#fuck me sideways with a shovel what was i THINKING. and this is my SECOND (technically 3rd) program at this college!!

[sad--tree]

@ my brain stoooopppppppp !!!!!! thinking about !!!!! going back 2 college !!!!!! in an entirely different field !!!! than our current UNFINISHED (!!!!) fucking program !!!!!!

#i have two (2) goddamn mcfuckjng courses left #in order to get my diploma in computer programming #i do not want to take these courses #i do not want to finish this program #i do not want to work in computer programming #(or at least. not any of the sort of work weve done in this program) #i hate it. So Much. #why oh WHY did i have 2 be stupid and look at other college's offered programs....... i have. so much regret. #:( #'ohhh but of course i cant spend all that money to go to college in a different city' #'guess ill pointlessly spend a ton of money at my local college instead which happens 2 have zero programs i care abt!' #fuck me sideways with a shovel what was i THINKING. and this is my SECOND (technically 3rd) program at this college!! #youd think idve learned my lesson!!!! #but ooooohhhh it was just so ~practical~ and ~pragmatic~ and the money is just ~so much better~ in IT -_- #brb crying about how in 2015 i got accepted 2 every out of city college i applied to even tho i barely graduated high school #and instead had to settle with this 8 yrs of bullshit pointless waste of money #only this time i cant even blame my parents forcing me to stay. this fuckup was alllllll mine babey #joint diploma/honours BSc ecological restoration program my beloved....... #anybody wanna lend me a neat $30k for tuition&residence to study conservation biology out of town

[oscars-dumbass-central]

Chapter Six: you've got more troubles than minutes in the year

“I need to talk to you," Doc repeated.

Words: 1172

“I need to talk to you,” Doc repeated once Martyn had opened the door, the thin metal sliding into a hidden pocket within the wall. “Preferably when you are dressed,” he promptly turned around and walked away, the door sliding shut behind him. 

A couple minutes later, the two of them sat across from each other at the cramped table in the kitchenette, Martyn sitting sideways mostly to avoid his knees banging against Doc’s repeatedly. “You wanted to talk to me?” He turned his head up to face Doc who was slouching very awkwardly to avoid hitting his head against the shelf above him. 

“I needed to make something clear,” His voice always seemed to be a growl and at this point Martyn wasn’t sure if he could even turn it off or not, honestly Doc seemed like the kind of person to growl every word on purpose. “I don’t care about you, don’t give a shit about you—”

“Rude.” 

“—but I care about the other people on this ship,” he continued, holding up a hand to silence him. “And if you hurt them, I will hurt you,” He clenched his fist open and closed a few times, almost to show off the wickedly sharp claws he had. 

“Oh wow, shovel talk, already?” Martyn laughed loudly, smirking up at Doc, “Or are you just jealous that I’m not flirting with you yet?” 

Doc silently glared down at him for so long that he was wondering if the man was malfunctioning before he finally spoke again. “While you may not be loyal to your partner, I am. I would appreciate it if you would stop.” 

“Is this whole thing about you thinking I’m cheating on someone you don’t even know?” Martyn asked as he leant forward to glare back at him. “Because for your information — which I don’t even see why you need to know — my lovely boyfriend who I am trying to find, is completely and utterly fine with what I do outside of our relationship,” Before Doc could respond, Martyn slipped out of the bench seat and stormed off (possibly a bit overdramatically), his heavy and worn boots hitting the metal floor with loud clangs. Void, this entire ship was nothing but metal and glass and sharp edges, it was suffocatingly tight and lifeless. 

If he could’ve slammed his door, he would’ve, but instead it merely slid shut with a quiet shunk. Resting against the door Martyn breathed for a couple seconds, his eyes forced close to himself a break from the blindingly bright lights which wouldn’t just shut up. 

The room — the only thing in the ship that he could call his own — still refused to feel like his room. It was identical to the rest of the ship, smooth silver-grey walls and ceilings, the floor covered with a thin linoleum patterned to look like a herringbone wood floor. He still couldn’t make sense of Zedaph’s choice of the linoleum floor, it was hideous and stuck to his feet when he got out of the shower far more often then it should’ve. 

The only sign that someone was actually living in the room was the fact that the bed was not made and the small pile of clothes that was beginning to gather in the corner. Also probably the battle axe propped up in the corner, its leather-wrapped handle smoothed down and moulded to his hands. He knew that if he reached out and held it, it would slide gently into his palms as if it was created by the universe to fit within his hands. 

But it wasn’t made by the universe, it wasn’t made for him. 

It was made by a deadman, for a deadman a millenia and a half ago. 

The only reason Martyn even had it was a lucky roll of the dice — quite literally — and a mad man who proclaimed himself a king. And of fucking course, Martyn just happened to be in love with said mad king. 

He guessed it was his punishment. What for? He wasn’t sure yet, but he’d figure it out. 

.

The taste of blood exploded in Martyn’s mouth as the punch connected with his jaw, sending him spilling onto the floor. He hit the ground heavily, his arm folding at a very uncomfortable angle underneath him, the thin padding not doing much to protect him. But quick as he fell, he was back on his feet again blood trickling out of a corner of his mouth as he smiled like a deranged madman. 

“You’ve finally learnt to fight,” he smiled, running his tongue over his blood-coated teeth and letting the coppery taste fuel him. New energy bursted through his body as he readied himself for the next round, “Best of three?” 

“You’re bleeding!” Jimmy practically squawked, rushing over to Martyn and inspecting his chin. His gentle hands rested on Martyn’s skin as he lifted his head to look at his jaw. “Oh void, I am so sorry, I shouldn't've gone that hard.” 

“It’s fine!” Martyn smiled, pushing Jimmy away and stepping back. “I’ve been hit worse than that at least a dozen times in the past month alone!” Oh hels, that sounded bad, Jimmy was just going to worry more about him. 

“Martyn.” 

Fuck, see, that is what he was exactly trying to avoid, but of course he landed right into Jimmy’s pity. “I’m fine,” He repeated, a bit more forcibly this time and possibly a bit too harsh if the way he drew back and broke eye contact was anything to say about that. “I’m strong, dude, it’s gonna have to take more than one punch to take me down.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Jimmy glanced up at him, a weak smile flickering on and off his face. “Best of three?” 

“Best of three,” He smiled, trying to cover up the horrific sharp pain in his arm. It was probably nothing. It was nothing if he had anything to say about it. And lucky for Martyn he did! It was his fucking body and he could just tell it to stop! 

.

Martyn laid in bed, staring up at the vent which was positioned in such a way that the frigid air hit him directly in the face. At least it was a change to the hot sharp pain which continued to ebb outwards from his elbow. Also complaining about the air conditioning was also a perfect distraction from the fact that he had lost to Jimmy bad. 

Void, when had he learned to fight? Last time they had seen each other the man was nothing more than gangly limbs which he didn’t know how to use in a fight, and now? Fuck, the man could probably take down someone twice his size, and where the hels did he get all that muscle from? Not that Martyn was complaining, it made Jimmy very appealing to look at. 

Speaking of Jimmy, the man was currently snoring far too loudly, and also one of his wings was shoved up into Martyn’s chin. Lovely. 

#og oscar #oscar's writing #scifi au

[florencwrites]

ignoring is bliss 〚technoblade〛

in which [reader] struggles with her lover's inconsequent affection, and a good talk is unfortunately inevitable; the silent treatment has never worked well with techno.

"I don't know what you want me to say." His back had still been turned towards me at this point, the rake heavy in my hands as I tried using it to steady myself in the muddy stable. He kept loading dirty plucks of hay onto his pitchfork, the thinly lined buttoned shirt he was wearing easily letting his back muscles shine through.

I stood silently behind him, deliberating my words thoroughly. I hated when he acted like this, I absolutely despised him. He was one of the smartest men I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, however, the second things went sideways conversation-wise he always played it painfully personally. He would start correcting my grammar or suggest synonyms for otherwise satisfactory sentences. "I don't either."

"I guess that marks the end of this conversation." He turned around to dump his gathered muck in the makeshift wheelbarrow Phil had built us. His face was hard, his brows furrowed and his features lax. He seemed indifferent, his attitude scaring me to pieces.

"Tech, please." I tried, putting one of my hands up to gesture for him to stop walking. He was now barely lifting the barrow from the ground, ready to head off to the dump. He huffed, his eyes meeting the floor as he put the wagon down. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

"I'm sorry," I muttered softly.

He ducked to grip his hands around the handles again, lifting it from the ground. His knuckles were white where they held onto the leather-covered grips. "Speak up."

"I want to have a conversation with you, okay? Stop acting so fucking stuck up and talk to me." His shoulder brushed past mine as he exited the stables, my voice was high in emotions, definitely on the verge of breaking with desperation.

He snorted. "I'll listen to whatever you have to say when you've calmed down."

-

"He won't talk to me, Phil." I groaned almost obnoxiously loud, taking a sip of water to wash down both my dinner and my agitation. "You know how he gets."

"All pissy? Tell me about it." He chuckled softly, his forearm shielding his bowl from my sight. He shoveled another spoonful of beef stew into his mouth. Phil and I had never been extraordinarily close, he reckoned Techno and me to be undeserving of each other. A terrible pair. And perhaps we were, at times like this I couldn't help but doubt whether or not we truly were the destined lovers we often thought ourselves to be. "I'll bring him some food later."

I laughed at him, a father at heart. A father to anyone but his actual sons, really. A playful grin on my lips, "You're an enabler, Phil."

-

That night I crawled into an empty bed. One I hadn't even doubted would be just that; empty. He was weak like that, he'd do anything to avoid conflict. Whether that was because he was afraid of what his blinding rage fits would conjure, or whether he was just an impotent coward. Someone who didn't know how to act around uncertainty and immorality and thus resorted to blaming everything on his treacherous temper.

The sheets still smelled of him, I held them to my nose.

There was no reason for us to fight, I hadn't meant to start one. I simply wanted him to realize how different he acted towards me when surrounded by any crowd. He acted so distant it made me doubt not only us, but myself. My heart ached anytime he pulled his hand away from where I tried leaving him a subtle touch. My skin crawled when he no longer referred to me by the mild, but unmissably warm names he had for me.

However, nothing would ever hurt me as much as meeting his eyes in a room of our friends and seeing the love seep from his irises. Physically witnessing his affection turn into nothing short of mere acquaintance.

Everyone knew us. There was no reason for him to act so cold, so distant. Though, I also recognized that perhaps there was an underlying reason. One I simply hadn't thought of, or perhaps one that I couldn't ever imagine. One that he had retained from his troublesome past.

The thing is, it hurt me to think he didn't trust me enough with his reasoning. That he didn't want to tell me about his thoughts. I'd been extremely careful and meticulous with any information he'd granted me, I was sure to never let what he told me change my opinion of him. I vowed to never look at him any different.

So, why could he not promise me the same?

-

There was no point in pushing myself from my sheets the next morning. I knew how long his episodes usually lasted, I wouldn't even have to try talking to him for at least two more days. Normally, I'd try, though. I'd sit in the grass right next to where he was working outside, just talking to him about anything and everything I could think of. Back then I thought for his silence to mean confusion, I thought his swirling mind simply needed a break. That a distraction would do him good.

I sat in the barely-molten grass for hours, never getting a reply.

His smell was constricting my airways slowly, every inhale making it harder and harder to breathe. What if Phil was right, what if he truly didn't love me, or not anymore at least? What if it was all an act to have a warm body to fall asleep next to, to have an extra set of hands around the cottage.

I kicked at the sheets, desperate to get them away from me, to get them from clinging to my sweaty body. I only tangled my legs further into the mess. The bed creaked loudly against the wooden floor of the attic, a gust of wind running through a small gap in the roof.

I shot up, finally being able to rid my body of the sheets. I huffed a few times, the annoyance getting the better of me. I slung my legs over the side of the bed, now just sitting on the wooden frame, letting my eyes wander over the walls. The pictures of us that were tightly tacked to the planks, photos of our favorite pets and our best of friends. Photos of us with Phil and Tommy, and even a stray photo of me and Wilbur, back when we were kids.

My gaze found its way towards the singular window behind our bed, the only one of two walls that weren't entirely slanted. His red robe stood out like a sore thumb in the feeble blanket of slushy snow that had been slowly accumulating over the course of the night. Summer was officially over once again, and the cold would soon make it so we could no longer afford to sleep alone.

He rarely wore his robe outside of special occasions, he usually would simply opt for one of his brown ones. One was trimmed with a thick deer fur, the leather on it sure to keep all frost out. The other one was his summer one, the more dirty one of the two. It was always stained with blood, since it would also be the one he went hunting with. He disliked hunting in the winter, the harsh winds and easily discernible prints made it no fun, according to him. He stacked up during the summer, drying his meats to allow them to be kept safe for months, if not years.

But now he was wearing his red robe, lined with the finest of polar bear fur. The one that had the special compartments for his potions, and the one I had sown a totem into. For good luck. He rarely wore it for any occasion but war.

He pushed himself from the ground, turning around swiftly; the velocity making his cape whisk dramatically up in the wind. His eyes seemed fixated on the ground until they unwarrantedly shot up to the window I was sitting at. Any other day, I would've averted my gaze. Not now. He knew I was staring, and he was allowed to know so. I held my eyes on him until his feet carried him out of sight, into the house. I sighed softly, I felt entirely forlorn without him, without his caring hands and loving eyes. I let myself fall back into the bed, cuddling the sheets once again as I curled away from the entrance. I reckoned he would have to change out of his robe soon, and I didn't want to face him when he did.

-

I heard the front door slam, and as predicted the rungs of the many ladders soon creaked in his hold. The worn, practically ancient, trapdoor was pushed ajar behind me. I couldn't be bothered to turn to meet his eyes. However, instead of quietly changing out of his clothes, I felt the bed dip. He sat on the side of it, much alike to how I had found myself just minutes before.

"I don't like feeling weak." His voice was rougher than usual, it kept its usual monotone aura, but for some reason, it felt more emotional than ever before. He cleared his throat as if to try and mask it, to no avail, "I don't love you any less."

I shifted in the bed, though, he quickly stopped me, "Don't look at me, that just makes it harder."

I obliged. He let out a trembling sigh, taking his sweet time to deliberate his next words, "Sometimes we are outside together and I'm afraid that when they see how much I care about you, they will realize that you make me weak." I stared at the wall, still curled into the blankets. I wanted nothing more than to hold his face, look at him as he spoke. Instead, I had to make do with the pictures of his face plastered on the wood. His pointy, flappy ears and peaked nose. The two sharp-looking fangs set in the corners of his lips, ones that seemed to disappear when he smiled. He didn't like smiling for pictures, I didn't have a single one of the two of us together where he smiled. The only ones that showed his beautiful pearly whites were the ones that had me behind the camera, something I only then realized might've not been a coincidence.

"It scares me to think they could hurt you for loving me, that's why I don't like holding your hand in town." I shot a quick look over my shoulder, his back was slouched over, his head in his hands with his elbows propped on his knees. He wasn't crying, he simply seemed lost."I never realized that what scares me even more is the idea of you not loving me at all."

I slowly crept from under the sheets as his words fell silent. I crawled over towards where he was sat, near the foot-end of the bed. I took one of his hands from where he had rested his face on it and pulled it out of the way.

I snaked my arms around his neck, pulling my body into his. I draped my legs over his lap as I held him. His built arms felt tender against my exposed back, however, he held me tight. He squeezed softly as another quivering breath escaped his lips. We sat in embrace for a while.

"That's all I asked for, Tech." I smiled into his neck. "I just wanted to talk, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?"

"Shut up." He playfully tried pushing me away from his torso, underestimating the power of my cling. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

#angst #fluff #fight #argument #technoblade #oneshot #one shot #kit harington imagine #florenc #dreamsmp #dream smp #dsmp #dteam #dream team #dreamteam #dreamwastaken #dream #sapnap #georgenotfound #wilbur soot #wilbursoot #fanfic #fanfiction #youtube] #twitch #mcyt #minecraft #au

[moral-turpitudes]

I’ll Follow You Into The Dark:

Masterlist | Rules | Peaky Prompts

Trigger Warnings: ANGST, Explosions, Mentions of Blood, Gore etc, and some Fluff.

*Based on Fluff Prompt #1 from my Peaky Prompts list.*

Word Count: 1,695

Characters: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Anon, you can find it here.

Summary: When Thomas and the rest of the blinders head towards a trap, Y/N has to decide if they’ll stay behind or go with them. Knowing that they vowed to be with him until death.

“If heaven and hell decide That they both are satisfied Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark”

- Death Cab for Cutie

The sound of explosions rang faintly in the distance as you held your hands over your ears, the impact dulling your hearing as a sharp ringing filled them.

“Tom!” You yelled into the void, hoping to hear him through the chaos.

Silence.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you crawled through the sharp debris, looking for the bomb that was set off nearby, hoping to find the remnants of the man who taunted your family and made the fatal mistake of stepping in his own trap. His evil smirk etching it’s way into your memory as he walked in the lavish room ever-so carefully. Thinking he’d be able to avoid the perilous wires near his foot as you spotted them before he did, your warning causing him to take his final step. Your hands soon scraping through the chunks of drywall and broken glass as the dust and smoke burned your eyes and lungs, your mind racing with finding the man whom you’d followed that day into the trenches, so-to-speak. 

Every Peaky Blinders mission for Thomas was like a battle, his mind always set on planning attacks to escape the scraping sound of the shovels against the hot, dark tunnels. But as always, no matter how many times he tried to stay one step ahead of his rivals, someone always got in the way. 

It started out as an ordinary day, Thomas calling a meeting and giving orders to head to the latest location on his mental hit-list. The name making your heart sink as you realized he was walking into a trap. The infamous, cunning gang leader you’d came to share a bed with was going to waltz right into what he swore he never would.

“Any questions?” He asked, his eyes lingering on yours as he blew out a puff of smoke.

Everyone nodded along except you, knowing the people they were going after were just as dangerous. That week, the rival gang had crossed the line, threatening and taunting the Shelby family with letters and fake explosives just to remind them of “who really ran the town.” One of them said in a tense phone call to Thomas, setting off the chain of events leading up to now.

The decision to leave your clerical duties was a rash one. Nervously following your husbands car to their destination. Once there, you parked a ways back, behind a slew of trees. Your steps light against the cobblestones as you got closer to them, knowing in your heart you had to warn him, even if it was the last thing you’d say to the man you loved.

“Tommy! Wait!” You said loudly, your heart racing from the effort it took to catch up to him and his brothers.

“Y/N...you need to go back to the shop, it’s not safe. Go.” He said lowly, not wanting to call attention to you all.

“I came here to warn you Tom. Remember when you sent me to sit in on their meeting at the pub? They mentioned a trap. I-I didn’t think much of it then, but after the threats...Tom I know it’s a trap. If you go in there now you won’t make it out.” You said as tears formed in your eyes, your nerves getting to you as you struggled to speak. 

“I have to, love. Now go.” He said, kissing you quickly. 

“No. I’m going with you.” You said defiantly, pulling out the handgun he gave you, checking to make sure it was fully loaded.

He had a pained look on his face as he nodded, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to change your mind. You’d been a good shot in the past, but that didn’t exactly mean much when explosives were concerned.

You all had barely made it through the first floor of the large manor before the first one went off. Thomas shoving you to the ground, shielding you from the small debris falling through the air. As the haze cleared, you sat up, feeling Thomas pull you to the nearest wall, yelling orders at his brothers before checking his bullets.

“Keep your eyes peeled for the wires yeah? Stay behind me.” He said, opening the door as the dust covered space cleared. You walked closely behind, quietly looking at the ground for any signs of the deadly wires as you heard yelling upstairs. Arthur was shouting amongst gunfire, and John sounded like he was scrapping with one of the men they were after.

Thomas roughly took your hand, leading you up the stairs in a sideways motion, backs towards the wall, checking around the corner with a quick glance before a bullet whizzed past your head. A scream caught in your throat as you realized how close you were to the darkness of death itself. Thomas soon returned fire, the screams of the man he hit echoing through the stone hallway that led to his brothers.

Upon arrival, you flanked your husband, pointing your gun at the man holding John down as Thomas shot the other.

“Get off of him!” You yelled, catching the mans attention enough to where John could get a punch in. The man hurling himself angrily at you soon enough until you shakily shot him. The man falling limp to the ground within seconds. Your hands shook as you took in the sight, trying to distract yourself from the blood by looking at the ground for more wires.

Almost as soon as you’d said that though, the man who’d sent you all the taunting letters came in with a menacing smirk, stepping in a weird way so as not to disturb the floor. But your eyes saw the colored wires poking out ever so slightly, your brain wondering how in the hell you all avoided it earlier.

“Everybody down!” You yelled, causing the man to misstep, setting it off. The wind soon knocked out of you as the blast hurled everyone to the ground. The ceiling caving in in various places as well as part of the floor below you.

You felt yourself relax as you breathed in the smoke, feeling as though you were going to pass out from the ordeal. The sharp pain of the glass shards stuck in your now shredded coat the only thing keeping you clinging to consciousness. As you closed your eyes, you pictured what life would be like if he’d never had the family business thrust upon him after the war. How he’d have probably married you sooner and how you’d probably be chasing little kids around by now in a big house on the outskirts of town. But now, reality set in as Arthur’s shouts came through the muddled noise, Johns following not too far behind as they ran towards you, grabbing you up in the knick of time. The once lavish building crumbling before your eyes as you knew the one you loved was most likely gone.

“Tom!” You called out, hands still scraping through the rubble of the first floor as Arthur and John dug through the rest of the larger stuff. Tears visibly splattering on the dust covered floor, the tiles smashed beyond repair.

Your heart ached knowing you’d never find him as you scraped through the debris, your hearing slowly coming back and eyes watering as you continued on, stopping once a hand reached out from one of the corners.

“Y/N.....” Thomas said weakly, his arm badly cut and his face busted up as he spat up blood, most likely from his busted lip or the jagged stone poking him in the chest. It most definitely broke a few ribs, causing him too much pain to move as he thought about what to do, even though he couldn’t do much of anything at the moment.

It seemed like he waited longer now, than he did for the calvary in France, for his brothers to make it to where he was. Helping him up despite his loud groans of pain.

You watched in horror as they drove him to the hospital, his face paling as you followed behind their car, hoping that neither heaven nor hell would take him, even though he belonged to the latter. Hoping that he would stay here, for you. For his family.

Hours had slowly passed until you’d gotten word he was going to make it, the doctors saying he was damn well close to dying by the time they’d got him in surgery.

“There you are love.” He said weakly, the meds doing his head in as he saw you walk in carrying his beloved cigarettes and his bloodstained coat. Your own body covered in various bandages as you sat next to his bed.

“I thought you were dead.” You said, tears rolling down your cheeks as he cupped your face with his hand. A small, pained laugh escaping his lips.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Y/N.” He said. Knowing he might as well have nine lives with as close he’s been to death over the years.

“I know...” you said shortly, holding his bruised hand in yours that were bandaged up.

“But...please promise me...that next time you’ll listen to me. At least when I know it’s a trap alright?” You asked, concern lacing your every feature as you felt him pull your hand to his lips, kissing the top of it gently.

“I will, but promise me something as well.” He said.

“What?” You asked.

“Promise me you won’t follow me next time. You shouldn’t have to risk your life for me.” He said, a serious look in his tired, blood-shot eyes.

“I can’t promise that Tommy. I’ll follow you into the dark not matter what. I fucking vowed to you know.” You said, pointing at the diamond on your ring finger.

“Aye, but you’re my partner. Can’t have you dying too.” He said.

“That is true, but what is love without sacrifice?” You said, giving him a light kiss as he pulled you close despite his injuries. Wanting to feel you beside him, to know that he wasn’t stuck in the rubble anymore, to know that he had you, and you had him.

Thomas Shelby Tag List:

@msbzowy, @nofckingfighting, @aranoburns, @sighonahurricane, @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes, @gaytommyshelby,  @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby, @inglourious-imagines, @thebloodyshelbys, @tsolomons, @blinder-secrets, @reveparade, @shelby-fanatic, @ta-ka-shi-ma, @psychkunox, @peakyxtommy, @captivatedbycillianmurphy,@dreamwastakenx,

@lovemissyhoneybee @thomashelbyswhore​, @xxbeckybeexx-blog

If you’d like to be added/removed just send me an ask or message! :)

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders oneshots #peaky blinders fanfic #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x y/n #katiesfics #katiesanons #katiesrequests #tommy shelby #tw: explosions #arthur shelby #john shelby

[no-droids]

The Sun on Both Sides

Summary: Cassian Andor is your very close companion.  He says best friend, you say pain in your ass—neither one of you are entirely wrong.  But then one night you smoke some unfamiliar spice with him, and everything you once thought you knew goes sideways.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Cassian Andor/fem!Reader

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: SMUT, sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), recreational drug use, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, dirty talk, oral sex (both male and female receiving), penetrative sex, me just making so much shit up honestly

A/N: All phrases in Festan are taken from other Star Wars conlangs.  I don’t even know if that’s the name of the language people from Fest speak tbh.  Probably not.  None of this is real.  Anyways this is Cassian as a young rebel pilot long before the events of Rogue One.  This oneshot will likely be deemed obsolete by Cassian’s new Disney+ show but whoooooooops~

—knock knock knock knock knock—

You know that knock.  It’s too quick, too rapid and annoying to be anyone else.

“I’m sleeping,” you huff with your mouth full, sitting on top of your mattress in a hoodie and sweatpants, legs crossed.

“I have gifts,” Cassian’s muffled voice asserts from the other side of the door.

“I don’t care,” you return, swallowing and shoveling more slop together with your tiny little biodegradable spork.  “S’the middle of the night.”

—knock knock knock knock knock—

“Stop it.”

“Knock knock,” he beckons vocally, as if you didn’t hear it the first ten times.  “Come, open the door.  Please—I will get into trouble.”

It’s exhausting being Cassian’s friend.  Truly exhausting.  It doesn’t matter what Maker-forsaken time it is, as soon as he comes back to base from patrols, he’s at your door.  You don’t know why he chose you as his sole victim to personally inflict this torture upon, but regardless of reason, he’s called you his close friend ever since you first offered to help the lanky, dark-haired six year old with his Basic and his best friend ever since your junior year of flight training.  Apparently with the promotion came the lingering, severe misfortune of his present company, almost always.

“Can I put in for a transfer?”  He also technically outranks you.

“Open the door and we will talk,” Cassian bargains.  Bantha shit, you and him both know it.  He’ll rip the papers in half before you can even finish filling them out.

You let out a dramatic groan just loud enough for him to hear, dragging yourself off the bed and padding over to the door.  “If I accept your gift, will you leave?”

“Maybe.”  No.

“If I accept your gift and trade it for the rest of this, uh,” you look at the MRE packet in your hands, “rice and shredded tauntaun meat in glockaw sauce, will you leave?”

“Maybe.”  No.

“Good call, not as great as it sounds.  What if I—”

He says your name impatiently, accented and sharp.  You roll your eyes as his knuckles rap on the door once more.  “Quickly, quickly—before someone sees.”

“It’s the residential quarters and it’s two in the fucking morning, Cass, nobody’s going t—”

He cuts you off once more.  “Open the door and I will submit for your transfer work, yes?”

You throw your spork prong-down into the beige pouch in your hands and pop your hip, narrowing your eyebrows at the thick slab of metal separating the two of you skeptically.  “No, you won’t.”

“No, I will not,” the voice behind it concedes immediately.  “But for you, I will pretend.”

As soon as you the door slides open and disappears up into the ceiling with a quiet shhhft sound, his dark silhouette quickly slips past you and sneaks into your room, immediately bouncing his bony little butt down on top of your sizable but thin box-spring mattress without a word.  You press the button to close the door behind him with a long, drawn out sigh, turning around and resting your back against the wall panel.

Cassian meets your tired, expectant gaze head-on and wide awake, perched on your bed and huddled around something hidden in his thick jacket.  “First.  You cannot tell anyone.  Understand?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.  “Are we children, Cass?”

“Secondly.”  He blinks up at you.  Maker, his eyes are so… wide.  Dark and warm and bright, framed with thick, long lashes.  “If you do not want it, just say.  Okay?”

Your expression suddenly narrows.  This is new.  It’s… still bantha shit, but it’s… new.  New bantha shit.

“Because the word ‘no’ holds so much meaning for you,” you tilt your head to gesture at the door to your right, “clearly.”

“Come.  Sit here,” he ignores you, patting the space next to him as if that isn’t your own fucking bed he’s inviting you to join him on.  “We will look together.”

“I will literally murder you,” you tell him genuinely, though you push off the wall to move toward him all the same.  “If that’s not a cute little mini-lothcat in your arms you got me for my birthday, Andor, I will literally murder you.”

“Today is your birthday?”  He glances up at you in surprise just as you’re lowering yourself down onto the mattress next to him.

“Two weeks ago, but you were off-base.”  You dig around inside the pouch for your handy little spork, not looking at him.  “Quit avoiding the subject, my death threat still stands.  Where’s my cat, asshole?  Who do I have to tolerate in my bed this late at night to push that kind of paperwor—oof—”

The second you catch the hard little end piece of it between your fingers is the second he reaches around you and pulls you into a tight, one-armed hug.  You fumble with the packet of food as you’re abruptly jerked forward, trying not to let it get squished it between you.

Stars, he smells good.  His parka smells just like him, the fur lining its hood so warm and fluffy and soft as it tickles your nose.  It’s still slightly damp from the wet sleet outside, but it smells so good.  The smallest undercurrent of clove and spice hidden beneath the sharp, clean scent of fresh snow.

“Happy Year-Over, caraya,” Cassian says next to your ear, quiet and fond.  “I know it is late, but I have your gift now.”

“‘Caraya’ better be Festan for ‘here’s your cute little lothcat, birthday girl’,” you warn him, moving to rest your chin on top of his padded shoulder and trying not to sound as breathless or affected by his sweet talking as you feel.  He’s never called you that before.  Caraya.  What does it mean?

It’s… it’s bantha shit, you remind yourself, trying not to close your eyes or lean into his half-embrace.  It’s all bantha shit.

“No,” Cassian acknowledges with a small head tilt, pulling his shoulder back but still keeping his long arm wrapped tight around you.  “No.  Not a… a cat, but…”  He slowly opens his other hand between the two of you, finally showing you.

You blink down at the thing in his palm, cradled carefully in thick gloves from the sub-zero temperatures outside.  It’s.  No, he’s right, it’s not a cat.  It’s a… a stick.  Reddish-pink, ground up plant matter wrapped in a semi-transparent binding.  Rolled up in a nice, even cylinder, a filter secured around one of its ends.

Spice.  Hand-rolled.  Expensive.  Probably swiped off a supply raid, whether by Cassian himself or another rebel fighter he bought it off of.  Ludicrous he got his hands on it, much less brought it on base.  Here, to your fucking quarters.

“I was wrong,” you eventually say, taking the joint from his open palm and holding it up to examine its strange color in the dim light.  “You don’t think we’re children.  You think we’re teenagers.”

“I think we are adults,” he corrects, swiping the MRE from your other hand, “with a reason to celebrate.”  He releases you and takes his arm back, sitting on your bed and digging two fingers around in your half-finished packet for your spork.

“You’re a bold pilot, Cass,” you tell him, studying the spice.  You’ve never seen any strain even similar to this before.  “It was one thing to do this during flight training, but now?  What happens if we have a piss test tomorrow?  Or, well—today, actually?”

“Different kind from before.”  He doesn’t sound bothered by the thought, though his mouth is currently full of tauntaun and rice in glockaw sauce.  “Only five hours high, not detectable after.  Piss tests are expensive, the rebellion has no money.”

“X-wings are expensive, too,” you counter, turning to look at him.  “You crash one of ‘em ‘cause you smoked this shit and your ass will be dead before you can even survive.”

“You hurt me.”  He uses the utensil to dig around the bottom corners of the packet for more slop, not looking hurt in the least.  “Also—you were right.  This one is… horrible.”

“Not to mention I have a oh-nine-hundred call.”  You both watch each other with matching looks of distaste as he continues to eat your food, clearly neither one of you enjoying it.  “You’re giving me barely two hours to come down before I got orange jumpsuits crawling all over me.”

“You did not hear?”  Cassian swallows.  “Reassigned Dreis during debriefing.  I will be leading red squadron tomorrow.  Or, today.”

You blink at him.  “You’re kidding.”

“No,” he shakes his head exactly once, throwing the spork into the empty packet and flattening it.  “No, I would not do that to you.”

“Course not,” you agree diplomatically.  “You’d just barge into my room at two in the morning, eat my food, offer me drugs, and then tell me I’ll be taking orders from you tomorrow.”

”Today,” he corrects.  “But I could not get our call changed, and for that I am sorry.”  He lifts an eyebrow at you, quirking the side of his mouth up and pushing the empty MRE pouch into your hands to throw away.  “But only for that.  Happy birthday?”

“We’re going to lose this war,” you tell him honestly, sliding off your mattress with a sigh to trash it.  “We’re all going to die horribly, and painfully.  The Rebellion is fucking doomed.  You and I will be but a mere footnote in the Empire’s endless reign of terror, you realize.  A footnote.  Our names at the very, very bottom of the page, in tiny little six point font, and it’ll link to a one sentence obituary for the both of us.  Died horribly and in pain.  Did you bring a lighter?”

“Here,” Cassian shifts to one buttcheek and pulls an arc lighter from his back pocket, offering it to you when you come back.  “Okay?  You will start it then?  Birthday girl.”

“You said five hours for one person, right?  So that’s two and a half each if we split it,” you reason with a shrug, putting the filter to your lips and talking through the side of your mouth.  “Two o’clock right now, nine-hundred call.  At least four hours to come down, and thirty minutes to shower if we’re both lucky.”

“We will be fine.”  He waves your careful calculations away with his hand as you flick the lighter.  “Because we are lucky feetnotes, yes?”

***

You’re not fine.

It’s fucking boiling in here.  Maker, you’re on fucking Hoth; why the fuck are you boiling?  It’s never even been warm in your quarters before, much less this hot.  You feel like you’re sweating buckets through your hoodie, your hair sticking to your neck in thin little curls.

And… and Cassian.

He’s sitting so unbelievably straight on the bed across from you, parka and gloves long abandoned on the floor.  His dark eyes flick over to you occasionally, though it looks like he’s trying really hard not to move a single muscle other than that.  His hands are clamped tightly between his thighs and he just… holds there.  A compact, rigid statue perched upright on the mattress, looking far too still and tense to fit the comfort of his surroundings.

“Are you okay?”  You ask him, blinking at how hoarse your voice comes out sounding.  Holy fuck, your mouth feels like a desert.  

Cassian stares at you, and for some reason, his large, expressive eyes seem even wider now.  They’re glassy and a bit red, but also so big and lovely and framed with long, dark lashes.

“This is not.”  His accent sounds thicker, words coming out deeper in his throat.  It settles down inside you just right and you feel a spark of heat at the base of your spine.  He blinks twice.  “This is not how it usually feels.”

“Should we stop?”  You look down at the half-finished joint in your hand, tilting your head thoughtfully as you consider the drug pulsing through your veins.  “It’s… it’s different, but I think it feels good.”

“Yes—I…”  He closes his eyes.  “Th-that is the problem, I think.”

He shifts a bit on the mattress and bites down on his bottom lip, and you must look so fucking dumb as you stare at him with your jaw slack, watching his lithe body stretch and handle the spice.  He’s fucking gorgeous.  Stars, you always thought he was gorgeous, but this is something else.  He flutters his eyes open to look at you through his lashes, and—

—oh.  Oh.  You see now.  You see what he meant.  Warmth pools deep down in your tummy as he looks at you with impossibly dark eyes, slowly drags his glassy gaze down your body.  Fuck, you’re getting turned on.  You go red and blink softly at him while he stares at you, trying to control your breathing.

“You need to—” your voice jumps, trying to remember the right cadence.  How do you speak to him normally?  “You can… take—take my pillow, if you want.  Lay down.  You’re too tall, your eyes are too big.  Look like a… like a Kaminoan.  Heal any—heal any clones recently?”

Bad joke.  Maker, he’s so beautiful.  Rich, dark features taking you in, blinking slowly at you and clearly not hearing a single word you said.

You shift your weight and throw him the cushion you’re partially sitting on without waiting for an answer.  You both need to calm the fuck down.  Hopefully the pillow will help.  Even if it’s squished and warm from your butt.  “It’s warm ‘cause I was sitting on it, m’sorry.  Fuck, it’s warm in here.  Do you think it’s warm in here?”

It’s like he still doesn’t hear you.  Cassian just takes your flattened pillow in his lap and looks at it for way too long, slowly rubs the fabric on the corner between his fingers and examines it, like if he tries hard enough he’ll be able to see through it.

“Cass,” you eventually call his name in reminder.  “Lay down, put that under your head—”

“Do you feel turned on?”  He asks quite suddenly, whipping his head to the side to look at you.  You almost drop the spice.

“No,” you say immediately, acting on impulse alone and trying to rearrange your face into something… something negative.  Something just generally negative, because you can’t even think of a negative emotion specific enough with the way your heart is pounding at the thought of something like this actually happening right now.  Holy fuck, you’re sweating.  What the fuck is in this shit?  “No, of course not.”

“Of course not,” he nods, turning back to look at your pillow.  “Me too.  Not.”  He shakes his head.  “Neither.  Either?”

“Lay down,” you tell him once more, desperately needing something else to do now, something to distract yourself from the way your lower muscles are starting to cramp up with heat and arousal.  “I’ll get us some water.  We need water.”

You’re off the bed and setting the smoldering spice on the small metal counter without another word, grabbing two empty cups and beginning to fill them up in the tiny little sink with your back to him. 

Stars, he was right.  It’s not supposed to feel like this.  It feels… it feels like everything is burning inside you, but such a good burn.  Like your mind is being seduced by your own body right now instead of the other way around, and the paradoxical sensation is manifesting itself in an unprecedentedly strong urge to jump your best friend’s bones.  The urge has always been there, granted, but it’s never been this shameless before.  Never arced and pulsed so brilliantly in your veins before, never been steadily fed by such a tempting outside source.  Not the drugs—but him.  The tangible fuck-me vibes Cassian is radiating towards you right now, staring at your back with those big, gorgeous brown eyes of his, silent and unmoving behind you as he watches you from your bed.  He’s never done anything to encourage your desire for him like this before.  He’s never wanted anything more than just platonic companionship and playful banter in the midst of war zones from you, and yet you can feel the heat burning from him too, feel it start to intensify your own high.

It’s bantha shit, you have to realize.  This whole Maker-forsaken situation—it’s forced; none of it’s real.  Cassian is your best friend, and he’s only looking at you like this because spice is chemically altering his hormones right now.  You can feel it doing the same to you, just steadily stirring deep in your floor muscles and amplifying your baser desires, but you need to snap yourself the fuck out of it and be the levelheaded one here.  Despite the arousal burning hot in your tummy, at least you know your thoughts are still fundamentally sound—in contrast, you have no fucking clue what’s going on in that hard head of his right now.  At least one of you needs to buck up, handle your drugs, and be the adult before things get out of hand.  If it falls to you, then so be it.

You focus on your breathing and do as much as you can to mentally will the tingling sensation down deep.  Taking a second to put a comfortable expression on, you finally turn around and start walking back to him.

When you raise your head and make eye contact with Cassian again though, the look in his eyes almost immediately threatens to undo everything you just decided.  Fuck, he looks like he just had an internal pep talk of his own, but in the entirely wrong direction you went.  He’s a bit more relaxed now, same as you, but his gaze is now searing hot on your body, tangible enough to stop you dead in your tracks in front of him.  It burns through you, and you literally feel the sweat drip down your back as a shiver rolls down your spine.

No.  Hold strong.  Maker, irresponsibility has always been appealing but never so fucking seductive as this is, has it?  Taking such a gorgeous fucking form.  You take a few more steps forward, quickly trying to gather composure.

“Should we stop?”  You ask him once more and stars, you were aiming for calmer and gentler and with more lung support—not this breathless scrape of a sound that feels like sandpaper in your throat.  He hasn’t said a fucking word and your resolve is already wavering.  You try not to make eye contact as you carefully hand him one of the cups.  “We’re only twenty minutes in, barely halfway through it.  We can stop and coast, it’s not a big deal.”

Cassian takes the water from your outstretched hand, letting the tips of his fingers brush lightly across yours in the process.  Your heart skips in your chest.  “Do you want to stop?”

You absolutely should fucking stop.  Just standing here and handing him water without ripping your clothes off is a challenge; you’ve still got half a joint left and you’re not even sure you’ve reached the come-up yet.  What if this is just the beginning?  What if this is just laying the foundation?  What happens when you actually peak on this shit?

“It’s not a big deal,” you repeat instead, keeping your answer as ambiguous as possible and taking a sip of the blessedly cold liquid.  At least the water is responding correctly to the frigid environment on this horrible fucking planet.  You feel ready to burn up.  “Just wanna make sure you’re cool.”

Cassian flicks his eyes over to the joint still cherried and smoking on the metal counter behind you.  “We can keep going.”

Your breathing picks up slightly.  Does he know what he’s really asking right now?  He has to have figured out what that spice does by now, right?  But no, he’s so steadfast in the way he looks at you, blinking up at you confidently.  Fuck, you should stop.  You should stop.

You should… compromise?

“If we keep going, no more of this,” you tell him, gesturing to the way he still hasn’t moved or drank any of the water in his cup.  “You need to.  Chill out, alright.  Act normal.”

Fuck, you’re normally so blunt and outspoken with him, so why is it that everything happening here is so fucking unsaid?  Everything is transpiring right below the surface, a conversation taking place within another conversation.  You’re telling him to cut the heart eyes, lay back on the bed and spend some rare quality time with his best friend.  Regardless of the weird side effects, this spice is still giving you an incredibly strong body high.  If he could just stop looking at you like that so you can stop rhythmically clenching and pulsing between your legs, you’d probably be incredibly relaxed right now.

“I will lay down,” he finally agrees, breaking eye contact with you and grabbing the pillow from his lap so he can throw it down next to him.  “Go, get the rest of it.”

“Drink.”  You stay rooted to your spot.

He gulps down the entire cup of water right in front of you, and something about how sassy and exaggerated it is makes you unwind just a bit and head back for the spice.

This is better, you think.  Butting heads with your strong personalities is better than whatever mind games you two were playing before, more familiar and grounding.  Cassian sets down his empty cup on the floor as you pick up the joint, and then you sit on the edge of the mattress across from him when you come back.

“So how were patrols?”  You ask him, taking another hit of it and studying the strange color it burns as you hold the smoke in your lungs, almost a light pink.

“Not bad,” he says, scooting back to lay lengthwise across the back of the bed.  His long legs stick off the end but he looks way more comfortable now, settling back into the pillow and watching you with a calmer, more easy-going look in his eyes.

“Where’d you get sent this time?”  You have to lean forward quite a bit to hand him the spice.

“The Lothal Sector,” Cassian responds casually, taking it from you.

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, already unamused before he’s even started to mess with you.  “I will shoot down red leader tomorrow, Cass, don’t you dare fucking test m—”

“A local was trying to sell kittens to the pilots,” he goes on, completely ignoring you and relaxing back down into the mattress with the joint between his fingers.  “They were very cute.  But then I tell him no, because I did not know of anyone who could care for one.”

“That’s not fucking funny.” Cassian smiles slowly at you as you glare back at him very, very sternly.  “This is a no lothcat joking zone, I’m sensitive about this.”

He keeps smiling even as he takes his hit, gentle and fond and lovely on his face, but his eyes eventually go softer and a bit melancholy on the exhale.  

“I am sorry I missed your birthday, caraya,” he says to you truthfully, something sincere and tender in the way he looks at you.  “But I will get you something better than a cat.”

“What does that mean?”  You lean forward and grab the spice from him when he holds it out for you.

“No idea,” he admits during the careful exchange.  “Maybe something with less claws and teeth, I think.”

“No,” you shake your head, settling back on your butt once more.  “Caraya.  What does that mean?”

Cassian quickly opens his mouth to reply, but then pauses and takes a second.  As if he’s debating on what exactly he wants to tell you.  You inhale from the spice held between your fingers and wait patiently for him.  Probably something to do with birthdays, right?  Since he only started calling you that after you told him he missed yours.

You end up waiting for his answer so long, you actually feel like you should take another hit.  But when Cassian does eventually speak, it’s incredibly calculated and slow, like he’s actively trying to find the correct words to translate its exact meaning into Basic.

“Fest is part of a binary star system,” he finally tells you, breaking the silence.  “It is… it is what my people call the times when… when one of the stars sets while the other is rising on the opposite horizon.”

You pause with the joint halfway to your mouth, staring dumbly at him.

“It is rare.  I have seen it only twice.  Each time, for less than a minute.  It is very rare for them to match up perfectly, but when they do.”  His eyes go a bit softer, losing himself in his memories instead of concentrating so much on the words.  “The sky shines with every color.  Reds, yellows, and pinks to the west; blues, indigos, and violets to the east.  It is… it is also… something we call the ones close to us,” he continues, blinking his gaze slowly back to you.  “Caraya na cotâ vi zas iz’búsdari.  To care and be cared for is to feel the sun on both sides.”

You… you just keep staring at him.  Blank, unmoving, not really even breathing.  Your chest suddenly feels incredibly tight.  He looks back at you and stars, he looks so fucking gorgeous; long lashes dusting over his cheekbones at this angle, one hand resting lazily over his abdomen as he relaxes on your bed.

“It sounds…”  You sound winded.  “Lovely.”

“Yes,” Cassian returns softly, tilting his head on your pillow and blinking at you.  “It is.”

You don’t know why the fuck you thought this would be okay, honestly.  This whole thing was such a horrendous fucking idea right from the start.  You’re surprised you haven’t set the both of you on fire by dropping the lit spice between your fingers.  You were a fucking idiot to think you could resist him.  You were overconfident, underestimating him the way you did.  It’s like… like he’s approaching this in surges, almost.  Lulling you into a false sense of security for a bit, and then carefully pushes forward, toeing the line between best friend and person he wants to fuck and seeing how much you’ll let him get away with.

You’re… you’re a weak, spineless little thing.

“Is it—is it your turn?” You eventually ask him, looking down at the joint in your hands.  It’s barely above a whisper and it’s vaguely squeaky and it’s probably one of the dumbest fucking things you’ve ever asked in your life.  Of course it’s his turn, who the fuck else’s turn would it be?  

Cassian would normally rip into you for being such an idiot, but he doesn’t.  He just blinks softly at you, pupils dilated and glassy as they take you in.

“Would you like to…”  He sounds equally breathless now, swallowing thickly before he speaks again.  “You can… come closer, if you want.  Here.  With me.”  He pats his belly.  “No more reaching.”

What is… what is happening right now?  Is Cassian Andor actually, like—for real making a move on you?  His best friend?  The one he’s never looked twice at?

“You want me to…?”  Your cunt clenches.  Stars, you’re so wet already.  You can feel it, dampening your underwear as his eyes flutter slightly at the rasp in your voice.

“Come,” he pats his stomach once more.  “Lay down with me.”

You slowly begin to shuffle over to him on shaky knees, trying to move normally as he watches you.  He stretches out across the back of the bed, giving you a perfect spot along his open torso to relax into.  Your heart pounds as you carefully hand the spice to him before settling yourself on your back with your head on his tummy, making a little perpendicular t-shape with him on the mattress, vision slightly blurry but pulsing at the same time.

Maker, he smells so fucking good.  He smells like fresh snow and something warm at the same time, so lean and long above you.  You’re almost panting now, burning up in your thick layers as you try to get comfortable.

“Maker, it’s so fucking hot in here,” you whisper, using your sleeve to wipe the sweat gathering at your temples.  “Fuck.”

“Take off your shirt,” Cassian suggests quietly, and your mouth instantly goes bone dry, your chest forgetting to rise again after it collapses with a quick whoosh of breath.  “You have something on underneath, yes?”  He adds quickly before you can completely ignite in flames.  “Take off the top one.”

You… you have a thin undershirt on, but nothing underneath that.  It’s nearing three in the morning, of course you don’t have a bra on right now.  And the undershirt is white, and you’re sweating buckets, which means—

“It… it might show some…”  You have no clue how to phrase this, but Cassian quickly responds.

“It is just me,” he reassures, carefully reaching his arm around your head to hold the joint up to your lips for you.  You inhale the drug deeply, watching the pink light illuminate the tips of his fingers.  “We are best friends, and this is your room.  You should relax.”

Maker, this is… this is dangerous.  He’s dangerous.  He’s smart, choosing to go at it from this angle.  He’s not toeing the line anymore, he’s just… blurring it until it doesn’t exist anymore.  Or better yet, just walking over it and pretending it doesn’t exist at all.  Pretending nothing at all is happening between you right now.  Trying to see whether you’ll be more willing to give in if he comes at you from the side like this, not necessarily catching you off guard but refusing to outright confront you about it either.

Apparently precedent rules.  You’re a weak, spineless little thing, especially when presented with such a compelling out.  He’s… he’s totally right.  You are best friends, this is your room, and you should relax.  Nothing sexual about it at all, right?  Furthermore, relaxing trumps overheating any fucking day of the week, so… so that’s why you tell yourself it’s okay to sit up and immediately reach behind your head, grabbing the hoodie and beginning to pull the thick fabric off.  

Only, it’s damp and clings to your thin undershirt, dragging both of them up the length of your back as it goes.  You stop when the lower hem pulls up just below your breasts, trying to reach back behind your head even further and separate the two materials but struggling with the angle.

“Cass,” you eventually prompt, trying not to flush.  Not like he’d be able to tell, though; you’ve been unbearably warm and fidgety this entire time, your embarrassment conceals itself without your assistance.  “You wanna help me?  Or you just wanna keep watching?”

“Do not ask me such stupid questions,” he tells you plainly, unmoving.  “What did I say?  We are best friends.  Of course I am not going to help you.  You are…” he trails off when you lift your shoulders upright just a bit to see if the angle will work better that way.  It does, but the fabric drags further up your ribcage from the shift, “…You are nice to watch.”

Your heart pounds, and you’re even clumsier knowing he’s staring at your exposed tummy right now.  Maker, this should not be as difficult as it is.  You swing your arms back around behind you, arching outwards and trying to separate them from the bottom this time, but gravity doesn’t appear to work in your favor.  

Maybe you can do like, some sort of weird, half-and-half thing to get them apart?  Maybe?  Where you hold the undershirt from the bottom with one hand and pull the hoodie from the top with the other?

Yes, okay—that could possibly work.  Cassian inhales more spice as he lazes behind you, getting a front row seat to watch this subsequent genius unfold.

You get into your monkey-like position, beginning to pry the two materials apart from behind like you planned.  But then—oh, your undershirt still sticks to your hoodie at the front, pulling up a few inches with it and flashing the lower curve of your breasts to the room before you immediately halt and switch tactics, reaching back down and trying to pull them apart from the front withou—

A large, warm palm comes up to settle on your bare spine, right in the middle of your shoulder blades.

You freeze.  But Cassian doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything more than that.  He just holds his hand there, steady and solid against your upper back.

Neither one of you move.  It’s like… it’s like you’re both trying so hard to get a read on each other that your reactions are equally stunted.  Is he doing this to bring you to a still so he can help you?  Is he simply as blazed as you are right now and not thinking about things before he does them?  Is he—

But then Cassian starts slowly dragging his hand down your spine, carefully riding the gentle curve of it downwards as your breathing subtly picks up.  Your arms are halfway caught in the fabric, not able to stop him unless you untangle them and reach behind you.  So you just hold there statuesquely as his palm inches down the sweat-slick muscles of your lower back, thumb just barely brushing the hemline of your sweatpants.  

Fuck, you feel like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.  Heat pools deep in your tummy, spidering outwards and sending pulsing shocks down your legs when he keeps his hand there for just a second.

Until… until he traces all the way back up and carefully hooks a finger around your undershirt.  

Your heart pounds as Cassian gradually pulls it over the top of your head with your hoodie, guiding you to bring both of them around your arms.  He pushes against your shoulder wordlessly, urging you to lie back down with your head on his stomach once more, the fabric stretched tight over your upper-body and the entire length of your spine now fully exposed as it touches the mattress.

“C-Cassian,” you breathe, fluttering your eyes up at the ceiling.

“Yes, caraya?”  He murmurs, and you completely forget what you’re going to say when he continues to pull the hoodie and undershirt down over your arms, exposing your naked breasts to the open air.

Your cunt pulses between your legs and you hear him throw the thick bulk of fabric carelessly on the floor.  “I—I-I don’t—”

“You will stay like this?”  Cassian tells you softly, brushing your damp hair back from your shoulder so that your bare chest is completely unobstructed as it faces the ceiling.  Your nipples are hard, a thin sheen of sweat covering your entire body, and you can feel his gaze drag down your naked skin, even if he doesn’t actually touch you.  No, he just takes another slow drag from the spice in his hand and tilts his head back to rest on your pillow, relaxing into the mattress with a gentle shuffle of his shoulder blades.  “If you are too warm, you will stay like this, okay?  Be comfortable.”

Is it possible to die from arousal?  Your clit is fucking pounding; everything from the waist down is unbearably tight and cramped.  Stars, you feel like you’ll cum if you even move wrong right now.  He told you to be comfortable, but you’re not—you’re boiling from the sensation, topless on your bed, trying not to close your eyes or squeeze your legs together.  It’s too fucking casual and unacknowledged, how he’s going about this.  You feel like you’re going to explode.

Cassian gently taps your bare shoulder to get your attention and shifts his head slightly to look down at you.  You bite your bottom lip and flutter your gaze sideways to meet his after a second, hoping you don’t look as flushed and tight with burning arousal as you feel.  Deep brown eyes look back at you, hazy and dilated.  He takes a second to slowly drag his gaze down the length of your half-naked body once more, now that he knows you’re watching him.  Your breath comes audibly now, quicker and shallower than it should be after laying flat on a bed for this long.

“Here,” Cassian prompts, holding the smoldering joint out for you to take.  His voice sounds raspier now, but still so… casual.  Like he’s out here talking about the weather with a mildly sore throat, not because your tits are out while you stare at each other and neither one of you is saying a damn thing about it.  It’s like he’s determined to hold onto the splitting tension, drag it out between you as long as he can.  “Want more?”

You know what he’s really asking, and it cramps your lower muscles up even harder.  He’s asking if you want more of this spice that’s currently getting you naked in front of him.  More of this madness, twisting up your insides with need and jumbling your thoughts.  More of him treating you like this, like there’s not a damn thing out of place in the universe right now, like you’re still just best friends so that’s why it’s okay you’re both doing this together.

Stars, do you want more?  Do you want him to keep winding you up like this?  More of this torture, this agonizing foreplay, wondering when he’ll finally give in and touch you?  Pretending like this is still completely platonic, like what’s happening here isn’t wildly unprecedented, insanely inappropriate, and so fucking hot?

You can feel your eyebrows pull up in the middle as you look at him, almost pleading with him to… something.  To stop, maybe?  Stop altogether, or just stop… fuck, stop ignoring the way your cunt feels clamped around itself tighter than a vice between your legs?  Stop neglecting your burning desire for him, even when it’s right in front of his face.  Stop refusing to acknowledge the way you’re just letting him look at you right now, how you haven’t once stopped playing along with this fever dream just in case you aren’t imagining it?  Fuck, but Cassian just looks back at you, his expression completely blank except for the smallest little glimmer in his eyes.  A silent, heated glint as he just barely quirks an eyebrow at you.

So you make the decision all at once.  You carefully reach over for the spice with your far hand, feeling your breasts shift towards him slightly with the slow movement.  Cassian doesn’t even feel like he’s breathing as you gently take it from him.  He just stares down at your naked chest and swallows thickly, eyelids dipping slightly as he moves to meet you halfway.

You let your nipple brush up against his knuckles just slightly with the exchange.

When you face back towards the ceiling again and readjust your shoulders flat on the bed, he lets out a slow, shaky breath under your head as it rests on his tummy.  The tension rockets up to eleven, weighing heavy and unspoken and ready to snap.  

But then like that, the moment passes—it’s just another invisible spark igniting between the two of you, just another thing buried beneath the silence and yet ringing so unbelievably loud because of it.  You’re both emitting and absorbing the same buzzing energy, amplifying it back to one another in a slow, endless feedback loop of rising pressure.

The spice comes up to your lips, and Cassian’s fingertips carefully trail along your other arm as it rests by your side.

“This is better, no?”  He asks you quietly, the rough tips of his fingers just barely gliding across your skin in small, mindless patterns.  They dance down your skin like feathers, tracing a small arch over the ridge of your elbow so lightly you almost feel like you might be imagining it.  Your eyes flutter when he gradually skims down the length of your forearm and brushes his thumb in a smooth circle around the bone in your wrist.  “Or you are still too warm?”

You bite your bottom lip when one of his fingers carefully stretches all the way up to your hip, running along the hem of your sweatpants.  

“Yeah, m’still a little—” you gasp, trying not to stutter when Cassian starts to draw up the length of your waistline, pausing right when his fingers reach your drawstrings.  “Little w-warm,” you finish hoarsely, painfully aware of how fucking wet you are, how your nipples are peaked and glistening with sweat as they move with your soft, shallow breathing.

He slowly dips one finger below the elastic wrapping across your hips, dragging it back and forth under the damp waistband.

“This fabric is heavy,” Cassian remarks, just the slightest husk in his voice.  “You… you will take this off, too?”

“I-I don’t—”  You’re about to say have anything on underneath except you immediately go quiet, because he’s suddenly slithering his entire hand down into your sweatpants and brushing his knuckles along the gentle slope of you.

He pauses once more when his longest finger reaches the very top of your slit.

But then he just holds it there for a second, tracing small arches back and forth along gentle give of it, the slight dip that separates your soft curls from your soaking heat.  You tighten up and wait in breathless anticipation for it, before the tip of Cassian’s finger finally comes to a rest over the soft split of flesh.

And then he’s suddenly pushing in, and down—

—fuckfuckfuckfuck—don’tcumdon’tcum—don’t—

You make a soft, vulnerable sound in bliss as he slowly slides his finger through the hot, slick cleft of your pussy.

“You are warm down here, too,” Cassian murmurs quietly.  Your eyes roll back when he drags the entire length of it up against your clit, letting you feel each individual ridge and joint and crevice across the swollen bit of flesh.  “Is it the spice?”  He asks, sinking his finger back down into you once more.  “Or are you always this wet between your legs?”

Neither.  Both, maybe?  Mostly it’s just him.  Cassian, whispering softly to you through the hazy darkness, lazily dipping his fingers into your cunt and letting it drench and engulf his skin in its heat.

“Tell me,” he prompts when you don’t say a word.  His finger pulls up and begins tracing slow, gentle circles around your clit.

“No,” you breathe haggardly, arching your hips up just slightly as he touches you.  “N-No, this is…”

“This is different,” Cassian confirms when you don’t finish your sentence.  He keeps circling your clit, and it’s like he’s just casually, carelessly stirring a pot that’s about to boil over and set everything on fucking fire.  You pulse threateningly under the tip of his finger, swollen and tight and just trying your best to control your breathing.  “So it is the spice.  Why you are this hot, this… this soaking.”

“It’s…”  Don’t you say it.  Don’t you fucking say it.  Don’t you turn this into something it isn’t.  “Yeah.  It’s—it’s the sp-spice.”

His finger follows the hard curve of you down to where you give, where you’re leaking wetness and heat from the source, before he’s suddenly shifting his wrist and pushing the entire thing into you down to his knuckle.

Now you do arch your hips, spreading your legs and helping him go deeper even as Cassian hums, stretching his finger and feeling you clench hot and tight around him.  He says something softly, something in a language you don’t understand.

And then he’s pulling out and rubbing circles around your clit again, the tip of his finger steady and firm as he steadily drags the pleasure out of you.

“We need to finish it soon,” he eventually reminds you, and it takes a remarkable delay for you to realize he’s talking about the lingering quarter of the joint still clenched tightly between your fingers.  “Take your hit.  We have a nine-hundred call, remember.”

Fuck, you bring the spice up to your lips with a shaky hand, trying to remember whether you should inhale or exhale first.  Cassian’s finger just keeps circling your clit, winding you up tighter and tighter.  His motions are so repetitive and predictable, but they’re somehow still lighting you on fire from the inside, slowing you down spectacularly as you try to take a steady breath in through the filter.

“Stars, you are so wet,” he remarks after a moment.  “Are you going to cum soon?  You feel like you are so close already.”

You are close.  Everything is swollen and slippery and tight, and hearing him say it out loud like that makes the pleasure rocket up even tighter inside you.  You don’t even feel him reach around with his other hand and take the spice from you.  You just lose yourself in the mindless sensation of Cassian’s finger on your clit, rolling your eyes back and reaching your hands down to fisting the sheets at your sides as he touches you.

“Does this feel good, caraya?”  He whispers quietly to you, inhaling deeply from the spice.  “You are usually so… mouthy with me.  Is this helping?  Do I need to rub your clit like this more often?”

“Fuck—Cassian, I’m gonna cum,” you tell the ceiling raggedly, chest beginning to arch up and hips bearing down.

“Do it,” he murmurs, reaching his thumb through your slick lips to pinch and roll the pulsing bud between his fingers.  “Right here.  All you can.”

And then wild, painful bliss stabs through you, launching you headfirst into a blinding orgasm.  A desperate sound tears from your throat as you cum hard all over your best friend’s hand, agonizing pleasure shredding mindless rapture through your veins.  It rings white noise through your ears and rips you apart from the inside out, arcing lightning down your spine more bright and explosive than ever before.  Fuck, it’s unprecedentedly powerful.  You’re drenched but your clit is hard and pulsing and swollen, and he’s able to keep it between his fingers the entire time your hips writhe desperately on the mattress.

Cassian inhales from the spice once more and massages your clit through the torturous, blazing hot aftershocks.  He drags the pleasure out of you until you’re a trembling mess, exhausted from the spasms wreaking havoc on your body.

But then… but then you’re still so hot.  It’s like your limbs have no energy left but your cunt is still pulsing and wanting more from him.  You feel your wetness coating his hand, your inner thighs, probably soaking through your sweatpants, but fuck, you want him to keep touching you like this—you want him to keep doing this.

It’s the spice, something tells you in the very back of your mind.  It almost made you black out with a wild orgasm and now it’s quickly preparing your overheated body for another one.  Your feet come up to brace against the mattress and your eyes close, jaw going slack as you grind feverishly against Cassian’s hand.

“Again?”  He whispers to you, fingers continuing to pinch and roll your clit and then—and then another debilitating wave of euphoria is suddenly slamming through you, pulling your chest up and flooding his hand with another series of wet, powerful contractions.  Cassian rasps something in his native tongue and rides you through the second one just as steady as the first, your pussy spasming uncontrollably as he slowly wrings the pleasure from you.

Fuck, it feels so good.  You’re worked up and trembling and trying not to whimper for him, desperately wanting him to keep his hand right here forever, buried right between your legs like this.  But you also—you also want Cassian to feel it too, feel the way the unrestrained hedonism practically burns you alive when you cum.

So you carefully turn over on your side and shuffle forwards a bit, resting your head on his lower stomach, right in front of the mouthwatering bulge in his trousers.  His fingers can’t fully reach your cunt from this angle, but Cassian is resilient.  He just drags his hand over your hip and slithers his fingers into your pussy from behind while you start unbuckling his pants with shaky fingers.

He’s unbelievably hard and throbbing and leaking when you pull his cock out of his underwear, the pulsing urgency of his erection not lining up with the way he’s still relaxing on your mattress, still hasn’t moved under you.  So you just hold his length up to your lips and open them, slowly sliding your tongue around the tip of him three times before taking his curved head into the hot cavern of your mouth.

Cassian takes a deep, shaky breath as you suck softly on the head of his cock, fluttering your tongue along a bead of precum he leaks from the slit.  He drags his fingers through your drenched pussy lips from behind as you carefully move your head down his tummy, opening your jaw wider and letting him fill your mouth deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and you hum softly and lift your back palate slightly, sliding your tongue drift down his shaft and taking him a bit deeper still.  He shudders under you and pushes the tip of his finger up against your clit.

And then you shudder because Cassian completely bypasses your hood at this angle, bumping into the swollen bit of flesh without any resistance or protection and just… holding it there.  Barely moving an inch while you begin to slowly bob up and down just slightly around his cock, just keeping his fingertip right up against your clit and sparking heat down through your legs.

You move your hand down to cup his balls and start to roll your hips against his fingers.  Cassian’s breathing stutters as you lazily suck his cock, rubbing a tight little circle on your clit in silent encouragement.

“We should—” his voice is hoarse now, now that you’ve got his dick in your mouth and you’re gently swirling your tongue around it, almost as unhurried and casual about the act as he was bringing you to your first orgasm.  “We should do this.  More.”

You slowly pull off him, kissing the tip of his cock and mouthing at the way he’s steadily releasing thick drops of precum for you.  Cassian’s finger rolls firmly against your clit in response.

“You just want your dick sucked every time you come back to base,” you counter breathlessly, brushing your lips against him while talking with his cockhead resting on the edge of your tongue.

His hand shifts, and then he’s suddenly pushing two thick fingers deep inside you.  You moan around his tip and prop one leg up on the mattress so he can fill you easier, going back to sucking and swiping your tongue over his frenulum.

“I would not mind it,” he admits with a shaky exhale.  “You are.  Very g-good.  Fuck.  And wa—” he gasps, feeling you clench tight around his fingers, “—warm.  Fuck, every… everywhere.”

Fuck, it feels so good like this.  Laying here, topless and being penetrated two different ways by Cassian, feeling him throb in your mouth while you rest your head on his tummy, feeling him stretch your cunt walls with his fingers while you hold your legs open for him.

You pull off him to drag your slick tongue over your palm, coating your fingers in saliva.  Cassian groans when you wrap your hand around the thick base of him, and then he lifts his hips slightly as you start to slowly jerk him off into you mouth.

“Fuck—caraya, if you keep doing that, I will—” he whispers after a moment, curling his fingers inside you in warning.  You just tighten your grip and add just the slightest twist to your wrist and “Wait—wait—” Cassian grunts, starting to pull his fingers out of you—

You pull off him just enough to murmur the words against his throbbing head.  “You’ll want more than one, okay.  Trust me.  Cum like this, okay?  Cum just like this, right in my mouth.”

You wrap your lips around his cock once more and keep jerking him off slow and tight into the heat of your mouth, and Cassian’s abdominal muscles go incredibly tense under your head.  And then you squeeeeze your lower muscles around his fingers, and all the tension suddenly snaps.

His cock goes rock hard on your tongue and starts pulsing steadily as he groans out your name like it hurts, fingers stuffed deep in your cunt.  You swallow around him and moan, clenching rhymically around his fingers and letting him slowly empty himself into your mouth.  Fuck, he takes forever with it, shuddering and gasping and pumping cum down your throat, his orgasm clearly as powerful as yours was.  The spice drags it out, makes you both lose yourself in the raw heaven of release for far longer than normal.

The spice also prevents him from softening when Cassian finally stops spurting hot cum in your mouth.  You suspected as much—which is why you keep sucking his cock even as he stops throbbing, you keep him in your hot mouth even when he’s laying trembling and exhausted under you.  And he still stays rock solid on your tongue, swollen and needing more.

Cassian’s voice sounds shredded when he finally speaks.  “I—I am going to crash my x-wing tomorrow,” he tells you hoarsely, fingers finally slipping out of your channel with a vulgar, slick sound.  “You were right.”

You pull off him and kiss the tip of his cock one final time, making sure you’ve cleaned up the mess completely.  “Today.”

“Fuck.  Today,” he acknowledges tightly, adjusting his hips when you lift your head off his stomach.  “Fuck.  In a few hours.  You will make me crash, just thinking about this.”

“Why is it,” you turn around and blink at him, “that after literal decades of my friendship, you only acknowledge my perpetual rightness after I make you cum for the first time?”

Cassian just smiles softly at you, and his fingers are drenched as they rest lazily against your thigh.  “Caraya.  Two suns.  Twice the illumination, no?”

You bite your lip and try not to smile back at him, wanting to blush and roll your eyes in equal parts.  Stars, why is he so… so lovely?  Speaking to you so sweetly, looking back up at you from your pillow like you’re every single color in his sky.  Your heart seizes in your chest, staring at him with the same kind of fondness and admiration his beautiful eyes are shining with.  Fuck, you want… you want to…

“Can we… can we have sex now?”  You whisper.  Not really shy, but… but it almost sounds shy in its quiet, breathless hope.  

“You do not want me to taste you?”  Cassian immediately asks, reaching out with one hand to offer you what’s left of the spice while the other stays firmly wedged between your legs.  “I want to.  I have…”

You bite down on your bottom lip and take the nearly finished joint from him, feeling his fingers curl against your pussy lips at the same time and knowing you’re going to regret letting him finish his sentence.  He swallows thickly.

“I have thought about it,” Cassian eventually tells you, carefully admitting the words like he never expected he’d ever say them aloud and is completely unprepared.  “Sometimes.  Sometimes when… when I am about to sleep.  I think of… of you.  What you taste like.  Right here.”  He barely slips the tip of his finger back between your folds, fluttering his eyelashes at the way you’re still dripping in his hand.  “I bet you are so sweet.  Will you let me find out?”

Except.  Except you’re suddenly blanking.

He’s… he’s thought about you before?  Like this?  Fuck, he isn’t just… just saying that, right?  Just telling you what you want to hear?  Because fuck, it’s almost too good to be true; like everything out of his mouth since you first put his cock in yours has somehow sounded even better than the last.  You feel like you’re dreaming, and it.  It makes you almost frantic with need, overcome with the desire to solidify your connection with him before it can be ripped away like it always is.

You don’t respond to him.  You just quickly wiggle out of your sweatpants and get on top of him, swinging one of your legs around Cassian’s hips.  The spice is held in one hand while the other reaches down and aligns his cock right up against your opening.

Cassian grabs your thighs tightly and takes a long, shuddery breath under you.  Fuck, he really is a dream, isn’t he?  Long and lithe and beautiful, still throbbing and pulsing and ready for you after you already swallowed his first load.  You straighten your back and slowly sit down on his cock, letting the thick, hard length of it break you open slowly.

His hands trace up to your hips and then slide along the gentle curves of your sides, measuring the size of your ribcage before eventually grasping both of your tits in his palms.  You breathe through the pleasure and the stretch, letting Cassian pinch and roll your nipples between his fingers as you gradually slide down him and come to a rest flush against his pelvis.

Fuck he feels spectacular.  You can feel him pulsing inside of you, fitting and stretching the contours of your slick cunt perfectly.  You shiver and clench around him, finishing off the last hit of spice as you roll your hips slightly to adjust to the tight fit of his cock.

You twist your shoulders to carefully toss the smoldering roach into the sink when it’s done, really taking your time with aiming it to make sure you don’t miss.  The second it lands in the metal basin is the second Cassian grinds his hips up into yours while giving both of your nipples a gentle tug, and a jolt of pleasure rocks its way down your spine.

“Im-impatient,” you whisper, trying to scold him but it comes out sounding all wrong, far more needy and breathy than you wanted.

“I wanted my tongue in your pussy,” he whispers back in reminder, squeezing your tits as you start to circle and grind against him, letting you both enjoy the sensation of each other without any solid aim at the moment.  “You could not wait.”

“Later,” you gasp, tipping your head back and just—fuck, just enjoying his cock.  Enjoying how it feels, pressing up deliciously tight against something inside you that just absolutely loves the pressure.  You scoot yourself back just a bit, just so he is really shoved up hard against that spot as you grind and roll your body.  It ignites sparks deep in your floor muscles, makes you clamp tighter around him as you slowly ride your best friend’s cock.

And stars, Cassian just watches you.  He drags his hands over your naked body as it swells and rocks back over his hips like waves in the ocean.  He’s still completely clothed, and while something inside you wants you to get him as naked as your are, rub your exposed skin against his and make sure he never forgets how you feel against him, most of you is just fucking burning at the eroticism of being so bare and tall above him while he looks at you.

“Later,” he eventually repeats after you, definitively confirming what you said.  Cassian’s voice is somehow soft and rough at the same time, quiet but tight and hoarse in his throat.  “I will taste you later.”

You jerk a nod in agreement, starting to gain just a little bit of a rhythm on top of him.  Your eyes flutter closed as you lean your weight back slightly and begin to pull up when your hips twist in towards him, and then sinking back down on his cock when your hips circle back around again.

“Fuck,” you hear Cassian grit as you keep doing that, relaxing your lower muscles as he’s thrusted into you and then clamping down on his length as it’s slowly dragged out.  “Fuck, you are—a-amazing, caraya.  You are.  You are—fuck—”

A sinful heat starts simmering deep inside you as Cassian cuts himself off with a gasp and squeezes his eyes shut, starts rocking his pelvis up in time with your slow, sensual rotations.  Both of his hands clamp down hard over your hips as they continue to undulate in slow circles around his cock.

“Maker,” you whisper, trying to focus on your rhythm instead of the terrifying, building sensation inside of you.  Fuck, you can literally feel the threat of your orgasm start to carefully wind itself around the base of your spine, simmering and sparking with dark pleasure as it gradually spreads its electric claws outwards.  It’s huge.  You can already feel it gathering together inside you, culminating into something monstrous and fierce.

Cassian says your name, and you suddenly blink your eyes open at the unexpected urgency and tightness in his voice.  Your vision takes a second to focus on his gorgeous face, and when you immediately see the same exact storm of swirling desperation in his eyes, your jaw goes slack as you speed up, trying to chase him as Cassian all but hurtles towards the blinding explosion nearing its detonation.

“Fuck, I—” he gasps, and then he’s suddenly going rigid under you and cumming deep in your slick heat with a desperate sound, shuddering and gasping for you as his thumbs dig into your thighs.  Fuck, you grind harder, trying to find and focus on your favorite angle now as Cassian whimpers through the bliss and writhes under you, throbbing and pumping in steady, helpless jolts.

You whimper, too—fuck, you’re almost there, you’re gasping and trying to surrender to the swelling sensation, but it’s so intense and overwhelming and you’re close to tears because you’re fighting it just as much as you’re seeking it out, and—

And then the breath is suddenly knocked out of you when Cassian reaches up to grab you and flip the both of you over, your back coming down hard against the mattress.  He kneels between your legs, hooks both of your calves over his shoulders, props his arms next to your head, and then he starts thrusting.

You sob brokenly, slapping an open palm against his chest.  Fuck, his cock is still so hard and it shreds up achingly deep against that blinding spot so perfectly, you can’t focus on anything anymore.  The dark, evasive build immediately twists up sharp and impending as Cassian fucks you steady and deep, and you start to muffle your cries and gasps into the back of your hand.

But then, oh—words are coming, too.  Oh Maker, you can feel the urge to say them rise up along with the ferocious stirrings of your orgasm, clawing its way out of your throat before you can do anything to stop it.

“Fuck—” you tear your hand away to sob brokenly, not being able to stop yourself as the tsunami begins to peak, “oh, fuck—I love you.  Oh, fuck, I—I love you, Cassian—I love you, I—IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou—”

His cock splinters up against sheer euphoria inside you as you cum with a desperate wail of his name, pussy clamping down hard as it erupts into searing hot ecstasy around him.

—and then suddenly Cassian is lurching against you and bringing his lips down to yours, licking into your mouth and cumming deep inside you once more.  Maker, you nearly scream at the sensation, your tight cunt milking the throbbing length of him with endlessly wet, hot contractions as he grinds you both through the aching bliss.  He kisses you like he’s wanted to do it for years, bites your bottom lip as you whimper and spasm wildly around him.

Fuck, you can hear the mess you’re both making.  It’s obscene, filling the room with the slick sound of your desperate coupling.  Cassian eventually pulls his mouth away to look down at where he’s rocking into your drenched cunt, the evidence of his own pleasure slicking up hard lines of his erection.

Your eyes roll back when he doesn’t stop thrusting.

***

You lose track of everything.

Time, direction, responsibility—nothing matters, because Cassian goes on like that.  For hours, taking you apart every single way you can imagine.  You fuck the effects of the spice out of your body until nothing exists but him—Cassian’s cock stretching you, his tongue gliding along your skin, his whispered words of broken praise murmured against your neck.

Strangely, your body feels absolutely amazing when you finally manage to gain the slightest bit of awareness of your obligations again.  You feel like you’re floating above everything, almost dreamlike in how unbelievably satisfied you feel.  

You slowly blink up at the ceiling, and then suddenly remember the nine-hundred call you have to make.  You’re both naked, sprawled out on top of your mattress, and Cassian—

“Cass—” you rasp, pulling on the thick waves of hair tangled between your fingers and feeling his hot tongue slip out of your pussy.  It’s still slightly dark in your room, but that could just be the horrendous weather blocking the sun.  “What—what time is it?  Did we miss—?”

“Almost eight,” Cassian rumbles low against your thigh.  “We still have some time before we need to get up.”

You lurch into startled awareness, getting go of him to prop yourself you on your elbows.  “But that’s—no, we have to shower, and—”

“A ten minute walk to the hangar from here, yes?”  Cassian reasons, pressing a lazy kiss to your thigh and not sounding bothered in the slightest.  “Twenty minutes to shower together, ten minutes to get dressed.  We have at least ten more minutes before we need to think about getting up.”

You shudder and blink down at him, naked and relaxed as he mouths over your skin.  Maker, how can everything change and yet still be so familiar at the same time?

“I think I might crash my x-wing today,” you finally breathe out, dropping your shoulders back down to the mattress once again.

“No,” he returns, turning his head to kiss your other thigh.  “You will not.  Because I checked my holopad earlier, and they sent the coordinates for red squadron’s patrols.”

You narrow your eyebrows at the ceiling.  What does that have to do with anyth—?

And then you suddenly go shock-still under him, trying not to let the blind, overwhelming hope surge up inside you.

“Bring extra credits, caraya,” Cassian murmurs, lowering his head back down between your legs.  “We are going to Lothal.”

#Cassian Andor x reader #Cassian Andor x you #Cassian Andor #Smut #fanfic #no-droids

[hankwritten]

Disapprobation

Demoman/Soldier, 3k Warnings: Mild Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia

n. Moral disapproval; condemnation. Tavish’s life has a lot of shouldn’ts

Tavish’s life has a lot of shouldn’ts

For instance, he really shouldn’t be risking life and limb to meet up and have drinks with some barmy American he met at a projectile weapons convention. He shouldn’t be breaching contract over a bloke who’s got so many screws loose he could open up a hardware store, shouldn’t be sneaking around when the best case scenario is a few good laughs and the worst case scenario is losing a multi-million dollar salary.

He shouldn’t keep his lunch in the same place he keeps his potassium chloride. He shouldn’t drink so much, but he’s heard that one so many times anyway it’s hard to pay attention to. The voice of self-preservation is constant and buzzing, putting a churning in his gut, reminding him that he could be making friends with folks who aren’t a walking death sentence. He shouldn’t be going out for ribs. He shouldn’t be accepting invites to Las Vegas for the furlough.

He definitely shouldn’t be pressed into the mattress, another man’s tongue in his mouth.

The hotel bed creaks as Jane kisses him harder, and he thinks, oh god he wishes he could just not think. Their bodies are hot pressed against each other, their fancy jackets gone for the evening as they’re down to their undershirts as insubstantial barriers between skin on skin. Jane is heavy on top of him, and he shouldn’t like how that feels, to be held down while he and his best friend suck the air out of each other’s lungs. Jane has each of his wrists pinned to the sheets, and he shouldn’t like that either, how Jane’s taken control, how Tavish is slowly letting himself come undone.

There’s this plop at the loss of suction as Jane lifts his lips off Tavish’s and onto the Demoman’s neck, whisper-hissing, begging, praying, “Tav, Tavish. Oh god Tav.”

It’s slippery where time is now and where it was minutes ago before he was like this, before he was craving Jane's everything. It happened because they were laughing or maybe fighting or maybe…no they just tripped. They tripped and Jane landed on Tavish, and it wasn’t different at first. It just knocked the wind out of him. It wasn’t until Jane was chuckling and trying to push himself up that they had stopped, that they’d locked eyes and Jane’s smile had slowly fallen away, a mask lifted to something underneath. It was hunger, small and fiery at first when Jane’s eyes openly raked Tavish’s body, not disguising the fact as they took in his state of undress since—unlike Jane—Tavish had been successful at getting out of his dress pants. The hunger had grown hotter, burned brighter, a bonfire as someone kept shoveling more on, and Tavish drank in being looked at like a dying man in the desert. He’d never been desired like that, not in his entire life, and when Jane finished his tour of Tavish’s body he couldn’t suppress the hitch in his breath when their eyes finally met again.

He’d swallowed when Jane leaned closer. He’d closed his eye as Jane had pressed that first, tentative kiss against him.

Now his back arches, shoving his stomach up into the human canopy above him. His nipples are hard and he didn’t know they were so damn sensitive until they scrape against the solid plane of Jane’s chest and he whimpers. He shouldn’t be doing that either. He’s a damn mercenary, a Demoman, and he shouldn’t...

“God Tavish,” Jane’s muttering in his mouth in-between rough kisses. “I fucking. I love you. Want you so damn bad.”

And Jane must be a fucking mind reader because those words are a switch in Tavish’s brain. He can’t censor the moan that comes out of him, no matter how weak, how pathetic he sounds as his hips jerk upwards. Jane is moving his arms, and it takes him a second to notice that Jane is taking time to pin down both his hands with one of his own, and his free one now slides down until it can toy with the edge of Tavish’s undershirt.

“Jane…”

It’s the only thing he’s said in ages. He shouldn’t be saying anything at all, let alone confessing what’s coursing through his system, revealing how I want you isn’t quite right but I want you to want me is just so damn conceited. So the only thing he can do is breathe Jane’s name in a plea.

The roaming hand snakes up under his tank, the pretense of attire gone as the too-cold fingers press against unbearably hot flesh. Jane further displays his mind reading powers tweaking Tavish’s nipple with his thumb, clawing out another gurgle from the Demoman.

It’s so dangerously similar now, edging so close to fear, the shouldn’ts piling in his head as his breath increases. He tries to lift his arms and can’t. He tries clear his mind and can’t. He tries to make his voice behave where his body will not, as Jane’s knee begins to move up-

“Jane,” he yelps, only this time he says it in panic as his eye snaps open and he jerks upward. “Shit Jane- shit we need to stop. We’ll- shit.”

Jane freezes. The constriction around Tavish’s wrists lessons, and then disappears entirely and Jane rears back onto his haunches. Tavish wriggles until he’s against the headboard, panting heavily.

“Holy shit,” he coughs.

“You alright Tav?” Jane is looking sideways at him, but not in the way Tavish is expecting. The expression on his face is inscrutable.

“No. No! Of course not, we almost just-” The ghost of Jane’s body is on him, the memory of seconds ago where his hand was so close to Tavish’s waistband. He tries to shake it away. “If I hadn’t said something just now, we would have both crossed some damn lines.”

“Uh. Yeah. Probably.”

Tavish looks up and is bludgeoned upside the head with understanding. He realizes why Jane’s expression is so damn weird: he’s not ashamed. He’s not ashamed in the slightest.

“Jane,” Tavish says cautiously. “You know why we can’t do this, right?”

This when they’re still half-undressed on the bed together, breathless and sweating and the only thing keeping them back is Tavish’s self control. No one else’s. He’s alone at the wheel and Jane’s only refraining out of personal respect, not any sense of how screwed they are.

Jane squints at him. Thinking hard, peering deep into the soul he sometimes claims a RED can’t have, (and at the next drunken moment declaring that if it existed, it would be the purest, bravest soul in the damn world.) “Because you are…no longer in the mood?”

“Because we’re in enough trouble as it is!” Tavish throws up his hands. “Do you know how bloody condemned we are? Already RED and BLU can catch wind of us at any moment, I can’t go into half the places you can in this blasted country, and we want to add shagging each other in our Vegas hotel room to that bloody list?”

Jane’s forehead wrinkles, his features that Tavish has only ever seen go soft in the past few minutes now toughening up again. “Were you not…wanting that?”

“Fuck, Jane of course I wanted it,” the admission falls out too quickly. Too late to grab back and saying it aloud is its own line crossed. Having already failed to keep it packed down, he tries to at least get to his point. “I just shouldn’t.”

Jane stares at him blankly.

“Right. Of course.” Tavish presses the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Look at who I’m talking to here. Man who’s never suppressed an impulsive urge in his life.”

“It is not an impulse Tav.” Jane almost sounds…offended. Or something like it, as though he's irritated he has to make such an obvious correction. “It’s not an impulse if I’ve thought about doing it nearly every day since I’ve met you.”

That desire, that hunger Tavish had seen. He knows Jane has looked at him before, can now recognize it for what it was, those eyes flickering at him sometimes with the smolder beneath. It feels unwarranted. He feels undeserving, that Jane has been fancying him for months, and he diverts, “if that’s what you want, there’s a lot better sheep in the field.”

Jane narrows his eyes. “Gross.”

“Ach it’s an expression-” Tavish huffs. “Look, if men are to your tastes, you can find a hookup that’s a lot less dangerous. You don’t have to lower your standards just because I’m…around.”

“My tastes?” Jane scoffs. “What do you know about my tastes, DeGroot? Every time we go to the pier, you get me the wrong flavor of ice cream—even when I tell you exactly what kind to get.”

“I told you lad, they were out of ro-”

“My tastes,” Jane carries on, “are rocky road and handsome Scotsmen. So you can take that to the bank and sign it.” Jane crosses his arms.

A new, cool feeling runs down Tavish’s spine, the freezer-burn of fluster. “Jane,” he groans, running his hands over his scalp, craning his neck backwards until Jane finally falls out of his vision. “You’re not making this any easier.”

“I don’t understand why it’s can’t be easy. I love you. You, uh…” Jane trails off. “Like me. I think.”

Not since they stopped groping each other has Tavish wanted to touch him this bad, to assure him that he wants what Jane had given him, wants his hands, his mouth, to feel him again-

Tavish lets out a strangled cough, hard minutes of trying to cool off down the drain. Jane notices his state, the dilatation in his eye, and that only adds to his embarrassment. “Ach, please Jane. It’s not that simple. I just need you to listen, just a few minutes.”

“Fine. I will listen. But then you have to listen while I tell you what I think.”

Tavish allows it. He starts, “doing...” He waves his hand, disturbing the humid air between their still cooling bodies. “This, would be risky. More dangerous than anything we’ve ever done.”

“Un. Like. Ly,” Jane scoffs. “We’ve been sneaking around for ages by this point, and we’re damn good at it. Face it maggot, you didn’t want retreat with your tail between your legs until sloppy makeouts came into the picture.”

Tavish folds his arms. “I was thinking about it before then too. That we should break it off.”

“Ah bub bub bub!” Jane points out gleefully.

“It’s ‘bup bup bup’.”

“Quiet. You thought about it, but you didn’t actually do anything. So what is it Tavish? What’s the difference between then and now?”

An awkward silence hangs between them.

“…C’mon lad, don’t make me say it.” Tavish tries to look away, but he can still feel the solar rays of Jane’s glare socking him in the jaw. “Ach, it’s- what we got here isn’t right Jane. It’s not a natural thing for a pair of mates to do.”

“Ha! Natural?” Jane laughs. “I don’t buy that ‘natural’ crap from hippies and I certainly don’t buy it from you. I do not care about how natural the devil’s lettuce is! I do not care how much natural they cram into those granola bars, or how much fiber will help my bowel movements! Natural is for suckers.”

Tavish stares at him, long and hard, and finally, finally something small and brittle inside him crumbles away just enough that he’s hit with a weak chuckle. “You know, sometimes I don’t know how crazy you really are, and how much is just insight disguised as malarkey.”

“Good,” Jane smirks. “Keep it that way.”

“But still we need to-” Tavish rubbed his eye. “We need to think about this. It feels like I’m the only one here who’s trying to keep us both from getting killed.”

“Why?”

“Well someone has to, and it certainly isn’t going to be you.”

“Why?” Jane is angry now. “Why does one of us have to be holding the goddamn reigns? I didn’t ask you for ribs because I thought you would keep me back, I asked you for ribs because you broke that cop’s back and it was the most glorious display of patriotic strength I have ever seen!”

“Patriotism for where, exactly?” Tavish asks tiredly.

“You damn know well where. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

So Tavish doesn’t deign him with anything, just sits there massaging his head. He knows his rationality is eroding. That Jane is sitting here chipping away with his donkey’s indifference, his stupid, (literally) hardheaded attitude that Tavish can’t just turn away from.

“So,” Jane says. “I listened. Now you listen.”

“I barely got a word in edgewise,” Tavish complains.

“And they were all bad words. Now,” Jane sits crosslegged, stripped in the half-light coming in from the window, painting him radiant. “It’s clear you have some hangups about your latent bisexuality.”

Tavish puts all the power of a two-eyed stare out the focus of his singular optic, hoping the pure concentration gets his disdain though.

Jane carries on. “It is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Ach, it's just that...I shouldn’t have wanted…shouldn’t have even…”

“You and your damn shouldn’ts,” Jane frowns.

The frustration, the embarrassment, all the waves of different emotions Tavish has been put though are washed away in the new torrent of shame. “Ah fuck.”

“Tavish,” Jane says sternly as Tavish begins to clutch his head. “I have been dying to put you in a supportive yet comforting hug for the past twenty minutes. Permission to embrace you?”

Fuck he could use a hug right now. He could use Jane right now. He nods.

He leans in to the enveloping warmth as Jane holds him in a touch that is scored all different than before, yet the same strange intimacy he’s starting to suspect relates to what Jane said before that knee-shaking I want you so damn bad. That he didn't say that in the heat of the moment or because he feels sorry for the sad Cyclops that happens to be his friend, but because he genuinely wants this as much as Tavish does.

Oh god does Tavish want this.

“Tav, has that stupid voice in the back of your head telling you not to do things ever made you happy?” Jane asks the back wall over Tavish’s shoulder.

“Kept me safe,” Tavish sighs.

“That’s not what I asked, private,” Jane reiterates. “Has it made you happy? Has it ever actually helped you find the man you’re supposed to be?”

Tavish thinks long and hard, bringing his hands up run shaky fingers through Jane’s hair. “No,” he admits. “I don’t think it has. You?”

“Me? I crushed that voice years ago under the heel of my American-made double buckle combat boots. Like a goddamn ant.”

Tavish snorts. “Figures.”

They stay like that, holding each other, for a long time. They stay like that until the neon pizza sign across the street winks off, until the digital clocks on the matching nightstands read long past 4am.

“I don’t know what to do about this,” Tavish admits finally.

“Fair. Even if you did, I wouldn’t listen. You’ve changed your mind so many goddamn times tonight I’d tell you you’d have to sleep on it first before I believed you.”

“I have not,” Tavish laughs. “Just…there’s a lot. And I’m scared. I’m scared every day RED or BLU’ll find out and we’ll be…” He sighs. “I guess it wouldn’t matter at that point if we were friends or…anything else. We’d be dead either way.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Tavish leans back and finds it in him to grin at this stupid, crazy, reckless man that is certainly going to get them both killed. No, no he’s not going to think like that anymore. They’re in this together, and they’d share the blame just as much as they shared each other.

He squeezes both hands to the side of Jane’s face and says, “I love you too, you crazy, crazy Soldier.”

It’s worth it to see the light flare up in Jane’s eyes, the dopey grin that springs to his face. “Well, then that makes you just as crazy as me.”

“Aye, I suppose it does.” He presses his forehead to Jane’s. “We’re already doing a spicy shimmy on what’s taboo and what isn’t. I suppose we shouldn’t give a damn what’s considered crazy.”

Jane’s face is so beautiful, the only shame being how long shouldn’t has kept that realization at bay. But Tavish quashes it, watching as a new question forms in Jane’s brow.

“I know I told you to sleep on it but,” Jane bites his lip. “Can I stay here? While you do that.”

Tavish likes Jane's warmth against him. He likes him here, where their atoms are pressing out against each other in the closest the universe can approximate as touch.

“Aye. Come here.”

They lay down on Tavish’s bed, and Jane rolls around until he’s nestled in Tavish’s arms. As their breathing slows, in sync then out of sync then back again, Jane says, “even if you weren’t freaking out, it’s a good thing you stopped us when you did. We don’t exactly have any condoms.”

Tavish’s jaw locks, and he quickly scoots his pelvis back a few inches. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he snarls into the nape flush with his nose.

“Maybe. I’m craaaaazy, remember.”

Tavish hates him, and loves him more in that moment than he ever has. If this is the night where he’s cut everything off, where he’s chosen this Soldier over the world’s approval, then so be it. He makes a little mental image of an ant, and steps down.

#tf2 fanfiction #demosolly #boots n bombs

[minyoonmeme]

Normalcy of the Pretty Posse

Chapter 4

Word count: 3232

Pairing: Jeongguk x reader, ??? x reader

Description: Stupid Jeongguk and his cute sweaters and pretty posse of hyungs

Genre/Warnings: Min Yoongi is not very good at meeting people, but Park Jimin is. 

Tag List: @luvtaeha @holaaaf 

Previous Next

masterlist

“Do you know what’s going on?” 

“Nope.”

Jeongguk and Hoseok whispered to one another huddled over a family size bag of chips, crumbs falling each time they shifted. Their eyes danced between (Y/N) to Yoongi while they mindlessly shoveled chips into their mouths. Yoongi had let Jeongguk and (Y/N) into the studio twenty minutes ago and beyond introductions not much had happened. Hoseok almost pouts from disappointment. Where's the flare? The dramatics? Why hasn’t Yoongi pissed himself yet from nervousness? 

“Are you love birds gonna stand outside holding hands or are you gonna come in before you waste time?” Hoseok’s grip on the door was light as he narrowed his stance and let the two past him. “Hi (Y/N), you look cute today. Jeongguk you look cute too, I guess.” Hoseok smiled to himself as (Y/N) skirted past him with an embarrassed smile. Jeongguk followed suit with a wave to Yoongi, who was too occupied trying to make himself look busy, and a pinch to Hoseok’s arm for the added embarrassment. 

“You speak Korean right?”

“Hyung!” Yoongi barely spared Jeongguk a glance as he glanced toward (Y/N) from his seat. Yoongi noted that she was a small thing with her head barely past Jeongguk’s shoulder. Her head bobbed up and down before she fell into a bow. 

“Hello, My name is (Y/N). I’m a commercial music and production major at KNU. It’s nice to meet you, please take care of me.”

Yoongi blinked a few times and shook his nearly empty coffee before responding. “So.. do you speak Korean or..?”

“Hyung, she just spoke Korean!”

“Jeongguk-ah, you and I both know she could have prepared that.”

“She goes to a Korean university in the middle of Seoul, I highly doubt that.”

Yoongi gave a small shrug before reaching his hand out. “You shake hands where you’re from right? I’m Min Yoongi. It's nice to meet  you.”

Hoseok was loving every second as he watched from the couch. 

“Should we say something?” Jeongguk watched as (Y/N) tapped her fingers against the table. Jeongguk recognized a few familiar hand positions from the few piano lessons Yoongi had reluctantly given him his sophomore year. 

“I don’t know. I’m kind of intimidated right now. Hyung looks like he wants to jump out a window or run out the door any minute now.” Jeongukk shrugged and leaned closer to Hoseok crumbling the chips between them in the process. 

“It would be great if we could hear what they were listening to instead of listening to each other finish an entire bag of chips. Did you know you eat with your mouth open? Fucking heathen, I didn’t raise you this way.” Jeongguk smacked his greasy crump covered hand across Hoseok’s shoulder for that. Hoseok just whines and rubs at the spot tenderly. 

Yoongi and (Y/N) sat adjacent to one another as Yoongi’s soundboard desk shuffling through the drive she had brought. Yoongi had asked (correction: forced) Hoseok to wheel in another chair for (Y/N) to sit in while they listened, but her feet barely reached the floor as she swung them back and forth with nerves. Jeongguk was sure she was overwhelmed as Yoongi usually chose to sit in silence while he listened to tracks and Yoongi’s silence was nothing short of intense. A plain matte black pair, a pair Yoongi had pulled out from a random drawer, sat on top of her head just slightly too big. Jeongguk had never seen the pair before and felt a small flutter on his stomach at the thought that Yoongi had bought a new pair for her to use. He knew Yoongi tended to shy away from leading or teaching, but felt grateful his hyung was willing to even try. The flutter had nothing to do with the fact that he thought she looked cute as the headphones slipped around repeatedly off of her head. Nope, none at all.

“How many songs has it been? Like 6? My back is starting to hurt from this couch. Hyung should really get another one.” 

“It’s uncomfortable for a reason, you brat. How long are you trespassers going to keep talking?” Jeongguk and Hoseok jumped up, effectively smacking their heads against one another at the sudden voice. Both met Yoongi’s stare as he looked over his left shoulder, one ear free from his headphones.

“Sorry, Hyung we’ll stay quiet.” Hoseok nodded along with Jeongguk’s words, even going so far as to mime zipping his lips closed and tossing a key over his shoulder. 

Yoongi rose his eyebrows up before lifting his headphones off of his head with a deep breath. (Y/N) followed suit, although slightly more hesitantly. “You guys can leave, actually.” 

Jeongguk’s eyes darted over to (Y/N) as he watched her body freeze. The hand that had been tapping chords onto the table unplugged her headphones before stiffly beginning to neatly wrap the cord. He wished he knew what was going on in her head as he watched her eyes dart back and forth along the floor. His hand itches to stop her small trembles as she reached to pull out the usb drive. 

“Yoongi-hyung don’t you think you’re being too harsh. It’s only been like twenty minutes...”

Yoongi threw a confused look at Hoseok before spinning his chair fully to face the couch behind him. “I kick you guys out of my studio like twice a week, this is nothing new. Now out.” Yoongi emphasized the “now” with a flick of his chin towards the door before turning back to his monitors. He hadn’t even acknowledged (Y/N). 

Hoseok loved his friend, he did, but watching Jeongguk beat himself for bringing (Y/N) here made his skin boil. A look at (Y/N) left him even more mad. Her shoulders were squared inward as she shoved her things into her bag as quickly and quietly as possible. They weren’t close in any way, but Hoseok had grown up with a sister and hated seeing anyone, especially girls, cry.  

“Fine. we’re leaving you hermit. Don’t think we won’t be having a talk about this later when you get home.” Hoseok heaved Jeongguk up from the couch by his elbow and did the same for (Y/N). Their eyes met and Hoseok mentally cursed in his head for Yoongi’s asshole tendencies. He knew Yoongi wasn’t an actual asshole, nor was he intending to be mean, but this just is how Yoongi was. ‘All think, few words' is how Hoseok described Yoongi’s communication style or lack thereof. Yoongi could feel a million things and somehow sum it up in twenty offensive words or less. Looking at her again Hoseok leaned down and whispered, “Let’s get some ice cream, yeah? My treat!” His heart eased little when a small smile and a squeeze to his hand on her elbow were returned. 

“Where are you going?” Yoongi looked up from his now blank monitor confused and blinked in (Y/N)’s direction. All think, few words indeed.

Jeongukk, Hoseok, and (Y/N) looked between each other. Jeongguk had his head wrapped around the door’s handle ready to storm out toddler style while Hoseok’s hand slid from her elbow to her wrist. 

(Y/N) shook a little while she stuttered, “I thought that you-- I mean you said to--” 

“I thought you said you could speak Korean?”

“I can! I’m-uh just confused, I think. You said to get out?”

Yoongi met her eyes for a few seconds before furrowing at the ground. “I meant them. Why would I kick you out? That’s dumb.” 

(Y/N)’s hand swung to Hoseok's wrapped around her elbow and threw him a brief bright smile. Hoseok, confused but slowly understanding the situation, smiled back just as big and gave their hands a small shake in victory. Another crisis avoided, he supposed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry for misunderstanding Yoongi-shii! Where were we? Let me get my hard drive back out!” 

Yoongi handed her a reconnected pair of headphones, keeping his hand out for the usb drive she had taken back. Her hands left hoseok as she excitedly ruffled through her bag. The usb fell onto the open palm before her as she threw the headphones over her ears. She made sure to throw a smile and thumbs up to Jeongguk still standing by the door. Crisis very much so avoided, actually.

Hoseok patted (Y/N)’s head before grabbing Jeongguk’s elbow in tow. “We should probably get out before Yoongi-hyung starts throwing pens at us. I think he started sharpening them down after Jin-hyung took an HDMI cord.” 

Jeongguk opened his mouth to reject Hoseok’s idea, but was interrupted by (Y/N) spinning her chair away from the soundboard to face him halfway. “I’ll text you when I’m done and let you know how it went okay?” Jeongguk nodded, mouth a little too dry from the smile lingering on her lips, and tried to return it. “Bye Hoseok-shii, we can get ice cream later maybe? Bye Jeonggukk-oppa!” 

Hoseok kept his giggles in as he dragged a flustered Jeongguk out the door. 

_______________________________________________________________________

God he was intimidating…

Yoongi had chosen to forgo any excessive speaking and instead settled for minimal verbal explanations with lots of subtle grunts and pointing. It worked for a bit as Yoongi pulled up the tracks of my songs in a much more advanced version of Logic Pro than I owned. College budgets don’t really allow for excessive spending these days, ya know? 

“Uh Yoongi-shii, I really appreciate everything we’ve done today, but I have no idea what you’re saying right now.” Yoongi, I had noticed, tended to mumble and despite having spoken for Korean for a couple of years now satoori and mumbled things tended to make understanding someone very difficult. 

Yoongi looked at me sideways and blinked before taking a deep breath. He had looked more sure of himself when Hoseok and Jeongguk were here, so I chose not to mention how his shoulders seemed to move inward as he inched to face me. “You distorted this sample right?” I nodded in response. “Right, well I was just wondering why you added so much reverb if you’d already added distortion. It throws the whole thing off after the second verse, no flow really. You should probably scrap it and start over.” 

“Oh uh, I mean you’re right actually. It’s kind of an overkill. You’re very honest, Yoongi-shii.” 

I watched as Yoongi finished off the last of his now mostly water iced coffee with a nod. “You could say that.”

“In that case, I’ll be honest too. I think you’re being a little picky because you don’t know what you’re doing or what to do with me, specifically.” 

Yoongi narrowed his eyes and leaned backward in his chair, the joints squeaking slightly as he did so. So much for a cool guy move. “Picky? Did you expect me to graze over your mediocrity? I’m a professional kid, we don’t take mediocrity in the big world and Daddy’s money isn’t gonna get you far.” Yoongi whipped his hands on his pants as he clicked around. 

My arms tingled as a heaviness settled in my chest, something akin to disappointment and failure making a home. “Daddy’s money? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yoongi turned and refused to look at me any longer. “It means I can smell the money rolling off of you and I don’t think working in a cafe can get you the program needed to mix music like this.” 

My chest felt heavier than before as I geared myself up to respond. “You’re right. That was expensive and maybe I do come from money, but that song was made in 2014 and I’ll have you know that I’ve been living on my own in Korea since I was fucking shipped off in 2015. I didn’t come here to get profiled Yoongi-shii, I came here because I thought you were a professional who knew how to scroll and find my recent tracks.” Fuck Min Yoongi if he thinks he can walk all over me.

Yoongi clenched his jaw with a slight tilt of his head to the side before visibly gulping down whatever was in his throat. His free hand meanwhile gripped the mouse and clicked into another folder. _______________________________________________________________________

To: JJK-Oppa 

Heading home now Yoongi-shii is weird and mean 

From: JJK-Oppa

How was it? I’m sorry about earlier by the way. Yoongi-Hyung isn't the best at expressing himself or talking really

To: JJK-Oppa

I figured as much, he seems harmless though just a little idk??? So much attitude in a tiny body Don’t tell him I said he’s tiny oh god I already kinda sorta maybe went off on him

From: JJk-Oppa

Secrets safe with me :) Why did you go off on him???  I’ll beat him up for you >:)

To: JJK-Oppa

Jeongguk-oppa, I don’t think you could hurt a fly but thank you <3 Do you think Hoseok-shi would still get me ice cream? I’ll give you all the juicy details later

From: JJK-Oppa

Hyung said he’s always down for ice cream We can pick you up..?

To: JJK-Oppa

Say less <3 

______________________________________________________________________

“(Y/N)! Over here!” My head flew right as I looked in the direction of the voice. Jeongguk stood half in the back door of a black SUV. I threw a hand up and waved back noticing he had changed from a casual oversized sweater and jeans to a matching baggy grey sweatsuit. 

“Hi Jeongguk-oppa, it’s nice to see you again.” I gave a small bow of my head before ducking beneath his arm holding the door open and sliding in. I released a happy sigh when I felt the heat coming from the vents. “Hi again Hoseok-shii, thank you for picking me up.” 

Hoseok and scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Back it up women, what’s this “Hoseok-shii” business all about? You call Jeongguk Oppa and not me? You’re soon to be dance captain too?”

I smiled and leaned forward to place my cheek against the side of his seat. My eyes fluttered and smiled up at him. “Would you like you to call you oppa hoseok-shii?” Hoseok turned to face me and pinched my other cheek with a scrunch of his nose

“You brat, it’s Hobi-Oppa now okay? You’re gonna be trouble. I can tell already.” I rolled my eyes and pulled his hand from my cheek before slumping back. “This is Jimin, by the way. He wormed his way into the car before we could stop him, so I apologize for anything he does beforehand. He is also trouble.” 

Jimin, for what it's worth, only smiled and turned from the passenger seat to smile at me as I buckled my seatbelt next Jeongguk. “I heard there would be free ice cream and gossip about Yoongi-hyung, so I had to come.” His eyes melted into crescents as his smile grew in a way that I can only describe as heart clenchingly cute. God dammit another member Jeongguk’s posse.

“It’s nice to meet you Jimin-shii. Free ice cream is the best kind of ice cream, so I don’t blame you for tagging along.” 

Jimin studied me for a few minutes with a small smile before Hoseok yelled at him for not wearing his seatbelt. 

“You think I want your dead body on my hands if we get into an accident? I’m all up for living on the edge Jimin, but please put your seatbelt on so Jin-hyung doesn’t have a heart attack, please.” 

“I’m too cute to be a corpse.” 

“I hate to break it to you, but being cute doesn’t constitute not dying Jimin.”

“God clearly has his favorites, look at me! I’ll be fine.”

“Do not tempt me into killing you with this car to prove you wrong. I’ll do it. (Y/N) tell him I’ll do it.” 

“(Y/N) sweetie, you stay out of this okay? Just sit there and hold Jeonggukie’s hand while Hobi-hyung and I sort this out.”

Jeongguk, most likely used to this kind of conversation, was glancing out the window in thought as a nudged him. Though the flush on his cheeks that matched mine told me that he was still listening. “Is this normal for you guys?”

“Hm? Oh you mean Hobi and Jimin hyung? Yeah, all of my hyungs bicker like old married couples. Says is what they get for raising me.” 

Before I could respond, Jimin was tapping my knee closest to him with a pout. “Ya! Weren’t you listening? (Y/N), you’ll call me Oppa right? Hobi-hyung and Jeonggukie aren't the only ones, right?” Hoseok and Jeongguk both scoffed from their seats.

My eyes widened as I gave a quick glance to Jeongguk only to receive a shrug in response. Just great, thanks for the help. “Uh yeah Jimin-shii, I guess I’ll call you oppa one day.” 

“One day?” Jimin scoffed and pinched my knee. “You call me Jimin-oppa right now, young lady. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other more often. Us cute people have to stick together against people like Hobi-hyung.” The hand that pinched my knee returned and gave it a few pats. My mouth hung open slightly before I nodded and fought off a few giggles as a response. 

Things settled down for a few minutes before Jugguk shifted in his seat away from me slightly. His head was no longer facing the window, but now towards his lap as he flipped his phone between his hands. I was happy to see him not ripping at his fraying sweater sleeves, but curious as to what was causing the furrow between his brows. The atmosphere was light as Jimina and Hoseok continued to bicker about ice cream shops, so his look only made me worry. I snuck a glance at the two up front and decided texting was probably better than announcing any worries out loud. Jeongguk seemed like the private type anyways.

To: JJK-Oppa

Everything okay?

Jeongguk blinked as his phone lit up with my text message. He read it before furrowing his eyebrows deeper at the screen. I motioned for him to text me back with a pout. 

From: JJK-Oppa

Why are you are texting me

To: JJK-Oppa

Do you not want me to text you? :( 

Jeongguk looks at the screen with wide eyes before shaking his head no at me. It’s dark but I can still see the pink dusting across his skin nonetheless. Cute.

To: JJK-Oppa

I’m kidding, but really what’s up? 

Jeongguk goes to type again, but freezes his fingers a couple of times before typing and erasing a few times. Trying not to overwhelm him and give him some peace, I look away to listen to Hoseok and Jimin talking about which chores are overdue at their place. A chime of my phone brings my attention back to my phone.

From: JJK-Oppa

It’s nothing

To: JJK-Oppa

It’s okay. Sprinkles make everything better :)

Jeongguk’s small giggle eases the worry in my chest and any residual hurt lingering from my meeting with Yoongi as his eyes crease at the ends. It’s then that I suddenly remember why Jeongguk and his friends were so well known around campus. He’s so pretty. I hear Hoseok and Jimin cackling from the front and give my chest a few pats as it races. Correction: they’re all pretty.

[A/N: Hello~ I feel very ehh about this one, but honestly props to me for putting this out despite working two jobs, being a full time student, AND being major depresso espresso lately. Let me know what you guys think!]

#jeon jungkook #jeon jungguk #jeon jeongguk #jungkook x reader #bts fluff #bts #BTS au #bts college au #bts university au #bts ot7 #bts ot7 x reader #bts x y/n #bts x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts fanfic #bts fanfic au #park jimin #jimin fluff #yoongi x reader #min yoongi fluff #hobi #jhope fluff #jungkook college au #jhope college au #jimin college au #yoongi college au #jimin fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi x y/n #jimin x y/n

[purplesauris]

The Way the Pendulum Swings

Yes, I am back again with more writing, no, i cannot control myself. My fantastic friend @frostedbasilisk and I got talking, and I was inspired by Buffskier. (yes, i will continue using the name. Look at their beautiful rendition of Jaskier from a scene of the fic here!

Read on AO3 here!

“I think we need help.” Geralt says, leaning over and offering a hand to hoist Jaskier up. His doublet is now covered in dirt on the back and Jaskier’s pride is wounded, but Jaskier grins sheepishly all the same. 

“I told you, I’m uselessly lead footed.” Jaskier dusts himself off as best he can and fixes his hair, turning so that Geralt can dust him off the rest of the way. “If you can’t teach me dear, who possibly could?”

“Vesemir trained me.” He points out, and Jaskier raises both eyebrows in shock, tilting his head and hmmming. 

“You want to go up north, so that Vesemir can train me?”

“It’s only a few weeks early.” Jaskier pins him with a look that could wither the largest tree, and Geralt has to fight to keep from withering too. Jaskier’s expression lightens quickly, eyes softening, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s nose. 

“Fine. But if he can’t train me, I suppose it’s a lost cause, hmm? Then my big brute of a witcher will have to protect me.” Jaskier’s voice is fond, and though the word should sting, he wields it like such a compliment that Geralt feels himself relaxing. Jaskier likes his brutishness, and has said so many times. “Shall we set out in the morning then?”

“Mmm.” 

                                                       -*-

Their trip up through the mountain is much more pleasant this time- the breeze is just barely beginning to hold the frigid notes of winter, and animals are plentiful along the path. They can take their time, too, in no rush to beat the snows or be the last ones there, so Jaskier can truly admire their surroundings. He spends just as much time singing as he usually does, but now it’s waxing poetics about the way the grass sways in the wind and the mountain air plays with flower petals. It’s meaningless and frilly, but Geralt likes to hear Jaskier like this- wondering at the world around him and seeing the beauty in everything. Not that he’ll tell him such, though if he hums along when Jaskier’s a few steps ahead, no one can blame him.

Geralt has to end up climbing the side of the keep and slipping over when they get up to the massive gates. Vesemir isn’t expecting anyone for at least another month, so the gates are firmly shut and Geralt has to open it for them. Jaskier leads Roach inside and meets Geralt at the stables, helping in taking off all the packs and brushing her down. He leaves that mostly to Geralt in actuality, and feeds Roach a couple of apples from their pack as a treat. 

“You’ll make her fat.” Geralt scolds, but Jaskier just laughs and kisses her soft nose. 

“She works too hard not to get an apple from me.” Roach butts her head against Jaskier’s chest in agreement, and he looks at Geralt to say see? Geralt shakes his head, but he spends an extra bit of time brushing her down and getting her comfortable. Jaskier murmurs quietly to her, telling her what a good horse she is for putting up with Geralt for so long and smiling when he hears Geralt scoff quietly. 

“Geralt, Jaskier.” Jaskier jumps at the sudden arrival of a new voice, and Geralt merely glances over at his adopted father. “You’re early.”

“Geralt’s idea, I’m afraid.” Vesemir chuckles, as if that he already knew that well enough. “He says, and I quote, that I am “woefully unprepared to fight off even the weakest of foes”, and thus, my only hope is you.”

“That’s all he said?” Jaskier grins at Vesemir, snickering when Geralt grumbles and stoops to grab their bags from the hay. “Well, I have to agree. I suppose I could put you through accelerated training.”

“Then consider me your dedicated pupil.” Jaskier bows low at the waist, blue eyes bright when he straightens up. Vesemir smiles at that, a fleeting glimpse under the usual stern exterior, and Jaskier takes it as a win.

No one expected Jaskier to take to training quite the way that he did. Much like a fish to water, actually. Jaskier still woke early to tend to the livestock, as had been his job the last three winters he’d managed to come up to Kaer Morhen, and still managed to make enough food to feed the witchers and leave them wanting for nothing. But when he wasn’t embroiled in other chores, he was outside, under the watchful eyes of Vesemir. Vesemir had sent Geralt off to tend to the monsters in the forests while they trained, and when Jaskier had asked why, Vesemir had just said that Geralt was a mother hen. 

They’d started off with basic fighting, and Jaskier’s progress went significantly faster than it ever had with Geralt. He seemed a natural at it; graceful and light on his feet in a way that many witchers struggled with even today, body already strong from years on the Path. Vesemir wasn’t sure where the problem was in teaching Jaskier- he was attentive and driven to continue until Vesemir had to tell him to stop. By the end of Jaskier’s first month, Vesemir watched and paced the length of the wall as Jaskier hopped and danced around the huge pendulum swinging in the wind. The first time Jaskier had hauled himself up onto the poletops Geralt had nearly called the whole thing off, protests on his lips. He’d remembered his own training as a child, much younger than Jaskier, and had decided to trust him, and trust in Vesemir. 

Jaskier thought that the pendulum was fun. Geralt had never thought balancing on the tops of poles and dodging a large, spiky pendulum was fun, but Jaskier laughed and jested with Vesemir the whole time, catching himself when he stumbled and swearing like Lambert when a spike slammed sideways into his thigh. After the pendulums, Jaskier would be sent to run the walls in true witcher school fashion, and by the time dinner came around Jaskier was all but dead on his feet. Still, he got up day after day, boasting of the newest bruises that had formed in the night as if they were a badge of valor. 

“You hide it.” Jaskier stumbles atop the poles, righting his footing as Vesemir lets out a careful- and watches him a bit closer.

“Hide what, dear teacher of mine?” Vesemir raps a wooden sword against one of the poles, making it shake under foot, but Jaskier merely hops to another pole and brandishes his sword. 

“Your fighting prowess.” Jaskier stops then, dropping gracefully into a balanced crouch so he can hear Vesemir over the roaring of the wind. Vesemir allows him a moment to talk, since he started it, and watches the way Jaskier adjusts to keep the wind from blowing him off the poles. “You were already trained, weren’t you?”

“I’m a noble, Vesemir. There isn’t much that I wasn’t trained in. My father thought it important that I learn, in the worry I be called to war.”

“You’re a noble.” Vesemir points out in refute to that, and Jaskier laughs. No noble has ever been called to war anymore than they’ve been called to shovel pig shit. “It’s served you well now, though.”

“I suppose it has.” Jaskier agrees, standing once again. Vesemir uses a weak blast of aard to get the pendulum going again, and Jaskier twirls around the obstacle, feet hardly touching one pole before he vaults for the next.

“When the other boys get here, let’s put that to the test.” Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he’s grinning, and he pushes himself just a bit harder. 

                                                             -*-

“Since when the fuck have you been first?” Geralt grunts as Lambert claps him on the back, nudging the younger man with his shoulder. “No Jaskier this year?”

“He’s here.” Geralt turns back to the dummy he’s restuffing, pointedly not looking toward Jaskier on the far side of the grounds. “With Vesemir.”

“What, talking about boring old history in the library again?”

Geralt smirks at that, tilting his head back toward the pendulums and turning to catch Lambert’s reaction. Lambert looks over, eyes widening, and he breathes out a holy shit. “You let Vesemir sink his claws in?”

“He asked.”

“He asked? Bullshit.” Lambert goes jogging over, and after a minute Geralt follows, sure that trouble is brewing. Lambert gets to Vesemir first, and the old witcher doesn’t even bother to look at the newest arrival. 

“He’s training.” Is all he says, as if that’s ever been enough to settle Lambert. 

“Like hell he is, Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Exactly what Vesemir said!” The bard calls back, swaying between not one, but two pendulums now. Vesemir had added the second only upon Jaskier’s insistence. Geralt can smell the worry emanating off of Lambert, and he reaches out to grab at the man’s shoulder but finds him already moving. He reaches a hand, trying to catch Jaskier by the ankle and pull him down, but Jaskier hops away with ease and gives him a dirty look. Lambert grabs for him again, but again Jaskier skips away, glancing down and waiting for his next move. The pendulums move with almost the same sway, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to look to anticipate their moves. “Helping?”

“No, you little shit. You’re on the edge of a cliff and I’m not going to be the one cleaning your carcass up. Get down.” 

“Make me.” Lambert growls, lunging and following Jaskier along the wall as Jaskier dodges and leaps away just shy of Lambert’s reach. Somewhere in the time of them having come over to witness Lambert chasing after Jaskier like a kitten with a toy Eskel has arrived, and he slings an arm over Geralt’s shoulder as he approaches. 

“He’s better than you were.” Eskel remarks, watching curiously.

“Shut up.” He’s done remarkably well though, Geralt has to admit. Just seeing that Jaskier is able to dodge Lambert has his heart settling a bit. He can at least be trusted to run if danger shows up. Geralt’s heart doesn’t get a chance to rest much as Lambert finally catches Jaskier’s ankle, yanking him forward. Jaskier’s leg goes out from under him, and Geralt watches in slow motion as Jaskier tips backwards, out toward open air. Vesemir leaps forward, reaching, but Jaskier goes plunging over the edge, and Geralt’s heart stops completely. 

“FUCK. FUCK, I killed the bard-” Lambert goes to hoist himself up so he can peer over, but stops himself short when he hears something. A pained grunt, and a swear colorful enough to curdle milk.

“No, you didn’t, but I’d appreciate it you didn’t attempt to do so again.” Jaskier’s voice comes from the other side of the wall at the same time that he swings himself up and rests on one knee. His arms are shaking and Geralt can smell blood- he’s pulling Jaskier down and hugging him tight before anyone else can move. “Geralt, I’m fine.” 

His voice is muffled against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt shudders before pulling back to look for the blood. Jaskier’s palm is torn up by the rough grit of the wood, and Geralt counts at least six splinters that will have to be pulled out. He’s alive though, and that’s enough for him at the moment. “Still like the pendulums?”

“What’s not to like, love?” His tone is light, but his scent is bitter with fear and his voice shakes a little at the end. Geralt presses his lips together, trying not to frown and failing to do so. Jaskier does laugh then, quietly, and he tugs his hand from Geralt’s to turn to Lambert. He holds his bloody palm out, raising a brow. “Kiss it better?”

“Kiss my ass.” Lambert bites out, scowling and leading the bard inside to clean out his hand. Eskel eyes the pendulums still swinging in the wind, and looks toward Geralt. 

“Once, for old times sake?” Geralt shakes his head, but joins Eskel all the same to duck and weave around the pendulums and each other. Vesemir corrects their form, though he hardly needs to, and Geralt only gets down once the pendulums settle and it’s near impossible to move around them. He hops down, landing lightly, and hears soft clapping. Jaskier’s one hand is wrapped tight in a bandage, but he seems put back together again, and Lambert is hanging a step behind his shoulder. 

“Now imagine how much better I’d be with witcher reflexes. No one would ever catch me!” Jaskier casts a sly glance toward Lambert, lips tugging up into a smile. “This one almost didn’t. Beginner’s luck.”

“Who’re you calling a beginner?”

“Not used to sweeping men off their feet, hmm?” Lambert’s cheeks go pink as he scoffs, waving a hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but Vesemir interrupts, nodding his head.

“Heal quickly. We’re going to test your training.” Geralt frowns, wondering how much he could have actually done in a month, but Jaskier’s eyes are eager.

“Yes sir.” 

                                                         -*-

“We’re sparring today. Each day, one of you will fight him, to see how he reacts.” Jaskier is standing next to Vesemir as he announces the plan, excitement written all over his face. “Lambert will go first.”

“Really? You want to start with me?”

“Scared? I promise I’ll go easy.” Jaskier quips, rolling his sleeves up and taking a couple steps into the large sparring circle they've marked in the dirt. Lambert growls softly and strips out of his armor, leaving it in the dirt. 

“Don’t bother, this’ll be over before you know it.” Jaskier walks in a slow circle, watching Lambert and humming softly. 

“Are you sure?”

“False bravado makes you look like an ass.” Jaskier nods his head as if he agrees, rolling his shoulders and matching Lambert’s pace. 

They spiral in the ring, slowly coming closer. It seems like neither of them want to strike first, until Jaskier steps forward and swings. The blow is weak, shaky, and Lambert bats his hand away easily. He punches the bard with a swift hit to his stomach, scoffing. Jaskier oofs, bending over, and Lambert comes in closer, aiming another hit meant to incapacitate him. Jaskier’s gone and behind Lambert before the man finishes his swing, bouncing light on his toes. Lambert whirls, using the momentum to punch forward, but Jaskier slips past him, slamming a fist into the underside of the man’s upper arm and dancing away. Lambert grunts, fingers tingling unpleasantly, and advances forward. Geralt watches in fascination as they play cat and mouse, Lambert chasing and chasing as Jaskier whirls and skips away, staying just out of reach. Lambert is faster, manages to keep up easily, but the only blows he manages to land are glancing and Jaskier seems to handle the pain with ease.

“He’s fast.” Eskel murmurs, eyes flitting between the two opponents and lingering longer on Jaskier. Lambert snarls, red faced after another blow hits dead air, and his pupils contract as he watches, waiting. Jaskier stops too, panting and using the moment to catch his breath. Geralt sees the moment that Lambert decides what he’s going to do- his heel digs into the dirt and he launches forward, roaring and tackling Jaskier. The hold is one he doesn’t think that Jaskier will get out of, especially not with an enraged Lambert, but Jaskier grabs onto the back of his shirt and brings his leg up, knee slamming into Lambert’s side twice in quick succession. Lambert’s rib snaps with a dull crack on the second hit, and he howls as the two go rolling in the dirt. A broken rib has never stopped him before, never stopped any of them, but he’s distracted and Jaskier uses the momentum of their roll to fling himself up and off. He scrambles from his knees to his feet, arms coming up and taking the brunt of the blow Lambert aimed for his head. Geralt can see the purple bruises already forming along Jaskier’s arms.

“We should stop this.” Geralt breathes, knowing that if they don’t, Lambert is going to do something he’ll regret later. Still, Jaskier hasn’t left the ring and neither of them have yielded. Lambert’s eyes have gone wild, and Geralt’s heart picks up at the sight. Even he will admit he doesn’t want to go up against Lambert like this unless he absolutely has to, and he’s even more impressed and slightly aroused that Jaskier is holding his own. Lambert gets in close and delivers a vicious right hook, and Jaskier ducks down into a low crouch. Geralt’s eyes track the movement, and he sees Jaskier’s thighs flex and his head tuck to the side as he springs up from his crouch, ramming his shoulder up into Lambert’s tender ribs. Lambert goes stumbling back, hissing, and Jaskier follows him, using one hand on the witcher’s chest to shove an already wobbling Lambert from the ring. 

“Match.” Vesemir says, glancing down at his son who is currently laying in the dirt, hand pressed to his side as he pants. Jaskier pads over and crouches next to him, tilting his head and probing at his side. Lambert smacks his hands away, and Jaskier grimaces. 

“Sorry Lambert. Did it break fully?”

“Just a fracture. Only thing broken is my pride.” 

“I tried to warn you.” Jaskier teases, pulling a vial from his pocket and handing it over. “Thought you’d need this.”

“Cocky son of a bitch-” Lambert takes the Swallow and downs it in one go, laying still so the potion can do its work. Lambert lays his head back in the dirt again, and Jaskier settles by his side to wait. “Thanks.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier says in return, grinning when Lambert shoves him. 

“I can’t wait to see Eskel beat your ass.”

Jaskier looks up at the aforementioned witcher, still smiling. “I can’t wait either.”

                                                          -*-

Eskel refuses to fight him until his bruises are healed, citing unfair advantages if his opponent is wounded already. No one begrudges him this, and Jaskier takes the time to train a bit more in swordplay. They meet back in the ring a week after Lambert’s fight, Jaskier bouncing on his heels and grinning all the while. Eskel is the mirror opposite; he stands calmly on the other side of the ring, watching with amusement as Jaskier looks at Vesemir to signal the start of their fight. Vesemir waves them both into the ring, nodding. “Begin.” 

Just as before, they begin circling, slowly moving toward one another. This time, Jaskier doesn’t hesitate. He goes on the offensive immediately, throwing quick jabs that hit with loud thuds against Eskel’s forearms. He absorbs the blows and continues his slow pacing, letting Jaskier come to him. It’s smart, after having seen the way that Jaskier was content to let his partner slip into a rage before doing any substantial damage. Eskel hardly gives anything back, but he’s wearing Jaskier out and he knows it. Jaskier backs off when he can’t break through Eskel’s guard, panting and hands trembling lightly. His knuckles are already bruised horribly, and Geralt frowns. Jaskier has wasted all his energy trying to break through Eskel’s guard- Eskel only has to deliver a single blow to Jaskier’s abdomen to send him flying, and he skids along the ground, stopping just inside the circle. Jaskier curls into a ball, wheezing, and Geralt strains to make sure that he didn’t hear a rib snap or something pop. 

“Get up, bard.” Eskel’s voice is soft, and he allows Jaskier room, time to get up. Jaskier rises to his knees, gasping, and then he stumbles to his feet, raising his hands and swaying. “Yield?”

Jaskier shakes his head and Eskel sighs, padding forward. He doesn’t want to knock Jaskier out or blow him from the ring, but Jaskier is stubborn, dodging to the side when Eskel tries to push him out of the ring. Eskel follows after him, patiently corralling him to the other side of the ring. Jaskier is still stumbling, blinking rapidly as if the sun bothers him, and Eskel seems to take pity on him. He sweeps a leg out, intending to take him out once and for all, but Jaskier leaps up and over. Eskel grabs at him, knowing where he’ll land, but Jaskier is waiting for it, and he grabs Eskel's hand. He spins on his heel, dragging Eskel’s arm with him and pivoting when Eskel tries to break his hold. Jaskier presses a thumb viciously into the meat of Eskel’s thumb, making the bone grind as he finally gets Eskel’s arm behind him and wrenches upwards. 

Eskel is the one to gasp in pain now, and Jaskier uses his leverage to press him to his knees in the dirt, bending over until Eskel’s face is nearly on the ground and his shoulder shrieks in protest. Geralt feels his blood heat at the sight of Jaskier holding a witcher down with a very well done pin, and his nostrils flare when he smells a spike of arousal from Eskel in the ring. That… doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Jaskier’s voice is raspy as he pants raggedly, pupils wide. “Yield.”

Eskel tries to wiggle his way out, but Jaskier pulls his arm a bit tighter, digs his thumb in harder, and Eskel gasps again. “Yield, I yield.” 

The words stun Geralt, and he looks at Lambert in astonishment as Jaskier lets Eskel go. “Match.” Vesemir calls, pride warming his words. Jaskier nods, smiling, and then promptly turns, takes a few steps away, and vomits into the grass. Geralt hurries to his side immediately while Lambert goes to help Eskel up, rubbing at Jaskier’s back and murmuring softly. The smell of bile hits his nose, sharp and raw, and he grimaces as Jaskier dry heaves, tears dripping down his cheeks. Geralt looks closely at what Jaskier throws up, looking for any blood, but finds nothing but their breakfast from this morning. Good. Nothing seems to have been damaged internally, at least not that he can tell yet, and Jaskier straightens up slowly, wiping at his mouth and burping.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

“Are you alright?” Jaskier nods, giving Geralt a soft smile. Eskel comes over now, holding out a waterskin and allowing Jaskier to rinse his mouth out. Eskel also urges the bard to drink a bit, and rubs the back of his head sheepishly. 

“Didn’t mean to hit you that hard, Jask.”

“No, it was a good swing. Almost had me there for a minute. Am I going to get a medal?”

“For what?” Geralt says, voice tinged with amusement and worry and everything else in between. 

“Well, beating two witchers at hand to hand combat, of course.” 

“You still have one more to go. Beat the White Wolf, and then we’ll talk.” Lambert peers around Eskel, wrinkling his nose at the smell of vomit and pointedly not looking Jaskier’s way again. Jaskier locks eyes with Geralt, winking, and Geralt regrets agreeing to the sparring now more than ever. 

                                                        -*-

It takes Jaskier a full week to recover from Eskel's well placed punch, and he spends every minute of it working or training. His stomach recovers fine, much to Eskel's (and Geralt's) relief, and Jaskier seems supremely pleased that he was able to even survive such a hit. The weather has gotten colder now as winter fully grasps the valley, and snow falls lightly as they convene outside for Jaskier’s final test. 

“Something different today. Swords.” Vesemir waves toward the wooden training swords and Jaskier grimaces. Lambert though, is grinning. If there’s one thing that Geralt is known for, that Jaskier sings of constantly, it’s his swordsmanship. 

“Really? I don’t think-” 

“He’s already proven his hand to hand. I want to see his sword skills.” Jaskier doesn't object, taking a sword when Geralt holds it out to him. Geralt looks like he's swallowed something sour as he rolls his wrist and dips into a slight crouched stance. Jaskier mirrors the stance but doesn't seem nearly as comfortable. 

"You don't have to." Geralt says softly as they walk a slow circle around each other. 

"I do." Jaskier replies, nodding his head. "Let's get this over with, love."

Geralt feels his heart constrict- he doesn't want to risk hurting Jaskier, doesn't think he could stomach it, but Jaskier isn’t going to back down. He starts out easy, blows that Jaskier can parry or block without being terribly inconvenienced. He can imagine the sad, frustrated look on Jaskier’s face when he loses, and Geralt’s heart breaks for him already. Geralt is half in his thoughts when Jaskier swings, blade sailing for his side. He moves to block, but Jaskier’s arm twitches and he moves trajectory, smacking Geralt hard on the arm with the flat of his blade. Geralt’s skin stings, and his eyes narrow minutely. His nostrils flair- he’d expected Jaskier to smell like rotting fruit- anxious and resigned, but he doesn’t. He smells of citrus, sharp and bright. Excited.

Geralt lets himself go a bit harder, moves faster and with more of that impossible dancer's grace. None of the witcher’s fought quite like he did, with spinning, overly dramatic moves that were just as effective in disemboweling someone. He expects Jaskier to fall behind, expects to feel his blade strike some soft part of Jaskier’s body, but Jaskier… doesn’t. He grins, laughs, and moves through Geralt’s moves as if they were his own. He mirrors them as effortlessly as Geralt attempts to hit him, and Geralt isn’t sure what to think of this. Jaskier’s spins and hops around him, drops low into near splits that has Geralt wincing in pain at the thought. No wonder he liked the pendulum- they’re the perfect way to avoid an enemy, and he spent ample time on them. 

“Stop dancing with each other and fight!” Lambert calls, and that breaks Jaskier’s concentration. He glances over, away from Geralt, and Geralt lunges forward. His blade is a hair's breadth away from Jaskier’s head, a move that will knock him out if Geralt’s lucky when Jaskier bends backwards. He doesn’t stop just out of reach- he bends fully over, spine creating an elegant arch as his hands plant in the dirt and he flips backwards. The toe of his boot catches Geralt’s wrist, jarring his fingers, and the blade goes flying as Jaskier completes his hand stand and drops, chest to the ground. The world around Geralt tilts sharply as the heel of a boot smashes into the backs of his knees, and he goes down onto his back, wheezing and failing to suck in a breath. 

He hears the shuffle of feet in the dirt as Jaskier steps forward, rolling his wrist and twirling the blade the way that Geralt has done a thousand times. He presses the dull wooden tip against the soft skin under Geralt’s jaw and digs in lightly, tipping his chin up. His eyes are dark, dangerous, and Geralt feels heat pool in his stomach. He shouldn’t be getting aroused at this, at being beaten, but Jaskier is spectacular, wreathed in light with snow in his hair and cheeks red from exertion. 

“Yield, love?”

“Yield.” Geralt breathes out, raising his hands in a placating gesture. A smirk plays across Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt wants nothing more than to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Jaskier tosses the sword in the dirt and offers Geralt a hand as he leans up. Geralt thinks for a moment about yanking Jaskier down and pinning him into the dirt, but Jaskier draws in a sharp breath and narrows his eyes. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Geralt schools his expression into one of faint annoyance, for having lost of course, and not because he’s predictable enough that Jaskier knows what he was planning. Geralt scoops Jaskier’s discarded blade up as he gets to his feet, and hears Lambert begin to laugh. 

“We have got to be the worst witchers- a fuckin bard beat all of us!” Lambert laughs harder, doubling over and slapping his thigh. 

“Vesemir must be quite the teacher.” Eskel says in agreement, eyes sparkling with amusement as he nods toward Jaskier. Jaskier reaches to brush some dirt off of his pants, smiling and glancing over at Vesemir. Vesemir nods, sharing a small, private look, and Jaskier straightens up.

“I uh, may have misled you lot about my apparent lack of skills.” That shuts Lambert up, and he stands up, frowning hard. Jaskier laughs nervously, shuffles his feet in the dirt, and hurries to explain. “While I am nowhere near your skills as witchers, I ah, was trained as a child. Extensively, I might add, in the art of war.”

“Ha! So the old man isn’t responsible for that?”

“Well, he certainly helped reawaken old skills.” Geralt stares at Jaskier, confusion on his face and lips pressed together in a tight line. 

“But… Every time I tried to-” Jaskier clears his throat, blushing, and takes Geralt’s hand in his.

“Ulterior motives, love.” Lambert scoffs in disgust, Eskel laughing quietly.

                                                           -*-

“Show me that move, the one you used to disarm Geralt.” Lambert insists that night while they’re eating dinner, golden-amber eyes shining.

“Inside? Fine.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, standing up from the table and moving a few steps away. He folds himself back, fingers splaying against the stony ground, and lifts himself up onto his hands, tilting his body and lowering himself down until his chest is parallel to the floor. He pauses there a moment, then swings his legs around in a sharp burst of speed, knocking over one of the chairs and grunting at the pain in his shins. He’s folded oddly now, still holding all his weight up and off the ground, and he slowly unfolds himself, shaking out his hands as he hops to his feet. “Good enough?”

“Holy fuck.” Lambert gapes, thoroughly impressed. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he has to agree with Lambert’s amazement. He hadn’t been able to see the whole move, being the target, but it’s rather impressive, and highlights all of the lovely muscles in Jaskier’s arms.  Lambert leans over to whisper at Geralt, eyes tracking Jaskier as he picks up the fallen chair and collapses into it, grinning when Eskel says something to him. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

Geralt feels his chest rumble, and distantly hears himself growl, but his eyes are on Jaskier and the exposed column of his neck. Geralt blinks, shaking his head, and tries his best not to seem like a luststricken fool. Jaskier’s eyes aren’t on Geralt, and he can’t possibly have heard the noise Geralt made, but he tilts his head, the muscles in his neck shifting as he slouches in the chair, legs spreading just a bit. Geralt growls louder at that, and Lambert rolls his eyes, smacking Geralt lightly on the shoulder. Geralt jolts, swallows hard and tears his gaze from Jaskier. “Jask, come here. I want to know how you fought like that.”

Jaskier rises to his feet obediently, plopping back into his old seat near Geralt. “Like what?”

“Like me.” It’s been bugging him since they came inside, and he wants to know. He didn’t do that with Eskel or Lambert- he’d used what advantages he had, but he hadn’t bothered trying to emulate them. 

“I watch you. A lot. And… Working on the pendulums, it gave me a better sense of your footwork- the way you move. From there, it was about putting the pieces together to create-”

“A dance.” Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s and Jaskier nods, beaming. 

“Just so. I didn’t need to be able to actually best you in combat, I just had to survive long enough to disarm you.” 

Lambert looks between them, then glances at Eskel, pretending to throw up and rolling his eyes. Geralt sees him mouth the word ‘saps’ and he reaches out to flick Lambert’s ear. He hisses, swatting Geralt away and glaring. He’s still covering his ear from further onslaught when he looks expectantly at Jaskier, as if to say what about us?

“Hmmm. As for you two, I couldn’t spend nearly as much time watching, so I used what I knew. You, my spitfire, are easy to piss off and keep that way. It makes you easy to read.” Jaskier winks at Lambert even as he scowls, but he won’t argue. It’s pretty accurate and he knows it. Jaskier’s attention turns to Eskel, who’s waiting quietly to hear his weakness. “You, my gentle giant, are harder. You’re much more patient, and I can’t rile you for the life of me. But, I can use that gentleness against you.”

Eskel hums, considering this, but he also finds no fault in Jaskier’s thinking. He didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, especially not in front of Geralt, and that had made him easy prey. “Okay, now I have a question about you.”

“My favorite subject.” Jaskier grins, waving for Eskel to go on.

“How did you become so flexible?”

“Ah, yes, everyone always seems to ask me that.” Jaskier muses, tapping a finger on his chin and smirking when Geralt nudges for him to go on instead of dragging out the silence. “I traveled with a carnival troupe when I graduated from the academy. I played the music to accompany their shows, and learned much from the acrobats in the family. One of them, a very pretty elf, was particularly interested in using it combatively. It’s served me well, thus far.”

“Very well.” Lambert’s grin is saucy, and Eskel groans as Jaskier laughs. Geralt sits there, throat dry and cheeks blazing red. He sees Jaskier glance over out of the corner of his eye, and he tenses up to keep from reacting as Jaskier’s hand slides up his thigh suggestively. Geralt swallows hard, and Jaskier sighs at the same time he begins to draw patterns over the fabric of Geralt’s pants. 

“Well, now that I am an honorary witcher through ancient rites, I am going to sleep. No one dare wake me.” Jaskier’s voice is threatening, but he’s smiling and chuckles when Lambert mutters honorary witcher my ass. Jaskier glances over at Geralt, hand falling away as he stands to leave. He stoops to kiss Geralt lightly, humming against his lips. “Coming up soon?”

“Mhm.” Jaskier heads up to bed alone, and Geralt only manages to stay with his brothers for another few minutes before following Jaskier up to bed. Lambert whistles at him as he leaves, and Geralt’s cheeks are red as he climbs the stairs up to their room. 

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #say hello buffskier #jaskier is also acrobatic #bc heehehe... #lambert #eskel #vesemir #geralt of rivia #jaskier

[nah-she-didnt]

“What the frick frack tickity tic tac snick snac bro?”

I’ve been saying this a lot recently and I’d very much like to see this in one of your fics.

Happy writing!

Hello lady! Thanks for the prompt!! This was fun 

Send me more prompts here

--

The Bet

The bet had started out easily enough.

“I don’t curse that much anyway,” declared Sirius as he shoveled bacon into his mouth with the voracity that only a growing 16-year-old boy can possess.

“Yes you do,” Remus rolled his eyes, “remember the time Flitwick gave you a week’s worth of lines because you said you’d let Bowie, and I quote, ‘fuck me into next week’?”

Sirius smirked. “Yeah. Well. Not my fault he’s a prude, is it?” 

James clapped Sirius on the back. “You, my friend, are a connoisseur of curse words. You work in dirty words the way some artists work in oils or plaster. That’s how I know that I am guaranteed victory in this bet.” 

“What’s the prize?” asked Peter excitedly. He loved watching his friends in competition with one another, even if he often refused to participate himself. 

“Loser has to buy the winner’s ticket to the Puddlemere game over Easter break,” James said easily, “and while we all know I love to treat my friends to a good quidditch game, I’m afraid this time it’s personal.” 

Sirius scoffed at these words. “What, just because I said you could never do it?” 

James slammed his hand down on the table dramatically. “Yes! That’s exactly why. But I’ll show you, you cheeky bastard, that I am perfectly capable of-” 

“Of what?” 

Distracted by his own passionate defense, James failed to notice that Lily had slid into the seat next to his. She looked particularly nice today, her newly-cut bangs framed her distracting green eyes in a way that usually made his heart skip a beat. Today, the sight of her made him want to jump into the Black Lake. 

“Nothing, Evans,” he said dully, forcing himself not to look directly at her, “just guy stuff.” 

Lily arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “Guy stuff? Remus, what is this ‘guy stuff’ he speaks of?”

Remus looked caught. “Um,” he said, glancing hurriedly at James, “James was just saying he’s perfectly capable of kicking this nasty - uh - rash. You know, athlete stuff.” 

James stared at Remus in horror as Peter and Sirius roared with laughter. Lily laughed too, but she was tactful enough to try and hide her glee behind a facade of concern. “Ouch. Well, good luck with that, Potter,” and with that, she gathered up a few pieces of toast in a napkin and was off to class. 

James watched her go, mouth still hanging open. Then he rounded on his former friend. “What the fuck was that Lupin?” he roared. 

Remus tried to hide his mischievous grin. “Relax, mate,” he said as seriously as he could, “think about it. I’ve just helped you win the bet. I’m pretty sure Lily’s going to give you a wide berth for the next few days, giving Sirius ample opportunities to fuck up.” 

The smile disappeared from Sirius’ face. “Cheers, Moony,” he muttered grumpily.  

--

The first few days of the bet were uneventful. None of their fellow Gryffindors seemed to realize that anything was amiss. That is until Sirius accidentally missed the trick-step going down the stairs down from the second-floor corridor. 

“Aw, sh- beans,” Sirius yelled as his leg sank further and further into the step. 

James, who had the foresight to skip the step, started eagerly at Sirius’ near slip-up, but relaxed again when he heard his friend’s replacement curse. Mary, who was walking with the boys, did a double-take. 

“I’m sorry,” she said in a bemused voice, “did you just say ‘beans?’ What are you, a nun? What have you done with Sirius Black?” 

“Can’t curse,” he said through gritted teeth as James helped yank his leg out of the staircase, “Prongs and I have a bet, you see.” 

“Ah,” Mary nodded her head wisely, “so that’s why you’ve been acting weird all week.” She glanced pointedly at James. 

James tried his best to adopt a look of innocence. “How do you know the bet’s with me?”

“Just a hunch,” she smirked, “Lily mentioned that you haven’t spoken to her much this week, wondered if you were mad at her or something.” 

James’ heart sunk. “No! Mary, tell her I’m not mad, I-” 

“Tell her yourself!” Mary grinned wickedly then strode off in the direction of their next class.

--

Sirius’ fake swears got more creative after his near-miss on the trick stairs. 

“Oh sugarloaf,” he whined one night just after they’d settled in at a table in the library, “I forgot my Transfiguration textbook in the dorm.” 

Another time, he realized his Defense essay was two inches short. “Merlin’s big toe!” he yelped, hurriedly trying to cram in a few more sentences before professor Ferguson came around to collect their essays. 

A week later, his exclamations became utterly ridiculous. 

“Oi! Pettigrew! Did you just steal my chocolate frog?” he yelled across the dorm room, “What the frick frack tickity tic tac snick snack, bro?”

Remus snorted. “Excuse me?” he said incredulously, “what was that, again?”

“Oh, bite me,” Sirius huffed, and threw himself onto the bed, “I hate this stupid bet. I can’t express myself!” 

James shot Sirius a dirty look. “Oh, I’m so sorry, do you miss being the most vulgar person in this school? That must be so difficult for you. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure Evans thinks I’m the world’s biggest prat after all the times I’ve run away from her in the last two weeks.” James vented his frustration by punching his pillow into a more comfortable position before lying back to sulk properly. 

Remus gave him a placating look. “The bet doesn’t stop you from talking to her, James,” he said as if James were a toddler on the brink of a tantrum, “why don’t you just say hello once in a while? That’s nice and safe.” 

James fixed Remus with his most withering stare. The last two weeks had made him grumpy beyond belief. “I can’t even look at her without you lot accusing me of cheating. And there’s no way I’m losing this bet. I’m so close to victory I can almost taste the top box seats.” 

“Fat chance,” said Sirius smugly, as he squeezed the stress ball Remus gifted him to help relieve his reflex to curse. 

--

James’ downfall came in the form of Severus Snape. 

The students were unusually silent at breakfast that morning. The Daily Prophet reported that Melanie Lensard, a Hogwarts graduate, had been murdered in her Lancaster home alongside her muggle-husband. The Aurors reported that they suspected Death Eater involvement. 

James shot a sideways glance towards Lily. She wasn’t eating but instead pushed some scrambled eggs around her plate solemnly. James couldn’t blame her. He had only forced himself to choke down food so that he wouldn’t be dead on his broom for quidditch practice. But, he supposed, he couldn’t possibly know how she felt right now. 

Sirius stared wanly down at his copy of The Prophet. “Today would be a great day for cursing,” he said in a half-hearted attempt at humor. 

Remus patted him on the back. “Go out and scream it into the glen. No one will hear you.” 

Sirius shook his head. “No, I’m a man of my word,” he said pompously, “no cursing until we’re through.” 

“Lily?” 

The oily voice came from somewhere behind James. He whirled around to see Snape standing a few feet away, right behind Lily. He looked nervous, which just made him appear even more sniveling than usual, and he fixed Lily with a desperate stare. 

“I wanted to know if you were… you know… doing okay.” 

Lily did not turn to face him or even meet his gaze. “And why, Snape, wouldn’t I be okay?” 

Snape flushed. “I just know you must have seen the papers.” 

Lily rounded on him, eyes blazing. “Yes, I have seen the papers. I’m sure you lot are thrilled, aren’t you?” 

Snape paled at this. “N-no,” he stammered, taking a step back, “of course I’m-” 

“But that’s just it!” she snapped. James could see her fingers itching toward the want that lay next to her fork, “there is no ‘I’ anymore with you. If you’re with them,” she pointed towards the other sixth-year Slytherins, “then it’s just ‘we.’ I won’t let you try and separate yourself from your nasty little friends. I made excuses for you for years, and I won’t do it anymore!” 

She was yelling now, and students along the Gryffindor and neighboring Hufflepuff tables had started to go quiet. 

“Lily,” said Dorcas, who laid her hand protectively across Lily’s, “leave him. He’s not worth it.” 

Lily laughed a cold, mirthless laugh. “You can say that again. Snape, you’re nothing but a spineless, weak, snot-nosed coward, and you’d best run back to your Death Eater pals before I jinx you so hard you’ll be pissing yourself for a month.”

Snape did not stick around to retort. Instead, he scurried back to his waiting comrades, doing his best to look dignified as he ran from his former friend. 

The table was silent for a moment. Lily was panting slightly. James could feel it building in him. No, he had to suppress it, he had to win the bet, he had to think of the look on Sirius’ face when he declared victory, he had to-

“Bloody hell, Evans!” It was no use. The damn had broken. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life.” 

Lily looked slightly startled at this declaration. Then, slowly, she grinned. “Glad to hear it, Potter. I aim to please, after all,” she said sarcastically. Then she sat back down to chat with her friends, looking marginally more cheerful than she had before Snape’s arrival.

James smiled softly at her as he watched her come back to life. If he had even the smallest bit to do with her change in mood, he was satisfied. 

That is until he saw the look on Sirius’ face.

“Victory is FUCKING sweet!” Sirius shouted so loud that half the table jumped. 

James put his head in his hands. “Alright, alright, you win.” 

“You’re bloody right I win, you glorious piece of shit,” Sirius leaned across the table to thump James on the back.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” Peter shook his head as he returned to his breakfast. 

Remus laughed. “I tried to help you, James. But I guess in the end you couldn’t help yourself. It’s your primal instinct to hit on Lily Evans.” 

James sighed into his hands. As far as defeats go, this one wasn’t so bad. At least she was smiling again. 

“Right, I’ve got a lot of time to make up for,” Sirius said as he pulled a bit of parchment from his school bag, “I’ve been taking notes on all the cussing I need to do. To start with, Peter, you’re a two-faced motherfucker for stealing my chocolate frog.”

#nina writes #prompts #joyseuphoria #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #lily evans #severus snape #james is simp nation #i just love goofy sirius okay

[mamabearcat]

Hungry Ghosts

I didn’t get a chance to write anything for Halloween this year like I planned. But here’s a spooky excerpt from The Importance of Ramen, parts of chapters 7 and 8. If you haven’t read it, I think there’s enough context there for you to work out what’s going on. Hope everyone’s Halloween is going as well as it can this year!

Inuyasha went back inside the hut. The others were still asleep, but he cleaned out the firepit, replacing the slightly damp logs from last night with fresh kindling. He had the fire going and Kagome's kettle filled with water for tea by the time she returned. One look at her face had him realising that something was wrong.

She was leaning against the doorframe, sweat beading on her forehead and upper lip. "Sorry… I'm… okay. I'm okay. Squatting down just hurt my leg a little more than I thought it would."

Without a word, he walked over to her and picked her up, carrying her back to the small nest made by her empty sleeping bag. After seating her carefully on the softly padded surface, he placed his hand on her forehead again.

Kagome tried to weakly bat his hand away. "Stop fussing Inuyasha. I told you I'm fine. It's the first time I've walked on this leg since yesterday; it was bound to hurt a bit." She plastered a smile on her face. "Look, I'll even drink more of that disgusting tea if it will stop you making a big deal out of nothing."

Inuyasha, ignored her hand, taking in her sweaty face and pale complexion. "You're not fine, wench. You had a slight fever when you woke up this morning, and it's already a little worse. Let me look at those wounds of yours to make sure they're not infected."

The commotion had woken Miroku and Sango. Miroku brought the first aid kit over, while Sango mixed more of the herbal tea that Kagome had drunk last night. Kagome rolled her eyes and sighed but decided it would be less trouble to let everyone fuss.

Inuyasha carefully unwrapped the bandages on Kagome's upper left arm, being cautious of the still healing bruise below her elbow. He gently slid his clawed forefinger underneath the tape and gauze on one side of the wound and then the other, cutting through so he could lift the gauze off her wound. The skin around the deep cut was pink, but he could see that the wound was healing nicely, beginning to knit the muscle back together. He gave it a good sniff, just to make sure.

"This one's okay", he said. He moved aside so Sango could rub some of the healing cream from Kagome's first aid kit around the wound and redress it.

He moved towards Kagome's thigh on the other side and was surprised when she placed a defensive hand in front of it. "Kagome, I need to check."

"Sorry", she flushed, moving her hand out of the way. "I'm being a big wuss. This one just hurts a little more".

He placed his hand on the bandage and immediately knew the news wasn't good. "Kagome, this one's infected", he sighed. "I can feel the heat coming through the bandage without even looking at it."

"Dammit", muttered Kagome. "I was sure the saline would combat that."

Inuyasha removed the bandage even more gently than he had the previous one. Kagome kept herself as still as possible, making no sound, but her lowered brows and tight expression told the story of how much pain she was actually in. She whimpered a little as Inuyasha lifted the gauze away from the wound and drew in a deep breath.

"Fuck Kagome, no wonder it was hurting". The skin around the deeper puncture wound was bright red and shiny, the swelling spreading outwards around her thigh, pulling against the edges of the weeping gash. Red lines at the edge of the swelling streaked upwards on her leg. Inuyasha barely had to sniff to scent the smell of infection in her leg.

Sango peered over Inuyasha's shoulder at Kagome's thigh, and her face grew grim. "Take her back through the well, Inuyasha. She needs to get to a healer in her time as soon as possible." She gestured towards the red streaks travelling up Kagome's thigh. "These marks are a sign of a deep infection. I've seen them on other Taijiya who have been injured. Some of them recovered, but most …" She took a deep breath. "The infection grew rapidly worse no matter what our healers did. All they could do was ease their pain. Once they became confused and lost consciousness, we knew that they would never recover."

Kagome looked at them both, wide-eyed. "Don't you think you're being a little overly dramatic, Sango?", she chuckled weakly. "I mean, I just got back, and we need to get back on the jewel shard hunt. I'm sure if I just rest for today, then tomorrow, I'll be fine." She took in Inuyasha and Sango's serious expressions and looked towards Miroku. "Miroku, tell them that I just need some rest, and then we can all get going again."

Miroku squatted down next to Kagome, holding the mug of herbal tea that Sango had prepared a few minutes ago. "Now, Kagome", he said, his usual calm smile a contrast to the anxious grimace on Kagome's face, "what sort of elder brother would I be if I counselled against a course of action that would have you healing faster?"

He pushed the tea into her unwilling hands, smiling encouragingly as she forced herself to sip the bitter liquid. "If it's just simple rest that you need, surely a rest in your own time in a comfortable bed under your mother's loving care will speed your recovery. And, if as Sango suggests, a trip to a healer is required, that should not trouble you if you know it will bring your family here peace of mind. I'm sure if Inuyasha puts his mind to it, he could have you home before dark."

He looked questioningly at Inuyasha, who nodded brusquely. Miroku leaned closer to Sango, who was still leaning over Inuyasha's shoulder. "Do not trouble yourself about the rest of us while you're gone, we will muddle along together just fine." A sudden resounding slap, as Sango backhanded Miroku across the cheek, startled Kagome then had her giggling. Obviously, his wandering hand had been unable to resist the temptation of Sango's pert derriere as she leant forward.

Inuyasha rolled his eyes at the pair's familiar antics, but didn't move from his spot beside Kagome, as Sango knelt to begin the process of rewrapping the wound in Kagome's thigh. He removed the tea from Kagome's tense hands and placed the mug on the floor, so it would not be spilt, and held her hands in his own instead. His ears drooped and laid flat on his head at the quiet whimpers escaping through Kagome's clenched teeth as Sango cleaned and packed the wound with fresh gauze.

"Looks like we're goin' on another run, wench", he said quietly. He cleared his throat, trying to force a cheery note into his voice. "Maybe if I get ya home early enough, your mother will have time to make that crunchy chicken stuff. The one Souta likes so much. What's it called again?"

"Karaage" muttered Kagome through compressed lips. She really wanted to smile at Inuyasha's attempts to take her mind off what Sango was doing, but her leg hurt so badly, even worse than when the beetle had first gouged the hole in her leg. She tried her best, gasping a little. "It's a shame she doesn't know we're coming; she might have bought steak for you."

He grinned. "Now that would be worth runnin' back for." He tried not to wince as Kagome dug her blunt fingernails into his palms as Sango tightened the bandage on her thigh.

"All done", said Sango, using some of the special cleaning gel on her hands after she had rinsed them in the water pail as Kagome had taught her. She repacked the medical kit, as Miroku and the now awake Shippou bustled about making breakfast, cooking rice and making tea.

"Drink your tea Kagome", encouraged Inuyasha, letting go of her hands to pick up the mug.

She flapped her hand at him. "Gimme a minute", she panted. "I feel like I'm gonna… gonna…" Her eyes suddenly widened as her palm slapped over her mouth. Inuyasha had the good sense to let go of the mug and grab the almost empty water pail next to Kagome, tipping the water out and thrusting it in front of her face just in time. Sango padded back over to scoop Kagome's long hair out of the way into a tail over her shoulder, rubbing her back comfortingly as Kagome hurled what was left of last night's dinner into the pail in front of her.

"Hnn, that was so gross", moaned Kagome. "I'm so sorry." She spat one last time into the bucket, then wiped her mouth with a damp cloth offered by Sango. Embarrassment flooded her face, and she hung her head. Inuyasha dipped his head down sideways until it was almost perpendicular with the floor, so he could look see her expression.

"What's with that face, wench?" he questioned, looking at her narrowed eyes and downturned mouth.

Kagome looked up, her eyes blazing in her sweaty pale face. "Do you really have to ask?", she fired back. "I got targeted by a demon again, got myself injured, and now you're gonna have to babysit me and take me home. And to top it all off, I just ruined everyone's breakfast by chucking up in front of them while they were eating."

Inuyasha grunted. "First of all, the beetle was after the shard, not you, and the way it grabbed you took everyone by surprise, me included. Second, yes, I am takin' you home, but you ain't no baby and if you sit me on the way there, I will not be happy. And" he said, glancing over his shoulder and taking in Miroku calmly sipping tea while Sango served herself rice and Shippou and Kirara continued chewing, "breakfast don't look ruined to me."

Shippou's wide eyes took everything in as he continued munching on his rice ball. "Ish Kagmee gna ee mmk?", he asked Miroku, barely coherent behind the large mouthful of rice he was still chewing.

"She will be fine. Inuyasha will make sure of it by taking her back through the well and letting healers in her time assess her injury", replied Miroku comfortingly, patting the kit on the head as he continued to drink his tea.

Inuyasha sat down with them and began shovelling rice into his mouth, sculling hot tea as quickly as he could. Sango's assessment of Kagome's wound had him worried. Put an enemy in front of him that was threatening Kagome, and he would give his all to take it down, no sweat, but infection was a battle he couldn't fight for her. His mind went back to an image of long ago, his own hand tiny in the sweaty clasp of his mother's, her eyes closed as she struggled for every breath while the infection in her lungs fought to defeat her. Darkness and cold. She was so cold. He pushed the thought away.

"Miroku, Sango, you may as well go back to Kaede's while we're gone. That way I can come back through the well and let you know she's okay." Miroku and Sango nodded. "I'm gonna go over the mountain instead of around, that should take about two hours off my time."

"Over Mount Mitsumine?", asked Miroku. Inuyasha nodded, tapping his foot impatiently as Sango tied some extra rice balls and a flask of water into a cloth for him to carry in case Kagome grew hungry or thirsty later.

Miroku was puzzled – his mind was tickling him, trying to feed him information pertinent to the shrine on Mount Mitsumine, but he couldn't quite remember. He made an angry tsking noise; it was just out of reach, and he was sure it was something of importance.

Inuyasha squatted down in front of Kagome with his back facing her. She had done her best with the tea, taking a few more sips, but looked sweaty and tired, and Inuyasha felt his concern for her rising. He pushed it down again.

"Okay Kagome, the faster we leave, the faster you can be home sleepin' in that girly pink bed a yours" he teased, as she slowly eased herself forward, draping her arms over his shoulders. Instead of holding onto her thighs as he usually did, he created a seat under her bottom for her by interlocking his fingers behind his back. He straightened himself up slowly, bouncing her slightly, getting her into position. Kagome buried her face in his hair, whimpering in pain at the pressure his forearm put on her swollen thigh. "Shit, this ain't gonna work". He was going to have to carry her in front of him again, but it was hard on his arms, and would slow them down as they went over the mountain.

Shippou's worried face brightened, and he whispered in Sango's ear. "Wait, Inuyasha, Shippou's had a really good idea!" Sango spoke to Miroku and he dropped a few coins into her hand. She bolted out the door and came back a short time later with a long piece of thickly woven indigo fabric.

"What the fuck's that for?" Inuyasha grunted. Sango motioned for Inuyasha to bend down again, then motioned for Kagome to climb onto Inuyasha's back. She put the top centre of the piece of long cloth over Kagome, up near her neck, and tucked the rest of the width underneath Kagome's bottom, creating a pocket for her to sit in. She drew the long tails of fabric up over Inuyasha's shoulders, wrapping them under his arms, and then under and over Kagome's legs on each side, pulling the tails firmly back around to the front. She held onto the fabric and motioned for Inuyasha to stand. He did so cautiously, worried that Kagome would fall, but to his surprise, she was held in tightly to his back by the fabric and felt lighter than she usually did.

"You 'kay Kagome?", he asked, trying to look over his shoulder at her.

Kagome rested her head on his shoulder. The fabric had her snuggled in tight against his back and was supporting her leg without pushing on the wound too much.

"Yeah, I'm good", she murmured. Sango tied the long tails of fabric around Inuyasha's waist, being careful to make the knot above the Tessaiga so he would still be able to draw it if required.

"Now you have your arms free if you need them", she grinned. "It was Shippou's idea – he reminded me how busy mamas carry their children when they need to get stuff done. I used to… to carry Kohaku like this when he was little, when my mother and father were away on a raid and I needed to practice my drills". She smiled a little tearfully at the picture Inuyasha and Kagome made. "He always seemed very comfortable that way – he usually went to sleep when I wore him like this." Sango tucked the small tied cloth of food into the top of the wrap near Kagome's shoulder. "Now you're all set to go".

"Thanks Sango. Thanks runt – you did good." Inuyasha paused to ruffle the fox kit's fluffy red fringe and Shippou beamed under the rare praise. After a final nod to Miroku, Inuyasha ran out the door, slowly at first, until he grew to trust that Kagome wouldn't fall. He sped up and was soon out of sight.

Sango and Shippou finished up their breakfast and began tidying everything into Kagome's gigantic backpack. Sango looked sideways at Miroku, who was still muttering to himself. "What's up?", she asked.

"There was something about the shrine at Mount Mitsumine", muttered Miroku, "but I can't quite…" Suddenly he stopped, looking apprehensively at Sango. "Oh no. Hidarugami! I remember hearing from a traveller that they haunt the trail near the shrine!" Sango stared at him, open mouthed.

Overhearing the conversation, Shippou nodded, familiar with this particular entity. "Ah. Good thing they took some rice balls with them."

👻 👻 👻

Inuyasha ran like the wind, his feet pounding the ground as regular as a heartbeat. He could feel that Kagome had dozed off, the gentle sway of the fabric hammock she was supported in easing her pain a little. Inuyasha smiled. The runt did have some good ideas occasionally. He would just keep going until she woke, get as much ground covered as he could. They were already nearly up the mountain, the zig zagging trail no match for the sure footed hanyou.

The dappled light under the trees kept away the summer heat, and the splashing water from the little waterfall they were currently passing was refreshing. Brightly coloured finches flew overhead, flying through the spray in an effort to keep cool. He could keep going for a few more hours yet without needing to take a break. He could see the brightly coloured gate of Mitsumine Shrine up ahead. They just needed to get through this narrow-wooded part first and then the path down the other side of the mountain would open out, as more travellers from Edo used that road to make a pilgrimage to the mountain shrine.

Suddenly he felt like he'd hit a wall. Weakness caused his limbs to tremble and he dropped to one knee, staggering, trying to keep his balance with Kagome on his back. What the fuck was going on! His throat felt dry and cracked, his stomach clenched in on itself like hadn't eaten in weeks. He lurched to his feet and forced himself to keep moving, but each step dragged like something was siphoning off every ounce of energy he'd ever possessed.

Inuyasha growled in outrage. He would not let whatever this barrier was beat him. He would keep going. Kagome needed him to keep going. He heard her moan softly behind him, and it gave him the will to take a few more steps before his legs faltered and he slammed into the ground face first.

"Gome", he whispered, turning his face away from the sandy dirt of the mountain pass, his sandpaper dry throat cracking what was left of his voice, "you 'kay?" She moaned softly again, and against his will, Inuyasha's eyes rolled back in his head. The cheerful birds continued their twittering, splashing in the puddles left by the side of the waterfall, paying no heed to the pair collapsed on the path beside them.

👻 👻 👻

Kagome was jolted out of her doze as Inuyasha staggered beneath her, dropping to one knee. A sudden wash of fear prickled the back of her neck as the dappled sunlight around them was swallowed up; she could no longer see the path ahead, and the air was suffocatingly silent.

Turning towards the waterfall her panic grew as she realised that the previously tumbling water was still. The little finches hung motionless in mid-air, the droplets of mist they had been flying through only moments before hovering as if gravity had ceased to exist. They were caught in a bubble outside time, and she had no clue what had caused it. Kagome shivered, about to question Inuyasha about what had caused his stumble, when a slight movement in the trees caught her eye; she saw them.

She felt almost paralysed by bone deep terror as the shadowy forms approached from the darkened edges of her vision. There was movement on both sides of the path, they were surrounded, but it was difficult to see any details of what they were or to count how many as they shifted in and out of the darkness. Ten, twelve maybe? Whatever they were, they gave off an undeniably menacing aura.

This wasn't good. Her bow had been left with Miroku and Sango, not that she would be able to shoot with her injured arm, and she didn't have much experience channelling her miko abilities without the focus of an arrow. Her hands and arms were tucked in tightly to her chest; she could try to wriggle them free with an effort but was worried that would throw off Inuyasha's tottering balance.

Then Kagome realised that she wouldn't be able to bring her reiki to her hands anyway, not without injuring Inuyasha. She clenched her shaking fingers into fists tight against Inuyasha's back, unable to do anything but watch and wait as the pack of unknown foes came forward into the dim light and circled around them. Kagome felt bile burn its way into the back of her throat. She had already felt ill, but to see these things up close…

Empty sockets where eyes once where, skin stretched taut over bone they advanced, lipless mouths leering in delight at the fear of their prey. Ragged kimonos and wisps of hair fluttering in a ghostly breeze of their own making, they floated around Kagome and Inuyasha, no feet to tie them to the earth. Some appeared to have lost their kimonos entirely, clothed only in tattered fundoshi, bone white skin as tight as a drum over ribs, stomachs distended with malnutrition and split with decay.

As they approached in an ever-tightening circle, the ominous silence was replaced by sibilant whispers of hunger and death. Inuyasha staggered to his feet, moving forward on the path, but how could he, when the path was no longer there? She heard him growl in rage as he struggled forwards, and she couldn't help but let out a small moan of horror as she felt the slight brush of ragged cloth against her cheek as one of them glided towards her.

The spectre reached out a bony hand and caressed Kagome's dark hair, running her locks through its skeletal fingers almost as a lover would. The head sagged on an inhumanely long neck, and the eyeless creature licked where its lips once were, tongue blackened and swollen. "You will join usss", it whispered, bending its head close to her ear and she shuddered, recoiling at the unwanted touch. She almost screamed as the dry tongue curved along the rim of her ear. "Join usss, in hunger, join usss in death."

The spectre's head lolled forward as it turned its eyeless gaze towards Inuyasha. The realisation suddenly hit her that he couldn't see the spirits; had no idea of the threat they were facing. Before she could free her arm to try and knock the spectre's hand away, it reached out towards Inuyasha's face as he grimly struggled to keep moving forwards, a light touch sweeping across his mouth and nose. Kagome would have shrieked if she was not already breathless with horror as Inuyasha pitched forward suddenly, slamming them both into the damp sandy earth of the mountain path.

She watched as Inuyasha dragged his face sideways in the dirt, his beautiful amber eyes clouded in pain. "Gome, you 'kay?" he asked, his voice raspy. She wanted to answer, to give him some reassurance, but could only produce a small sound of fear.

What should she do? How could she fight back? She didn't want to accidentally purify Inuyasha with her reiki; she didn't even know what these things were, just that they spoke of hunger and death and that she was terrified of them. Inuyasha's eyes suddenly rolled back in his head, and with horror she felt his breathing become shallow, his heartbeat slowing with every beat. She was frantic. He was going to die, here on this path, and she was powerless.

A small thought swelled in her mind, bright as a bead. 'You are not powerless. You are a shrine maiden, a miko.' Pulling together her last vestiges of courage, Kagome closed her eyes, and imagined a thin beam of reiki that rose up into the air then spread outwards like an umbrella, forming a bubble of protection around herself and Inuyasha. She had no idea if her effort was affecting these things, and her mind churned, searching every memory for an inkling of what these creatures might be, trying not to weep at the sound of Inuyasha's rattling breath. She didn't think they were demons. Not demons, but dead things. Dead things on a deserted path, that wanted them to join them in death. Hungry dead things. Hungry ghosts. A long-forgotten memory suddenly unfolded.

Her father was whistling cheerfully, preparing for a weekend hike with his friends. She was sitting on the kitchen counter nearby, swinging her little legs. One by one, she handed him his first aid supplies to be packed into his backpack, and she grinned in excitement at being considered old enough to help Daddy while Mama went outside to hang out the washing. Grandpa had come into the kitchen to make tea. He rifled through the pantry and grabbed a package of mochi, pushing them into her father's hands.

"Don't forget my son, you should take these with you. It's always better to be safe than sorry when walking on a mountain path." Her father had rolled his eyes and then winked at her, but willingly packed the mochi into his backpack.

"Don't worry father, I'll be sure to be on the lookout for hungry ghosts."

Hungry ghosts. She vaguely remembered legends about those that died far from home during famine times. Their lack of proper burial caused them to wander in continued pain and hunger, and they lingered on deserted paths to force others to join them in death. That had to be what these things were! But how did you get rid of them? Was she meant to recite a prayer?

She gritted her teeth at her lack of knowledge; she was sure that Miroku would know this. Why had her grandfather suggested that her father carry mochi? Maybe it was something to do with food. Did you feed them, or yourself?

Using her last reserves of energy, Kagome wiggled her arms that were pinned by the tight wrap against Inuyasha's back, panting with the effort of maintaining the barrier. Managing to free them enough to reach the cloth that Sango had tied the rice balls and bottled water in, she frantically scrabbled to untie the knot with numb fingers, her terror rising as Inuyasha's laboured breaths stilled - then began again, now so shallow that they were almost a sigh.

'Gotta hurry, gotta hurry!' She was gasping in her haste, hoping against hope that the barrier that she'd tried to erect was keeping the ghosts at bay. There were two rice balls. She broke one in half and stuffed a chunk into Inuyasha's lax mouth and the other half in her own, then hurled the remaining rice through the paper-thin barrier at the spectres looming over them. After gulping down her own rice, she stroked Inuyasha's face and neck with shaking fingers. His usually tan skin was paper white, a bluish tinge spreading around his mouth and nose.

"Inuyasha, swallow. You have to swallow the rice." Hysterical tears rolled down Kagome's panic-stricken face, dripping onto his hair and cheeks as her voice grew more shrill. "Inuyasha! Please, please wake up. Stay here with me, don't go with them!" She tried tilting his head back by pushing on his chin, hoping it would cause a swallowing reflex, but terrified that in his unresponsive state she would force him to choke. Her panicked voice and stroking must have reached him on some level; his throat moved slightly as he swallowed a small morsel of rice without opening his eyes.

As if a switch had been flicked, the horror was gone.

It was a beautiful summer's day. Birds chirped cheerfully, flying through the rainbow hued spray thrown up by the gurgling waterfall, splashing noisily in the puddles, twittering their enjoyment. Noticing the cooked rice now scattered on the path, they swooped, squabbling and pecking, eager to take advantage of an easy meal. The dappled sunlight patterned the ground around them, leaves swaying in the breeze, and the delicate green of the forest framed the colourful gate of the shrine clearly visible up ahead.

Kagome dropped her head to Inuyasha's shoulder and sobbed quietly, releasing the barrier as the intense fear gradually ebbed away. She felt utterly drained. She took comfort in Inuyasha's heart beating steady and true beneath her, his back muscles moving rhythmically with each firm inhale and exhale of air. Her sobs suddenly turned to giggles when Inuyasha popped open an eye and spat the remaining rice out of his mouth, coughing and spluttering a little, wiping at his face. Rising on his elbow, he turned to look over his shoulder at her, growling his annoyance. "Kagome, why is there fucking rice up my nose?!"

#the importance of ramen #inukag fanfic #hidarugami #Mamabearcat fanfic

[bbyx]

ripple effect - part seven

Summary: During her fourth year at Hogwarts, (y/n) Deauxville falls for none other than Cedric Diggory. But it's not easy when you have to deal with protecting your family's fortune, keeping your father's illness a secret and having two of your closest friends catch feelings for you.

Pairings : reader x cedric, reader x draco, reader x harry

"I don't believe it!" Ron said, in a stunned voice, as the Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind the party from Durmstrang.

"Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!"

"For heaven's sake, Ron, he's only a Quidditch player," said Hermione.

"Only a Quidditch player?" Ron said, looking at her as though he couldn't believe his ears. "Hermione — he's one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he was still at school! (y/n) think you could introduce me?"

"(y/n)?" Harry said worriedly waving his hand in front of your face. "(y/n) you okay?"

"What?"

"You think you could go introduce me to Viktor Krum?" Ron asks, his eyes sparkling.

"Krum's here?"

As you recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, you try to spot Fleur's silvery hair in the crowd. Several sixth-year girls were frantically searching their pockets as they walked

"Oh I don't believe it, I haven't got a single quill on me"

"D'you think he'd sign my hat in lipstick?"

"Look it's his girlfriend." The other whispers.

"She looks awfully stunned, doesn't she?"

The other shrugs. "Maybe they've broken up."

When you enter the Great Hall, you follow your friends to the Gryffindor table without paying attention. You're still searching for Fleur in the crowds of students.

"Over here! Come and sit over here!" Ron hissed. "Over here! Hermione, budge up, make a space"

"What?"

"Too late," said Ron bitterly just as you spot your cousin at the Ravenclaw table.

"I have to go." You say distractedly.

"Where are you -" Harry starts but you're already gone.

There's a large herd of Ravenclaw students surrounding Fleur and her friends. You try inching your way forward when a girl stands in your way.

"Go back to your table, you're crowding us." Marietta Edgecombe says, flicking her nose as far up as it would go.

You sigh. "Could you please move."

"I ought to go tell Professor Flitwick that you won't stop harassing the Beauxbaton students.

"Marietta, I don't have time for your shit right now. Seriously move."

"Ah girlz tis is my couzin (y/n)" Fleur says coming behind Marietta. Marietta looks between you and Fleur and her eyes flash in understanding. The other Beauxbaton girls look at you bitterly, their faces reading Not another one. Fleur grabs you in a hug that feels more like a chokehold.

"Fleur! It is so nice to see you again." You tell her in French.

"You as well, my mother and father, send their warmest regards." She flashes a strained smile.

"Tell them I say thank you." Fleur obviously has no wish to continue this conversation and gets up from her seat.

"Do you know if there's any more Bouillabaisse?" Fleur asks, her eyes cold.

"Check the Gryffindor table."

You glance at the Slytherin table where Daphne and Millicent are practically dying of laughter. Krum! Daphnee mouths pointing to the brooding boy next to Draco.

Oh shit.

If the dating rumours were bad before, they were about to get a lot worse. You roll your eyes at her and try to find your brother in the crowd. He finds you before you can find him and leads you out of the Great Hall.

"Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?"

Harry noticed it was the girl from Beauxbatons. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. Ron went purple. He stared up at her, opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a faint gurgling noise.

"Yeah, have it," said Harry, pushing the dish toward the girl.

"You 'ave finished wiz it?"

"Yeah," Ron said breathlessly. "Yeah, it was excellent."

The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still ogling at the girl. Harry started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron back to his senses. "She's a veela!" he said hoarsely to Harry.

"Of course she isn't!" said Hermione tartly. "I don't see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!" But she wasn't entirely right about that. As the girl crossed the Hall, many boys' heads turned.

"I'm telling you, that's not a normal girl!" said Ron, leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her. "They don't make them like that at Hogwarts!"

"They do," said Harry without thinking, jutting his chin to (y/n) who was walking out of the hall with her brother.

"Harry, you have no chance mate, I heard she went out with Diggory last week. And (y/n)'s part veela so my point still stands." Ron says proudly while Hermione scoffs at him.

"Why is Fleur here?" His eyes darting to make sure no one else was around the pair.

"Hate to state the obvious but she's here for the tournament."

Nick ponders his words for a moment. " So what do we do?"

" Nick you do nothing, I'll take care of it. Just stick to the story okay?  Dad's in Europe buying properties. And try not to tell anyone else about his disease."

"Ced told you? (y/n) i'm so sorry I was having a rough time and"

"I don't need your half assed apology right now. Listen last time Fleur saw us, me and you were on" You fumble for words. "Better terms. If she sees how...distant we are right now she might get suspicious and report that back to the rest of the family. So we have to... to look like a team. A united front."

You look up from your feet, your brother's face looks torn between heartbreak and shock. You knew that the dynamics of your relationship had changed but it felt as if saying it out loud made it concrete.

"United front yeah that sounds good." He stutters back.

(y/n) can't bear looking at her brother's face and the mixed feelings his expression is brewing. The doors to the Hall start looking more inviting with each passing second.

"(y/n/n) wait" Nick says, flashing you his brotherly smile " if anyone gives you shit about Krum, you call me alright?"

He gently tugs your ponytail as he passes you.

Despite all your new problems you smile all the way to the Slytherin table because that was one of the longest interaction you've had with Nick in months. You sit in between Theodore and Blaise.

"Is your cousin entering?" Draco asks as you shovel food onto your plate.

"I'm not sure. We barely had time to talk, Edgecombe was practically slobbering all over her."

"Cousin??" Millicent questions while pouring herself more pumpkin juice.

"Yeah my cousin Fleur's here. See, at the Ravenclaw table. The tall blonde one, next to Cho."

"Holy fuck" Blaise whispers.

"She's...really hot." Theo says, eyes fixed on Fleur.

"It's not fair, why is your whole bloody family so freakishly beautiful." Daphne pouts. "I mean even your dad makes half the school drool."

"Not to mention your brother." Millicent sighs dreamily. You laugh quietly to yourself because you know your brother is interested in someone very... different from Millicent.

When dinner disappears, you finally dare to take a peek at Viktor Krum. Instead you meet eyes with his friend. Krum's friends nudges him and points to you. You look down at your plate quickly like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

Holy shit this can't be happening.

"(y/n) I think Krum's coming." Theodore laughs quietly.

"Theodore save me." You whisper to your neighbour, feeling Viktor Krum's eyes on the back of your head.

"What do you want me to do!?"

"I don't know! Think of something!"

" You could kiss me." Says Theodore with a wicked grin.

"Or me!" Blaise adds on the other side of you.

"What!"

"Just saying, love" Blaise says, putting his hands up. "It would be a great deterrent."

Theo adds smugly "Any bloke would know he doesn't stand a chance if he saw you snogging a young James Dean like myself."

Before you could throw insults at the two of them, you feel a presence behind you.

" Hello, I do not believe ve have formally met. I am Viktor." He says holding his hand out, you give him your hand, not wanting to offend him. He plants a small kiss on it and you hear tremendous cheers and whistles ripple through the hall. You catch Cedric's eye at the Hufflepuff table just as the glass he's squeezing bursts into shards.

"Oh hi. I'm (y/n). Listen, I'm sorry about the whole article girlfriend thing."

"Don't apologize, it is not your fault, reporters make up ridikulous things about me all ze time."

"Ah." (y/n) says, not sure how to end this conversation quickly since every pair of eyes were on her and him. "Are you entering?"

"Yes of course. Are you?"

"Me? No. I'm too young."

"Hmm vell zen I hope you vill cheer for me vhen I get picked."

And with that he walks away.

Everyone starts filing out of the Hall when Dumbledore finishes introducing the Goblet of Fire.

"(y/n)! Wait" You hear Cedric's bright voice in the crowd. " I brought you this." He hands you a small vial with a thick orange paste. "It's crushed Dittany, it'll help with your burn."

"Cedric, that's so thoughtful!" You say giving him a quick hug before his friends appear behind him.

"Dr.Diggory has to live up to his reputation.' He whispers attractively.

Nick raises his eyebrows at you in a questioning way but you brush him off.

"We're putting our names in tomorrow morning! You have to come watch." Says Peregrine, barely able to contain his excitement.

"If you bring a quill I might let you get my autograph. Who knows, it might be worth millions when I win." Jeremy says, his nose still wrapped in a thin baddage.

"If you come, I'll make sure to include you in my acceptance speech when I become champion." Graham adds, sliding between you and Cedric.

"Will you come? Please?" Cedric says, looking you straight in the eyes and erasing all coherent sentences from your brain.

"Y-yeah" You say flustered.

"Of course she answers Pretty Boy Diggory." Graham mumbles jokingly.

"No, he was just the only one who said please." You say before tossing your hair back and strutting off, making half the group's jaw drop. You smile devilishly to yourself.

Always works.

(y/n) waits in the Great Hall for Cedric, her brother and his friends, already regretting having gotten up so early.

"Anyone put their name in yet?" Ron asks a third-year girl eagerly.

"All the Durmstrang lot," she replies. "But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet."

"Bet some of them put it in last night after we'd all gone to bed," says Harry. "I would've if it had been me . . . wouldn't have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?"

Someone laughs behind Harry. Turning, you see Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase.

"Done it," Fred says in a triumphant whisper. "Just taken it."

"What?" asks Ron.

"The Aging Potion, dung brains," says Fred.

"One drop each," says George, rubbing his hands together with glee. "We only need to be a few months older."

"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," says Lee, grinning broadly.

"You guys are idiots." You say in between yawns.

"I'm not sure this is going to work, you know," says Hermione warningly "I'm sure Dumbledore will have thought of this."

Fred, George, and Lee ignored her. "Ready?" Fred says to the other two.

"C'mon, then " You watch, as Fred and George successfully get past the Age line and drop their pieces of parchment in the cup. For a split second it looked as though it had worked but then both boys were ejected into the air and fell hard on the cold stone floor. Immediately after, long white beards sprouted out of their faces and the entire hall erupted in laughter.

"Ladies and Gentleman, you're about to witness history." Graham says, his chest puffed out as he walked past the age line and dropped his name inside.

"D'you reckon they'll let us keep the Goblet if we win?" Xavier says, hypnotized by the blue flames.

"When I win i'll have enough money to buy you a thousand goblets." Your brother says writing his name on a piece of parchment.

"Uh you already have enough money to buy all of us a thousand goblets." Peregrine reminds him.

You roll your eyes at the boys but grab your brother's wrist just as he's about to cross the golden line.

"Are you sure about this? You know you don't have to enter just because all your friends are doing"

"Whatever you say Mom." He says before dropping his paper in with ease.        " Calm down i'll be fine." Nick says, ruffling your hair.

"Nick stop! My hair is priceless." You say theatrically while smoothing out the top of your head.

" Speaking of hair obsessed people." Peregrine says as Cedric and Jeremy walk in.

"Sorry we slept in." Cedric says sheepishly.

"Ced said he would wake me up but at 10:30 i'm ready to go and this asshole's still sleeping like a baby and then I said-" Jeremy starts.

Cedric walks up next to you.

"Need a quill?" You say holding up the parchment and quill the other boys had used.

" No, I already wrote my name with my lucky quill." He mumbles the last part, clearly not wanting the others to hear.

"Ooh (y/n) wanna see my lucky quill." Peregrine says snaking an arm around your shoulders. You slap him on the back of his chestnut hair. "Ow! Ow! Damn you hit hard!"

Cedric walks up to the cup, the blue light reflecting off his face, accentuating his perfect features. A quick glance around the room confirms what you already know, every girl at school has shown up to watch Cedric Diggory put his name in the cup.

Just then the Beauxbaton girls file in, being led by Madame Maxime. Fleur smiles at you as she walks past, a smile that would look unbelievably gorgeous to anyone else but it sent a shiver down your spine. At the sight of your cousin, Jeremy's bandaged nose starts to bleed.

"Ah fuck!" He says blood getting on his Hufflepuff sweatshirt.

"Well boys, off to the infirmary." Nick declares.

As Cedric brushes past you, he slips you a note.

Tomorrow night, hallway outside kitchens.

I'm gonna give you a tour of the best common room.

Cedric.

P.S: there will be chocolate frogs

#cedric diggory #harry potter #draco malfoy #hp and the goblet of fire #cedric diggory x you #cedric diggory x reader #cedric x you #cedric x reader #harry potter x reader #draco malfoy x reader

[anistarrose]

Fear The Reaper A Lot, Actually - Chapter 3

AO3

Chapter Summary: The battle continues! Kravitz arrives to help. Taako chills out. Angus remains skeptical.

Characters: Kravitz, Taako, Barry Bluejeans, Angus McDonald, Magnus Burnsides, Merle Highchurch, Noelle | No-3113, The Raven Queen, The Director | Lucretia, misc. BoB cameos

Relationships: Taakitz, Angus McDonald & Taako, Barry Bluejeans & Kravitz

***

The cloaked necromancers Chad and Dave stood beside their fallen comrade, seething with rage. Green tendrils of electricity flew off their staff, materializing into twisting vines that pulverized almost every stone surface in a twenty-foot radius.

Behind them, Magnus coughed up water and struggled into a sitting position. He was still loosely bound by moss, but managed to swat the attacking vines away from Merle, who was looking even worse for wear on account of residing almost directly beneath the epicenter of Taako’s stalactite-shattering stunt.

“Don’t worry,” Merle mumbled, fumbling with a waterlogged Extreme Teen Bible. “I know how to deal with plants —”

His holy symbol began to glow, only for that radiant light to fade almost immediately as Merle’s head slumped. “Never mind, I think I’m concussed.”

From his position on the ledge between Angus and Kravitz, Taako watched with increasing concern.

“I really fucking didn’t think through the collateral damage of that move, did I?” he muttered. “Hey, Kravitz? If you’ve developed any grudging respect for me at all over the forty-eight hours we’ve been playing this game of cat and mouse, then can you do me a solid and get those two out of danger?”

Kravitz eyed the pile of rubble in the center of the cave, where the pool had once been. “Technically, I’ve been hunting you for more like twelve years. But I think I can figure something out.”

Before Taako could even react to the first statement, Kravitz turned into a ball of light and zipped down to the ground floor. Dave took a swing at him with the staff, but Kravitz was too fast, dodging green lighting bolts and disappearing into the shattered remnants of the stalactite.

There was an anticlimactic pause, then a low rumble, and a stone construct began to assemble itself as rubble from across the cave flew together to form four massive arms and fists. A few of the surviving slime constructs charged him, but Kravitz effortlessly flicked boulders through their heads with his lower pair of arms, then scooped up Magnus and Merle with his upper pair.

“What are you even doing with that staff? Either stop him, or hand it over to me!” Chad wrestled the staff out of Dave’s hands and pointed it at the base of the construct’s torso, summoning more vines and wiry tree roots that bored into the stone. But before they could bind or shatter any vital foundations, Taako took his cue to rejoin the fight, dropping a Fireball on the necromancers from directly above before casually floating down to their level, Umbra Staff still wreathed in flames.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Kravitz scanned the cave for ledges out of the way of danger, but Angus still occupied the only safe spot he could see. Instead, he drew upon his link to the Astral Plane and concentrated — and as the cracks in the construct’s form began to glow blue, several sapphire crystals burst out of the wall of the cave to form an elevated platform. He set Magnus and Merle down atop it, then brushed the last scraps of moss off their bodies with surprisingly dextrous stone fingers.

“Unhand me, you undead — oh, never mind, that’s actually really helpful,” Magnus told him. “But do you think you could get me my axe back?”

The construct’s head turned, as a movement on the ground floor caught Kravitz’s attention. Scattered pieces of moss were slowly creeping back together, reabsorbing diluted puddles of slime and writhing as they formed new undead constructs.

“Maybe later,” Kravitz answered, voice echoing across the cave. “Right now, I’ve got other priorities.”

From his bird’s-eye-view, Angus noticed the reforming slimes at the same time Kravitz did. “Taako, behind you!”

Taako had been handling the two surviving necromancers with ease, but he barely reacted in time to dodge a spray of acid from one of their newly formed minions. This one was taller and more deformed than any of the others, and its three arms wielded gelatinous copies of the Extreme Teen Bible, Railsplitter, and the Umbra Staff. Its face was perpetually bubbling and reforming, sprouting Magnus’s sideburns before replacing them with Merle’s beard, then Taako’s hat.

“Ugh!” Taako spat, recoiling. “I know you’re necromancers, but I didn’t sign up for this horror movie shit!”

“Try freezing it, sir!” Angus yelled, cupping both hands around his mouth. “Your Sleet Storm took out a lot of the vines last time!”

Taako fired off a simple Ray of Frost, catching the slime abomination in the shoulder and freezing its whole body solid in just a fraction of a second. Its face solidified somewhere between Merle’s and Taako’s, locked in a shouting expression — but thankfully, Taako didn’t have to stare at his fused likeliness for much longer, as Kravitz’s construct detached and launched one of its fists with a burst of blue astral fire, pulverizing the frozen construct into a thousand clouded ice crystals.

“Nice shot!” Taako called out. “But fuck, I wish we’d realized their weakness sooner!”

“Damn you, and damn your reaper friend a thousand times!” Dave bellowed. “But you haven’t won yet! Fuck ‘em up, Chad!”

Chad slammed the tip of the staff against the ground, and a dozen more vines arose to bind the stone behemoth. Kravitz let it crumble, turning back into a ball of light and zipping over to Taako’s side, where he rematerialized as a humanoid skeleton who gripped his scythe as three new, equally deformed slime clones rose and advanced towards them.

“If you freeze those three, I bet I can shatter them all in one attack,” Kravitz boasted, grinning at Taako.

“Create another sapphire at about torso height in the wall on our left, and I bet I can freeze ‘em all with just one ray!” Taako raised him.

“You’re on!” Kravitz plunged his scythe into the ground, and a sapphire crystal burst out from a wall of dull gray limestone. Nodding approvingly, Taako fired off another Ray of Frost, which ricocheted off the reflective blue surface at the perfect angle and flew in a straight line through all the clones, leaving each of them frozen.

Kravitz twirled his scythe and it morphed into a elegant black longbow, three sapphire-tipped arrows already nocked and blazing with ghostly flames. He turned his bow sideways as he fired, and each arrow pierced one frozen enemy, shattering them into three identical piles of icy shards.

“Ohoho! Nice one!” Taako laughed, applauding enthusiastically. “Look out for those clowns with the staff, though!”

Chad screamed and charged at Kravitz, wielding the intensely magical staff like a melee weapon — but Kravitz simply plucked the string of his bow, and upon hearing the tone, Chad dropped the staff and slammed his hands over his ears. In one lightning-fast motion that literally crackled with electricity, Kravitz reverted his bow to its scythe form and swung at Chad, who was vaporized the second the blade pierced his skin. A mottled brown cloak fell to the ground, sliced in half but no longer occupied by anything but dust.

“Could you do me a favor and freeze the rest of that moss, Taako?” Kravitz called out. “I’ll wrap up this battle on my own, if you don’t mind.”

“Go for it!” Taako told him, conjuring a floating bag of popcorn.

Kravitz vaulted into the air, tearing a rift through the fabric of the Material Plane with a twirl of his scythe. He vanished and reappeared behind Dave’s back, but Dave was ready for him, pulling out a longsword as he whirled around and parried Kravitz’s attack.

“Ah, you’re one of those people,” Kravitz commented, looking about as unperturbed as a skeleton could. “Got into necromancy later in life after the fighter class didn’t work out for you, eh?”

Dave managed to deflect Kravitz’s next flurry of strikes, but found himself losing ground as Kravitz backed him towards the wall below Magnus and Merle’s perch.

“Though it looks like you’re a little out of practice,” Kravitz went on. “Don’t worry — I’m sure you’ll find some new sparring partners in the Eternal Stockade.”

Gasping for breath and only a few more steps away from being cornered, Dave threw back his hood to reveal a rugged half-elven face, and managed a dazzling smile.

“You don’t have anywhere left to retreat,” Kravitz remarked amusedly. “Why the optimism?”

“Because I know something you don’t, reaper!”

“Which is?”

Dave tossed his cutlass from his left hand to his right. “I am not left handed!”

Kravitz laughed so hard that his appearance flickered between living and skeletal, even sprouting raven feathers in his hair for a brief moment. “Really? That’s all?”

Dave’s expression crumpled. “What do you mean?”

With each hand, Kravitz pulled his scythe in opposite directions, and it morphed into two new scythes, each blade as sharp and deadly as the original. “I thought you were going to say you had two swords!”

Shoveling popcorn into his face with one hand, Taako pointed his Umbra Staff behind him and blasted a reforming moss monster without even looking at it. “You tell ‘em, Krav!”

Dave tried to feint to the right then flee to the left, but Kravitz transformed into a dual-wielding whirlwind, twirling blades into a vortex that could’ve torn through solid stone. But every one of his movements was too precise, too carefully honed, to possibly strike an unintended target like a wall or misplaced boulder — one moment, Dave’s longsword was flying out of his hand, and the next, Dave himself was no more, vaporized into a cloud of dust that quickly dispersed and a bright soul-light that was banished directly to the Eternal Stockade.

A wand carved from gnarled wood fell to the ground, and as usual, the Umbra Staff inverted to slurp it up. For just a moment afterwards, Taako could’ve sworn that it tugged his hand ever so subtly upwards and pointed at Kravitz — but the second Kravitz turned around, the tugging stopped, and the residual magic aura surrounding the umbrella faded.

“Well, I suppose we should do something about that necromantic staff.” Kravitz transformed back into a human and walked over to the offending magical artifact, manifesting a black leather glove around his hand as he picked it up. “It’s not quite Grand Relic-tier dangerous, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe to leave lying around, either.”

He tore a new rift with his scythe and tossed the staff through. “And just when I was making headway on all that Miller paperwork…”

“Hey, if you need help, I bet you could outsource some of it to Angus!” Taako suggested. “You’re not kidnapping him to whatever weird afterlife cubicle you work from, though. He’s my student.”

“Angus is the child?” Kravitz glanced up to the ledge Angus still stood on, who was watching the events below with a mix of fascination and horror that could only come from a kid detective in over his head. “What were you thinking, bringing him here? He could’ve been hurt if I hadn’t arrived when I did!”

“Well, in my defense, I didn’t expect to have any potentially traumatizing battles with slime monsters,” Taako retorted. “It’s not my fault my life never has a dull moment!”

Kravitz sighed. “Neither does your undeath, apparently.”

“That’s just the way things go for celebrities. Nothing I can do about it!” Taako flipped his hair, then made a mental note to cut it now that it was getting long enough to flip. He didn’t want it turning into a mullet.

“I could name plenty of celebrities whose deaths have been relatively law-abiding, actually,” Kravitz told him, expression deadpan. “I’d say about eighty percent of them total, or maybe seventy-five.”

“I can only imagine the Astral Plane tabloids,” Taako chuckled, tossing his Umbra Staff into the air. “But anyway, let’s get you down from there, Agnes.”

The opened Umbra Staff flew into Angus’s hand, and with only slight hesitation, Angus leapt of the ledge. The handle was warm, but not hot, and something about that gentle heat just felt reassuring.

As Angus safely floated to the ground, enveloped in silver light, Kravitz made a sweeping downwards gesture with his scythe, and the sapphire crystals supporting Magnus and Merle began to rumble and slowly descend.

“Is it Angus or Agnes?” Kravitz asked the boy detective. “I think I must’ve misheard you at least once.”

“Well, it’s definitely not Agnes,” Angus replied. “Are you really the Grim Reaper?”

Kravitz chuckled. “I’ve had this job for almost eight centuries, and I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before. Usually the scythe’s convincing enough.”

Angus crossed his arms. “A little skepticism is always healthy, no matter how obvious the conclusion may seem. Caleb Cleveland taught me that, just like he taught me a lot of things.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar with Caleb Cleveland, but that sounds fair enough,” Kravitz cheerfully conceded. “Though maybe you should exercise a little more of that caution the next time Taako and his friends drag you along on a dangerous mission. Speaking of which, let me fix you all up.”

As Magnus and Merle reached the ground level of the cave, Kravitz’s scythe shimmered and morphed into a lute. Intricate carvings of various corvids covered almost every inch of the ebony wood, with tiny sapphires inlaid for their eyes. Magnus looked over the handiwork approvingly as Kravitz plucked out a simple melody, and an aura of rosy pink healing magic washed across the room.

Merle rubbed his forehead. “Huh, my headache just melted away…”

Taako laughed. “Yeah, that’s what healing magic usually tends to do for concussed people!”

“Has this been our problem the whole time?” Magnus added. “Has Merle just not been able to comprehend the concept of healing?”

“Did the concept of healing get erased by the Voidfish?” Taako wheezed.

“I can comprehend it just fine, assholes!” Merle retorted. “I’m just not used to seeing it as a performance!”

Kravitz returned his lute to scythe form. “Playing four chords and healing you wasn’t a performance. But Taako and I destroying those three undead? That was a performance.”

Taako beamed. “Hey, speaking of which — is there any chance killing three horrible slimy boys is equivalent to taking out one lich in the bounty system? Because I think I rocked it today, not to mention the two of us really vibing, and it would be cool if you could cut me just a little bit of slack.”

“I’m afraid none of today’s harvest had actually died and escaped the Astral Plane before, which means they still rank far below both the three of you, as well as your actual targets,” Kravitz replied. “But I could probably pull a few strings and make sure your cells in the Eternal Stockade are all next to each other, if it makes you feel compensated.”

“Does that include Lucas Miller?” Magnus asked. “I really don’t want to be stuck in a cell next to Lucas for eternity.”

Kravitz shrugged.

“Noelle and Maureen can hang, though,” Magnus clarified. “They’re cool.”

Taako ignored Magnus, walking over to Kravitz’s sapphire platform to examine it. Even after knocking on it and prodding it with his Umbra Staff, it remained solid. “I might end up regretting this question, but your sick crystal stunt reminded me and now I gotta know — if you’re this good with your scythe, then why didn’t you just take a physical form in Lucas’s lab and kill us that way instead of fucking around as a crystal construct?”

“No matter how powerful I am with it, there was always a chance of my scythe touching a crystal and being transmuted into pink tourmaline, which would’ve rendered most of its powers unusable,” Kravitz explained. “So I decided to go in incorporeally — which I may or may not regret, I haven’t decided yet.”

Taako nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think I would’ve cast that tentacle spell on, like, a dude. Not that I’m know whether you’re thinking of that as a positive or a negative —”

“You know, there’s something I really should’ve given you last time!” Kravitz deflected, transforming back into a skeleton and hoping his flustered expression would be harder to read on a skull than on a face with eyes and skin and flesh. “You need a way of summoning me!”

“You mean saying your name three times doesn’t work?” Merle asked.

“Unless I’m already scanning for undead in the general area, no.” Kravitz reached into his robe and pulled out a quiver of arrows, which he handed to Taako. “These are tipped with sapphires and fletched with raven feathers. Stabbing one into a surface of your choice while saying my name just once will release a powerful magical flare and get my attention, and I’ll warp over as soon as I can.”

Grinning, Taako slung the quiver over his shoulder. “Dude, that’s metal as fuck!”

“But please save them for genuine necromantic emergencies — either when you get a lead on one of the liches, or if another dangerous situation like the one today comes up.”

Taako’s grin faded. “So… they’re for business only.”

“I… uh… I’m sorry,” Kravitz stammered, immediately regretting the stipulation. But I can’t change my mind now, there’d be no way to explain it without just sounding awkward…

“It’s a company policy,” he fibbed. “Not my choice, unfortunately.”

Taako seemed to buy it, though he still looked disappointed. “Oh, well. Woulda been nice to hang with you, but I guess I’ll — we’ll see you later, then.”

“Good luck, Taako,” Kravitz said. “Good luck to all of you — and I mean that much more sincerely than I meant it last time.”

He tore open a portal to the Astral Plane and leapt through it with a dramatic swing of his cloak — but not before seeing Angus stick his tongue out at him, stubborn and defiant in that uniquely ten-year-old way.

Returning to his office overlooking the Astral Sea, Kravitz sighed, and addressed the raven perched on the back of his swivel chair.

“You know, I don’t think Taako’s student likes me very much.”

“Caw,” replied the raven, which almost certainly translated as either I smell popcorn or oh Kravitz, what in the world have you gotten yourself into?

#taz #taz balance #taakitz #taako taaco #kravitz taz #angus mcdonald #magnus burnsides #merle highchurch #and technically lup i guess lol #taz balance spoilers #fic: FTRALA #rosalia writes fic

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Ahem. I'm just saying that since someone who is not me brought up a Lucy/Flynn jewel thief/art thief AU and since someone who is also not me mentioned the extremely rude image of Flynn with the black and the leather gloves I think it would only be fair if SOMEONE who is not me graced the world with some of the dirtier scenes that could arise from such a context. Just maybe. (Pretty please)

This took me forever to get to, I’m so sorry, but at last! Here we are!

Itwas bound to happen at some point.

They’vedisliked each other from the first moment they clapped eyes on each other. Allright, so maybe… dislike is too strong of a word. Or not strong enough. Lucycertainly felt something when she took in the height, the hair, the eyes, the…everything that is Garcia Flynn.

Andthen he opened his mouth and oh, yes, she’ll claim it was dislike until the endof her days.

Thatmouth is being used for much better things right now than making smart remarks.It’s devouring hers, hungry, and then moving down, latching onto her neck,teeth scraping along her pulse point. The heist went sideways and they managedto pull it off by the skin of their teeth (Mason is going to yell at themplenty for it tomorrow) and they’re both riding the adrenaline as Flynn getshis hands up underneath her thighs and lifts her up against the wall, his hipsimmediately thrusting forward to pin her into place.

Thosehands, his arms (oh God, his arms, she can’t even fit her hand around them asshe digs her nails in) have been lifting paintings in gilt frames off walls fora decade, of course he can lift her easy as anything.

Herhands might not be strong, exactly, but her fingers are nimble, and she undoeshis pants, shoves them down, rucks that black blasted turtleneck of his up tofeel the solid planes of muscle in his torso—and a few scars, too.

“Where’dyou get these?” she asks, as he spreads her open, spears his fingers in, takesand takes. “Somebody have a good security system?”

“Theonly one of us foolish enough to get a guard to shoot at us is you, MissTiffany’s,” he shoots back.

He’sdeflecting from answering the question, she’s gotten to know him well duringthis partnership, even if said partnership was because their backs were againstthe wall and it was against their will—but before she can draw attention to it,Flynn is surprising her by dropping to his knees.

He’sstill keeping her pressed up against the wall, what the fuck, does theman lift bags of cement in his spare time?

Thenhe licks into her and all thoughts fly out the window.

Lucy’shands twist in his hair, the hair that sometimes flops into his eyes a littlewhen he’s picking a lock (she’s better at it, jewelry tends to be kept insafes, he’s better with weight-based alarm systems since that’s what people usefor their paintings). Flynn is enthusiastic, savage, unrelenting, just like ineverything else, and she shivers and shakes and tries so very hard not to givehim the satisfaction of hearing her scream but she whines desperately anyway asshe comes with the flat of his tongue against her clit.

“Isaid,” she snaps, yanking him back up to her even as her knees shake, “fuck me.As in, with your cock.”

“Oh,I’m sorry, was that orgasm not to your liking?” Flynn started their acquaintanceby insulting her mother, the jewel thief who taught Lucy everything she knows(or almost everything, it was Henry who taught her to care about others, tohave morals, to use her skills to rip apart the exploiters with their prettystones instead of just doing it for personal gain) and since then Flynn’sobviously decided that he doesn’t need a shovel, he’ll use a bulldozer to dighis own grave, thanks.

Lucywraps her legs around him and yanks out his—very sizeable, very hot and thickin her hand—dick. Flynn makes a strangled noise that is extremely satisfying.

“This,”she promises him, rubbing her thumb over the head and loving how he jerks inresponse, “is to my liking.”

Flynngrowls, and his hips snap into her all the way the moment she guides him insideof her.

Theneighbors are probably wondering who’s dying next door as he fucks her hard,harder than any other lover, taking to heart her insistence that she’s notporcelain, she’s not fine china, she won’t break. She’s cursing and swearing upa storm, and it feels so fucking good and she hates that it feels thisgood, hates that because now nobody else is going to quite measure up and it’spatently unfair that the one man who seems capable of fucking her into nextweek is also the surly, snarky, chaotic, anarchistic disaster who’s been athorn in her side through five fucking heists and counting.

Heeven manages to generously hold out on coming until after she does. Theasshole.

Betweenthe banter and the high stakes it was bound to happen at some point, but ohGod, does Lucy hate him.

_________________________________________________________________

Thesecond time, it’s because the heist went flawlessly.

Theystumble into the hotel room and Lucy yanks the necklace out of her bra,hoisting it into the air. “Did you see that!?” she cries, twirling it aroundher finger and smiling so hard it feels like she’s going to burst. “That’s howit’s done, that’s how it’s done.”

Flynn’sgrinning at her, looking oddly proud, like he’s actually pleased with her, withhow this went off, and they did it, one more heist down, one less heiston Mason’s seemingly endless list, and Amy is going to love hearing this story(Rufus, less so, he says he wants to maintain some kind of plausibledeniability, as if that’ll actually hold up in court at all), and her heart ispounding and this is why she does it—she does it for the good of others, ofcourse, she does it to help people, to hock the jewelry and watch the richbastards tear their hair out while she sends the proceeds to the very peopletrying to right their wrongs—but she also does it because it’s a thrill,because it’s addicting, because it’s fun…

Andthen Flynn says, still smiling at her like that, “You were amazing, Lucy,” andshe kisses him before she can think twice about it.

Theystare at each other for a moment, and Lucy has no idea what Flynn’s thinking,but he looks rather like he’s been concussed.

Thenthey’re both diving into each other again simultaneously.

Theymanage to fuck on the bed this time, as she shoves him down onto his back andrides him, her hips rolling and meeting his harsh thrusts, and he’s so deepinside of her it feels like if she pressed the heel of her hand to her stomach,she’d feel him moving under her skin, and he grips her hips so hard hisfingertips leave bruises, and she comes so violently the world goes white.

_________________________________________________________________

Heknew, the second time—the second time they did it, as Lucy laughed and twirledthat necklace, he knew—he was in trouble.

Ofcourse, he’d been in trouble from the moment he first laid eyes on her andblurted out, “That’s the Cat?” because he hadn’t been aware that CarolPreston had retired and her gorgeous, brilliant, infinitely better daughter hadtaken over the family business. Maybe he’d even been in trouble before that,when Rufus had told him to get his ass out of whatever Brazilian bar he wasmoping in and come meet this thief he should work with, would work withif he knew what was good for him, sending him Lucy’s goddamn picture and info(sans, y’know, the whole oh by the way she’s the best jewelry thief in thebusiness information that would’ve been useful to have) like it was adating profile and it had fucking worked.

Buthe’s definitely in trouble now, walking into their hotel room and finding Lucystanding in front of the full-length mirror wearing the necklace they stole.Oh, and the bracelets from that other job. And the earrings she lifted just“because I wanted to” on their first heist, the ones that led to a massiveargument (one of many).

Itshould be noted that she’s wearing that, and nothing else.

Flynnis fairly certain he now knows what a stroke feels like. The necklace theyactually needed to use again to get into this other job they’re nowworking—Lucy wore it to the party their mark was hosting, assuring Flynn thatwith a statement piece like that, she’d both blend in and get the mark’sattention. She was right, which was why Flynn had been using the lobby payphone(less easy to track them, in case Rittenhouse is onto them) to call Rufus andask for the blueprints they need.

Clearly,Lucy thought that call would take longer.

Thenecklace was bad enough in that burgundy dress she was wearing earlier, the onewith the plunging neckline. The necklace wraps around her throat, and claspstight like a choker—but then the one part of it trails down, down, rubies andblack pearls sliding down in a sinuous line like a serpent, right between herbreasts and into the fabric of the dress.

Whenshe was wearing a dress.

Whichshe currently is not.

Thisis definitely a stroke.

Lucylooks up, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“What,”Flynn manages to croak, “are you doing?”

Lucy,to her credit, doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. They have fucked twicenow, and the second time they actually managed to get naked, so he figures it’sreasonable. Except he’s caught feelings for her and she’s standing therelike a queen, like some kind of painting, her skin soft and shining and herdark hair cascading down her bare back and the necklace resting right betweenher breasts and the bracelets circling her wrists and she looks—she looks likea princess, a queen, and he—

“Havingfun,” Lucy replies. She turns away from the mirror, her fingertips trailingalong the curve of the necklace where it sits against the hollow of her throat.“I like to… admire them, before I give them to Amy and she rips them apart andsells the pieces.” Lucy pauses, and Flynn sees a rare hint of vulnerability inher gaze. “I won’t always look like this. I’m okay with it, but I just…sometimes I want to look, and take a picture in my mind. So that when I’m olderI can remember—I once looked like this, I was once beautiful, and I worejewelry made for royalty. I had rubies around my throat.”

You’llalways be beautiful,Flynn thinks, and oh, he can’t say that out loud or he’ll really ruineverything, so he crosses the room instead and falls to his knees and kissesher right where the necklace ends, right in between the underside of herbreasts.

Lucy’sbreath hitches, and her hand slides into his hair. It’s the only go on thathe’s going to get and, well, he might be a thief with honor, but he’s still athief.

Heknows how to take.

Hekisses her, he kisses the cool stones against her skin until they become warm,he creates his own necklace around her throat, one with his lips, one thatcan’t be taken off so easily and will need time to fade. He tugs on theearrings, makes her shudder, tightens the clasp of the necklace once, twice,three more links until Lucy’s gasping for breath and whispering yes, likethat as she arches into him.

It’sonly their third time but he’s quickly figured out that they always, in theend, do what Lucy wants, and what Lucy wants is for them to be kneeling on thebed, for him to take her from behind, for her to get to watch them in themirror. He can’t look at himself—literally or figuratively—so he looks at her,looks at his hand around her throat, at her breast, at the curve of her body,looks at the red, red stones against her flushing skin, at the fierce, hungryshine in her eyes that matches the sparkle of the gems, and he thinks (knows)she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

_________________________________________________________________

Sheblames the gloves entirely for the fourth time.

Flynnwears these gloves, right? Italian leather, he got them in Florence (thebastard), they help him avoid leaving fingerprints but don’t impede hismovement or dexterity. He wears them to lift paintings and she can see his armsflexing underneath the black fabric and he’s utterly silent as he does it, henever makes a sound, the Shadow was well named—and there is nobody home in thismansion, anyway.

Sothey fuck on the marble floor in the gallery.

Well,technically, she waits until Flynn sets down the painting and then she gets onher knees and takes his cock out and puts her mouth on it, and Flynn, ever theprofessional, is utterly silent while she does it (the hilariously pained facehe makes when he comes, straining from trying not to make a noise, makes herwish she had a camera). Then she guides his hand between her legs and bitesdown on the leather of his other hand, tastes it on her tongue, and hefucks her and fucks her with it until she can hear how utterly soakedhis glove is, absolutely filthy noises of her own depravity the only thing shecan hear in the room, and when Flynn whispers, half dirty and half awed, “it’slike you want to take my entire goddamn hand,” she comes and bites down so hardon his glove he complains for three days about the teeth marks she left.

_________________________________________________________________

Thefifth time, Flynn almost dies.

WhenMason told them they had a common enemy in Rittenhouse, and told them that, asa billionaire, he knew where all the ill-gotten art was held, all the fancyhouses and safes it was hidden inside, Lucy had known there was a catch. Flynnhad too. They’d walked into this with their eyes wide open: go up againstRittenhouse and Rittenhouse would come for them.

Butthey’d been doing so well, they’d been so careful, and she’d started to thinkthat maybe they could beat it. She didn’t see it coming, she didn’t see the trapcoming, and then Flynn was bleeding and they had to run, run, run, notstopping until they got to their hotel room.

“Didyou get it?” Flynn asks, or rasps rather. His voice sounds like he smoked apack of cigarettes and then gargled rocks. “Did you grab…”

Heslumps down onto the floor, back against the wall, and Lucy tries not to lether hands shake as she brings over the first aid kit. It’s just a scratch, shecan see that, it’s only bleeding because it’s one of those annoying shallowcuts that bleeds like a motherfucker, but it’s so much blood and ifFlynn hadn’t dodged quite fast enough, if he’d twisted the wrong way out ofinstinct—

“You’rebleeding and you’re worried about a painting,” she hisses, yanking his shirtoff.

“It’sa Degas,” Flynn retorts.

Tobe precise, it’s one of the Degas works stolen from the Isabella StewardGardner Museum in the ‘90s. Not that Lucy really gives a flying rat’s ass atthe moment.

“Andthat means it’s worth your life?” she snaps, more heat in it than she’dintended, applying the antiseptic and all the rest.

Flynn,to his credit, doesn’t even hiss when she gets to work on the knife wound onhis stomach. “I’ve had worse, for less.”

Lucy’sthumb traces the scar that bisects his torso, the long, scary one she askedabout their first time, and tells herself she’s just bracing her hand to keephim still while she works. “Well, you’re not getting worse, not while you’re mypartner. The work isn’t worth your life.”

Flynnwatches her in silence for a long moment. “I’m not your mother.”

CarolPreston was devoted to her job. Too devoted.

“Iknow that. I don’t fuck my mother, for starters.”

Flynnsnorts in a way that manages to convey you are the most impossible woman Ihave ever met through a single sound.

Herhands are starting to shake again, so she quickly grabs the gauze and startsbandaging him. Flynn is watching her, and she hates how he can look at her andsee so much, see right through her, she hates how he’s so soft with her and yetnever yields, never gives quarter, takes all she flings at him and dishes itright back out, challenges her, she hates him, she hates him—

Sheties off the gauze. “There.” Her throat is thick. She clears it. “That shoulddo it.”

Flynnis still watching her.

“Lucy,”he says, and that’s it, that’s all, but somehow it makes a terrible sound (it’snot a sob, it’s too deep for that, she won’t call it that) well up in herthroat and she kisses him before she can say something horribly damning like yousteal art from Nazis and give it back to Jewish families or you calledme a genius or you think art should be shared and seen by everyone andnot hiding in a vault or, or, worst of all, don’t leave me.

Shewinds up in his lap, and she stays there, kissing him, and it’s all of the heatbut none of the ferocity from the first time, and her lips linger against his,and she tells herself that she moves slowly because he’s injured, not becauseshe wants to savor him.

Flynnholds her face in his hands, and if he tastes salt, he’s got just enough tactnot to mention it.

_________________________________________________________________

Heloses track of the times, but one time, one time it’s in a house by the ocean,as the sun is rising, because Lucy woke him up by crawling on top of him andnibbling good morning against his jaw, and he can never say no to her.

Earlymorning light, golden and clear, spills over them as they move together, herbody spread out underneath him, and he’s always been an appreciator of art, alover of it, never wanted to create it, but he wishes that someone would paintthis moment—Lucy glowing golden in the Mediterranean sun, her eyes glitteringlike opals.

Theylie sprawled out afterwards, his head resting on her breast, his arm thrownacross her stomach, her fingers idly trailing through his hair. Her nails(claws, cat’s claws, thief’s claws) scrape lightly against his scalp. Her thumbtraces the curve of his ear. The Sated Lovers, he thinks. Oil on canvas. 2017.Artist unknown.

“I’msurprised Mason hasn’t called,” Lucy observes after some time listening to thewaves crashing on the shore below them.

“Heprobably has.” Flynn nuzzles her warm skin, tightens his arm around herslightly. “I just turned off our phones. And disconnected the landline.”

He’sjostled as Lucy shakes with laughter. “He’s going to kill us.”

“Lethim.” Flynn tilts his head so that his chin is resting on her chest and he canlook into her eyes. “It’s our honeymoon, after all.”

Lucypulls him up and kisses him, and he kisses her back—the best damn thing he everstole.

(Although,to be fair, it was probably more like she stole him.)

#mads answers things #mads writes stuff #timeless #timeless fanfic #garcy #garcy fanfic #extasiswings

[mybestfriendthedingus]

Fire Flies with the Fleeting Time ~ Part Three: But I mean nothing to you and I don’t know why

Summary: Reader grew up as an experiment in the Hawkins Lab. Born with the power to manipulate time, the Bad Men train them to be a weapon. But what they don’t realize is, two years from now, their world is supposed to end. And Reader is there to see it. But when Steve Harrington recognizes them among the chaos, an anomaly occurs that drags them both back to the beginning. Now they must retrace their steps and save the world, but one wrong move might be enough to unravel all the time that they have left.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Swearing

Catch Up Here

You stare through the open door at the inner house beyond, frozen in place.

“Uh.” Dustin, who’s been holding the door for the last five minutes — leans towards Steve. “Are they gonna go in or...”

“Just, here. Let me —“ He steps around you, being the first to enter Dustin’s home. Your eyes snap away from the walls and doors to watch him spread his arms, spin in a small circle. “Nothing happened. It’s safe.” He turns back to face you and grins sheepishly, extending a hand and beckoning you forward.

You glance at Dustin and he waves you impatiently forward. A deep breath and you look at the still foreboding clouded sky before you scurry over the threshold, reach for Steve. A shiver runs up your arm as your fingers brush the palm of his hand. Dustin looks between you, shaking his head.

It’s as he closes the door, begins to lock it, that you tense again. But miraculously, like Steve has already read your mind, he blurts, “keep it unlocked.”

“What?”

“Don’t lock it. I’m — I’m claustrophobic!” Steve shifts closer to you. “Feel better if it’s unlocked, y’know,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Easier to uh, get some air in.”

Dustin narrows his eyes, his gaze flicking back to you. “Right...” He steps away from the door though, and you exhale, letting your shoulders drop. Steve squeezes your hand. “This is mental,” Dustin mutters, brushing past you.

“Hey so...you have a first aid kit around here? And a —“ Steve coughs, averting his gaze. “A change of clothes?”

Dustin cocks a brow and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “I don’t think that’s really how hand-me-downs work.”

He blushes at your expense and refuses to look at you. “I meant, pea brain, if you have anything of your mom’s laying around. For —“ Steve presses his lips together and waves a hand in your direction.

The expression on his face seems familiar somehow. Like you’ve watched him send Dustin looks of exasperation a thousand times over.

You shake off the feeling.

Dustin’s smile widens into a curious grin and he makes his way down the hall. “Sure, I can go check.”

Steve waits until he’s out of view to go raiding his kitchen, opening and closing the fridge, scouring cupboards and drawers. He perches a knee on the counter and reaches up. “Jackpot!”

“Should - should you be —“

“It’s fiiiine.” He sends you a knowing grin as you follow him to a small table and starts pouring milk and lucky charms into a bowl. “Best friends in the future anyway,” he says around a shovelling mouthful.

“Excuse me, what?” You jerk your head towards Dustin, now standing in the middle of the hallway; nightwear crumpled in his arms, balancing the first aid kit under his chin. He dumps them unceremoniously on the table. “First of all, I leave for five seconds and you’ve already figured out the entire layout of our kitchen and found my sugar stash? Then out of all the cool shit you could’ve revealed about the future and —“ He deflates, slumps into a chair to slam his head into his arms, and waves a vague hand towards Steve. “And I’m stuck with you?”

“Hey!” Steve jabs his spoon towards him and swallows. “I happen to be lovely company alright? And you should be glad I didn’t tell you about Dart.”

“Dart?” Dustin’s lifts his head.

“You don’t wanna know, man,” he says around another spoonful.

“Too late.” Dustin sits up, leans forward. He’s almost bouncing in his chair. “Who’s Dart?” Steve’s mouth turns down in an exaggerated frown and he shrugs. “Come on, you gotta tell me!”

“And risk tearing a hole in the space time continuum? Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”

While the two of them bicker, your gaze wanders around the home. If you’re going to be stuck here for a while, there’s something you need to do. Your gaze snags on something in the kitchen, stuck in a wooden block and maybe that’s just the thing.

You slip into the kitchen. Reach for one of the hilts.

“Hey uh, hate to break it to you dude, but I think your partner might be preparing to stab you in the back,” Dustin says.

“Haha, very -“ Steve’s gaze flicks to you just as you begin to inspect the small blade in your hand “- shit! Y/N!” His chair falls sideways as he leaps up, stumbling towards you.

“Shhh! My mom’s sleeping down the hall!”

Steve glares over his shoulder at Dustin before he slaps the knife out of your hand. It clatters to the ground and your breath hitches. You shy away until the small of your back is pressing uncomfortably against the edge of the counter. Steve steps forward and you flinch. “You didn’t cut yourself or anything, did you?” You look up, tears gathering in your eyes and shake your head. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t mean to -“

“I can show you the bathroom if you want.” You both turn to Dustin, hovering awkwardly in the archway. “If you want to, um -“ he holds out his arms, offering over the nightwear.

You look down, hands twisting in your stiff, crusty, and blood stained hospital gown, swallowing your rising panic. Your heart slams against your rib cage but you nod. Carefully take the clothes from Dustin and follow him down the hall.

Dustin has the good sense to leave the door open a little, before he leaves you to your privacy. “Okay, what was that?”

You don’t hear Steve’s response as you hurriedly slip the hospital gown off your shoulders and pull the light, frilly material over your head. It nearly swallows you but you realize with dismay that the sleeves don’t reach your wrists.

Wrapping your arms tightly across your chest, you turn towards the mirror. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. You don’t look at yourself directly as you turn the tap on, poke at the dark bruises blossoming over your cheek. They ache, your whole body does, but you shield yourself in the comfort of knowing that at least, being back in your time means that any injuries will fade away as time continues to rewind itself.

So long as the Bad Men — and the Upside Down — don’t catch up to you.

The weight of the world falls on you again and a sob breaks past your cracked lips. You don’t know what any of this means and the events are tangling in your head. Was the world crumbling around you? You want to believe that part never happened. But a nagging at the back of your head says otherwise.

You slide down to the floor, hands gripping your knees as you try to steady your breathing.

You slide down to the floor, hands gripping your knees as you try to steady your breathing.

On the one hand, you’re technically free. You’re out of the lab. You’re not trapped in that empty room anymore.

But then, how soon will you be brought back? There’s no telling what will happen when the Upside Down’s internal clock catches up to you. And those kids...maybe they wouldn’t even give a second thought to taking you back there. Something tells you that would never happen. That even if it did, Steve would never —

Steve.

You close your eyes. Force yourself not to go there. The thing about time is, even if you forget - if that’s what this is - it doesn’t let the problems disappear. They are still there, pressed against the walls of your mind, and no matter what you do, you can’t scrape them away completely. So you live with them, and hope that, because you forgot, they aren’t important enough to address.

You wish that’s not what it had felt like when the two of you were pulled together into this fucked up paradox.

But maybe you’ve torn open more than just the fabric of time.

There’s a gentle knock on the door.

“Y/N?” Your heart drops to your stomach. “Hey, I - I wanted to apologize for scaring you. I just kinda...I saw the knife and freaked out ‘cause I didn’t want you to - to uh...look, I have the first aid kit if you want to -“

You swing the door open. Steve’s wide-eyed gaze darts around the room before he spots you by the sink, and his expression softens immediately. Barely moving into the small bathroom, he crouches and sweeps his gaze over you. “What do you need?”

Your mouth drops open, words nobody has ever given you a chance to say sticking in your throat. You search his expression for any kind of cruelty, hidden meaning. But if there is any, you can’t find it. You furrow your brow and look away.

“I can -“ he licks his lips, inclining his head toward you. “I can leave if you want me to.” You snap your head back towards him and shake your head fervently. Something small and lopsided, maybe not quite a smile but something a bit more hesitant, breakable, curves into his cheek. “Okay. I won’t then. Can I?” He nods to the space beside you.

You scoot closer to the wall on your other side and Steve gracefully flops down. You’re both silent for a while and you take the moment to watch him.

Already the cuts on Steve’s chin are starting to look like old scars from years ago past. A thin line runs from the corner of his lip, down the length of his chin. It won’t be gone forever, you know. As long as the future you left is in tack, it will appear again when the summer of 1985 comes around again, no matter if Steve is in the same fight or not. Even his hair, long enough to curl around his ears with blond highlights running through his thick locks, is starting to revert back to the shorter length his doppelgänger sports; blond beginning to fade and fringe beginning to trim itself back.

“You weren’t really going to stab me, were you?” He asks.

You blink, shaking your head. Besides a cocked brow that could be interpreted as anything, Steve gives no indication that he caught you staring. “No!” You say too quickly. You clap a hand over your mouth, slump your shoulders, slip further down the sink.

He tips his head back and laughs softly. “Glad to hear it.” Your face flames and you duck your head into your arms. ”So, wait. What’d you want the knife for. Never seen one before or?”

For a second, you debate not telling him. But this is the least you should be worried about right now. You lift your head, and pull a chunk of hair forward, moving a finger over it in a slicing motion.

“Wanna cut it?” You nod, biting your lip. Steve looks thoughtful for a moment, then he’s clambering to his feet. “Just, hold on a sec.”

He disappears back into the hall before you can do so much as protest. Murmuring voices float through the door before Steve comes back, a scrunchie over his wrist and an unfamiliar set of two attached blades. He drops them on the floor in front of you.

Your brows furrow and you look up with a frown.

Steve cocks his head, gestures at the objects. “You’ve never...?” You shake your head. “I uh, I can do it. If you want...not that you need to cut it,” he says under his breath.

You bite your lip, considering. What if he could do a lot worse than just a bad haircut though? You lean down and take up the double blades, spinning it in your hands. After a minute of inspection you start to press the outer edge against your hair and saw back and forth.

Steve lets out a breathless laugh and reaches a hand towards you. Your breath catches before he asks, “May I?”

Your heart’s pounding, but you nod, holding out the blades handle first. He takes them, bends down and picks up the scrunchie. You watch closely as Steve carefully positions himself behind you and wait with bated breath.

He starts to gather the hair at the nap of your neck when a not-memory floods your senses.

You’re on a bed in a room you both recognize and don’t. Two girls are giggling behind you, one holding up ribbons against your dark locks while the other breads your hair back with an experienced hand.

“This one?” You realize with a jolt that one of them is Eleven.

“Nah, too dull,” the one you somehow know as Max says. “We want something eye-catching.”

“Eye-catching?” You and El ask in sync.

“Yeah.” You don’t need to see it to know Max is rolling her eyes. “It’s like, rule one in the dating handbook: dress to impress. Don’t ask me why, it just is.”

“Dating?”

“Wh- what?”

In an instant, you’re back in Dustin’s bathroom, kneeling on the tiled floor. Something clatters to the floor. “Shit,” Steve mutters as he quickly retrieves whatever he dropped. “Sorry.”

Silence stretches between you as Steve fiddles with the scrunchie in your hair. Something in you says that you shouldn’t ask, to just stay quiet, but every time you blink you see the not-memory reflecting against your eyelids.

You bite your lip, taking a deep breath. “What...what is it? Dating?”

Steve’s quiet for so long you worry he isn’t even breathing. But then he stutters, “it’s — well I um — I don’t — it’s...” He clears his throat. “It’s, like. You go out with someone, either you ask them out or they do and uh. If — if by the end of the ‘date’ you uh, find that you are interested in getting to know them better or have butterflies in your stomach every time you’re both around each other then...then you continue to go out with them until the interest turns into something stronger like, um.” He exhales a long breath.

“Like?”

“Like attraction or — or love.” His voice breaks on that last word. Love.

Just after his says that there’s a snip and your head tips forward with an immediate lift in weight. You reach your hand back, running fingers through the strands until you reach the newly shorn edges sitting just at the base of your shoulders. You smile and turn to Steve subconsciously. He gives you one in return, something wondrous and sad and different in his gaze.

He lost his love, the voice in your head says.

Steve averts his gaze and raises his hand. It’s your chunk of hair, bound in one thick chopped off ponytail. “What’d you think, put this under Dustin’s pillow tonight?”

A laugh bubbles out of you bright and loud. You clap your hands over your mouth and shake your head. “Don’t - don’t get me involved if you do,” you whisper.

“Excuse you, it’s your hair.”

Another laugh slips past your lips before you have it in mind to stifle it. That is before the door opens. You startle, scooting back until you bump against Steve’s chest, him instinctively wrapping his arms around your waist to steady you.

You both stare with wide eyes as Dustin pops his head in. He looks to you, then to Steve, and back again. “Ah, shit,” he groans. “Really? Now? Here I was thinking you —“

“It’s not what you think,” Steve blurts, pulling away from you and standing.

“Right.”

“Really, man. I’m being serious.” He offers you a hand and gently helps you to your feet.

Dustin sighs. “Whatever. Just came to say that whenever you’re ready, your bedroom is second down on the left.” He gestures towards the hall, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “You can have the couch. Gonna be pissed if you burn the house down, Steve.”

“Lucky for you, I wasn’t —“ he folds his arms, “— I wasn’t planning on staying.”

“What?” You and Dustin spin towards him.

“Oh really? And uh, where do you plan to go Steve? Back home where your so-called doppelgänger currently lives?”

Steve scoffs. “No.” He averts his gaze and says under his breath, “Was gonna break into my car and scope around the neighbourhood.”

Dustin laughs. “Do that and I’m not gonna be the one bailing you out.”

“Hopper would help —“

You grab his arm and look up at him, shaking your head. “Don’t. Please.” One unspoken word lingers on your tongue that scares you more than anything you have faced today. But Steve meets your gaze, a hidden conversation and promise in his eyes, and nods.

“Fine. Just, let’s finish patching you up yeah?”

You shake your head with a knowing smile, prepared to tell him about the physics of time. “No need.”

******

Steve Harrington is incredibly, irreparably fucked.

Really, his entire life has been one big massive Fuck You. Raised with parents that didn’t give a shit, friends who were willing to drop him at the slightest provocation — and did eventually — with a girlfriend that loved him enough to cheat the minute he chose his own self worth.

But before all that had started to break him, he met you.

You showed up, almost without any kind of trace of where you came from, what your past was — on November 8th, 1983.

Steve never really paid close enough attention to know you. Well, he *did* in some respect. You were ridiculously smart, nearly reciting your shared history class textbook word from word at every question the teacher posed, and perceptive. Almost none of the boys in your chemistry class ever got away with fooling around with experiments, least of all Steve himself.

There had been something about you, but he never knew that it could possibly have been tied to El, or the lab, or the Upside Down.

But he guesses now, that you had been called the Reset Button for a reason considering everything he had come to learn — or will or would’ve learnt if not for the timeline set out in front of him now — that the Bad Man had asked of you.

The kids hadn’t trusted you the second they saw you. It took all of his and Eleven’s efforts to change their minds.

But now it’s like none of that ever fucking mattered anyway.

Because you didn’t remember him.

The mantra that he’s spent years building his walls around, rears it’s ugly head.

It’s all just...bullshit.

Steve rolls onto his other side, face pressed into the couch cushions. Of all the times he has spent sleeping here and it still amazes him how uncomfortable Dustin’s couch really is.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to be dragged into a dreamless sleep for once.

No sooner is exhaustion tugging at his brain that he hears it.

Whimpering.

His eyes fling open and he jerks up, searching around the living room, the kitchen, his gaze darting to the hallway.

It isn’t until he hears his name, choked and muffled, that he springs off the couch. Lunges for his bat.

That isn’t there.

He curses softly, dragging his hand through his messy bed headed hair. Still will never understand how he could’ve gone all summer without his beloved bat.

So, instead, he picks up the kitchen knife you had found, and creeps down the hall. Snores can be heard the entire length of it, but Steve stops at the second door on the left, door ajar just as he had left it.

He watches through the sliver for a moment, the sight clutching at his chest. You’re squirming in your sleep, blankets tangled around your legs as sobs shudder through your body.

Steve takes a shaky breath and slips the knife into his pocket. Gently pushes open the door and pads over to your bed.

“Y/N,” he says, lowering himself to the edge of the mattress. He drops a hand to your shoulder. “Hey —“

You jolt up, hands twisted in the sheets, trembling, and gasp. “Steve!”

“Hey, easy. It’s okay.” His brows furrow as you meet his gaze. “I’m here.”

“Steve,” you breath. Before he knows what’s happening, your clawing at his shirt and pulling him closer. He tenses for a moment when you press your face into his chest, but carefully wraps his arms around you all the same. “I - I thought - and they - they took —“

A knot twists in his stomach and he holds you tighter, rubs circles into your back. He’s had his fair share of nightmares. Can feel the demo-dogs launching themselves at him every time he closes his eyes.

He’d never wish them upon anybody so seeing you — hair clinging to your neck and tears soaking into his scoops shirt — it does nothing to quell the longing buried in his chest, sending a pang straight through his heart.

Steve wouldn’t hesitate to go through everything all over again if it meant you were free from all that pain.

Even if there was still a possibility of you never remembering him.

He shakes away the thought and shushes you, rocking you back and forth exactly the way he found out you liked all that time ago. “You’re safe,” he murmurs, tucking your head under his chin. “Just a bad dream.”

“It didn’t —“ You tip your head up to look at him and shake your head. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“I know.” You’re both quiet for a moment, the only sound your shallow breathing and sniffling. Steve grabs for the first words he can find. “Tell me more about the time physics.”

You pull away with a frown, and Steve already misses the feeling of holding you, safe and protected, in his arms. “What?”

He shrugs. “Getting my mind off things usually helps.”

You rub a hand across your eyes. “Like what?”

“You tell me.” He grins. “What’s the weirdest thing about time travel?”

It takes you a while to answer and Steve tries desperately to not be distracted by you biting your lip. Eventually, you say, “I got to see the day I was born when I was 12.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Shit, really?”

You nod, averting your gaze. “First time travel. Not fun experience.”

His face falls. He’d struck a nerve. He tries a different tactic. “So does that mean that you have like, a doppelgänger or something?”

“No. Or never seen them?” You rush to explain before Steve gets the chance to ask. “It’s like - it’s like this tether that was given by the Bad Men? Like the up - upside down. It doesn’t —“ You shake your head. “Don’t have one.”

“But I do?”

You nod. “Dunno know how it’ll effect you.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Panic surges through him as he remembers broken fragments of the plot of Back to the Future, the only comfort knowing him still being alive right now. He laughs to soften the blow and you look up, confusion etched in your expression.

“You’re um...never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon,” he repeats what Dustin told him earlier. “You gotta tell me now.”

You sigh. “You’regoingtostartlookinglikehim.”

“Excuse me.” He blinks. “What?”

His voice raises too loud, echoing through the room. He bows his head sheepishly and keeps an eye on the door. It doesn’t open any further.

“Your hair,” you say as explanation.

Something clicks and his gaze is drawn to the scratches along your arms and legs, remembering what you told him about injuries. “I’m...” He licks his lips. “I’m gonna change in relation to how time rewinds?” You nod again. “Jesus christ. I mean, I grew my hair out for a reason!”

“It’ll grow back,” you offer.

“Not the point! Believe me you don’t want to see the fucking...” He searches for the right words. “Glue head I had back then.” He looks up and does a double take. You’re grinning. “What?”

“Glue head.”

“It’s true!” You both begin to laugh softly. “Look. My mom was a stylist back then. She had way way too much hairspray and gel lying around.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Polos too?”

“How did you —“ you give him a pointed look “— right, doppelgänger. But hey! Leave my polos out of...you know what? In my defense —“

“Is there one?”

“Okay, yeah no. You’re right.” He laughs. “How can you defend a fucking polo?”

Your laughter slowly dies down and you look back at the bed. “We should probably —“

“Oh. Oh, yeah, totally.” Steve scrambles off the bed, heart pounding. “You okay? Need anything else before I —“

Your meet his gaze, response quick on your tongue. “Stay.”

“I — are you...” Steve looks between the empty side of the bed and you. “You sure?”

“I think...” You bite your lip again. “What if the - the Upside Down tries to take me in my sleep and...and you’re not here?”

“Would it?”

You shrug. Don’t meet his eyes. “Happened before.”

“I won’t leave. Okay?” As answer, you scoot closer to the edge of the mattress and lay down, back facing him.

There’s something you aren’t telling him, Steve thinks, but for now he’ll be damned if he isn’t gonna try to keep you safe.

——

Tag List (click to be added/removed): @jxnehxpper @harringtown

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington au #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #dustin henderson #julia writes fics

[grim-faux]

5 - Down the Drain

A trail of red footprints led from the shadows across to an iron door.  If it wasn’t locked I might’ve continued through, driven on by my sick curiosity.  Beyond the safety of a secured door could await dangers the same as the hall I was now in, but I couldn’t afford not to check.  The thought alone brought chills to my spine, that behind any door a new danger could await.  How far could I run before I was caught?  In this place I welcomed broken lights.

I returned to the lit path now on my left, were another of the countless slain of this place rested.  Briefly, I looked over his body, maybe he had a card or something I could use later.  The nametag read Doug Jenkins, he was high level security, probably down here to regain control and lost himself in the process.  He had no weapons, but he was grasping a walkie talkie.  From that I salvage two batteries, there was a chance they would have no power given the drafty chill that slunk in through every corridor.

As I continued through the broken segregation gate, I realized this was where that camera shy freak had made his scene.  I was glad he seemed to be gone, but his absence was discomforting.  Nothing had changed since I left this area, the gate still locked, but the floor along my right had shattered from some climatic event.  A thin edge of cement remained, enough for me to strafe along I gambled.  It looked sturdy enough with rebar exposed at the crumbling edge, the drop wasn’t far enough to hurt if I did manage to fall.

The Asylum was shut down years ago, and degraded to a condemned state before the Murkoff Corpotration reopened it for their research.  They didn’t even bother with the minimal of repairs to maintain it, they barely shoveled out the collapsed ruble from walls and floors.  I could just picture the memo

All staff must use Cell 52-E to reach the other side of the upper floors

I began to wonder if some of the patients locked away were ever looked in on, or if Murkoff only focused on those used in their research.  Even a doomed dog was fed up until he was put down.  Those affiliated with Murkoff were some of the lowest of the lowest bastards out there.

Carefully I slide my back along the rough wall and tested my weight on what remained of the walkway.  It felt more than sturdy, as I continued to slink along little by little.  I tried to focus on my footing and not get distracted by the lost souls, locked in their broken routine.  The man that had been smashing his skull against the walls had sat down and, I think he was mumbling to himself while he persisted to crack the side of his head on the corner of a pillar.

They could have easily killed me, the opportunity was still there should they decide to pursue - hunt me down.  But the humane side of me felt sickened to the core.  Something about this, everything that was done here, the way they were left, was all wrong.  If there was a way to escape Mount Massive, why had they not left this place?  Or had others already fled?  The Warrant for Seizure indicated so, before all of this came about.

When I reached the other side, I barely recalled the twins and their sick promise.  They were absent.

“You, ah, didn’t wait until I finished.”  I sprang back as the man from the room I omitted to shut, sprang across the distance and shoved at the door.  “But I saved some for you.  Just wait.”  He turned and skipped down the steps like a jolly school boy, his voice full of merriment.  “Just wait…Mm!  Hmm!”

Maybe I should have shut his door AND propped the little chair in front of it, for good measure.

The open hall behind me was the only available route.  The lights above had failed in this section, but I could make out dark blood splatters scrawled on the wall across from me, illuminated by an open door.  I wanted to avoid using the cameras NV as much as possible, but odd sounds were nearby somewhere in the dark.  Beside me was a set of bars, but pressed against them ‘gazing’ up at me was another discarded man tied up in a straightjacket with bindings coiled about his mouth and eyes.

It was easy to feel sorry for him, and attempt to undo the cruelty done to him.  But my instincts warned me to hold my ground, and this time I listened.  The worst killers of our world could feign normalcy, but the soil in their basement could conceal the bodies of many duped by this illusion.  I easily recognized a makeshift muzzle.

From this point on I burned it into my thoughts, if I didn’t I was damned.  Speak with no one.  Trust no one.  EVERYONE wanted to kill me in some way.  The MHS cop warned me to hide, well I could fuckin hide.

Ahead, someone, probably their ‘Father’ Martin, scrawled a new message for me in red.

God annoys…

I blinked and read again.

God Always Provides a Way.

Follow the blood

Below the wording was a red streak, another wide mark was on the ground leading into some sort of pressurized chamber.  The interior was lined with what looked like foil or thermal material of some type, most likely a fire retardant.  I examined the large pipes that ran along the upper corners, connecting into pressurized caps.  As I entered my attention dropped to the floor, where there was a pair of bloody shoeprints I recognized.  The door hissed shut upon my entry and a shriek of hydraulics spooked me.  My mind flashed to Auschwitz, death camps and gas chambers.  I knew at once this wasn’t to be my demise, it was a light chemical spray to sterilize the air.  Though it did manage to stall my heart for a second.

Once the pumps ceased, the opposite door opened and I stepped out.  I was still shaken, but continued on without hitch.  Another broken segregation gate and beyond that stairs that curled up and around leading to the next floor.  Behind the first set of steps lay the crushed pieces of a wheelchair, I ducked to check behind them for anything valuable to my progress but there was nothing, aside from more low key patient files discussing prescriptions for the none volatile class.  The sounds of muttering came to me, and I took the concrete steps softly gazing up at the floor above.

On the wall was a large arrow indicating my route, I touched the edge to certify the blood was fresh, still sliding down the brick wall.  A large plate read A Block.  The Block I just came from was B Block.  Good to know.

The voice grew louder, and echoed as I made the first landing.  Another locked grate, but an area I was excused from exploring.

Continuing up the steps I could pick up an overbearing reek of old copper, along with the source of the voice.  Another emaciated patient scooted sideways, pressing his knuckles into the weathered cement wall until he had worn the skin away leaving bloody smears.

“Down the drain.  With the blood, he said.”  He seemed fully lost in the wall and strafed right, then left, repeating his words.  “Only way out is down the drain.”

Behind him slouched against the wall was what looked like a doctor, he was dressed in thick white scrubs stained black with blood.  My shoes squelched in the fluid as I neared him, and I turned my eyes back to the patient as he continued with his song and dance.  I raised the camera and filmed his jargon, then turned to the dead man.  It looked as though he had been sliced in multiple areas and all his blood poured out onto the floor, I stepped over the puddle and looked into a crimson bucket across from him filled completely with the thick black clumps.

My stomach did a flip and I retreated to the far side of the hall, another dead end blocked with crap.  I sat down on the desk to gather myself while I watched the patient shuffle and repeat.  “Down the drain,” he said.  I took a shallow breath through my collar and exhaled. 

This reminded me of the dead man I found in the lavatory, with “Witness” painted on the wall above him.  Down the drain.  With the blood.  I guess I knew where all the blood scribbles came from.  It was never a mystery in the first place.

There was another file on the desk beside me.  I checked my friend before I turned to the folder and did my best to record the pages with the night vision.

From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Patient Art Program / PATIENT “FATHER” MARTIN ARCHIMBAUD

  Helen-

  Dr. Zeichner gave me your info to contact regarding the cancelation of the arts program.  My patient, Martin Archimbaud, has made enormous strides in his therapy on account of his finger painting. Just in the week since canceling the arts program, his schizoaffective assertions of some “higher calling” have accelerated enormously. Please, just let the man finger paint. The few dollars you’re saving on temper paint is more than swallowed by the cost of Clozapine. I can’t imagine the logic at play here, unless Murkoff WANTS our patients to become more disengaged from reality.

  Please advise.

  Dr. Neil Wolfram

  Martin Archimbaud.  Yep, sounded like my guy.  It felt good to know for certain he was the one leaving all these messages for me.

Fuck you Murkoff.  Why couldn’t you just let the man finger paint?  It would have saved so many lives.

My heel slipped in the blood as I tried to step over it, but I caught myself before I could lose my balance.  I shuffled along the floor following a set of bare feet prints stained thick with blood leading along the same route, to a hole in the concrete and rebar where the drooping arrow on the wall directed my path down into it.

“With the blood, he said.”

Sighing, I eased myself down the opening and looked around.  Another corridor, blood stained floor, walls eroded and bleached, the usual.  Furniture was crammed down the way with dark streaks across the surface, and another pressurized chamber with blood indicating through a sealed door.

I took note that this was the room I had seen from the other side of the gate, and cursed my bad luck colorfully.

The door failed to open on my approach, it was either locked due to malfunction or just flat out locked.  There should be a way around, but the path marked out for me was through there.  I wouldn’t rationalize following a blood trail left by a psychotic ‘priest,’ but maybe he would show me the way OUT of this place if I humored him.

I didn’t want to think about his plans if this was all some elaborate delusion of his, right before he or one of the other patients decided to murder me.  In the distance I could hear screaming, or someone sobbing, or something between the two.  It seemed like there was always someone crying out, for whatever reason.  I had a suspicion that for many it was their last cry before death.

Or escape through finality.

Light on my feet.  Be observant.  And above all else, survive.

I covered my nose as the heavy stench of rot hit me hard.  Another corpse, right beside the desk I crawled over.  Everyone with a half a mind in this place was dead. 

“Just shut up and let me think for a minute.”

The sound of grunts and meaty thwacks came from around the corner.  I dove down against the wall and listened as the violence continued.  It sounded like someone was sobbing and thumping about with wild abandon.  “Quiet!  Quiet!  Ah!”  Then it ended.

This place was horrible.  I hated this place.  Down the drain.  Gotta get out.  I repeated these meditations to myself as I crawled under a murky window with trails of soggy red slipping down.  The wall would end in a few feet, I would be exposed to whomever was there.

Slowly, I peeked around the edge into what looked like an office, or check station.  Another corpse of the asylum, and fresh I presumed.  A patient stood over the body with a wet club, droplets still dripped from the desk onto the crushed man.  It might’ve been my nerves, but I swore the body jerked as the last impulses left what was left of his brain.

The patient turned his head, then spun fully to where I was.  I froze in place coiled in a crouch ready to sprint.  I was right in the middle of the opening, there in full view of the murderer.

“I’d like you to stay quiet.”

He remained where he was and I stayed right where I was on my hands and knee.  Caught in a stupor, I nodded and scooted away.

That was weird.

I checked a Security door from my humbled position, and he gently reminded me to be quiet.  I used the shelf in the next hall to pull myself up and get going.  I just needed to stay quiet.  That corpse was quiet.

At the halls end waited a metal door which I carefully opened, without so much as a whisper.  Inside the room a figure stood tall staring up at monitors mounted high on the wall.  Below them was a darkened window, I was between figuring out what was marked on the glass and the man as he spoke to open air.

“Trying to trap us in here.”  Camera stupid, get your camera.  I lifted it and checked the visor, needed to hit record too.  Of all things…. 

“Not a lot they can do about it lying in their own steaming guts, is there?”

The variants were responsible for this shit hole disaster.  But how did they manage to kill the Security personal, and the MHS?  As far as body count went (excluding limbs and pieces) those that could be identified had all been staff, very few of the slain had been patients.  This statistic should be reversed, unless they moved their dead.  I didn’t believe enough of them had the cognitive faculty for that, but I hardly viewed a blood stain that was unaccounted for.  I was barely scraping the surface of this horror mystery.

“Who…?”  He had spied me when the door creaked as I leaned in a little.  “You’re one of Murkoff sons of bitches, aren’t you?  I want to show you something.”

He had nearly reached me at the end of that sentence, but I had whirled away to run.  He wanted to kill me.  Thought I was Murkoff or something, maybe I looked too normal for him.  I didn’t feel healthy in thought.

“You FUCKER!”

I tried the metal door across from the librarian, locked.  No shit.  I darted off as my pursuer skid around the corner.  There was no other place for me to go, no place to hide!  Maybe I could get back up the drain, it was my only option I could see.

At the halls darkened end, all but invisible was the hairline creep of light from a door!  I picked up speed smashing it open with an arm, in the same motion I spun about catching the edge and threw it shut.  I didn’t see if he had followed this far, or if his hoots had done him in.

I looked around, another office.  There was a desk, filing cabinets that hadn’t found the hall yet, a barred room with lockers and janitorial equipment.  I walked the perimeter and found an open cell door, through the NV feed I could make out a bed but little else.  I entered and shut the gate and slipped under the bed.  Here I lay safely secured by my only ally, the shadows.  He would know I had no place to hide, no place to run.  If only there was a way I could lock that gate.

The door knob twisted and the door opened.  My breath caught as I turned my face into my shoulder and shut my eyes.

“Son’s of bitches.”  I heard his footfalls fade.  The door of a locker opened and shut, all in the same motion.  “Sooner or later.  Doesn’t matter.”  I pried an eye open as he paced the room, he paused to examine the bars of the room I hid within.  I stare at him unblinking, it felt like my heart and blood ceased all at once.  If he came in he would find me.

But the closed gate deterred him, and he swung away knocking over the computer monitor out of spite.  The screen crashed and flashed out beside my head, I hadn’t flinched from the explosion and saw bright spots as a result.  “Doesn’t matter.”  Satisfied with his inspection, he turned and exited the room whistling an off tune melody.

Even after his song faded, and the clack of a door echoed to the room, I waited.  I could never overcome this icy clutch of feebleness I felt, the overbearing weight that my life was out of my control.  I shoved myself a little more under the bed until my back pressed against the wall.  For a moment I felt safe.

People live in famine, mothers watch their children starve.  Families are torn apart by war, yet life goes on.  Men kill children because their leader orders it, then live free and safe because they are still useful. 

The world had fucked up shit in it.  I was going to get out of here, I was going to survive and tell the story.  Others had survived.  My will couldn’t be broken, no matter what they did.  I hadn’t seen the worst of it yet.  There will always be the worst, waiting just around the corner.

I pushed my arms out and crawled from under the bed.  A little puddle of blood had stained my elbow, but it was so insignificant.  This was probably my most favorite room in this entire place.  It was so…tame.

“They weren’t experiments.”  His sudden voice didn’t alarm me, I think I knew he was there the whole time.  I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, staring into the dark and where his shape moved.  “They were rituals.  A conjuring.”

A conjuring.  This seemed along the same lines the Priest was on about.  This ‘Walrider’ he called it, same as in the project reports that Murkoff based their studies.  And they found it in the mountains.

I rose to my feet and left, trying to find the door so I could shut it, only to recall it was on the other side of the door frame.  He was still muttering behind it as I tiptoed through the hall, listening for the echo of steps not my own.  It sounded like the patient left through the metal gates, but I hadn’t seen the quiet man yet.

Cautious and quietly, I stepped beside the wall that separated us.  He was still there, now staring at the cold corpse.  He didn’t seem too interested as I passed by toward the control room, this suited me. 

I peered into the open room before waltzing right in.  Desk with monitor to my left, control panel where I left it, and lockers with a desk situated in front of them on the far right.  I crossed over to the panel where a button sat on the terminal, one that looked important or might shed some light on my whereabouts.  I gave it a swat and cringed when the lights behind the glass blazed a nasty yellow, the doors hissed as they opened.

Follow the blood.

I had to hand it to the ‘Father’ Martin, he was getting creative with his grim messages.  If I moved side to side I could tell the arrow indicating my path was painted inside the sterilizing chamber, and Follow was scripted on the glass.  It would have been more impressive if the message wasn’t written in blood.

My battery was running low on power, best to fix that now while everything was calm.  I decided to use one that I had salvaged from the guard and popped it in, but was dismayed to find it only had half strength.  Probably because it was some off brand Murkoff had ordered, typical.  Better than nothing.

I listened, picking up the faint pats of bare feet echoing from the hall.  The doors had made a good deal of noise when I activated them.

The camera went to its hoister, and I moved quickly to the lockers and slipped inside.  Two lockers.  Wouldn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out if both were empty….

I held my breath when he entered.  Indeed, it was the librarian.  He approached my side of the room, checking the brightened window as he twisted the sticky club in his red hands.  He was thinking of leaving, there was no one in this room.  Just turn and leave, there would be no more noises, at least not until I was safe beyond those doors.

His gaze fell on the lockers.  I swallowed as he moved over and pulled the latch on one.  There were two lockers, someone was in the second one.  That was what he was thinking.

He shut the door and turned to the next, right when I decided to throw it open and flew out.  The door smashed into his chest, as a result I couldn’t clear the door and tumbled when my foot glanced the sharp lining of the interior.  He toppled to his knees as I rolled into the filing cabinet. 

“Come back here!” He had already made it to his feet and was nearly upon me as I scrambled to get up, my vision distorted by vertigo like in a bad dream.  I bolted for the open hall dead ahead.

A sharp whistled cut through the air and I felt the crushing blow to my shoulder, causing me to stagger.  The walls quivered as my vision warped, the pain began a slow march up my shoulder into my neck.   I didn’t know if it was broken, quickly I decided it couldn’t be.

I zipped around the corners and flew over the desk, the patient had trouble keeping up from whatever Murkoff had done to him, or I was just moving too fast for my own good.  I skipped across the bloody threshold of the sterilizer’s doors, they shut at once and misted the area with their foul smelling spray.  Even after the other door opened I knelt down for a beat, to calm my nerves and test my shoulder.  It was hurt, not fractured, but it would bruise up later.  Regardless of what could happen, I needed my arms no matter what.  Hell, if they were tethered by little tendons, or bloody-butchered stumps I would still use them.  I couldn’t afford not to.

Red streaks and an arrow greeted me on the other side.  At least it was something.  I stepped out, checking around the corner and listened.  No sounds, nothing but the occasional distant shriek.  I ventured into the decrepit hall and tried the Security door, locked of course.  The hall ahead was still inviting and the familiar echoes of cracking came to me, I stepped over a fire extinguisher as I went.  I wanted to kick the stupid thing but knowing this place it would spew ice or blood, or something else horrible.  The hall took a left, but in an alcove at its end was another dead man, but I wasn’t keeping count.  Looked like another one of Murkoff’s Research division, he seemed a long way from home.

In actuality, I was losing my patience with them.  I had seen so many corpses, dead and crushed in every way imaginable, and why?  Why the fuck did they lose control of this place?  Why wasn’t anyone alive?  Why couldn’t they have gotten out, called someone, and kept me from joining them in this shithole?

I paused and sighed as I reached the corner.  I wasn’t being fair.  I had entered under my own terms, though I had misgivings, I ignored them until it was too late.  The one to blame here was not the people duped into working the system.  It was me.  I had to look in the mirror and remind myself, I had climbed into that window.  I wanted the story.  I was getting the fuckin story of a lifetime.

Just had to survive it first.

“We gave him a chance.”

Oh for Christ’s sake….

“That we did.”

“I’d say we were more than fair.”

“Paragons of patience.” 

The voices drifting around the corner sounded amused, or pleased, or every sort of happy I could describe.  I glanced around the edge ready to bolt if necessary, but it looked like they had another one of those beautiful metal gates between them and me.  I breathed a sigh of relief, and winced.  My ribs hated me.

“Job-like in the suppression of our desires.”

“But now.”

“Now.”

“Now we indulge.”

“Yes.”

“His tongue and his liver.”

“Yours.”

“Mine.”

My options seemed unfairly limited.

I stepped out from behind the safety zone and moved forward, keeping eyes locked on the twins.  They watched my every move with a morbid fascination I was not comfortable with.  The gate between us might have looked locked, or they might wait until I neared and then they would burst through.  They couldn’t know I was trapped here, if they had plans they would wait until I was too close that they could catch me with little effort.  But I had no idea what was going on here.

Aside from the discussion of how to divide me up.  I refused to imagine what those plans entailed. 

The first door on the segregation section had been torn off and left in the middle of the floor.  I stepped on it as I examined the area keeping a portion of my attention on the twins, always.  They were on the other side of the second gate with weapons that could slip through the bars easily to deal fatal injuries.  Beyond the frame on the left was another door labeled Security, I didn’t know if it was locked or not and I didn’t plan to get close enough to find out.  They said nothing more, content to palm the flat side of their weapons and teeter anxiously as I weighed my ‘options.’  On my right was a smashed out window with a dark crimson stain stretched on the sill, but that presented no better route.  Was the mark another indication of my path by the ‘Father?’

I looked out without getting too close, viewing a long drop to Block B where I first explored.  The man that had been smashing his skull into walls had resumed his mission, and patrolled, sobbing about voices.  From the distance he was easily identified by his blood drenched face, as his actions.  I thought he would’ve succumbed to the self-mutilation long ago.

I pretended not to notice the twins as I climbed onto the sill and slipped over, grabbing the ledge on the other side and hung there.  My shoes scuffed against the wall, but my grip was firm despite my wounded arm.  There were no other areas of interest to the right, but I knew the twins could judge my actions and would wait for me wherever I decided to go.  If I slipped under their view I might have a chance to get up on the other side and take off before they could surprise me.

Given there was any place to go once I was there.  A locked door could be waiting, or a blocked corridor.  The fresh bruise in my muscle alerted me to action, as visions of my body plummeting to certain death haunted the forefront of my mind.  I hastened my movements locking it in my mind that I must not let go, no matter what.  Was there even a way in, a shattered window that was away from those two?

There was, but it wasn’t far enough to be worthwhile.  At this point my arm was burning, I needed to rest it or I wouldn’t be able to pull myself up.  From there my only option would be to drop.

I braced my toes against the wall and heaved up over the frame enough to see into the hall.

They were gone.

#miles upshure #outlast novelized #outlast fanfiction #outlast

[aemperatrix]

Keats Is Coughing

by Marianne Boruch

Everything is made of everything. — Leonardo da Vinci

I found Rome in the woods.

Fair to admit it’s mostly tundra to the west in the park, past Toklat the Denali I revised, low grasslands engineered to freeze deep by October — this being Alaska — the great

           Tabularium close to the Temple of            Castor and Pollux I rebuilt that same summer —             not superimposed, exact as any scheme

in secret — the Arch of Septimius Severus at the gravel bar        where fox drank from a river turned stream,           a Theater of Marcellus near               the ranger station where one raven,                                                                                    such a brat,   complained of                      my Circus Maximus, Trajan’s Column,                              my Baths of Diocletian, too many spots soaked in unpronounceable Latin.

                   I really did, I shouldered bits of it,      a ruin-hushed haunted business, my brain                                                         a truck bed, a lift, pulleys big as a whale’s heart, expletives of cheap wonder all over                                                                  my woodlot and expanse.                          One self-anoints to embellish day, years, life thus far, and think oneself so...    

                      Then busted — 

by a raven!

Well, that’s memory for you, that’s so-called        civilization for you, to layer up,                         to redo the already done.

I mean it’s a fact, the puny life span we’re allotted.              And proof — Denali in August, fireweed, spunky scrawny first Latinate — Erechtites hieracifolia — 

              giving off flowers to mark               what weeks left, little               time bomber, time traveler, ancient               slips red-flagging the countdown to winter               by climbing its own stalk.

Something perverse about that. Something perfectly fiendishly self-conscious about that.

•

From the start perverse, any premise.      Ask...We can’t know. To be compelled

           makes an occasion. Rome’s grand     past horrific, fire and ash, swamp into bog, lust              and bloodlust — 

The Alaska Range dreams lurid as Rome,                                        the worst way below being fire, summer snow at night      off the highest peaks by noon              as distant from our cabin as the size of a hand if I                         held up the one with                         an eye in the middle

to know how this works. Some have the power to raise from the dead a before, before scary and beautiful           back to mystery cults, in caves, rubble far under a Roman street, the altar to Mithras still slaying his bull, crumbling the stonework.

            All things being equal. But they’re not.                    Agony, it’s older.                      Ask the moose at Denali,                         the snowshoe hare, the lynx,

such a wily courtly lot.                                           Ask Ovid      banished to his hovel on the Black Sea, aching                for Rome’s exalted rude cacophony, each      exiled month a big thick X down

                                  Februarius,                                 Aprilis to home-shattered sick enough

for an undersong. Look it up! Undersong: a strain; a droning; the burden of a song —                                              Maybe that lowest common denominator is contagious. Rome or Denali, a mash-up of lunge and cry out, predator and prey throwing coins to a fountain, footholds made first by a hoof, pickpockets at buses and trains, nuns queuing up their no-nonsense, thorny brambles, raggedy spruce groves,                                           a look, a nod to sell loveless love on the street, a chain of mountains in choral repeat, saints stained to glass, how ice gouged rivers from rock-bound,                                 the one-lung rapturous common-sense Pope all outstretched arms, his little popemobile circling the thrilled at St. Peter’s up on our rickety chairs to see in six, seven languages how radiant —                             Cross my heart, he was. And Keats, Keats is coughing.

•

You find the fossil record everywhere. In woods, tundra, under streets, in cadaver labs.                                 Not those bright transparencies, wistful orderly page after page in biology, a lie, a kind of flip-book romance. It’s the one big mess of us in us, the generous extraordinary dead prove that, signing a paper, giving themselves away                                            to be cut, disembodied for the knowing it, sunk to their chemical depth in some afterlife, opened on a table by kids really,                                             belabored doctors-to-be, our shabby shared wilderness to untangle, bones   joints   arteries   valves,                                                         The Dissector in hand, weirdest how-to book on the planet. For Keats too, 1819, his scribbled roses and sunflowers in margins,                                                                  his training,                                                           his anatomy theatre, looking down and later: still London, then Rome (he who gets it,  body fails, second floor, beside the Spanish Steps).                                           Heart, not my heart anymore.                                     Forgive me. I’m worse than the hopelessly confused misnamed English sparrow, descendant of the great weaver birds of Africa, a finch that lost the gene

      for nest, how to beneath, to across so intricate, precise, bringing bringing sticks and hair and bits of shiny paper. Undersong: the burden of a song.                                                       Poor bird. Poor sweet muddled middle of it. I watched morning after morning, his offering...                                                                           It’s Keats who made claims about beauty and time. His bed at the last                        too low for the window, his must-have                                 tell me, what’s out there — 

I admit: a ridiculous layering, Rome in Denali. Just because? Because I went to both in short order? Two continents, an ocean apart. My mother loved hand-me-down expressions — never the twain shall meet. They do meet.                           To repeat: that’s civilization for you. Happenstance and right now drag along future and past                             and why the hell not the Denali, the Rome in any of us, no two states of being more unalike, worn-out compulsion to collect and harbor, piece together,                                                                    stupid into some remember machine.

  Such fabulous unthinkable inventions we’ve made to merge or unmake: the trash compactor,   the poem, all tragedy and story, pencils sharpened to

a point that keeps breaking, wilderness gone inward as

                  an ocean-going ship���s container,                         a Gatling gun,                                 the AR-15 of the seething deranged,                                         the H-bomb,                                             Roman legions to Canterbury to blood-up fields into legend then dig the first plumbing but

                                            how can you                                             be in two places at once                                             when you’re not anywhere at all!

       (Thank you, Firesign Theatre, brilliant wackos,              old vinyl on a turntable still in the game... )

                     Fine. Fuck it. Start over.

•

See the sheep on high ledges, the arctic squirrels below.

See the way Dante saw, sweeping his arm across Vasari’s great painting as Boccaccio looks off, the plague sealing city after city. Dante

in hell, steady-luminous     those fact-finding trips to service           his worldly Inferno.

Winter sleeps through. August at Denali, bears shovel it down       a razor-edged maw —                                                 twigs! berries! more stems! —  Fate hoards to prepare, sub-zeros, fattens into...   

See the park’s camper bus, 92 miles how most of us jolt and slow, crossing hours more daylight than night all summer, rattling tin can with its exhaust and hissing gravel, the fear landslide                  an undersong just-possible, how we zigzag a mountain. Look!

                 Nearing a bear, the young caribou abruptly                             hesitant, shy as a leaf — 

No! Don’t! Do not! That grizzly huge, bent to his ploy just                                                 these berries around here, his ignore ignore, sure, quiet-tense as a trigger, and we of                      fogged scratched windows so hard to open — 

stop! The bus stopped. Jesus. The thing curious, closer...                          They’re not

that smart anyhow, a stage-whispering drunk from the back      of our imperial realm, mile 62, the Park Road.

What did Venus decree in her temple up whichever narrow street in Rome, the Ancients’                             stink of slops, standing water,           a bear chained to a slave (out of slav, by the way,                             backdrop is horde, human spoils)

both shackled to a grindstone for                                                             a later mob and roar.

Here’s what we saw: the little caribou  in reverse wanders sideways and safe.                                             Our bus one big sigh or like a wheezing asthmatic the brakes unbrake.

Bad dream, bad dream, the undersong start to all fable if                        for real we’d seen that kill back to lions off their continent cornered, bloodied in the great amphitheaters, rearing up, a nail to hammer’s                                   bite and blow. The wilderness in us

is endless. Near the cabin, near evening, a warbler                               in the fireweed                                                    hawk saw or heard,                          his switchblade clicked to —                                                                         I was and I was                      whirling feathers, either bird —    Every hunger                            is first century. Forever-thus   feral cats at the Forum about to leap too.                                                        The Forum, last homage   I shoveled holes and rocks to   remake, mile 82, while the haymouse riddled the meadow   down deep, her catacombs.

•

Time + beauty = ruins. Perfect shapes in the mind       meet my friends Pointless and Threat and Years of       Failure to Meld or Put to Rest. Ruthless                                                                                 is human.

I ask a composer: How to live with this undersong thing                             over and over, how to

                                                                   get rid of it,                                                                        the world of it — 

 He looks at me. What undersong thing? And shrugs       I’ll put it on the test! Let students define it.

     So I dreamt such a test: Go there. To Rome.                    Half-doze against a wall                      two thousand years of

    flesh    sweat    insect wing ago, stone laid by hand, by a boy when a whip, a whip, a welling up, his will not speak.

   Have at it. Please explain. Please fill in this blank.

Grief punctures like ice, moves like a glacier   to flat and slog and myth, low blue and white flowers       we hiked trail-less. The rangers insist. They insist — 

      never follow or lead, never lay down a path.

                                                                       From above the look of us spread out, our seven or eight a band, little stray exhausted figures                                           as over the land bridge from Asia,

circa: prehistory keeps coming, older than Rome, both   both underfoot, understory, underway

        miles below numb, it’s burning.

•

To see at all, you time                                         and this time and time again.

The spirit leans intrigued, the other part bored, then there’s want,                                                                    then there’s wait.

Once a city began with a wolf whose two human pups would      build, would watch it fall, nursing                                              at her milk for centuries               in marble               in bronze.

         She stands there and cries of                                                               that pleasure, by turns a blood-chill. The tundra. At night.

A snake eats its own tail, forever at it on a fresco. A real snake                       leaves his skin near the gravel bar. Some words sting, some are sung. Another life isn’t smaller.

#marianne boruch #poetry #keats is coughing #poem #cuvinte potrivite #i need to lie down. i. i— #long post