallion cheered profusely as his body was hauled out of its confines by Valiance’s magic.

“Are you alright? Can you stand on your own?” Valiance asked, offering a shoulder to lean on.

The pony patted himself lightly and clicked his hooves on the floor, “Seems like I’m good to go!”

“Great. Help me get everypony else out of these pods.” Valiance urged, pointing to the other pods in the room. With a quick nod, the stallion rushed over and began peeling his comrades out of their wrapping. Free from their binds, the soldiers pawed the ground aggressively, eager for a second chance against the parasites who had hit the heart of their home.

“Thanks for saving our hides, soldier. Did you just roll into town?” asked the chief officer of the group.

“Just signed up the other day, sir.” Valiance saluted, straightening her posture.

“Well, hells bells, sorry to hear that, private. But at this point we need all the hooves we can get. Head over to the west wing where the castle staff have holed up. That’s where the rest of the new recruits are as well. The rest of us are gonna go exterminate these bugs, ain’t that right, boys?!” the officer commanded, his band cheering and war ready. No sooner did Valiance break apart from the team did she gallop away towards her destination. The further she headed west, the dimmer and more rotten the castle became. It was as if everything the changelings touched became corrupted. Eventually she came to a hall where the doors had been sealed shut. So corroded and splintered were the doors, that Valiance believed she had found what she was looking for. She pried the remains of the doors open, hoping some survivors were still within.

However, there were none. Valiance’s heart dropped at what she found instead. Like flies on a rotting carcass, the room was full of changelings and podded victims lay scattered on every surface.

The freshly made pods glowed with a luminescent green and were just bright enough to see what lay inside. Within them were ponies in various forms of digestion. Some had their innards pouring out of themselves and others were torn apart by changeling grubs who feasted upon them. Nopony was spared, for in the farthest corner of the room lay a much smaller pod than the rest. Inside, floated the curled up body of a filly. Just as Valiance had made her horrific discovery, so too did the changelings take notice of her presence.

With barely enough time to draw her weapon, Valiance was bombarded by insectoid bodies. She cleaved her halbert into their shells and slashed at their soft underbellies. Yet even still, they kept coming and piling onto her. Her vision blurred from the shifting bodies and she felt them crawling everywhere attempting to pry her armor off. Desperately, Valiance stomped and kicked, but to no avail. Her legs began to buckle from their biting and stabbing, so much so, that the pain kept her from using any advanced spells to get away. Even teleportation was useless as the growing cloudiness in her mind prevented her from deciding on a direction.

The changelings began to drag her into the ground. Valiance was exhausted and her vision tunneled to a pinpoint. Just when all hope was lost, a blinding light pierced through the skittering changelings, in the blink of an eye, their forms evaporated into dust. Through her helmet and darkening vision, she could faintly make out the silhouette of an ethereal equine. The large pony slowly came closer and closer before Valiance’s world went completely black.

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colehasapen · 4 years

Text

(ONE SHOT) cabur STAR WARS

Jango doesn't know how long he’s been caged.

It could have been days, it could have been months - hells, it could have been years. Jango can’t tell with his mind fogged by spice and agony. His body aches, and Jango is pretty sure his hands have permanently curled into claws from the never ending physical labour, and his back has been flayed by the beatings. He’s spent his days since - since Galidraan - wallowing in a drug-filled haze of never-ending monotony interspersed with violent whippings, and any moment the drugs fade enough for Jango to think, to remember, he almost chokes on his own burning hatred when it claws its way back up to the surface.

It makes him want the haze of drugs. He welcomes it, because it drowns out the grief, the guilt, the memories, and his overwhelming hatred of everything and everyone - including himself.

He’s a failure, a coward - if he had been a better Mand’alor, his people wouldn’t have died, or he would have done them the honour of dying with them. He’s no longer Mando’ad. He has no armour, it had been stolen from him and was probably being used as some shiny trophy for that aruetyc shabuir of a Governor. He has no defense, it’s been taken from him by the collar around his neck and the brand burned into his chest - he’s a slave now, and slaves can’t defend themselves. His tribe is gone, slaughtered on Galidraan and dismembered by those skanah jetiise , their bodies probably left to rot with no one to complete their final rites and thus no way to join the manda. He has no reason to speak the language, because slaves aren’t permitted to speak, and he’d have no one to share it with anyways. And as for his leader?

Well, Jango had failed spectacularly as Mand’alor. He had gotten his people - Jaster’s people - killed, his failure had destroyed the Haat Mando’ade. He had destroyed Jaster’s legacy.

He had failed his people, he had failed himself, and he had failed his Buir. He should have died that day with his parents, he should have burned with their farmhouse. Maybe if he had, Jaster would have saved Arla as soon as he heard her screaming if he hadn’t been weighed down by Jango - he has no doubt Jaster could have pulled her out of the flames if he hadn’t been honour-bound to protect Jango.

None of this would have happened if Jango had died then. But he hadn’t, and now everything and had known and loved was gone - and it was his fault.

Jango doesn’t bother looking up from his huddle in the corner of his too-small cage when he hears the masters walking down the rows. He barely acknowledges their voices. Instead, he stays where he is, considering whether or not to let the fog drag him under again.

A yelp has him jerking.

It was the pained cry of a child - an ad - and it has Jango beating back the numbness of the spice and lifting his head.

The large Twi’lek overseer had stopped in front of Jango’s cage, his meaty hand curled solidly around a chain leading to the collar around the small, pale throat of a Human or Near-Human child with fluffy ginger hair and glazed blue eyes.

“You sure about that, Tol?” The Zeltron at the overseer’s side asks, red eyes lingering on Jango’s huddled form. “Y’know what they say about Mandos-”

The Twi’lek snorts, moving to unclasp the gate to Jango’s cage. “Good thing we ain’t got no Mandos here then. Only slaves . This one was good and broken before we got it.” The overseer sneers, and with a jerk of the Twi’lek’s hand, the scared ad stumbles toward him.

Jango twitches as those cruel fingers lock around the child’s delicate neck, and the adiik flinches. He must not be as far under the thrall of the spice if he could still react like that, and Jango twitches again against the desire to throw himself forward to defend the tiny adiik.

“Be good now, slave.” The overseer coos mockingly, unhooking the chain from the explosive rigged to the small child’s neck. “We paid some good creds for you - I’d hate to be the one telling Lord du Crion that we had to blow you up.”

The child stares back, fire sparking in those foggy eyes, then they make a pained noise when the overseer gives them a violent shake. The adiik’s head ducks submissively as the Twi’lek sneers at them.

“There’s a good lad.” The Zeltron says in a parody of motherly concern, voice sickly sweet as she toys with the ends of the ad ’s red hair. “That brother of yours wanted us to keep you in one piece until you learned your lesson.”

“He’s not my brother -” The adiik’s retort is cut off by a cry of pain that has Jango gritting his teeth in fury, carefully uncoiling himself from the tight ball he had been curled into before. The kid hits the floor of his cage with a bone-jarring thud, and Jango rolls stiffly to his knees as the slave masters laugh.

“That’s your final warning, slave.” The Twi’lek sneers, looking down his nose at the two slaves as he shuts the cage once more. “You talk back to me again and I’ll whip you ‘til you bleed.”

Jango glowers at the two slavers thunderously from under his shaggy hair as the march away, and the ad barely stirs from his sprawl. He grits his teeth, holding his tongue until the overseers are out of sight, before he’s shuffling forwards, towards the limp child that had unexpectedly become his companion.

“Me’vaar ti gar?” He calls softly to the adiik, who flinches, scrambling clumsily onto his hands and knees to stare up at Jango with a wide-eyed glare. He’s scared, Jango can tell immediately, but there’s still a fire burning inside of him that almost has Jango smiling.

He’s definitely Mandokarla , and just looking at him makes Jango ache for home. If they weren’t in this cage - if they were back on Manda’yaim - Jango has no doubt that someone would be snatching this adiik up and adopting him into their aliit . It makes him think of Myles, of the last thing his cyare had said to him before they had rushed into battle - about how he wanted to raise warriors with him - and Ka’ra does it hurt. He tries not to think about the way Myles’ body had been split in half. They would have said their vows after Galidraan had this been a kinder galaxy.

Carefully, Jango sits back on his heels, lifting his hands to show the kid that he means no harm. He probably looks frightening to the already scared adiik , with his unwashed hair and ungroomed beard - not to mention the thick layer of dirt, spice, and blood that covered his face. “Udesii, ad’ika.” He soothes, and the little Lothcat just bares his teeth at him, as threatening as a kitten - and the thought almost makes Jango snort.

Well, if there was any way to calm a feral kitten.

He glances around, then carefully choreography his movements as he pulls his half-eaten gruel towards them, then pushes it at the adiik. “Haili cetare, verd’ika.” He offers, and the kid eyes him suspiciously for a long moment before he reaches forward to tug the bowl closer. The kid hesitates, eyes darting from the bowl, to Jango, then skittering around the cage, and Jango raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Is -” The adiik’s voice is rough from spice-inhalation, but Jango can just pick up the refined High Core accent he spoke with - not surprising if was was apparently the brother of a Lord, and doesn’t that knowledge piss Jango off further.

What kind of dar’vod hut’uun sell their own vod’ika into slavery?

The ad flinches, ducking his head, and Jango curses himself, carefully schooling his face into the political mask Jaster had drilled into his thick head.

“Udesii.” Jango says again, and the child steadily relaxes again. “Copaani gaan?” He probes, a little teasingly and hoping to put the kid more at ease.

The adiik bites his lip, looking up at Jango from under dark lashes. “Are there utensils?” He asks in a rush, before he blushes and ducks his head shyly.

Utensils - Jango snorts. The kid really was some fancy Core lordling.

“Nayc, ad’ika.” He shakes his head, and the kid deflates, looking at the bowl in his dirty hands in dismay. The adiik hesitates a moment longer, before sighing quietly and beginning to use his fingers to scoop the unappetizing mush into his mouth. Jango only watches fondly for a moment, studying the kid; he had obviously been well-fed and well-cared for before his dar’vod had sold him. He’s lanky in the way kids get on the cusp of puberty, and his hair is a rare red-gold that actually makes Jango glad that the adiik had been sold to a spice rig instead of to someone with a taste for the exotic. He might even have some biological resistance to toxins, from the way the adiik grows sharper and more alert with every moment that passes.

He wonders if anyone would be missing this kid.

Well, they should have kept a better eye on him, obviously.

“Tion’ad hukaat’kama, adiik?” Jango asks, watching the kid lick the bowl clean, and big doe eyes blink back at him, confused. “Tion gar gai?”

The adiik blinks again, carefully rubbing his mouth with the filthy sleeve of his stained tunic as his brows furrow. “I’m sorry -” he says slowly, “- do you speak Basic? I don’t understand you.”

Jango blinks right back, a little taken aback - it had been so long since he had spoken to anyone . He hadn’t even realized that his mouth was forming the vowels of his mother tongue. “I -” Basic feels odd on his tongue, but the kid brightens, so Jango will put up with it until he can teach him Mando’a, “- yeah. I speak Basic.”

The kid beams at him and - haar’chak - he has dimples. He would have definitely been adopted in a heartbeat.

“Was wondering your name.” Jango grunts, and the verd’ika ’s smile turns shy.

“I’m Obi-Wan.” The kid introduces himself with a little bow that wouldn’t be out of place in a High Core court. “And yourself?” He asks, eyes curious.

“Jango.” He offers gruffly, “Jango Fett.”

Obi-Wan beams at him again, and - kriff, how could anyone sell this kid into slavery. He was too trusting, too innocent - this life would ruin him. “It’s nice to meet you, Master Fett!”

Jango jerks, scowls, and the kid flinches faintly, looking alarmed and confused, so Jango lets out an explosive sigh and forces himself to relax. “Not your master, Ob’ika.” Jango mutters, gesturing for the kid to come closer. Space gets cold, and the adiik would no doubt be feeling it soon. “Just Jango.”

“Okay.” Obi-Wan agrees quietly, shuffling over to the man’s side, and Jango slowly loops an arm around the ad ’s thin shoulders and pulling him even closer, tucking him against his ribs. “How long have you been here, Jango?” The kid asks, curling his fingers into Jango’s ruined kute, and Jango just shrugs awkwardly. There’s a small sniffle in response, as it fully begins to sink in that his dar’vod really had sold him into slavery no doubt.

Jango tightens his hold on the adiik, and in that moment he swears to himself, to the manda, that he’d get out. He’d get them both out.

#cole writes #fanfiction #star wars #whumptober 2020 #no.4 running out of time #caged #jango fett #obi wan kenobi #slavery #mandobi-verse

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techni-kolor · 3 years

Text

The Ice of the Isolated

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27627518

"Will you stop that?" Tim snapped, the insistent feeling of irritation finally levering past his tipping point at the, in all honesty annoying, sound of Jon's muttering. "It's not gonna get us out any faster, whether you recite the entire damn archives or not."

Jon glanced up, his dark eyes dull within the dim light.

"Sorry." He mumbled roughly.

There was silence for a handful of seconds. Broken only the faint creaking of the shelves around them, and the hiss of the ancient radiator echoing off the tiny walls of the document restoration room.

The room they were currently trapped in, and had been trapped in for the past two hours.

"Number 4487215, Statement of Drew Capris regarding his encounter with The Skinner. Statement begins: I wasn't a drinking type of bloke, in fact I–"

"Jon." Tim snapped again, cutting off the rapid, near insane sounding, mumbling. "What did I literally just say?"

Jon blinked heavily.

"Cut it out with the statements already, it's bad enough to be stuck here without listening to some poor sod's trauma come out of your mouth."

Tim leaned back against a shelving unit, watching Jon chew through the words.

His own jaw worked in a series of annoyed tics as the seconds ticked by and Jon remained unresponsive.

"At least tell me you still understand English." He finally muttered, just to break the thick silence.

Jon blinked again, strangely sluggish.

"Course– course, I understand Eng– Eng– English."

"Could've fooled me." Tim said, a scowl forming across his face at Jon's stutter. It had been near almost always present since he'd known him, and worse with anxiety and exhaustion. The only time these days it fully went away was when he was reading a statement, and Tim refused to examine the implications of that.

"I–" Jon stammered suddenly, "I– I, I don't feel well."

Tim glanced back down at him.

He was sat on the floor, his back leaned against a metal shelving unit, and his dark curls splayed out along the edges of the files. His face held the same pinched, terse look it always did and the twist to his mouth was the same, ever present, skeptical frown. His skin was possibly a shade paler than his dark complexion normally allowed, but nothing drastic.

"You look alright to me."

Jon's dark eyes tracked over his face, in a sluggish parody of his usual sharp glare.

"I don't– I feel– feel cold."

Tim huffed out a sharp chuckle. "Yeah, Jon. It's cold in here. That's not news."

"But it's– it's freezing."

Tim scowled. "Yeah, like I said. Cold in here. It's been cold for hours."

"I–" Jon broke off with a vicious shiver. "Statement of Katrina Smith, events occurring on the date of November 27, 2015. Statement begins: It was so, so dark. So dark I couldn't–"

"Not this again." Tim muttered.

–couldn't see anything, even my hand in front of my face. It was only a few days after my mum had passed away and–"

"Jon."

"–and she had left me a few of her possessions, not that she'd had much, but I'd gone to her old flat to pick them up and it was so–"

"Cut it out, Jon. We already talked about this."

"– so dark that I almost wished I'd brought a torch. But it was only half two in the afternoon, and midsummer as well. And I figured I'd just grab some books and go, only then–"

"Jon! For Christ's sake, stop it." Tim near shouted.

Jon's jaw snapped shut abruptly, and he slumped forward, almost like a tiny army figurine with its plastic parachute cut by an ambitious child. He hit his head on the metal shelf as he fell with a sick thud, and his entire body crumpled into a heap onto the carpeting.

"Jon." Tim couldn't stop the cry from being pulled from his lips.

"Fuck." He swore under his breath, and ignoring his own panic, immediately knelt beside Jon's prone form, rolling his tiny weight over to his front, and using one hand to smack at his cheek.

Louder, he said. "Jon, come on, wake up."

Jon remained dead to the world, his eyelids firmly shut, and his breath ghosting in shallow draws.

"Jon, come on, wake up. What the fuck just happened here?"

Jon gave no response.

"Come on, Jon, I take it back. You can recite all the spooky shit you want till we're out of here. Just wake the hell up."

Jon let out a rasping exhale, and his breath was cold as ice against Tim's fingers.

He jerked his hand back involuntarily at the freezing sensation.

"Jon, you're scaring me."

Jon's ice cold skin pressed against his knee, and his breath was near frosty as it ghosted into the air.

Tim lurched to his feet and slammed his hands against the door.

"Hey," He shouted, "Hey, anyone– is anyone there? We need help. Please, someone, you gotta help."

Tim jerked his gaze back towards Jon's still unconscious, and near frozen body.

"Anyone, please. We need help."

He slammed his palms against the heavy door again, and jostled the knob roughly.

It gave no more than a rattle and staunchly refused to give. The exact same at his first try, when they had first been trapped, hours ago.

"Someone, you gotta help us. We're trapped." He shouted again into the near silence.

He had tried screaming hours ago too, when they first realized the broken lock on the door had sealed them in.

Only to give up within minutes after no response. It had already been far past working hours, at that point, and there wasn't much chance of anyone being around, much less able to hear.

There was no telling how long it'd been since then, without either of their phones to track the time, but it had been at least hours if his own hunger, and Jon's rambling gave any indication.

A night stuck in document restoration had been far less than desired, with the tiny space crowded by metal shelves, and it's barely heated air to preserve the ink on some of the ancient documents, but it had been a grudging possibility.

Now it was terrifying.

"Fuck." Tim shouted and slammed his hands on the door open more, only succeeding to send a sharp sting through his palms.

"Jon, boss." He knelt back beside Jon's tiny frame. "You gotta wake up. We aren't getting out until morning, and I need to know if you're injured. Come on, buddy, you gotta wake up."

Jon remained eerily motionless, and Tim swore he could almost see tiny wisps of fog from between his parted lips.

Roughly, he shrugged off his jacket and laid it across Jon's chest, tucking the fabric loosely around his narrow shoulders and across his stomach.

It laid almost comically large on him, but it gave the appearance that he was just asleep instead of unconscious, and that he could wake up at any moment. Like one of the naps he'd taken in the stacks back in Research one time after a three day work binge that had ended in him being exhausted, but grinning with success.

Before the move to the archives.

Before all of this.

Tim shoved that thought away harshly, and knelt closer to Jon's shoulder, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest and the flicker of his eyes moving beneath the lids.

He'd sit there all night if he had to, amidst the oppressive stacks of the statements, and in the biting chill that drifted from the vents, and from Jon, if he had to, if only Jon would wake up.

#the magnus archives #Jon and Tim #whump #lonely avatar jon

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silverswordsandlutes · 4 years

Text

Honey and Milk

[Part One] [Chapter Two] [Ao3]

Chapter One

The town was larger than Geralt normally liked, but even he had to admit that a proper bed and a hot bath would be nice after over a week on the road. With directions from the guard posted at the gate, he and Jaskier made their way through the bustling main street toward the inn and tavern, Roach in tow with her reins in Geralt’s hand. People had booths set up along the side of the road, peddling produce and butchered meats and trinkets and all other manner of goods. Geralt was fairly certain that one woman was trying to sell cheap charms and potions, and when Jaskier paused to have a look at her wares, Geralt hauled him off with a hand on the back of his neck, ignoring his protests.

“No good comes from roadside charms and spells,” the witcher said in way of explanation when Jaskier crossed his arms and looked at him petulantly.

It wasn’t long before the booths thinned out, giving way to finer shops selling fabric and books and other goods likely imported from the larger cities. There was even a proper apothecary--Geralt could smell the medicinal herbs over the street stink as they walked past the open door. Even though he doubted there would be work for a witcher in a town like this, it was still comforting to know there was a proper healer nearby. At the very least, he could restock some herbs he needed for his somewhat depleted potion supply.

The inn came into view and Jaskier let out a quiet whistle. “Not going to be a cheap night, eh, Geralt?”

The witcher hummed in agreement.

The building looked well-kept, keeping in line with the nice neighborhood it sat in. It was also easily the tallest building in the town, reaching up four stories--the upper floors even had glass panes in the windows. This was clearly a nice establishment unused to the likes of Geralt stepping through its doors. Jaskier, on the other hand, would be right at home, surrounded by a proper audience.

Geralt’s purse ached at the thought of the cost, though. Having travelled mostly through small farming settlements and dense woodland, there had been little work that paid much more than a few coins.

As if reading his mind, Jaskier patted his shoulder and walked ahead of him, calling back, “I’m sure after a few songs I’ll have made enough for a hot meal, a room, and a bath. Place like this, there are bound to be plenty of people who want to toss a coin to my witcher.” Jaskier shot him a grin and a wink and pushed the tavern door open.

Rolling his eyes, Geralt made his way more slowly.

He hitched Roach to the post with a few other horses, patting her neck and removing his bags, swords and all, from her saddle.

“If Jaskier makes enough coin, I’ll have you stabled and brushed like you deserve,” he told her, and the mare snorted quietly and bumped his shoulder affectionately with her nose.

After he made sure Roach was secure, Geralt finally went into the tavern with a sigh of resignation. The sound of the crowd washed over him before anything else when he opened the door, a cacophonous wave of laughter and conversation. The next thing that hit him was the smell of beer and food, and his stomach growled. As he shouldered his way through the throng of people milling about, he took another deep breath. Other than inevitably spilled ale and the sweat of the crowd, there were none of the other scents Geralt usually associated with drink houses--namely piss and vomit. This place was actually clean.

The price tag in his head went up a few more coins and Geralt pressed his lips together in a hard line.

He spotted Jaskier at the bar, leaning over the polished wood to speak to the barman. His body language was easy and relaxed, and Geralt could see his shoulders shaking with laughter. But the way the barman was looking at his bard had him gritting his teeth.

“Jaskier,” he said as he approached, hand going to the small of Jaskier’s back.

“Geralt!” He turned his head to give a radiant smile and he leaned back into the touch. “Mikkel here has agreed to let me play tonight in exchange for a hot meal.” Jaskier turned his pretty blue eyes back to Mikkel. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind including my friend’s meal, would you?”

The barman looked none too pleased at Geralt’s appearance, but he looked back to Jaskier with a smile that was tight around the corners and said, “Of course not. I’ll have your meals sent to your table.”

Jaskier positively beamed and thanked him before he led Geralt to a small table tucked in a quiet corner. The witcher couldn’t help shooting the barman a quick glare--though it unfortunately landed on his back--then returned his attention to Jaskier. He looked completely in his element, surrounded by people and noise and the warm glow of the room. His eyes were lit up, looked bluer than the ocean, and his smile was breathtaking. Geralt looked away when they sat down and instead swept his gaze around the large room.

The evening was young and it was surprising that there were so many people already in the tavern. Geralt supposed it came with the wealth this town obviously had; the folks laughing and socializing were all dressed well, the fabric mostly untouched by a hard day’s work. Being around this type made him uneasy, but a glance at Jaskier and he could tell he was putting together a list of songs that would bring in the most coin. His bard knew how to take advantage of a crowd, how to read them, and the way his eyes darted around the room, he was definitely plotting.

The two sat together in a comfortable silence until their meals arrived, each watching the people around them. Jaskier smiled cheerfully up at Mikkel, who had brought it upon himself to personally deliver their food.

“Thank you very much, my good sir,” Jaskier said, elbowing Geralt, who just grunted a quiet thanks, eyes hard as he stared at the barman until he left, clearly uncomfortable.

Good.

“You really ought to work on your manners, Geralt,” Jaskier said, not for the first time since they met. He brought a piece of hard crusted bread to his mouth. “It would really do wonders for your reputation,” he added, and then he bit into the bread with a pleased hum that was nearly drowned out by the bar noise.

Geralt scoffed and reached for his ale. “My reputation is fine the way it is,” he muttered. It appeared Jaskier hadn’t heard him as he began to eat, and that was just fine.

Despite his hunger, Geralt only picked at his food, something Jaskier said earlier distracting him.

“Do you really think I’m your witcher?” he finally asked some minutes later from around the rim of his tankard.

"Do you really think you’re not my witcher?” Jaskier countered with a smile.

I’m whatever you want me to be, Geralt thought, though he didn’t say it; he simply hummed and took a long drink from his ale.

Thoughts like that had been coming to him more and more often since their tryst in the woods. It was unnerving. Geralt had never once in his life belonged to anyone, but he was beginning to think that he unequivocally belonged to Jaskier. It made him frown into his beer.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier finished his dinner and reached for his lute case, giving Geralt a cheeky grin. “Time to earn us our room, then,” he said, bracing his hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he stood, his touch lingering longer than necessary once he was on his feet.

Geralt wanted to take hold of his wrist and keep him close, pull him into a long, drawn out kiss that left them both breathless. His fingers twitched minutely, but he remained still and just watched Jaskier walk away and set up his lute case for the performance. Each movement was deliberate, bordering on theatrical, and he looked absolutely at ease as he began to pluck at the strings, tuning a few of them until they were perfect to his ear; it also served the purpose of drawing attention to himself, many of the tavern’s patrons turning curious eyes in Jaskier’s direction. And without any preamble, he launched into his first song.

It took no time for Jaskier to have the room singing along--he was a household name, after all. Soon, the tavern was packed, word of his presence having spread, and he was so obviously living for this, joy clear on his beautiful face, forget-me-not eyes shining.

“The fishmonger’s daughter--” Jaskier sang out, and the crowd bah’d back at him to his delight.

Geralt didn’t take his eyes off of him the entire night, the rest of his meal forgotten and cold. He watched the way Jaskier moved through the crowd, flashed charming smiles that made a few maidens swoon. But somehow those baby-blues always landed on the Geralt, gleaming with mirth, and it made his chest feel warm and tight, and it made his slow heart beat just a little bit faster. Geralt blamed it on the ale and set the chipped mug down, crossing his arms.

It wasn’t long after that Jaskier returned, his coin purse jingling merrily. Geralt watched as he set his lute case carefully on the floor and braced both hands on the back of the chair across from him. His face was split with a wide smile, cheeks flushed, and his chestnut hair stuck a bit to his sweaty forehead. Geralt’s eyes dropped to Jaskier’s lips when his tongue darted out to wet them, unconsciously licking his own.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier said, a parody of their first meeting, and Geralt cracked a smile. “Come on, grab the bags. I already paid for the room and a bath. And I’ve had Roach stabled, so no need to worry about her.”

Without a word, Geralt stood and hauled the bags and his swords onto his shoulder then followed Jaskier through the crowd, staying close behind him.

As they weaved their way toward the stairs, several people called out to Jaskier and he returned their greetings with waves and smiles. One young woman even clung to his arm, pulling him to a stop and looking up at him with doe eyes and an enticing smile. She stood on her toes to whisper something in Jaskier's ear, and Geralt watched in quiet amusement, though, when her hand began to wander over his bard's chest, he pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Apologies, dear lady, but my companion and I have been on the road for over a week," Jaskier said, offering her a regretful smile, "and we're going to turn in for the night."

Watching the troubadour turn down what was no doubt a proposition sent a smug sort of heat spreading through Geralt's chest. Without a word, he gently touched Jaskier's elbow and he peeled himself from the woman's grasp so they could continue on their way. He didn't miss the sour expression on her face, and the smug feeling only grew.

It took longer than Geralt would have liked for them to reach the stairs, Jaskier pausing here and there to chat with patrons of the tavern. However, each time Geralt grew impatient and discretely touched his back or shoulder or brushed their hands together, Jaskier would politely excuse himself and they would continue on their way. But they finally reached the stairs and Geralt let out a breath, hand going to rest on the small of Jaskier's back like he was keeping him from changing his mind and rejoining the crowd.

“Are you growing impatient, dear witcher?” Jaskier teased, voice quiet so that only Geralt could hear it above the din. “Eager to get me alone?”

Geralt grunted and practically shoved Jaskier up the stairs, earning a laugh from him.

Their room was on the third floor and it was obvious that Jaskier spent good coin on it. There was a large bed piled with quilts across from the fireplace, a fire already crackling in its hearth. On the other side of the room, near the window and partitioned from the rest of the space with a privacy screen, was a large copper tub. The bath had already been prepared, steam rolling off the hot water and fogging the glass window panes.

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, to tell Jaskier that his coin was better saved than spent so frivolously, but the words died in his throat when petal-soft lips kissed him sweetly. The bags slid from his shoulder and landed on the floor with a solid thud, and his arms encircled Jaskier’s waist, pulling him flush to his chest. A pleased sigh left Jaskier when their tongues met, slid over one another, and he framed Geralt’s face with his strong hands. When they parted, Jaskier smiled and pressed a kiss to the tip of the Geralt's nose, laughing when it scrunched up almost instinctively.

“It’s my coin, so I’ll spend it how I like,” he said, patting Geralt’s chest with both hands. “Now, get undressed so we can take a bath.” Before he had even finished speaking, Jaskier was unbuckling the witcher’s leather armor.

He made no move to help him, standing still while skilled hands made quick work of the straps. Soon he was stripped down to the black linen shirt he wore beneath the leather. Geralt had to admit that he loved the way Jaskier undressed him so efficiently, the way he always had. Helping hands with his armor were appreciated, even if he had been reluctant at first. (“Oh, come off it, Geralt. Two pairs of hands are better than one. Besides I can reach the buckles better than you.”)

A quiet, disappointed huff left Geralt when Jaskier didn’t continue to undress him, when he just stooped to gather their bags and then nudged the leather armor to the side and out of the way with his foot. He watched him stride across the room and unceremoniously dump their belongings on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Jaskier pawed through one of the bags until he produced his grooming kit, filled with scented oils, a bar of goat’s milk soap, and a comb carved from bone. Their eyes met a moment later, and Jaskier straightened, putting one hand on his hip, the other still clutching the kit.

“Are you deaf, witcher?” he said, but there was unmistakable fondness in the cadence of his voice. “Get undressed. Chop, chop.”

Geralt deliberately dawdled a few moments more and reached down to pick up the swords that had been abandoned on the floor when he dropped the bags. As he rested them against the foot of the bed with their other things and then sat heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, he bit back a smirk at the dramatic sigh Jaskier let out. While he removed his boots, his eyes followed Jaskier as he walked to the tub and set a veil of oil, the soap, and the comb on the stool nearby.

Only when Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet did Geralt stand, footsteps made silent by bare feet as he crossed the space. He stopped behind Jaskier, listened to the rustle of fabric as the seafoam colored jacket hit the floor, and his hands ghosted over perfect, slender hips. This close, he could see the goose flesh raise the fine hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck and Geralt made a low burring sound, wrapped strong arms around Jaskier’s middle and pressed his face into the curve of his neck.

He smelled like the sweat from the earlier performance, like the warm, stuffy air of the tavern below, like the cloying perfume of the woman who had clung to him before. But when he breathed deep, Geralt could smell Jaskier, warm like the flowers he was named for, like sunlight and ozone and the promise of spring rain. And faintly, only at the back of his throat, Geralt could smell the sweet, heady musk of his desire.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered roughly against his skin.

Jaskier leaned back against him with a quiet hum, even turned and pressed a kiss to his temple. The show of affection had Geralt’s chest squeezing and he tightened his arms around his waist.

For as long as he had known him, Jaskier had been liberal with touch--patted his shoulder or nudged him with an elbow during conversation, leaned against him when they sat together on cold nights by the campfire, draped an arm around his shoulders when he retold one of their adventures to a group in some backwater tavern; but since the night in the woods, the touches had changed--a hand would linger for longer than necessary on his arm when Jaskier left to get them beers from the bar, or fingers would ghost over Geralt’s knuckles when they walked close, a palm would slid down his thigh to rest on his knee under the table when they shared a bench at a tavern (not that they had come across many in the last week).

Geralt certainly couldn’t say he minded, but what was alarming was that he found himself craving the affection and even returning it. Witchers weren't built for wanting, they were efficient killers, and anyone who decided they wanted to be with one had to be short a few marbles.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice broke him out of his thoughts and he lifted his head a bit.

“Hmm?”

Jaskier easily turned in his arms, rested his hands on Geralt’s broad chest and fiddled with the medallion resting there. “Get undressed and get in the bath,” he said, pushing him away with that small, mischievous smile of his.

Geralt let his arms drop and he watched Jaskier pull his shirt from his trousers and then off completely; watched as he dripped a little bit of the oil into the bath water, the scent of lavender and chamomile wafting toward him; watched as he bent to remove his boots; watched as his trousers slid from his hips and pooled around his ankles.

After that show, Geralt wasted no time undressing, and his clothes joined Jaskier’s on the floor. When Jaskier turned to look at him, his piercing blue eyes trailed slowly along his body, and Geralt saw the light flush of color that dusted his cheeks and turned the tips of his ears pink. And when Jaskier took half a step closer, he could smell the perfume of his arousal. Despite that, however, Jaskier just motioned for him to get in the tub, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

Without complaint, Geralt stepped past Jaskier--though, not without brushing a hand over his hip--and slowly sank into the hot, lightly scented water. In spite of himself, he sighed contentedly and tipped his head back against the rim of the tub. Behind him, he heard the stool scrape against the wood floor and a second later, Jaskier’s clever fingers were untying the leather thong that kept his hair back from his face. And then the gentle tug of the comb working the snarls out drew a hum from Geralt.

The two sat in a comfortable silence as Jaskier combed his hair, and Geralt thought about how this had become a routine for them--Jaskier sitting on a stool behind him, working out the tangles and then washing his hair until it was shiny and white, rather than tinged grey with dirt and old blood. Geralt wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point along the way, it had become a great comfort to him, something he looked forward to when they had the extra coin to spend at inns.

A soft touch to his shoulder drew Geralt from his thoughts and then he felt Jaskier’s lips brush against the shell of his ear. “Lean forward a bit,” he murmured, and Geralt did.

Before stepping into the bath, he had noticed two small buckets filled with extra water; Jaskier used half of one to wet Geralt’s hair and the hot water spilled over his shoulders and down his face. It felt nice, soothed muscles that always seemed to ache, and Geralt gave a quiet hum and just sat with his head bowed forward, wet hair dripping around his face. He stayed like that when he heard Jaskier lather the goat’s milk soap in the water behind him, and he especially stayed like that when he felt Jaskier begin to wash his back.

He smoothed his palms over Geralt's skin, lingered on old scars and new ones alike, and Geralt sighed, a small shiver rolling through him. And then strong fingers were digging into his hair, scrubbing away the dirt and grime and blood. The sensation drew a satisfied moan from Geralt, especially when Jaskier scratched his dull nails gently over his scalp, and he leaned his head back into the touch.

A quiet chuckle sounded beside his ear just before Geralt felt a pair of soft lips against the stubble of his jaw--it was quite long now, nearly long enough to rightfully be considered a beard.

"Who would have guessed that such a mighty witcher could be so pliant under a humble bard's touch," Jaskier mused hushedly.

Then he pulled away and there was the sound of shuffling behind Geralt, a murmured warning of, "Keep your eyes closed." And then Jaskier was rinsing the soap from his hair, water once again dripping down his face and over his shoulders. But Geralt didn't mind. Not when Jaskier set the bucket down and moved so that he could gently wipe the droplets from his eyelashes and murmur an apology, a smile in his words.

Only when the hands pulled away from his face, did Geralt open his eyes. He watched as Jaskier stepped into the tub and sank down in front of him, watched as he glanced over his shoulder with his too-blue eyes and a charming smile.

"Wash my back?" Jaskier asked, holding up the milk and honey scented soap. And really, when was the last time Geralt had said 'no' to his bard?

He accepted the soap, but rather than lather his hands, he leaned forward and buried his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck. It wasn't as if they hadn't touched one another since the night in the woods. They shared a bed roll (though they had before as well, on particularly cold nights). They kissed quite a lot, often in passing--Jaskier would press a kiss to the corner of his mouth after breakfast, or Geralt would catch his lips lazily as they woke. Though, equally as often it was the sort that left them both panting and hard and wanting for more (once in front of a milkmaid when they thought they were alone in a barn; she had looked horrified and disgusted that a witcher would defile a gentleman such as Jaskier). Hell, Jaskier had even pulled him off the road and into the trees to blow him a time or two.

But this, sharing a bath with Jaskier in an expensive room, at an expensive inn, was too good to be true, and Geralt craved it, soaked it up for as long as Jaskier would let him. So he stayed like that, breathing him in and listening to his steady heartbeat for several moments. Jaskier didn't seem to mind; he leaned back into him and hummed a quiet tune while he waited.

"My dear witcher, if we don't wrap this up soon, we'll prune and the water will go cold," Jaskier finally murmured when seconds slipped into minutes, and Geralt groaned in protest but pulled back, leaving a kiss as he did.

Lathering his hands, he leaned over the edge of the tub to put the soap on the stool and then finally got to work. It was satisfying to wash away the dirt from their travels, to leave Jaskier clean and soft and relaxed. Jaskier hummed quietly as large, rough palms smoothed over his skin, fingers lingering on the few scars he had picked up on their adventures, and it made the corners of Geralt's mouth turn up in a small smile.

He took a moment to lean over the edge of the tub and reached for the bucket that was still full. Much like Jaskier had done, he used it to wet his bard's hair, watching the way the rivulets carved paths across his soapy back. And the sound he made when Geralt finally began to scrub at his scalp, a low burring groan from the back of his throat, made Geralt's cock stir with interest. But before long, it was time to rinse him and Jaskier let out a disappointed sigh.

"Have I ever told you how good with your hands you are?" he asked, flashing a cheeky smile over his shoulder.

"Every chance you get," Geralt answered with a snort and a fond roll of his eyes.

"Yes, well. It's not my fault all your witcher training has graced you with the capability to--"

"Jaskier," he huffed in warning--a warning that was met with a peal of musical laughter as Jaskier leaned back against his chest and tipped his head to grin up at him.

Jaskier's face eased into a soft smile and he lifted his hand to trace Geralt's jaw with the pads of his fingers. And honestly, Geralt couldn't remember the last person who had looked at him so tenderly. It made his chest squeeze, not for the first time tonight.

"Let's finish our bath and then I'll give you a massage," Jaskier said, and sat up. "Your back is one solid knot, it's no wonder you're always sore. It's because we sleep on the hard ground, you know. It wouldn't kill you if we rented a room more often. Most towns in this part of the Continent are close enough that we could probably rent a room every night!"

While they finished bathing, Jaskier rambled, and Geralt let him, listening to the sound of his voice more than the words he said.

#my writing #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #the witcher

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walker-journal · 3 years

Text

Pyrrhic Transfiguration (Adam Solo)

Participants: Adam Walker (Hunter) Danica Vassliev (NPC Spellcaster)

Context: Adam’s strength is fading fast as cult infiltration, wounds from Bloody Mary, and Apoleia Dynamis bring him close to bodily and metal collapse. Calling in favor with one of Penelope’s covenmates leads to more questions than Adam can answer about his relationship and malady.

Follows: Into the Fold Part 1, Deep Sea Blues

Content Warnings: Body Horror (Medical Transmutation), Chronic Disease (Apoleia Dynamis), Mention of Drug Use (Elixir), Animal Sacrifice, Allusions to Physical Abuse

Sorry its long

“How long has it been since your last drink Adam?”

“Why,” Adam asked from where he lay in the exact center of a ring of river clay, the Hunter so maimed from the tender mercies of Ma’al’s cult that he could barely stir from where Danica’s assistant had set him down. One half of the circle’s interior was covered in lush grass while the other half was dead burnt ash.

“I don’t want to transmute your blood into red sugar syrup by calculating the toxicity incorrectly,” Danica pointed out as her basilisk fang stylus scratched more runic equations into the soft clay circle.

“Three months.”

Danica looked up from where she had been drawing sigils on Adam’s right wrist with Lampade blood ink. “You? Adam...you’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” the fraternity captain confided, hoarse voice a wane attempt at being cheerful, “been straight edge lately. Don’t tell anyone, I’ll lose all dudebro cred and have to go into soyboy exile.”

The sorceress took one of Adam’s bare legs in the business-like fashion of a medical professional who was too familiar with wounds and physiology to be made bashful by her patient’s state of undress. “Tragic,” she affirmed, “any other stimulants, tobacco, or…”

Adam watched as Danica painted diagrams on his calf and thigh in Fae blood, eldritch mathematics evidently meant to guide magic through his body like silicon traces channel electrical currents through a circuit board. “Well I had to pop some Elixir during those hauntings a while back..”

Danica made a guttural sound of disgust and frustration in her throat. “That’s poison Adam! It’ll rot you from the inside! Jak mogłeś! Próbuję cię utrzymać przy życiu, durniu!” Danica continued to heap imprecations on Adam in Polish for his stubbornness and general dumbassery as she smoothed some calculations on the clay circle with an iron spade. She began scribing new sigils to account for any necrophage elements that still lingered in Adam’s tissues.

“Why not ask Penelope to perform regeneration rites,” Danica asked later as she took skin, hair, and saliva samples in order to account for the specific concentration of enzymes and other proteins in Adam’s body. “I can sense her power all over you, and the connection between you both would make this easier.”

“Uh her ...what...all over me?”

Danica helped raise Adam up to a sitting position, gingerly trying to avoid the lacerations and bruises that covered the athlete’s body like livid craters. “Relax Casanova,” she teased, stylus tracing a geometric web of interconnected eye-like runes up the length of Adam's spine while trying not to wince at jagged slashes, claw marks, and yellowed contusions that lined his back. “She’s used sanguimancy to put you back together a couple times now right,” she posited, earning a nod of confirmation from Adam. “Magic like that is all about bonds, an exchange of essence that catalyzes a change in reality. It’s in your marrow now Adam.”

The Hunter thought back to that night of that cursed full moon when Nell had performed what she thought would be her last full moon. She’d used both their blood to enkindle new flowers to bloom and that evening had left Adam with an inkling of the grand unity of life her arts entailed. “Yeah, that makes sense I guess.”

“There's another connection too,” Danica began, “emotion is a higher…”

Adam’s snort of jocular derision turned to a hacking cough as his broken ribs sent shuddering spasms of pain up his chest. “Sorry, I’m shit at talking about that stuff,” he admitted.

“Well you might need to start,” Danica snapped. She pressed Adam’s head down to start on a greater symbol of cerebral warding on the nape of his neck, the closed eye surrounded by a Solomonic temple and pentacle serving as a sort of occult circuit breaker that’d stop the spell’s energy from liquifying Adam’s grey matter. “Look Adam I’m not trying to slut shame you here,” she began more gently. “But Nell’s exile now, the support structure we grew up in is closed to her. We’re forbidden from even speaking with her...”

Adam met Danica’s grey eyes and comprehended that he was the sorceress' only point of contact with the woman she had to publicly denounce as an apostate. “Nell’s more than just a good time to me,” he rasped quietly, breathing shallow. “I know I’m a piece of shit when it comes to girls but I wouldn’t lie...not about that.”

Danica’s soft exhalation of relief might’ve been a bit insulting, but Adam had never been shy about explicitly stating what he wanted and what he had no interest in. “I know Esther raised all you Walkers to survive the zombie apocalypse or whatever,” Danica sighed as she began tracing the veins and muscles of Adam’s battered left arm in symbols. “But maybe drop those defenses a little for Nell? She needs more than a soldier.”

Adam bit his split bottom lip, watching Danica’s expression with bloodshot eyes. “You’re really worried about her aren’t you,” he noted, choosing not to take offense at this butting into his personal life.

Danica brushed dark tresses of hair away from her face, bracelets inscribed with aspects of the many-faced goddess letting out a metallic click on her wrists. “Necromancy, exile, hooking up with a Hunter, and getting into ...this…” Danica held up Adam’s arm to his own face, giving him a clear view of livid lesions and fingers snapped by blunt force trauma. “Yes I’m worried!”

“I’ll make sure she makes out, no matter what,” Adam assured, before raising both lacerated eyebrows at Danica’s fervent curse in Polish that he was probably luckily not understanding.

“That's exactly what I’m afraid of,” Danica sighed as she wrote equations in alchemical script across the Hunter’s forehead and temples. “Look I’m about to rip your body apart and put it together again.” The witch nodded to the human corpse and stone slabs with struggling animals tied to them that formed a sacrificial perimeter around the clay circle, raw fleshly materials for the spell. “Even with all this? There's a good chance you won’t make it Adam.”

“I know.”

Danica met those dark bloodshot eyes, so eerily devoid of fear or hesitation. “Fuck Hunters,” she exclaimed under her breath while placing a ward on Adam’s right pectoral that’d hopefully keep his heart from suffering a corner spasm during the impending ritual’s trauma. “Whatever took your powers? It’s a wound in your psyche, your soul even, and I don’t mean that figuratively.”

“That’s a thing?”

The healer nodded as she drew an intricate branching tree of overlapping runic circle’s down Adam’s sternum, with its roots twinning around his abdominal muscles. “Whatever you and Nell are doing is making it worse...like alot worse,” she emphasized. “There’s nothing I can do for that, the soul can’t be transmuted,” the medical alchemist admitted. “The best thing you could possibly do right now is stop whatever this mission is before …”

“I need to do this,” Adam said with quiet firmness, unmoved even after realizing the cults’ attempts to break his and Nells’ will to resist were hitting deeper than he’d even thought possible. “I just need to last long enough to see it though.”

“Does that still take priority over everything,” Danica prodded, as if holding out hope that Adam would fight harder for the people closest to him rather than the abstract of humanity. “Even with your powers gone?”

Adam’s silence and thousand yard stare at the sanctum’s cold stone walls was answer enough. He didn’t stir at the shrill screams of rabbits having their throats slit by Danica’s sanctified athame. The high squeal of slaughtered swine joined the last braying of a goat rasping into silence.��

Blood slid down long slanted groves in the stone floor, flowing into the alchemical equations that Danica had scribed into the circle of river clay. A hiss was followed by an eruption of viscous scarlet vapor, as if the blood had become a silken cloud. The clay began to writhe and shift of its own accord. Animal bodies and a human corpse wriggled down through groves in a grotesque parody of animation, melding into the roiling clay in a sickening crunch of bones and sloshing meat.

“Last chance Walker,” Danica said, almost pleadingly.

Adam looked at the roiling ring of earth, blood, and flesh that’d become a single promethean substance. Nausea filled his gut at the thought of whatever the hell this was getting inside of him. But Adam hadn’t been raised to flinch from duty’s cost.

“Whatever it takes,” he answered.

Bowing her head, Danica spoke the concluding sequence of the grand equation written through the room and Adam’s very flesh.

Adam watched in sweat-soaked shock as his own arm ripped open, the slick strands of nerves, veins, and tendons uncoiling like unspooled thread from his bones. Adam’s world went white as ocular nerves and muscle were torn from his skull. The ring of flesh clay rushed inward, smothering Adam’s flayed body in a glissading mass. Everything became pain, sickening warmth, and the bodily alienation of things slithering around inside of him.

Danica’s chanting rose as ambient power thrummed through air, incantation harmonizing with Adam’s agonizing screams till all was one.

#solo

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talesfromthegameff14 · 3 years

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When the Past Breathes: Part Two

[Part One, Part Three] [Writing Music: https://youtu.be/JN_rpw9Yzwc CW: Violence, Combat, Blood, Death, Implied Maiming] If the message had come from anyone else and in any other way Aya would have been suspicious of it. But the old protocol and codes were drilled into the Xaela’s head even after being away from the Doman Resistance the past few years. The handwriting was undeniable too, the well known quirks of brush standing out against the plain paper. It confirmed what little he’d found out about Melody’s kidnapper and then some, everything he needed to get justice, no vengeance was held in his hand. The only downside? No time. He’d have to leave in, eyes darted up to the clock beside Aya on the wall, two hours to do it safely. No time. But when would he get a chance like this again? Never. A heavy sigh escaped the Xaela, eyes scanning the letter once more, mouth moving as he committed the words to memory. What he whispered didn’t match what was on the paper, not entirely, a conversation about coffee prices in Kugane holding much more value than that. Two hours. No time to question, only time to trust and go. “One more time Hibiki, one more time.” ---------------------------------------

It was strange, hunting alone. Years of having the luxury of someone nearby to help watch, fight, protect made Aya acutely aware of the solitary silence that he waited in. Never alone though, heart aware of the warmth of gold that he carried with him on every step to this point. Gold that would guide him home no matter that happened tonight. Fatigue was already pulling at him though, once he could have crouched here all night without having to stifle a single yawn. Time and stress had taken its toll on the Xaela though, body whittled down to muscle and sinew in an unhealthy way, keen reflexes dulled by the grind of a constant lack of sleep. Gloved fingers carefully slide into the pouch on his hip, drawing out a grass packet. A quick tear of teeth and the packet is opened so Aya could pour the powder into his mouth. It took time for him to swallow all the grit, not daring further movement to get water to wash it down. The ma huang hit like a dzo kick to the chest, Aya’s eyes watering from the sudden sharpness everything abruptly took on. Too long since he’s used this too, a strained adrenal system being forced into high gear whether it wanted to or not. One more price to add to the list of debts he’s been steadily racking up. Discipline served him well as he waited in the shadow of the trees near Baelsar's Wall, riding the adrenaline wave with no outlet for it. The guard that had been turning a blind eye to the ‘Elezen’ that was traveling over the Wall was dealt with. The corpse that was slowly draining blood out into the hollow of a tree wasn’t going to cause Aya any problems now. Thoughts in the present and drifting to the past, too many reminders of a hunt much like this one to keep perfect focus on the now. The screams of a woman being ignored in favor of the hunt, brown eyes that didn’t stay brown but kept switching to a haunted, fearful violet urging him to hunt, to kill. Patience he told the eyes, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it of the screams that echoed in the sterile, metal room. He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to move but knowing he cannot. Not yet. Then the warmth of gold chased away the screams, leaving only the Fire of his Heart behind. The past retreated back to where it belonged, but the bloodshot violet eyes lingered, held close by Gold and Song alike. Never alone. No, not even here.

It made the waiting easier, kept Aya from sliding into the past, though it did nothing to abate the rage that chilled the air around him as he knelt as still as stone. The full moon rose high in the sky above the watchful Xaela, shards of silver filtering through the leafy canopy made the shadows dance from the wind that tickled the dry and dying leaves. It almost masked the sound of footsteps passing by, but keen horns picked up the difference between wind and man, Aya’s head slowly turning to follow the sound. Two, as expected. Hibuki said that he always kept a guard with him in full magitek armor. That would make things more difficult, but not impossible. Careful, he had a promise to keep and a call to home that could not be ignored. Yet... Eyes closed again and Aya took a deep, silent breath and let it out just as slow. Another, and another until the promise of home faded from his mind. It was a distraction the Warrior could ill afford now that the moment was here. There was only one reason for him to be here, Jovian must die. Thoughts focused on the goal, holding nothing else close even as dark and bright eyes watched and yearned for vengeance for their pain. The booted feet past, one step far heavier than the other despite the skill of the one wearing the armor. Trying to be discrete, but not entirely silent, there was no need after all. The dead guard was paid off, the patrols known and memorized so that they would pass when no other was here, unseen from one place to the next.

No one except a xaela with a thirst for blood. A few more heartbeats and Aya slipped out of his hiding place, wind that was scented faintly with sweet grasses sending the crisp leaves dotting the forest floor scattering about. A distraction and cover for the sounds he made as he sprinted forward. One strike. It was all he needed. Instinct had Jovian turning towards his impending death, but the slim spy wasn’t Aya’s first target. A sweep of his katana through the air before he was within striking distance sent three, dark edged, aether blades cutting through the air. All three slammed into the back of the armored man with Jovian, piercing the metal shell and sending the guard sprawling out face first on the forest floor. The sound of a shot echoed through the trees, covering the sound of metal rending metal as the helmeted head was separated from the armored shoulders, skidding off to thump against a tree in a macabre parody of a child ball being kicked across the ground. Jovian’s aim was true, the bullet opening a hole in armor and the flesh of Aya’s thigh.

The force of the blow had the Xaela staggering backwards, breath catching in his lungs from the spike of pain, giving Jovian time to get off another shot. This shot was aimed higher, Aya just barely avoided the projectile that tore a large hole at chest height in the tree behind him. No words were spoken between the two, no posturing or accusations joined the sound of another bullet leaving Jovian’s gun that impacted wood and not flesh. The cover worked in Aya’s favor when he was hiding, but it worked against him now. Shots rang out whenever the Xaela tried to get closer to his target, driving him back behind a tree and getting no closer to the spy. The dance between them was led by Jovian, traveling along the path of his choice, leading to escape.

The barrage of shots kept Aya pinned behind the trees as the two fought, trying to finish the deadly gambit before the Wood Wailers could interfere. Time was running out as quickly as the blood was traveling down the Xaela’s leg. Already he was slowing, the ma haung only able to do so much to keep Aya on his feet. “No time.”, he whispered, pressing up against the tree he was standing behind and going still once more. If he could get around him, between him and the small airship waiting, Aya could force the issue, but if this kept up his quarry was going to escape scott free. No TiME, No tiME, NO tImE, No TIME! It was a gamble, and an insane one, but he was running out of options too quickly. A deep breath, a drawing of aether and a glove pulled off so claws could dig lightly into flesh. Blood welled up around the claws and then Aya dove and rolled out from behind the tree that he was using as cover. A staccato of sounds occurred all at once. The whoosh of quickly growing flame as the flicked blood droplets turned into individual balls of fire. Each one streaking through the air in Jovian’s direction in a flare of light against the darkness. The crackle wasn’t loud enough to cover the thump of bullets into the ground, then the oddly wet and metallic sound of one impacting Aya as he got to his feet and bolted to the next tree. Pain flared down his arm, white-hot and numbing all at once, fingers twitching uselessly from the sensation. It wasn’t his left arm, katana still firmly held by that hand as he kept moving, but slower now, doing his best to not make a sound of pain and keep his ragged breathing under control. Shadows flickered around the Xaela as he moved and the few haphazard shots that followed weren’t aimed in his direction. Soon enough the airship was spotted, hidden by brush and tall trees that were perfect for hiding behind.

Picking one that would likely have Jovian pass by it, Aya leaned against the massive oak, reaching into the pouch on his back to quaff a healing potion in hopes it would keep him on his feet long enough to finish this. A crack of a branch, not close enough to do Aya any good, but closer than before. The warm steppes wind flicked out in that direction, seeking, only to find nothing, the warning to wait whispering in Aya’s horns. A deep breath, pushing away the feeling of a clock ticking down to nothing, the frantic beeps flashing red and green within his memory. Instinct knew more than the mind, the Warrior’s blade flashing dark edged in the light of Chaand’s smile as it cut cleanly through the tree between Aya and Jovian. The tip of the blade appeared with a wet, sickening sound as it slid through wood and flesh with deceptive ease. The edge a glinting red just above the tall spy’s sternum like an odd jewel hanging from a necklace. With a grunt Aya pulled the blade back out of the tree, the thud of a body hitting the leaf covered ground letting him know that he struck true. It was over. Now, now, he could remember who he was and go home.

--------------------------------------- Morning dawned bright the next day, the elementals rumbling in anger and discontent. The Wood Wailers were the first to arrive, following the path of destruction to the mangled and desecrated corpse at the base of one of the taller oak trees in the woods. The untouched third eye and the hidden airship weren’t the cause of the scouts' unease, three pairs of eyes drawn to the dying tree. Veins of black ran through every leaf left on spreading branches turning the once vibrant red and orange leaves grimly unsettling. It was clear that the taint originated at the large, crumbling hole about shoulder height in the center of the trunk. A wound that slowly grew as they watched, consuming the tree from within. Once the shock wore off, the hushed speculation started as they dealt with the airship and waited for the Hearer to show up. A new Garlean weapon? Or was this the Black Rose they heard whispers about from the front? Surely that was just a rumor, wasn’t it?

#ffxiv rp #OC Stories #ayanga uyagir #also Khenbish #vengeance is the answer sometimes #at least one lizard thinks so #Hibiki = An #betcha didn't know that #hehehehehehe #tangled webs

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tabbyclaw · 4 years

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So you know all those Feelings I mentioned having about the Miraculous Ladybug season 2 finale? I wrote ‘em down, finally.

The city rarely ever sees Gabriel Agreste in person, hidden as he always is behind the walls of his home and the screens that connect him to the outside world. And it certainly never sees him as anything other than cold and collected, the distant and disdainful designer who has far too much going on in his own life to care a whit for anyone else's. He has crafted his image far too carefully to let it slip, and he is at all times aware of exactly what the city sees when it looks at him.

But today, any part of the city that cares to look up from its celebration of another crisis averted by its resident heroes will see him running, hellbent and heedless as he tears through the streets of Paris, ignoring both the revelers around him and the pain that dogs his steps and threatens to send him sprawling. Anyone who looks closely enough will see the way his usual mask has fallen, giving way to the desperate despair of a man who still has so much to lose and knows he may already be too late to save it.

He knows all of this, knows that he's breaking every rule he has about what the world is allowed to see of him. But today, he doesn't care.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The word reverberates in his head with every pounding footfall, aimed at a constantly-shifting target. At this entire city, and the fools within it who don’t understand his grand plans. At Nathalie, whose intelligence and level head have always been as valuable to him as her unflagging loyalty, and who should know better than to allow one to override the other like this. At himself, for choosing to pretend that he didn't know she would do exactly that if she felt it necessary.

Let me show you a man who has nothing left to lose.

Stupid. He said the words as if they were true, and now some malevolent force wants to ensure that they will be.

The house is empty, cold and cavernous and lonely as it always is, as Gabriel has grown accustomed to its being. But now that hollowness echoes in his bones as it hits him that even this vast and empty place could be made more empty. There is a pain in his chest that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the silent pleading that has drowned out all the other shouts in his head. No. Not another one. Not again. That pain drives him forward even as all the other pains of his body try to drag him down, the hits that he took in the battle -- the brawl; what was he thinking, how wildly desperate was he -- growing harder to ignore. He fights past them as he has fought past every other obstacle that has dared to stand before him, tearing through the house with the same singularity of purpose with which he tore through the streets, not even taking the time to make sure that Adrien isn’t nearby before he activates the secret entrance. His son is elsewhere, safe with his bodyguard; Scarlet Moth saw to that at least. (Adrien has to be safe, because Nathalie isn't, and Gabriel can only focus on one crisis at a time right now.) He makes only the briefest pause before the room really comes into view, bracing himself for what he knows he might see before he forces himself to look.

The figure on the floor is all of his worst fears laid out before him, Nathalie collapsed on her side and surrounded by akumas that flit about her, dimly curious about this new intrusion. Her eyes are closed, her skin too pale, her body too slack and motionless, and Gabriel knows that he won't be able to breathe again until he sees her do so. The akumas fly up in a glowing cloud as he falls to his knees beside her, and for a moment he has the mad thought that he needs to protect her from them, waving them away and shielding her body with his. He touches her too-cool cheek and gently lifts her chin up, looking for any signs of life. "Nathalie. Nathalie, please."

There is a shallow breath there, and a slow but steady pulse. Gabriel exhales helplessly, relief nearly collapsing him, and then his touch seems to set something off, because suddenly Nathalie's entire body is wracked by a violent, painful coughing fit. Gabriel forces down a new wave of fear -- she's alive, but who knows what kind of damage she might have suffered -- and gets an arm under her shoulders, drawing her up into a sitting position so that she can actually get some air. "It's all right," he promises her softly, trying to convince himself as much as her. "It's over now. You're safe. Just breathe."

There's a pause in the spasms, enough for Nathalie to draw a few real breaths, some of the color starting to come back to her face. But she's still barely conscious, eyes closed and face lined with pain, and when Gabriel touches her face again to get a better look at her she turns and presses her head against his chest, exhausted and hurting and needing something -- someone -- to lean on. He lets her, curling his arm around her to pull her closer and bending his head protectively over hers, breathing slowly and steadily as if it will encourage her to do the same. On her jacket the peacock pin glints dully, its power hidden once again, and he hates how much he wishes he could have seen it in action. Could have seen her in action. She must have been glorious.

The coughing starts up again, and with it the sick feeling in Gabriel's chest. She's hurt, and she's in danger, and it was all in service to him. She was willing to risk everything to save him, and now he has to do everything in his power to save her. With great difficulty he gets back to his feet with her in his arms, carrying her out of the observatory as if he's carrying her out of a burning building. She needs to be away from this place of dark and brooding power; even if he has no further understanding of what he can do for her he knows that much. She needs light, she needs air, she needs...

She needs to be somewhere that other people are allowed to know about, in case she needs medical attention.

The recriminations that have been jangling in his head now start accusing him of being selfish, of prioritizing his secrets over her safety, but he fights them down. These are her secrets now, too -- was there ever a time when they weren't? -- and if he doesn't protect himself then he can't protect her, either. And -- the thought hits him with a sort of grim humor and he grits his teeth in a parody of a smile -- she would definitely have something to say if he repaid all that she's done to keep his secrets safe by letting them be revealed anyway for her sake. He would never hear the end of it, although that still sounds more appealing than the silence he’s hearing from her now.

He carries her as far as he can before his own body starts to protest, and by the time he sets her down in a chair she's starting to come back to herself. He’s kneeling in front of her by the time she finally opens her eyes and really looks at him, and when she does he feels like he's the one who's been rescued. Again. His attempts to reproach her are pleading, desperate, and he is already aware of their futility. Her eyes may be warm and tender as she smiles down at him, but they're still just as hard and unyielding as they are when she faces down a business associate on his behalf, refusing to bend in a negotiation with another designer, or a model, or Audrey. She is the immovable object to his unstoppable force, as she always has been, and even now that she’s using that determination to stand against him he can't help but admire her for it, as he always has. He's on his knees asking her to be a little less devoted to him, and she's looking down on him and refusing to do so, and that doesn't feel as backwards as it should. He breathes out a sigh, torn between frustration and gratitude, and as his hand touches hers he decides to come down on the side of gratitude. He can't stop her and he can't deny that he needs her, so the least he can do is accept it with as much grace as he can manage. "Thank you, Nathalie."

Her hand turns to curl around his as if she's grateful for the touch, and a soft warmth flows into her smile for a moment before another bout of coughing pulls her away from him, makes her curl up on herself as if she's protecting a vulnerable spot. "I'm all right," she insists as soon as she has breath enough to do so, not even waiting for him to express his concern before trying to deflect it.

"You're not." He still knows how futile it is to argue with her, and yet he can't stop himself from at least trying. "You need a doctor." And what will you tell them happened to her, Gabriel? How do you intend to explain this?

Her expression is asking the same questions as the voice in his head, and even if she’s having a hard time keeping her head up her gaze is still solid and steady. "I'm all right," she repeats, squeezing her eyes closed and sighing. "I just need..."

"You need to rest," Gabriel cuts in, not letting her continue to prevaricate, and it's a small victory when she gives a little nod. He makes a weak sound that almost approaches a chuckle. "You can't help me if you're not going to help yourself."

That ghost of a smile is back as Nathalie shakes her head. "No, sir," she agrees, gently resigned. When Gabriel sighs his relief that she's not going to argue any further, she fishes for her phone. “I’ll see myself home. I imagine that you have enough to worry about withou-- Adrien!” She draws herself up quickly enough that she has to catch her breath, looking as worried as Gabriel isn’t allowing himself to feel yet. “Where is he?”

“He is in capable hands,” Gabriel assures her, distracting himself from the fact that he doesn’t know the answer to that question himself, and it’s apparently enough of an answer to quell her immediate concern. "You don’t need to worry. I won't let him be put at risk, not anymore. He has his bodyguard with him, and I… I trust my people." It’s something he needs to tell himself as much as he needs to tell her, and to try to believe it as much as she seems to at the moment. One crisis at a time. "I will make certain that he’s being properly taken care of as soon as I've done the same for you. Which I can't do if you're not here." Nathalie still has her phone raised, presumably to call for someone to drive her home, and he gently places a hand over it and pushes it down, urging her to look at him instead. She blinks at him, appropriately confused by this reaction, and he breathes out. "Stay. Please. Just... just until the dust settles. Until we know there aren't going to be any... aftereffects. Nobody will bother you in the guest suite, and if anything happens..." He trails off, not having an end to that sentence. What solution does he think he would actually be able to offer if some vague something really did happen? "You'll at least be somewhere safe," he eventually manages.

Nathalie is looking startled again, knees up near her chest and her body language as wary as a wounded animal, but as Gabriel keeps on talking, keeps on making his absurd pitch at her, he can see her starting to relax a little. Believing him when he says she'll be safe here, or at least letting herself believe it even if they both know he can make no such guarantee. He can see her doing the math and weighing the options in her head, although he's not sure exactly what numbers she's using. Finally she lets go of a little breath, and with it some of that cold precision with which she always carries herself. "It would probably be better for everyone if nobody sees me like this," she says quietly, and it makes about as much sense as any argument that Gabriel has offered for keeping her here. Which means that it's enough to keep up the pretense that there's some practical reason for this need to stay together a little while longer, that they're reacting reasonably rather than huddling together like children hiding from a thunderstorm. Her lip curls up ever so slightly as she looks at him again, rueful and apologetic even as she gives in, as if she still feels like she’s the one who’s causing the problem somehow.

He doesn't know what else to say, if there is more to say, and so he simply nods and rises to his feet, which takes far more effort than he was expecting. He can feel every hit that those kids landed on him, and every year that he has on them besides. There's a reason that he does all of his work from the shadows. He tries to cover up a wince as he reaches for her hand to help her out of the chair.

Of course it doesn’t work, not with all the practice Nathalie has had in reading him better than anyone else can. "You're hurt, too," she reminds him, just as gently scolding as he was, face just as creased with concern. She stands without his help, although unsteadily, and takes a few steps forward to get a better look at him.

"Only bruised," Gabriel insists, which is mostly true, and plenty of those bruises are in places he'd rather not discuss. Including his pride. Her wounds came from opening herself up to an ancient and unstable magical force in order to come to his rescue. His came from getting knocked around by a pair of superpowered teenagers. Given the circumstances, the idea of her trying to be the one to fuss over him seems both backwards and demoralizing. He reaches out a hand to help stabilize her, touching her arm and inviting her in closer. "And it would have been much worse if you hadn't stepped in."

The look she gives him -- or doesn't give him, ducking her head abruptly -- says that she's not any more eager to be reminded of that part than he is. And maybe he shouldn't want to remind her of it either, shouldn’t point out that this terrible risk she took paid off this time, but it's a hard truth that he can't shake. He needed her in that moment, and she was there, and he can't help but be grateful for that, knowing what could have happened otherwise. But her voice is quiet when she speaks, and heavy with regret. "I should have done more. I would have, if I could."

Gabriel is keenly aware of how inappropriate it would be to wrap his arms around Nathalie, to hold her firmly enough to pull her away from this incomprehensible moment of self-doubt. It would be unprofessional, and undoubtedly unwelcome, and definitely awkward with as far out of practice as he is, but it still takes a bit of effort to push the unexpected desire away. He sighs softly. "You have already done everything."

Nathalie seems to have no immediate response to that, except to accept his silent invitation. She takes another step or two into his reach, starting to turn her head towards the hallway that he's trying to guide her down, towards the stairs and the guest suite. Gabriel tucks her against his side, easing her arm up around his back to give her a little bit of support, and her lack of resistance is indicator enough that she needs it. When they begin to take a step forward, however, they both falter, his aching steps hardly starting out any better than hers, and it's a long moment before they can actually make a move. For a while they simply lean on each other, slumped together, her hand digging into his ribs and his head bent low over hers. A pair of broken people, far beyond the reach of any lucky charm, doing what they can to make their own luck.

Eventually they try to move again, and this time they're both more steady, even if they continue to lean on each other. After a moment or two Gabriel is fairly certain that he could let go of Nathalie and walk on his own without too much difficulty, and he’s starting to think that she’d be equally all right if he did so. But he’s also fairly certain that neither of them wants to let go of the other, and they're not going to risk upsetting whatever strange balance they've built by acknowledging that. Let it be, don't ask too many questions about it, and don't look too far ahead. As they have both done about so much over the years.

The guest suite is made up and aired out and ready for an occupant, as it always is. It's out of habit now, and some strange sense of order, more than the thought that anyone might ever stay there, that there might be some welcomed visitor to this lonely and isolated place, some intruder on the solitude that Gabriel has built for himself. Its pristine state seems almost to be a monument to that isolation. Even Nathalie, who has seen so many days of preparation for the launch of a new collection turn into all-night assignments that she keeps an overnight bag stashed in one of the hall closets during the busy season, has always caught her snatches of sleep in a convenient chair rather than impose herself on Gabriel's hospitality. Rather than pretend she is an actual guest. That thought seems to hang over both of them, and Gabriel has to nudge himself to push them both over the threshold and into the empty and peaceful quiet beyond it. Once he does, though, once that final permission has been granted, Nathalie instantly sinks into the feeling of the room. The last vestiges of that careful grace she's been carrying herself with fall away, and her head sinks down to her chest with a deep sigh. She steps away from Gabriel delicately, startling slightly when he tries for the barest moment to hold onto her for a little longer.

The feeling is fleeting, Gabriel's worry given a life of its own and then fading into the background. He starts to leave, to let her be alone with her exhaustion and her vulnerability, but of course there's one more order of business that must be addressed. He clears his throat wordlessly, and when Nathalie turns back to face him he raises an eyebrow and holds out his hand.

For just the barest moment she tries to play dumb, her face carefully quizzical, as if she's hoping that he'll just forget what he's driving at. She knows better than to press her luck, though, and after a second she unclasps the peacock pin and drops it into his waiting hand. As his fingers close around it she tips her chin up at him, that cool defiance blazing in her eyes again. She's silent, but the look on her face is clear: I will not hesitate to call on this power again if it is necessary.

He looks back down at her, equally silent, his face equally clear: I know.

The door closes behind him, leaving him alone in the hall, and he takes a moment to be relieved that that's one concern settled -- at least for the moment -- before moving on to the next one: composing himself and hiding his injuries well enough to appear as normal as possible when he seeks out his son and makes sure that he is unharmed. But as he begins to walk away, straightening his back and ignoring the pain as best he can for as long as he can, the peacock remains a heavy weight in his pocket. He takes it out again, looking at it in his hand and feeling like he will never be able to see it without remembering the glint of it on Nathalie’s jacket as she struggled to breathe, and the weight of her head against his chest. It would be so easy to keep it out of her reach. He could move it, or keep it on his person at all times, or even just change the combination on the safe...

He pretends to give the idea some serious thought as he tucks the pin away again, but he knows in his heart that he'll do no such thing. Even with as dearly as he wants to keep her safe, he can't bring himself to reject anything that might give him an advantage in the fight to come. As in all aspects of his life that he has allowed her into, he now needs her far too much to let her go. The decision is made, then, and because he cannot prevent it he will instead choose to embrace it.

Mayura will rise again; no matter what either of them says or does they both know that this is true. And she will be glorious.

And Gabriel can't wait to see it.

#miraculous ladybug #fanfic #nathalie sancoeur #gabriel agreste #starting the decade off with angsty cartoon villain UST #this is the most on-brand thing I have ever done

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