#a silent stream of the north

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Twelve

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, smut. Handjob, praise kink, Simon talks you through it. Feelings of fear and anxiety, self doubt, self consciousness. Small panic attack. Comfort. Domestic slice of life. Penny lore. POV switch. A glimmer of morally grey. One step forward, two steps back.

You almost forget where you are.

Almost.

The struggle is brief, trying to acclimatize to the changes, dark green sheets pooling around you, emerald tones rich and ambient, the sage green comforter pulled up over your shoulders.

You almost forget, but Simon’s bulk is nearly suffocating, and you’re pushed up against Johnny, crowded between two immovable objects, two sky high walls.

He’s got you tucked into his chest, hand pressed firm against your belly, leg thrown over yours. Your hand still rests on Johnny, covered by his own, and you blink blearily at the bolts of morning light streaming in through the windows.

“Go back to sleep.” Simon’s mumbling right over your ear, ghost of his breath sending goosebumps down your arms. “It’s early.” He snuggles closer, shoulders curled over yours like a blanket, blazing heat bleeding from him to you… everywhere. His cock throbs against your ass, folded up against his stomach, nestled against your skin. Your mouth goes dry when you allow yourself to focus, to look, to feel, thighs squeezing together, a lust filled whine building in the back of your throat.

This is new. 

You don’t do this… your mind, your body, has always been trapped in a fight or flight, survival mode taking over your core needs and instincts, leaving no room for desire, or affection.

But this... this is different. This is safe. 

Your hand drifts lower on Johnny’s stomach. He’s shirtless, satin skin soft under your touch, and it’s almost on instinct when you settle your palm under his navel, a safe distance away from his sutures and graft, hovering north of the elastic in his sweatpants. He’s hard beneath them, outline mouthwatering in the quiet morning, and you lick your lips.

What are you doing? 

Simon’s fingers idly stroke that spot on your waist, where your hips fold into the space beneath your ribcage, swirling his touch down your belly and around, steady and safe, an anchor in turbulent seas. Your fingers dip beneath the band, mindful of his hip, sliding through curls, just barely grazing the root of Johnny’s cock.

What’re you doing? 

Are you really doing this?

You haven’t touched, or been touched, in ages. It’s foreign, and terrifying, and doubt clouds your head, anxiety rocketing through your veins to your heart, where it triple beats.

“It’s okay.” Simon soothes, sliding a hand over yours, guiding you to where he curls his fingers and yours around the base, tightening his grip into a squeeze.

“I-“

“Want to touch him? Like this?” He murmurs, keeping his voice low, scratchy and gritted against your ear. You’re breathing in time, chests rising and falling together, and you nod hastily, too afraid to lose the scrap of courage that keeps trying to flicker out.

“Y-yeah.” You whisper. You do want to, you want to so badly.

Johnny stirs. He tugs at his pants, not quite awake, trying to pull them down, and Simon helps silently, carefully tucking the elastic lower as to not put pressure on his injuries. He blinks sleepily, confused, before finding your face, impish smile spreading across his cheeks, eyes drifting shut again. He’s not wearing anything beneath them, his thick, uncut cock bobbing free at his partner’s urging, and you gasp at the sight. He’s already flushed, bead of pre-come glistening from the tip, and you hesitantly reach for it, Simon’s hand still covering yours.

“Need to start slow.” Simon coaches, both of your hands moving from root to tip together, squeezing at the base when he encourages you to do so. “Don’t want him tensing up, straining his injuries. Nice and- good bunny, just like that.” His cock is blaring hot in your palm, and you work him gently at Simon’s urging, watching his face twitch and eyebrows creasing, bottom lip tugged underneath his top teeth.

“Fuckin- hell-“ He hisses, hips trying to jerk upward.

“Relax.” Simon instructs, stilling him. You keep up the movement, iridescent spend slicking your strokes, slippery sounds filling the room.

“Ach.” Johnny moans, and you throb, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. Simon coos at him.

“Lucky boy, havin’ our bunny take care of you.”

“A-aye.” His fingers tighten in the sheets, eyes still slammed shut, and Simon squeezes your hip.

“You can go a little harder, like this.” He increases the rhythm, tightening his grip over yours, and your hips tilt back, pressing into the hardness settled against your cheeks, pressure returned with a flex of his own. “That’s it, that’s what he likes. Good girl.”

“Si.” His voice breaks. “P-please… d-d-“ He’s unable to get his words free, gasping for air like he’s just gone out for a run, haggard draw of his lungs stretched to the limit as you hold your own.

“I know sweet boy, you’re so backed up, I know. We’ll fix it.” You think you’re going to explode between them, heat and pressure and atmosphere all bearing down on your bones, grinding them to dust inside your skin. You’re not even sure you’re in your own body in this moment, watching from afar, mystified and impressed at your boldness, your courage, your abandonment of the wall you've so steadily remained perched on. “Breathe, Johnny.” Simon reminds him steadily.

The girl in the mirror is nowhere to be found. It’s just you, and Johnny, and Simon, together.

“You’re doing so well.” Simon hums. “Makin’ our boy feel good, what a good little bunny.” Jesus christ. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head, thighs like a vice, squeezing together so tight, desperate for friction against your clit. Your hips are rocking on their own now, small, micromovements pushing you into Simon again and again, Johnny whimpering and crying as the two of you stroke him harder and faster.

“Will you show our bunny how much of a mess you make, Johnny? Gonna come all over our fingers?” Simon pushes him harder, his legs twitching against yours, and Johnny gasps like he’s in pain, nearly crying, on the edge of a precipice.

“Ah, ah- ‘m gonna-“ He explodes in your hands, coating your fingers with creamy spend, rivers of it running down your fist, strokes slowing to a stop as he pants and shudders.

“Oh there it is- good boy, so good.” He tugs until Johnny is empty, and then raises your hand to his mouth, lips closing around your fingers to lick them clean.

You feel faint. Johnny smiles lazily. “Well, good mornin’ to ye too, bun.”

“I-“ What are you going to say? You don’t know what came over you? Sorry? Good morning? Everything evaporates on your tongue, happiness burning to ash.

“You alright?” Simon asks, rubbing your hip. Still, no words come. All you can do is stare at him. “Bunny? Hey.” He shifts, and Johnny tries to sit up, bliss morphing into concern.

“Pretty girl.” He holds your hand, thumb rubbing against your knuckles, and you try to remind yourself to breathe.

What are you doing? 

“Everything’s okay.” Simon is on his knees now, dipped down in front of you, cradling your jaw. “You’re okay, bun. Just breathe for us.” He rubs your back, and Johnny keeps his fingers curled against your pulse point. They steady you, anchor you, and you surface again, free from the wave of black water trying to drag you down.

“S-sorry.” You hiss, chest less tight. “I’m fine, sorry.”

“Lay back.” Simon urges. “I’m going to go get a towel to clean up, stay here.” You nod, cuddling close, your head resting on Johnny’s chest, his touch slow on the back of your neck.

“Ye’re with us, bunny. Ye’re safe.” You close your eyes with a whisper.

“I know.” 

The unsteady peace of the morning doesn't last very long. It’s not too soon after Simon gets Johnny cleaned up that Penny is awake, baby monitor sparking to life, dragging him from the other side of the bed and down the hall.

“How did ye sleep?” Johnny murmurs, still holding you close.

“Good. Great, actually. How are you uh, feeling?”

“Okay. Hip is throbbin’ but I imagine it’ll always be like that from now on.”

“It will get better. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Come here.” You inch closer, bringing your faces together and he kisses you, soft and delicate in the early glow of the day. “Dinnae like ye being so far away. Need ye close. Helps me feel better.”

“You’re such a brat.” You tease, but can’t help giving him another kiss, basking in his warmth. He pushes back against you, flushed. Tan skin warmed bronze and rubicund on his cheeks, almost pink. His eyes are a brighter shade of blue, clear like Caribbean waters, lips swollen, and bee stung. He looks… so fucking hot. Like Hercules, a hero, tired after battle.

 “You sound like Si.” His hand lingers along the curve of your hip, inciting the riotous butterflies into a flurry, heat simmering in your belly. “I like these.”

“My sweatpants?”

“Aye. They fit ye well.” He peeks over, and you giggle despite yourself. He makes it so easy, to feel weightless, free, smiling as handsome as ever, long strands of mohawk falling into his eyes.

“Think you need a haircut.”

“I do. Si usually does it, but I think he’ll be nominatin’ ye this time around.”

“I can’t cut hair!”

“Ach, ‘ts not that hard. Ye just trim a little off the ends and be done wit’ it.” You roll your eyes, and the door cracks open, revealing Simon and Penny, sippy cup in hand.

“See? He’s right there.” He hums, holding her steady, her arms already reaching for where Johnny waits. “Da’s right here.”

“My wee lamb.” He cuddles her into his good side, kissing and cooing, letting her bounce on the bed. “Hey princess. Ye have a good breakfast?”

“She’s on another banana kick.” Simon sighs, kissing his forehead, and then turning to you. “Okay?” He checks in, focused and concerned, and you nod.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Forgot to ask how you slept…” He eyes the bed.

“Good, yeah. I… slept really well.”

“Guess ye’ll just have to sleep in here for now on.” Johnny quips, fingers preoccupied by being dragged towards Penny’s mouth. Sleep in here for now on? Like, with them?

Pen coos, tipping towards you with a chubby little smile. “Bunny.” She babbles, fingers straining.

Your hand finds hers, holding on to keep her upright. “Good morning to you too, little miss. Sorry I neglected you.” You sign ‘good morning’, one of the few you know from work, and she claps, thrilled. Simon beams.

“Yes, she’s terribly neglected.” He sits at Johnny’s side, mindlessly stroking his leg, massaging and working the muscle in his calf. “How do we feel about getting you downstairs?” He nods, and you roll over, sliding off the bed to lumber towards his crutches.

“Nice and slow.” His fingers brush yours as he takes them, and a shy smile works across his face.

“Ye’ll help me?” Simon tsks, but you sigh playfully.

“Of course.”

Getting Johnny settled is easy. You build him a nice little nest with the pillows from the couch, fluffing them for support, making sure he’s comfortable, until Simon reminds you to take it easy.

“You’re not at work, let me do this.”

“I don’t mind…”

“I do. Sit.” He leans you back into the cushions, settling you both, plopping Penny down between you. “If you keep an eye on her, I’ll get breakfast.” She crawls into your side with her sip cup, and you try not to tense when she curls up against your ribs. Her feet press against Johnny’s thigh, and he cups them both in one hand, staring at her like he’s trying to memorize every little piece. Deep breath. You can do this. 

“Isnae she the bonniest thing ye’ve ever seen?” He breathes, and you nod.

“She really is. The cutest.”

“She looks like ‘im.” He murmurs, and you blink, glancing down at the baby. Like who?

“Like…” the curiosity falls out of your mouth in a hurry, and you grimace. He gives you a weird look.

“He didnae tell ye?”

“Tell me what?”

“She’s his. Simon’s.”

“Wait, I thought…” You don’t what you thought. You assumed she was adopted, or something else. “She’s…”

“We got turned down by every agency, ye know. Two dads, active combat roles.” He leans forward, tickling her arm, and her eyes light up, like she’d forgotten he was there. You help her straighten, and she scoots over closer to him, trying climb him like a jungle gym. “Ah, Penny. No. Da’s hurt.” He makes the sign for what you assume is hurt, his pointer fingers motioning towards one another. “Hurt, Penny. Da is hurt.” He does it again, and she cocks her head. “Here, sit here, there’s a girl.” She settles easily after that, completely captivated by the old Disney movie Johnny flicked on. “Anyway, no one would let us adopt a baby. Felt like it was goin’ be impossible, and we almost gave up. Then we met Pen’s mum.”

“You knew her?”

“Aye. She’s special. Gave us a chance.” Something green and snappish curdles in your stomach. It’s illogical, insane, and you try to beat it back. “We didnae know, obviously, who the dad was goin’ be but, I’m so glad it was him.”

“Did you…”

“Do it naturally?” He wiggles an eyebrow. “Nay. We both donated and she did it at home.”

“And... Simon said she's not in Penny’s life?”

“Not right now. She will be again, one day. She jus’ travels a lot and is really committed to her job. Has no parental rights, nothin’ like that. But she’s not against seeing Penny, the adoption is open.”

“That’s great.” Adoption is delicate, you know. There’s no one size fits all when it comes to nature of it, and you’re relieved to hear it sounds like they have something that’s healthy for Penny, and everyone involved.

“Sorry, thought he would’ve told ye.”

“It didn’t come up, and I didn’t want to… pry. He mentioned she was deaf when I asked about the sign language.”

“Eh, pry all ye want. Ye’re in our life, ye should know these things. And aye, she’s fully deaf. Travels as an interpreter for the U.S. military. Works with some important guy at the top. Dinnae know much about it.”

“That’s really cool.”

“We’re very grateful to her.” He strokes some of Penny’s curls from her forehead, and you look closer, watching for similarities, her chubby cheeks and chestnut dusted dark blonde hair now starting to look reminiscent of Simon, the longer you study her.

“I’m happy for you guys.” He glances from her to you with a beautiful smile, so handsome it makes your chest hurt.

“Me too.”

“I think,” Simon brings two plates with eggs and toast, handing one to Johnny before placing the other on the table by your knee. “We should have a bit of a lie in on the couch, easy day. Bun’s still on leave of absence, and you’re not going anywhere.” He shoots Johnny a pointed look, who holds his hand up as if to say, who me?

“A lie in sounds grand.” He postures, grimacing with a shift. You instinctively try to move towards him, a hand on Pen to keep her in place, but Simon beats you to it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ jus’ my hip.”

“Let’s eat something and I’ll get your pain meds.” You nod encouragingly.

“Better to take them with something in your stomach.”

“Is it goin’ be like this all the time? Two nursemaids cluckin’ at me?”

“Probably.” You laugh, and Simon shakes his head.

“See, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Johnny murmurs, voice low. Penny is upstairs, asleep for her morning nap already, both guys settled back on the couch, a tangle of limbs. 

“No.” you whisper. Simon’s head turns, drawing his eye, but the exchange is fleeting.

“How’s your shoulder, bun?” Johnny murmurs, and you half shrug.

“Better. The steroid helped a lot.” The room is heady, and you’re cocooned in its warmth, blazing heat radiating from Simon trying to lull you into a nap like Pen’s.

“Ye can sleep, pretty girl.” Johnny smirks. His legs are thrown over the larger man’s thighs, one gingerly cushioned, the other, lackadaisical and bent.

“It’s so warm in here.” You offer as an explanation, and he agrees.

“Aye. Si’s a furnace.”

“You run pretty warm yourself.” Simon chides, but nods encouragingly at you.

“I need a shower.” It is tempting, to curl up on the couch between them, slip away into safe and comfortable dreamland but… not without a shower. You’re overdue.

“Okay. We’ll be here.”

There isn’t much in this world a shower can’t fix.

Or at least, that’s how this one feels. It’s scalding, so hot the room steams up within a minute, and you relax under the spray, letting it wash over the soreness in your shoulder, cascade down your back.

You linger in it, soaking up the quiet moment, raising your face to the water over and over, letting it rinse you clean.

By the time you get out, you almost feel like a brand-new person.

If only… 

“How was yer shower?”

“Good.” He tries to fidget on the couch, rocking back and forth to make room for you. “Don’t Johnny, you’ll hurt-“

“I’m fine.” He grunts. “I’m still me, ye know. I know ye didnae know me, before, but I dinnae need help wit’ everything.” Your heart cracks.

“I know you don’t.” You think back to your vulnerable patient, the one who cried about being separated from his family, and how far he’s come. It fills you with pride, and something so foreign, so strange, you don’t even recognize. A massive swell of affection, of care. “I’m just… programmed, you know?” You try to soothe him, and he grumbles until you’re slipping into his side, turning to press your face in his chest.

“Sorry, bun. Didnae mean to get frustrated.”

“I know, Johnny.”

The baby monitor crackles.

Johnny shifts restlessly.

“What is it?” you murmur, and he huffs.

“I want to get her. Hate feelin’ useless to my own daughter.” You could…

“Do you… do you want me to grab her? Bring her down here for you?” His eyes light up.

“Would ye? Si’s just in the kitchen, dealing with some laundry. If ye could-“

“Yeah, I got her.”

“Ye’re sure? Yer shoulder…”

“It’s fine, promise.” He holds your jaw briefly, tongue dashing out to lick his lips, and then he kisses you, wet and messy, breathlessly.

“Thanks, bun.”

Penny’s room is dark. You’ve seen it in passing, but never really been inside, and when you flick on the light, she’s already standing in her crib, little face wet with tears.

‘Shhh, it’s alright!” You’re not sure she will calm for you since you’re not one of her dads. You’re practically a stranger in her life, but she reaches for you anyway, arms stretched out, hands grabbing in mid air. “Okay, okay, here we go.” You support her weight with your good arm, tucking her up on your waist, setting her easily on your hip.

At least they’re good for something. 

“There we go. Ready to go downstairs, see Da? Yeah?” You babble, surprised to feel her nappy still dry, and she tilts her head back, pretty eyes and gob smacked expression locked onto you.

Fuck. 

“Hi, baby girl.” You whisper, backs of two fingers gentle on her cheek. “You really do look like your dad, don’t you?” Something springs a leak, cracks slivering wide, a failsafe crumbling in your chest. It stops working, stops processing, because tears are suddenly flooding your eyes, making it hard to see.

Penny coos. You try to take a deep breath.

Get it together. You’re holding their baby. 

Deep breath. 

Pain long buried and forgotten clangs on the rusty iron encasing your heart. It bangs against it, pleads to get out.

For a second, it steals your breath. Almost forces a sob from your throat. Raw edged agony beats wildly through your veins, sharp and acidic, poisoning you from the inside out.

You shove it back where it came from.

You need some air. You need some space, some distance... something that will lessen this feeling, this despair. 

“Alright,” you croak. “Let’s get you downstairs.”

“Where’s…”

“She went up to get Penny.” Simon nods, thumb slipping the monitor’s volume crank higher, head cocked.

“Hi baby girl… you really do look like your dad, don’t you?” He glances at Johnny, who shrugs sheepishly.

“I let it slip.”

“Did you explain everything?”

“Mostly. Didnae want her to think we were together or anything like that.” Simon nods, satisfied, and Johnny’s toes curl a little. He loves seeing that expression on his face, the proud one, the nearly smug one, and he’d do anything for it, again and again. Johnny tilts his chin for a kiss and he obliges, deep and slow, gentle hand on his chest. “You were so good for us earlier. How’re you feeling? Anything sore?” The blood rushes back to Johnny’s cock from the praise alone, and he blushes.

“I feel good.”

“Do ya?”

“Aye. Wanna play with our bunny s’more.” He grows hotter under his clothes, but Simon shakes his head.

“Don’t push it. We’ve talked about this. You have to let her set the pace.” He knows, and he tries, but after this morning, all he can think about is your hand on his cock, your mouth on his, the dazed, lust filled expression on your face as your hips rocked in time with your strokes.

He wants to show you everything they can give you; the way real love is supposed to feel. Not painful and terrifying. But beautiful, and limitless.

“She’s ready for more.” He protests.

“She’s not, Johnny.” He’s using that tone, the one Johnny knows not to argue with, so he concedes.

After all, he doesn’t really want to push you. He wants you to trust them. Love them.

He wants you to feel safe and comfortable. He’ll wait as long as it takes.

“Alright,” your voice sounds heavy, broken. Simon’s head snaps up. “Let’s get you downstairs.”

Penny is dancing in your arms, clapping her hands together with some sort of sign you don’t seem to understand, babbling nonstop.

“Someone’s awake!” you declare, and Johnny holds his arm out, beckoning.

“There they are.” Simon ruffles his mohawk. You almost falter, stuttering in your stance, but your lips quirk into a tiny smile.

“She’s still dry.” You explain, placing her in his side. He wants to pull you down for another kiss, but Penny insists on one instead, open mouth seeking his nose like a bird.

“Ach, alright wee lamb, alright.”

“You okay?” Simon is cautious, trying not to encroach too much when you’re having a hard time, something he’s been instilling in Johnny too. Giving you space, giving you time.

“Bunny? Ye wit' us?” You’re in your head again, drifting. Here, but not really, and he tries to pull back towards them, to safety. To love.

“Yeah, I… uh. I have to run some errands.”

“Where?” Simon asks sharply, and Johnny tries to sit up.

“I have to go to the hospital, fill out some paperwork for leave, and I need to swing by apartment… get some clothes and stuff.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, no that’s alright. You guys hang out. I won’t be too long.” You look uncomfortable, twisting and turning, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Let me drive you, at least. I can’t stand you taking the train all over the city.” You laugh.

“I’ve grown up on trains and been fine, besides...” You motion to Johnny and Penny on the couch before your arms cross, sprinkle of defiance that has him casting a quick glance to see Simon’s jaw flexing. What choice do they have? 

“Alright. Well, text us to check in yeah?”

You’re gone for hours. Simon takes to pacing, and Johnny can’t soothe him, can’t hold him in the way he wants, can’t walk over and throw his arms around him the way he should be.

It hurts.

“What’s dad doing, hmm Penny? What’s he doing?” He coos, pointing to where his partner is checking his cellphone for the tenth time. She babbles something unintelligible back to him, chin tipped back, gazing in wonder.

Simon’s stress softens, hardness still lingering in worry lines, mouth taut. “‘M sorry.” He murmurs, settling on the couch opposite where Penny is sitting up against Johnny.

“It’s okay. I’m worried too.” He commiserates. It’s the same kind of agony in his heart, the same taste is his mouth, from when he was in hospital. Helplessly laid up and watching you work your way through whatever is chasing you. He clears the lump in his throat. “She’ll be back soon. Right? She wouldnae…” panic erupts in the bottom of his stomach. “She wouldnae just, leave.”

“We don’t know what she would do, love. She’s scared, and she’s smart, and we don’t know who she’s running from.”

“Maybe ye should’ve followed her.” He groans, and Simon gives him a look.

“Thought you didn’t want me doing that now?”

“I dinnae.” He chews on his lip. His abdomen is throbbing, and he reaches for Simon’s hand.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Simon soothes, rubbing a thumb over the back of his knuckles.

“Everythin’ would be easier if I wasnae like… like this.” He grits, frustration laden voice cracking. He’s a mess. A burden, can’t take care of his own family, help Si with Pen, or you. All he can do is lay here, and- 

“Shhh. Don’t say that.” Simon cradles the back of his head, mouth pressed against his forehead. “You’re alive, that’s all I care about. You came home.”

“Feel like I should be doin’ more.”

“The only thing-“ Penny grunts, and Simon plops a finger in her fist, letting her yank and tug on it. “The only thing you need to do is get better, focus on healing. I’m here for the rest, okay?”

“Okay.” He whispers, eyes heavy. The medications knock him out, but it’s better than before, when he was stuck inside dreams, bound to a bed.

“Get some rest, sweet boy. I’ll wake you when she’s back.” He’s already losing the battle, stupor dragging him back under, and bliss clouds his head as he begins to drift.

“‘Kay.”

#simple math #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #john mactavish #john mactavish x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #peaches writes

[thahxa]

there is something profoundly depressing about the russo-ukraine war. here are two dying countries (demographic pyramids for both look awful, both have TFR <= 1.5) just grinding their last together and. for what?

average age in both armies is over 30. (ukraine's is over 40). ukraine is not even thinking about conscripting people under the age of 25. the median age of the people russia did conscript was 35 (for reference: in ww2 the average age of the american solider was 22-24). this is an old man's war - neither can afford to send their young, they're too precious, and even then, there aren't many of them left.

ukraine has a gdp per capita of around 5k. russia of 12k. it's likely neither of their countries will see their economies grow substantially after this, if at all. both remain highly corrupt. ukraines infrastructure has been shattered.

we've had 2 years of war now. 2 years. 100000 people have died. in the last year the front has barely moved. the war is expected to last at least another year. russia sells wheat to north korea for artillery shells while we try to scrape together political support for the latest equipment of the 1990s to send to ukraine.

even if ukraine wins, so what? its best and brightest will leave as soon as they can, presumably the rest will be stuck doing reconstruction work and defending the now heavily militarized border in case of another invasion as the country slowly dies due to emmigration and fertility collapse.

even if russia wins, so what? its best and brightest will leave as soon as they can, presumably the rest will be stuck building occupation governments and selling natural resources to china while its country slowly dies due to economic sanction and alcoholism.

if the war ended tomorrow, maybe we'd all come to our senses about how senseless it was - two dying nations throwing the remnants of the former soviet army into battle with each other, an orgy of senseless violence, the final hurrah before slowly fading into an endless stream of pension payments and economic dependency, neither side given enough ability to do anything.

just old men dying, dying, dying, until the guns go silent.

#armchair geopolitics #no matter what happens this war will only have two losers #none of which can really do anything

[ohtobeleah]

California Fornication //

Two — ‘Odds Are?’

Summary: In the wake of Roosters belligerent act of violence, you try your best to remain calm. But if anything Jake Seresin showing up in North Island is only just the beginning of a whirlwind shit show.

Warnings: Mentions of cheating. Love Triangle x2. Bradley Bradshaw x F!reader. Jake Seresin xF!reader. Question ing Morality. Angst.

Word Count: 2.7k

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“I lied—“ You could remember it all too well, the moment you felt at your weakest. Your most vulnerable. “I’m not out of this relationship.” A week ago your entire world had come crashing down when the man you loved turned out to be married. You’d told him you were out. Point blank, end of discussion. But you weren’t.

“Siren—“ Bradley sighed as he looked over your shoulder to where his wife stood watching the interaction unfold from the veranda of the Hard Deck. “We can’t, not here.” 

“I’m in.” You didn’t care that she was watching, you needed to get this off your chest. “I’m so in it’s humiliating because here I am begging.” 

“Y/n—“ Bradley tried to interrupt but you held your finger up. Stopping him from saying anything more.

“Shut up, you say Y/n and I yell remember so why don’t we skip the yelling and I just tell you how I really feel?” 

“Yeah—“ Bradley sighed as he pocketed his car keys. “Yeah okay.” You took a breath in and exhaled slowly. Ready to wear your heart on your sleeve. 

“Here it is.” You tried your best to remain as calm as you could. “Here’s your choice, Rooster.” It was just you and Bradley, out by his Bronco under the festoon lights that lit up the car park of the Hard Deck. “Your choice? It’s simple—her, or me.” It was clear cut and dry. No one way around the fact. “And I’m sure she’s really great, but Bradley I love you.” 

It wasn’t the first time you’d said it without Rooster saying it back. You just thought he needed more time, but as it turned out he was already married. Perhaps it was a good thing after all he’d never said it back. It would have hurt more to know he did than to wonder if he ever did at all. 

“I love you in a really really big—pretend to like your music kind of way.” You had to hold yourself together so that the tears welling in your eyes didn’t stream down your cheeks as you pleaded with the man who’d made you fall in love with him to choose you. “I love you in a let you have the last silence of cheesecake kind of way—a sit beside you pretending to be interested in learning how to play the piano unfortunate kind of way that makes me hate you, yet love you kind of way.” You admitted as Rooster just started at you with an unreadable expression. “So pick me, choose me, love me, please Bradley.”

The silence was as loud as it could have been. And in those silent seconds that passed. You knew. 

“I can’t, I’m married Y/n.” Five words were all it took for Bradley Bradshaw to rip your heart through your chest. “I’m sorry.” 

It was the hardest thing to hear, and yet it still played on repeat throughout your mind all day and all night. You just weren’t good enough. 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

“What the hell is your problem!” 

“Eleven years!” Bradley hissed as you shoved him out of the Hard Deck and onto the front porch. “Eleven years we were married!” He rambled on as you watched Rooster place the makeshift ice pack Penny had made him over his knuckles. 

You stood leaning against the post by the stairs he’d just walked down—watching with your arms crossed over your chest as he paced up and down the sandy gravel pathway. 

“That means eleven sets of birthdays, Christmas’s and thanksgivings, Siren! Eleven wedding anniversaries!” It was clear that Bradley was enraged. “He doesn’t get to just show up again after what he did!” But it wasn’t all those memories that were tarnished by an affair that had made Bradley Bradshaw risk his career by breaking his hand on the jaw of the man who slept with his wife. 

No. 

It was the way he saw your eyes light up with a mischievous glint while you laughed with Hangman that had him making strides over to where you sat. 

Bradley wasn’t about to let Jake get his dirty hands all over you too. Fuck his marriage and fuck his wife. He’d made a mistake letting you go. Letting her back into his life when he’d just begun to heal. He should have chosen you. He loved you. Truly. But marriage still meant something to him. Enough at least to try just one more time. 

“Rooster, I’m not the person who you should be talking about this with, talk about it with your wife.” You sighed defeatedly, like you were still being strung along by an invisible string that connected your heart to his. All you wanted was to hold him. To feel his arms wrapped around you. To laugh with him again, to feel that warm warmth he brought to your life. But instead all you felt was a coldness, a temperature so cool it burned to the touch. Leaving you alone, forever the other woman. The mistress. 

Club of one. 

“Penny wants you to go home and sleep it off.” Katie groaned as she stomped out of the Hard Deck. She made no attempt to acknowledge your presence as she walked right past you and down the front steps. “How’s your hand?” She asked as you watched the clearly distressed couple argue. Wondering when the divorce papers would come flying out of Roosters back pocket. 

“What’s he doing here Kate?” Bradley growled. Her hand came to rub small circles against the small of Rooster's back. She helped to guide him over to where the Bronco was parked. Against his will—he moved. 

“How the hell should I know?” She replied sharply. “Please, let’s just go home and talk about this.” 

You didn’t stay out of the decking for much longer. You could hear the sound of Jake's nose cracking under the force of Roosters fist in your mind over and over again. Enough that you felt a little guilty for possibly being the reason he was gushing blood. 

“Where’s—?” You didn’t even need to say his name before Penny was gesturing over towards where the bathrooms were. With lips pressed into a fine line you nodded. “Thanks.” 

“He’s not all that bad of a guy.” She added before you could even begin to walk away. “I don’t know the full story but if I know Hangman it’s that under that thick layer of confidence, he’s just looking for a friend.” You listen with a small nod. Deciding you’d go check on the guy in case his septum was deviated. 

“Can I have a washcloth?” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“Rooster and I always did have the same taste in women.” It wasn’t hard to get lost in the clear emerald skies of Jake Seresins eyes as he sat up on the bench next to the sink in the bathroom of the Hard Deck. 

“Excuse me?” You asked softly as you worked to clean the mix of dried and fresh blood from his face. Gently dabbing away at the mess that trickled down his face with the wet cloth Penny had given you. Soaked in warm water—standing between Jake's legs as they dangled over the edge of the bench. 

You’d found Jake staring at himself in the mirror, probably trying to figure out if his nose was broken or not. When you entered the bathroom he was honestly surprised to see you. He thought for sure Rooster would have thrown you over his shoulder and taken you home. 

But it wouldn’t be the first time Jake was wrong about his best friend. 

“You’re Rooster's lusty Wingwoman right?” Jake asked as his eyes drank you in. Watching as you carefully studied every line, every little imperfect blemish on his face. He was beautiful. “I heard about you all the way out on the Pacific.” He explained. “You’re famous.” You couldn’t help the smile that crept across your face. “The thorn in the side of the Bradshaws rekindlement.” 

Huh, that was a new one. You hadn’t heard that one before. It was actually quite poetic. 

“Well, I’ve heard about you all the way back here in North Island so I guess we have a lot in common.” No one ever spoke about Jake. Not Payback or Phoenix or Bob even. They all just pretend like he never existed. That he’d committed an act of utter betrayal. It was only after Bradley’s wife had come back to town that he told you everything. 

It was easy enough to see who’s side in all this they’d all chosen. But it wasn’t easy to understand why no one told you until you’d already fallen head over heels for a married man. 

“We’re just the dirty mistresses.” Jake teased as you gently worked away at the blood on his face. Immediately he was addicted to your laugh, the way you lit up the entire room when you did so. “Isn’t that right sweetheart.” 

You couldn’t stop the heat from rushing to your cheeks at the term of endearment that slipped past Jake's lips. 

“I suppose we are Hangman, I suppose we are.” Jake was easy to be around, that was the first thing you made your mind up about. Sure, the whole questionable relationship with a married woman was still yet to be addressed but nevertheless. 

“My therapist says behind this rugged and confident exterior I’m— self destructive and self loathing to an almost pathological degree.” Jake grinned as you paused your movement, you held his head still in your cloth free hand in the comfortable silence that lingered for mere seconds.

“Hey, guess we do have a lot in common.” Why the hell did Bradley have to go and ruin such a pretty face? “Mine says the same thing.” Jake was thankful for your gentle touch, he was starting to think Rooster may have broken his nose. Only a trip to urgent care and time would tell. 

“You know it’s funny—“ Jake began as he watched you rinse out the blood stained cloth into the sink beside where he sat shirtless, blood stained the white T-shirt he’d once been wearing. “Bradshaw walks in on me naked with his wife, actually in the throws—“ You listened as you worked, running warm water over the cloth to not shock Jake's bruised and swollen skin when you went back to attending to his wounds. “And he just turns around and walks away.” 

You couldn’t imagine what that must have felt like. To watch two people you trust and love commit such an act of betrayal. You felt for Rooster, you did. But it didn’t change the fact he never told you until after his wife, Katie ‘South’ Bradshaw, was shaking your hand and labeling you the mistress in all this mess. 

Not to mention no one sold him out. Coyote, Fanyboy, even Bob had Bradley’s back. They kept his wife a secret. Kept his entire life a lie until it was unraveled before you in spectacular fashion. 

“But he so much as sees me talking to you? And I’m on the ground with a bloody broken nose.” Jake continued to explain what he thought was already the case. That Rooster was in love with you. Period. “Interesting, don't you think?” 

It didn’t require a engineering degree to put together what Jake was insinuating. 

“Doesn’t matter what Bradley thinks—he chose his wife, the woman he made vows to.” You’d decided in that moment you were done cleaning Jake's face but stayed standing between his legs. You made no attempt to remove his hands from where they had settled on your hips. “He doesn’t need to get defensive over who I choose to talk to, he doesn’t get to stake a claim when he’s married.”

“He might still be married but he’s not in love with her.” Jake sighed as he pulled you a little closer by your hips with just enough force to have you reaching out for stability. Your hands softly landed on his shoulders—the sudden sensation of your touch made Jake's skin prickle with Goosebumps. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked softly, intrigued by the chaos Jake seemed to bring with him. “Back in North Island?” Jake didn’t answer right away. He’d been too busy drinking in the expanse of your face. From the fine lines that littered your nose when you crinkled it to the way your eyes swirled like deep pools of hope and displeasure all in one. 

“I’m here for Katherine—“ Those four vulnerable words made you feel more understood than you ever had in the last few weeks. It felt like there wasn’t another soul alive that could relate to your situation. “Which is as dehumanising as it sounds but, she’s the reason I came back.” 

“You’re still in love with her?” You asked as you tried to access the swollen nose that Jake wore with regret. 

“You’re still in love with him.” Jake didn’t need to question it, he already knew it to be true. You didn’t look at someone the way you looked at Bradley even when you were trying your best to avoid the man at all costs. He knew that simply because he laid awake at night thinking about the woman he loved who’d kissed him the night her husband was in the hospital—laid up post Uranium mission. 

Jake should have stopped it, but he didn’t. He just felt lucky enough to be loved in the dark. In secret. Because no one ever loved Jake Seresin first. 

And even worse, Jake was still in love with the very woman who’d spun the narrative in her favour. That he’d been the one who initiated the affair. But it hadn’t been him. It was her. 

Ignorance is bliss so they say. So Jake kept his adultering mouth shut and let the lie run its course. Turns out little white lies do hurt. He lost his posting, his best friend, the woman he loved, everything. 

“She won’t choose you, you know.” You didn’t mean for it to sound so cold, so as you spoke you ran your fingers through his deep blonde locks. Bringing a touch starved man some solace. “Rooster isn’t the kind of guy you leave if you can help it.” And boy did Katie stick to her husband’s side like superglue. 

“Yeah—” The corner of Jake's mouth twitched as he thought to himself. Leaning into your comforting touch as his eyeline slowly faded into the tiles on the ground. “But what if you’re wrong?” He sighed deeply, still staring at the ground beside where you stood between his legs. “What if, just this once, life comes down on the side of the dirty mistresses?” 

Suddenly that club of yours, the one with only one member, had two members in total. The dirty mistresses club. Party of two. You and Jake Seresin. 

“Pretty unrealistic, don't you think Seresin?” You chuckled softly as your eyes lingered to Jake’s lips. Slightly parted and plump. His eyes caught yours when you looked back to him and he had to stop himself. He couldn’t—could he? Because what were the odds he’d ruin two of Bradley Bradshaw's relationships? “Us adultering whores never get what we want.” 

“What if we decided to change what we wanted?” Jake asked as he closed the gap left between the two of you. His hands worked to guide your hips closer to him and before you knew it? Your lips were pressed against his. 

It was heavenly. The way Jake's lips felt against yours. Supple and soft and full of lust. His hands worked to cup at your cheeks as you begged him for more. Slipping your tongue into his mouth as you carded your fingers through his blonde locks. It was everything and nothing all at the same time. 

No one held a claim on you, you were free to make your own dumb choices now. And as your hand slipped down between the pair of you to softly land against Jake's jean clad crotch? He groaned into your mouth and bit your bottom lip. 

“I don’t even want to think about the consequences of this.” Jake whispered into your mouth as you palmed him through his jeans. “I think he’ll actually kill me.” 

“So don’t think.” You replied as you sunk your teeth into his neck. “Just do me.” 

As it turned out, those odds seemed pretty fucking high.

***~***~***~***~***~****~***~****~***~***~***~***~

#bradley bradshaw x female reader #Jake Seresin x female reader #bradley bradshaw top gun #jake seresin top gun #hangman top gun #rooster top gun #jake hangman seresin x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #bradley bradshaw fanfiction

[phoenixsbby]

It’s Not Me, It’s You - Hangman x Pilot!reader

summary: your ex is back in town and that might be the kick in the ass Hangman needs to change the parameters of your situationship.

readers call sign is “stinger”

WC: 7.4k (yeah, that’s my bad)

a/n: the death grip Hangman has me on these days …

warnings: swearing, mentions of sex

If there was a body capacity limit set for the Hard Deck, a number of people allowed in before the windows, doors, and walls break open, it surely would have been long passed by now. The bar is packed to the brim with civilians and officers celebrating the safe return home of a handful of aviators. You were not included in that dagger team but, Hangman was and you’d gladly honor his safety with a cold beer and his close proximity. Every time he came back in one piece, it felt like the iceberg of dread that settled in your chest when he was gone broke into pieces and melted away. 

You used the excuse of bodies being jammed too tightly together to wiggle your way in between Hangman’s legs as he sat at the bar. Both of knew that even if you were the only two people there, you’d still end up in that position. So close to each other, your faces only inches apart, with your head angled down and his angled up to hear each other over the loudness of other conversations and the steady stream of music. 

These days, it felt like the closer you could get to Jake Seresin the better. It was much easier to give into the gravitation pull between you two than fight it. This magnetic force had always been there, since the day got stationed in North Island. There was a competitive spark between you that eventually caught and bursted into flames made up of equal parts admiration and attraction. 

“Admit it, Hangman. You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.” He shook his head, keeping his gaze down at the pavement in front of him. You trailed a short distance behind him, hot on his heels. You’d been bugging him about how you finished the flight simulation faster than anyone and managed to take down two ‘enemy aircraft’ without getting yourself hit. You were the only one in their group to simulate mission success.

But you had pulled an extremely risky, borderline insane move to do it. One that scared the shit out of your fellow pilots, Hangman included. One wrong move, one wrong flick of your wrist, and your jet would have gone down with you in it.

So no, Hangman wasn’t jealous that you proved yourself to be a better pilot than everyone else that day. He was pissed that you’d almost ended your own life trying to do it.

“Don’t be a sore loser. Just admit it, I beat you on this one. I showed you up.”

“Okay, fine.” He snapped, turning around so quick that he almost rammed his body into yours. “Congrats Sting, you showed me up. You beat the simulation and almost got yourself killed doing it. Congrats on being reckless and completely oblivious to how devastated I would be if you did manage to get yourself killed up there!”

You were stunned into silence, blinking rapidly up at him. Hangman’s chest connected with yours every deep breath he took, it suddenly felt like he couldn’t suck in enough air to satisfy his greedy lungs.

“How devastated we would all be.” He corrected himself before stepping back to remove himself from your proximity. Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t ready to lay his feelings for you bare. He could tell, despite his lame attempt to divert the idea of him being utterly broken at the thought of you getting hurt, you understood what he meant.

“I-“ You shook your head, clearing away the haziness of surprise that his statement brought over you. “I’m sorry. I knew it was dangerous but, I also knew it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

“I don’t ...” There’s no turning back now. “I don’t like the idea of you taking that risk.”

A knowing smile started to form across your lips as you stepped closer to him, silently coaxing him to continue. “Why?”

Jakes hands flexed and unflexed rapidly at his sides, his mind churned through ways to properly convey how he felt. When no words came to him, none that truly felt good enough to portray the feeling pulsating behind his ribcage, he settled by taking your face in his hands and connecting your lips in a slow, starved way. 

When he pulled back, your eyes fluttered open to take in the most content, gratified smile you’d ever seen on Jakes face. “That’s why.”

Since then, that’s all the relationship has mounted up to be. Prolonged glances and stolen touches in public, unleashed passion and devotion in private. It was more than just sex though. In between the time you spend naked, wrapped up in each other, there’s holding and longing and exchanging of sweet words. It’s always feels like more than what you’ve been calling it and you’d gladly call it what it was (a relationship - gasp!). But it’s always Hangman that seems to hold back, reluctant in a way to claim you as his. 

You’re afraid to push the matter because whatever this is between you - it’s working. You’re happy. So happy to be hear his laugh up close and feel his thumb trace relaxing circles on the back of your hand. If something isn’t completely broken, why try to fix it?  

You’re so lost in him, in his green eyes and mesmerizing grin, that Phoenix’s grasp on your shoulder makes you jump. When your eyes connect with hers, you see they’re blown wide and you notice how tightly her fingertips are digging into you. You furrow your brows and go to ask her if she’s okay but, she beats you to it.

“You’ll never guess who got called in for the new assignment.” Her eyes break away from yours, scanning the bar as if she’s desperate to spot someone. You wrack your brain for who possibly could illicit this kind of reaction from Phoenix and draw a blank because everyone you really know is already there. 

Rooster’s leaning against the juke box, smirking and listening intently to the pretty blonde in front of him. Fanboy and Payback are showing Bob a new (and totally incorrect) way to hold a pool stick. Halo and Fritz are playing darts, Harvard and Yale are making fools of themselves on the dance floor. Everyone’s accounted for.

“Who?”

“Atlas.” Oh, shit. Your eyes widen to match hers as she nods like yeah, oh shit.

Atlas. You haven’t heard that callsign, let alone thought about him, in years. Not since you’d both attended Top Gun together. Not since you both fell blissfully but ignorantly in love. Not since he decided to end the relationship because you’d been stationed on different sides of the country. Not since he broke your heart.

Oh, shit.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear, only seconds after Phoenix mentions him, Atlas comes busting through the doors of the Hard Deck with a few other pilots you don’t recognize. Their grins are wide, their booming laughs only bolstering their presence. They strut into the bar like they own the place, like they expect everyone to get down on their knees and worship at their alter. You’d be damned if you ever got down on your knees for Alexander “Atlas” Madden again.

But you can’t deny his presence is like a black hole, you want to pull your gaze away but you can’t. You’re thankful to be tucked around the corner of the bar, away from the area he just strolled in. You don’t want to get caught staring, you’re not sure if you even want him to know you’re here but somehow despite all of it, you can’t look away. He looks good, he looks bigger and more confident, kind of like he’s glowing. God damn it.

“Who’s Atlas?” Hangman leaves the question dangling in the air between you and Phoenix. She snatches up the chance to answer while your eyes and your attention stay occupied elsewhere.

“Her ex.” Those words have Hangman’s gaze snapping toward the notorious Atlas almost as hard as yours did. 

“Why is he here?” Hangman’s eyes bounce rapidly between you and Atlas, desperately trying to catch your gaze and refocus it on him. But you’re entranced so, Phoenix fills in the blanks again.

“Well apparently he’s good, really good ...” Hangman looks over to Phoenix and notices she’s about as enamored with Atlas as you are. How good could this guy really be? 

“We have plenty of really good pilots.” Jake scoffs, bringing the beer bottle to his lips hoping some of the cold, bitter liquid will help cool his internal thoughts down. The room around him suddenly feels too hot, the clothes around his skin too tight as he watches you watch your ex. He thinks he can make out a glassy, fervent look in your eyes. 

It’s a similar look to the one you give him when his hands are roaming every inch of you, when he’s taking you to the edge of a very specific cliff, pushing you over, and making sure he’s there to break the fall, soft and steady.

Hangman swallows a much bigger gulp of beer.

“Yeah but, more than half of us just got back. We’re still in the debrief period.” The bottle freezes in its place. “We won’t have enough time to train between now and the scheduled fly out date.” 

Hangman himself had just gotten back, Phoenix and Bob too. You, however, had not been selected for that assignment. Instead, you’d been chosen for an up and coming smaller mission that required less pilots, the very same one that Phoenix was assuming Atlas was called in for. Oh God, you and Atlas were going to fly this one together.

The conversation Phoenix and Hangman were sharing registers somewhere in the back of your mind, realization that you were going to be sent out with you ex will hit harder later, you’re sure. For now, everything’s all too paralyzing.

“He looks ...” You mutter with a distant tone.

“Yeah ...” Phoenix replies with equal distance, stuck between Atlas’s pull and reality itself.

“Okay,” Jake brings the empty bottle back down on the bar a bit more aggressively than he intended, the loud clap of glass meeting wood snapping both you and Phoenix from your trance. “Penny, I’ll take another.” Penny shoots him a knowing grin before swiping away the empty.

“Do you really think he’s here for ...” For my mission? That realization is starting to sink its teeth in now, stinging at the backs of your eyes and inside your nose.

“Why else would he be here?” Phoenix says.

“Shit.”

“Yeah ...”

Somehow both of your gazes have trickled their way back in Altas’s direction and Jake thinks he may as invisible as a cadet at this point.

“Maybe you should go say hi.” He grumbles before taking a sip of his fresh beer. 

“No.” You shake your head and look down at him, finally. “No, I couldn’t.” 

“Hangman’s actually right, you should go say hi.” Phoenix adds, causing you to jerk your eyes back to her and miss the way Jake shoots daggers at her over your shoulder. “You don’t want any bad blood between you two during the mission.”

“There is no bad blood.” You scoff. Phoenix narrows her eyes and gives you her favorite thats-such-bullshit-and-you-know-it look because ... okay, yes, it is bullshit.

You can’t deny that it hurt when Atlas walked away from the relationship you’d built together. But you aren’t worried that the minute Atlas opens his mouth, you’ll instantly fall back in love. You’ve moved on. You are worried that he’ll open his mouth and somehow manage to make you feel unworthy again. Unworthy of the effort it would’ve taken to stay together. Not good enough to warrant someones full love. 

“Right. And Hangman totally isn’t about to crush that beer bottle with his bare hand.”

On cue, all three sets of eyes are darting to where Jakes hand is white knuckling the bottle. He hasn’t even noticed it himself, too busy with the idea of something happening between you and Atlas. Something that warranted bad blood. What’d this guy do to you and how hard was Jake going to have to hit him to make up for it?

Jake releases his death grip on the bottle and looks up at you, your eyes colliding with equal hints of vulnerability behind them. You open your mouth to say something, to ease the discomfort you’re sure he’s feeling given the situation when an achingly familiar voice calls out your name.

You feel Atlas’s large hand come baring down on one shoulder before it slides across your back to the other one. He pulls you against him before you can even manage to get a glimpse of his face up close and okay, now you’re hugging him.

He’s tall and broad and his chest feels harder against yours than you remember but, his scent is still the same - hints of green apple and mahogany. Breathing it in, breathing him in, your body almost instinctually melts itself deeper into his grasp.

Oh no, stop that. Your brain is screaming, Stop that right now!

“Atlas!” Your voice comes out muffled against his uniformed shoulder. You grip his forearms and force yourself back, putting a safe distance between your bodies and sending him a hopefully natural, breezy (because you are so breezy, totally not phased at all) smile. “Wow, hi!”

Your greeting comes out an octave higher than it should and has Phoenix and Hangman sharing a look behind your back.

“Wow is right!” Atlas eyes roam around your face then dip down to cover your body. “I can’t believe you’re here. You look great.”

Hangman’s knee comes in direct, hard contact with your backside causing you to let out a nervous laugh to muffle your reaction from the impact.

“You, too!” You keep your eyes glued to his, willing yourself not to look down at his body, not to look at his hand that’s still resting on your forearm. “What’re you uh, doing ... here?” You use your hands to motion to the environment around you, hoping he understands you don’t just mean the bar. You mean to say ‘What are you doing at this base? What are you doing back in my life?’

“Oh, you know how it is. My secrets aren’t really mine to tell.” He winks and Hangman shoots up and out of his barstool from behind you. He’s reaching a hand out from over your shoulder, giving Atlas that practiced, perfected grin he knows can charm just about anyone.

“Lieutenant Jake Seresin.” He places his other hand subtly on your lower back as if to remind you that he’s here for you. “Hangman.”

Atlas gives his hand a firm shake before introducing himself. “Lieutenant Alexander Madden. Callsign, Atlas.” His gaze leaves Hangman’s and flickers in Phoenix’s direction. His grin turns into more of a flat line as gives her a nod. “Natasha.”

“Alexander.” Phoenix does not send him a semi-smile back nor does she nod, the two just simply look at each other. A beat of silence skips by, the two holding each others stares like cowboys ready to grab their pistols, fire out a lethal shot, and claim that Wild Western town as their own.

You guess, in this case, you’re the town?

You clear your throat and draw both their attentions back to you.

“We should talk.” Atlas’s eyes soften a bit as he steps closer to you before his eyes dart back and forth between Hangman and Phoenix who flank your figure. “Privately.”

“I-“ Your tongue trips on the phrase ‘I think I’d rather die’ because Phoenix is right. If you two are going to fly together, you need to be on the same wavelength with no lingering tension to clog up the airways. “I would like that.” Okay, that’s not the right phrasing either because like is not the word you’d use to describe how you feel about having the impending conversation. 

If Atlas senses your discomfort, he doesn’t show it. A grin slides its way back across his lips.

“Great. I’ll grab a drink and then we can meet out back by the beach?” You simply nod, he shoots you another wink, and then he’s gone.

“What the fuck was that?” A harmony of voices surround you, your gaze flicking between Phoenix and Hangman. 

“What?”

“I didn’t realize you just turned thirteen. Congrats on entering your awkward, school girl crush era.” Phoenix snickers as you playfully smack her in the stomach. “Seriously, I have never seen you act like that before.”

“It was nothing.” You mutter.

“It didn’t look like nothing.” You spin your body to face Jake and meet his eyes, he’s grinning and the vulnerability you saw in him before is gone. He’s teasing you, just like Phoenix, like he really doesn’t care that you’re about to be out back, alone, with your ex. But why should he care? You’re not his girlfriend, he’s made that clear.

“It’s nothing.” You repeat, a hint of venom seeping into your tone. You’re about to add something alone the lines of ‘Atlas can eat a dick’ when the man of the hour calls your name across the bar and motions for you to follow him out. 

You spare on last glance at Hangman, hoping to see something change in his posture, in his eyes, that begs you not to go. But you don’t, they’re blank and that burns the back of your throat more than the tequila shot Phoenix had you take when you first got to the bar. 

“Don’t wait up.”

 ——

Hangman does in fact, wait up. He waits, and he waits, and he waits some more, hoping at any given moment, you’ll come back into the bar and seek him out. You’ll wrap your arms around him, run your hands through his hair as you kiss, and murmur ‘Atlas who?’ against his lips.

Every so often he’ll take a lap around the room, glancing out the back doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Relief swells in his chest each time he sees you sitting a healthy distance from Atlas, neither of you making any advancements in hopes to get closer. He’s seen you smiling though, a few times you’ve thrown frisky punches against Atlas’s arm and reared your head back with laughter at something he’s said.

Hangman even bugs Phoenix for a solid thirty minutes about the story between you and Atlas but, she won’t budge. Something about being her being a good friend and all that bullshit.

In all honesty, Jake’s just worried. He’s not worried because Atlas is attractive and a good pilot, no, Jake Seresin isn’t self-conscious in that right. He’s worried because he doesn’t want Atlas to hurt you, to maybe break your heart. Clearly something had happened between you two, something that left Atlas feeling secure enough to approach you with a wide smile and open arms while you quivered and hid your figure behind the bar. That in itself has Hangman suspecting the something that happened hurt you an inequitable amount that it hurt Atlas.

And the idea of you hurting at the hands of anyone has powerful waves of anger crashing over him.

He’s being hypocritical and he knows it. Isn’t he hurting you in a way? He knows you want more than whatever situation he’s pushing you two into. He can see it when he looks into your eyes deeply, this little spark of hope, a silent question ‘Are you going to ask me now?’ ‘Are you going to tell me you love me?’

When he doesn’t, he can see the spark dwindle down to a just fleeting glint of light. The spark comes back though, somehow it returns every time he looks at you and he’s grateful he hasn’t snuffed out whatever’s inside you that allows the spark to catch at all. He’s playing with fire, one of these times, the spark will ignite and one of you may end up getting burned. He knows one day, he’ll have to draw out that fire and he’s thankful today is not that day when he see’s you come strolling back into the bar, Atlas free.

Your eyes scan the room until they catch onto his, then you send him that warm, all-consuming smile that had him gone for you since the first time he saw it.

“You stayed.” You lean your body against the bar beside his.

“Can’t let this Atlas guys ego get too big.” He wants to swallow the words back in because they’re not the ones he desperately wants to say. He wants to say that you’re crazy for thinking he’d actually leave you.

You roll your eyes but, your smile doesn’t falter, “Yeah, Atlas’s ego is the problem here.” 

The bar has cleared out, only a few locals and naval officers remain lingering past last call. Even if the bar was still cramped with people, it wouldn’t have stopped Hangman from reaching out, snaking a hand around your waist and pulling you against him.

He murmurs a soft “You love it” into your hair before swaying you gently to the music still streaming out of the juke box.

You wrap your hands around his neck and move your body in rhythm with his before replying, “Yeah, I do.”

With his body so close, you inhale his scent - cinnamon with lingering hints of whisky and mint. It’s warmer than Atlas’s scent, it floods your stomach with butterflies while also making you feel cocooned by a soft blanket, it both lulls and excites you. 

Being with Atlas again, back on the bar patio, felt comfortable. It was familiar in all the ways that taking the same route home every day is. But there’s nothing romantic there anymore, you don’t feel dizzy hearing his laugh or feel hot under his touch. It feels platonic, like the door to whatever could have been between you two is finally closed. 

Atlas was the past. Jake is the future, if he ever lets himself amount to that.

Jake pushes your body away from his, holding you an arms length away tightly by the hand before twirling you into back him and dipping you low to the floor.

A burst of laughter escapes you just before Penny rings the final call bell.

——

Prepping for your next assignment goes about as well as prepping for an assignment you know you’re going to be flying with your ex can go. You’re a little rattled to hear that the assignment will be flown with only two daggers; you, Atlas, and his WSO, Cujo. 

Yes, that’s right, his WSO’s callsign is Cujo. And when you meet him, you can completely understand why - the man is frightening. You never knew Atlas was assigned a new WSO. His old partner was quiet but unbelievably talented and they blended well together because he didn’t have a strong personality to clash with Atlases. Atlas liked submission, Atlas liked always being on top (in more ways than one). You have no idea how Cujo and Atlas can stand each other.

The first day is spent going over schematics, understanding the missions purpose and its parameters. It's safe to say that you, Atlas, and Cujo don’t do much talking let alone flying. You can’t say that you’re unhappy that you weren’t given free time to chit chat with either of them. Again, because ... Cujo. And because during your last talk with Atlas, he’d kept the conversation very casual with mainly surface level questions about how your lives had been since graduation and swapping old memories that had you chocking on your drinks with laughter.

He didn’t dare dip down into the nature of your split and what it meant to be flying together again and you didn’t press it. He won’t be staying in Fightertown after this assignment, there’s no need to open old wounds that took years to heal when you can forget they ever existed in couple days time. 

Atlas does not need to know that he has the emotional capability of a college frat boy and you do not need to know why you weren’t good enough to be loved by him. Ignorance is bliss.

Flight sims had been going well too, up until Mav decided to join in on the fun and imitate unexpected enemy aircraft. Then the bandaid you and Atlas slapped over your past was quickly torn off. 

“Holy shit! He just came out no where!” Cujo spun around in his seat, trying to spot Mavs F-18. 

“Talk to me, Sting. What do you see?” Atlas barked over the comms as you had just managed to turn your jet around to get a better look.

“He’s right on your ass, you got to move!” You pulled up hard, hoping to get a tail on Mav before he obliterated your partners. 

“Communicate, everyone. Come on, how are you going to get me off of him, Stinger?” Mavs voice crackled in your headset as you pressed to catch up.

“Atlas, break left hard and I’ll pull up and over him.”

“No way am I letting him in my blindspot.”

“But I-“

“Watch out!” Cujo broke up the back and forth when Mav did exactly what you instructed Atlas to do. With ease, he pulled up on the jet and let it course backwards over yours before bringing her back down with a direct lane to hit you.

“Shit!” With a last ditch effort, you nose dive, feeling the surge of gravity crush you back against the seat. It was no use, Mav was too quick in predicting your next moves and within seconds, he had you in lock. 

“Don’t worry, Stinger. Not every pilot can pull off a move like that.” Atlas spoke as you settled back up to an appropriate height.

“Where the hell were you after he got on my tail?” 

“I was trying to get in position-“

“And why didn’t you listen when I told you how to dodge Maverick?”

“That would have gotten us killed.”

“It wouldn’t have, actually.” 

“Look, just trust me on this one. It’s clear you don’t have as much experience-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not ready for something like this!”

The words SCREW YOU were half way out of your mouth when Mav cut you off, “That’s enough! Head back to base, we’ll continue this tomorrow after you both figure your shit out.”

After jumping down from your plane practically before it stopped moving on the tarmac, you storm into the base and to the locker rooms. You’re shaking with anger, unkept, wild anger that you haven’t felt in years, an anger that no one besides Atlas has the power to resurrect from you.

Atlas is not mean nor is he a bad pilot but, he can be demeaning and a shitty teammate. As much as you try to shake off his snarky comments or the way he seems to want to do the exact opposite of what you suggest as his wingman, you can feel it picking away at you, at this wall you’ve built around you and your confidence as a pilot since you left Top Gun. He brings back this part of yourself that’s so insecure, so afraid to make one wrong move, that everything ends up going wrong anyway.

You haven’t been that kind of pilot in years, one who cowers and backs away from a fight. You’ve been growing and improving and had you returned to Top Gun now, you would graduate first in your class. But now Atlas’s stupidly hot face shows up and suddenly you’re mediocre and okay with it because he’s there feeding you these little backhanded comments.

‘Don’t worry, Stinger. Not every pilot can pull off a move like that.’

You have pulled off moves like that, much harder ones too. Yet he acts like he knows you, like you’re still that pilot helplessly in love and desperate for his attention.

With half-hearted effort, you toss your hemet across the locker room, only slightly wishing the locker it connected with to radiate a loud bag was Atlas’s stupidly hot face. Why did he have to show up? Why him of all people? You want this assignment, need this assignment, so you can prove yourself to leadership even more. 

“What’d that locker ever do to you?” Jakes voice usually eases the tension in your body but today, it holds no such effect. You’re as stiff as ever when he comes walking into the locker room. 

“Not in the mood.” You grunt, bending down to pick up the discarded helmet.

“I heard training was rocky today.” Jake takes a seat on one of the benches in the middle of the room and pats the open spot next to him. But his words send a fresh, white hot surge of anger ripping through you. 

“Oh yeah? Who’d you hear that from?” Your mind immediately conjures a picture of Atlas strolling around the base with a smile, searching for a replacement wingman. He’d ask, ‘Hey, anyone know where I can find a stable pilot around here to fly with?’ That dickhead.

“Mav may have mentioned that Atlas was getting under your skin a bit.”

“He is not!’ You raise your voice then clamp your jaw shut, clearly proving Mav’s point. All Jake does is raise an eyebrow. You deflate, releasing a long, shaky breath. “Okay, so, maybe he is. I don’t know why I can’t focus around him. It’s like now that he’s here, all these memories are resurfacing. Like the pilot I was when I was with him is threatening to wake up from hibernation and take control of my body.”

“You can’t let his guy tell you who you are. You know who you are. You’re a great pilot, a great partner. The Admiral pulled you for this assignment for a reason. You have just as every right to be here as he does.” Jake smiles and taps the bench next to him again. The comfort of his words has your muscles finally relaxing so you take a seat, pressing your body against his.

Jake reaches over and takes your hand in his, intertwining your fingers before asking, “What happened between you two?” You avert your gaze to your hands that he’s placed in his lap. 

“Same old, same old.” You shrug, really not wanting to get into it with Hangman of all people. You didn’t want him to see you the way Atlas did when you were together, expendable, replaceable. “We dated for a bit. It just didn’t work out, we wanted different things.” To say the least.

“Sting.” Ugh, you feel soaked with the amount of pity dripping through his tone. You don’t want pity, you’re not the same pilot, not the same woman who Atlas dropped. You’ve changed, made yourself indispensable. 

“He left, okay?” You snatch your hand back from his grasp. “He didn’t think I was worth the effort of a long distance relationship. He didn’t think I was worth anything apparently. I thought he lov-“ Your voice involuntarily cracks and you instantly shake your head. Fuck this, it doesn’t matter if Atlas didn’t love you. This isn’t about love, this is about getting the mission done.

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is gentle as he reaches to wrap an arm around you. You stand up to avoid the contact and will yourself to get it together. You can’t be crying over this, over him. But now that you’re thinking about, now that you’ve let yourself talk about it, you realize maybe you just are unloveable.

Is that why Jake hasn’t committed to you? Maybe he knew that once something better came along, a different opportunity, he’d take it without question the way Atlas did. 

“He’s an idiot for leaving you, Sting.” 

“Yeah because his loss is your gain, right?” You turn around to face him, clenching your fists at your sides. 

“Well, yeah.” Jake shrugs. “If that hadn’t happened you wouldn’t be here, with me.”

“But I’m not. With you.” You watch him drop his head down and release a sigh before standing up.

“Are we really going to do this now?” 

“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Lieutenant. But it seems every time the mere idea of this conversation arises, you run away.” He visibly flinches at your words but, you can’t find the effort to care. You’ve been steamrolled with this idea that no matter how much of yourself you give, no matter how much you change, you’ll never be enough for the people you love.

“That’s not-“

“It is what happens! I get it! I get that I’m not worthy of you or anyones commitment, that I’m not good enough for someone to settle for but for the love of God, will someone just finally come out and say it?” 

“Y/N.”

“Is uh, everything okay in here?” You look over Jake’s shoulder and see a hovering Atlas in the doorway, still in his g-suit, looking like he’s ready to pounce on Jake should you ask him to. You let your eyes find their way back to Jakes and see him unfazed by the new presence in the room. He’s staring at you so deeply that you can feel him in your soul, roaming around, searching for something inside there. 

“Yes.” You croak out. “Everything’s fine.” 

“O-kay. Can I borrow you for a minute then?” That seems to wake Jake up from his stupor. He turns around with his hands on his hips.

“Now’s not the time, buddy.”

“But, I-“

“No, it’s fine.” You cut Atlas off. “We do need to talk.” Because there’s still a mission we need to fly together. You brush past Hangman, your shoulders briefly connecting before you hear him call your name like a plea.

You gesture for Atlas to lead the way and don’t bother to look back.

——

The sun has long set by the time you arrive home that night, the only light illuminating your way comes from yellowing street lamps and the half crescent moon. The conversation you had with Atlas has coated itself on your skin like salt water, sticky and uncomfortable. You’re eager to take a long shower to wash the day away and start fresh tomorrow.

When you pull in to see Hangman’s jeep parked in your driveway, you take a few seconds with your forehead resting on the wheel of your car before going in. How many hard conversations are allotted per day and how have you not already met that quota?

You’d given Jake a key to your place a month or so ago, telling him to make himself comfortable whenever needed and clearly, he’s taken your words to heart as he’s laying on your couch when you make it inside. For a second, you think he may have fallen asleep and almost let out a silent cheer but, his eyes crack open at the sound of the door closing behind you. 

“Hi.” He greets you, his voice hoarse and low. You bite your lip and try to shake away any thoughts that voice normally brings you. His shirt’s a bit rumpled, his hair slightly out of place from your pillows. Ugh, he looks down right cozy and you ache to cling to him but, you can’t. You’re not sure you’ll ever get to again. 

“Hi.” You lean against the island counter a good distance away from him. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” When you don’t reply, he sits up and clutches his hands together in front of him. “How did your talk go with Atlas?”

“Where do we begin?” Atlas released a breathy, forced chuckle from in front of you. You’d chosen to have this conversation outside despite the California sun beating down on you, causing beads of sweat to roll down the back of your neck.

“Why don’t we just cut right to it? Why’d you say those things to me up there?” 

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Except that you did. What you say, those comments you make, they mean something to me, Atlas.” He ran a hand through his hair and over his face before nodding. “You always did this at Top Gun. It’s like no matter how good I am, I’m never good enough for you.”

“Stop.” He took a step closer and you clamped your mouth shut. “You were good enough, you still are. But I wanted to be better. When I saw how well you were flying before that last run with Maverick, I was jealous. You’ve clearly improved since I’ve last seen you and it made me mad.”

“Wow, thanks you asshole.” 

“I know,” he sighed “I’m the worst.” You couldn’t argue with that.

“How could you go from loving me one minute to derailing me the next?” You refused to let your voice dwindle down, it remained sturdy when you added, “How can you say I was good enough back then but leave anyway?”

“I’ve got an ego that I can’t seem to control. You really were a great pilot then and I knew you were destined to keep getting better. I told myself I couldn’t live in anyone else’s shadow, let alone the girls that I loved. To me, you were as enticing as you were terrifying. I couldn’t love you completely because I saw you in two different ways; the girl who could give me everything I wanted and the pilot who could take it all away. I made a mistake.”

“Dude,” You shuttered “you need therapy.” You held his gaze with a straight face until you saw a grin poke its way out from both corners of his lips. Before you knew it, you were both laughing, with the smoke of the past clearing, the air between you felt light.

“I am actually seeing a therapist.” Atlas said once the cackling settled down. “I want to be better, do better, for the people around me.”

“Good, Alex, I’m really glad.” You gave him a genuine smile then because you were proud of him for taking that step toward improving himself. “I know we can fly this mission together successfully. We’re a team, this isn’t a contest anymore.”

“You’re right. We can do this together. I’d be honored to fly alongside a pilot like you, Sting.”

“Well then it’s settled,” You stuck out a hand in front of him to shake “teammates.” He connected his palm with yours and gave it a good squeeze. When you expected him to pull away, he didn’t. Instead, he kept his hand locked on yours and tugged you a bit closer.

“Y/N, I really meant it when I said I made a mistake all those years ago. As much as I needed to let you go then, I wish I didn’t have to. I also meant what I said about trying to be better.” He started to move his free hand up the length of your arm, your muscles strained in response. “If you could give me another chance, one more shot, I can prove to you that we can be what were then but better. I loved you, Sting. I’m positive I could love you again.”

“He said what?!” Jakes up from the couch now, approaching you quickly with frantic eyes. “Oh man, I know I should’ve hit that guy when I had the chance.”

“Relax, Caveman.” You cross your arms in front of you, taking in the site of Jake trying to occupy his hands. You can tell he wants to reach out and touch you but doesn’t know if it’s the right time. He runs them through his hair then down his shirt, he even shoves them in his pockets before ripping them right back out.

“Jake,” you groan and capture his hands in your own “your anxiety is giving me anxiety.”

“Well, what did you tell him?” He gives you a delicate look, one etched with soft features and the vulnerability you got a hint of back at the bar.

“I told him that I couldn’t be with him. Well actually, I think I said something along the lines of ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ because that’s what I realized - I was never the problem in that relationship. I also realized I can’t hedge my own worth on what some guy thinks of me, I know I’m good enough.” 

Jake smashes you against his chest, encasing you in his arms before running both hands up and down your back soothingly, finally able to put them to good use. 

“I’m proud of you.” He breathes into your hair before giving you another squeeze. For a second, you allow your body to morph into his, to be bundled up in his warmth and his smell and his comfort. You could allow yourself to stay here forever, to be content with whatever love and lust Jake can yield to you.

But after your talk with Atlas, you know this in your bones - you want more. To be given that from Jake would be a dream but, you aren’t going to settle for someone unwilling to take that next step, to show you how much you and your future together meant to them.

With a final kiss to the neck, you pull yourself out his hold and steady yourself. You try not to let tears build but, you can already feel the prickle of them against your dry eyes and a lump form in your throat.

“I-“

“Wait.” Jake silences you easily. “Back on the base, you told me that you didn’t feel worthy of someone’s full love. I’m so happy to hear that on your own, you’ve come to the realization that the statement is the furthest thing from the truth.” Well, you didn’t really say that ... “But, I want to reiterate it, in my own words.”

“I’ve known that I love you, like fully-completely-with-ever-fiber-of-my-being love you since before we kissed in the parking lot after you almost got yourself killed. I’ve known since before you let me win that game of darts after I got my ass handed to me by Maverick. I think I’ve known since the first time you smiled at me-“

“But that was-“

“Yes, your first day on base, I know. You just radiated this kind of energy that hit me like a drug, I was getting more and more addicted to you and I didn’t even know it. Now, I know it.” He drags a hand across the skin of your cheek, caressing it gently. “I thought that maybe if we didn’t exchange those words or took this to another level, that it would hurt less when I inevitably fuck it up. But it doesn’t matter, I’m in love with you, Sting. And I want it all, regardless of how much it could hurt.” 

You press your forehead to his, hoping every emotion too powerful to put into words will seep from your brain to his so he can understand how much he means to you. “I won’t let you fuck this one up, Seresin.” The promise comes out with your lips dancing over his.

“I’ll hold to you that.” With that, Jake connects his lips fully to yours. His kisses are greedy and captivating, igniting every cell in your body on fire. He guides your arms around his neck without breaking the kiss and nips at your bottom lip as he brings you forward. The swirling need grows stronger in your stomach as his wraps an arm around your backside and pulls you down to the couch, melding your body on top of his.

He detaches his lips from yours and quickly reattaches them to your neck, sucking lightly at all the different spots he’s learned make you buck your hips and moan his name. When you gasp, he thinks it’s because his tongue has found your favorite spot but, he’s stopped short by you pushing yourself up to look down at him.

“Wait, I forgot!”

“Forgot what?”

You smile, your pupils are blown wide, cheeks beet red, lips swollen. Jake takes a mental picture of you in that moment, hoping to store it in his mind forever. Right then, he’s sure he’s never seen you look more beautiful.

“I love you, too.”

——

^ me bc this is not based on the true events of my life and is completely fiction

#hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman fic #jake 'hangman' seresin #jake seresin fic #jake 'hangman' seresin fic #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #hangman fanfiction #jake seresin fanfiction #top gun: maverick #top gun #top gun fanfiction

[abalidoth]

Replanting (Chapter 1)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options. 

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment. 

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly. 

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there. 

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

#mechposting #empty spaces #might be a bit too cheerful to be empty spaces proper but it's part of the conversation #tessa writes stuff #tesserants #There's going to be probably one chapter after this

[lowkeyrobin]

hello! can i please request hcs with quackity about being in a long distance relationship with him?

yes omg!! thanks for the request! ; I tried, I tried not that great

QUACKITY ; long distance relationship

summary ; you and quackity are online daters /j

warnings ; language

genre ; fluff

word count ; 686

y/s/n = your ship name

masterlist

you met at Twitch Rivals

you're both content creators which is obviously how you met

you guys bonded over shared interactions and the games you'd both lost

you got along so great that you exchanged information and decided you should stream together sometime

a couple weeks later you were invited to a jackbox stream with him, fundy, tommy, tubbo, bbh, and niki

shit went crazy

"Y/u/n, is there anything you'd like me to call you before we start? Like nickname or just y/u/n?" Niki asks

You graciously answer her, letting her know your name and proffered pronouns. Tommy makes a little, very lighthearted joke before pointing out someone in chat already making you and Niki and you and Alex ship names.

"Oh God, they've got us" You chuckle. "They're both mine, chat"

"AYO? SINCE WHEN?" Alex shouts

Niki giggles, covering her mouth.

"Since now" You shrug

you decided to try dating during the second north carolina meetup

you both had some fuzzy feelings about each other and mutually agreed on 'well hey, we like each other, why not try it out?'

being near the beach and with all your friends made it like a dream

but after two weeks, you had to go home

but you left your relationship untitled for now

Streaming together continued as per usual. So did long talks and phone calls, and hours spent playing video games (mostly Minecraft) together.

the next trip was to LA to visit Alex this time

you guys had your first kiss on his balcony overlooking the city

the way he giggled after omg

during that trip, you established your relationship and started to go on every day dates and stuff

but then you had to go home again

Honestly, both of you didn't really think about what to do with your relationship once you went home. You were taking it all in while you had it and weren't thinking about the very true reality of it all.

you thought talking was constant? it is now

sometimes both of you will just stay up late and rant about what you like about each other and corny shit

youre the one to softlaunch the relationship to fans

you probably guessed the password to his twitter/instagram and changed his bio to "y/u/n's bf 💯💯"

he didnt even know until people were flooding his dms and people on tik tok were talking about it

hed already said he was okay with telling people as long as you were tho

sends you pictures of flower bouquets once a week with some thought out, very loving paragraph or poem

he constantly complains about not being able to kiss or cuddle you

"y/n/n why are you so far away!?"

"i told you id be able to pay for you to live with me"

"UGHHHHHHHHH"

sends you good morning/goodnight texts and talks about what you'd be doing that day if you were together

cheesy little man

always spamming you w pics of Tiger

will religiously send you memes and blow up your phone if you're busy or ignoring him

yk the relationship is srs when even your qsmp characters are in love

the lore.

half of its heartbreaking angst and the other half is literally your bucket lists/daydreams of the future of your relationship

hes so down bad for you

will do anything to make you smile or make you flustered

will make the most suggestive jokes in front of friends, stay silent for a second or two and yell "im joking, im joking!"

orders you doordash/uber eats when you're doing subathons or generally long streams

will always join through vc/greenscreen when youre doing cooking streams

you'll do greenscreen dates (like the fiances stream) once a month and gossip over takeout LMAO

genuinely asks his fanartists to make ship art of you two because he loves seeing all the ideas and cute shit

they always draw you with one of his beanies or hats on, the occasional necklace

you reblog tumblr y/s/n fanart 24/7/365

karaoke streams are a must

you guys rank those "songs that all white people love" videos and rate the songs

dare or hot wing streams when youre literally anywhere but near each other>>

also playing just dance using vc and stream green screen>>>

#lowkeyrobin #mcyt x reader #mcyt preferences #mcyt oneshot #quackity x reader #alex quackity x reader #quackity oneshot #quackityhq x reader #qsmp x reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #they/them reader

[lesbianrobin]

Seeing as it's Black History Month, I'm gonna take a break from your regularly scheduled girlblogging to be a film nerd and beg every single person reading this post to go and watch Within Our Gates (1920).

Within Our Gates is a feature-length silent film written and directed by black filmmaker Oscar Micheaux and it is a miracle that we have it today. The film was believed to be lost for years until a SINGLE surviving print was found in Spain, translated back into English, and recut to match the original as closely as possible. (This is actually not uncommon in the realm of old film a lot of lost films get found in random closets but ANYWAY.) The film tells the story of Sylvia, a southern schoolteacher who travels up north to raise money to keep her school open. It explores how her life and family have been affected by racism, abuse, and sexual violence, as she falls in love, works to save her school, and grapples with her place as a black woman in the antebellum south. If that's not enough to get you interested, the film is also kinda batshit. There are shootouts! Affairs! Someone gets hit by a car! It's wild and dramatic and incredibly engaging.

You've heard of Birth of a Nation, right? Maybe you've even seen it. That insanely racist piece of film history premiered in 1915. Oftentimes people will defend D.W. Griffith and the film itself as being "a product of its time." Well, Within Our Gates premiered in 1920, and it is a product of its time. It depicts white mob violence against black Americans, and how that violence destroys innocent lives and rips families apart. It is written and directed by a black man. All of its lead actors are black. It is an absolutely heart-wrenching, moving, and intelligent film, produced on a shoestring budget, that explores what it meant not only to be a black American in 1920, but what it meant to be a black woman. Different characters have different approaches to coping with racism and strategies for protecting themselves. It's complicated, and upsetting, and one of the most impactful films I've ever seen.

If you can spare an hour and twenty minutes, if you happen to have access to the film through a streaming service (in addition to being FREE ON YOUTUBE, I believe it's on Amazon Prime, Paramount+, MGM+, and some Hulu plans) or an institution (you may have access to Kanopy or a similar platform via your local library or university), it's worth a watch. Play whatever music you want in the background if your version doesn't have any added! Even if you can't watch it for whatever reason, I'd encourage all of you to look into Oscar Micheaux and the history of "race films," films created outside of the Hollywood studio system by and for black Americans.

Don't buy into the false narrative that the only black representation in historical film was minstrelsy and Griffith-style garbage.

#em talks #history #film history #black history #i hope it's like ok for me to make this post as a white lady i'm just very passionate ab film history #and within our gates is an incredible film that deserves so much more noteriety than it has #i feel like people try to act like The Past was uniformly racist and that's just how things were #when the reality is that just like today people fought for their rights and made art and debated different philosophies of liberation #oh also the film can be very disturbing like many many trigger warnings for various forms of violence and assault #but that's part of what makes it so meaningful the fact that it does not shy away from reality yknow #and for 1920... god it's just so so good

[happyhauntt]

give your tears to the tide — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: now that he knows, nikolai lantsov is the only soul in the world aware of the truth at the heart of her. for better or worse.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: sexual assault tw! (off-screen, not descriptive), serious angst, character death (minor character), manslaughter, mentions of the army (in a canon context). this one's a lil dark. hurt/comfort. trauma. nikolai learns that anya is grisha except it's in the worst way possible and he behaves like a fucking king. threats of violence. i realise this plot would've been a lot more believable if anya were a heartrender or squaller but i fully believe in my heart that she's a tidemaker so suspend your belief for five minutes pls and thank you.

─── word count: 2.8k.

─── taglist: @naushtheaspiringauthor / @a-taken-url / if you'd like to be added to the taglist let me know!

      There's a body in the corner and the stable floor is soaked through with water. It seeps through the fabric of her army-issue trousers, clinging and cold, but Anya can hardly feel it. The ground is hard beneath her, but still she sits, with her knees pulled up to her chest, and she watches. She waits. She prays to Saints she doesn't really believe in that the body in the corner will twitch, or breathe, or something.

     But it doesn't, and it won't, and there's no Saint in the world that can save her now.

     That's how Nikolai finds her. Not long after curfew, when she didn't check in with their commanding officer before dinner, he'd known something was off. In all the months he has served with her in their unit, he cannot recall a time when she was late for anything. Nikolai didn't think she was even capable of such a thing, really, so he'd asked Dominik to cover for them and slipped off to look for her as everyone got ready for bed.

     He checks the gardens first. More often than not, he'll find Anya laying on a bedroll beside her tent, watching the sun set over the horizon. She'd count the stars as they came into view and once, when she'd been feeling particularly tolerant, she'd even invited him to sit with her so they could point out constellations. It is a rare day when he doesn't set her teeth on edge, so he'd joined her eagerly and listened, enraptured, as she told him all about the stars and their stories.

     Those same stars glitter overhead now, winking mockingly at him, but there is no one to be found in the gardens. The estate their unit is staying at on their way north belongs to some baron whose name Nikolai doesn’t care to remember, and it isn't too large, but even so, he checks the gardens again.

     Just in case.

     Nikolai sighs to himself, unable to think of where she might be, before he notices a light in the distance. Everyone else has gone to bed, and the officers are drinking and playing cards in the drawing room, so why would there be anyone in the stables this late? Why would Anya be there?

     He doesn't dwell on the thought for longer than a moment. If it is her, then his worries will ease, and that's enough to send him striding down the dirt track that leads to the stables.

     As he nears, the ground beneath his feet grows soggy with muck. An odd trickling sound catches his attention, and when he squints into the dark, he notices a small stream of water escaping through a crack in the doorway.

     Nikolai pushes the unlocked door open, wincing as the hinges shriek. One of the horses chuffs at the sudden sound, but otherwise the room remains silent as a grave. The sudden draft makes the lantern flicker where it hangs from its hook, and as his eyes adjust to the dim light, he realises that he is not alone in the stable.

     "Anya?" Even though his voice is little more than a murmur, it still feels too loud. The sound of it rattles off the walls, and he can't help but flinch, but the girl curled up on the floor doesn't move. Doesn't raise her head, or even really seem to breathe.

     He creeps closer. Dread settles over him like a burial shroud. Old bits of hay crunch beneath his feet and the lantern spits, but the pit in his stomach only grows as he takes in Anya's appearance.

     Her hair straggles around her face in limp, damp strands. When Nikolai last saw her, it had been neatly braided and pinned, but now honey-coloured strands hang loose and messy. Her skin is damp, too, and pale. So pale, white as a corpse, and a flash of panic rolls through him.

     "Anya, come on." He kneels on the ground beside her. Cold, dirty water seeps into the knees of his trousers. He reaches out with gentle hands, but doesn't touch her. They merely hover above her shoulders, as if to offer comfort he isn't sure she'll accept. Not from him. "What are you doing out here? You're soaked, and it's freezing. Let's get you inside before you get ill."

     Anya doesn't look at him. Her stare is fixed, unwavering, on a dark corner of the stables. There's something hollow and hopeless about them that makes him feel sick.

     A long moment passes, and then— "I didn't mean to."

     He doesn't think he's ever heard her sound like this before. Doesn't think he's heard anyone sound like this before. "What? Anya, what are you talking about?"

     "I didn't mean to." Her voice is brittle. The words are shards of broken glass on her tongue. Every one of them slices her open. Makes her bleed. "I... It was an accident. I didn't... I swear, I didn't even..."

     She wavers at the end, trailing off into a heavy silence. When she looks at him then, eyes so wide and frightened, Nikolai swears his heart grinds to a halt. That look cuts him deeper than any blade ever could.

     "Anya." Concern wavers in the depths of his eyes, and finally he reaches out to touch her. Gentle hands clasp her shoulders. She's so cold. He wonders how long she's been sitting out here. "What happened? Where did all this water come from?"

     Anya swallows roughly. Her lower lip quivers. Every part of him wants to hold her close, as if that will chase away all her demons, but he knows she won’t allow it. "Me. Or... him, maybe. I don't know. I didn't mean to do it, I just—"

     A choked sob cuts her off, and Anya buries her face in her hands. There's no doubt that she probably wishes anyone else had found her out here, rather than the boy who teases and goads her relentlessly. She doesn't even like him, really.

     Yet he's the one who noticed she was missing.

     "Anya. Nastya, look at me." The childhood nickname falls from his tongue before he can stop it, and he squeezes her shoulders once, a little too harshly, to pull her focus back. "Tell me what happened."

     "I came down to check on the horses. Maksim asked to swap duties with me so he could run into town and post a letter to his mother." Anya's hands begin to shake violently. She curls them into fists and presses them hard against her thighs to make them stop. "I was just finishing up when— Fuck, I don't even know him. He was only just assigned to our regiment. Lenkov, I think? Saints, I killed him and I don't even remember his name." She manages a short, sharp laugh. She almost sounds hysterical.

     "Anya." A sudden chill sweeps over Nikolai, as if someone dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

     Anya shakes her head. "I didn't even notice he was in here. And then he— he grabbed me, and he put his hand around my throat and shoved me up against the wall and told me to shut up even though I wasn't even screaming, I couldn't scream, I couldn't— And he started pulling at my shirt, and I didn't even think, I just did it. I remembered seeing them do it, the hand gestures, I didn't even know what they meant, I just wanted him to get off me."

     A thousand thoughts sweep through him all at once, but the only thing Nikolai cares about is the tremor in Anya’s voice, the shaking of her hands as she gestures to the corner. He sees the body slumped over in a puddle. Bits of straw stick to the fabric of his uniform. The familiar emblem of Ravka winks back at Nikolai, as if the double eagle is sneering at him, but there is nothing here to be ashamed of.

     "Can you stand?" he asks.

     She looks up at him sharply. "What? Nikolai, I just told you—"

     "Can you stand, Anya?" Her name sits like a lead weight on his tongue. He says it firmly, harsher than he wants to be, but there's a manic look in her eye he's never seen before. Not on her. He needs to keep her attention, her focus, away from the body in the corner. Away from the blood on her hands.

     She nods, once. "I think so."

     "Alright." Nikolai pushes himself up from the ground, and tries not to shiver at the way his damp trousers stick to his skin. The beginnings of a plan begin to formulate in his mind, and when Anya looks him in the eye, the certainty she finds there begins to set her at ease. "You're going to go back to the manor. Sneak in through the side entrance. Make sure nobody sees you. Go to the library. It should be empty. I'll meet you there in an hour."

     "Nikolai."

     "Go, Anya." They're not friends. She's made that abundantly clear so many times these last few months, but the way she's looking at him now, with her heart split wide open, makes him want to hold her tight and never let go. "I'll deal with this."

     And somehow, because she trusts him — Saints, she cannot believe she actually trusts him — she forces her stiff limbs to carry her out of the door and away from the chaos she caused.

     When she dares to cast a glance back of her shoulder, she finds the dim light extinguished, flooding the stables with shadows.

     An oil lamp flickers on the table, dim enough that it won't cast any light beneath the door, and Anya has to squint in order to decipher the look on Nikolai's face when he sneaks into the library nearly an hour later.

     A deep frown has etched itself into his features, and Anya’s chest seizes at the sight of it. She cannot recall a day in her life where Nikolai wasn’t smiling. There are lines carved on each side of his mouth, even at the age of sixteen, that bear the echo of his good humour.

     She cannot stomach that she is the reason for that frown.

     He doesn't say anything as he presses a glass bottle into her hands, before settling himself into the low armchair opposite. When she removes the stopper, it smells suspiciously like brandy.

     "What have you done with him?"

      There are still flecks of dirt stuck beneath Nikolai's fingernails, even though he scrubbed his hands nearly raw in the kitchens just now. Streaks of mud stain the hems of his trousers. A faint scent of soil lingers in the air.

     "Do you really want to know?" Nikolai hadn't felt all that terrible as he'd rolled Lenkov's body into a shallow grave at the edge of the property. Perhaps he should have. But every time the guilt tried to creep in, the memory of Anya curled up on the stable floor would flash through his mind, and every shovelful of dirt became a little easier to bear.

     Come morning, their superior officer will find a scribbled letter in Lenkov's bunk and assume he is a deserter. The reputation that will earn him is not nearly as bad as he deserves, but it will do. It’s not like he’ll live to harm anyone else.

     Nikolai nods at the bottle in her hands. "Drink, Anya."

     It's odd, really. Watching her follow instructions. His instructions, at least. Nikolai is used to her battling him. More often than not, his remarks are usually met with a snarky retort or an outright insult.

     As her lips close around the bottle and she swallows a sip of the brandy he stole, he decides he doesn't like her silent. He doesn't like it at all.

     When she's done, she holds the bottle out towards him like a peace offering. He takes his own long swallow of brandy and relishes the burn as it slides down his throat.

     "Why did you help me?" Anya’s voice wavers as she speaks, though she tries her best to steady it. In this light, Nikolai cannot quite see her expression, but he knows, somehow, that she's frowning. A little dip appearing between her brows. He's so familiar with it, has dreamed of smoothing it over with his thumb until she smiles at him. In his dreams, it’s the sort of smile that could cure any ill in the world.

     He chuckles and downs another sip. "Would you prefer I stand silently by as they arrest you? Sit in the crowd at your tribunal? Would you rather I watch as they lead you to the gallows and hang you for murder?"

     Her breathing turns ragged. "It wasn't murder—"

     "The First Army hates Grisha, Anya." There's no venom in his tone, but she flinches all the same. His eyes soften as he passes the bottle back to her. "You think they'd care if it was an accident? Or self-defence? All they would see is you, a Grisha who hid her powers and infiltrated the ranks of the First Army, killing one of their own. There would be no saving you from that."

     The statement hangs in the air between them like a noose. The gas lamp spits and crackles.

     "My parents hid it. Not me." She takes a large swig of the brandy and clutches the bottle close to her chest, as if it's a shield. "I was... Saints, maybe eleven, when I started to show. My mother cut my hand when the Grisha testers came so they couldn’t test me.”

     Anya’s hand flexes slightly, as if she is even aware she’s doing it. There’s still a thin white scar hidden in the crease of her palm.

     “After that,” she says, “my parents stopped bringing me to court. Told everyone that my health was fragile and that I wasn't well enough to travel."

     Nikolai nods, humming beneath his breath. He remembers that. One summer Anya was there, screaming through the gardens of the Grand Palace with him and Dominik and some of the other children, and then she was gone. She'd only appear once or twice a year afterwards, at the Winter Fête or his brother’s birthday ball, and her mother would always keep her close by.

     "I am my father's heir." Anya swallows roughly. Affection threads through her voice like strands of gold.

     Nikolai had met the Duke of Balakirev a few times as a child, and unlike many other nobles rattling around court in Os Alta, he hadn’t found the man to be ridiculous or, worse, intimidating. He recalls an older man, somewhere in his fifties with ruddy cheeks and silver streaking through his hair, but he had kind eyes. That, Nikolai remembers well.

     He sees the same soft blue in Anya’s eyes. 

     Anya’s heart warms at the memory of him. She last saw him just before she enlisted, months ago, and he’d watched her leave with shining eyes and a worried little pout. He’d tried to smile.

     He hadn’t wanted her to know he was afraid.

     "I’m his only child.” Anya’s lips form a tight line. “And the Grisha testers would have shipped me off to the Little Palace. I'd be lucky to ever see my parents again, Nikolai. Once you are labelled Grisha, it is a brand you bear for life. It becomes the only thing you are, and I... I love my parents for protecting me. I don't practise or train, I don't... I didn't know what I was doing in the stables. I don't know what I was thinking. I just wanted him to stop."

     Her voice is quiet, so quiet he can hardly hear her now.

     Nikolai wishes Lenkov were still alive, if only so he could rip the man to pieces with his bare hands. A shallow grave isn’t good enough. He should’ve left the body in the woods and let the wolves have him instead.

     "I've killed before. We're soldiers. But I never... I didn't mean to..." Anya's voice cracks, and a sob bubbles up in her throat. She presses her palm hard against her mouth, hard enough that her teeth almost pierce the skin, as if that will keep her tears at bay.

     Nikolai leans forward. Rests a gentle hand on her knee. She looks at him, eyes glistening with tears. His heart shatters in his chest, and the shards of it dig into his lungs with every breath he takes.

     "I won't tell anyone," he says, solemn as the grave. "About what happened, or about you. I swear."

     "Thank you."

     When daylight comes and Dominik finds them huddled together in a quiet corner of the house, Anya’s head resting against Nikolai’s chest as if the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had soothed her to sleep, he knows something immeasurable has changed between them. 

     He nudges Nikolai’s foot and quickly ducks out of the room as his friend begins to stir, and he doesn’t know what secret the pair of them share now, but Dominik swears he will take it to the grave, too.

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov oc #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov fanfic #fyeahgrishaverseocs #shadow and bone oc #shadow and bone fanfic #* chapter update. #* fic: gold rush.

[girlactionfigure]

HOLY-DAY 🔉🔉 ALERT 🔉🔉 INSTRUCTIONS for those in ISRAEL

via ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting the World to Israel in Realtime

(( Note Israel Realtime does not post updates on Shabbat or Holy-days (Israel time) UNLESS life threatening / saving. ))

Chief Rabbinute instructions with Risk Adjustments

🔅Shabbat and Holy-day Times here -> https://www.myzmanim.com/search.aspx

⚠️RISK

.. the NORTH - including extended areas of Krayot, Haifa, Afula, Safed - MEDIUM-HIGH, rockets or suicide drones at any time.  Safety precautions REQUIRED.

.. NEAR-GAZA - including Ashkelon & Ashdod - MEDIUM-HIGH, rockets at any time. Safety precautions REQUIRED.

 - REST OF THE COUNTRY - LOW - we are at war, there may be unexpected attacks.  Have a plan if there are alerts.

❗️This is a LIFE and DEATH WAR - due to Pikuach Nefesh you MUST have a way to receive alerts on Shabbat and Holy-days!  Here’s how…

SILENT CHANNELS - Radio & TV stations go “silent broadcast” for Shabbat, ONLY alerts.

No TV or Radio?  STREAM IT on phone or computer.

➡️ SILENT TV -  Channel 14 - stream https://www.now14.co.il/live/ (doesn’t work with adblocker)

➡️ SILENT RADIO - 

• Kol Chai radio - on radio 92.8, 93 and 102.5. - stream https://www.93fm.co.il/radio/players/%d7%a9%d7%99%d7%93%d7%95%d7%a8-%d7%97%d7%99/

• Kol Barama Radio - on radio 92.1, 104.3, 105.7 and 107.6. - stream https://kol-barama.co.il/live/

• Galei Israel - on radio 89.3, 94 and 106.5. - https://www.rlive.co.il/station/galey-israel

➡️ ON COMPUTER - leave a computer open to https://www.oref.org.il/en (only in Israel) - alerts will display and sound on the screen. Turn OFF screen saver, sleep and hibernate so the computer doesn’t turn off.

➡️ VIA APP - leave on phone with red alert app.  Set app to YOUR area so it only alerts for your area.  We suggest Tzofar Red Alert or Homefront Command - available in Play Store and App Store.  IF an alert goes off for your area CLICK THE PHONE TO VERIFY ALERT TYPE - to see if infiltration!   Yes, on Shabbat - this is Pikuach Nefesh!

⁉️ ENGLISH SILENT CHANNEL - is there a silent channel in English?  NO.  But you can use Pikud HaOref ON SCREEN in English, see “ON COMPUTER” option above.

It is a mitzvah to take actions to protect and save and preserve life on Shabbat, not a violation.  But ONLY actions which do so.

#Israel #October 7 #Hamas Massacre #Gaza #Israel/HamasWar #Real Time Updates #Pesach Edition

[fictionadventurer]

NaPoWriMo #8

I got struck by the image of one star shining in a sky hazy with suburban brightness, and wanted to try to make a poem. I sort of came up with two. Not sure either is worth much so I'll give you both.

*

A single star shining Drowning in the brightness of the city Where mankind burns away Its time, its life, its health, its soul In the always seeking rush For something better than the darkness in our hearts

Let them keep their unholy glare Let me go north, alone and silent To the dark, slow places Where the stars can breathe

*

A sky full of busy lights Hazy lights City lights Streaming back-and-forth cars always-on-the-go lights Blinding glaring street lights Stop and spend your money lights Maybe if it’s bright enough the dark won’t find your soul lights

Drowning out the still lights Soft lights Star lights Shining ever-circling in never-ending dance lights Gently calling home lights Stop and face your soul lights Come into the dark and let our brightness still your heart lights

#napowrimo 2024 #poetry #the first ones more of 'words on a page i'm not sure how this poem thing works' #the second one just kind of came out on a whim #i was thinking it was too dumb to post #and then a muffy-from-arthur voice piped up #'she rhymed light with light fourteen times!' #and that was so funny that i just have to post it

[bcbdrums]

A Touch of Warmth

A Soul Eater fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

Sixth in my series of 31 prompt-based one-shots (filling them out of order; this is prompt 5). Prompts from this list.

A/N: More of the academy days for my faves, but super early this time. I wanna say...maybe just a few months of partnership here. And living in cheap academy dorms haha. Imagine a sad college dorm room I guess. Stein is only 10 years old and Spirit is 13. Long, long, rambly stream of consciousness relationship stuff that I wrote like...in the first week of December. And then didn't finish until just now (late March) and there was only a little bit left to go. Oops. Wonder how much that gap impacted the story/writing style... If you like long rambly things that don't really have a point, well, here you go. Enjoy. 5. Puzzling

A Touch of Warmth

An icy chill like breath across his cheeks was what roused Spirit from sleep. He shivered and then blinked twice before tightly closing his eyes again. Even the air was cold, assaulting the tender moisture beneath his lashes like the slap of cold water.

After taking another moment to realize he was awake and not dreaming, he fully processed the freezing sensation as one he should not be feeling on a desert morning. He clutched his blanket close to his chest and sat up in bed, squinting. White was what overwhelmed his blurred vision, and he snaked an arm out of his warm cocoon and felt almost blindly along the windowsill until his fingers met something very cold and wet.

He gasped and drew back, blinking until his sight clarified to reveal what it was he had touched.

Gathered on the sill near the open window were a line of melting snowflakes.

Spirit's jaw fell slack as he reached out to touch a cluster again, watching it turn to water rapidly even as it cooled his fingertips. But when he looked up and out the window his eyes went wide.

Where there should have been dirt, stone, and dried grasses in the backyard of the dormitory there was only white, and the sky was gray as snow fell in lace-like curtains, thick and silent, covering the landscape as far as the eye could see.

It was several moments of staring, captivated by the scene and breathing the icy air, before Spirit reached out to slide the window closed. And then he spun around to face the bed of his roommate.

"Hey Stein, wake—"

Spirit blinked. His very young meister was not in his bed.

The red-haired teen took stock of their tiny dorm room quickly, noting the boy's blankets uncharacteristically tossed back and his pair of shoes sitting neatly next to his desk. It appeared as though Stein had gotten under his bed at some point, because the corner of a box was sticking out near where the blankets were carelessly draped down to the floor. Then Spirit noticed the door to the hallway was ajar.

"Stein?" he said again as he glanced once more around their small room. The boy was definitely not there.

Spirit threw his own blankets aside and hurriedly dressed, selecting warmer clothing than he would ever choose for a day in Death City but something he was more likely to wear on an extracurricular assignment far further north. He gaze was continually drawn to the astonishing view through the window as he fumbled with a pair of boots, still not quite believing that a seeming winter had arrived in the middle of Nevada.

He had experienced snow a couple of times in his life, but never at leisure, and nothing at all like what he was seeing outside as it seemed to be sticking to sand and stone, transforming the barren landscape to one of wonder and quiet mystery.

"Stein?" Spirit asked again, peering down the hallway after pulling the door open. The dormitory was dark and silent.

Spirit's brow furrowed as he turned toward the bathroom that all the students in his wing shared, wondering if that was where the boy had gone. His meister operated like clockwork, and it was the startling deviation from the norm that had Spirit perplexed and was driving him to find his partner almost as much as the desire to share his newfound excitement at the change in the weather.

Most of the students in their building had gone home for the holidays, but both Stein and Spirit had declined that privilege, neither offering any explanation to the other. And Spirit was glad for his decision, knowing the snow wasn't anything he would have seen otherwise.

"Stein?" he whispered, peering into the darkened bathroom but already fairly certain of what he would find. Every stall door was open, the showers and sinks were silent, and the lights were off.

Spirit stuck his lip out in annoyance at the same time his brow furrowed in worry. He'd wanted to enjoy the experience of the fresh falling snow with his meister. But as Spirit turned to walk toward the front door concern began to overtake his initial elation. Just where was the boy?

It wasn't that he didn't think Stein couldn't handle himself; the few combat training classes they'd already had proved that he could. But the meister was just so young, and he looked it. Spirit was barely thirteen and this was the first time he'd been on his own, but in the few months they'd been roommates he could tell that the silver-haired ten-year-old was already accustomed to fending for himself.

Spirit had no background on his meister, and the boy was distant without being blatantly rude. He seemed to genuinely not know how to interact with their peers along with something else Spirit couldn't yet place. But the teen was patient, and Lord Death had specifically chosen Stein to be his meister. That alone was worth everything.

He pushed through the front door of the dormitory and a biting chill rushed in along with a few flurries of snow. Spirit grinned, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as he closed his eyes and took in the feel of the ice hitting his face like unforeseen kisses, softly leaving their mark before vanishing and stirring his thoughts toward the ethereal and imaginative. There was a promise of something new in the snowfall, and Spirit wanted to take advantage of every moment of it.

He stepped fully through the door and into the wall of white, his boots almost soundless as they pushed through the drift that had already built up in the uncovered entryway. And that’s when he saw the single point of color: a telltale shock of silver hair.

Next to one of the benches that lined the sidewalk to the dorms knelt Franken Stein. Snow had collected in a thin layer atop his head, shoulders, and the backs of his legs, though one could hardly tell for the plain white pajamas he wore, causing the boy to be almost invisible in the newly whited-out landscape. He was bent over some small mechanical device placed on the bench, his concentration so full that he didn’t notice when Spirit closed the door. Another point of color were the pale soles of his feet; he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Stein?” Spirit asked in surprise, hurrying forward. His delight at the weather had wholly evaporated at the sight of his young meister barely clothed out in the cold. “What are you doing?”

The boy didn’t reply, but scowled at whatever it was he was looking at. He reached for the device and Spirit recognized a microscope as he approached. Stein had picked up a small glass slide, and Spirit watched as he leaned back from the bench to slowly wipe it on the hem of his shirt, and then hold it out to catch a few falling snowflakes. His hands shook as he replaced it under the lens and quickly leaned down again, turning the focus knob to bring his subjects into clarity. As Spirit finally stopped next to the bench he could see it wasn't just Stein's hands, but his entire frame shaking from head to toe, and his usually colorless lips were a frightening shade of blue.

“Stein!” Spirit cried in protest, his voice rising in pitch.

“Don’t breathe.”

Spirit blinked, the harsh but monotone directive confusing his train of thought.

“What?” he asked, but held his breath nonetheless.

“They melt too fast if you breathe.”

Spirit rapidly went through the arguments in his head that he wasn't even near the snowflakes on the slide, and that Stein himself was so cold now that he'd be surprised if he had any warmth left in his lungs. But none of those words came out as somehow, as always, he was drawn like a magnet to his meister's side and knelt down, curiosity rising in him despite the chill beginning to penetrate his coat.

"What are you looking at?"

"The structure of the snowflakes."

Spirit looked at the cluster of white that had in fact already begun to melt on the slide under the lens, and then back to his meister, his face hidden as he stared down through the microscope.

"So far they are perfectly symmetrical and each one has six branches, but no two are alike. The probability of two being the same eventually is strong, but..."

Stein stopped suddenly, and Spirit watched the meister move his hand away from the focusing knob, place it between his thighs where his left hand was already hidden.

Spirit frowned.

"Get up."

"What?"

Stein was still peering into the microscope.

"Get up or I'm picking you up."

That got the meister's attention. His eyes snapped to Spirit's, confusion overlaid by defiance and something else hard and threatening. It had only been three months, but it had taken less than a day of acquaintance for Spirit to learn that the boy would not tolerate being touched without express permission.

"You can't do this like this," Spirit continued. "You're going to freeze to death."

Stein's expression didn't change.

"If you want to be helpful you could get me a notebook to record my findings. You don't have a camera, do you?"

Each word was spoken through trembling blue lips, and Spirit noticed that the rest of the boy's unnaturally pale skin was rapidly changing hue. His heart began racing as he made his decision, not knowing what the ramifications would be but knowing that he had no choice.

Stein didn't speak when Spirit stood, but when the weapon's gloved hands came down under the meister's armpits he jerked away with a strength Spirit wouldn't have thought him capable.

"Don't touch me!" was the protest that sounded before the boy began fighting back, pushing and beating against Spirit's shoulders, but the weapon was determined.

It was a battle of hands and arms and legs and feet as he half-fought, half-dragged Stein back into the dormitory hall, tuning out every word of protest that was laid against him with each step. He only finally paid attention again when Stein managed to free one arm just inside the door and landed a glancing blow against Spirit's cheek.

He shuddered in response, not letting go but halting the movement of his feet. The hit may not have fully connected, but it was still hard and for a moment the world was spinning and Spirit's only point of focus were his hurried breaths and the heavier panting of the younger boy upon whom he still had an iron grip.

When his eyes refocused on Stein's face the meister appeared shocked—quite the change from his typically guarded expression—but his skin was still unnaturally blue, and there was something off about his eyes even past the unusual expression. It sent a wash of fear through Spirit that rapidly overrode the pain of the punch.

He reached past Stein and kicked the door closed hard.

"Stein. I'm not going to let you die out there because you were too stupid to get dressed before running out to play in the snow."

"I... I wasn't..." Stein began, still breathless and something definitely off about his vision.

Spirit ignored the pulsing of pain in his cheek and while Stein was distracted, he scooped the smaller boy up like he would a toddler and stalked hurriedly down the hall.

"Hey! Stop it!" was Stein's weak protest this time, and Spirit noted he was struggling a lot less than when they'd been pushing through the ankle-deep snow outside.

When he reached the bathroom he all but dropped Stein for how much he was twisting to escape. When the meister's feet hit the tile he slipped on his wet, bare soles and would have hit the floor had Spirit not still had his hands on him. Stein clung to Spirit's arms in surprise, not having expected the backward plunge, and when Spirit had righted them both he finally let go.

He reached back to hit the light switch and Stein flinched away, holding a hand up to cover his eyes as his breaths still came far too heavily for the minimal exertion of the struggle to get indoors. When he finally squinted at Spirit his expression fell to shock again. It finally occurred to the red-head that there was something other than the fact that he'd interrupted Stein's ill-conceived experimenting that had shaken the boy, and he turned around to see his face in the mirror.

Spirit nearly gasped for how utterly terrified he looked. Terrified and furious, perhaps in a way that his young partner had never seen another person look before, if the way it froze the boy in place was any indication.

Spirit knew he needed to calm down, calm his expression and be reasonable so he could explain to his meister just how dangerous his actions had been. But as he turned back to face the boy he only felt the anger swell to a greater presence in his soul.

Stein's clothes were nearly soaked through, the white of the pajamas turned gray from moisture and his hair darker for it. The color of his skin was wrong. He was visibly shaking from head to toe, and his vision was hazy and seeming unable to really see Spirit even though his eyes hadn't left the red-head since the moment he'd let him go.

Spirit opened his mouth to speak, but the movement of his jaw caused his cheek to sting where Stein had punched him. He hissed and reached his fingers up to the spot before jabbing his other arm past Stein to point, the motion causing the boy to jump.

"Get in there," he commanded coolly, his voice low and laced with threat. "Get under some hot water and sit down. I'm going to get you some dry clothes."

Stein's expression of shock remained, the boy still frozen by the look on Spirit's face. They remained unmoving for several moments, but when the meister's breaths began to even out he finally turned toward the showers to comply with the weapon's words.

It wasn't until Stein had fully obeyed, letting the shower run until the water was warm and then stepping under the stream and sitting down to lean against the tiled wall, that Spirit finally turned to go.

He let his anger carry his feet briskly back toward their shared bedroom, blindly going through the motions once there of making Stein's bed, dragging the only spare blanket from the closet to place atop it, and then yanking his own bedding free to add on top of that. Horrible scenarios were racing through his head of what he might have found out in the snow instead of his insatiably curious young meister studying the patterns of snowflakes had he slept in a little later, or decided to enjoy the surprise of the weather from the comfort of his bed.

Spirit stopped abruptly from where he'd been casting off his winter outerwear and blinked at nothing as the realization struck.

Stein had been looking at snowflakes.

The fear crashed fully over Spirit's anger, obliterating it as the teen sat down on the floor and began to cry. He could have lost his meister, might still lose him, because the boy had been just as excited about the snow as he was.

If he hadn't immediately gone outside to play...

Spirit didn't know how long he cried, but the sudden realization that he could still lose Stein drove him back to the present. He didn't know anything about frostbite or hypothermia or any other manner of freezing-induced ailments. They were all alone in the dorm and he had no one to call for help since everyone had left for the holidays. And just how long had he left Stein alone in the shower with his vision hazy and his pallor looking near death?

Spirit stood so fast it made him dizzy, made his cheek throb where he'd been hit, and he rummaged through Stein's drawers until he finally found the boy's thicker socks for winter assignments along with underwear and more pajamas. As an afterthought he grabbed his own thick bathrobe and then both of their towels before turning to run back down the hall.

He slowed his step before entering the bathroom, terrified of what he might find. At least he could still hear the shower running, but...was that a good sign? Instead of entering he peered cautiously around the doorjamb.

Stein looked exactly as Spirit had left him, seated against the tile and curled tightly in on himself as the warm water poured over him. His arms were folded atop his raised knees and his hands were tight in fists, and his face was hidden where it lie on his arms. Spirit licked his lips and took a cautious step forward, and then another. There was no reaction from the meister.

Spirit paused, took in a silent breath...and then he flicked his eyes sideways to the mirror. He didn't look angry anymore, although he could still see it rise behind his eyes the moment he thought about it. No, now he looked every bit as scared as he felt, perhaps even more than when he'd drug Stein back indoors, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.

Any other time Spirit would have been annoyed by his transparency, but since it had seemingly helped to get his meister to comply he decided he didn't care.

He turned back toward the small, gray form in the shower, felt his heart rate quicken as he mustered the courage to speak.

"Stein?"

Stein lifted his head.

The relief Spirit felt was enough to make his knees go weak, and he leaned on the counter to steady himself as he set the clothing down and draped the two towels over his arm. He sucked in a few breaths, looked up to the mirror again and saw a brightness fitting itself behind the fear in his eyes, and he grimaced before turning to approach the meister.

"You, uh... You ready to come out of there?"

Stein didn't respond, only watched Spirit's approach, watched him stop about five feet distant, his expression having returned to its usual dull, esoteric impassivity. And as his eyes locked on Spirit's the red-head thought he looked even more withdrawn than before. But, blessedly, perhaps less hazy.

He didn't know if staying under the warm water longer would be better or worse for Stein's recovery, but his own anxiety couldn't stand the inaction. He pursed his lips and stepped forward, reaching around the stream to turn the water off.

Stein slowly began pushing himself upright, his eyes not having left Spirit's face even to blink.

"Uh...here," Spirit said, holding out the two towels. After a moment, Stein slowly reached across the distance to receive them. "There's clothes on the counter, uh..."

Spirit realized he needed to give the meister some privacy to change, and he thought quickly.

"I'll go get you something warm to drink. I'll uh...I'll be right back."

Spirit turned and hurried out of the bathroom as quickly as he could, making long strides down the hallway.

The tiny kitchen that could hardly be called such was at the other end of the building, and Spirit didn't want the meister out of his sight for any longer than was necessary just in case there was some delayed danger to whatever cold-induced condition he'd brought upon himself.

As Spirit passed the main entry he took careful steps to avoid the melted snow that had found its way inside from the struggle through the doorway, and then something occurred to him that halted his rush.

He turned and dashed back out into the icy air, his breath catching instantly as cold assaulted his body. He grimaced at the irony that it was now he who was under-dressed and risking himself in the elements, but he picked his way through the piling snow to the bench where the microscope was gathering a larger collection of specimens than it was designed for. Spirit tucked the freezing object safely against his chest and hurried back inside to be free of the snow falling into his face and the chill already seeming to seep into his bones.

He didn't hesitate but to close the door behind him, and then took the microscope the rest of the way down the hall and into the small kitchen.

Inside the narrow room he quickly opened the freezer and considered a moment before pulling out a few boxes of frozen meals left by other students to make space, and then he carefully placed the heavy instrument inside. He turned the freezer's temperature lower and then quickly closed it, blowing into his hands to warm them as he tried to remember his original purpose, his mind still awash with fear.

The microwave dinners on the counter was what returned his focus, and he quickly filled two mugs with water and set them to heat as he considered the beverage options. It took less than ten seconds to decide on tea, considering he didn't even know if there was hot cocoa mix around and he still really didn't want Stein out of his sight any longer than necessary.

Another thought occurred to him as he watched the microwave's timer tick down, and he turned and ran silently on his toes back to the bedroom. Once inside he didn't even look before diving for the box sticking out from beneath Stein's bed, and sure enough it was the box the microscope had been housed in. He carefully removed every delicate glass slide that remained tucked in the Styrofoam, and then cradling them gently, he ran back to the kitchen.

Once there he opened the freezer and carefully brushed a few snow clusters from the microscope onto each slide, including the one still beneath the lens which he removed. He brushed the remaining snow off the instrument into the freezer, and then carefully lifted the heavy device out.

He was methodically drying it with a dish towel as the microwave sounded completion, which he ignored in favor of caring for the delicate equipment. He didn't know for sure that moisture would damage it, but it seemed a fair guess, and he went at its crevices carefully with paper towels until the microwave beeped a second time.

He realized with a jolt that he had left Stein alone for well over five minutes now between all he'd been occupied with, and he hurriedly grabbed the mugs from the microwave and then pocketed a small handful of tea bags and sugar packets from the basket on the counter next to the stove.

He forced himself to keep his pace to a brisk walk this time, mindful of the steaming mugs in his hands. He was so lost in the anxiety of too many what-ifs and the need to hurry, hurry, hurry that he almost bumped into his meister as the younger boy was standing waiting outside their bedroom door, chin dipped low to his chest. Spirit gasped and startled back a step, then hissed as a splash of hot water hit his hand.

The meister had no reaction to Spirit's pain, looking downright sullen in the oversized bathrobe. But Spirit noticed his hands were tucked deeply into the pockets, and his hair was still wet although it showed signs of having been towel-dried.

"Stein..." Spirit breathed, continuing his visual assessment; was he imagining it, or was Stein's skin less blue?

The boy met his eyes through a curtain of damp hair, and Spirit sighed. As ever, his young meister was unreadable, except Spirit knew that somehow, in some measure...Stein was very displeased with him.

"Come on. You're getting into bed."

Spirit carefully gestured with one mug, and he expected to have to put forth an argument, but atypically Stein simply obeyed. Spirit watched for a moment, and then followed the boy a few steps inside the door and pulled it closed with his heel. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until his chest began to burn, and he let the air out slowly in hopes of not drawing Stein's attention.

The meister had paused in the center of the room, clearly making note of all the changes and liberties Spirit had taken before he seemed to resign himself to his fate and climb into his bed. But instead of lying down, Stein shifted his pillows up against the wall to sit and face Spirit's bed and the window on the wall between them. Once he was settled with too many blankets piled atop his lap and tucked up to his chest, hands buried deep inside the cocoon he'd made, he drew his knees up and shifted his eyes to settle on the window. Spirit didn't need to look to know it was still heavily snowing, and his breath hitched again when Stein slowly dragged his dull gaze back to him.

Spirit covered the gesture with a slight cough and then stepped forward to set the mugs on Stein's desk.

"Do you like sugar in your tea? And uh..." He pulled his small hoard from his pocket, some of the packets falling to the floor in the process. "I grabbed... Earl Grey, chamomile, mint, peach oolong... What's oolong..."

"Mint," Stein replied quietly, and Spirit realized it was the first word his partner had spoken since he'd deposited him unhappily in the dorm's bathroom.

"Sugar?" Spirit asked, after putting the tea bag into one mug.

"No, thank you."

The meister's voice was somehow more void of inflection than usual, and Spirit felt his stomach twist in unease as he ripped into one of the packets of sugar for his own mug and poured it in. He realized he'd forgotten to grab any stirring sticks and stepped back to his own desk to procure a pen to use as a substitute. He had decided on the peach oolong, the only other flavor appealing to him being the mint, but apparently he'd given the sole bag to Stein.

When he stepped nearer the meister's bed to hand him the tea, it was a moment before Stein moved to extricate his hands from the blanket-nest he seemed to be burrowing deeper within. His fingers brushed against Spirit's when he wrapped them around the mug's handle and the distinct chill the weapon felt at the contact set his heart racing in fear again. Stein had been under a hot stream of water for at least fifteen minutes if not longer, but he was still cold. Should Spirit have let him stay there longer? Was that even the right thing to do?

Spirit felt his head begin to ache and he rubbed his brow, feeling the pinch of his skin where it twisted in worry. He absently stirred the sugar into his mug with the back of the pen and tried to push his feet out of his boots. The laces were too tight however, and the result was him stumbling against his mostly-stripped bed and barely preventing the tea from spilling as he lost his balance entirely, his knees hitting the floor hard.

He cursed under his breath and then bit his lip in regret. His young meister had likely never heard such foul language, and he shouldn't be the one to introduce him to it.

He set his tea on the windowsill and then reached down to loosen his bootlaces just enough to tug them off, and then pushed himself back on his bed against the wall in a mirror of Stein's pose. The room was still chilled from the window having been open all night, and he shivered despite himself as he drew his knees up high to his chest, tucking his hands under his rear for warmth.

It was only after another shiver that he let his gaze travel across the room to meet his meister's eyes. The boy looked slightly more curious than he had before, but overall he still appeared more detached than the weapon was used to seeing. What Spirit didn't know and wished he did was whether it was just from the upset at his pulling him away from his fun, or if it meant the fun had already had a dire consequence.

"Uh..." Spirit said, feeling suddenly very awkward. Stein lifted his head slightly, sipped from the tea, but his expression didn't change. "Are you, uh... How are you feeling?"

Stein stared at him blankly, and while Spirit thought three months had gotten him used to how unfeeling the meister seemed from his countenance, he realized that it only counted in a predictable context. In class or on a mission, Spirit was learning what to expect. But Stein was about as antisocial as anyone he'd ever met, and it suddenly pressed against his mind just how little he really knew about the boy he lived and partnered with.

"Cold," Stein finally said, so quiet Spirit almost didn't hear.

He looked at just how very small Stein looked wearing the large bathrobe, bundled as deeply into the blankets as he could get while still upright. His hair was looking less wet but still a darker shade of gray than its usual mystifying silver. When he lifted the mug to take another sip of tea, Spirit noted how small the meister's hands were as they clutched tightly to the cup for the extra heat.

He tried not to think of Stein as a child. He hardly thought of himself as more than that, when he was honest with himself. But between the two he was the far elder and more experienced, and as the weapon it was his responsibility to protect his meister. Even from himself.

Spirit glanced away and out at the snow falling less in thick curtains now and more just in scattered flakes, still dense but allowing a view toward the other dormitory buildings before the scene faded into a white haze beyond which he knew the rest of Death City rose up above the sand. But for the moment it was as if the tiny bedroom existed separate from the rest of the world, and Spirit and Stein the only two people in it.

"Have you, ah...ever seen snow before?" Spirit continued, fishing for conversation.

Stein looked up past the rim of the mug again, seeming to analyze Spirit with every question, and then shook his head no.

Spirit swallowed under the scrutiny, and continued. "I've seen it a couple of other times, but...nothing like this."

The red-head shivered again and watched the way the flakes fell, most tiny and notably slower than rain, but others in large clumps that hurried past their smaller companions. It was captivating, and when he turned back to Stein the boy had resumed looking out the window.

"I had hoped we would see it on the assignment to Alaska, but...then that got canceled," Spirit said, dropping his gaze to the gray of his jeans.

There was still only silence in response, and this time Spirit let it linger, only briefly lifting his eyes a couple of times to find Stein still watching the display through the window. The curiosity in the boy's eyes had turned to something deeper; there was a longing now, and endless questions racing somewhere behind the brilliant, green eyes.

Spirit's gaze snapped up to focus as he realized with a flood of relief that the clarity was returning to Stein's vision. It had to be a sign, he hoped, that the surprise winter wasn't going to steal the life of his young meister after all.

The red-head looked at the window again and sniffed once, his nose starting to run due to the cold air in the room. The wonder and beauty of the snowfall began to fade as he considered again the terrifying possibilities of what could have happened. Suddenly the soft, white landscape seemed just as barren as the desert sands.

And yet...

"I'm sorry."

When he looked away from the window Stein was watching him, his brow risen in slight surprise. Spirit dropped his gaze as he shivered, moving his arms to wrap around himself and tuck his fingers under his armpits. He focused on the lines of denim across his knees as his eyes burned with the threat of tears, hoping that in saving his young meister he hadn't irreparably damaged their relationship when it had hardly started.

It was true they had been able to resonate practically immediately upon partnering, surprising everyone except Lord Death. But Spirit knew that the road ahead of them would require far more from them both than the superficial connection they had made so far. And in dealing so harshly with the boy, he could have undone their three months together and hurt the chances for their future.

"I'm not sorry for saving you, Stein. I was just so scared, and... Your face was all..." He gestured briefly to the still-unhealthy hue to the boy's skin. "But I... I probably could have...done that differently... And, you're not stupid. I shouldn't have said that. Sorry."

He didn't look up, only pressed further back against the wall and tucked one set of toes under the other in search for warmth as he became more aware of the chill to the room. He suddenly realized that since all of the students had been expected to go home, the heating had likely been shut off to the dormitory. That, in addition to his window having been open all night to the unexpected winter weather, explained the bitter chill he was feeling in the usually comfortable room. It wouldn't reach dangerous temperatures, but it was still a bit much for the simple jeans and t-shirt Spirit had hurried into after waking.

Stein didn't reply, and Spirit sniffled again, grateful the cold air at least gave him an excuse as he fought back tears. His mind began racing with a whole new set of horrible fears. What if Stein decided he didn't want to be his partner after this?

"You didn't need to give me your blankets and pillows."

Spirit sniffled again and looked up. Stein was watching him and the weapon studied his blue-gray pallor, the rising brightness in his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat as concerns of illness rose and shook his head.

"You need them more than me."

Spirit had no sooner rested his cheek—the uninjured one—on his knee, than he heard faint slurping across the room. He raised his head again to see Stein tilting the mug all the way back and finishing the tea, after which he settled his head back against the wall, continuing to clutch the now-empty mug. He shivered.

Spirit frowned and considered offering to microwave another mug, and then looked at his own forgotten tea on the windowsill. Steam was still rising from the liquid.

He slowly uncurled himself from against the wall, feeling the little warmth he had gathered seep away in seconds as he slid his feet back to the floor and picked up the mug.

"Here, I didn't drink any," he said when he offered it, Stein's brow rising, and then, "...Oh."

He pulled out the pen he'd used to stir the sugar in and frowned, making a mental note for the future that Stein preferred his tea without the sweetener. After a moment the boy reached out with a shaking hand and they exchanged mugs. Spirit set the used one on Stein's desk with the pen inside before turning back toward his bed.

"You can sit here."

Spirit stopped and looked at the meister, blinking in confusion as he failed to process the words.

"What?"

There was silence for a moment, the weapon watching the meister's small hands clutching tightly to the cup for the warmth it provided as he sipped the steaming liquid. Then the green-eyed gaze rose again.

"You can sit here, too."

Spirit's mind slowly pieced the meaning of the words together, his brow rising in surprise as he considered. It wasn't the sort of offer he would have expected from the meister in any typical situation, and especially not after he'd manhandled him indoors and ordered him around. But he was growing too cold too fast to find any reason to protest, and after a moment he climbed onto the bed and pulled the blankets back to tuck himself in next to Stein, his back against the wall and a few inches of space between them.

Stein tugged one of the pillows from behind him and pushed it toward the weapon, and Spirit gratefully shoved it behind his back, his spine instantly feeling the relief. He adjusted the blankets perhaps more than was necessary, making sure Stein still had enough to bury as deeply beneath them as he wanted, but grateful for the added warmth immediately.

The view out the window wasn't nearly as good as it was from his own bed, but at least Stein had the better position to continue watching the snowfall. He peripherally observed the meister take another tentative sip of the tea, purse his lips at the taste, and then balance the mug on his knees, both hands still wrapped tightly around it.

Spirit sighed lightly. If nothing else, at least it would help keep Stein's hands warm.

"Thanks," Spirit said quietly, suddenly finding he couldn't meet the meister's eyes. After the way he'd treated him, Stein's kindness was startling, and he wasn't sure how to respond other than accept the offered protection from the cold and continue to hope the younger boy would be all right.

"My microscope cost almost three hundred dollars."

Spirit was startled by the non sequitur and turned to look at the meister. The boy's eyes, definitely no longer glazed, were hardened in the way they looked when they were in class and he was frustrated by something their professor was saying. Spirit swallowed nervously just before words bubbled out of him faster than his brain could keep up.

"I was very careful, I promise! I didn't touch the lenses and I got every crevice. I even went over it twice to make sure it was dry!"

Stein had turned to look at him during the rush of words, and it took Spirit a moment to realize his expression had changed. The hardness had left his eyes, his usual aloofness now the dominant expression, but there was question and curiosity and surprise hidden beneath it. The boy's lips were parted, his jaw ever so slightly slack as he stared unblinking back at Spirit. The intensity of it startled Spirit so much that his words stopped for a moment before he licked his dry lips and fumbled for something else to say.

"And I...I put snow on each slide for you to look at later. They're in the freezer, I turned it down so they shouldn't melt. Sorry I... I should have asked before touching your things. I'm sorry."

Spirit licked his lips again and looked down. He should apologize for going through Stein's clothing too, he knew, but he was suddenly feeling very self-conscious and like he was the one under the lens of a microscope as Stein continued staring at him.

He thought the three months had gone well, all things considered. He wasn't used to being around someone as stoic as the partner he'd been assigned, but he had been trying very hard to learn what made the boy tick and how to be the best partner he could, responding to the meister's quirks and for the most part simply staying out of his way since privacy was what Stein seemed to value most. And Spirit had violated that repeatedly that morning.

He suddenly felt a yawn coming and restrained the action with effort. As his heart raced with the excess of nerves he glanced over to check the time on Stein's alarm clock on his small nightstand. It was just after eight o'clock. He chewed some of the dry skin from his lower lip and considered how to voice the question pressing against his mind after the embarrassing outburst of moments before.

It turned out he didn't have to, because when he turned back he found Stein had been following his gaze.

"I was outside before seven," Stein offered.

Something was different about his tone, and Spirit shifted his gaze to meet his partner's. Stein's expression had changed again to something the weapon had never seen and didn't know how to interpret. His eyes had lost the hardness almost entirely and seemed to be seeking something. Before Spirit could even try to figure it out, Stein surprised him again by handing him the mug of tea. He took a sip and then immediately a larger swallow as the liquid coated his throat, soothing some of the strain he hadn't realized was there as he continued worrying.

When he returned the cup to let Stein keep using it to warm his hands, his fingers brushed against the meister's cooler ones. He frowned at the contact and looked away, his gaze flitting between the window and the clock as he worried.

He wanted to believe that Stein would be fine. But he'd been out in the snow for over an hour and his hands were still cold, despite the heat of the shower, despite having been wrapped around the mugs of hot tea for several minutes.

Spirit felt the sting of coming tears again. He bit his cheeks in attempt to fight off the instinct, let his eyes dart over the room in search of some anchor that would help distract him from the fears and anxiety swirling through his soul. But just as he felt his emotions would collapse, Stein surprised him once more.

"I'm sorry I hit you."

Spirit's brow rose. He had nearly forgotten about the glancing punch and lifted his fingers to lightly press to his cheek. The flesh was tender, but it was nothing like the hits he'd taken in their combat classes or on missions. Of course those were different too, having been taken in weapon form.

"It's okay," he answered.

Stein was looking up at him almost like he'd never seen him before. The curiosity in his eyes was different somehow—not the clinical gaze he favored most things with, nor the apathy that came after the boy determined something held no value to him. There seemed to be almost more color to his eyes as they remained locked on the weapon's, and fascinated by the meister appearing so human, Spirit held his gaze.

The fear that had been consuming him changed somehow, under the inquisitive look that Stein had set upon him. The situation no longer felt hopeless or beyond control. In fact, the way his meister was looking at him now, his eyes held perhaps more life than Spirit had ever seen.

"Hey, ah..." he said, his voice quivering suddenly from an emotion he couldn't place. "When you're feeling better, maybe we could have a snowball fight."

Confusion joined the curiosity that Stein had fixed him with.

"...Snowball fight?"

Spirit smiled. "Yeah. You make balls out of the snow, and throw them at each other. For fun. Snowball fight."

Stein finally blinked, once, but didn't break eye contact. The intensity of his gaze was starting to feel unnerving, but Spirit found he couldn't look away. Not when he was so worried. And not after the long months of trying so hard to understand the enigmatic, private boy. Something had finally seemed to spur the beginnings of a mutual connection, and he wasn't about to waste the opportunity.

"Or...or maybe build a snowman?" he suggested, realizing suddenly that throwing hard-packed snow at his meister after nearly freezing was probably not a good idea, even if it would be several hours later. "I've always wanted to play in the snow..."

Stein continued to stare at him. He offered the tea to Spirit again, who took it and only sipped from the mug this time, not wanting to steal away the hot liquid that was helping Stein warm his hands. He held the eye contact, and Stein didn't so much as blink even after the mug was handed back.

Spirit began to feel self-conscious under the meister's gaze, though he couldn't determine why. He reached up to run his fingers through his hair and watched Stein's eyes follow the motion, linger on the spot where he'd briefly scratched his head, and then slowly return to his face again.

"O-Or...if you just want to play with your microscope, that's fine too. We don't have to play together, if you don't want to. I was just thinking—"

"Okay."

The train of Spirit's thoughts that had started running out of control was suddenly halted.

"Huh?"

"A snowball fight sounds interesting."

Stein abruptly handed the mug back to Spirit, who blinked and sipped from it obediently; the tea had begun to cool. Stein's eyes finally left Spirit's face, and he buried his hands under the blanket and tucked it up higher to his chin as he turned his gaze toward the window.

Spirit looked back to find that the snow was falling in thick curtains again. If Stein did feel up to going out later, at least there would be no lack of the stuff to play in.

He leaned his head back against the wall, sipped the sweet tea again, and sighed. He felt Stein look up at him, but he kept his gaze on the window. Part of him wanted to fill the space with talk about the few times he'd seen snow in the past, but a wave of tiredness was hitting him rapidly. For once the best choice seemed simply to remain silent. He was sure Stein would appreciate it.

His eyelids began to feel heavy as he stared at the continuous rain of white flakes that left the room feeling small and isolated, and he realized he was no longer focusing on holding the mug. He swallowed down the last of the cooling liquid and then reached to set the mug down on Stein's nightstand. He knew he shouldn't doze off sitting in the meister's bed, especially since he should still be watching him to make sure his health wasn't in jeopardy. But the snowfall was hypnotic, and coupled with the sugar and the rising warmth from the blankets, and probably an adrenaline crash, it was suddenly very hard to keep his eyes open.

"It's pretty."

Spirit blinked and glanced down, surprised to hear the quiet voice. Stein was watching the unusual weather, but then looked up to meet his eyes again. His expression was still curious and seemed more relaxed somehow. The usual, calculating tension was absent from his jaw and forehead, and his green-eyed gaze—brighter now—slowly slid back to the window when Spirit didn't say anything.

Spirit was the one to stare now, noticing that Stein looked less tense overall. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the blankets, but he wasn't holding himself coiled up anymore the way he so often did, like a snake ready to strike. An ease that Spirit wasn't sure he'd ever before seen in the boy had settled over him, and he looked far more his young age as he looked out the window, his thoughts apparently having drifted back to scientific interests rather than being upset with the weapon.

"Yeah," Spirit said.

Stein glanced up briefly, as if expecting more, then returned his gaze to the snowfall. And then, wide-eyed and curious as he appeared staring out at the world of white, he yawned.

Spirit slowly let his head rest against the wall again as he watched his meister, and he smiled.

#soul eater #soul eater fanfiction #franken stein #spirit albarn #CrossStitch #steinspirit #spiritstein #stein x spirit #spirit x stein #stein #spirit #death scythe #they are babies in this one #i love them as babies #cold nights warm hearts #wild heart

[liaromancewriter]

Bittersweet

Premise: A chance detour opens old wounds for Ethan and Cassie.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Angst Words: 700 TW: Mention of pregnancy loss

A/N: Submission for @choicesjunechallenge prompt Father's Day. I'm also using @choicesflashfics week 38, prompt 2 (in bold)

The maternity ward at Boston’s Edenbrook Hospital was a bright and airy space with colorful posters, balloons and gift baskets on hand for expectant mothers and fathers. There was a sense of hope in the air and bubbles of excitement in the voices permeating the hallways.

Ethan Ramsey ignored all that as he marched past the nurses' station toward the elevators. He hardly ever came to this floor. As a young resident, he’d completed the obligatory OBGYN rotation, but the field had never interested him.

The Diagnostics Team rarely dealt with cases involving pregnancy and infants. But as Chief of Medicine, he couldn’t avoid an entire department. So, he made a point to schedule department head meetings on various floors.

It provided for a change in scenery and the added advantage of keeping the medical staff on their toes, not knowing when the Chief might drop in. He smirked, thinking how much he enjoyed doing that.

An “under maintenance” sign was taped across the elevator doors. With a frustrated sigh, Ethan retraced his steps to the bank on the north end.

He was almost at his destination when his steps slowed at the sight of the nursery up ahead and the woman standing at the viewing glass.

Her back was to him, but Ethan would recognize Cassie Valentine anywhere. His heart skipped a beat as he walked on leaden feet toward her. Now he understood Cassie’s reluctance to attend today’s meeting.

It was almost eight months since she’d suffered a missed miscarriage. They’d come a long way from those early dark days, but he knew how hard it was for Cassie, especially once she learned Max and Sienna were expecting again.

She tried to be pleased for their sake, but he acknowledged that pretending to be happy was pretty damn exhausting.

Lost in thought, she stiffened when he gently placed his hand across her back, relaxing when she recognized his touch. His heart broke at the silent tears streaming down her face and the devastation in her eyes at the sight of the newborns on the other side of the glass.

Ethan turned her sideways, placed his hands tenderly on either side of her face and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. When the dam broke, he folded her in his arms, tucking her head under his chin, and held her tight as her body convulsed.

He had always thought a family—kids—were not in the cards for him. He’d been adamant for so long that he was content with a single life. But fate had other plans for him.

His old doubts resurfaced once he and Cassie decided to try getting pregnant. But they were tempered with hope and anticipation. And then, when it wasn’t meant to be, he locked those feelings away.

As Father’s Day dawned closer, Ethan couldn’t pretend he hadn’t imagined an altogether different present. It would’ve been his first. Instead, it would be just like any other day.

Tears pooled in his eyes at the thought, but he blinked them away.

His gaze fell on a bassinet and the baby boy yawning. His tiny rosebud mouth opened and closed, lips pursing as if searching. The chubby face scrunched briefly before he settled down.

Unable to bear it any longer, Ethan turned his back to the nursery and drew Cassie away from the source of their misery. He spied the sign for a supply closet and changed directions.

Breathing easily once the door closed behind them, he placed two fingers on Cassie’s chin and raised her face. Her cheeks were splotchy, the tip of her nose red, but she’d never looked more beautiful to him.

He angled his head, closing the distance between them to kiss her lips, the touch whisper soft, designed to offer solace. She leaned into his touch, interlacing their hands, her thumb stroking the wedding band on his left hand.

As they comforted each other, Ethan thought doctors knew how unexpected life could be. But there was something to be said for small miracles. He might not be a father, but he had love. That was more than he’d ever thought he’d have. And it was enough.

-----------

All Fics & Edits: @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriterr @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @takemyopenheart @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey

#open heart #open heart choices #choices open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #playchoices #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #choices fanfics #choices fanfiction #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #writers on tumblr #short story

[ebaeschnbliah]

Before the travellers lay a wide ravine, with great rocky sides to which clung, upon shelves and in narrow crevices, a few thrawn trees. The channel grew narrower and the River swifter. Now they were speeding along with little hope of stopping or turning, whatever they might meet ahead. Over them was a lane of pale-blue sky, around them the dark overshadowed River, and before them black, shutting out the sun, the hills of Emyn Muil, in which no opening could be seen.

Frodo peering forward saw in the distance two great rocks approaching: like great pinnacles or pillars of stone they seemed. Tall and sheer and ominous they stood upon either side of the stream. A narrow gap appeared between them, and the River swept the boats towards it.

`Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' ...

... cried Aragorn. `We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can! Hold the middle of the stream! '

As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kings of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North. 

The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning; in each right hand there was an axe; upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom. Awe and fear fell upon Frodo, and he cowered down, shutting his eyes and not daring to look up as the boat drew near. Even Boromir bowed his head as the boats whirled by. frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Númenor. So they passed into the dark chasm of the Gates.

Sheer rose the dreadful cliffs to unguessed heights on either side. Far off was the dim sky. The black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. Frodo crouching over his knees heard Sam in front muttering and groaning: `What a place! What a horrible place! Just let me get out of this boat, and I'll never wet my toes in a puddle again, let alone a river! '

`Fear not! ' said a strange voice behind him. Frodo turned and saw Strider, and yet not Strider; for the weatherworn Ranger was no longer there. In the stern sat Aragorn son of Arathorn, proud and erect, guiding the boat with skilful strokes; his hood was cast back, and his dark hair was blowing in the wind, a light was in his eyes: a king returning from exile to his own land.

'Fear not! ' he said. `Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion, my sires of old. Under their shadow Elessar, the Elfstone son of Arathorn of the House of Valandil Isildur's son heir of Elendil, has nought to dread! '

Then the light of his eyes faded, and he spoke to himself: `Would that Gandalf were here! How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city! But whither now shall I go?'

The chasm was long and dark, and filled with the noise of wind and rushing water and echoing stone. It bent somewhat towards the west so that at first all was dark ahead; but soon Frodo saw a tall gap of light before him, ever growing. Swiftly it drew near, and suddenly the boats shot through, out into a wide clear light.

The sun, already long fallen from the noon, was shining in a windy sky. The pent waters spread out into a long oval lake, pale Nen Hithoel, fenced by steep grey hills whose sides were clad with trees, but their heads were bare, cold-gleaming in the sunlight. At the far southern end rose three peaks. The midmost stood somewhat forward from the others and sundered from them, an island in the waters, about which the flowing River flung pale shimmering arms. Distant but deep there came up on the wind a roaring sound like the roll of thunder heard far away.

`Behold Tol Brandir!' said Aragorn, pointing south to the tall peak. 'Upon the left stands Amon Lhaw, and upon the right is Amon Hen the Hills of Hearing and of Sight. In the days of the great kings there were high seats upon them, and watch was kept there. But it is said that no foot of man or beast has ever been set upon Tol Brandir. Ere the shade of night falls we shall come to them. I hear the endless voice of Rauros calling.'

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Great River

#the lord of the rings #the fellowship of the ring #the great river #jrr tolkien #anduin #argonath #isildur #anárion #nen hithoel #amon lhaw #amon hen #tol brandir #falls of rauros #aragorn #boromir #legolas #gimli #frodo #sam #merry #pippin #movie pics #peter jackson

[mydarllinglover]

Alone || The Underground

Previous

"Y'know, Maggie, gotta tell ya, not loving this rain!" Natalia shouted at her friend, as they walked through the storm. "I mean, I'm from Savannah, but it don't rain like this!"

"Well, we got about six more hours!" He screamed back. "We should hunker down, wait for this to pass!"

"Yes!" Natalia agreed, loudly.

"You don't get a vote, asshole!" Frost told him.

Natalia audibly whimpered.

"Ah, he's right. We need to find some shelter." Daryl agreed.

"No! We don't have time!"

"Maggie, I am only yay high, I am either going to drown, or kill myself you choose!" Natalia snapped.

Maggie nudged her, pointing at something up ahead, the Metro.

"Daryl!" She nudged him, passing on the message.

"Yeah. Let's go." He nodded.

Natalia ran ahead, faster than the others, Dog running to keep up with her, so they could get out of the rain.

"Nat, wait!" Daryl called after, jogging to catch up.

"Nothing down here!" She called up, quieter, just In case something was down there.

"Alright, which way?" Daryl asked Negan, shining his flashlight in the mans eyes, when they had all come down.

"Not to sound like a broken record, but I think we ought to take a breath, hunker down, and wait for this storm to pass." Negan shared his opinion.

"You don't wanna go in there?" Maggie mocked.

"No, I don't." He answered, seriously.

"I don't give a shit." Maggie replied. "Which way?"

"Yellow line north." He sighed. "Switch to blue at Reagan National, then hop the red toward Bethesda."

"Come on, let's go." Daryl ushered everyone on.

"Hey, can I talk to you?" Negan asked Daryl, refusing to even acknowledge Natalia by his side.

"Whys that?" Daryl raised his flashlight to the mans eyes again. "You think we're buddies or Somin? Come on, boy." He told Dog, jumping off the platform, and helping Natalia down.

She looked over her shoulder, watching all of Maggie's people shoulder-barging the man as they passed.

"Hey, nose is healing, think I did you a favour." Natalia added salt to the wound, turning back again.

The group walked silently through the tunnels, that was until an loud very horrifying sound came from above.

Natalia grasped Daryl's arm, her nails digging into his skin as she stared above, and for a second, all she could see was dust, and the inside of that cave, the horde below them, that red stick falling.

"What the hell was that?" Gage asked, as Dog barked at the unknown noise.

Alden walked over to the wall.

"The storm's pushing air through the pipes, making them groan. It's nothing serious, we're good."

"Sure?" Natalia voiced, her voice slightly shaky.

That was before the noise got drastically louder.

"Know what that noise actually is?" Negan spoke up. "That is God, telling us to turn around."

"I'm pretty sure He would have ran that by me, first." Gabriel told him.

"Yeah? The Good Lord direct your one eyeball to this?" He shone his flashlight onto the wall. "Waterline mark. That means this tunnel floods on a regular basis, like when it rains."

"It's bad down here. It's worse up there." Daryl told him, and the others, Natalia still hadn't let go, though.

"Your wife is on the verge of a...- Look man, all I'm saying-"

Daryl turned on him.

"Yeah, and it ain't working. You trying to run shit. keep moving."

"Daryl, I don't... I don't like this." Natalia looked pale, her voice low, as she tried to keep it private.

"Nat, yer fine, come on." He brushed her arm, walking ahead.

She tried to fight to get her breathing under control, tightening her fists, then she proceeded.

They had carried on, until something pungent flooded their nostrils.

Ahead there was a stream of bags, all tied up, oddly enough, they were shapes of bodies.

Daryl bent down, reaching out to touch one, until it sat up to grab him, but he was quick, holding it's throat, stabbing his knife into it's head.

"Why didn't it make any noise?" Elijah asked.

Daryl ripped the bag open, looking for the answer.

"Throat's slashed so deep, it almost severed it's head." Gabriel reported.

"The guys we're going after do this?" Gage asked.

"No. These people were killed during the fall." Maggie clarified.

Natalia spotted something, crouching down and picked it up, a plush rabbit teddy, she stood, staring at it, horrified.

"All of 'em?" Negan asked, rhetorically, glancing between the two women.

"What?" Maggie looked at him, she had been staring at it, too.

"We're walking through a mass grave that could still be in use. So, I am asking you, are you sure all of them were killed during the fall?" Negan looked ahead.

And that's when they noticed that even more were moving now.

"Take each one out." Maggie instructed. "Clear the path."

"Maggie, hold up--" Alden attempted.

"We're not stopping."

They proceeded as she said, stabbing each and every bag in sight, making sure that they are dead.

It was pretty much done in silence, until they heard Gage struggling, and that's when they saw a 6ft something, giant, trying to take a bite out of the boy.

Negan was the first to take charge, running at the thing pushing it against the wall and away from the boy.

Seeing him struggle, Natalia lightly tossed her knife in her hand, catching it and taking aim, she let it soar through the air, and embedding into the giant walkers skull, killing him.

Everyone was silent.

Negan had caught this, taking the knife out, using one of the bags to wipe it clean, before tossing it back to her, with a nod.

"Pay attention, so we don't miss anymore." Maggie sounded defeated.

"Pay attention?" Negan asked. "That's it? That's- That's your new big plan? Tell me, Maggie, anything in particular we should be paying attention to?" His sentence was finished with a loud creak from above.

"I'm real close to shoving a gag in your mouth." Alden piped up.

"Well, why don't you get up on your little tippy toes and try?" Negan challenged.

"Cut it out. Both of you." Daryl parented.

"This kid almost died. Ain't this the kid that's dating your two's daughter?" He pointed at the Dixons.

"You don't give a shit about that kid." Daryl pointed at the boy.

"No, she doesn't give a shit. She has been playing dictator since we left, not listening to me, not listening to her." He glanced at Natalia. "Hell, not listening to him, either. Not even listening to you. We don't know if this tunnel even has a way out. Whoever or whatever killed these rot bags could still be down here. Has that thought crossed anyone's mind?"

They were silent, but Natalia slightly lifted her finger.

"Exactly, it has. So, then this is a death march, and you are the goddamn pied piper. Now, y'all wanna roll with that shit, that's fine. Knock yourselves out. But not me. Not today. I am out."

"Me too." Gage spoke up.

"Gage, shut up." Natalia told him.

"He-- he's a dick, but he makes sense."

"Yeah, we shouldn't have come down here." The man with white hair, said.

"We're not splitting up." Daryl told them.

"It ain't up to you. "Buddy"."

"Just let him go." Agatha told Maggie.

"He's supposed to be helping us, but all he's doing is slowing us down. We can't." Maggie replied.

"Why not?" Duncan asked.

"We need him. He knows the city."

"Oh, is that why I'm here?" Negan asked. "I-I'm your DC tour guide? What, nobody here know how to read a goddamn map? I'll tell you why I'm here, man-tits. She brought me here to die. If we get through this, I'm not coming back. She'll find a way, she'll find a reason, she'll do it herself. Away from the prying eyes of Alexandria. Here in the jungle. Man, I really thought the both of you were in on it. I did. But your girl saving me back there, seeing the disappointment on her face, I knew that wasn't how that was supposed to go. You know how I can tell for you? By that glazed look in your eye, you didn't have a clue. None of you did." Negan was stood in front of Daryl.

"You're paranoid." Gabriel stepped up.

"But I'm right." He nodded. "Look, you all want to put your lives in her hands? Her head isn't even in the game because I'm in her head, living rent-free. So, Maggie, me dying on your terms, it ain't happening. So, what do you say? Let's just get her done. Right here and right now. Because I am not gonna let you drag me through the mud, filth, and slime to put me down like a dog. Like Glenn was."

Natalia had only a millisecond to step back, when Daryl lunged at the man, throwing his fist as hard as he could. Knocking him to the ground.

Maggie took slow steps forward, towards him.

"We're down here because up top is death. We're moving fast because our kids are starving. And I'm calling the shots because that's how everyone voted. As for me killing you..." Maggie pulled out a gun, aiming it at his head. "It's always on my mind. I'm not gonna tell you that you're wrong about me, because you aren't. The woman who left six years ago is not the one standing over you now. There's a little bit of her left in me, and that little bit is the only thing keeping you breathing. So keep pushing me, Negan. Please."

Eventually, they got back to stabbing their way through, Negan joining them.

"Shit." He called, looking ahead.

Where a train sat in the dark.

Alden swatted his dead flashlight against his leg, in hopes that it would miraculously work, but it didn't.

"Need a battery swap, Gage?" He called for the boy. "Gage? Roy?"

"Has anyone seen them?" Cole asked, when no one could spot either.

"They took our supplies." Gabriel shared. "Ammo clips, rations--"

"We're gonna die, down here." Natalia mumbled to herself, looking around all the bags full of bodies.

"Oh, great. That's just great." Frost supplied an sarcastic response. "It's this asshole's fault, he scared them off."

"Shh!" Daryl told him, raising his hand, as he looked around in the dark. "Listen."

It was silent, then they heard it, growling, groaning, walkers, walkers approaching them, and a lot of them.

"Alright. Cut them off!" He told Gabriel.

"We'll clear the rest." The priest replied.

"Agatha!" He pointed at the woman with the bow, as he aimed his own.

Alden, Gabriel and Negan ran to the train, looking for a way in or around, whilst the others fought.

"There's too many!" Natalia shouted, throwing a walker on the floor, after piercing his skull.

"Fall back! Now!" Daryl demanded. "Go. Go!"

"Can we get around it?" Maggie asked, as they gathered around the train.

"It's a choke point we don't know what's on the other side." Alden explained as Duncan climbed up, trying to break the door in.

"Up top." Daryl told the large man. "Go all the way up. Go man, up top. On top of the platform."

Maggie pushed her people forward as Daryl persisted that they go quicker.

"Nat, come on." Daryl told her.

"No, Dog first."

He grunted in frustration, before going to pick up their pet.

"Come here, boy." He said.

But Dog had barked, running in between the wall and the train, faster than the two could catch him.

"Dog!" Natalia shouted.

"Dog! No! Come here! Dog!" Daryl joined in.

"Dog!"

"Natalia, get up there, meet me at the next platform, I'll go after him!"

"No way, Daryl, we're not splitting up, I'll go with you."

"No, I'll be fine, go on up." He told her.

"Daryl! Wait!" She shouted at him.

"Get up! Go!" He called back, running after Dog.

"Daryl!"

"Nat, come on, we gotta go" Maggie told her.

"But- Daryl! I'm going after him!" She went to leave, but that's when an arm wrapped around her waist, Negan lifted her, carrying her towards the ladder, as she tried to kick him off her.

"Climb." He told her.

"No, let me go!" She thrashed around.

"Hey, If I let you go after him, he's gonna kill me, whether she allows him to or not, get up there." He forced her on the ladder, pushing her legs to go up, so she had no choice but to go.

Then he followed after her.

Natalia looked around the sides of the train, trying to spot her husband or her pet, but she couldn't see either, as she was ushered along.

They had all dropped down in to the train, Duncan was nice enough to catch Natalia, as the drop was the hardest for the small woman.

But when she turned around, and saw that Negan was the last one down, she noticed who was missing.

"Where's Maggie?" She asked.

"She was with you." Alden told her.

"No, Negan was, Maggie was behind him."

"She w... she was right behind me." Negan looked behind himself, as though she was about to appear.

"Alright, I'm going back. Some one help me."

"You go up there, you're dead." Frost told her. "She'd be pissed if you tried. She'd want us to keep moving forward."

"Yeah, well I'm not about to lose my husband, my dog and my friend all in one evening."

"They're not dead." Alden told her, gently, as though it would even matter.

"All right, we need to get that door open." Gabriel interrupted, staring at the one crowding with walkers. "Then we'll go from car to car until we hit the front of the train. Then we'll hop off. And then we just keep going."

"But-" She was cut off.

"We haven't got time to go on wasteful rescue missions." Negan told her. "Look out guys." He marched towards the door with Duncan and Frost, attempting to yank it open.

The three men had finally got it open, and they ventured inside, but Natalia waited back, she didn't know what to do, three of her family had already gone missing, and with the looks of things, they had a zero chance of surviving. If she didn't know any better, she woulda thought these people were out to get the three "leaders."

Which wouldn't make much sense, Maggie had only just joined them, and was the old Hilltop Leader, which was now burnt land and ash, Daryl was the hunter, and Natalia was... a housewife? No, she knew she was more than that, she just couldn't think about what it was, for the meantime.

"Nat." Alden called, over his shoulder. "Keep up."

She snapped out of her think piece, trudging behind the group, trying to not think about the sight she might find her husband and longest friend.

"Why don't you guys handle that one. If you get tired out, we'll take over." Negan told the first people to reach the other end of the train.

A thumping came from above.

"What, is that the roof?" Alden asked.

"Could be walkers?" Negan suggested.

"Shh." Gabriel hushed them, as they listened out.

Thud. Thud. Thud.... Thud. Thud... Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Maggie!" Natalia exclaimed, it had to be.

"It's below us, its' morse code." Alden shared. "It's SOS."

"Gimmie that!" Natalia snatched the crowbar from Duncan, dropping to her knees to open the hatch.

"Wait, Natalia-" Gabriel tried to stop her, but it was too late.

First a bow came up, then Maggie's head.

Natalia grabbed her belongings, helping the woman up onto the train, before throwing herself at her, hugging the woman tightly.

"What happened?" She asked, when she finally pulled away, as they both got to their feet.

But Maggie didn't give an audible answer, as she stared at the man stood behind them.

Maggie then gently pushed Natalia to the side, marching towards Negan and hitting him around the head with the butt of her gun, a thing they had both witnessed Rick do to Merle, back in the early days.

"I slipped." She said. "He saw, and he left me to die."

"Yeah." The man sighed, holding his head as he got back up. "Okay. So what?"

"You're just admitting it?" Gabriel asked.

"You tried to kill her!" Alden piped up.

"No, she was in trouble, and I didn't help. There is a big difference. I was too busy making sure this one didn't pull a Me, Myself and Irene, for her dead husband, only, the opposite."

Natalia moved forward, once again slamming her fist into his face, as hard as she could.

"I got it." Duncan told her, picking the man up from the ground, pushing him against the wall. "Okay, so who's gonna help you now?" He asked. "Who in here's got your back?"

"Yeah, you don't need fingers to count that number." Frost supplied.

"She was just talking about murdering me, sooner rather than later, and yet somehow, I'm the big, old asshole 'cause I didn't risk my nuts for her?"

"We all want you dead." Natalia snapped. "And given the chance, we all wouldn't do anything to prevent it."

"I have been a golden goddamn asset for every single one of you." He set his eyes on the woman.

"Yeah, burning Hilltop, that helped, huh?" Alden raised his voice.

"I killed Alpha, right? So, yeah, I was helpful. 'Cause if I hadn't done that, every person you know, their skull would be on a spike. I did what needed to be done, all right? I- I am trying."

"Yeah, okay. I'm not buying a word of it." Frost voiced his opinion.

"Same." Duncan agreed.

"Nod and it happens." Agatha looked at the two women who had the most upsetting history with the man. "We can get through the city without him."

Natalia and Maggie turned to each other, debating what was the right choice, what was the choice that was gonna keep them alive.

"Help! Help me! Help!" The voice of Gage shouted, banging on the door they had come through previously.

"Gage? What happened?" Alden asked.

"We got lost in the tunnels! Walkers are everywhere, they... they might have....-"

"How'd you get in there?" Negan cut him off.

"I... I got a door open on the far end."

"Did you close it?"

"Uh...

"Gage?" Gabriel pressed.

"I-...

"Oh, you dumb bastard." Natalia muttered, as they spotted walkers making their way towards the boy.

"Hey, this one seems a bit looser. Sasquatch, give me a hand."

"We open that, they'll all get in." Maggie told Negan.

"He's right there." Alden shouted.

"And he was foolish enough to leave, he left the fucking door open, he did this to himself." Natalia voiced.

"The hell with you." Alden demanded, going for the door, trying to throw it open.

"Alden?" Maggie tried stopping him.

"Come on." He groaned.

Duncan nodded at Maggie, pulling the man away.

"Are you insane? Move! Move!"

"Maggie? Nat, come on" Gage pleaded. "Please. What about Evie."

Natalia's face hadn't changed in the slightest, he wasn't using her daughter as a bargaining chip.

"Open the door! Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry... about everything. I've made mistakes, and I'm sorry." He begun crying, desperately. "But I just... I want another chance, okay? I won't do it again. I won't do it again. I'll do better. Please, I... Please. I won't get to say goodbye, please, I wanna say goodbye to her."

"Nat, listen to me. We have time. We can get that door open."

"Nat! Maggie!" The boy repeatedly shouted and pounded on the door.

Natalia looked to her friend, if she wanted to save him, it was her decision alone.

"We don't have the ammo to clear them." Maggie finalised.

Alden tried once again, to go for the door, but was held back by her people.

"Let it go." Gabriel told him.

"I'm sorry. I can't" Maggie shouted through.

"Liar." Gage said, his voice full of hate as the anger showed on his face.

"Shouldn't have gotten my daughter drunk. And you shouldn’t have tried to kill my other one." Natalia shrugged. "You think I forgot?"

Gage pulled out his knife, looking like he was about to attack, but then stabbed it into his own heart, he pulled it out, then repeated the motion, as the walkers got closer.

He had pulled it out, once again, as the life drained from him, and the walkers got a hold, ripping and pulling at the boy, biting into him.

"Sucks to suck." Natalia faked pity, as the others watched in horror at the sight of his corpse being shredded by the dead.

They had gone back to try and open the other door, whilst Natalia and Maggie stood watch, making sure the walkers didn't rally the other one, once they were finished with Gage's body.

"What is it?" Gabriel asked, watching Negan pace around.

"Bad memories." He grumbled.

"Oh, what, of the two of you snuggling in that trailer?" Natalia asked.

Neither of them humoured her with a response, but instead he had finally sat down, his head in his hands.

Maggie lit a match, using it as light, since Elijah's batteries in his flashlight had gone out.

Then, Gage had reanimated, joining the others, banging on the door.

"You guys don't wanna look at him." Alden commented, when everyone avoided the door. "Why? Why won't you look at him?"

"Alden, shut up." Natalia sighed, sitting down on one of the seats, folding her arms.

"All that is, is the shell of a man who died a coward." Gabriel gave an answer.

"That's a hot take, father." Alden continued. "He was scared, but he didn't deserve to die like that. In the worst way imaginable."

"Our friend Noah went out like that, because of a coward." Natalia picked at her fingers.

"There are worse ways." Maggie spoke. "A lot worse. Before I found Elijah and his people, Hershel and I were alone for a long time. One day, we came across this frail old man who was kneeling by a turned-over grocery cart. It was full of scavenged clothes he said were for his sons and daughters and could we help him haul the cart back home? And he said he'd give us food for our trouble. I knew that he was a liar. But I was starving, and soon, Hershel would be. So we followed him back to his house. I held a knife to his throat and reached in his pocket. I pulled out the chloroform rag he was gonna use on me. I stuffed it in his mouth. And then we went inside the house, and I locked my little boy in a room, and I went and searched the house. There were these three... deformed... I wouldn't call them men. They came after me. But I handled them. And then the house was quiet, except for this thudding sound that was coming from upstairs in the attic. And I thought maybe they had people tied up, up there that were trying to get free. So I walked to a door at the end of this hallway. And I opened it, and I looked up, and there was a set of stairs. At the top of the stairs, there's this shadow writhing and rocking. I thought it was an animal. Then all of a sudden, it fell down the stairs, and it came right at my feet. It was a walker that used to be a woman. Her arms and her legs had been cut off, stitched up. Her eyes gouged out. No tongue. And she was wheezing through an open, cauterized gash in her throat where her vocal cords had been ripped out. And her belly was round and full. And whatever was inside of there was trying to get out. And I went upstairs and there were three more just like her. But their hearts were still beating."

Natalia's eyes had narrowed into slits, as she slowly and quietly stabbed the blade of a knife into the back of the seat in front of her, all her anger fled to her fist, as she held the handle tightly, before the fall, women had suffered at the hands of men, the only two differences now, was that walkers became another threat, and the chance of justice was only settled if they were willing to commit murder, at least now they couldn’t be imprisoned for it.

"And do you know the first thing I thought?" Maggie asked. "The very first thing that crossed my mind? If they're alive, there must be food here. So I took care of them. And then I found the food. Lot's of it. And Hershel and I filled the cart with it, and we left." She then walked towards Alden. "I don't feel anything when I tell you that. Do you understand me? Because that is what's out there. And seeing it, I lost something. And I don't think it's a bad thing that I did. Because it has made things so much clearer. What we have in Alexandria, what we had in Hilltop and in Meridian, it's rare. It has to be. Compared to everything that's out there. Because if it isn't...."

"It means we were lucky." Negan spoke up. "It means that nobody has it figured out. Nobody ever did, and nobody ever will."

Eventually, Frost and Duncan had got the other door open, moving onto the next.

"It's blocked." Frost called to the others, looking through the window.

Duncan gave a defeated shake of his head to the others, there was no getting out.

"No." Natalia voiced. "No, no, we have to get out. We- we, no."

"Nat." Gabriel stood.

"We-, no. Daryl's out there. We can't be stuck in here." She continued, pushing her hair out of her face. "We have to get out, go after him. I have to go."

The door on the other side of them started to rattle, the handle shaking, as it fought to stay closed.

The group got ready for the attack whilst Duncan used a sledge hammer to try and force the door open, though it was proving to be useless.

Maggie handed Elijah some flashbangs, and he proceeded to lay them in between the seats by the door, as the glass cracked.

Gabriel stepped forward, aiming his shotgun ahead, in anticipation of the first one to come across.

And when it came down, Gage was the first to be shot.

Gabriel continued to shoot, as the casings and walkers fell to the floor, and when it was time to reload, Maggie took his place, firing arrows, on the second round, Agatha joined her.

But when she had soon ran out, as well, Cole and Alden stepped in, stabbing and hitting the walkers.

"Hey!" Duncan called, running towards them. "They're coming in from this side!

Maggie loaded a gun, handing it to Negan as Natalia held out a knife, they hadn't allowed him to take any real weapons, prior.

He nodded at the two women, running down the train.

Natalia stood on one of the seats, climbing over it and pressing her back to the wall, catching stray walkers, leading them towards her as the others handled them, she stabbed and sliced, moving on to the next, using their bodies to create a barrier, until she and the others were forced back down the train, towards the other side.

There was too many.

"Hurry!" Negan called, running through the now open door.

"Come on, go!"

They ran through, and Natalia only caught a glimpse of Daryl as she was pushed by Maggie down the line.

"Get behind something!" He shouted, closing the door again, after throwing something.

The two women crouched behind the seats, hugging each other as they kept their heads down.

Then an explosion had erupted, shaking the whole train, the sound of liquid splattering was loud, then the sound of sludge dropping, followed.

They then stood up, checking the area, it was over, black blood being the only thing they could see through the glass.

Natalia slid past the seat, running to the man who had saved them, practically jumping on him as she threw her arms around his neck, he fell back a step, one arm around her waist, his hand in her hair.

It took a while before she pulled back, she stared at him, cupping his face, moving his hair out of his face, then she kissed him, hard, desperately, proving to herself he was there, and he definitely was.

The clearing of someone's throat, gave Daryl the strength to pull away from her, reminding him and her that they weren't alone and a bunch of people were behind them, watching.

"Sorry, father." He told the priest.

"No, that's alright." He smiled at the pair. "Should we get going?"

"Yes." Three male voices from the group, spoke harshly.

Next

#daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon #the walking dead daryl #twd daryl #carl grimes #carol peletier #daryl fanfiction #glenn rhee #michonne #rick grimes #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x you #daryl dixion x reader #daryl x reader #daryl dixion imagine #negan smith #daryldixonalonetwd #darylxnatalia

[godotdotdot]

I watched the end of evangelion in theaters last night. The last time I watched EoE was a near spiritual exp; I had been going thru a lot at home and needed catharsis, because I was personally grieving a lot of close relationships that had been hurting me, and could not stop feeling shitty for how I hurt my loved ones.

While that evening I had had the entirety of Eva fresh in my mind, and had sobbed accordingly to my heightened understanding and empathic ability, last night I did not. I had not prepared by rewatching the series or Death and Rebirth. It was a last minute chance that I took. I felt I had not "done" the experience properly.

I noticed so many details I hadn't before, thanks to the big screen: the name KAWORU printed on the EVA Series' S2 drives; how fitting it is that Kaworu (the ideal Shinji, the replacement for Asuka, the parallel of Rei) eviscerates Asuka. I also realised why Asuka has the bandage on her arm in the last scene, because her arm... ripped in two... and how insane is it, the arm that is iconically extended with "I'll kill you, I'll kill you" to be the same hand that reaches forward, as she's dying, to cup Shinji's cheek as he strangles her. I saw my favorite character, Rei, commit her revolt against Gendo. I absorbed everything on screen with greater clarity than I ever had before. The big screen magnified the details, the emotions, everything; and I realised with satisfaction that I was watching the movie the way it was supposed to be watched.

And as such, I think the most significant moment was in the actual theater itself. The scene in the film where they're in instrumentality and talking about dreams vs reality, and they pan to the irl audience of one of the first screenings of eoe? It hits different when YOU are in the theater. It's YOU on screen. I remember feeling like an individual and not at the same time. I realised that everyone in the movie theater was there for the same reason as me: for virtue of being human, having a deep connection w the series like me, having their own reconciling with the awe of seeing it in theaters; after all, all the young kids had streamed this movie on the phone like me, and all the older fellows had not been to an Eva screening in North America. We WERE the first audience seeing the movie, just like in the film; we had all gathered here with our rei plushies and our t-shirts and our cosplays like the audience in 1997. But would we be sitting there confused, like that initial audience was?

As it was, there is no sense of confusion in as an eva fan, not after the End. As the film ended, Shinji crying, Asuka still, Disgusting, and then the end card, there was a full 15 seconds of silence as the lights slowly came on. No clapping. No discussion. No laughter or sniffling or breath. The lights came on, and still, I was silent; I was both praying no one would break the silence as I needed it and observed it. I was completely processing the gravity of being the first (N. American) audience (ever!) since the show aired nearly thirty years ago; and with that weight, how SHOULD you react? And then, the silence broke as I heard people take shaky exhales like they had been crying, chuckling nervously, and then more comfortably laughing to their groups, beginning lore explanations--- someone had a beer snuck into the theater that I only noticed when I looked in front of me--- and everyone re-became themselves, imdividuals with lives and problems and things to be excited over. A couple was still crying and were not holding hands. I saw them outside, twenty minutes later, smiling and taking pictures with the poster.

It seemed strange to me that Eva had become such an emotional thing to such a crowd of people. I didn't realise that I was not the only one who cried tears of horror, who cried tears of disgust, who cried tears of sorrow. I had been excited to go to this movie and was left feeling... normal. It was life-changing, but also, not. I was just a person in a theater, and yet, I understood the movie because I had studied it. And so had everyone else, and we were still crying. At the same time, having reflected on my more private viewings, I still thought I hadn't cried enough.

I think to the things Hideako Anno has said about eva; how it's him on screen, his disdain for certain kinds of anime fans, his passing interest in things that people hyperanalyze. I think about the dedication he notes to his team of workers and five women in his life. Who are those five women? What kind of women are they? Why that descriptor, if you're separating them from your work?

I think the most appropriate explanation for my absurd reactions to the film are because the film itself is an absurd experience; I'm trying to assign it an aura (a la "art in the age of mechanical reproduction") but frankly, I believe it is impossible. Perhaps my theater wasn't right. Perhaps my company wasn't. Perhaps I was not. Perhaps the film was not. And most of all, perhaps it was okay for me to be there, because I wanted to be there, and I wanted to go on.

It was a really beautiful experience. The movie is absolutely meant to be played on a big screen, in a theater. I'm so glad I was there, and I'm so glad I got to be apart of eva history. It was not the perfect exp I wanted, but it was such a special occasion that I don't mind too much. One day I will keep going and maybe I will make that experience perfect for myself.

#end of evangelion #eoe #analysis #reflection #evangelion

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

On The Hunt: One Step Ahead

Summary- 4.2k Alpha Steve x Little One. Back in Wakanda now, You join T'Challa and his shifters in the hunt for finding panthers being taken and sold. Steve and Bucky are finding more of Bucky's past as the White Wolf but no leads as to Hydra's current movements.

Warning- Steve living in intimate memories. Trafficking humans.

A/N- Thank you to everyone who is following this series. I'm sorry if you all hate Steve still, I hope I can one day redeem him for you. My wonderful beta for this series is no longer on Tumblr, but I have to thank her anyways for still being willing to read through this for me. Dividers made by @firefly-graphics Happy Reading! 🐺💙

Chapter One / Masterlist

The heated mugginess was getting to your Little Wolf, her panting becoming as uncomfortable in your mind as the sweat dripping down the side of your face, causing you to ache to swipe it away, flick the offending moisture off of you. 

Wolves of the north weren’t meant for the oppressive jungle closing in from overhead, making it a proper hot box. They were shifters used to the shade of towering mountains that blew deep cold into the open valleys.

But this is where you were and you weren't about to be deterred from your mission. 

Still have an eye on them Y/N? T’Challa’s voice came through the tech you had in your ear. You shifted in a crouch among the heavy leaves, creating enough coverage for the men loading the truck with cages who wouldn’t even notice. Nor did they scent you as the air was laden with the scent of fear from the cages. 

You took the chance to whisper back. “I’m counting three with the trucks, but there are more.” 

The Little Wolf quieted as she inhaled, sorting through the scents in the air. <At least two, maybe three.> 

“Possibly two out of sight, one in the cab.” 

 You glanced up, your eyes sharpening as across the small opening in the jungle you could see a black shadow creeping among the trees. Another voice came through the tech, an exasperated female tone. We do not have all night. 

Oyoke was ready and from what you could tell, this was the best chance to take them without any of the victim’s getting hurt. 

There was a bit of silence and you could see T’Challa still up in the tree’s. The truck engine started, shifting into gear. 

<It’s now, we can never keep up with moving vehicles.> The Little Wolf snapped in her anxiety to retrieve the victims. You were about to make your own protest and risk getting caught when the King dropped from the trees ahead, his vibranium suit protecting him as he landed on the trucks engine, shuddering it to a stop. He flipped back out of sight as the men burst out of the truck, streaming into the treeline looking for the man. 

They were quickly met with quiet spears landing in there chests. A sound of alarm came and gunfire was shot off into the trees. 

The smugglers in their haste to find who was attacking them left the truck unattended. The Little Wolf thumped her paws impatiently, itching to give chase while you slunk out with Nakia, the panther silent on her feet as she slipped into the back of the truck. You listened as Nakia assured the victims. “Okay, we can get out of here Y/N.” 

It was the confirmation you needed, giving a thump against the side of the truck to say you heard and you glanced around to make sure the smugglers were still occupied. Jumping into the cab of the truck, you searched for keys and cursed that they must have taken them. 

<Hot wire it.> 

You already know I was gonna. You snapped back at your wolf as you yanked the wires out. Gunfire and more shouting could be heard from the distance, but it was getting closer, quickly. 

Nakia yanked a small back window open, again the smell of fear from the back overwhelmed you, making your Little Wolf snarl aggressively, ready to lash out at whoever came close. It made you bare your teeth in a hiss. “They are coming Y/N” 

“And we’re…” You struck the wires quickly, cursing mentally till the engine rumbled, roughly, it made a worrying groaning noise that made you think T’Challa landed harder than necessary on the hood. “Gone.” You put it in a squealing groan and the truck jumped forward. Your door flung open and in a flash a hand reached through, grabbing at you. 

“Not with our profit!” 

“Fuck.” You tried pulling out of the smuggler’s hold, slamming your foot on the gas to race down the bumpy road, attempting to dislodge his hold on you. Yells from the back sounded in alarm as everyone was tossed around, cages sliding. You just hoped you hadn’t crushed Nakia in the process. “Get off.” You twisted, doing anything to break loose as the hand tightened its hold, his fingers digging into your scalp. 

“STOP THIS TRUCK.” 

Fine… You tried slamming him into some trees alongside of the road, your body being half yanked out of the seat and almost out the window. “Hold on!” You screamed out, slamming your foot on the brake and feeling the truck almost roll as your hair was ripped out of your scalp while the smuggler was thrown. 

The massive brute of a man didn't go far, you revved the truck preparing to just run him over when from the top of the truck a black panther jolted off, claws outstretched. She landed on him, knocking him back down while her claws sunk in and the panther’s lethal bite latched to the back of his neck, severing vertebrae almost immediately. 

“Nakia, I swear to everything that better be you.” A flick of her tail made you breathe easier. The body got dragged and Nakia thumped back into the rear of the truck. 

Once the pantheress was secured in the back, you resumed driving, this time going at a reasonable pace while leaving the smugglers to their fate with the King and the Dora Milaje.

You sighed in the hot water as you sunk down into the extravagant tub, letting the bubbles rise up to your chin. 

<More heat? We spent all day in the jungle.> Your Little Wolf complained while you let the hot water soak your sore muscles. After the mission today and all the work after getting the Panthers into medical bay to be checked over, you retreated to your room. T’Challa had everything you needed sent up so you could recover in privacy like you preferred. 

You feel all the aches like I do. You pointed out as you slipped yourself under, scrubbing blood and grit out of your hair, tentatively touching your scalp before rising again to gasp for air. 

<Sure we ache, but that's not all it is.> Your Little Wolf sighed as she stretched herself out to cool off. You frowned, knowing what she was pointing out. Another month of being in heat and your body physically revolted against you, just as much as your mind felt every day having lost your bond with your mate and he turned away. Your Little Wolf felt the sudden wave of sadness and pushed assuringly against your mind, trying to ease the pain you both shared. <We can take the pills that Tony sent… if it's too much.>

You were silent as you started washing. But I don’t want to. It will erase anything of the bond I have with Steve still. You swiped at tears. I can’t erase him from my heart for good even though he broke it. 

<I don’t want to lose it either.> The Little Wolf echoed softly, a pained howl rising from the depth and you immediately recognized it. Her song to her Alpha, calling him home. Sudsy hands covered your face as you gave a sob, finally submitting to your pain now that you were alone again. 

“Where you at?” Steve said in the comm, approaching the compound with stealth. The wolves around him were just as silent, low to the ground as they were all focused, hyper aware on the compounds gates. 

“I got you Steve, you are all clear. We’re ready with above ground cover.” Bucky's voice came through, assuring Steve that his back was covered. 

<Now or never Steve, we have watched them for days and they still have no idea we’re about to ambush them.> The large Alpha was primed and ready for the attack. With a wave of his hand, the wolves in his command streamed out of their hiding spots, with Steve leading them forward. He blocked the feeble attempt of shots coming from it with a heavy shield on his forearms, pushing forward till above them Bucky and his sharpshooters cleared the path to the front gate. 

Getting inside proved to be easier then Steve had hoped it would be, meaning it was just a compound of lower concern for Hydra. They went from room to room, collecting the Hydra beta’s with a sharp Alpha command from him. All of it was so easy, the wide compound stale with misuse except for the small group occupying it. Another dead end for the team. 

There was still information to shift through, looking for other possible targets. Steve was going through the compound, mapping it out with his Wolf while his team started in on the computer systems protected in the center when he sensed Bucky entering with his team. “Where is Captain Rogers?” Steve heard him briskly ask one of their team. 

“He is in the back Sergent.” The wolf directed Bucky. Steve scanned the room filled with cages one last time, the air stale and unused. Steve growled frustrated as he turned from the room and left it. 

Bucky came up alongside him as he strode down the hall and made his way towards the exit and where the compounds latest residents were being held. 

The few Hydra wolves that were collected submitted easily, a small group of beta’s that Steve felt had been abandoned long ago and forgotten. He squatted in front of one kneeling in cuffs, his head drooping in exhaustion. “Beta, what were your orders here?” 

The ones nearby shuffled in the same positions, avoiding looking at the Alpha questioning them. Bucky stayed back, letting Steve work. “I can’t, my Alpha forbid me to talk.” He tried avoiding Steve’s gaze, but Steve pushed him with a growl, an alpha order that made the beta go rigid, fighting against his previous orders before he submitted to Steve. “We were to stay behind, hold this compound safe for Hydra’s use if they needed a place to go to ground.” 

“And who ordered you to do this?” Steve asked gently, no longer pushing his authority on the Beta. The Beta finally looked at him, then over his shoulder, pointing at Bucky. “He did.” 

Steve sighed with a drop of his head, even talking to the remaining wolves was proving useless for further info. They were just hitting Brock’s old hideout’s and Bucky growled out in frustration, making the beta’s flinch and pull back, averting there gazes to everywhere but him. It was clear that they were scared of him as Soldat, the air turning sour with fear. 

Bucky snapped past Steve and went back outside, away from the hydra betas. Steve followed him out to see his best friend battling his own demons. “He’s right… I should remember this place and giving those orders and I don’t.” Bucky tensed a moment, every bit of Sergeant that he was and covering his distress. “The White Wolf is still blocking memories from me. I’m not any use to you Steve.” 

“Well, I would rather have you with me than anyone else.” Steve clasped Bucky’s shoulder assuringly. The two men both looked tired, the months of being on the hunt getting to both of them now. Steve tried not to let himself think too much about what that meant for him. His mission had been to get the head of Hydra and destroy it to keep the packs safe. 

To keep you safe from him. It had been months, so many months since he left you in that hospital room. He knew you were safe, but he knew little else about what you were doing now. Sara refused to tell him, her loyalty to you made Steve feel better. Sam wouldn’t defy his mate giving detailed information and Steve wouldn’t ask him to. 

As long as you were safe, that was the only question he asked from Sam anymore. 

Dragging his thoughts back from getting lost in you, his Wolf simmered from somewhere deep in his mind, the beast grew distant with Steve as well, leaving him with silence most of the time unless they were on the verge of an attack. Turning back to Bucky, he made a suggestion to his frustrated packmate. “Let's regroup, and see if any of this information is of any use. The team needs a rest anyways, we have been running them hard for weeks now.” 

Bucky was quiet for a moment, letting it sink in. Steve guessed he was trying to reach his beast but, he was absent, unwilling to come back into the consciousness of the man after he killed Brock. “Let’s go.” Bucky pressed for his com, barking out orders to collect the intel and hydra wolves, they were going ‘home’. 

It felt sour to Steve, calling that home. Home was far to the mountains, where a Little Wolf he once called his sang her song in his woods, ran his trails, slept in his bed and showed him what it was like to be bonded with someone who loved him. There was a small bit of comfort in knowing you were safe with the rest of the pack. Steve didn’t want to ponder too much if you might have taken another as your mate. Such thoughts made his chest ache tiredly. Wearily the Alpha snarled at the intrusive thoughts of his mate with another. Steve trailed after Bucky, suddenly tired. Once more him and his Alpha lost in the memories. 

“So you excited?” Shuri jabbered next to you as you both strolled down to her lab. “You should be because I outdid myself!” Your Little Wolf excitedly yipped, having a great fondness for the brilliant panther, often times when the full moon was out, the princess would join you on your jogs around Wakanda, letting your Little Wolf run as if with a pack once again. 

Home was always an option, Sam made sure that you knew where you belonged and that The Pack was always your family. But it hurt too much to be there, Steve’s cabin was vacant now. Waiting for either of you to return. 

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be excited about?” You shoulder bumped Shuri affectionately. She just gave a wicked grin and bumped her wrist against the lock, making the door whoosh open. Shuri let you go and skipped into her lab, various machines buzzing to life and popping up screens at just her presence. 

“Stark is gonna be so jealous.” Shuri giggled as you followed her inside. You snorted in amusement, knowing fully about the competitiveness the Alpha had with the panther. So far Shuri with her advanced technology built from the vibranium was edging Tony’s tech out, but he wasn’t far behind. 

“Okay, but what is it Shuri?” 

She was hitting buttons and the wall opened up to reveal panther suits and other gadgets Shuri had enhanced. You admired the glinting gear, knowing as beautiful as all of it was, it was lethal too. Shuri beckoned you down the wall, pausing where rings and bracelets were. “This is it.” She pulled up what looked like two thin wire bracelets, glinting hints of sliver and purple in the light. “Hold out your wrists Y/N.” 

“It’s not silver is it?” you teased, playing on the werewolf myth. Shuri rolled her eyes at you while fitting them over your hands to dangle over your wrists. 

“You gonna turn into a wolf beast on the full moon and hunt us down. Drooling everywhere?” Shuri snickered at you. Letting go of your hands, she stepped back. “Okay, tap them together when you’re ready.” 

You shook out your arms to feel the weight, which you could barely tell they were there but when you tapped them, the chains expanded, racing up your arms to cover your forearms in metal. “Okay cool!” You twisted your arms to look at how they covered you. 

Shuri looked happy with your reaction. “If you tap again, it will cover more and go across your chest. Give a very firm and determined shake of your wrists and a vibranium energy shield will pop up.” She waved her hand encouraging you to try. The taps of your wrists together expanded the armor further up till it rested across your chest, then the shake of your wrist expanded an energy shield that covered the front of you. 

“Okay, this is awesome Shuri. But how do I deactivate it back to the chains?” You marveled at it, running your hands over the vibranium covering your chest to feel how flexible it was, never impeding your movements. 

“Same way, I was only able to put a few settings in it for now.” You gave another shake of your wrists to drop the shield and tap together, all of it zipping back into thin chains on your wrists. “It does have a tracker in it that I can keep tabs on here. And it will adjust to your Little Wolf when you shift.” 

“Thank you Shuri.” You embraced her in a hug, the woman cuddling up to you with a purr of affection. 

“Of course, if you are going to continue tracking the kidnapped with my brother, then you need protection.” 

T’Challa stepped into the room, smiling as he saw Shuri and you embracing. “Ahh, she finally showed you her latest?” He inquired with a pointed look at the simple silver chains dangling on your wrists. 

“She did and I can’t wait to try them out.” 

“Good, because I was just sent some intel of more smugglers outside of Wakanda borders.” He pulled up an image of Ulysses. The image was a painful memory for you, your Little Wolf’s hackles raising at the image of the man. Flashbacks of you and Steve tied up in the back of a truck, the start to the end of your bond. The sorrowed look in your mate's eyes as he was bound and gagged inches away from you, those last memories with Steve still barbs in your heart. “We don’t know where he is sending our people to. But I don’t want to risk losing them.” 

“When are we leaving?” Your Little Wolf’s snarl was evident in your tone, you were more than ready to hunt him down. 

“Tonight, so get some rest.” 

You bid goodbye to the panthers before returning to your room. Your heat, it simmered so close and you closed your eyes, breathing in sharply through your nose and out again till you felt yourself calm down some more. 

<We can do this, right?> The Little Wolf whined from somewhere deep in your mind. You knew she was feeling the effects, missing her bond with the Alpha and craving the closeness they once shared. How the days in the nest would reaffirm their bond. Going into heat was much more than just breeding, it was a way for bonded mates to tend to each other and focus on one another's needs uninterrupted. Steve had always been so attentive to you in that time. The other mates Pierce tried to force on you, they made promises but painfully lashed out whenever you wouldn’t submit to them. Steve waited as long as you needed to be his. 

It hurt that much more to know he also was able to just walk away from you. No, not walk away, do what he thought he had to in order for you to be safe. Stubborn fucking Alpha. You thought to yourself

We can do this, we have survived all this time and we have a job to do. You stated stubbornly as you started to gather the gear you would require for this mission. 

Your body moved above him, your eyes shining a dim yellow in the darkness as your hands soft against his pecs slid up to cup along the side of his face, leaning over to nip your lips against his with a soft sigh of his name. “Steve.” 

Steve couldn’t get enough of running his hands up and down your back, the small bumps of your scars running under his palms and you didn't try to pull away or hide them anymore, they no longer mattered to you. Now the only one you cared about what his bonding bite. You arched into his hold while rocking your hips, whining at the sensation of his thrusts under you while tilting your head to show him his mark on you. You licked into his mouth which turned into a kiss, tilting your head to deepen it. 

Steve could drown himself in you. Your scent filled him while your taste was sweet on his tongue. You pressed into him while squeezing around his cock and Steve rolled you underneath him, your legs wrapping around his waist and your head tilted back, howling softly in your pleasure. He lost himself in you, caging you underneath him while he lashed his tongue down your neck, you were his, he loved marking you as his own, his bites, his scent, anyone who would come near you would sense that you belonged to him. The tip of his nose dragged against your bonding mark and he bit down while you came undone around him, clawing at his back and your needy whines echoed. 

Steve woke with a jerk. You faded from his senses till he realized it was just him, your warm body wasn't curled at his side in the nest at the cabin, needing that touch you always sought out from him in your sleep. It was a hard cot underneath him in the dark room and the blanket drapped over him was tented from where he had to deal with his hard on the dream brought him. 

A sigh escaped him as his hand fell under the sheet, his hand completely unsatisfying compared to what he felt while asleep. He let his eyes close, screwing slightly as he let his mind drift back to you. 

How you always looked when you were with him with such love, trust and passion. Even when you were angry with him, that look never changed for you. His hand moved faster, picturing the time you two bonded, how you twisted to your back and arched your neck, trusting him enough to give him access to you. How you felt under him, asking for him and that bond- Steve never felt anything so strong in his life, it was a melding that shook him to his core and with serveral quick jerks recalling the memory, Steve shuddered out his unsatisfying release. 

Hand sticky and somewhere in the depths of his mind, his Wolf calling for his Little Wolf, Steve jerked his covers off and went to go clean himself off. While he was cleaning himself up, glancing back in the cold room he now used to sleep, he couldn’t hold back the sting of it. His home was in a log cabin that had music playing while you cooked, the doors wide open to let the fresh air fill the space, where the comfortable bed was filled with your blankets and pillows in a nest that was for both of you. And you, you would pull him into your nest, nuzzle your way into his neck and sigh happily being in his arms.

<It’s almost her time.> The Alpha sighed, Steve was well aware that his Little One was about to hit her heat. That too was it’s own memory, the first time you meekly knocked on the bedroom door, seeking him out. The way your scent made him almost feral wanting you. It took every bit of his willpower that night not to claim you in the wildest way possible. To fill you with his pups and keep you as his. But he held out, you weren’t ready, not for that. 

I know, I hope she is okay. Steve sighed to himself, he wanted you to be okay, to have found the support you needed to get through it. But the idea of another taking care of you made him all that more possessive, sick at the thought.   

<She is a fighter, our Little One always has been> The big Alpha paced, unsettled as much as Steve was. Every instinct was telling him to go to his mate, even unbonded. 

Steve knew you were, he had seen it over and over in his time with you. You stood up to Pierce even when he injected you with the serum that made your wolf go dormant, fought for your Alpha when Ross came around, stood tall when your pack was demolished by the missing packmates, challenged Brock every second he had you captive. You survived all of that. But you barely survived when Steve lost control. 

Steve could still recall the drive to kill you, the way you couldn’t fight against him because he was the one who was meant to keep you safe. The way you struggled but almost never struck out cause you were about preserving him as much as yourself. How his drive to follow Brock’s orders made him forget everything the two of you had built together. The scars from the collar were as much mental for Steve as physical imprints on his skin, his hand absently rubbing at his neck where the barbs were dug in, holding him hostage to the deranged Alpha’s demands. Steve couldn’t lose control again, setting you free was his only option. He couldn’t hurt you again if you weren’t near him. 

#alpha steve and little one #the pack series #on the hunt #alpha steve x little one #alpha steve x you #alpha steve x reader #steve rogers and reader #steve rogers and you #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #shifter steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #marvel au #chris evans characters #amber writes #sweater writes