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javier-pena · 4 months

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Pairing: Marcus Pike x Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 11.1k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus, Din and you used to be best friends. Now you're on opposite sides of the law with a decade worth of grudges between you. But hate can quickly become something else ...

Notes: "A friends -> enemies -> throuple vibe with cowboy!Din Djarin, cowboy!Marcus Pike, and a third person" was what @quinnnfabrgay-writes wished for for @pedrostories' Secret Santa event and i took it and ran with it for 11k words ... dear, Kaitlin, I hope I got it right and you'll have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. As always, this story wouldn't be what it is without Dani @alexturner who calmed me down when I was still far far away from completing this fic two weeks before the deadline!

***

1866/67

You were all together and it was perfect. Until you weren’t anymore, and you lost your anchor in life, your true north. Oaths given and promises made didn’t mean anything when you were not yet grown but already too old to believe in miracles.

The day Marcus told you and Din he was moving away was the day you made the acquaintance of grief. The childish part of you had thought the three of you would stay together forever, just like you had promised each other last summer lying in the grass by the river. Wherever life would take one of you, the others would follow. But you were barely 13 and couldn’t decide your own fate yet. So when winter came around and the grass died and the river froze over, the promises of the summer had to be broken too.

Marcus just dropped the news while the three of you were out hunting – or pretending to – in the forest behind town. He couldn’t even look at you when he said it. And he didn’t go after Din when Din stormed off, leaving you to listen to Marcus’ excuses. The only thing you thought would be the one constant in your life ran like dirt through your fingers that afternoon. A few weeks later, you saw Marcus for the last time, astride a horse next to his father, leaving town without looking back. With him left a part of your childish innocence.

The grown-up part of you understood. Marcus was a boy, he had to go where his father commanded his family to go. And his father had just been promoted to sheriff – in a town two states away. Of course, Marcus had to go with him, but you still resented him for it. Why couldn’t he stand up to his father and stay? Maybe find work on the same ranch as Din? Din, after all, was your age too, and an orphan, and was doing well by himself. If Din could be self-reliant, why not Marcus?

At least you still had Din and he had you. You tried to keep your friendship alive, visited him on the ranch, invited him to town, sent him gifts when you yourself had less than nothing, just to see him smile. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough. And when the snow disappeared under the warm spring sun, Din disappeared too, without a word, without a trace. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. That taught you there was a grief worse than your best friend telling you he was moving away. It was your best friend deeming you not important enough for a goodbye.

When the next summer came around, it was only you who was lying in the grass by the river. Your big, childish eyes that had hungrily taken in the wonders around you were narrowed, your heart that had been wide open to the people around you was firmly locked. Neither Din nor Marcus had contacted you in the months since they had left and now you knew – relying on someone else only meant pain and heartbreak. Trusting someone else with a piece of yourself would only leave you lying in the dirt, bloodied and bruised.

That afternoon, you made a promise to yourself: you would never need another person again. You would never give away a piece of yourself again. You would protect yourself at all costs, even if it meant cutting yourself off from the rest of the world. Whatever happened, you would never experience grief like this ever again.

1879

Your arms are stiff and painful when you wake up. The bonds tying your wrists together haven’t loosened at all during the night. You groan and your bottom lip tears open – you’re parched, you’re tired, you’re in pain.

“Mornin’,” Marcus says, stoking the fire with a stick.

Without a word, you roll over onto your other side, so you’re facing away from him. You hear his sure steps, spurs jingling every time his boots land on the cold, hard dirt, and then he rolls you back toward him with a gentle touch to your shoulder. Before you can protest, he pressed the nozzle of a waterskin to your lips and makes you drink. You collect some of the water in your mouth, then spit it right back in his face. He wipes himself dry with a neutral expression, then retreats to the fire, picking up where he left off.

“I’m just tryin’ to be kind,” he mumbles, as if he’s trying to reassure himself he’s doing the right thing. You pretend you haven’t heard him.

His horse whinnies softly when the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts across your camp. Your stomach growls as you’re trying to figure out when you had your last meal. Yesterday morning, you conclude, before Marcus Pike forced himself back into your life, polished boots on his feet and a gleaming star on his chest, heavy shackles in his hand and a loaded gun strapped to his side. That wanted poster stuffed into his back pocket was all the authorization he needed to arrest you, and you let him, because his reappearance after twelve years of absence made you freeze like prey. The only people who could have saved you, Burke and Bridger and the other members of your gang, were too far away to do anything about your arrest.

“You hungry?” he asks from his crouching position next to the fire. “There’s still some beans left over from last night.” The beans you refused to eat. “I could warm them up for you.”

You pretend you haven’t heard him, focusing on an ant scurrying across dried grass and tiny pebbles. He doesn’t get to talk to you, much less cook.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me eventually,” he adds, his voice melodic and clear in the cold morning air.

You don’t, because you don’t owe him anything, and after two more attempts he gives up. Even though your stomach is empty, growling hungrily, it’s also filled with the warmth of pride as you ride next to him later, hands bound to the horn of the saddle. All you have to do is to stay strong until you reach your destination, some jail or other in a dirty town. He’ll never find out that you know who he is if you play your cards right. Let the doubt and prospect eat away at his heart.

“You’ve changed,” he observes some time around midday, as you ride next to each other on a well-worn path over the plains. “When we were kids, you could never shut up.”

You pretend to be interested in the flight of a northern harrier high up in the sky, acting as if you didn’t hear him.

“I always expected you to make a good match or open up a tailor shop,” Marcus goes on, seizing you up from below the brim of his white hat that is too bright in the midday sun. “I never expected this of you.”

His comment gets to you, worming its way under your skin like a splinter ready to infect you with a fever. You bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t shoot him a snide remark. He doesn’t get to hurt you, not again.

“What’s done is done,” he says next, and his horse shakes its head with a snort as if its’ agreeing. “Maybe a few years in prison will clear your head and set you straight.”

The splinter is infected now; it happened much faster than you had expected. The infection spreads to your stomach, making it bubble with acid, it spreads to your cheeks, sets them on fire with anger and shame. You dig your nails into the leather of the saddle and fill your lungs with air, ready to scream all the ugly things at him that you’ve contained for more than a decade. But before you can form a single syllable, the distant roll of thunder interrupts you, the distant pounding of hooves on dirt.

Marcus hears it too, and his hand instinctively flies to the colt strapped to his side. He glances around, eyes narrowed against the sun, but you spot it before he does – a tall rider on a gray horse, so darkly colored it looks black, rushing toward you as if hellhounds are after him, their fangs bared. You don’t know what to make of that sight, but you’re acutely aware of your defenselessness. If he means you harm, you’ll be completely at his mercy. Marcus seems to be thinking the same thing as he glances over at you, but you make a point of facing the approaching rider, your face blank. You don’t want his concern, especially not since it’s his fault you’re in this situation.

The gray horse comes to an abrupt stop a few yards away from you. Its rider is wearing a hat that matches the color of its coat, and his face is hidden by a dark bandanna tied across his mouth and nose and cheeks, so only his brown eyes are visible. Where one hand holds onto the reins of his horse, the other holds a shotgun, propped against his hip so the barrel points up to the sky.

“She’s mine, Pike,” he growls, even before the dust has settled.

“Now, hold your horses,” Marcus says, sizing up the newcomer. “I am an agent of the law, deliverin’ this here prisoner –”

“– into my hands,” the stranger finishes, now aiming the barrel of the shotgun straight at Marcus’ chest.

Your gaze wanders between the two, trying to figure out who is the lesser evil.

“Careful.” Marcus’ voice is steady, but his hand that he lifts instinctively in front of his chest is shaking. His other hand, however, cocks the hammer of his colt in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Don’t be a hero.” The stranger flicks his gun to Marcus’ side, then back onto his chest. “You’ll lose.”

You don’t know what it is, if it’s the way he tilts his head or if it’s the way he pronounces his Ls, with a slight lilt to his voice, but suddenly that stranger isn’t a stranger at all.

“Din?” you gasp, and Marcus’ head snaps to you so fast you hear his neck crack.

Din’s eyes don’t even flicker to you. “Move back, Pike,” he orders.

Your head is spinning. If this is really Din, and you’ve never been surer of anything in your life, then you’re saved. You have no idea what you’ve done to deserve this much luck, but you’re not about to look the gift horse in the mouth. And even though both he and Marcus broke your heart twelve years ago, you can already feel it stitch itself back together inside your chest at the sight before you.

“Move back,” Din repeats. “That bounty is mine.”

The carefully placed stitches tear open again and you bleed. He doesn’t know who you are, or he doesn’t care; all he wants is the money. With every stitch that comes undone and every drop of blood you bleed, your heart turns back into a stone that sits heavy inside your chest.

“I’m not movin’ for you.” Marcus spits down into the dirt and for a moment you’re distracted from your pain by that crude action. “Bounty hunter scum.”

A shot rings out as Din fires at Marcus, shooting the hat off his opponent’s head. Marcus’ horse spooks, rears with a loud shriek, and Marcus, who is caught unawares, tumbles down and hits the ground with a heavy thud and a grunt. He’s back on his feet in no time, his body unhurt, his damaged pride only visible by the flush that creeps into his cheeks. You want to shout when he rushes toward Din’s horse, but it all happens so fast, and then Din hits the ground too, pulled out of the saddle, his shotgun discarded somewhere in the dirt.

Marcus hits Din, and you hear a sickening crack when his fist connects with Din’s jaw. He does it again, one hand holding onto the collar of Din’s shirt. But then Din frees himself with a shove, and Marcus stumbles before he hits the ground again when Din returns his punches. Din climbs on top of him, pinning down Marcus’ arms with his knees, and hits him again, cracking open Marcus’ cheek. Marcus grunts in pain and kicks his legs, trying to free himself, but Din appears to be much stronger. He punches and punches with such precision that watching him becomes almost hypnotic until you can’t take it anymore.

“Din!” you shout, and when he doesn’t stop, you kick your horse and steer it next to the two men. “Din!�� you repeat, and he looks up at you, not even a glint of recognition in his eyes. His bandanna hangs askew, but is still covering most of his face. You wonder what he looks like now. “Leave him!” you order, your voice laced with all the hurt you’ve buried for twelve years.

Marcus, his suit dusty and his face bruised, is laughing, and when Din offers him a hand to pull him up, he pulls Din into a tight hug that Din returns with just as much enthusiasm. You can do nothing but stare, feeling dumb.

Once they break apart, Marcus remarks, “You’re strong,” and rubs his chin.

“You too,” Din returns the compliment, patting Marcus’ shoulder.

They have forgotten you’re there. You shrink back in on yourself, hating yourself for wishing they’d just give you one small sign of recognition.

“About her …,” Din starts as if you’re not even there.

“Let’s share the bounty,” Marcus offers without hesitation. “It’s so much money.”

“But you caught her.”

Marcus laughs, and you’re transported back to those long summer days by the river. “And you fought for her. I think that makes us even.”

Din holds out his hand. “Let’s shake on it then.”

Marcus does without hesitation.

And you haven’t felt dirtier in all your life, like you’re nothing but a piece of meat to be bargained with.

*******

When the sun has vanished halfway behind the horizon, you reach a small settlement that is nothing more than a dusty main street and rickety wooden buildings huddled together as if trying to seek comfort. You spent all day riding behind Din and Marcus who talked amicably about their jobs and their lives and their horses while ignoring you. You’re well aware that the tears you fought hard to hold back have left tracks in the dirt on your cheeks, and you wish you could wipe them clean so the men don’t see the evidence of the hurt they’ve caused.

Why don’t they remember you?

Marcus leads your little group to the jail, the only adobe building in the entire town, and is greeted by a dirty man who looks like a weasel.

“Jail’s full,” he says even before Marcus has had time to open his mouth.

“She’s wanted for bank robbery in three states,” Marcus tries.

The man shrugs, unimpressed. “I have a man in there who’s wanted for murder in five.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do with her?” Marcus asks.

The man shrugs again. “Ain’t my problem.”

Marcus looks to Din for help, but Din shrugs too.

Marcus leads you to the saloon next, the only building in town that seems to be busy, and ties his horse up out front. He vanishes inside for a short while, and when he comes back out, he says, “They have one room left.”

“Let’s go,” Din grunts, and pulls you off your horse.

Your legs feel stiff from riding all day, every bone in your body aches from tiredness. You want nothing more than to crumble to the ground and find some rest, but you won’t show any signs of weakness. So you hold your head high and shake off Din’s hands with a snarl, walking into the saloon next to him like an equal, not his prisoner. Marcus leads the way up a creaking wooden staircase and into a dirty corridor that has yellowed pictures on the walls and heavy curtains hanging in front of the windows. From downstairs, you hear the shouts of drunk men and the laughter of women who are paid for their company. You know exactly what kind of establishment you’re in.

Marcus pushes open the door to a room and suddenly the noise from downstairs stops. It’s like you’ve entered another world, maybe one of those fancy hotels back east you sometimes read about in magazines. The curtains in here are a pretty shade of pink, the floors are clean, a fire is crackling in the fireplace, and on a small table in front of the chaise lounge, there are three bowls of steaming hot stew just waiting for you. Off to your left you spot another doorway and through that a big bed covered in white linen. Your body aches with longing.

“Sit,” Din growls, and pushes you onto the chaise lounge. He pulls out more shackles from the saddlebag slung over his shoulder, ones that come with a long chain, and ties you to the chaise lounge. It’s only then you realize the piece of furniture is fixed in place with iron bolts screwed into the floorboards.

Only then does Marcus take off your handcuffs.

You reach for one of the bowls of stew and eagerly begin slurping it down, too hungry to act aloof around the men. You ignore Marcus who throws Din a snide look. Din doesn’t return it; instead, he takes off the bandanna and reaches for a bowl of his own. And you freeze, a piece of half-chewed potato on your tongue. He looks just like the boy you remember, his proud chin and big nose still the defining features in his face. But a stubbly, black beard is covering his jaw now, and a faint scar runs just below his left eye, and his lips are somehow fuller than you remember. You know you’re staring but you can’t help it – you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning.

“Eat your supper,” Marcus snaps at you.

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion or if it’s Din coming back into your life so unexpectedly, but you’ve had it with Marcus Pike. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you snap back.

A smirk lights up Marcus’ face and you wish you could punch him but he’s sitting too far away. “Oh, so you do know how to talk.”

“Marcus …,” Din says, and it sounds like a warning.

“I know how to talk,” you confirm. “I just have nothing to say to you.”

“You had to know you’d get caught sooner or later,” Marcus points out. “No need to be upset. You played a dangerous game and you lost.”

His words hurt more than a slap would have. “That’s not … don’t you remember?”

“He remembers,” Din says quickly before Marcus can reply. “But that was a long time ago. He doesn’t owe you anything.”

“I want to hear it from him.” Your jaw is so tight you have difficulty speaking.

“You broke the law. I caught you. End of story,” is Marcus’ short reply.

You can’t let it go. “So our past doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Din’s right,” Marcus answers with a shrug. “We were just kids. There’s nothing –”

“You promised we’d always be friends,” you interrupt him, your voice so loud it rings in your ears. “You promised, and then you left.” You turn to Din whose gaze is fixed on his half-empty bowl. “Tell him, Din.”

Before Din can say anything, Marcus puts down his bowl with a loud clang. “Now listen here.” Where your voice was full of emotion, his is calculating. “We were kids. We were playing around. You couldn’t honestly have expected me to keep a promise when I couldn’t decide anything for myself. My father –”

“Fuck your father!” you shout. “Din could look after himself too.”

Marcus laughs and it makes you want to press your hands to your ears to black out the sound. “You’re delusional, missy. Why should I have abandoned my family for a ranch hand and some dirt-poor street kid?”

“You promised!” you scream, flinging your bowl across the room so it bursts against the wall, its contents landing on the floor with a wet plop.

Marcus laughs even louder. “By God, those wanted posters are right. You’re insane.”

“That’s enough.” Din’s deep voice makes both you and Marcus pause and look at him. “Ain’t no reason to be cruel to her.”

“Just listen to her.” Marcus runs his fingers through his hair, a gesture you remember all too well.

“I am,” Din answers with a grunt. “Maybe you should, too.”

Marcus takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. A smile tugs on Din’s lips, one that makes your stomach drop. They share some kind of understanding you’re excluded from.

“Alright,” Marcus says with a nod and turns to you. “Say your piece.”

You don’t want him to call you insane again so you will your voice to be steady when you speak. “You and Din, you were my only friends, the only real family I had. We promised each other to … to be there.” The way Marcus looks at you, his cold gaze full of attention, makes your eyes sting with unshed tears. Now that he listens to you, you can’t seem to keep that anger alive. “And I know you had to leave. If my family had left, I don’t think I would’ve stayed behind either. But you … there was no word from you for twelve years. And then you just turn up as if nothing has happened.”

Marcus nods again and turns his attention to Din. “You feel the same way?” he asks.

“No,” is Din’s simple answer.

That stokes the angry fire again. “But you left too.” Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “You left because the memory of him was too painful.”

Now it’s Din’s turn to laugh in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You have no idea why I left.”

“Then tell me,” you demand.

“No.” You’re starting to hate that word. “It had nothing to do with you.”

Before you can press him for an explanation, Marcus clears his throat. “You know where I went. I left you my new address. You also didn’t send word for twelve years.”

“Because you just left,” you say quickly, not prepared to admit that what he’s saying makes sense.

Marcus ignores you. “And what did you expect? You’re practically an outlaw, I’m a sheriff … did you think I’d show up on your doorstep to reminisce about the good old days? I moved on a long time ago and it would be best if you did too.”

“Didn’t it ever occur to you that this might be your fault? If you hadn’t left –”

“Don’t you dare put this on me!” Marcus shouts. “No one forced you to rob banks, that was your decision.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you snap.

Without warning, Marcus lunges at you, hands outstretched, ready to grab any part of your body he can reach. You flinch back, chains scraping against the wooden floorboards, but before he can touch you, Din is there, shielding you with his body.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice strained from holding back Marcus. “Don’t let her get to you.”

Marcus groans, but takes a step back. “She’s …”

“I know,” Din says, throwing you a disdainful loom over his shoulder. “But ain’t we all lookin’ for someone to blame for our misfortunes?”

A tiny little gear starts turning at the back of your mind at hearing him say that. Is that what you’re doing? Putting the blame for your miserable life on someone who wasn’t even present for most of it, just so you don’t have to hold yourself accountable?

“Din …,” you start carefully, no idea what to say to him but hoping you can catch his attention.

Din only has eyes for Marcus though, “It’s late.” He yawns deeply. “We still have a long ride ahead of us. Let’s go hit the hay.”

“We can’t leave –,” Marcus starts.

“We can leave her here. Trust me,” Din adds when Marcus doesn’t move.

Trust me. Those words echo around your mind later when you’re trying to fall asleep, head resting on a prickly pillow, body uncomfortably twisted on the chaise lounge. Sometimes, that echo is replaced with a different one. Ain’t we all looking for someone to blame for our misfortunes? If Marcus hadn’t left, your life could have gone differently. But you made the decision to push everyone away when he was gone. And you made the decision not to reach out to him. And you made the decision to look for guidance in a band of outlaws instead of in your town’s seamstress or in a nice husband or in faith.

A tear rolls down your cheek and lands on the pillow with a soft plop as embarrassment makes you run cold with dread. Ever since Marcus put you in chains, you’ve behaved like a spoiled brat. You didn’t show him you recognized him either, waiting for him to … you don’t know what it is you want from him. He cooked for you, made sure you were somewhat comfortable, considering the circumstances, and you just spit in his face. It’s not surprising he doesn’t want anything to do with you. If your places were reversed …

But before you can finish that thought, you hear a strange noise, a deep, low moan that you can’t quite place, followed by the creaking of an old bedframe. Then you remember the men and women from downstairs, the way the women were sitting in the men’s laps, laughing at their jokes. You hold your breath and prick up your ears, listening for a higher moan, but none comes. Even the bedframe doesn’t creak a second time. It’s only when you really listen that you can hear strangled pants, as if someone is trying to keep quiet.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it.”

Your whole body turns stiff as a board at the sound of Din’s voice, louder than any sounds you heard so far, too loud on your eagerly listening ears. Your face heats up instantly and you squirm, your heart jumping into your throat. No, you’re imagining things … there is no way this sound could have come from Din. He’s in the bedroom with Marcus, not …

Again, your thoughts are interrupted, this time by a low grunt, followed by a sharp intake of breath that is released into the most sinful moan you’ve ever heard. And this time, there is no doubt about who is making those sounds and where they’re coming from. Because while that moan is still sticking to your eardrums like honey, you hear Din’s voice again, sharper this time.

“Will you look at that? So eager, and I haven’t even started yet.”

You press your palms to your ears, hands clammy with shame. Are you more embarrassed for them because you can hear them so clearly or for yourself because your childhood best friends, both men …? You’re not stupid, you’ve heard stories about how men sometimes prefer the company of other men, but a part of you thought those were tall tales, told because it sounded so forbidden. But Din and Marcus …

Carefully, you lift one hand of your ear and listen. At first, you don’t hear anything, but the more you try, the clearer you hear it: sheets rustling, low, breathless pants, even the sound of skin moving against skin. You listen with bated breath, very aware that you shouldn’t, but even though your stomach is still in knots, something else is happening to your body too. A hungry pressure between your legs demands your attention, but you ignore it by digging your nails into the fabric of your dirty pants.

“Din …,” comes Marcus’ strangled voice after a while, and you inhale sharply at hearing the desperation in his voice.

“Oh no.” Din’s voice is eerily calm, still deeper than usual, but steady. “You ain’t done payin’ for what you did to my face.”

“Din, please …,” Marcus begs.

“No, darlin’. I like it too much when you’re like this.”

The bedframe creaks again, just once at first, then the sound of wood being moved against wood turns into a steady rhythm. Marcus mumbles something you can’t hear, but you hear Din reply, “I know … you’re doin’ so well.” Realizing you’ve been holding your breath all this time, you inhale sharply, the dry air in the room irritating your throat. You swallow hard at the same time as Marcus breathes out a trembling, “Fuck.”

The chain around your ankle jingles, and it’s only then you realize you’ve been rubbing your thighs together, chasing friction. You stop immediately, but Din and Marcus haven’t heard you. Marcus’ moans sound strangled now, as if Din is covering his mouth with his hand. Or maybe Marcus is trying to keep quiet, remembering where they are and who is in the other room, just a thin wooden door between you.

“Please,” Marcus tries again, the word muffled and barely intelligible.

“That word sounds so pretty comin’ from your lips,” Din groans, and it’s the first time his voice breaks.

“Din!” A sharp warning.

“Oh, come on now, don’t be shy,” Din coaxes.

Suddenly, all the noise stops, and you hear your blood rushing in your ears. Then you hear Marcus again, his voice straining as if he’s choking on the words. “Fuck!” he groans. “Fuck, Din! Fuck, yeah. Fu- don’t, don’t fuckin’ stop.”

Din grunts, or maybe he laughs. You can’t tell. You’re burning up as if you have a fever. One of your hands is resting at the top of your thigh, thumb rubbing soothing circles. Your other hand is in your mouth as you bite down, stopping yourself from making a single sound that could betray you. Between your legs, everything is clenching and burning, but you don’t dare give yourself the release you so desperately crave. And when your thumb brushes too close to your center, you remove your hand with a jerk, grabbing the chaise lounge instead.

Din groans, a sound you feel deep in your thorax, and you hear Marcus breathe one final, “Fuck,” before a silence so thick you could slice it with a knife settles over your two rooms. You try to take deep breaths, but your whole body screams for attention, screams to be touched and caressed. It’s painful when you release your grip on the chaise lounge, and your hand shakes when you bring it up to rest against your stomach. Your eyes flicker to the door on your right, but Din and Marcus are quiet. Their groans and sighs and words are still fresh on your mind as you allow yourself to replay them.

Your hand wanders lower and lower, and when you press two fingers against yourself through your pants, you almost sob with relief. You massage yourself eagerly while undoing the chord that holds your pants in place with the other hand. But before you can touch yourself, the door to your right creaks open, and you freeze, remembering just in time to close your eyes.

“Yeah, she’s asleep,” Din grunts, before the door clicks shut again.

That’s enough to break the spell. Swallowing a lump of shame, you turn onto your side, back facing the door.

*******

The next day is hot, the sun stands high in a cloudless sky. You keep your eyes on the neck of your horse, trying to shield it from the bright light. Marcus rides ahead of you on the narrow trail, Din follows behind you. If you hadn’t heard them last night, you wouldn’t be able to tell that something happened between them. Or would you? Were Din’s cheeks flusher this morning before he hid them behind the bandanna? Is Marcus turning around so much to check on you or is he looking at Din?

You’ve barely had time to sort through your own confusing feelings: shame at realizing you might have been treating Marcus unfairly, embarrassment at almost touching yourself last night, anger at the way both Din and Marcus are treating you and … longing. A strange kind of longing. You don’t know what for, but you wish there was something you could say to make them see you as more than an outlaw. But when Din says, “You’re quiet today,” you deliberately give him the cold shoulder. And when Marcus offers you some water, you shake your head, even though you’re parched.

That evening, you’re far away from any human settlement. When the stars come out, even before the blush of the setting sun has completely vanished in the west, Marcus stops by an abandoned adobe building with a roof that is half collapsed and a thorny bush growing next to the doorway, almost blocking it. “That’s as far as we go today,” he says, dismounting.

You don’t have a choice but to follow Din into the building while Marcus unsaddles the horses. The floorboards are covered with sand, but the fireplace and chimney are intact. Din sweeps some of the dirt away with his boot, then shoves you so you have to sit down. “Hey!” you protest, but he just ignores you.

Marcus carries your saddles into the shack, one after the other, then looks around. “I’m findin’ us some kindlin’,” he decides. “Keep an eye on her.” Din grunts in confirmation.

You shift around on the floor, trying to find a more comfortable position, when Din places your saddle at your back so you can lean against it. Then he unlocks your shackles. You groan in relief, rubbing your sore wrists. “Don’t let him see you be nice to me.”

Din throws you a curious glance. “Why do you hate him so much?”

You sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you. “I thought we were friends. Then he left.”

“Oh, come on.” Din rolls his eyes. “Drop the act.”

His direct manner makes you want to be honest with him. “You’re right. It was such a long time ago. Sometimes I don’t even remember why I’m so angry with him, but I can’t stop.” That gets you Din’s undivided attention. His bandanna is still tied over his face, but his eyes light up. “It’s true, you were both so important to me. And then he was gone, and you left too, and I thought it was because of him, so I blamed –”

“It was because of him,” Din corrects you.

“But yesterday you said –”

“I said I didn’t leave because I couldn’t bear the memory of him. That’s not …” The sparkle in his eyes flickers, then dies.

But something within you lights up as you begin to understand. “I heard you last night,” you say, voice breathless.

Din chuckles. “It’s not as if … we run into each other from time to time, that’s all.”

“That’s what he wants it to be, isn’t it?” It all makes sense now. It makes sense that nothing could cheer Din up after Marcus left. It makes sense that Din left too. It’s just that it hasn’t occurred to you yet because it’s so … unusual.

Din shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s … twelve years ago, I left because I wanted to find him. Because when we were still together and you two were practicing kissing while I was trying to catch dinner, he would never stop looking at me. Before he left, he gave me this bracelet he had made out of some leather he had stolen from the tanner and made me promise to come find him. I know he hurt you, but he …”

“He hurt you more?” you guess.

“No, not on purpose. We’re both …”

“You’re men,” you say, hoping you’ve guessed right this time.

“We meet by chance every couple of years in a one-horse town and then we see where the night takes us.”

Your heart aches for Din, for the dull look in his eyes, for his flat voice when he finally tells you the truth. And it aches for yourself, for the way you’re even more on the sidelines than you had thought. But you can’t be angry at him for that.

“So it’s just been Marcus for you ever since we were kids?” you ask carefully.

Din laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t try to make this into a romantic tale. Of course not.” Your confusion must be written all over your face because he elaborates, “I’m not sleeping alone almost every night because a childhood friend gave me a bracelet more than a decade ago. It’s just … we’re fond of each other, that’s all.”

You look at him warily.

“Who knows, if I hadn’t left, maybe I’d have grown fond of you, too.”

“Don’t tease,” you snap.

“I mean it,” Din says calmly. “You’re pretty under that prickly wall you keep hiding behind.”

You choose to change the topic. “Does he hate me?”

“Who? Marcus?” Din laughs again. “I don’t think he’s capable of hatin’ anyone. He’s annoyed with you, sure, he thinks you’re childish and immature, but I also think he’s not as nonchalant as all that.”

You smile at Din, and your cheeks twitch with the unfamiliar motion. “I missed you too, by the way. Not just him.”

“You didn’t miss me as much as him though,” Din points out, and finally pulls the bandanna off his face.

“I’m also not as angry at you as I am at him,” you point out.

Something in Din’s face shifts. “Do you want to get back at him? Because I might have an idea how we could do that.”

“What?” you ask, well aware that Marcus’ footfalls are moving closer and closer to your shack.

“Just follow my lead,” Din says with a quiet smile.

Marcus doesn’t remark on your unshackled wrists or the way you keep digging into your food once he gets a fire going and warms a can of pork and beans for you. He mostly talks to Din about the remainder of your trek, about the formalities involved in picking up the money they’re owed for you, about his plans to travel back to his hometown, the one he moved two twelve years ago, where he was elected sheriff two years ago. Tonight, the way they barely glance at you doesn’t sting. It doesn’t bother you that they talk about you like you’re not there. You only hide your smile, feeling lighter than you have in years.

Once supper is done, Din pulls a flask from his saddlebag and hands it to Marcus before moving his saddle next to yours so he sits closer to you, then offers you the same flask.

“Din,” Marcus warns, and it sounds so much like how he said Din’s name yesterday that it makes you feel that familiar prick of embarrassment.

“Don’t worry,” Din says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

You take a sip from the bottle, grateful for the burning sensation.

The bottle is handed around until it is almost empty, and your head is heavy with a pleasant buzz. You laugh when Din teases Marcus about his uneven mustache, and you laugh even louder when Marcus retorts, “At least I can grow one.” With Din next to you, and Marcus sitting cross-legged opposite you, you feel yourself grow comfortable with the familiarity of it, like your childhood home remains familiar to you even if you haven’t visited in years.

When Din leans in to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, the atmosphere in the room shifts, the walls move in closer, and the air grows thicker. Marcus furrows his brow, and your face heats up, so you clear your throat and sit up straighter, moving your body away from Din’s. But then you remember how he told you to follow his lead, and you smile at him, trying to ignore how your heart picks up speed.

“You know what I’ve been wondering ever since we were kids?” Din asks, deep brown eyes locked onto yours. Before you can answer, he adds, “Marcus?”

“What?” Marcus asks, voice neutral.

“Why was it that only you got to practice kissing with her, and never me?” Din’s eyes flicker down to your lips before he looks over to where Marcus is sitting, fingers balled into nervous fists in his lap. “Isn’t that odd?”

“You never asked?” Marcus replies with a shrug.

“Oh, I did,” Din corrects him.

Marcus runs his finger over his mustache. “I don’t know, Din. Maybe she didn’t want to practice with you.”

You try to remember those long summer days twelve years ago, and you try to remember if you really never kissed Din. What you do remember is Marcus’ soft lips on yours, the way he hardly used any pressure as if he was afraid he’d break you. And the longer you think about it, the surer you are that there was a day Din asked, “When’s it my turn?” and Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand. But you don’t remember not wanting to kiss Din.

Din slings his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “I think you didn’t want to share.” It sounds like a tease, but Din can’t quite hide the bite in his voice.

Marcus’ gaze flickers to you and then back to Din. He sighs. “That was such a long time ago. I really don’t remember.”

Interesting, you think.

Din tips back his hat and smiles down at you. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind me practicing now.” It sounds almost like a question, and you give him a small nod as answer.

Din catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and guides you up toward his lips. Your heart skips a beat at that first touch and then it starts hammering painfully at the forcefulness and greed with which Din kisses you, so different from how it used to be with Marcus. You return his kiss hungrily, flicking your tongue across his bottom lip, reaching for his arm to steady yourself, following him eagerly when he leans back. It doesn’t feel like he’s just pretending to get back at Marcus.

Din moves on from your mouth, leaving a hot trail on your jaw and down your neck, before he sinks his teeth into a bit of exposed shoulder where your shirt has shifted. You bite your tongue, holding back a whimper, but he grips your neck lightly and strokes his thumb across the bitemark. “Oh no, darlin’, let it all out.”

“Alright,” Marcus says, slapping his thigh with some finality. You flinch, only now remembering he’s there and why you’re kissing Din in the first place. “Hope you’re happy now.”

Din ignores him and kisses down your chest, flicking open the buttons of your shirt with practiced fingers on his way. You freeze up, gazing across the small space at Marcus, but then Din cups one of your breasts and grazes his teeth across the nipple. “Din,” you groan, both a warning and a plea.

“Din,” Marcus says, and it’s all warning. Hearing him say that single word feels like a punch to the base of your spine.

Din looks up at you, lips glistening. His thumb replaces his mouth as he rolls your hard nipple under the tip of his finger. “Bet you never practiced that with him, did you?”

“Does that still count as a kiss?” you tease, your voice quivering as he keeps stroking your nipple.

“What do you think, Marcus?” Din asks, glancing at the other man.

Marcus has paled, but you have to give him credit for keeping his voice steady when he answers, “I think you should stop this.”

Din ignores him and captures your mouth in another kiss instead. He pushes his tongue past your lips and teeth, exploring how to draw sighs and whimpers from you. You squirm, very aware of a steadily pulsating need between your legs, not only fed by what Din is doing to you, but also by the thick atmosphere in the room. A piece of wood in the fireplace snaps, making you jump, and Din runs his hand down your naked side, rough callouses catching on your soft skin. He stops at the hem of your trousers.

“Do you want me to stop?” Din whispers against your lips, so quietly Marcus can’t hear.

You shake your head.

“Remember that night in Galveston?” Din asks, his voice loud enough to fill the entire cabin. “When we agreed to share that woman and you didn’t let me touch her?”

You swallow hard when Marcus replies with a low, “Think very carefully about what you’re gonna do next, Din.”

“It was easy, really, because I didn’t care about her,” Din goes on as if he hasn’t heard Marcus, untying the chord of your trousers with a flick of his wrist. “But I have a feeling that this is gonna be very hard for you.”

He shoves his hand between your legs and you groan deeply, a sound so foreign that at first you don’t realize it’s coming from you. Your head falls back and lands against your saddle, while you raise your hips at the same time, eager for Din’s touch. If he’s surprised by how wet you are, he doesn’t let on, instead circles your clit with his thumb just like he toyed with your nipple. Soon, his hand moves lower, careful at first, but then he crooks a finger and pushes it into you with such force you can’t help but clamp down around it.

“How does it feel?” Din asks, his voice deeper now, almost as deep as it was the night before. The memory makes you shiver with arousal. “Knowing I have a finger buried inside of her? Oh no, wait.” Din pulls out almost all the way, then pushes back in, a second finger joining the first. “Two fingers.”

Marcus doesn’t reply, but when you dare look at him, you see his face is covered in red blotches, ones you mistake for angry marks until you notice his eyes, blown wide with arousal. And it’s hard to tell in the flickering light from the fireplace, but you think you can make out a bulge between his legs.

“Don’t be shy,” Din coaxes. “Tell me.” He brushes his thumb over your clit to draw another whimper from you and it works on Marcus.

“We both know you’re all talk.” A quick smirk flashes across Marcus’ face. “Ain’t no way you can make her come.”

You clench around Din’s fingers again and he chuckles. “I think she likes it when you talk like that.”

Chest heaving, you look up at Din only to find his eyes locked on Marcus. It makes the breath catch in your throat, the heat with which he stares at the other man.

“How does it make you feel, Marcus?” Din repeats, punctuating each word with a thrust.

You flick your gaze over to Marcus, eager for his reply, but he just shakes his head. You roll your hips tentatively in an attempt to draw a response from him, but even though he briefly lowers his eyes to look at you, he doesn’t respond.

“Kick off your boots,” Din orders, and when you don’t move, he presses his thumb to your clit. “Come on.”

It’s only then that you realize he means you and not Marcus, so you do as you’re told, your leather boots landing against the old wooden floors with soft thumps. Din pulls out of you, but only to use both hands to pull down your pants quickly so your lower body is completely naked, exposed for both him and Marcus. Your first instinct is to cover up, so you move your knees together, but Din pushes them apart again with a shove.

“Oh no, darlin’, let him see,” he mumbles, a tendon in his neck twitching.

You swallow and nod, letting your legs fall open. If you’re not mistaken, it makes Marcus’ breath hitch. That’s enough for you. Din pushes two fingers into you again and you sigh with relief, a sound that makes Marcus twitch as if he’s about to lunge for you, but he remains in his spot instead, hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles are turning white.

“So how does it feel?” Din asks a third time. “Now that you can see everything?”

You roll your hips to meet Din’s thrusts, which earns you a soft stroke down your side.

Finally, Marcus replies, “You know the answer.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Marcus looks at you then, and you feel your face heat up under his attention. His gaze wanders from your parted lips down your heaving chest to where Din’s fingers are slowly pumping in and out of you, coated in your arousal. Your initial embarrassment is gone. In its place is an insatiable desire to be watched by Marcus, to have him see you at your most vulnerable. You roll your hips faster, and throw back your head, moaning loudly, just to get a reaction from him, and it works.

“I think if it was my fingers inside of her, she would’ve already come twice.”

Din chuckles, but something catches at the back of his throat. “You don’t even know if she wants to.”

And then, for the first time, Marcus addresses you, voice tight like a rope around a bull’s neck. “Do you want him to make you come?”

You look at Din as if asking him for permission, but he only kisses your temple and mumbles into your ear, “I can’t help you with that decision, sweetheart.” So you look back at Marcus but he only stares at you, taut concentration written all over his face.

You nod.

Something flashes across Marcus’ face, something you can’t quite place, but he nods once and leans back, eyes back on Din. “Let’s see what you got then.”

Din’s thumb brushes over your clit just once, twice, his fingers toy with your nipple almost gently, his fingertips brush against the most sensitive spots inside of you, and it doesn’t take much more than that for you to roll your hips desperately, your entire body on fire, taut like the hammer of a colt. Din finds your trigger, rolls your clit just so, and you come with a shout, and animalistic sort of noise, eyes on Marcus as he watches you open-mouthed, his eyes impossibly dark.

“There you are,” Din says in a mocking tone and kisses your temple again.

Marcus gains back control by shaking his head lightly, then swallows. “She didn’t even scream your name.”

Next to you, Din tenses and you think you hear a deep grumble somewhere in his chest. He pushes himself up onto his knees and undoes his belt with practiced motions. You’ve barely caught your breath before you’re being pulled up, shoved onto your hands and knees, and Din is behind you, his thick cock brushing against your thighs. You try to look at Marcus again, but Din’s hand is in your hair and he pushes down your head and part of your chest at the same time as he pushes himself into you, stretching you wide. You claw at the wood beneath your palms, groaning in both pleasure and pain.

“Oh, you’re so easily riled up,” Marcus provokes, the slight edge in his voice telling you he is too, although he can hide it better.

Din ignores him. “I don’t need her to scream my name,” he grunts. “Knowin’ you’d give anything to be in my place right now is enough.”

“And you want to be in mine,” Marcus shoots back.

You know he’s right because Din pushes into you with a vicious thrust. “Din,” you groan, and you can feel the attention in the room shift.

Din pulls out all the way so only his tip is still inside of you, then slams back into you, pushing your entire body forward. You groan again, struggle against the hold he has on your neck, but he only tightens his grip.

“Please,” you whimper, feeling overstimulated yet hungry at the same time.

“I don’t hear her begging for your cock,” Din spits at Marcus. You hear Marcus move, but Din orders, “Stay where you are,” and Marcus stops.

You shift, pushing your knees further apart, and suddenly Din reaches deeper, drawing something akin to a howl from you. Din’s hand moves from the back of your head to close around your jaw, and he lifts your chin so you can see Marcus, his face covered in an angry flush, a spot on his bottom lip chewed raw.

“Do you think he wants to fuck my release into you once I’m done?” Din growls in your ear.

You can’t hold on a second longer. Your body gives in, erupting with pleasure so intense everything else loses its meaning. You’re faintly aware of Din groaning, “So good, you feel so good,” of something wet and hot running down your thighs, of Din pulling out of you gently before you collapse on the floor. Then you’re aware of movement in front of you, and your body tightens in anticipation, but when you look up, you find Marcus standing there, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

“Marcus?” you ask, the name foreign on your tongue.

Without looking back, he walks out of the shack, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, leaving Din to clean up after himself.

*******

You don’t know what you expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t this: you, back in handcuffs, and Marcus, leading the way without acknowledging your presence. Only Din seems to be in a good mood, pointing out small birds resting on branches or flowers growing by the side of the trail. No one talks about the previous night, and in the bright light of day, you’re not so sure any of it actually happened.

You hold your head up high, refusing to feel humiliated. Din was gentle this morning, almost apologetic, when he put you back in handcuffs, tipping his hat and calling you “ma’am”. You’re not angry with him for last night, far from it. You’re also not angry with Marcus for how he reacted; you’re disappointed, sure, and maybe a little bit heartbroken. But far from angry.

It’s another hot day, but this time you’re riding through open woodland, and the shade brings you some reprieve. The trail is broader, Din can ride next to you, and you talk to him from time to time; it almost feels as if you’re on your way to a Sunday picnic. But despite everything that has happened, and despite the way Din laughs at your jokes, you know there’s no use in asking them to let you go. Whatever happened last night doesn’t influence their sense of duty and righteousness.

In the afternoon, the trail grows rockier as you begin to ascend through a small mountain range. The trees become sturdier and grow closer together, the flowers become less frequent, the birds now screech with a predator’s voice. You’re just beginning to feel drowsy from the heat and the exhaustion of the past few days when a sudden shout tears you out of your daydreams and pulls you back into the forest.

The trail before you is blocked by a tree trunk that makes it impossible to pass without some difficulty. On top of it stands a man you know all too well, one you thought you’d never see again: Burke, the leader of your gang, the man you decided to follow when everyone else in your life had left you. Relief makes your body tremble – you hadn’t expected him to show up to rescue you, hadn’t thought you’d be that important to him. Maybe you were wrong, maybe you don’t have to accept the fate Marcus and Din have decided upon for you after all.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Burke says in his nasal voice you’ve come to know so well. “You’ve reached the end of your journey. Please dismount and let us shackle you, so we can take back what’s rightfully ours.”

Next to you, Din flinches, reaching for his gun holstered at his side. Burke is faster as he draws his own gun and fires, the barrel glinting in the afternoon sun. Din loses balance and falls of his horse, clutching his right shoulder. You’re frozen with shock, your brain too slow to catch up with what is happening, relief turning sour in your mouth. You know you should be grateful you’re not going to jail after all, but all you feel is dread when Din’s body hits the ground with a loud thump and he groans in pain.

Burke aims the barrel of his gun at Marcus next and orders, “Disarm him.”

Three men climb out of the underbrush, Bridger, Burke’s second in command, Ingram, his muscle, and scrawny Jimmy who isn’t much use in a fight but who excels at stabbing people in the back. Marcus raises his hands above his head as if he means to surrender, but once the men reach him and Ingram grabs him to pull him off his horse, Marcus punches him in the face so hard his head snaps back. Ingram recovers too fast, grabs Marcus’ jacket, pulls him off his horse with a jerk, and kicks him as soon as he hits the ground.

“Stop!” you yell and Burke looks straight at you.

He raises his hand and Ingram stills. Marcus groans at his feet, arms slung around his stomach, a bloody scrape along his cheek. “Stop?” Burke asks.

“There is no need to harm them,” you stammer, thinking fast. “Or do you want law enforcement chasing us down for killing a sheriff?”

Somewhere to your right, Din inhales sharply, but you don’t dare to look at him. Instead, your eyes are locked to Burke’s as you watch his face closely to figure out your next move. You’re free; you don’t have to go back to jail. But if it means Marcus and Din die, then you don’t want your freedom.

“I was expecting more gratitude,” Burke finally says, his voice laced with disgust.

“I just don’t want anyone to die because of me,” you try weakly.

“Do I have to remind you who those men are?” Burke snaps. “They wanted to sell your freedom to the highest bidder. They don’t deserve your compassion!”

“They also don’t deserve to die for doing their job,” you point out.

An ugly grin creeps onto Burke’s face. “Who said anything about dying? Ingram, tie him up, and let’s have some fun.”

Ingram grabs the collar of Marcus’ jacket and pulls him to his feet. Marcus struggles against the grip, face contorted with pain, but there is nothing he can do to free himself. You watch as they drag him to a tree by the side of the road and tie him to the trunk with thick ropes. You know what comes next – you’ve seen it often enough. And if there’s anything you can do to keep Marcus from that fate, you’ll do it, even if it means your own death.

Your legs are trembling when you climb off your horse and sneak over to where Din is lying, hand still pressed to his shoulder, his brown leather glove shiny with blood. He can’t help you much; it’s up to you to make sure Marcus gets out of this in one piece.

“Where are the keys, Din?” you whisper, ignoring Marcus’ pained grunt when someone, most likely Ingram, punches him in the gut.

Din reaches for his jacket pocket and pulls out the keys, face paling from the strain of it. He barely manages to unshackle you, but once you’re free, he grunts, “Take my gun.”

You grab the cold metal, your hands trembling so hard you slip at first. But your mind is eerily calm. You know exactly what you need to do and what it could cost you. Slowly, you stand, and take a few steps closer to the tree. Marcus is tied up, the four men are standing around him. Jimmy is playing with his knife, Ingram is stroking his jaw where Marcus hit him, and Burke and Bridger are debating what to do next. You don’t give them a chance to make up their minds.

“Let him go!” you shout, your voice high with fear.

When the four men spin around to face you, you raise the gun, aiming straight at Burke. Burke … the man who was like a father to you, who took you in and taught you how to care for yourself. You almost laugh – how quickly things can change, how quickly loyalties can shift. But if you’re honest with yourself, you have to admit you were never that loyal to Burke and the gang, and definitely not now that you feel you’ve got your real family back, even if they are going to turn you over to the law.

“Well, well, well,” Burke says slowly. “Will you look at that? I can’t say I’m surprised, but I never pegged you as a pig fucker.”

You ignore his words, cocking back the hammer. “I mean it. Let him go.”

Burke gestures to Bridger who takes the knife from Jimmy and presses it against Marcus’ throat. You flinch.

“Does that upset you?” Burke asks with a sneer. “If you lower the gun now, we won’t kill him. I can’t make any promises for you though.”

Before you can ponder actions and consequences, you aim the gun at Bridger and pull the trigger. Both you and Marcus flinch, but while your brow is only covered in sweat, his gets sprayed with blood when you hit Bridger at the side of his head and he crumbles to the ground. For a brief moment, a flash of memory shoots through you, an image of Bridger getting you a big wool coat two winters ago so you wouldn’t freeze to death. Back then, you never would have thought you’d be the one to end his life. But you also hadn’t expected to see Marcus again.

Before you can make sense of what just happened, Ingram is upon you and wrestles the gun from your hands. He hits you in the face with his open palm and you scream, more in surprise and shock than pain.

“You’ll pay for that,” he spits and hits you again, this time with the back of his hand.

Before you can defend yourself, a loud bang makes you turn around. Ingram flinches and follows your gaze, one hand locked around your arm, the other raised to strike a third time. Din is standing next to his horse, the barrel of his shotgun smoking, aiming toward the tree. Jimmy is lying next to Bridger, a gaping hole in his chest. Ingram’s grip on you tightens at the same time as you realize there are more of you know then there are of them. You hear the telltale clicking sounds of Din reloading his shotgun and you shove Ingram as hard as you can away from you. The next second he tumbles to his side, leg torn open.

“Help Marcus!” Din shouts, his face contorted with pain.

You don’t think, you’ve stopped thinking minutes ago, as you turn and sprint toward the tree where Marcus is still tied up, defenseless, while Burke stalks toward him, Jimmy’s knife in his hand. You shove your former leader aside and fling yourself between him and Marcus, but before you can come up with a plan, Burke shoves you and pushes you to the ground. You go down with a surprised shout, the last sound you make before Burke’s hands close around your throat and he squeezes. You kick your legs and claw at his face and neck, but he’s relentless. A lightheadedness comes over you, and you’re only dimly aware of Marcus shouting your name and Din’s, but Burke doesn’t stop. The only thing you can see are his glazed-over eyes, dull with the intent to kill.

Using your last strength you grope around, hoping to find anything that can help you. Your fingers close around something cold and metallic, but you have no time to check if it really is Jimmy’s knife. You raise the thing and plunge it into Burke’s side, groaning with relief when he loosens his grip in response. You pull out the knife, then shove it into Burke’s side again; the man tumbles off you with a scream of pain. You push yourself up, aiming for his neck, the knife gliding into the flesh with hardly any resistance. From then on, it’s just a blur until Burke stops twitching, until your arm burns so much you can barely lift it anymore, until your ears are ringing with your hoarse screams.

Din is there, and he takes the knife from you. You let him, tears streaming down your face. It feels like you’re all alone in this big forest until someone sinks to their knees next to you and cups your face in cold, shaky hands.

“You stupid girl,” Marcus mumbles, wiping at your cheeks, brushing loose strands behind your ears. “You stupid, stupid girl.”

His lips are soft when he kisses you; he tastes of metal. You kiss him back, your whole body trembling. Between kisses he keeps mumbling, “Stupid girl,” until a teary laugh erupts from you.

“Kiss me again,” you demand, knowing it’s the only thing that keeps you from losing consciousness. He does, and there’s an edge of desperation to it now, like he’s only beginning to realize he’s still alive and you’re too. You cling to his jacket and feel his chest vibrate, you lick his lips and are rewarded with a hungry bite. It’s only when you start crying again that he pulls back.

Din is at your other side and pulls you into a tight hug with his good arm. “Don’t listen to him,” he mumbles, his fingers stroking the back of your head. “You’re not stupid; maybe a bit reckless, but incredibly brave.”

Marcus pulls you to your feet and holds you tightly when your knees buckle. Din follows you, and kisses the top of your head. Shielded between both of them, you realize they are the only family you’ll ever need.

***

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike #marcus pike x din djarin x reader #marcus pike x din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mentalist fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories #closure

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ladamedusoif · 8 months

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Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #historical AU #the mandalorian AU #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 6 months

Text

Autumn Flush

Second Flush | Masterlist

Pairing: Old Western Retired!Christopher Pike x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only (Minors interacting with the work will be blocked)

Notes: *The term ‘flush’ in the chapter titles has nothing to do with skin tone. It’s in relation to the phrase ‘the first flush of spring’; ‘second flush’; ‘autumn flush’.

Sorry this took me 800 years. Here's the last bit!

Warnings: Cursing; fluff; Reader is a virgin; period-typical attitudes toward sex; explicit sexual content - fingering; vaginal sex; unsafe sex; creampie

Summary: Christopher has been looking at you much more frequently these days. He watches you in a way that sets the hair on the back of your neck prickling. You don’t find the looks intimidating by any means, but when he regards you with interest in that way, you…Well, you just don’t know what to do with it.

GIF by dearemma

It’s difficult, altering your established routine with Christopher. He goes out of his way to come and visit you on Sundays, rather than your trekking up to his cabin to spend time alone with him. Dr. M’Benga kindly agrees to act as chaperone, allowing the two of you to spend time together ‘properly’. You sit in M'Benga's parlor, sharing conversation and coffee with Christopher and the doctor. But M'Benga always finds a way to excuse himself and Rukiya for at least a few minutes, allowing yourself and Christopher to have some proper alone time.

When this begins, you start by shyly inching closer to one another and taking hold of each other’ hands. But as your courtship goes on, you’re already moving toward one another before the doors to the parlor can close entirely.

Now, Christopher sits on the settee beside you, taking hold of your hand in his. You lean into him happily, resting your head on his shoulder as you intertwine your fingers. There’s a warm August breeze pushing through the window, ruffling the curtains. You tip your head up, brushing a kiss to his jaw. Christopher hums happily, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze.

“I miss coming to see you,” You admit softly. “I liked the walk.”

“Just the walk?”

“Not just the walk...I miss the horses, too.”

“The horses.”

“Well you’re here,” You point out, batting your eyelashes at Christopher. “So I can’t miss ya, can I?”

“Then I will see you in two weeks.”

You couch a giggle in a groan, resting your head back against the settee.

“Don’t do that,” You pout. “I’ll be lonely.”

“You have friends in town,” Christopher points out, “Una and Joseph, Jim, Spock, Christine.”

It’s true. You’ve found a community beyond Christopher in Enterprise. The whispers haven’t stopped or disappeared, but they’ve grown more quiet under the pleasant conversation of your friends.

“Still,” You mumble, peering down at your joined hands. “I don’t like missing you. I did that long enough when I was in Baxter’s Crossing.”

Christopher is quiet for a moment before he untangles his fingers from yours. You frown a touch at shift, but he wraps his arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side.

“I missed you, too,” He admits in a murmur. You smile, curling your arm around his middle and nuzzling into his neck.

“I didn’t think you would,” You mumble.

“Why do you say that?”

You can hear his frown, and you reach down to pick to a piece of lint on your dress, distracting yourself from the painful memory.

“You didn’t turn to look at me when you left.”

“I figured you’d gone inside.”

“I watched you until I couldn’t see you anymore. I wanted you to look at me.”

Christopher sighs softly, breath brushing across your forehead.

“I couldn’t have left if I’d turned to look at you,” He admits. You snuggle closer, despite the warmth of the room.

“I’ll have to save these moments up, too,” You sigh.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well—I know it’s a long ways off, but come winter, it’ll be harder for you to come into town.”

Christopher grunts thoughtfully, rubbing your hand gently with his.

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm…Cabin’s an awful lot of space for one person.”

It doesn’t take long for the implication to sink into you, but you can’t bring yourself to believe it at first.

“You came up to Enterprise for space, Christopher," Your voice shakes as you remind him.

“There’ll be plenty of space, even with two…Maybe three, some day.”

The celebration is a small one, but you’re certain it couldn’t be lovelier. The town’s judge officiates; half of Enterprise turns up to see the two of you married. You can’t shield or mask your joy, and you don’t want to. Tears spring up in your eyes as you exchange vows; you have to stop yourself from leaning into his chest and clinging to him in front of the others.

“Would you stop that?” Christopher laughs as you stroke your fingers over his bare cheek.

“Absolutely not,” You shake your head. “I’ve never seen all of my husband’s face before. This’ll be quite the adjustment for me.”

Christopher’s smile spreads brightly across his lips. He turns his head, brushing his lips across the band on your ring finger.

“Do you think you’ll manage it?” He murmurs.

“I’ll have to find a way, I suppose. Of course that may include touching your cheek.”

“I see.”

“Can you stand it?”

“I’ll find a way.”

The sun is beginning to rise hazily in the September sky as you and Christopher finally get ready for bed. You’d made short work of the morning chores while you were still in your wedding clothes: he’d fed and watered the horses while you’d fed the chickens and fetched the eggs. You tiredly kick your shoes off, nudging them aside. You’re exhausted; your feet ache form dancing; your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Could you help me with this?” You yawn, waving at the lacing on the back of your dress. Christopher hums, fingers carefully working at the fastening. You sigh softly as you feel the bodice loosen.

“Thank you,” You sigh as you wriggle out of the dress and skirts. You’re left in your shift as you climb onto the bed. You turn to watch Christopher undo the buttons on his waistcoat. You move up on your knees, crawling across the bed to him. As Christopher shrugs off his waistcoat, you raise your hands, making short work of the buttons on his shirt. Your face heats at the feeling of Christopher watching you so closely.

You suddenly feel terribly shy. Maybe it’s silly to feel that way; you’ve only been married for twelve hours. You were warned by your employer that Christopher may be a touch pushy—may demand that you complete your wifely chore. When you’d asked which she meant, the horses or chickens, she’d just given you a pitiful smile. Her true meaning had become apparent far too late. Now, you can’t get it out of your mind. You’re certain that Christopher would never demand that of you, but the prospect makes you nervous.

When Christopher cups your cheeks, your eyelids flutter. You feel yourself swaying into his chest, tipping your chin up for a kiss. Christopher gives it to you without hesitation or teasing. He slides his hands down over your bare shoulders, smoothing over the goosebumps blossoming on your skin. He leans back, eyes skimming your face—but before he can lean in for another kiss, you yawn widely. You raise your hand to cover your mouth, ducking your head in embarrassment as Christopher chuckles.

“Why don’t we get some sleep?” Christopher urges. You slide back in the bed, pushing your legs beneath the sheets. You mean to watch Christopher undress the rest of the way—you want to watch him, but your head is so heavy with fatigue. You feel the bed dip beside you, and you snuggle close on instinct. You rest your hand on his chest, and find it bare. Your eyes do open, then, a touch stunned. Christopher just eyes you with a patient, fond smile as he raises his hand, stroking his knuckles along your jaw.

“Rest, my darling girl.”

Perhaps living with a man should be more of an adjustment. Perhaps it would be more stilted of a change if you didn’t already know him so well. It is a little strange, but living with Christopher is enjoyable. You love waking up to the sight of him; you love finding yourself curled in his arms. You find that you really don’t mind getting up early to tend to the horses and the chickens. Christopher takes care of the more physical odds and ends around the cabin—cording wood, exercising the horses. You handle most of the duties in the home—managing the cabin’s inventory, cooking meals, washing your clothes. The two of you take trips into town every week, to visit with others, and to pick up supplies.

Your life has an ease and a feeling of normalcy that was unimaginable when you were ferrying the baby to her grandparents.

“Y’alright?”

“Mhm,” You hum, hardly looking away from the dough that you’re forming in neat rolls. As you tuck the last of them into the dutch oven, Christopher rounds the counter, plucking it up and heading for the fire.

“Thank you,” You chuckle. Christopher waves it off as he sets it on the hook. When he turns back, he finds you wiping the excess flour from the counter with a wet rag, a fond smile pointed at him. He smiles, too, and your heart lifts into your throat as he takes slow, steady steps toward you. You hurry to duck your head, scrubbing with renewed purpose.

Christopher has been looking at you much more frequently these days. He watches you in a way that sets the hair on the back of your neck prickling. You don’t find the looks intimidating by any means, but when he regards you with interest in that way, you…Well, you just don’t know what to do with it. It’s been months, but you think about it now and again—your former employer’s warning that Christopher would expect you to attend to his more physical wants.

He hasn’t neglected you, or shied away from touching you. You’ve had a few bouts of more amorous kissing—often before you’ve fallen asleep. Your encounters nearly moved beyond kissing and fondling twice, but both times, you were interrupted. The first time, Mary Lou had gotten out of the stable. The second time, Una had arrived to collect a dress and waistcoat that you’d mended for her.

“So, um,” You pipe up nervously as Christopher rounds the counter, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We should start stocking some things for the winter. Just the staples,” You hurry to add as you lean heavily against the counter.

“Been thinkin’ about this long?”

“Just since this morning.”

“Mm.” Christopher’s hands land on your hips, holding you steady as you wobble just a touch. You bite your lip in concentration, bending over the counter to swipe at specks of flour on the far end of the countertop. Your hand goes still as Christopher cuddles close, burying his face in your neck. You let your eyes close for a long moment at the nuzzling, at the feeling of him pressed flush against you. You’ve woken up like this more than once, but it feels very different to be pressed close in the light of day.

“You make up a list?” Christopher asks after a stretch of quiet and stillness, his stubble brushing pleasantly against your skin.

“Oh—Not yet—I mean, not really. Well—” You stumble over your words as his arms curl around your middle, his hand splaying over your belly, “That is—It’s only in my head. I haven’t written anything down.”

“Well what’ve you got in your head so far?”

“Erm...Beans, rice—”

“Mhm.”

“Flour, sugar, honey—”

“More honey?” Christopher teases. “I swear I’ve bought more honey in the last two months than I have in my entire life.”

“I bake with it!”

“I know.”

“And I don’t hear you complaining about what I’ve made.”

“I’m not.” He gives your hip a little squeeze, then a tug, urging you to turn. You blink up at him expectantly, arching a brow.

“Good, because if you are, I’m not baking you anything else.”

“Not ever again?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay,” Christopher chuckles. He dips his head, brushing a kiss to your jaw. You tug your lower lip between your teeth as you let your eyes slip shut. You slide your hands up into his hair, gently twining the silky strands around your fingers.

“So we can, um…” You mumble, “We can, um…We can worry about this later.”

It’s all that you get out before Christopher catches your lips with his. You moan softly, lips parting as he teases his tongue against them. Christopher leans back just a touch, murmuring, “Up,” and patting your thighs. You plant your hands on the counter, pushing yourself back onto it. He darts in for another kiss, his hands pushing up the fabric of your skirt. You spread your legs, giving him plenty of space to slot between them. You raise your hands, smoothing them over his roughening cheeks (it’s surely only a couple of weeks before his beard is in full bloom again).

You tip your head back, shivering as Christopher’s kisses drift from your lips, trailing along your jaw, and down to your neck. You suck in a stunned, shaky breath as his hand raises, gripping at the front lacing on your dress and giving it a yank, undoing the tidy bow. You tip your chin down, watching as he slips his fingers between your corset and your low cut chemise. You’d been remiss in tightening it that morning, wary of running behind and not getting the bread finished in time for breakfast. You wriggle a little, nerves fluttering in your belly as he works it down, revealing your chest to him.

Christopher doesn’t hesitate in his ministrations. He sucks a kiss to the top of one breast as he palms the other, his rough fingers giving it a tender squeeze. You reach back, fumbling with the strings of the corset and hastily undoing them. You toss the corset aside, then suck in a sharp breath as he tugs the neckline further down.

“Christopher,” You sigh, tipping your head back. He hums as he circles your pebbling nipple with his tongue. He sucks it between his lips, groaning softly against your tender skin. He draws back with a greedy, slick sound, grasping your hand.

“Come with me,” He urges.

“What? Where are we going?”

“You’re too good to be taken on a counter, sweet girl.”

You’ve seen how strong he is, but you still marvel at the sight of Christopher drawing his shirt off. You kneel up on the bed, hesitantly reaching out before you slide your hands over his tanned, muscled skin. You begin to shy as he reaches you in kind, but Christopher grasps your jaw, drawing you in for a soft, warm kiss. You can’t help but melt against him, shivering as his rough fingertips dip beneath your slip and draw it over your head. It’s only a moment before he tosses it toward the small pile of your clothing that’s been discarded.

Your body goes hot as his gaze sweeps across your bare flesh. You press your face into his neck, laying gentle kisses into his skin as you nervously straddle his thigh. Christopher hums softly, sliding his hands down over your back and flexing his fingers in your skin. You gasp, hips hitching against his thigh. You whimper as pleasure that ripples through you, a throbbing pulse between your legs.

“Go on,” Christopher urges, smoothing his hand further down. You hesitate before you press down against his thigh a little more harshly, a stunned moan slipping from your lips as your breasts brush his chest. Your embarrassment swells as you feel his hardening length against your thigh. He doesn’t tease or chide your sounds or actions. Christopher just gives you a lusty grin, pressing his thigh more insistently against your core. Your hips jolt against him as you chase the sensation. You burble, unable to stop the sounds falling from your lips as Christopher grasps your hips, urging your pace on for a moment, then nudging you to lay back.

Your eyes widen as you watch Christopher raise two fingers, sucking them into his mouth. He slides his thigh back, teasing the slick digits against your tender clit. You let your eyes slide shut, pushing your head back into the pillow as he slips them further down.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes—oh!” Your breath catches in your throat as he eases a thick finger into your throbbing pussy. He curls and twists it, his rough palm brushing against your clit.

“Can you take another?”

“Mhm!”

He grins at your eagerness, gently pressing another finger into you. You can feel his heavy, heated gaze as you tip your hips down into his touch. Christopher slides down your body, tracing his tongue teasingly around one of your nipples before lapping hotly across the pebbling mound. You sigh, sliding your hand into his hair and arching up into the slick heat of his mouth. His fingers scissor and thrust slowly, his palm grinding firmly against your clit with every stroke. You shift your thigh, body heating as you feel his thick, hardened length against you. You peer down between the two of you, chest fluttering with nerves as you spot the flushed head.

“Is—” You swallow thickly, “Is it going to…Fit?”

Christopher lifts his head, a warm chuckle dropping from his lips.

“We’ll make it fit.”

Your thighs are still been shaking and tense from the first swell of pleasure; your movements are a little stilted as Christopher settles on his back, urging you to straddle his thighs.

“But,” Your brows furrow as you adjust, “I thought I would be laying down.”

Christopher just tuts softly, smoothing his hands over your sides.

“I did promise I would teach you to ride.”

You bite your lip, looking down as the head of his cock slots against your slick opening. Christopher’s hands rest on your hips, squeezing them to focus you.

“We take this at your pace,” He reassures. “Take what you can. If it’s too much, we’ll stop.”

You rest your hands on his chest, easing down just a little. You tense at the stretch of him slipping inside, but Christopher strokes his thumb soothingly over your sides. You bear down a bit more, eyes slipping shut as he fills you.

“That’s it—Oh, sweetheart,” Christopher sighs, his grip tightening. You slide your hands to his shoulders, wincing as you move just a little too quickly.

“Y’alright?”

“Mhm,” You nod, adjusting to press your hands on either side of his head. You lower your head, pressing your lips to his, distracting yourself from the slight pulse of pain as you adjust to him. Christopher’s hands slip up, nails brushing small circles in your skin as his tongue flickers against yours. You swallow thickly, nervous as you shift your hips. When it doesn’t incite the same discomfort, you do it again. You break your kiss, resting your forehead against Christopher’s as you begin to roll your hips, panting softly against his lips. Once your tentative movements become more steady, you feel Christopher gently push up beneath you, thrusting in a bit deeper. Your mouth opens with a shaky moan as you speed your roll to a slight bounce.

You open your eyes, taking in Christopher’s darkened eyes, and the rising flush in his cheeks. He raises his hands, cupping your cheeks and holding your gaze. You want to close your eyes, to surrender to the rising tide of your pleasure, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. Your breath and moans mingle as you grind and thrust against one another. Christopher’s fingers slide between your thighs again, toying with your tingling clit. You gasp his name, hips grinding down against his cock and his fingers.

“That’s it,” Christopher presses his face against your neck. “Just like that—God—”

His broken off curse is drowned by your crying out as your pleasure swells and crests. Your hips move as if of their own volition as you feel his cock spill into you. Your shaking arms give out, and you settle into his chest, panting heavily as your pussy twitches around him. He rests his hand on the crown of your head, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you settle together. You hear Christopher draw in a deep breath, then grunt softly.

“I think the bread is burning.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @amneris21 ; @milf-trinity ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @nominalnebula

#Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike/Reader #Christopher Pike/You #Christopher Pike fic #Christopher Pike imagine #Cold Snap #Autumn Flush

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atomic--peach · 10 months

Text

Her Grace's Handmaiden Pt.6

(Cersei x Fem Reader x Jaime. Sandor Clegane x Fem Reader)

AO3 VERSION: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

"Are you happy now?" Robert raged as Cersei gazed dispassionately at him. "It's not enough you bring your whore across the fucking continent; you have to make a show of fucking her in front of the whole camp?"

"You don't bother to hide your infidelities" Cersei glowered, "why should I hide mine?"

"You humiliated me!" Robert slammed his cup on the nearest table, pouring himself another helping of strong ale.

Cersei simmered in silence. She knew what she did was foolish, but the satisfaction of the court knowing King Robert was the cuckold for once was almost worth it.

"It was an offense to The Faith, not to mention High Treason! I should have both your heads on pikes"

"Robert, please. It's not like she can father my bastards, like your mistresses have."

Robert's bloated face blanched at this, and Cersei rolled her eyes.

"Oh, don't act like it was some big secret."

Robert's rage returned, further fueled by indignation.

"Out of my sight, woman. Before I have you scourged in front of the whole camp."

She left willingly, knowing exactly where she would find you.

Jaime had been charged with keeping you company while Cersei received her tongue lashing, and the queen found the two of you at play like a couple of teenagers.

"Sister" Jaime grinned, his arm pressed against yours as the two of you held a thin candle between your forearms. "You're just in time to watch this little minx lose."

"How are you?" You ignored Jaime's taunts as the flame grew closer to your skin. "What did he say? Am I to be sent away?"

"I don't know. He didn't say much of consequence, he mostly just blustered." Cersei poured herself a glass of wine and watched the flame between your arms sink lower. Jaime was starting to sweat now.

You frowned, unsatisfied.

As it had turned out, Cersei's little exhibition had spread through the camp like wildfire. You received looks ranging from awe to disgusted from everyone you passed the morning after, and certain people wouldn't even look you in the eye anymore.

"Just ignore them, sweetling." Cersei had said. "They don't matter."

To your great relief, Sandor didn't seem to care at all. All he said when he heard was "It's about time."

Sandor had become something of a comfort to you this past month, and while he tried to treat you with mostly indifference, it was clear he was partial to you as well.

"FUCK" Jaime cursed as the flame reached his skin, flicking wax off his forearm and rubbing the bright red skin soothingly. "Have you no sense of pain?"

You didn't answer, only smiling coyly and kissing the burn on his flesh. "Poor baby"

"I should finish packing your things, Your Grace." You sighed, standing and brushing grass off your dress. "We'll reach Winterfell by this afternoon."

The last stretch of the ride was surprisingly easy. Your mare had adjusted to your leadership, and your body had grown accustomed to the long distances.

"Are you sure you're not embarrassed to be riding next to Queen Cersei's Whore?" You teased Clegane as he mounted Stranger next to you.

"Not as embarrassing as trying to keep her little cunt of a son alive long enough to inherit."

"Sandor" you hushed him with a blush, fearing you would be heard. "You mustn't joke like that. I'm on thin ice as it is."

Sandor made a guttural scoffing sound and eyed the horizon.

Winterfell was truly, unbelievably massive.

It had to be, to house as many people as possible when the harsh winter inevitably fell upon the land. What were those ever-ominous house words?

Winter is Coming.

"Clegane, Y/N" The king's squire rounded his horse along side Stranger. "The King wishes to speak with the two of you, right now."

"Now?" You blinked but steered your horse behind Sandor, who seemed equally skeptical as you neared the large, rumbling royal coach. The King, it seemed, had opted to arrive in style rather than on horseback.

"Halt" a voice called, and Robert exited the litter, followed by an unusually tense and somber Cersei. One look at her face, and you could sense something was horribly awry.

"You asked to see us, Your Grace?"

"Indeed" Robert breathed, looking very pleased with himself. "I thought the two of you ought to know, shortly after our arrival at Winterfell, the two of you are going to be married by a Septon of the Faith of The Seven. Congratulations."

You very nearly fell off your horse in shock.

"Y-Your Grace, I don't understand I-"

"Young Lady," The King whipped back around, his jovial face replaced with a look of contempt. "I ought to have you stripped naked and whipped through the streets of Kings Landing for treason, do you understand that?"

His tone shocked you into submission and you gazed at the ground fearfully.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Instead, I'm showing you something called mercy. I'm allowing you to keep the skin on your back and solving our current issue as diplomatically as I can. You should be on your knees thanking me, instead of talking back."

"Yes, Your Grace. I'm very sorry." You nodded, "Thank you for showing mercy, I will strive to be worthy of it."

"And you." Robert eyed Clegane. "Bed her, ignore her, lock her in a sept somewhere for all I care. Just keep her away from my wife."

Sandor nodded slowly and you cast your gaze on Cersei whose face was twisted into a look of utter frustration and disappointment.

As the litter took off once more, a deep coldness settled into your stomach. You should have known it was too good to be true.

"Y/N?"

"I am so sorry."

"I-" Sandor paused, considering his next words. "I didn't expect that, did you?"

"No." You shook your head. "Oh Gods, Sandor I am *so* sorry. I never meant for you to get dragged into this. If I had known-"

"He didn't kill you" Sandor cut you off. "Just be grateful for that for now."

"How are you so calm about this?" You turned to face him, "In fact, this whole trip you have been unnervingly cavalier about this whole situation. You were just ordered by your king to marry some no named nobody from flea bottom who's only claim to fame is being the Queen's whore. And you don't even seem upset."

Sandor shrugged, "I've done far worse things on the orders of far worse men than Robert Baratheon. Besides, it's just marriage. I can't imagine it will change things much. On my end anyway."

It's just marriage.

You thought this over a moment. It was true, High-borns married complete strangers all the time. And it wasn't like you and Sandor were *complete* strangers.

"I guess I haven't thought about it like that." You nodded, somehow soothed by his lack of response. "You're right. We just need to...roll with the punches."

You took off a little ahead of him, and Sandor watched your back as you went, oddly enough noting that your riding form had improved immensely.

"You took that remarkably well."

Sandor stifled an irritated groan as the Kingslayer rode up beside him.

"Fuck off"

"No, it's true. You did." Jaime insisted. "I'm impressed."

Sandor attempted to move ahead of him, but Jaime kept pace.

"Seriously though" Jamie grew more somber. "She's a sweet girl. I doubt she even fully understood what she was getting herself into. I'd hate to see her stuck in a life of misery because of this."

Sandor cast him a poisonous glare, swallowing a mouthful of insults and instead saying;

"Just because you've had your cock in her doesn't mean you know anything about her, Kingslayer."

Before sending his horse into a gallop to catch up with you.

You arrived in Winterfell with much pomp and fanfare.

Keeping yourself concealed from the main group, you watched as the official greetings were exchanged, bows and curtseys and full honors bestowed, until Robert separated from the party to pay respects at the crypts.

When the king was well out of sight and there was commotion loading and unloading wagons, Cersei pulled you aside.

"I did everything I could" were the first words out of her mouth.

"I thank you." You wanted to take her hand but did not dare. Not now. "Honestly, it's a better punishment than I could have dared hope."

"Indeed?" Cersei pulled a tense smile, "I thought you and Clegane weren't-"

"We..." you searched for the words, "We've settled into each other. If that makes sense."

"Ah" Cersei's face was tight but tried to remain neutral, "That makes things easier then, I suppose. All the same, I'll find something for you to do in the Keep, sweetling. I won't let him win."

You smiled gratefully, excusing yourself to unload and carry her bags to her and Robert's shared room.

As you left, Cersei found herself wondering exactly which *him* she meant.

#cersei lannister imagine #cersei lannister x reader #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister imagine #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane imagine #asoiaf fanfic #game of throne imagine #game of thrones fanfiction #Her Grace's Handmaiden

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juletheghoul · 11 months

Note

Babes. With Halloween 147 days away I gotta know all the Pedro characters you hc as monsters. Like Din = demon, Ezra = werewolf, etc (lol idk how to word it)

Excuse me.. have you been looking in my google docs??

Okay - so I've actually given this a lot of thought, shockingly. I've come up with a list of what I think the boys would be for a story / series that might or might not ever actually see the light of day lol.

Here goes- hope you enjoy!

Jack Daniels; This man is a centaur. Cowboy through and through and nothing makes more sense to me than him being half man, half horse. Do with this information what you like. 👀

Din Djarin; For Din I have two headcanons—first one is Demon!Din, the lovable, sexy one that eats pussy like a champ and is a feminist lol. In the second one I don't think he'd be a monster per say, I think he'd be a droid, or some really advanced AI. He'd be intelligent, but surprisingly human underneath all that beskar.

Marcus Moreno; Homeboy is already super, so it makes sense to me that he'd be like a Magneto / Professor X hybrid. Intuitive, crazy smart, and very handy to have around.

Pero Tovar; I don't actually think he'd be a monster either, more like a time traveler who is perpetually lost. Never in his own time, never knows what's going on but point him towards somewhere he can have a stiff drink, a fight, and a woman or five and he's right at home.

Javier Pena; Javi would be a Nahual, the Mesoamerican version of a shapeshifter, also known as an animal protector and guardian spirit. I'm not sure which animal he'd change into-I'll leave it open to interpretation.

Francisco Morales; Werewolf. Hands down. Literally nothing else to add to this-he'd be normal and cool most of the time, and then disappear for the three days of the full moon.

Max Phillips; This one's a given, he's a vampire and it makes sense for him. No notes- they got it in one.

Marcus Pike; This is where we get a bit sad, I think Marcus would be a ghost. A lonely spirit, wandering the earth in search of a true love.

Ezra; He's a little different, he gives me 'Old God' vibes. A pagan harvest God or deity, someone you leave offerings to in order to have a bountiful harvest, or good health, fertility.

Dave York; This man is a crossroads Demon. He's cold, and distant, and is always ready to offer you a deal you can't possibly afford.

Oberyn Martell; This is obvious to me too, Oberyn is an Incubus. The breeding kink is so strong it's basically his personality. He's only here to have a good time, and fuck his way through humanity (consensually, of course), leaving as many babies as he can in his wake.

Max lord; Another obvious one for me, he's a genie. Make your wishes, and he'll grant them, so long as there's something in it for him at the end of the day.

Would love to hear your thoughts, and thots on this! 💜

#pedro pascal #max lord #Dave york #ezra prospect #oberon martell #francisco morales #marcus pike #max phillips #javier peña #jack daniels #din djarin #marcus moreno #julesanswers

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make-me-imagine · 1 year

Text

White Christmas

12 Days of Christmas: Day 7

Plot: While staying with Chris for the holiday, you get your first white Christmas.

Pairing: Christopher Pike x Gn!Reader

Words: ~700; very short I know, sorry!

As you walked around Chris's kitchen, you felt your stomach grumble at the smell of the food cooking. You had come back to Chris's home on Earth for the Christmas leave. And you had decided to invite the others over for a pre-Christmas dinner, before they all did their own things for the vacation leave.

Spock, Una, La'an, Hemmer, M'Benga, Uhura, and Erica were all on their way. You and Chris danced around the kitchen together as you prepared the tables and food for their arrival. You had even gotten them each a gift for them to open after dinner.

As you finished setting the table, your eyes glanced up to the window, and you felt excitement jolt through you. As you ran over to the window, you caught Chris's attention.

"Are they here already?" He asked as he watched you.

"No, it's snowing!"

Chris smiled as he walked over to look out the window as well. "Yep, right on time" Looking over at you, he saw your excitement and he chuckled "Now, I know you've seen snow before."

You smiled "Yeah I have, but I've never had a white Christmas before. Do you think it will last?"

Chris nodded "Once it starts snowing out here, it often stays until Spring." You looked over at him and smiled brightly.

He smiled at your excitement and gently placing his hand on the back of your head. Pulling you closer, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

Looking at the clock, he smiled down at you "Wanna take a quick walk?"

You nodded gleefully before you quickly made your way to grab your coats. Chris smiled fondly at you as he took off his apron and followed.

As you made it outside, the snow began drifting quickly down from the sky. The sun was slowly being hidden by the heavy snow and clouds.

"It's already piling up!" You looked around at the ground, seeing the dirt and dead grass slowly being covered with a blanket of white.

Walking across the property with Chris, checking on the horses, and looking at the slowly freezing creak nearby. You stopped to stare out at the trees as the whole area started to look more like a winter wonderland.

"Catch!" You heard Chris yell, as you spun around.

As a small snowball smashed against your chest, you let out a startled gasp, followed by a laugh .

"Hey!" You yelled as you quickly reached down to scoop up some snow.

Throwing your own snowball at Chris, he quickly dodged it "Uh-oh." He joked as you began grabbing more.

As he started running up to you, you quickly threw another snowball, hitting him in the chest before he got to you.

Grabbing you, he held down your arms "Cease fire!" He yelled jokingly before you both stumbled backwards.

Falling to the ground with a yelp, you both began laughing.

Chris was lying over you, looking down at you "I know better than to start a war with you" He said with a chuckle.

You grinned up at him "As you should."

He smiled brightly as he gently began wiping away the flakes of snow landing on your face. He smiled adoringly down at you for a moment before he spoke.

"I'm glad you came here with me."

Your smile brightened "Me too."

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your lips, ignoring the cold that began soaking into your skin. Pulling away, he gently caressed your cheek with his gloved hand.

"This is our first Christmas together."

You smiled and nodded "Hopefully the first of many."

He smiled before pressing another quick kiss to your lips.

Hearing the distant roar of a shuttle approaching, both of you looked up, seeing one soaring over head towards the house. Chris looked down at you as you both remembered the dinner.

"Oh sh-" Jumping up, Chris grabbed your hands and pulled you up.

As you both began to race back towards the house, feet sinking into the deepening snow, you let out a laugh you couldn't contain.

You saw Chris grin from ahead of you as his hand stayed wrapped around yours.

xx End xx

General Taglist: @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry

Star Trek/SNW/Pike Taglist: @starfleetimagines, @groovy-lady, @asgardianhobbit98, @agent-catfish-kenobi, @starship-argo, @cs-please, @gatefleet, @tinymushrooms, @iinmysights

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bluestar22x · 8 months

Text

Chapter 3

Baby Fever - Chapter 3

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Female!(Wife)Reader

Series Summary: It all started with a classic case of baby fever

Rating: 18+ Series

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1,632

Author’s Note: Didn't expect to get this one done so early, but here it is.

xxx

December had always been a busy month for you. As soon as the first hit you were jotting down a list of presents to buy your family for Christmas and beginning to order what you could online. Then you'd purchase the rest in the center of the city, the next time you had a day off.

The next week was time for wrapping the gifts and putting up the Christmas tree. It was going to be your first Christmas together as a married couple and Marcus insisted on a real one, so you both made a trip out to the nearest tree farm and handpicked one out together, on the condition that he'd be the one caring for it and cleaning up the needles that fell from it.

It always surprised you how much time prepping for Christmas took when added to your usual weekly chores and errands. Not to mention the snow that needed shoveling and removal. You and Marcus usually worked on that together after every snowfall, and it had been a pretty snowy December so far.

So it wasn't a surprise you'd lost track of when your last period was, forgetting to check your calendar that month until things had calmed down and it was mid December. December twenty-one to be exact.

You'd just arrived home from work, slipped into a cozy set of flannel pajamas, and turned on the Christmas tree lights when it occurred to you to check.

Your heart skipped a beat when you glanced down at the calendar on your phone and realized you'd been due to have your period two weeks ago and you definitely hadn't had it. You would've remembered that. Right? You always made a note on the start date.

Your eyes turned up in the direction of the hallway that led to the bathroom. You chucked your phone onto the couch and charged towards it.

In the bathroom you yanked one of the cabinet doors open and plucked a box of two pregnancy tests out of it. Your hands were shaking with anticipation, so you took a moment to shut your eyes and breathe until you were calm enough to steady them.

Afterwards you sat on the toilet and took both the tests, wanting to be sure of whatever the result was. You placed them on the bathroom counter and washed your hands while you waited the three minutes for the tests to do their thing. You paced the room for the remaining time after you dried your hands on a towel, trying not to think, not wanting to get your hopes up, but you were nervous the whole time.

The timer you'd set on the digital watch on your wrist finally rang and you practically lunged at the tests in the sink, examining their result windows.

Your eyes widened at the two unmistakable positive symbols they displayed. Your heartrate sped up and you covered your mouth with your free hand, soaking the moment in. You felt tears threaten to slip from the corners of your eyes, and you weren't sure how you managed to keep them from falling, but they did blind you.

You were pregnant. There was no doubt. The odds of both of those over-the-counter tests giving you a false positive was basically zero.

You glanced down at your stomach and dropped the tests to lightly press your palm against the spot between your hips where you knew your uterus was located, deep inside you.

You didn't feel different. Your belly was the same size it had been for years, and you hadn't felt sick or tender anywhere or anything. You hadn't even felt any more tired than you usually were.

You'd expected more, but you supposed you might be too early on to notice anything.

Still, it felt strange to have only the tests to confirm it. You shook your head at that thought. "Looking the gift horse in the mouth there," you muttered to yourself, though you were smiling.

You flinched when you heard Marcus enter the house through the side door and yell "I'm home".

You quickly recovered in a panic, dropping your hands to your sides before shutting the bathroom light off, shoving the tests into a cabinet, and rushing out of the room.

There was no question Marcus would be as happy as you were about this, but you already had a plan for the reveal and him strolling into the bathroom to see the tests in the sink was not part of it.

"Hey, honey," you said cheerfully, approaching to peck him on the cheek as he rolled his black suit jacket off his shoulders and threw it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

"Hey babe," he greeted you back, raising his right hand to display a large carryout bag to you. It was from the local Chinese restaurant. "I got our usual. Mostly meat and rice, along with the beef and broccoli you like so much."

While you didn't eat Chinese every week, you did eat out every Friday night, usually too sick of the week's work to feel like cooking. Marcus usually picked up the food because he was most often the last out of work for the day, even with the desk job he'd had for the last few months.

"Perfect, I'm starving," you told him.

It was an honest statement. Though you were debating how and when to tell him about the big news, something that should've turned you off of food due to nervousness, your stomach had begun rumbling at your first whiff of the food tucked away in the bag. You wondered silently if that was a pregnancy symptom or just you.

He placed the bag on the table and headed for the kitchen cupboards, pulling out two plates. He set them on the middle of the table and turned to grab utensils from the drawer below but paused when he noticed that you hadn't moved from your spot by the suit covered chair. You were wringing your hands and had a look of pondering on your face, like you were debating something.

"What's up?" he asked, his brows lifting slightly. He didn't sound concerned, but you knew if you didn't explain what was going on he would be. Marcus was attentive. He always knew when something was going on with you.

You'd wanted to wait for Christmas Eve in three days to tell him, you'd seen it in the movies and on TV and had always thought it special, but you realized you wouldn't make it those three days. Even if you managed to keep it to yourself, you'd end up making him worry. And what if you started showing symptoms?

You collected yourself. It was best to tell him now. It was still going to be special.

You gave Marcus a small smile and reached out to intertwine your fingers with his, giving his hand a squeeze and meeting his curious brown eyes with yours.

"You're going to be a father," you declared brightly.

His eyes grew large and he sucked in a sharp breath. "You're pregnant? You're certain?"

You nodded as tears of joy sprung to your eyes again. "I took two tests just fifteen minutes ago. They were both positive."

Marcus' lips pulled back into a broad grin and you caught his eyes sparkling before he swooped you up into his arms and kissed you hard.

"Wow," he murmured when he parted his mouth from yours just enough, touching his forehead to yours.

You chuckled at him being unable to form a full sentence. "I have a feeling it's going to take a while for it to really sink in, if I'm being honest. I don't feel any different. Haven't been sick. I wouldn't have known to take a test if it wasn't for the late period."

"How late?" Marcus questioned as he pulled away to look at your face. He'd read every article online you’d read on pregnancy since July, so you figured he probably remembered how the weeks were calculated.

"Around two weeks," you replied. "So my guess is -"

"You're six weeks pregnant," he stated for you, awe in his voice.

You nodded again. "And that means the baby's a size of a pea."

During the last few months you'd found many websites comparing the growth of unborn babies to fruits and veggies or other everyday items. You'd been secretly obsessed with it. With how tiny your baby would be at the start. It was a silly sentiment, you thought, of course they were small, but it was one you seemed to share with Marcus, based on the wonder that settled on his features at the word "pea".

His eyes drifted to your midsection and he reached out to rest his palm against it gently for several seconds before pulling away to cup your cheek with it.

"I love you so much," he told you firmly. "And you're going to be an amazing mother. I know it."

"I love you too," you said back, sniffling a little. "And you are going to be the best dad."

"I'll try," Marcus promised, using his thumb to rub your cheek.

You weren't worried. You'd figured out a long time ago that domestic life suited him quite well.

"You need anything at all, ever, let me know," Marcus insisted. "I will get you whatever you need, do whatever it takes to make this easier on you."

You beamed up at him appreciatively. "Thanks. I could actually use help right now."

"Oh?"

You tilted your head in the direction of the takeout bag. "Help me open up the containers of food. I'm very hungry."

Marcus grinned and kissed your forehead sweetly, took his hands off your body. "Of course. Let's eat."

xxx

Tagged: harriedandharassed

xxx

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

xxx

#Marcus Pike Fanfic (Mine)#X Reader #Baby Fever Series

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ichayalovesyou · 2 years

Note

A Pike x reader request: Captain Pike catches an ensign (the reader) red handed in the middle of their Enterprise Bingo - author's choice how Pike reacts!

Now THAT sounds fun! Let’s a go 😎

Yellow Jacket Blues (Platonic Pike x Reader)

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Word Count: 877

Content: SFW, platonic, shenanigans, GN!Reader, Sciences!Reader, Ensign!Reader, Dad Mode!Pike (derogatory), Bingo Trauma

Teaser: The most dreaded, difficult, and dangerous of all the Enterprise Bingo tasks was upon you, but you HAD to do it. Welcome to the greatest Bingo challenge of all, “sit in the Captain’s Chair” good luck!

This was the most dangerous thing you had ever done. The most dangerous thing you would ever do in the history of your Starfleet career even.

More dangerous than an unsanctioned space walk.

More dangerous than a stun duel.

This, was the Captain’s Chair.

Every single Ensign in your department warned you about it. Some had chickened out and not completed the bingo chart, or given up on completing it afterward. Those who had gotten caught had a haunted look in their eyes when they spoke.

You do NOT want to be caught in Captain Christopher Pike’s chair on the bridge. They say part of you will never ever leave. That no matter when you decided to try it, he would be there. He would catch you.

It was strange, the Captain seemed amicable enough, certainly not egotistical. He raised his voice less than most of your superior officers, which you supposed was almost everyone. But the point still stood.

What made sitting in Pike’s chair such an ordeal?

What did he do that had scarred so many an Ensign over the years?

If you were careful, maybe you would never find out.

You had a plan

1. Make sure it was a very slow voyage so that the Bridge has the lightest compliment possible.

2. Triple check the duty roster

3. Make sure the Captain going to be elsewhere (without being weird DO NOT BE WEIRD ABOUT IT)

4. Check the roster again just to be sure

5. Sneak in during the Alpha-Delta shift change shuffle. Specifically when Senior Staff gets swapped over.

6. Swallow your fear, and possibly your dignity.

7. Cop a squat for the minimum five seconds required for the Bingo to be valid.

8. Get out before everyone even finishes taking their seats

9. Swipe the footage, upload it to your Bingo data pad, which will be completely wiped of all evidence upon list completion as is tradition.

10. Mission success!

The execution would have been absolutely flawless, had the Captain not left a stray data pad on the bridge halfway through step three.

“Number One I almost forgot to mention-oh” the Captain caught sight of you immediately, your ass hovering just above the cushion of The Chair, he crossed his arms and started to laugh.

“Ortegas, how much time do we got before we arrive at Starbase 6?”

“Hours, sir.” She replied with a mischievous grin that you could only describe as ‘oh kid, you are a bout to Get It.’

“Congratulations Ensign Y/N, you just signed up for the Command Track!”

Oh gods, oh no, oh gods no.

No no no no no no.

You were in sciences and ONLY for the science didn’t he see the blue? S-C-I-E-N-C-E-S not Command! Nope! N O P E!

You thought you’d made it abundantly clear you weren’t ambitious. You just wanted to get your damn work done and zip around though space oh no oh no oH nO.

It was time to leave, as in right now, you were leaving now.

“Oh by all means Ensign stay in your seat, or really, my seat but we’ll get into that later. Bridge crew’s heard all this before, and believe me, they’ll be paying attention to see if you are paying attention.” the Captain smirked, leaning on the banister.

So one of the worst moments of your life began.

If he hadn’t been quizzing you every fifteen minutes or so on what he’d just said, you could have just zoned out.

But he could not even spare you that suffering.

Two hours of describing how to climb and navigate Starfleet’s command ranks in excruciating detail, confusing food metaphors, and side anecdotes about horses later. The Captain finally picks up the data pad he left behind.

If your brain wasn’t leaking out of your ears, you might have wondered if the data pad being left behind had been a ruse. That you had somehow been found out and deliberately doomed to this failure as some cruel trick of this accursed and unforgiving universe.

“So, in conclusion Ensign Y/N, don’t sit in the Captain’s chair unless you mean it, especially when it’s mine.”

“Permission to leave sir?” you replied, numbly.

He feigned the act of thinking about it, or at least you hoped he was.

“… Eh, sure. Why not?”

“Thank you sir.” You stood up, and meandered toward the turbolift.

“Hope the bingo was worth it.” someone said quickly under their breath.

That could NOT have been the Captain. Right? Right?!

… Could it?

“Sir?” you turned around, cautious that any questions might trigger another long winded dissertation.

“What? Go. I’m sure your superior officer is gonna have a problem with you if you stick around much longer.”

As you entered the lift, you heard the beginnings of chatter between the command duo.

“I don’t think you’re doing much to bolster command track applicants with that speech Chris.” Una remarked amusedly.

“Hey, the good ones always come back looking for more. It’s determination. You don’t want Captains who aren’t willing to listen.”

Well, you could tell him one thing you-

…

You… didn’t really actually know if you would be coming back or not.

Were you?

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mlmxreader · 2 months

Text

What's So Great About War? | Alex Keller x m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ I have a suggestion for a fanfic. How about a WW1 scenario. The reader can be German or allies. They’re a pilot who crashed into no man’s land. The character whether it be Gaz or Alex. Any character will do you can choose. The character will help them since if the reader is German the uniform is so badly mangled it’s hard to determine who’s side their on or if they’re allies/ on the same side as the character maybe the character has seen them on the air field while they were headed to the trenches. Hope you enjoy and have fun with that idea! ❞

: ̗̀➛ During the First World War, Alex is stationed with the American Shock Troops, and finds himself torn between loyalty and duty.

: ̗̀➛ graphic depictions of death, graphic depictions of injury, graphic descriptions, toxic gas, plane crashes, swearing, smoking, gun violence

↳ PROSHIP/PROFIC/ETC DO NOT INTERACT

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The war had been raging for all too long, it seemed as if it had been going on since the dawn of time and would never end. Leaving fields that were once green and bursting with life empty and barren and grey.

Desolate of everything except rotten pikes that held up the barbed wire and the scattered limbs and bones that were gnawed on by rats and mice.

It was easy to hear their cries, begging and pleading for a bullet in the head so they didn’t have to feel the rats burrow and chew through their stomachs and intestines throughout the night.

Many of the politicians called it the war to end all wars, and kept pushing for more and more needless and senseless death.

Yet they would not fight themselves and nor would they send their own sons to war either.

Sun Tzu would have wept if he saw what was happening.

On the Eastern Front, men were being gassed as they protected fortresses; rising and gargling on their blood and vomit as they tried to march forward.

On the Western Front, it was so much worse. The bodies of men and horses stunk as they rotted, torn apart and frayed from shells, grenades, and heavy machine gun fire.

It had been so long that Alex had forgotten how much of his time had been spent fighting; he at least still remembered who he fought with.

It was the Devil Dogs - the U.S Marines - at first.

They soon transferred him to the 141st British Regiment - which Alex absolutely despised due to MacTavish’s constant preaching of propaganda and talking about how the Welsh were “bugger all except sheep shagging scum who speak gibberish.”

Then at last, he was sent to the American Shock Troops - who were often called the Ghosts.

There, he was still stationed.

Several men made up the force of the Ghosts, as well as their mercy dog Riley.

But Alex was thankful, as he never really spent much time with them except during raids, so he never got to find out if they were as bad as MacTavish or not.

Quite often, though, Alex would find himself sitting at the edge of the trench and smoking too many cigarettes, his gaze turned to the sky as he thought about the man he used to know so well.

You were dragged into the war before he was, and he could still remember the feel of your hands in his as he begged you to stay alive and to make it through the war so he could see you again.

The last time he told you that he loved you, quickly kissing you before you were shoved onto the train; he chased after it until he fell over, calling your name and promising that he would see you again.

He would make it home to you.

You wrote to one another very often, though - Alex knew all about your dark green and white Albatross and how you had painted it the same pattern as an orca, just as he knew all about your time with the Flying Circus under the command of the infamous Manfred Von Richthofen, The Red Baron.

You were credited with sixty victories and the newspapers in your home country even gave you a dashing new nickname fit for your reputation - The Green Shark.

But that did not stop you from seeing the truth behind the war.

All the wasted lives and broken dreams. All the mothers mourning children they could never bury.

All the men who would not go home. There was no enemy - only men and boys, sons and fathers, brothers and uncles and nephews, turned to ash for nothing.

There would never be victory - only decay and death. There would never be glory - only blood.

None of it was ever going to be justified, it was a pointless and horrific war.

Alex could never disagree with you on that, he never would believe in such a vile and heinous thing, such an apocalyptic event. And all for what?

What was it all for?

Why did millions have to die?

Why did so many have to give their lives?

Why?

Two shots had changed the world, and millions were going to pay for it.

One man’s death was paid for by the suffering and deaths of millions more - coins made of blood and skin.

So what was so fucking great about it?

Swiping a hand down his face, Alex tried to push it from his mind, knowing that thoughts of such a calibre would get him killed.

He tossed the end of his cigarette away, but just as he was about to stand, he was thrust forward into the muddy waters face-first.

A great orange light was flying over him.

He kept his head low for a moment before scrambling over the top of the trench. Immediately, he charged across the barren wasteland as fast as he could, his lip quivering when he saw the dark green plane.

It was all a blur as he grabbed the limp pilot and dragged him back to the trench, putting him down on a cot and screaming for Elias. Alex was soon dragged away by Ajax and Kick.

He spent hours trying to get to the pilot, desperate and on the verge of starting a war on his own, but it wasn’t until dawn that he was allowed.

“Do you know this man?” Elias asked sternly, glaring at Alex.

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” Elias nodded back curtly as he cleared his throat. “Is he friend or foe? His uniform’s torn and burnt, so I can’t tell - but you know him, so you must know.”

“Friendly,” Alex answered quietly, chewing the inside of his lip, “he’s on our side, Sir.”

Such a lie could get him shot and killed, Alex was all too aware of that - but what was he meant to do?

Your life was not suddenly worth less than his because of the fact that your country was fighting on the opposite side of a pointless war.

He had to lie to keep you alive and safe, even if it meant risking his own in the process.

But the Ghosts soon left, letting Alex stay with you; you were in bad shape.

Burns and gashes all over your face, some of them so deep that he could see where the flames from your downed plane had scorched the fat layer of your wounds.

Rendering the flesh blistered and weeping openly.

Deep wounds covered your hands and arms and legs; with ease, Alex could see the particularly gnarly laceration on your left leg.

It was open, the bone pressing against what little flesh was left; cracked and dried blood crackled when it spasmed upon feeling the soft winds.

Alex wanted to look away, but when he saw the scorch marks on the bone, he frowned.

What was left of your uniform was black from the burns, and stained with dark splodges that smelled like iron.

But you were awake, groaning and trying to move until he gently pushed you down, shaking his head.

“You’re still alive,” you coughed weakly.

Alex nodded, letting his hand rest on your chest as he did his best to smile reassuringly. “For now… I had to tell them you were one of ours, they haven’t seen your plane yet.”

“I can pretend,” you agreed softly. “It’s alright.”

“We are going to see the end of this war,” he promised, licking his lips and clearing his throat. “And I will keep you safe. I promise.”

“I don’t want to fight,” you grumbled softly, shaking your head and coughing again. “I don’t want to be part of this war.”

“Darling,” Alex whispered. “You don’t have to any more. I promise. When this war is over, you’re coming home with me.”

“So demanding,” your laugh sounded more like a death rattle than anything else. “But I will always go where you do…”

“I promised you when you left on that train, I would find you again… didn’t think it’d be in such a fucking shitty predicament,” he sighed, gently patting your chest. “Sleep now. You need your rest and I need to convince Elias to let me stay with you while you heal… but I love you, you know, and I’m going to get us both home. I promise.”

“Keller,” you mumbled, holding his hand as tightly as you could, although your grip was still all too limp. “I love you, too… don’t go… please?”

Alex leaned back a little, taking a look behind him before lighting up a cigarette. “I’ll stay for as long as I can.”

He couldn’t have known, neither of you could have ever known, that the end of the war would not come for a long time, and that you would both watch the Ghosts die; you would see Hesh clinging onto Logan’s body as he screamed for their mother, begging for her to come and save them.

You would see Elias torn apart by rats as he did his best to usher the others back to the trenches.

You would see Ajax and Kick choke on toxic gas as they howled and rasped as their lungs collapsed.

You would see Merrick spread across No Man’s Land during heavy shelling.

The only one to make it out would be Riley.

So, what would ever be so fucking great about the war?

“Come on,” Alex murmured as he gently shoved you over so he could lie down next to you, offering you his cigarette. “If I’m staying, I want some space.”

You shuffled and groaned, sharp pains shooting through you until you wept and nearly begged for death. Through choked up tears, you managed to say, “you always did hog the bed.”

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delta-pavonis · 7 months

Text

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

Tagged by @valeriianz and @sleepsonfutons, so LET'S DO THIS. Because I want to procrastinate from working.

Under the cut because I don't wanna clog up your feeds with random bullshit about me as a fic author. LOL.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

*checks AO3* SIXTY ONE?!? WHEN THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

325,828 total. 216,568 of that is Sandman that has been written since September 5 2022.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Fandoms I have posted fic for: The Sandman, Star Trek, Men's Tennis RPF Fandoms I have written fic for that will only ever live in the secret rooms of my mind palace hard drive: X-Men, The Vampire Chronicles, Harry Potter, Vampire Hunter D, Hellsing (the anime & manga) Fandoms I have written fic for that I might post someday: The Dresden Files

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. New Moon 2. high enough (you got me good) 3. Whispers to the Night <- the one that started me on this wild Dreamling ride 4. To Worship on a Marble Altar 5. Eros in Pragma Interesting note is that almost all of those are early in the Sandman/Dreamling fandom where there was more activity and less fics in existence.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I would LOVE to respond more to comments. I read all of them and treasure each one. However, spoons are limited and most of the time recently my brain is just not cooperating. I used to respond to every one and exhaust myself. Now I'd rather spend that energy reading and writing more. But when I am feeling like I am a shite writer and others do it better and why am I even continuing to do this I go back and re-read comments and it really does help.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't think I write angsty endings, tbh. The angstiest of those that are finished would probably be i will take me away. There is, however, one that will definitely be the angstiest once it is done. 😉

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I chronically write happy endings. I think my happiEST ending is Hypnopompia turtur, followed closely by high enough (you got me good)'s Chapter 4

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope! At least not yet... <.< >.> <.<

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

*CACKLES* Do I write smut? Do I write smut? Do I write smut? You would have an easier time counting the fics that do NOT contain any smut. You could count them on one hand. I mostly write BDSM and/or graphic smut. Lots of porn, sometimes plot.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Yes, rarely. I think my recent delve into Sandman+Ted Lasso with Keeper is pretty fucking weird (as much as I adore it).

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Also nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not that is published. I am currently collaborating with someone on future White Horse Mafia fics.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Oh Christ, that is like asking what is my favorite bird. *pulls out laptop and projector and slides* In this TEDTalk, I will... Dreamling is definitely the one that has had the strongest grip on me in a very long time. Lestat/Louis is a classic I will never be completely over. Harry Dresden/John Marcone just thrills me for reasons I cannot fully pinpoint. Chris Pike/Ash Tyler from Star Trek also is very dear to me, as is Clint Barton/Loki from back at the start of the MCU.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My Chris Pike/Ash Tyler/OC triad from Star Trek. I want to finish it in my heart, but I have lost the thread of it.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Apparently porn. At least that is what I gather from feedback from others.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Does comparing myself too much to other authors count? Like, too often looking at another person's fic and being like I want to BE THAT instead of embracing who I am and how I write. Does that make sense? It is one thing to be inspired by someone's work and try to learn from them, but sometimes I find myself wanting to try to change my WHOLE STYLE to try and be "more successful" or "more liked", whatever the fuck that means.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I avoid it unless I feel I really need it for Plot Reasons™. I will use Google Translate if the language is common, but also other websites for common slang phrases or dialects that Google Translate doesn't have. I am more than happy to have people correct me, though!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

The Vampire Chronicles

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

OK, this is almost as hard as choosing my favorite bird... I really really love what I was able to achieve with the style of i had a dream (i got everything i wanted). I am so proud of Hob's first-person journal and a part of me will always wish it caught more people's attention. I still impress myself with the amount of world building I was able to cram into the less than 10k of find in me your rhythm and the less than 3k of Stay the Knight. What I was able to do with Hob's snarky voice in A Change in Tactics also cracks me up. But I think the one I am most proud of overall is You create me against your lips. It started out with a blurb inspired by an Instagram post and in the end will be the longest fic I have ever written and the longest fic I have ever finished by far. What is interesting is that most of these are decidedly NOT my most popular based on AO3 stats. Fascinating.

If you are a fic author and want a fun reason to waste some time, consider yourself tagged! *

#tag game #20 questions #If you are a fic author and want a fun reason to waste some time consider yourself tagged *BOOP*#learn about Pavonis

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tea-reads · 1 year

Text

Steph’s December Writing Challenge - Day 5: Winter Fantasy

A/N: Note quite done with Frankie. I’ve planned to write a few parts featuring this pairing throughout the challenge. These two are from this fic I wrote on a Writer Wednesday, and I’ve planned on doing a series since then. I thought this challenge was a good opportunity and motivator to write these two. Enjoy :)

Knight!Marcus Pike x Gardener!f!reader

Warnings: none

As the snowflakes began drifting down to the bare gardens, still resting for the next renewal, there was not much to do around the castle. After the events of the Spring Festival - perhaps every year- Mother Nature would reduce your workload from the start of Autumn until the end of Winter, granting you the much-needed rest as the busy bee you are.

As tradition, you used this time to prepare for the festive season with your family. You would be expecting your aunty and her family to arrive in a week. You were also planning to ask Marcus to stay over for the family dinner, but when Marcus came by in the morning, he said he would be free late in the afternoon - your mother then invited him for dinner, which he graciously accepted and you felt your heart sing. You told him you’d be done around then, and you both agreed for him to bring Willow; he knows how much you love taking strolls on the horse.

You were always so meticulous with your work. But this time, you did your best to not rush or get distracted throughout the day.

“Your Majesty,” Marcus greeted, and bowed as you approached him and his steed as they waited for you outside of your home. You appreciated how comfortable and relaxed he looked in his winter attire compared to the heavy set of armour he has to wear nearly every day.

You laughed and held your cloak by the sides and bobbed a curtsy. “So this is what it’s like to be Queen. You flatter me, Pike.” You purred and couldn’t help but adore him as he said, “Well it’s an honour,” addressing your surname and winking. You laughed again when Marcus pulled you into a tight hug, swaying you side to side. “I missed you too.” You giggled and you both pulled away to meet each other’s eyes, taking in another moment of peace to be together again.

Very so often time was not kind to you both.

You cupped his cheeks to which Marcus leaned in to press his forehead against yours and you both closed your eyes. You heard him sigh happily and felt him lean into your touch as you rolled your thumb against his cheek.

A few slow, tender kisses were shared.

“Long day?” You asked and you felt him nod. “I should be asking you that,” Marcus chuckled and you both opened your eyes as you pulled away - with your hand still on his cheek. He then carefully grabbed your hand - pressing a kiss on the top of your fingers - and lead you to Willow. “Come on, the sun will be setting in about an hour and I’d like for it to be a good break for you before dinner.” he said as he helped you up. You wanted to tell him this was also his break too, but you knew he knew that. As you were getting settled, he pulled out an apple from his satchel and fed it to Willow. “You’ll get a big dinner too when we get back. Don’t you worry.” Marcus assured the horse which let out a whiny as he patted his snout.

He then joined you and you welcomed the warmth he radiated as his body enveloped around you. “Are you comfortable?” He asked and you turned your head to see him concerned. “I am, my love. Thank you for doing this- I appreciate it a lot,” you smiled softly and pecked his lips, “what about you?” Marcus would often tell you not to worry about him, but he learned he needed to be fair and allow you to look out for him too.

“I’m good, sweetheart.” He replied honestly, and you grinned and patted Willow’s neck as a cue for him to start walking at a leisurely pace for the next hour.

#stephsdecemberwritingchallenge #marcus pike #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader

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mortalfaerie · 1 year

Text

like a thief in the night, pt. v

aemond targaryen x oc

wordcount: 2.1k

description: elissa adjusts to the red keep as its occupants prepare for a siege

warnings: mama bear alicent (she means well?), a sexy (suggestive) dagger tutorial

She let her arm flop back on the sheets, and looked around the room. Servants were carrying buckets of water, and a large tub was brought into the room. In the far end of the room, a door was flung open to reveal a closet of clothes - probably a younger Princess Rhaenyra’s as well.

“My lady,” a maid said, standing at her bedside. “The dowager queen has requested an audience. Will you bathe?”

Elissa stretched and nodded her assent to the maid, who offered her an arm to leverage herself out of bed. When the bath was drawn, the maids stood to the side expectantly, and she looked suspiciously at each of them. Crow's Nest was a small manor, and she was accustomed to bathing without a retinue of servants.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Thank you, but I can manage myself.”

“My lady,” began a maid, but Elissa interjected, “I insist. Please, give me twenty minutes and I will be ready. Leave me.”

Reluctantly, they shuffled out of the door, seething down the pitcher, towels, and soaps they had held.

On a rack nearby, a dress had been pulled out of the closet and hung for her to dress in. It was a black wool dress with sleeves attached with laces, and lace closures at the sides so that she could dress unassisted. A white shift had been set aside next to it, along with a pair of stockings, two ribbons to tie her stockings above the knee, and her boots had been cleaned and rid of the mud for the trek into the woods.

She picked up the soap cakes the maids had brought and settled on one that had a scent of mint. She shrugged off the top-big clothes she had been lent by the prince and slipped into the wooden tub. The water was hot and felt amazing on her ribs, which still were sore from her coughing fit the night before. She also realized that her thighs and bottom were sore from the ride on Vhagar, who, as it happened, was not unlike riding a particularly large and cantankerous horse.

She set to work diligently scrubbing her skin and did the best she could to detangle the wind knots in her hair with the comb provided. When she had done that, she dunked herself fully in the water and held her breath, savoring the warmth, before forcing herself to get out and dry off.

She dressed as quickly as the garment would allow, and after rummaging through the drawers, found a loose ribbon that she could use to secure her hair back. In the end, she settled to loosely braid it and let it sit over her shoulder, hoping that the end result was more effortless in look than messy. Considering for a moment, she went to grab the dagger Aemond had given her, tucking it into the garter of her stocking.

When she was presentable, she strode to the grand doors and pushed them open. Ser Cole stood on the other side, waiting.

“Lady Elissa.” he said in acknowledgment. “Follow me.”

Elissa took in the hallway in the daylight and saw that the guard patrol seemed to have been doubled, with pikes having supplied in lieu of their usual sheathed swords. She shivered - in her life, she had been blessed by the seven to never have been exposed firsthand to war. For assurance, she brushed her fingers against the form of the dagger under her skirts, taking comfort in its presence.

As they approached a set of doors, the guards posted outside beat the floor with their pikes and announced, “The Lady Elissa Swann of Crow’s Nest!”

Ser Criston opened the doors and waived Elissa in.

The dowager queen sat at a desk by the window, rubbing circles into her temples as she poured over a piece of parchment. Ser Criston cleared his throat and announced, “The Lady Elissa to see you, your grace.” The dowager looked up, and offered a tight, tired smile.

“My lady,” she said, gesturing to a chair opposite her. “Do sit.”

Ill at ease, Elissa made her curtsy and took the seat.

Alicent set the paper to one side and steepled her fingers on the table. “I would like to once again express my condolences for your present situation, however, I expect that your chamber is acceptable?”

“Yes, your grace.” Elissa nodded. Really, it was well and beyond acceptable, but she felt to say so would be redundant.

“Very well. I understand you are Lord Byron Swann’s granddaughter, correct?” she asked.

Elissa nodded again. “Yes, your grace.”

Alicent smiled that courtier’s smile again. “House Swann has long been a dependable ally of the crown. I recall that your forebears even stepped aside to bend the knee to the conqueror without bloodshed.”

It was true, as far as she knew, though at the time it had been viewed as an act of cowardice, with time, it was honored.

Changing the subject, Alicent added, “What lovely hair you have, Lady Swann.”

Elissa stomach twisted, and she forced a nervous smile. “Thank you, your grace. I am told my mother shared my complexion.”

“Yes,” the dowager nodded, “Though I don’t believe I or my late husband had the opportunity to meet her.”

“She was lowborn, your grace.” Elissa clarified.

“Ah, yes,” the other woman nodded. “Even still, what a rare color for a stormlander. Are not they known for their dark features?”

Below the table, Elissa wrung her hands. “Yes, often they are.” she said.

“I met the late Ser Orwen once, at the last tourney before my predecessor, Queen Aemma, sadly passed away.” Alicent said. “I recall that he was strikingly raven of hair.”

“So I am told, alas, he died before my birth, your grace.” Elissa offered.

“How difficult it must be to determine with certainty the parentage of a child, when such is the case?” the dowager queen asked, leaning back in her chair.

Elissa’s palms were slick with sweat. “Ah, yes, but my grandmother and eye share such distinct features, she knew me for her granddaughter at first sight.”

“And how lovely that she did. A mother’s love, her desire to ensure the safety of her children and grandchildren, is a remarkable force. With the passing of Lady Swann’s only child, she must have been delighted to have a grandchild, so much to overlook the circumstances of your birth.” Alicent smiled.

“I am grateful to her,” Elissa nodded.

“Indeed.” the older woman said. “Your mother must have been a striking woman, to have such fair hair in the stormlands.” She laughed dryly, “Why, it's nearly the same hue as that of my daughter, Queen Heleana.”

Elissa nearly choked. “I am certain the comparison is undue, your grace.”

“Hmm.” the dowager replied, studying Elissa’s face. “You do indeed have the eyes of Lady Swann. I understand that they are a defining feature of her line - her sister, the seven rest her soul, was present at my wedding to the late king. It is a pity that she was taken so young.”

Mierelle, the kid-sister of Elissa’s grandmother, had also died not long before Elissa came to Crow’s Nest, a factor which had made the Lady Swann especially fond of a granddaughter.

“Indeed, your grace,” Elissa smiled thinly.

“Well,” Alicent said, ringing a bell on the table. “I must be off, the small council has matters to attend. I look forward to your acquaintance, Lady Elissa.”

Ser Criston was at the door. “You rang, your grace?”

“Yes,” she said, “Please see the Lady Elissa back to her chamber.”

“Of course, your grace.” He said, and nodded to Elissa. Again, she followed him through the halls.

“Ser Criston,” Elissa ventured.

“Yes, my lady?” he answered, looking sideways to her.

“Might I visit the library, as I am here?” she asked.

Ser Criston looked ahead again. “I am certain that anything you desire to read can be brought to you, and spare your ladyship the effort of the trip.”

Elissa’s stomach dropped. Her fears were forming into suspicion that this palace might yet be a gilded cage.

A maid brought lunch to Elissa’s room around mid-day and brought with her a selection of tomes on different topics - history, natural sciences, philosophy, fiction - and asked her if there was anything else she could do to be of service.

“Yes,” she said, “I would like to speak to Prince Aemond.”

The maid smiled apologetically. “His grace the prince is in conference with the small council, and they are not to be disturbed, my lady.”

“Will you inform me when they are out of session?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady,” the maid smiled and made her exit.

Elissa ate the soup and bread at a slow pace, looking up at the chamber door with every shuffle of feet outside, but each time was disappointed. She drank a glass of light wine, read a convoluted chapter from the philosophy treatise, and read a longer portion from the history book about the seven kingdoms before the conquest.

She turned over the coals in the fireplace, arranged the trinkets on the mantle in ascending order of size, stacked the used dishes, organized the dresses in the wardrobe by hue, and lacking anything else to do after three long hours in confinement, resigned herself to yell into a luxurious feather pillow.

She didn’t typically have an issue being alone - in fact, sometimes preferred it - but to be alone in a stranger’s home, unable to go or see anything was nothing short of maddening. She spied a mirror on the dressing table and grabbed the dagger from her stockings. Cautiously, she went over to the mirror and held up the blade. She had only seen jousts before, which were far from the close combat that required daggers, so she turned the hilt over in her hand until it felt comfortable, and watched herself give a few experimental parries in the reflection.

“You’re holding it like a steak knife.” Came a voice from behind.

Elissa jumped, nearly dropping the dagger. “Seven hells!” she exclaimed, blood rushing to her cheeks.

Prince Aemond lounged against the wall by the door, his expression like a cat toying with its prey.

“How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

“Long enough to see you lose a fight with yourself, my lady,” he said, pushing off the wall and strolling over. “Here, let me,” he offered, holding his hand out for the dagger.

Begrudgingly, Elissa dropped it in his palm. He rolled his wrist in an elaborate movement that shifted his hold on the hilt. “There are only two ways you use a dagger,” he said.

“One,” he held the blade up so it obstructed the view of his face, poised a few inches ahead of him, “to block an opponents parries and thrust with a larger weapon, such as a sword,” and grabbing her sleeve and yanking with his free had and sending her stumbling towards him, he lifted her arm to expose her side and pointed the blade. “Or, only when you have disarmed your opponent, to deliver the final blow.”

His breath stirred the hair on her neck. “The dagger is a defensive weapon and one you wield with care. It is a dance, not a frantic flail.”

Elissa swallowed, feeling his proximity and seeing him behind her in the mirror. He lingered, and she swore he had intentionally nudged her ear with his nose, then released her. She turned to face him again, and he offered her the dagger.

“You can keep it,” he said.

“Really?” she asked, and he smiled faintly.

“Certainly,” he replied, “if you’re stuck in the fight, you ought to at least have a weapon.”

He paused and added, “Perhaps, tomorrow a swordmaster can come to tell you more.”

“And not you?” she asked.

He faltered. “I will be preoccupied tomorrow with the war council, alas.”

“And I am meant to stay here?” she asked, irritation setting in.

“For your safety, yes.” he said.

“How am I to bare your seal of protection, be your guest, if I never see you?” she pressed.

“War demands sacrifices of us all, my lady.” He said, tone firm. He sketched a bow to her, and added, “My mother has asked for your dinner to be delivered to your room. Do please let the maid know if you require anything.”

And with that, he left again. Beyond the point of polite manners, Elissa groaned and used his instruction with the dagger to stab deep into one of the feather pillows.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #elissa swann #asoiaf #hotd #hotd x reader

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starryeyes2000 · 1 year

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Here’s To Vulcan Psychiatrists

Read on AO3 or FFN

Rating: Teen

Pairings: Christopher Pike x OFC (Aalin)

Word Length: 1.4k

Summary: Chris appreciates T’Pring’s prescription for his relationship. A mostly fluffy piece. Chris/Aalin. Takes place after SNW Season 1 episode 5, Spock Amok.

Excerpt: A flutter of dark material seen in the far room, his most private space, caught Pike’s attention. His shoulders pushed back; a slice of his brain assumed a cautionary alert. Without turning or lifting his head, he multitasked focus between peripheral vision and the man at his side while simultaneously continuing a conversation with this former commanding officer. They stood near the entry to the Captain’s quarters, Robert April closer to its door.

“I’ll say it again, Chris. Helluva of a tactic. Though for a moment, while you explained to the R’ogovians why they shouldn’t align with the Federation, I’ll admit I considered confining you to the brig and ordering a psych eval.”

“Fair enough. But the horses are safely back in the barn and bedded for the night,” Pike said, his eyes searching for a repeat sighting as he combed his memory for Aalin’s duty schedule. She’s off shift today, he confirmed to himself. Shoulders returned to a more relaxed posture.

Shifting fabric grazing the floor and the sway of a hip pivoted Chris’ full attention to the bedroom.

Continue Reading on AO3 or FFN

Series Masterlist | OC Masterlist | Author Masterlist

Taglist: @arrthurpendragon @ocappreciation @ocappreciationtag @bardic-tales @themaradaniels @chickensarentcheap

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elen-aranel · 2 years

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Chanced Chapter 8: Enterprise - Vigil

Pairing: Christopher Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) Warnings: time in sickbay (neither reader nor Pike are sick), angst WC: 3k Taglist: @fzziiee (if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know <3) Notes: the +1 continues! Work is hard on a starship but a certain captain is around to help you out. Rating: Mature for moments in other chapters Summary: You feel Pike nod, and his voice softens. “And how are you?” “I’m—” you cut yourself off. You were about to say fine. But Chris isn’t asking because he wants a platitude.

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Starship Enterprise, 2254

Starship Enterprise is your favourite posting so far.

Your favourite for the work you’re doing and the places you’re getting to see; truly on the frontier now as you leave known space behind.

Security Chief Sullivan is continuing to show trust in you, letting you take the beta shift at the primary security station some weeks. Commander Nhan, another officer who’s a little older and more experienced than you, is willing to share her knowledge and help you be better. The rest of the security crew are hard-working, brave, and fun to be around.

You’re honing your poker skills at the bridge crew’s regular game. Your strategy isn’t quite there yet, but when you pretend to yourself the other players are miscreants on Starbase 58’s brig, your poker face is. You and Laleh Tehrani meet up at least weekly, either with Lestari and Anderson for a pampering night or 2-on-2 Parrises squares, or sometimes to work on Lizzie.

And the captain… You’ve been fortunate through your career that you’ve always had commanding officers who you’ve respected, and you respect Captain Pike, too, but… now he’s your friend. The friend who cheered you up when you were alone all those years ago. The friend who’s given you good advice, and who you’ve been able to help too.

Some days you chat after evening briefing, listening to his stories about horses and winning the Rigel cup, or sharing your ideas for mods you were thinking of doing to Lizzie. He flags articles in his briefings that he thinks you’ll be interested in, and if you bake you make sure to bring him a sample. He even asks after Penny. You still don’t know exactly what happened on Talos – though you’re well aware of General Order 7, banning contact with the planet – but you don’t see traces of that shadow Chris seemed to be under anymore. Or if you do, they’re fleeting. And, of course, there are… boundaries. You’ve never invited him to your quarters, for example. The attraction you felt four years ago hasn’t gone away, but you value your friendship more. You put it aside.

Starship Enterprise has been your favourite posting… up until today.

You had mentioned to Chris over blueberry muffins before briefing that you missed cooking, as opposed to baking, but you never got the chance because mealtimes were when the galley was in use, and you were touched when he offered you the use of his kitchen to host a dinner party.

Now you’re spending the morning going through crew security evals to flag up who needs recertification or additional training. And you are absolutely not mentally planning out dinner party menus, and who you would want to invite. You are entirely focused on your job. And you’re telling yourself that when Nicola announces that he’s picked up a distress call. You jolt back to yourself, closing out the evals and bringing up the sensor scans, before turning to the view screen.

“Greetings.” The alien speaking has charcoal black skin which glimmers as he moves; you get the sense that it’s hard for him to stop long enough to talk to you. “I am Medana, chair of the Naerol Confederacy, and we seek your help. Three days ago, a rogue Daramer terraforming device dropped out of subspace close to the Naerol system, and it is on course to land on our primary planet, where it will kill all life.” He subsides, looking to another alien of a different species.

“My people sent these probes out many, many generations ago, when we sought to expand our presence in the galaxy and subdue it. It is preparing the way for colonists who will never come. I am Le’av, of the Daramer Nomads. We are trying all we can to mend the errors of our ancestors, but we have so far failed to deactivate the probe and if we try to destroy it, the consequences will be catastrophic. Not just for the Naerol but for this whole sector.” They wipe a hand across a golden brow.

“We no longer have access to the technology which could control this device, but it remains on our former homeworld. Our ancestors saw the error of our ways and there was… a schism. We forsook our homeworld and our terraforming technology, and set out in convoy ships to explore. But lest any of our number change their mind in the long years to come, our ancestors fortified Daramer. Those defences are still active… we lost the ships which tried to land to retrieve the artefact we need.” They sigh heavily, brown eyes sad, and you wonder if they lost someone personally on a ship that went down. “But we heard via our web that the Federation had transporter technology, so we hoped that you would be willing to use it to access the surface directly. We are sending you data on our findings so far.”

You glance at Spock, whose screen has come to life; he is paging through the transmission, eyebrow raised.

Captain Pike is standing in front of his chair, and he squares his shoulders slightly. “Of course. Medana, Le’av, we will do anything we can. How long do we have?” You smile inwardly at the way the captain doesn’t think twice about helping aliens you’ve never had contact with before; that’s Chris all over.

You focus on your console. The computer has identified the Naerol planet, and the swarm of ships taking off from it; enough to evacuate some of the populace, perhaps a lot of their children, but… there are ten billion people living there. If you can’t help, most of them will die.

The staff meeting is done, the plans are made, the away teams are planetside. You are in a team with Ensigns Spock and Suzuki, but there are three other teams being led by the captain, Number One, and Sullivan. Your beam-down site is on the western continent in the remains of a large city, and you take a second to look around the tumbled down grey stonework, highlighted gold by the late afternoon sun, and to imagine what it must have been like when this place was alive with people. It’s still alive, of course, but now it’s with plants and trees, reclaiming the city a block at a time. As you watch a large white parachute-like seed pod drifts through a hole in a wall, dropping little motes that sparkle in the sunlight as it flies. The reclamation continues.

“The shielded area around the artefact is this way.” Spock points, and you aim your tricorder in that direction. Your destination is a distance away, and you won’t have as far to come to beam out, but this was the safest beam-in point in the vicinity.

“We should proceed with caution. I’m detecting faint energy signatures, and we need to be on our guard for manual traps too.”

Spock and Suzuki nod, and you make your way into the ruins.

There are traps everywhere. Some are decayed with age; you can see where a laser emitter is supposed to be shining a light to trigger an energy beam, but both it and the beam emitter are dead. This looks like it might have been a residential block, but it’s dead silent apart from the faint rustle of leaves in the lightest of breezes; you wonder whether there is animal life on this planet, and whether over the generations it has learned to stay away.

“Spock, are you seeing the paving stone?”

“Affirmative, Commander. I will avoid it.” The silence is also broken by the three of you checking on each other, and the beeps of your tricorders. Although you know you don’t really need to check on Spock; the Vulcan is a picture of calm concentration, clearly aware of his entire surroundings down to the minutest detail.

Suzuki is doing well too, of course; the Enterprise is the best ship in the fleet because of her crew. You don’t know him well yet; even though he’s in security he’s been on gamma a lot, so your paths haven’t crossed much. What you have seen of him has been friendly and gregarious off-duty, but here he’s all business, eager to reach the target, to be successful.

The ruins change as you get closer to the shield, closer to the centre of the city. The buildings are larger, more spaced out, and everything curves. The walls, the way they reach into the sky… the only straight lines are where things have fallen.

“We have reached the edge of the shielded area,” Spock announces, and you can’t see anything different with your eyes, even as your tricorder confirms he is right. “Transport and communicators will cease to work from this point.”

“Thank you, Spock. Team three to Enterprise, we are at the edge of the shield. Are we go to proceed?”

“Enterprise here. You are the first to reach a shield. Please proceed, but be back in transporter range within three hours. If you are not within range and another team retrieves a controller before you, we’ll have to leave without you.”

“Understood. Team three out.”

You thought there were a lot of defences before. But this is a different level. Your senses are alert to everything. The tufts of soft green-yellow grass poking through the pavement you’re walking on, which bend almost without a sound. The large pale blue flowers that unfurl in the corner of your vision, catching your attention for a moment. But you don’t have time to think about flora, because—

“Suzuki!” He freezes. “Take one pace back, now to the right, and again—good. You were too close to that wire. One wrong move, and…”

“Sorry, Commander. I thought this might be a faster…” He shakes his head, refocusing. “It won’t happen again.”

Spock indicates a large, ornate building across a circular plaza, and you make your way there. This building is the most intact you’ve seen, dome- shaped with intricate carvings which although weathered are still detailed, still draw the eye along spiralling, confusing paths. “Based on scans and the information the Daramer shared, the artefact should be in there.”

“Agreed. And it doesn’t look like we have much choice in how we proceed; it seems that what power systems remain are concentrated here, and nearly the whole area is covered.” You pick up a stone and throw it to your right; it’s vaporised mid-air. “I know this is stressful but we’re doing well. Let’s keep our focus; people are counting on us.”

When you were a kid on the Pemberley and your parents needed to keep you quiet for a bit, they would sometimes sit you down in front of a PADD with various puzzle games. One was a maze where you had to tilt the PADD to steer the character through, and you could spend hours on it.

You can’t help but think of that puzzle now. The room you’re in is round, and still has power, at least partially. It’s part auditorium, with dusty rows of what used to be seats, covers rotted away, and part displays of transformations of barren planets to living ones, or living planets to planets more like this one, along with cases showing equipment and artefacts like rocks and bones. It would have been the final place where colonists met before leaving Daramer, according to your briefing.

And every step you take, almost every breath you breathe echoes round the room, coming back to you muffled, twisted. You pick your way through with care, spiralling closer to the middle.

It’s only taken you half an hour to get this far, through corridors looping round the building, and you’re so close, mere steps away. You can see the controller on its pedestal — tantalisingly close to touching distance. Spock scans it and confirms it’s functional, and that removing it won’t cause anything either mechanical or otherwise to trigger and kill you all.

The lethal bit is the final two metres between you and the artefact. One wrong step, wrong move, and you will set off one of ten sensors in a metre range of the pedestal. They probably aren’t all working, after all this time, but the Daramer briefing made it clear: it only takes one.

“It is not possible to reach the artefact from here. The layout of the traps means our probability of success is unacceptably low. However, I believe we will be able to approach from the south.” Spock brings up a schematic on his tricorder screen. “We must leave the room, make our way round the building, and re-enter from the other side. Scanning resolution is clearer here; I project it will take us another hour to reach the other side of the artefact, then a further hour to reach the beam out point. Well within our allotted time.”

“Agreed.” You stifle a sigh, frowning at your own tricorder; you don’t relish the idea of another couple of hours of this. “I don’t like it, but you’re right. We have the time, and there’s no sense in taking unnecessary risks. Let’s head back.”

“But we’re so close.” Suzuki sounds frustrated, and he bounces slightly on his toes. “I’m only a few steps away; there’s enough space between the sensor here and the wire there. If I just—”

“Suzuki, no!”

But it’s too late. He takes a step, reaches out, grasps the artefact then misses his next step back.

There are times when the Vulcans have it right. When you have to stop feeling to get the job done. And you have a job to do: get yourself, Spock, Suzuki and the artefact back safely. At least he’s still alive, for now – there is poison in his system, but he is breathing though he isn’t conscious.

The other Vulcan trait you’re grateful for is strength, right now, as Spock takes more than his share of Suzuki’s dead weight between you.

You don’t think. You don’t feel. You just analyse your surroundings moment to moment, staying in that perfect focus. Through the auditorium, along corridors, past sensors, lasers, more poison-laced traps, round curve after curve until you emerge into an alien twilight.

You stand in the corner of sickbay, still and unobtrusive. Years of guard duty mean that you can hold yourself in a way that says, I have a right to be here. I am here to keep you safe.

Even when it isn’t true.

Suzuki’s breaths on the bio bed are laboured, but every one is a victory. You overheard Boyce telling a nurse that if he makes it through the next eight hours he’ll likely make a full recovery, but the question is whether his body can fight off the toxin he was hit with.

And he is breathing on his own now, though the ventilator is set to pick up if he stops. You estimate he’s doing twelve breaths per minute; if he can make about five thousand, three hundred more he should be all right.

So you stand there, counting breaths, holding yours when his stutters, trying to work out what you could have done differently. Knowing that if it had to be someone, it should have been you.

You have counted one thousand, five hundred and eleven breaths when you feel the ship drop out of warp. At least now your vigil is for one person, not billions.

Medical staff come by to check on him occasionally, but for the most part you’re undisturbed. Until you get to three thousand, eight hundred and eighty-seven.

“Commander, how is he?” The captain is standing right beside you; you barely noticed him coming in.

“His breath… it still sounds so—so difficult for him.” You pause, listening as Suzuki takes in another shuddering breath in, then out.

“But Boyce said if he can push through for another one thou—uh—about two hours, now, I guess, he should recover.”

You feel Pike nod, and his voice softens. “And how are you?”

“I’m—” you cut yourself off. You were about to say fine. But Chris isn’t asking because he wants a platitude.

“It should be me, over there.” You jerk your head in Suzuki’s direction.

“Spock told me he recommended you take another route, and you concurred, but Suzuki jumped the gun.”

You snort. “He did not say that.”

Pike shrugs, waiting.

“I saw the impatience in him, the eagerness to get the job done. Maybe to be a hero? And I… I should’ve… checked him. Pulled him back before he got that far. We lose too many, as a fleet. I think I told you once before that I wouldn’t mind dying for Starfleet, and maybe I will one day, but… only if it’s necessary. Today it wasn’t, and I should’ve done better.”

Pike is silent for a while, and you go back to counting breaths. Another twenty-one go by, and then he leaves. But before you can really register his absence, he returns with two chairs.

His mouth quirks in response to your raised brow. “Might as well be comfortable. What have we got? About one thousand three hundred left?”

“Must be about that,” you say, stifling a groan as you sit; standing so still left you a little stiff. Pike’s chair is close to yours, and he reaches out to you as he sits, laying a hand on your shoulder and giving it a brief squeeze.

“Remember he made his own choice,” Pike’s voice is thoughtful. Gentle. “You did what you could, and after that, you need to let it go.”

“I know.” You shake your head, trying to shake the guilt you feel. “I’m trying.”

“It’s easier to say than to do, and I don’t want to be a hypocrite, offering you advice I don’t take... but perhaps we can work on it together.”

Suzuki’s breathing continues to be laboured for his next few hundred breaths, but if you didn’t seek absolution, at least you made your confession. And Pike’s presence, silent and steady, is comforting.

Then, finally, Boyce comes in, and you feel your stomach clench as he makes his examination. You stand, as does Pike.

“He’s going to make it,” Boyce says as he turns to face you both, and your relief is almost overwhelming. “I’ll need to keep him in here for observation for the next twenty-four hours, and light duties for a few more days after that, but he should be right as rain.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Put the chairs back, Pike. That’s all the thanks I need.” Boyce turns to you. “He’ll be asleep for a few hours longer, but by all means come and chew him out tomorrow afternoon.” he nods before closing his tricorder and leaving.

“Thank you for waiting with me,” you say as Pike returns, chairs gone. “I really appreciated you being there. And your counsel.”

“You are always welcome,” he says, and there’s something in the look in his eyes as they catch yours for a moment. “So, have you thought any more about the dinner party? I assume you have a menu by now…”

You roll your eyes as you follow him out of sickbay. And you won’t admit it right there and then, but… you do.

#Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Captain Pike x Reader #fanfiction #star trek fanfiction #writings of the girl from outer space #Chanced

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russosafehaven · 1 year

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Prologue

A/N: This is not an 'x Reader', it's apart of an original novel I'm writing and I'm posting it here in hopes of some feedback. This project is very special to me and I'm hoping others may enjoy it as much as I do.

The woods were always cold at night, maybe it was the fact the sun was gone or maybe it was the ghosts rumoured to live there. Frívesoch was home to creatures of all sorts. More often than not predators were more commonly found. Waiting patiently for their prey. No one’s ever seen the creatures who were said to live in the forest. No one alive anyway. Valerie Abaddon was the exception to this rule. A founder of Corvus Point and pioneer of the Grozav War she was said to get the creatures on Gitonchaménon’s side. To protect the country from those who wish to endanger it. Valerie fought for her people and would die for her people. Alongside Asmodai Keeper and Elafína Mahbed, she fought for the country. When the war ended they would let Corvus Point rise, a magnificent structure to protect the younglings of the land.

Alas if Valerie has dedicated her life to saving the people why would she be chased by them? As if in a scene from a modern film, pitchforks and flames. The full moon lurking, watching as the Frívesochins chased after the woman. The stampede echoed throughout the forest, eliciting howls from what canines may live in them.

“Find Valerie Abaddon and bring me her head”

One man crawled out, the leader of the pack. Valerie was light on her feet, after years of training and fighting a war her stamina has grown. She had no doubts she’d escape the mob that chased after her. The ones who wanted her head on a pike. Each step taken, each crunch of the earth beneath her feet reminded her of the life she had before the war. The one where her family used her for labour. Valerie’s family, the House of Abaddon were essentially royalty in Frívesoch. A luscious life of riches for all the men in her family while women were enslaved. Turned into machines for sex and childbirth. The women of the House of Abaddon weren’t human they were objects. To be used and told what to do like puppets on a string. Perhaps that’s why Valerie ran away. When she discovered she had been born with powers her father wanted to sell her. Yes, Valerie could do things no human can. She could heal others with nothing but touch.

Valerie was young when she discovered this ability. Her little sister, Verity, had been slashed by their father. A large gash over her face had Valerie shaken to the core. As she hugged her seven-year-old sister, pressing Verity’s face into the warmth of her chest. Once the two sisters pulled apart the wound had disappeared entirely. Leaving not a mark in its place.

The gift of being a Leighis was a useful one. Running for your life with the ability to stitch your own skin back together without a needle? Valerie found comfort in knowing of it. As she continued to sprint her shoes slipped off of her feet but she knew it was a risk to stop. So she continued running and running until her feet were bleeding. Even then she did not stop as the sound of men and horses drew nearer. Fear settled in Valerie’s chest as she realised she may not survive this. All the fighting and helping her people may have been for nothing.

When the war first started Valerie’s father had banned anyone in the family from fighting. His reasoning was that the House of Abaddon did not stoop to such peasant-like meddling. So when she had decided she could do more than sit around in the Abaddon manor running away was a strenuous task. Guards who were paid large sums to stop the girls from leaving were stationed at every exit. However, Valerie had been taught one life skill that would remain with her until death. The art of seduction.

A cave peaked out from under the moonlight. Its opening was mere metres away from Valerie’s grasp. As she went to cross into it a heavy weight pushed her down. Paw-like hands pinned her against the forest floor. Restricting her movement as much as possible to prevent escape. As her eyes met with the attacker she saw an old friend. Eyes as pale as the moon herself, ones that evoked such comfort were now the predator.

“Valerie, you’re a fool for fighting”

His voice was quiet and unforgiving. He held no remorse for his childhood friend. In his eyes she was a traitor, leaving behind her family and friends in order to become a saint. Valerie Abaddon was no saint, she was a warrior. Born from the bloodshed of her family that gifted her the bravery to fight the war.

“I am no fool Mihael”

Valerie was filled with the confidence of her ancestors. The ones who fought bravely against being objectified by men. The confidence of her mother who died when giving birth to her sister. Many women in the Abaddon line met cruel ends. Either passing on in childhood or being brutally tortured to death by their husbands. So was the way of the Abaddons treat the men like kings to be worshipped and women as slaves to be used. It disgusted Valerie to her core, so when she discovered her powers and knew she could fight in the war, running was the only option.

The world seemed to stand still as the two childhood friends and lovers gazed at one another. It’s funny how time can change relationships with those we were once close to. Two friends can become enemies in such a simplistic way, changing their fates and destiny together. Growing up the lover can become the villain and the true nature of people is revealed.

“Come back with me Valerie, let me save you from being brainwashed by Asmodai”

Asmodai Keeper, a man who fought by Valerie’s side and became her brother. He was from Acasănatos, the state of the dead. Throughout the war, Gitonchaménon states had been torn apart. The 11 nations were separated by their enemies and the country headed towards annihilation. Asmodai was a few years older than Valerie but he was nowhere near as intelligent, at least that’s what he said to the younger girl. Like her Asmodai had powers, powers that would become the trademark of Cerescians. He could commune with the dead and use their remains as puppets. Together the pair found beauty in their differences and alongside their third, Elafína they would bring around the end of the war

"I am not the brainwashed one Mihael. Who is telling you that I have been used by Asmodai? We were the ones who ended the war!"

The boy pressed his weight further into her neck. Her face turned pale and she choked out, begging Mihael to let her breathe. Reluctantly he pulled back, allowing his former love air into her lungs. He stood up, dropping the sword he had been clutching so tightly. Valerie watched as the metal blade dropped to the ground, falling against the forest floor with a small crunch from dry leaves.

"You didn't have to fight in the war Valerie"

His voice was dry as he spoke. Walking away from Valerie he made his way to the tree where his steed was standing, kicking the arbor structure aggressively. If Mihael was in any pain at all he didn't show it. Keeping his body language neutral in an effort to shield himself from Valerie. The girl crawled to her feet, her lungs somewhat functioning normally. Lightly she stepped towards him wanting to know just what was happening in Mihael's head.

"The people were suffering Mihael. I couldn't stand by when I knew my powers could help"

Such noble reasoning from Valerie yet far from the true reason. While her statement isn't entirely false it was partially fabricated. She didn't want to stand by because the people were suffering but because it was an escape from her father. A way to inflict pain on others and protect the people of the land. Valerie had never been violent before despite being surrounded by it daily. The hitting, the torture, all of it was left up to the men of the house. When she had taken her first step on the battlefield it filled her with an unimaginable desire for more. In a twisted way, it was revenge against her father for hurting her.

"Your powers?! What a pathetic excuse. You didn't want to help you wanted to abandon me. Abandon your family"

Rage surged through Valerie's veins and it made the Abaddon crest flash into her mind. Not only the looks of it but the motto that was inscribed into her mind as a young girl. The words that would come to haunt her even now:

"Familia pe primul loc"

In English, it translates to 'Family First'. Although in Valerie's mind, it should be something more along the lines of 'Serve the men and never hesitate' given the Abaddon's misogynistic views. The crest itself was simple yet ornate, on the top bordering each edge were two snakes per side with a crowned skull in the centre. The body of the crest was split horizontally with a v shape. The top half was burgundy and was decorated with two crossed swords while the bottom was grey with a snake in a triquetra-like shape. Overlaying the bottom was a ribbon curled on the right side, that was where the motto was placed. It was a cruel symbol and one that haunted Valerie even after she had run away. Snakes are traditionally a symbol of rebirth but in the walls of Abaddon manor, they were a symbol of persecution.

"The only family I have is Verity. The rest are dead to me"

Valerie began to walk away from Mihael and back towards the cave. As she entered the mossy abyss footsteps appeared behind her. Heavy and drawn out, similar to the ones Mihael had on the forest floor. They echoed off of the stone walls, driving the girl insane as she listened on. When they got closer Valerie decided to hide. There was a crevice big enough to hide in and she dashed in. Suddenly the echoing stopped and the cave became pin-drop silent as Valerie covered her mouth to stop her from breathing too loudly. A soft siren-like singing met Valerie's ears and it was hauntingly beautiful. Peeking out from the crevice there was a woman with blonde hair and wide-set eyes. In her grasp, she held Mihael, slim hands around his neck and sharp nails digging into his skin. Within an instant, his neck was snapped and his corpse fell to the floor. Colour draining from his face, lifeless eyes and a slightly parted mouth. A small rivulet of blood fell from his lips. Valerie brought herself back to the gap in the cave wall and tears welled in her eyes. Cruel as he was mere moments ago Mihael was still Valerie's best friend and first love. Now he was gone and there was no chance of ever recovering their damaged relationship. Memories of a time before the war flashed into her mind, a time when she and Mihael were childhood friends who became lovers.

"Be not afraid little one, you are safe now"

The voice was strikingly beautiful. A sound like honey on the tongue, sweet and calming. The woman kneeled down and showed her face to Valerie. Her blonde hair was now lightly covered in blood, her eyes pure white the only imperfections were small red lines in each corner. A hand was raised to Valerie's face, soft skin touching her own. She wanted nothing more than to wake up and realise this was all a long complicated dream. That the war, the trauma, and the death were all an ideation from her imagination. Yet here this woman was, Mihael's blood staining her beauty.

"I will keep you safe, you raised a safe haven for your country's children. Now let me return the favour"

It felt like Valerie was dropped into a pool of darkness. Her body fell unconscious and she was drowning in the shade of black. Shadows pulled at her body, welcoming her as if she belonged there and perhaps she did. As after that moment no one had ever seen Valerie Abaddon again. When the rest of the group found Mihael's body they figured she had killed him and left to start a new life somewhere else. There were many theories being shared every day. Even more, once Asmodai and Elafína disappeared weeks later. Some say they heard of Valerie being cast out from her hometown and ran away with her. Others say that they live on the grounds of Corvus Point amongst students. There have even been whisperings that they had died in the war, passing on their powers to future generations. This is the most believed of all rumours as later years showed children developing similar powers to the three founders. So the six classes were born, the Celestials (Ouránion's) with godlike powers that sometimes were limitless. The bejewelled (Kósmiral's) found beauty in everything and could turn water into wine so to speak. The brave (Viteaz) could form plans on a whim and had fighting skills like no other. The heavenly (Cerescians) could commune with the dead and raise their bones as puppets. The saviours (Slánaitheoirans) could forge weapons from midair and finally, the healers (Leighis) could fix the broken with a simple touch. To this day children still learn about the classes and the founders are now simply mythological beings, lost to the ends of time.

#telltale signs of death #corvus point #original novel #original story #aspiring author

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