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zabiume · 3 years

Note

I love your character interactions! I ,especially, love the Renji chapters

Could you do one Ichigo acts as a wingman for Renji? Seeing as they spent most of their years battling or being part of their respective squad, I'd like to think their social skills are not on the great side

We need more Renji hijinks!

Ichigo is Bad at love lives in general, both his own and that of others, so I improvised a little and took the crack-ish route with this. Hope you enjoy!

“You’re so cute.” Ichigo pinched Chad’s cheek, leaving the latter rather flustered and questioning the exact sequence of moments that led them all here. Here, being the back alley of the Second Division barracks, but also the general life circumstances that had just happened in the last 72 hours.

“Oh dear.” Orihime fanned her face, rocking from foot to foot as she tried to make eye contact with Chad over Ichigo’s unruly hair. No avail.

“Don’t worry, Inoue, I think you’re real cute, too,” Ichigo declared, swaying heavily from where was tucked into Chad’s side and drawing closer to her in big, bumbling steps. His hands arched forward in a grabby motion, like he was searching for her head. “C’mere.”

Orihime squeaked with a jump, swatting his hand away and shooting Chad a helpless stare. Chad returned it with a shrug, watching Ichigo’s every move with all the bewildered posturing of Frankenstein upon creating his own monster. Horror. Awe. Regret. Orihime read it clear as day in his eyes because she was sure they were all reflected in her own.

“Kurosaki-kun.” She valiantly tried to duck out of the headlock hug Ichigo was trying to pull her into. “Please. You’ll regret this in the morning--oh, Sado-kun, help!”

Chad rushed forward and grabbed Ichigo’s arm before he could haul her up in the air in one graceless swoop. “Ichigo, she’s right.” Chad yanked him with minimum effort, despite his murmured protests. Orihime stumbled backwards with a grateful wheeze, going pink in the face as she held one thumb up to indicate she was relatively okay.

Given the circumstances.

“The only thing I’ll regret in the morning is not telling my friends how much I love them!” Ichigo roared, thrashing helplessly in Chad’s arms. He paused briefly when his eyes caught a shadow of movement, a lone shinigami passing them by as he made his way to the Second’s offices. “Oi! You!” The shinigami arched a brow. Surely he was wondering what the savior of three worlds was doing by the Second Division, restrained by his ryoka comrades. “You--shinigami dude.” He jerked his thumb back to Chad and Orihime. “These are my friends. Tell 'em I love 'em, they don’t seem to get it.”

“Oh god,” Orihime whispered, making placating and equally floundering gestures as she indicated for the shinigami to keep walking and not pay any attention to Ichigo. Chad gave an apologetic smile, but didn’t loosen his iron-clad grip on Ichigo’s shoulders either.

This was going to be a long, long night.

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The thing was, the Second Division of the Gotei 13, also dubbed affectionately by some as the Onmitsukido, was taking the aid of one Urahara Kisuke in developing the perfect truth serum for witness interrogation purposes. It had very much been a joint effort from the beginning, he would attest humbly, but the truth of the matter was that the Twelfth Division had the spottiest record for ethical research practices and no one could answer for how that truth serum had ended up in the hands of one substitute shinigami, Kurosaki Ichigo. And if there was anyone who had a spottier record on giving in to base and curious impulses more than Division 12, it was, indeed, the hailed savior of three worlds--

-- or so the Seireitei Communication would report, a good thirteen hours after the entire fiasco had simmered down.

Luckily or unluckily for everyone else involved, the night was still young.

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Kuchiki Rukia felt the low buzz of her spirit phone, mid-conversation with her brother and his lieutenant by the Sixth Division barracks. She fished it out of her robes and frowned, knowing full well Inoue would not text her an SOS unless there was an emergency of world-ending proportions or if the latest chapter in the shoujo they were co-reading had come out.

We tried to stop him, it read instead, followed by an, I’m so sorry, Kuchiki-san :(((

“Sorry?” Rukia mumbled, impervious to Renji and Byakuya’s confused glances in her direction. “Sorry about what?”

Stop whom?

Her answer came in the form of a sudden, but incredible burst of blurred energy whirring past her senses and leaving several afterimages after it came to a halt. Rukia remained lax, already having sensed Ichigo’s reiatsu--not to mention his obscenely orange hair that defeated the stealthy purpose of shunpo in the first place--but Byakuya’s hand came to rest warily on the hilt of his zanpakuto, mouth downturned in displeasure that Ichigo had pulled a Yoruichi on them and shown up full speed ahead when they were least expecting him.

“Kurosaki,” he intoned, which really meant, ‘what is the meaning of this?’

“Hey Ichigo,” Renji greeted, not deterred in the slightest. None of the trio had noticed anything off about him just yet--not the way his pupils were exceptionally large, nor the way he walked like he had the world’s heaviest weights balancing on his shoulders. Ichigo was a teenager after all, and teenagers, well-- they slouched.

“Renji!” Ichigo cheered, shoving his face right into where the crook of Renji’s face met his shoulder. “Been lookin’ for you and Rukia all over.” He cracked one eye open, still awkwardly snuggled into Renji’s side as he observed Byakuya. “Not you, though.”

Byakuya’s shoulders hunched and Rukia would have rolled her eyes at his callous attitude--except he was acting rather weird, cuddling up to Renji like that. Renji himself took Ichigo’s gestures amicably, patting him on the back with one hand and exchanging a confused, but happy grin with Rukia.

“Good to see you, bud,” Renji replied after a moment too long’s worth of a hug, like he was speaking to someone particularly slow. He gingerly peeled Ichigo off his shoulders, however, because Byakuya was giving him the ‘improper body language on the divison premises’ glare and Renji did not want to get demoted on the grounds that Ichigo was having a touch-starved day. “What can we do for ya?”

“Ichigo, what are you doing here?” Rukia demanded, pinching his elbow lightly when his eyes flickered after a meandering grasshopper. Was he drunk? She sniffed his breath but couldn’t discern anything. Was this what Inoue was trying to warn him about? Because Inoue was definitely trying to warn her about...whatever this was.

“You two,” Ichigo said suddenly, making all three of them flinch as he pointed to Renji and Rukia. “I’ve got a serious bone to pick with you two, but especially you, Rukia.” Rukia was about to open her mouth and tell Ichigo where exactly he could put his bone, but Byakuya spoke up first after a long moment’s silence.

“If it is combat practice you accosted my sister about, I will have to remind you that she is far too busy to accommodate your childish whims and needs.” He leveled his gaze with an irate Ichigo who couldn’t give less of a shit about him. “Though it might make for interesting observation how you would tackle her graceful bankai with your own bullheadedness, you will have to stop by after hours. Unlike regular humans, we have work to do.”

“Combat practice?” Ichigo echoed, making a disgusted face. “What are you, stoned?” Byakuya’s face turned scary shades of white, while Renji visibly flinched behind him. “I’m here because I’m sick of the way you two have been dancin’ around each other but being too damn stupid to get together already, damn it!”

Renji wanted the floor to bury him alive. His ears were so red in blatant shock, he didn’t dare look at Byakuya, choosing to look at the floor instead. He’d never explicitly told Ichigo it was a secret, but never in his life had he fathomed...this. This was it. This was the day Byakuya would senbonzakura his ass out of here and he could kiss his dreams of making a methodical and proper proposal goodbye. Even if he could pass it off as a joke later, Byakuya would not take this slight to his professionalism right under his nose so easily without consequences.

Rukia, on the other hand, was pissed.

“Just what do you think of yourself, Ichigo, coming here and saying sh--things like that!” Rukia yanked Ichigo by the collar until he was down to her level. If Renji had been looking anywhere but at his sandals, he would have noticed her ears reddening too, but he was too busy marveling at the shrill anger in her voice to notice it. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“What’s wrong with me?” Ichigo demanded, shoving Rukia off and coming around to stand beside Renji. “What’s wrong with you?” He lifted one arm, a firm hand clenching around Renji’s bicep back and forth. “I mean, are you blind?”

“Ichigo,” Renji warned, though it came out more as a squeak.

“This guy nearly dragged his ass through the dirt for forty years. He’s got a job. Do you know how hard it is to get a job?” Ichigo let his arm drop but prodded one finger on Renji’s left eyebrow. “He does his eyebrows. He’s 6′2--”

“Kurosaki Ichigo,” Byakuya warned, slightly affronted at the mention of Renji’s height, but Ichigo was on a full-fledged soapbox roll now.

“-- And he loves you, Rukia!” he yelled, shaking a fist impatiently. “He looks at you like you hung the moon and stars; hell, he looks at you like you are the moon and stars.” He clapped a very mortified Renji’s shoulders with--what he probably thought--were encouraging thumps. He looked all for the world like a car salesman trying to make a busted sell out of a very old Honda. Renji looked like he wanted to die, but Ichigo went on, “I think you know he loves you, Rukia, and I think you love him too. The only problem is that you’re both too stupid to accept it! Going on, this an’ that about how I’m the reason you’re back together and you owe me your first born kid--well that’s great and all but it means horseshit if you’re gonna keep dancing around like this all the time! Isn’t it about damn time you made your feelings clear?”

There was a very pronounced silence in the air. Byakuya cleared his throat uncomfortably. Rukia looked like a solid mix between wanting to murder Ichigo and wanting somebody to murder her. Renji had backed himself into the shadows and begun planning his quickest escape route because he did not want to be here. Ichigo stared.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he whispered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Byakuya opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes widened when he spotted the telltale brown of a staff coming out to whack Ichigo on the back of his head. Ichigo’s eyes glazed over and he slumped forward, almost crashing to the floor if it hadn’t been for Rukia and Renji catching his weight from either side.

“Yoo-hoo,” Urahara sang casually, lifting one hand sheepishly against his hat. “I’ve come to pick up a very important package. If you good folks could just hand him over, that would be great for all parties involved, thank you.”

The silence was considerably stilted, now that Ichigo had passed out, but Renji and Rukia were still quite in shock.

“Abarai, Rukia,” Byakuya said, primly locking his hands ahead of him and giving Ichigo’s knocked-out figure a nod. “You will want to see him off, correct?”

“Y-yes, sir!” they both chorused, drawing closer together even as they balanced Ichigo between them. Urahara hummed to himself, locking his own arms behind him.

“Then get going,” Byakuya ordered, eyebrow twitching in annoyance at Urahara. “I have conveniently pressing matters to tend to for the rest of the afternoon.”

Rukia and Renji shared a look. “Yes, sir!” They took off behind Urahara, feeling lines of sweat race past both their faces as they didn’t dare once look behind them.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“So, uh,” Renji said, later that evening, over a glass of beer. “About that whole Ichigo thing...”

“I know Renji,” Rukia said quickly, ears flaring red, before her eyes softened and she tacked on a quiet, “I do, too.”

“Oh.” Renji coughed. “Good. That’s, uh--that’s good.”

Rukia’s eyes narrowed at him. “You were going to deny it, weren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Renji said, then admitted sheepishly, “Only if you were. I was gonna put the whole thing behind us, if we’re being totally honest.”

Rukia tossed a tissue at him. “Shut up,” she muttered, but neither of them held back their shit-eating grins as their hands warmly reached for each other under the table.

Renji squeezed once. Rukia squeezed back, and both of them made mental promises to beat the living shit out of Ichigo when he came to, later

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“Urrrrrrgh, I feel like shit,” Ichigo grumbled, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Did I come see you and Renji yesterday?”

“You did,” Rukia said shortly, dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth. “Lay still, Urahara said you’d come down with side-effects if you aren’t being careful.”

Ichigo winced. “He drugged me, didn’t he?”

Rukia stared at him, wondering if he really didn’t remember the events of yesterday at all. “Yeah,” she grumbled, jabbing him extra hard on his eyebrow. “You sure spouted a lot of shit on that truth serum.”

Ichigo’s eyes widened for a second, fully considering the weight of Rukia’s words. She looked away, feeling a swarm of heat flushing up her face.

“I asked you to confess to Renji, didn’t I?” he said slowly, and Rukia’s quick inhale was about telltale as anything that he’d hit the mark. “Was I right? Did you two do it?”

“Shut up, Ichigo,” Rukia said with a long sigh, tossing aside the rag and beginning to storm out of one of the many rooms in the shoten.

“I totally am!” he called out after her, a wide and shit-eating grin on his face, “You two so owe me one.” Rukia was about to slam the door behind her when she heard him quietly mutter, “God, Inoue owes me so much cash, too.”

She swung back into the room immediately. “You bet on this?!”

The shoten door slammed closed. If anyone heard Ichigo screaming for help after, they didn’t mention it.

sorry for the short ending. thank you for the prompt!

#renruki #awesomewweus #ichiruki brotp #myfic #ichigo on the truth serum is just: i love my friends and i want them to be happy #Zabiume's Birthday Round-Up

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

Misconduct

Series Summary: After the events of Civil War, Steve and his team are stuck in their compound. Following a mission, you disagree with your stalwart leader but he does not take kindly to your defiance.

Sequel to Insubordination and Pulling Rank

Chapter Description: Steve takes the team on a mission but returns with a vengeance.

Warnings: dub/non-con and explicit sex (including oral) Obviously 18+ (like this whole blog) This chapter: masturbation and rough sex

Note: Okay, so here’s another follow up to this one. Hope you all enjoy some Scary Steve! He gets a bit terrifying in this one but I had fun writing him at least.

Anyhow, thanks for reading. Feel free to send an ask, reblog, or reply of your thoughts:)

You were relieved when Steve took the team on their next mission. It was only days after he had dragged you back to his room and since, you had been certain that he would barge in on you at any moment. In any place. You realized, through pointed stares and subtle grins, that he was toying with you. If he didn’t relish so much in your discomfort, he’d likely have acted on his obvious urges. He had taken to finding you in the most chance of instances; in the kitchen or the lounge, watching you through the clear glass wall of the gym. He always turned away when others could notice him. He was sly.

And so your goodbye with Nat was bittersweet. You hated to see her go but were relieved for Steve’s absence. This mission would see everyone away from the compound but you. You weren’t sure if the solitary break would ease your nerves or drive you mad. You watched the jet depart over the horizon and exhaled the breath you had been holding in dread. It was as if a pressure had been lifted from your chest. He was gone.

It took fifteen minutes of disbelief to settle down. Then you wandered the halls until you came upon the gym. It had been a while since your last fulfilling workout. You hurried to your room and changed, returning and taking your time in your reps on each machine. You were more relaxed as you finished your cool down stretches and dragged your feet back to your room. You flopped on your bed, your phone right beside you on the mattress as you closed your eyes. It had been so long since you felt like you.

You flipped on your television as you lazed across the bed and lost yourself in the drone of dialogue. You weren’t really paying attention but the white noise it provided calmed you further. It must have been hours spent doing nothing but staring at the screen before you returned to reality. Your phone buzzed as if to call you back to earth. Your eyes snapped open and you turned to stare at the small device. It was likely Nat telling you that they had reached the safe house, or maybe that they were on their way to the drop point. Whatever it was, any news was better than no news.

The small vibration continued to rumble your bed. You huffed and reached over clumsily to retrieve the phone. You lifted the screen to find it filled with notifications. None of them were Nat. Steve’s name blinked at you and you scrolled down. ‘Hey’; ‘Answer me’ ; ‘Y/N’ ; ‘Answer me now, soldier’. The last message had you sitting up straight. Your hand shook as you unlocked the phone and your thumb hovered over the text box. What could you say?

‘What?’ You typed tersely. You cringed the second you hit send. That wasn’t right.

‘One more chance to get it right, soldier,’ Steve replied and you gripped the phone, wanting to smash it on the night table.

‘Yes, Captain,’ You keyed in the message with derision, happy he could not see the scowl on your face. You waited for his response. As the minutes ticked by, you thought perhaps he was done. Merely playing with you from afar.

‘Top drawer. White box.’ The bubble blipped up and you slowly glanced over at your dresser. The phone shook again. ‘New uniform. I wanna see it on, soldier.’

You didn’t move, lowering the phone as you stared at the television. Even so far away, he had a hold over you. You could ignore him but knowing he would return and your plight made all the worse by such inaction, you looked to the screen again. Another vibration tickled your palm. ‘Five minutes, soldier. If I have to tell you again, your next exercise won’t be so easy.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ you repeated and set down your phone. So much for alone time.

Your life had come to be a maelstrom of uneasiness and Steve's shadow loomed even as he was miles away. You sighed and pushed yourself from bed, crossing to your dresser wearily. You shifted the top drawer open and a white box sat atop the rest of your underwear and bra. It hadn't been there that morning. Steve must have slipped in before his final briefing. The thought of him unknowingly coming and going from your room was chilling.

You took the box and set it on the top of the dresser. You shakily opened the lid, almost dropping it back in place as you saw its contents. A black lace bodysuit which couldn't possibly offer an ounce of modesty. You shook your head and grabbed your phone, your thumbs working furiously; ‘you can't be serious.’

Then your phone began to chime. You stared as Steve's name stood bold against the call screen and you swore, dragging your finger to answer. “You best get your uniform on, soldier.” Steve’s harsh command rose from the speaker. ‘Two minutes left.’

You hissed and placed the phone on the dresser beside the box, almost slamming it there. You tore your shirt over your head with a grumble. “I expect a response, soldier.’ The speaker barked.

“Yes, Captain,” You fought to keep the derision from your tone.

You removed your leggings next, making silent and quick work of your clothes. You sat on the edge of the bed to slip your feet through the leg holes, standing as you shimmied into the lace. You reached back to secure the hooks, the cups uncomfortable against your chest. The bottom was much too high cut, offering little cover to ass or thighs.

“Ugh,” You huffed unthinkingly.

“What was that?” Steve intoned dangerously.

“I said I'm done,” You lied.

“With five seconds to spare, soldier,” Your phone clicked as the call ended and messenger began to sing instead. You reluctantly took the phone and answered the video call. Steve appeared, shoulders bare, hair slightly askew, his eyes dangerous. “Well, let me see.”

You chewed your lip before a quiet ‘yes, Captain’ slipped out and you carried the phone to the tv stand, shutting off the bigger screen as you rested the smaller one upright against it. You backed away carefully, coming into full view of the camera. You tried not to look at him. He was much easier to avoid on a six-inch screen.

“Mmm,” He hummed in approval, “Now, when I get back, I'd say maybe three days, I want you in uniform. Just like this soldier.” He inhaled heavily and you could hear the predatory bristle in his breath. “Zero-hundred hours, my quarters. Understood?”

You crossed your arms, looking away as you nodded and muttered just loud enough for the mic. “Yes, Captain.”

“I expect you to stand at alert. Arms at the side, shoulders straight, eyes forward.” You stiffly fixed your posture and swallowed your irritation. “Better,” He praised. “It's too bad you got yourself suspended. I could use a soldier like you on missions…” His blue eyes were smoky even through the screen was at a distance. “Even officers need their r and r.”

You lowered your lashes, embarrassed at his comments. When had you become just an object to him? You had once been colleagues; peers; you daresay, friends. All this over a dumb argument. Well, it was more than that. He had changed since you had come to the compound. A kicked dog nipping at all who got close enough. You had merely been the unfortunate victim trapped in his maw.

You heard the shutter of a screenshot being taken and were drawn back to the present. “What are you doing?” You hissed.

“It's going to be a long three days,” He smirked. “I'm already rock hard, soldier.” You blinked, staring at the phone as you neared and lifted it from the stand. “Unfortunately I do have an early morning,” He continued casually, “And with this team, I can't see this mission going smoothly.” He raised a cynical brow, “I'll see you when I get back. Full inspection.”

The call ended at that and you frowned at the phone, slowly setting it flat beside the television. You were tired but you saw little sleep ahead of you. Before anything, you had to get out of this awful body suit. That at least would help you breathe.

***

It was only two days. You hadn’t managed to relax since the phone call and Steve’s impending return had you even more anxious than his presence. Anticipation was often worse than endurance. You were in the kitchen when you heard the jet on the pad atop the building. You were tempted to dump the chopped veggies and hide in your room without dinner but you knew there was no avoiding him. Besides, he had already taken so much from you. You weren’t going to let him take everything. You continued to dice the peppers, pulling a few more from the fridge. The team would likely be hungry and you couldn’t punish them for their leader’s proclivities.

Sam was the first to stomp in, his loud voice entering before him. “Mmm, what is that smell?” He boomed from the hall as you sizzled the onion in a pan. “Anything’s better than those ration packs.” He marched in, dragging his wings by the strap as he placed them heavily against the counter. “I see you’ve been enjoying your alone time.”

“Yeah, I…” Steve entered just behind Sam, crossing his arms as his eyes found you over his teammate’s shoulder. He leaned against the wall, watching you. His face showed little more than his usual stoniness. You turned and dumped the peppers from the cutting board into the pan, “I heard you guys arrive so I, um, added more.”

“You know a man well,” Sam joked and you heard more voices. Nat and Wanda were laughing as they appeared and greeted you warmly.

“Need help?” Wanda asked in her stoic accent.

“If you want,” You shrugged, continuing your work, “You did just get back. You guys are welcome to just chill.”

“Yeah, I mean, I doubt she’s expended her energy much in our absence,” Steve’s deep timbre cut through, “Barely more useful here than in the field.”

“Steve!” Nat hissed as she turned on him, “What the fuck?”

You saw the twitch in his jaw as he measured her before him. His blue eyes flicked to you for a second. Fuck, that did not bode well. He raised his brow sharply, “We’re a small team. Efficiency over numbers.” He growled, “I wouldn’t be much of a captain if I sugar-coated everything.”

“Not much of one when your such an asshole,” Nat snapped, “For fuck’s sake, give her a break. All you do is bitch.”

“All I do is watch your ass,” He retorted, pushing himself from the wall, “And hers,” He gestured at you, “And hers, and his.” He pointed to Wanda and Sam in turn. “And all I ask is that you fucking listen. And pay me the respect I’m due.” His hands were on his hips, making his shoulders look even bigger, “But here you are, mouthing off. And all for her? Who can’t take a single fucking order!”

“Let it go, Steve,” Sam chimed in “What was it? A week ago? Jesus.”

“She’s lucky she’s still here,” Steve snarled as he looked around at his team, “All of you are. This isn’t Tony’s parade, it’s mine. My team, my rules. You knew that when you joined up.”

You shook your head, a quiet sigh as you added the chunks of chicken to the vegetable medley. You turned back to grab some seasoning, sensing the heat of Steve’s glare. You looked up as he faced tensed at the sight of your silent defiance. He stepped forward, Sam’s hand on his chest keeping him from coming closer. “Cool down, man.”

“You got something to say, soldier?” He barked and you froze. You reeled as if slapped at the use of the title. “I see you over there rolling your eyes, so you got something to say, go on.”

You weren’t sure how this had all turned on you. You hadn’t said anything. You had done your best not to. “I…” You glanced around, Wanda and Nat looked terrified. “Nothing, Captain.”

“No, no, I can see it,” He pushed against Sam who strained to hold him back. “Go on and say whatever’s bouncing around in that simple head of yours.”

This was the last thing you had expected. Your plan had been to appease him; keep him as happy as he could be and be done with it. Yet, passivity had never been your strong suit and with a super soldier rearing at you, you had to bite back. “This isn’t what we signed up for,” You uttered grimly, “You’re not the man you were.”

“Let me go!” Steve tried to shove Sam away and Nat and Wanda grabbed his arms, the three of the barely able to keep him away from you. “I’ll show you who’s Captain, soldier.”

“She didn’t do anything, Steve,” Nat grunted, “Leave her alone!”

They struggled a little longer as you pressed yourself against the counter and finally Steve relented. He backed off and shook away the other three, pushing Sam sharply. “Bunch of ingrates.” He growled, “All of you.” His chest rose and fell as he slowly retreated to the door, cracking his knuckles. “Post-mission briefing in one hour. If you’re late, you can join Y/N during our next mission.”

With that, Steve swept through the door and left the rest of you stunned. He had been temperamental lately but he hadn’t been so openly volatile. Your heart was pounding as you stared the door frame. You had been certain he was about to strip you down in front of everyone. Or worse. You gulped and slowly turned back to the stove, stirring the contents of the pan with a spatula. Your hand was shaking.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Nat asked quietly as she neared.

“Please,” You sniffed, “You guys shouldn’t have done that.”

“Defend you?” Sam scoffed. “We’re a team.”

“No, we’re not,” You breathed, “Not to him.”

“Y/N,” Wanda was at your elbow, her hand gently touched your shoulder. You looked up at her and her eyes searched yours. Her lips parted as if she could see right through you. “Did…” Her voice died and she looked around suddenly, as if recalling the others, “We only want to help.”

“Let him be mad,” You muttered glumly, “He’ll get over it,” You turned away evasively, “Really, we’ve all seen his moods. We should just--you guys, just let me finish dinner, please.”

You could sense them looking at each other but they didn’t say anything further as you ignored them for the stove top. You waited for them to leave, their footsteps hesitantly passing into the dining room. You stepped back from the oven and shook your head. Shit.

***

When you finally returned to your room, the team was in their briefing. You had your television going but couldn’t focus on anything but Steve’s presence. He was there, in the compound, and he was pissed. You were trying to dissociate when your phone buzzed on the night table. You looked over and your chest felt heavy. You bit the inside of your lip and reached over.

‘Zero hundred hours. My room. Don’t forget your uniform, soldier.’ Steve’s text was decisive. An order you couldn’t ignore especially after the episode in the kitchen. You checked the time. One hour. The briefing must have gone late. It was a couple minutes before you could move, a few more to dig up the body suit, longer to put it on. You hid it beneath a hoodie and some loose sweats, combing out your hair as you pulled on a pair of slip-on shoes. After a moment in crisis, you had ten minutes left. Enough to finish up your panic attack and get to Steve’s room.

You crept down the hall. The compound was quiet. The others had likely slunk back to their rooms after a lecture from their valiant leader. There was worse in store for you. It wasn’t far, a couple doors away. You stood before Steve’s room and stared. Just knock. You couldn’t stand there all night. You stiffly raised your hand, trembling, but you couldn’t do it.

The door opened anyway and you were caught in the cross hairs like a rabbit. Steve tilted his head as he stared down at you, gripping the door as he looked you over. “You’re late,” He greeted starkly, “I said zero hundred exactly.” You sputtered at him, unable to summon an excuse, and he grabbed your upper arm, nearly pulling you off your feet as he dragged you inside. The door shut with a thunderous click.

He released you and you nearly tripped over yourself. “Attention,” He called and you stood straight. “Uniform?” He asked as he rounded you, his eyes scouring your lazy attire.

“Captain,” You hastily unzipped your hoodie and revealed the bodice of the bodysuit. He nodded and watched patiently as you undressed; your clothes folded a top your shoes as you tucked them aside beside the door. You returned to your stance, shoulders straight and eyes forward.

“Mmm,” He walked another circle around you. You noticed how his hand balled into a tight fist. “Looks even better in person,” He came up behind you, his warmth searing your back, “Earlier, in the kitchen; not good.” His voice was dangerous, “You don’t know how close I was…” He inhaled deeply, pressing against you, “I could’ve had you bent over right there, soldier. Do you think they could really stop me? Hmm? I let them stop me.”

You stayed silent, swallowing your fear. His tone sent a trickle of ice down your spine. “Tell me, how have I changed?” He leaned down, his voice gravelly in your ear.

You kept yourself from wavering as your legs threatened to buckle. “I...you...are different. Rougher,” His hand tickled the bottom of your ass, “Angrier,” His other snaked up, fingertips dancing along your throat, “Darker.”

“Heh,” He scoffed, his fingers stretching across your neck, “I think maybe you just have a problem with authority.” He sneered, “A good soldier knows their place. Holds their tongue.” He rescinded his hand and stepped away, smacking your ass hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You still lack discipline.” You could hear his belt buckle as he undid it. “Bend over. Touch your toes, back straight.” You did as he said, cringing as you gave him a full view of your ass, barely concealed in the bodysuit’s thong. “Hold just like that.”

It was a standard stretch but holding the position not so much. The first minute was easier, even the second was little strain. But then your muscles began to strain and the urge to look back as you heard his movement and the rustle of his clothing combined to make you restless. Your thighs began to burn, and your arms a little, your lower back adding to your discomfort.

“Good form, soldier,” His hand surprised you as he touched the small of your back, “Should we do another five minutes?” You clenched your jaw as he kneaded your ass. “I would but...we have a long night. I don’t want you to spend yourself in the first hour.” His hands squeezed your ass and he backed away again. “Stand straight, soldier.”

You righted yourself, the blood rushing from your head where it had gathered. You were almost dizzy for the sudden shift. Steve came up in front of you; naked. With each step, his thick cock bobbed and you kept your eyes on his face.

“You know what,” He neared, grabbing the lace between your cleavage, “I prefer you without a uniform.” He rent the bodysuit down the middle, tearing straight between the cups and down the stomach. The fabric went loose around you, slipping down your legs as he tugged it past your thighs and let go. “You know, your suspension doesn’t have to be all bad,” He grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger, “If you just followed orders, you could make everyone happy.”

“Yes, Captain,” You said in resignation, staring up at him dully. You just wanted him to be done with it. You hated his little taunts and jabs. It made it all more unbearable.

He removed his hand from your chin and turned, dragging the armchair so that it was right before you. He gestured you to sit and you obeyed without argument. Once sat, he pushed your knees apart as far as they could go. He stood straight, backing up as his eyes swept over you coolly.

“We’ll start easy,” His cock twitched, “Touch yourself.”

Your face dropped. You blinked at him dumbly but his silence and the fiery look on his face assured you that you hadn’t misheard him. He waited, expectantly, but you knew he had little patience. You reluctantly brought your hand forward and slipped it down your thigh, inching towards your pussy. You had to look away as your fingers grazed your folds, dipping between your folds.

You dragged two fingers up to your clit, spreading the slickness which had started to pool there. You were embarrassed at your own arousal. You pressed on your bud, rubbing carefully back and forth as your nerves stirred. You closed your eyes, pressing your lips together as you tried to ease yourself into it. The only sound in the room was Steve’s even breaths.

“Now, soldier,” He commanded in a sultry voice, “You don’t stop til you cum.”

“Y-yes, Captain,” You replied in a brittle voice.

You caught yourself falling into your usual habits; dissembling before him. You pushed your legs against the arms of the chair, drawing circles more vigorously around your clit. The atoms more easily flurried, a vortex building within. Your head lolled across the back of the chair, your free hand across your chest as your breath picked up. Streaks of fire formed along your thighs and all once the heat erupted and you moaned as you reached apex; the fall as steep as the climb.

Your hand closed over your pussy as you quivered on the chair. You knew he was there, watching, but you just didn’t care in that moment. You slumped in the chair but not for long as Steve grabbed you by the arm and pulled you to your feet. He turned you sharply as you were off balance, barely able to keep yourself upright in the after waves. He growled as he shoved your shoulder and you were forced to bend, catching yourself on the seat of the chair.

He smacked your ass. You whined and he grabbed your hips roughly to keep you from moving. “You’re quite skilled at that, soldier,” His hand felt around between your legs, guiding his cock along your folds. “You must have a lot of practice.” You dropped your head in shame, holding yourself up against the chair. “Hmm? Do you touch yourself a lot?” He continued to rub himself along your entrance, teasing you. “Every night?”

“I…” You shudder, your arms shaking. “Not every night, Captain…” You bit your lip. Sparks burst up your spine as he pushed just his head inside you. “M-most, though.”

“Mmmmp,” He impaled you entirely at the confession, forcing you onto your tiptoes. You were jolted forward, your elbow bent on the chair as you arched your back. “No self-control at all.”

His hands slid lower around your hips, lifting you almost entirely of your feet as he thrust into you. You moaned, gripping at the cushion as he plunged into you, the sound of your juices filled the room. He was moving your whole body. Your arms shifted on the seat as hips snapped violently against your ass.. You were muttering to yourself as he fucked you, your thighs stung from the force of his relentless thrusts.

“We really have to work on that discipline soldier,” He spoke between shallow breaths, not missing a beat, “You don’t touch yourself unless I tell you to. You don’t cum--” He smacked your ass, “Until I tell you to.”You gritted your teeth as you felt the blooming, your next orgasm rising quickly. You began to tremble and bit down on your hand. “Not yet.” He warned but did not slow his pace. “Not yet.” He warned again and you held your breath, “Ah, ah, ah,” He had you completely off the floor, your legs dangling as he hammered into you.

“Ahhh--Now!” He pushed himself as deep as he could go and you spasmed.

Your climax burst forth and you dropped your head down on your arm. The ripples coursed through you and Steve quickly picked his motion up, his own groans hinting at his looming peak. He pulled out all too soon and let go of you as he stroked himself urgently. You fell to your knees painfully, legs folded beneath you. Steve grunted as strings of warm cum spilled across your shoulders and you leaned against the chair weakly.

You fought to catch your breath as he seized your hair and pulled you back onto your ass. Your palms met the floor hard as you kept yourself from falling entirely and he bent over you. “That was your warm up, soldier,” He lifted you by your hair onto your feet as he stood straight, “Your real training is about to begin.”

tags: @meaganottiz02 @patzammit @thepettyavenger @biasedtittes @thosecikinnn @glitterypinkkitty @thoughtlesstales @selinbaskaya @lattaex @vitamingrant @lilithhellfire @bbyspiiice @ironlady1993 @blackpantherimagines @kweenkxtrina @heavenlyblyss @letsagomario @shikin83 @collette04 @breezy1415 @alexakeyloveloki @beautiful-and-strange @phoenix21love @momc95 @buckycaptspideypool @justballoonfishthings @ms-munchkin @whosmarisaaarw @kxllyxnnx @calspixie @imdiegohargreeves @satinprincessxo @amethyst-the-thot @docharleythegeekqueen @iiqueer-vibesii @carol-damn-vers @l0rd-disick @jilldsumner @hufflebucky @lanabanana-86 @nerdypinupcrystal @notyourtypicalrose @pink1031 @agent-spidey @wassupbitchesssss @lucifersnipnips

#steve rogers x reader #dark!Steve Rogers #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #fic #mcu #marvel #au #darkverse #dark!verse #dark!fic #sequel #insubordination #pulling rank

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komorebirei · 4 years

Text

Fantaisie (Music AU Drabble) - Umbrella

(Read on AO3)

In which Gabriel is a jerk and Adrien tries to make up for it. Featuring an umbrella, and bad jokes.

This happens a few days after the previous chapter, It’s Official.

—

“I still don’t hear any emotion. You're just running through the notes, but there's no movement. Try again.”

That makes the fifth false start. Marinette grits her teeth, setting her bow to the strings, and tries again.

Before the end of the second phrase, Gabriel holds out a hand, gesturing for Marinette to stop playing. The thin line of his mouth is pulled down at the corners in a grimace of distaste.

“Sit down, Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

The words feel like ice dropping into her belly. This is it—the opportunity is over.

Marinette takes her seat in the first row of the intimate performance hall where the master class is taking place. She tries to keep her dignity—posture straight, face neutral—but she can feel the prickle of eyes following her, and minds judging her.

“I can’t fault you on your technique, but I wouldn’t pay a cent to hear you play when you don’t have a story to tell.”

Gabriel’s words strike home. Expressing through her music is a battle she fights every day, but hearing it from him, her role model, hurts more than her self-flagellation. She wants to scream with frustration, but she forces herself to smile demurely and nod in acceptance of his critique.

She wishes he could have heard her play more, at least. But if she can’t capture the audience within the first measure, what’s the point? What is technique for, what is all the hard work for, if she can’t make music?

She’s still not good enough… a harsh fact that sinks in when Gabriel lets the other selected students finish their pieces, at least, and gives them decent advice instead of a slapdown. Hardening her resolve, Marinette mentally prepares for longer hours in the practice room.

—

When the master class ends, Marinette shoulders her case and trudges out of the performance hall, only to be greeted by the encouraging sight of rain streaking down the exterior windows. Great. She didn’t check the weather that morning, as usual, and is without an umbrella.

As the other students open their umbrellas one by one, exiting the building, Marinette pauses at the door, bracing herself to be soaked. At least she knows from past experience that her white hard-shell violin case is watertight, though she’d prefer not to test her luck with such precious cargo at stake.

No choice, though, unless she wants to be holed up in this building for an indefinite amount of time instead of using her time to whip her Bach Sonata No. 1 into shape.

Time for the NASA countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two…

“Oh! Fancy meeting you here, Macaron Girl.”

Marinette instantly recognizes the student in front of her, who’s caught sight of her while pausing to open his umbrella. What a coincidence to run into him again so soon.

“Hey, Adrien,” Marinette replies glumly, not in the mood to talk to anyone. Nonetheless, she feels obligated to be nice to him. He’s been generous enough with his time to run pieces with her before chamber orchestra rehearsal, and he’s even given her his number along with free advice. He’s been nothing but pleasant, and he doesn’t deserve her cranky treatment.

He must sense her mood, because he asks, “What happened?”

Marinette shrugs noncommittally, giving him a half-smile. “Not happy to see that it’s raining, but that’s the least of my problems.”

“Come on.” He motions for Marinette to join him under the umbrella. “I’ll walk you to wherever you need to go. If you want, you can tell me about it on the way.”

Marinette hesitates before accepting his invitation and stepping out under the umbrella. “Thanks… if you really don’t mind.”

“Why would I offer if I minded?” Adrien gives her a gentle smile accompanied by a wink. “So, where are you going?”

“The practice wing,” Marinette answers. “Is it on your way?”

“It wouldn’t matter, but yeah.”

“You’re way too nice… what’s the catch?” Marinette teases, a bit of snark seeping in due to her mood.

“No catch. Anything for a friend.”

Marinette does a double-take. She shouldn’t be surprised at his choice of words—he did announce their friend status when they exchanged numbers. But from what she’s seen, he seems popular. When he’s not at a piano, he’s always talking to someone. She’s spotted him at the cafeteria with different girls. She figures he’s generous with his kind words and they should be taken with a grain of salt… but is she special enough to count as a real friend, or… ?

“What? Did I say something wrong?” Adrien runs his free hand through his hair self-consciously.

“Nothing, just—yeah. We’re friends.” … Real smooth, Marinette.

“Of course we are,” Adrien confirms, like it’s an unshakeable truth.

Marinette starts to understand why people seem to gravitate to Adrien. Sometimes, making friends can feel like a game of give and take, but with Adrien, it doesn’t feel like she has to work for his favor. He gives it easily, freely. She relaxes a bit, finding comfort in the walk under the umbrella with him.

“So, what happened to get you so upset?” he ventures to ask.

“I had a master class with Gabriel Agreste,” Marinette sighs bitterly. She misses the way Adrien tenses and his eyes spark with surprise. “And I got to play four measures, tops? He made me start over five times. He said I didn’t have a story to tell… that there was no emotion.” The words haven’t lost their potency yet. Tears prick her eyes.

“What did you play?”

“Bach’s Sonata No. 1 in G Minor.”

Adrien blows out a puff of air dismissively, knowing exactly how Gabriel expects the piece to be played. “Baroque isn’t meant to be emotional and heavy. He’s judging based on his own preferred interpretation… it’s probably not even what Bach wanted.”

“Still, I don’t want to sound boring.” This time, the dam breaks, and angry tears start streaming down Marinette’s cheeks. She isn’t angry with Gabriel Agreste—she’s frustrated and disgusted with herself. She feels dry and utterly unremarkable. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. Sometimes I feel like I should just give up. Why make all the effort if what I play isn’t… inspiring, or touching, or… anything special? It’s always the same feedback. I’m sick of feeling like a robot.”

“Hey, hey.” Adrien stops walking and turns to face her squarely, looking deep into her eyes. “Don’t say that. I know how you play. You have a clean, pure sound that most violinists would envy. It’s a beautiful sound, and I’m one hundred percent sure Gabriel was just being a condescending prick when he said all that. I’m sure there was nothing wrong with the way you played the piece.”

“It could’ve been better,” Marinette acknowledges.

“Well, okay, so you’re still growing as a musician. But that’s totally fine! I already know your technique is great, but learning how to speak through your instrument? That’s the hard part. That’s a process, and you’re still in the middle of it. Don’t be so hard on yourself!”

Marinette nods. She knows this already, she just doesn’t know how to go about that process. It feels like she’s treading water and getting nowhere. Stagnant.

Almost as if he’s reading her thoughts, Adrien continues, “There’s no set formula to master expression. It’s not like there’s a set of études you can practice and magically be able to do it. You already know the language, now it’s all about letting loose and figuring out what you want to say. The how will come naturally.”

“Okay… I guess you’re right,” Marinette mumbles, swiping at her eyes, embarrassed about letting her defenses down. She’s usually not one to cry so easily, but something about Adrien being so sincerely focused on making her feel better has unlocked the side of her she normally wouldn’t show. “I know I just need to work harder. I don’t intend to give up—I’m just frustrated. Sorry for being a baby.”

Adrien’s face softens into a smile, and he moves the umbrella to his other hand to give Marinette’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Her shoulder keeps tingling even after he lets go. “Hey, you know why your violin has a chin rest?”

“Why?” Marinette asks tentatively, feeling a bad joke coming around the corner.

“So you can keep your chin up.”

Marinette smashes her face into her palm. “You’re lucky your piano playing is better than your sense of humor.”

Adrien snickers and shoots again. “You know, I respect you violinists. Piano is easy keysey in comparison. You know why?”

This, too, is clearly a setup for a lame punchline. Marinette gives him a deadpan look and a flat, “Why?”

“You guys have to deal with intonation… but for us, the pitches are all black and white.” Adrien grins, basking in Marinette’s exasperation.

“..... I misjudged you,” Marinette finally utters. “I thought you were a cool guy, but turns out you’re a huge dork with a lame sense of humor.” She flashes him a cheeky smile to show she‘s only teasing.

“Well, thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Adrien nudges her shoulder with his. She feels warm despite the chilly weather.

He puts the banter behind them, continuing in a serious tone, “Anyway, Gabriel’s just a man who likes to intimidate people, okay? Prove him wrong. You do have a story to tell, and there’s nothing wrong with needing some time to find it first.”

“Thanks, Adrien,” Marinette answers, suddenly aware of her heart beating faster than usual. They’ve stopped in front of the building that houses the practice wing. “And thank you for walking with me. I’d be soaked otherwise.”

“Anything for a friend, Marinette,” Adrien repeats with a wink, bringing a full-blown flush to Marinette’s cheeks.

“See you around.” With a wave, she spins on her heel and walks into the building, feeling significantly lighter than she did when she first left the performance hall.

By the time she finds an empty practice room and gets settled in, there are two text messages waiting for her.

Adrien: hey new friend, just realized i could’ve been texting you all along. add “slow” to my list of shortcomings.

The second message is a gif of a cartoon cat playing the violin, with the words “CHIN UP! YOU’RE AWESOME!” inserted meme-style across the bottom.

Marinette giggles and texts him back.

Marinette: You really are a sweetie pie-anist.

It’s the worst pun she’s ever made, but she bets it’ll make him smile.

Adrien: XD see, i knew you loved my jokes, admit it. your sense of humor is just as lame as mine.

Marinette: Maybe I’m just lowering myself to your level to get a laugh out of you. ;)

Adrien: well, it worked. ^_^ i’m glad we’re friends.

Marinette grins a goofy grin at her phone. It’s fun talking to him, teasing him. And he has made her feel loads better.

Marinette: The fact that you found that funny just goes to show how much of a dork you are.

She hesitates before sending a follow-up text.

Marinette : Me too, by the way. Marinette: … I’m glad we’re friends, that is.

#Broken Fugue #Miraculous Music AU #ML AU #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Adrienette #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Fantaisie #Reveries Passions

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lynnearlington · 6 years

Note

Supercorp: Kara has to report on the industry of college football and drags Lena along cause she’s never been to something like this

I took some liberties with this one. Shocking to no one, I’m sure.

Lena doesn’t care much for football - or for sport in general. She’d much prefer to spend her Saturdays getting work done in the library or in the engineering labs in the hopes that she can spend her Sunday not worrying about it.

Even as classes begin and the student body descends into a fixation over the school football team, Lena steadfastly stays out of the entire ordeal.

It works for her first two years of college. She manages to attend none of the games and falls easily into a routine of Saturday work and Sunday relaxing while her classmates are recovering from hangovers.

In the spring of her sophomore year she meets Kara Danvers through a friend of a friend, and they become loose acquaintances. She sees Kara around campus, they grab lunch a few times. Over the summer, Kara randomly texts her and they strike up a conversation that begins to sprawl outward in scope and they become something like real friends.

Kara changes her life, in the end. In thousands of good ways - none of them at all predictable to her in the fall of her junior year.

One of the ways that Kara’s intent on changing Lena’s life becomes apparent nearly as soon as they first see each other that fall, when Kara mentions the first game of the season on the way to lunch, diving into a discussion on their quarterback situation as though Lena knows anything about “QBR” or whoever Elias and Nate are.

“You’re a football fan?” Lena asks as they stroll across campus towards the student center. It’s still warm enough outside that it doesn’t really feel like fall yet, but campus is bustling with new students - freshmen scurrying around looking lost and upper classmen greeting friends they haven’t seen in months. Kara looks like she’s had a good summer, tall, blonde, and still a little bit tan. Lena had always thought she was cute, but knowing her has made a difference in her attraction.

“Duh,” Kara says, kicking a rock under her feet idly before turning quizzical eyes to Lena. “Are you not?”

It’s clear there’s a right and wrong answer there - Lena’s adept enough at reading situations to tell that much. But she’s not going to lie. Not to the honest blue eyes looking her way. “It’s never really been my thing,” she admits. “I’ve always been too busy to go to the games.”

And maybe the last bit is a slight lie, but incredulity is starting to spread over Kara’s features and Lena just reacts to it.

“Lena, it’s football!” Kara exclaims, clearly appalled.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Lena jokes which is the wrong thing to say because Kara’s eyes seem to get even wider.

“You’re coming to a game with me this season,” Kara states as if it’s been decided. The thought of going anywhere with Kara tinges her chest with warmth but the thought of piling into the massive stadium on campus with a bunch of drunk college students screaming all sorts of insane chants and not being able to sit down at all sounds awful.

Lena makes a bit of a scoffing noise, but swallows it at the determined look in Kara’s eyes. They’ve reached the student center and Kara moves forward to open the door for her.

“I have a very busy semester,” Lena tells her softly, warming at the way Kara jumps ahead of her as they walk through the first set of doors to open the second.

“We’ll see,” is all Kara says and it’s ominous sounding enough that Lena has to laugh.

–

The Fighting Bulldogs open up against the Gotham University Nighthawks. Lena finds the naming conventions of sports teams to be nothing short of ridiculous, but she can’t deny it’s a bit cute when Kara shows her a series of selfies she’d taken at the pep rally of the Bulldogs mascot - a fat English Bulldog named Handsome Dan.

“Are you excited for the game this Saturday?” Kara asks, abandoning her phone to pick her fork up and start to stab at the plate of pasta in front of her. Lena tries to ignore how Kara’s got her legs kicked out, feet resting just short of Lena’s ankles.

Lena blinks. It’s definitely Monday and Lena’s barely thought about her classes on Tuesday much less a football game five days from now. “I suppose,” she answers neutrally, turning the page over in the student newspaper she has sitting next to her tray.

“Are you reading my article?” Kara asks, lifting a curious eye toward the paper as she twirls her fork.

“I don’t think I need to read your op-ed about which campus coffee shop serves the best latte when I’ve already heard you tell me about it in detail,” Lena says. Kara makes a humming noise, poking again at her plate. Lena gets through three lines of an article about a malfunctioning fire alarm in the theatre building that someone is certain is a ghost when Kara sighs loudly.

“I hate the Nighthawks,” Kara intones, twisting noodles around her fork.

The tone is surprising. She’s unused to Kara saying anything negative about anyone, but the vitriol is palpable in Kara’s voice as she continues, “They’re seriously the worst and their stupid mascot should be banned from our stadium. It’s this awful tree. I don’t know why it’s tree, even. They’re the Nighthawks.”

Lena makes a sound of agreement, a bit bemused at the frown on her friend’s face and having nothing else to offer other than support. “What time is the game?”

Kara makes a face like Lena should very well know what time the game is, but answers regardless. “Two,” she says. “Are you going? Will you come with me?”

“I have a lot of work I’d like to get done,” she says and Kara’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t seem keen on pushing Lena. She does, however, sigh heavily.

“Sundays are for homework, Lena, not Saturdays.”

“Says the girl that spent all last Sunday watching reruns of The Golden Girls,” Lena points out, laughing at the attractive flush that creeps into Kara’s cheeks.

“Shut up,” Kara tells her around a mouthful of pasta, her foot kicking softly against Lena’s shin under the table.

–

The leaves start to change and a fall chill rolls onto campus. It means classes start to ramp up on the slide into midterms and campus starts to settle into rhythm.

It also means something Lena hadn’t thought to prepare for - Kara Danvers in jeans and sweaters bringing her pumpkin spice lattes every other morning before their shared philosophy elective.

Lena’s crush is something she’s tried to fight as much as she can for the sake of their friendship, but it’s hard when Kara’s smiling at her on the sidewalk outside her dorm and there’s a warm color to her cheeks from the chill and her blonde hair is curling down around a rust colored sweater.

The latte is far more sugary than anything Lena’d normally drink, but Kara hands it over with a happy grin and she had look so delighted when she’d informed Lena PSLs are back! that Lena doesn’t say anything other than a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Big game tomorrow,” Kara says one Friday morning as they walk to class. Lena takes careful sips of her drink and hovers close to Kara’s warmth.

“Oh?” Lena asks, having absolutely zero idea what qualifies for a big game considering it’s what Kara says nearly every Friday before a game weekend with a serious gaze on her face.

Kara makes an affirmative sound, scrolls through something on her phone as they walk down the sidewalk. From what Lena can see, it’s a table of college football teams. Their school is highlighted at around seventh place. “Vandermeer,” she says, referring to a small school somewhere in the middle of the country. Lena couldn’t name their mascot with a gun to her head.

“Well…bully up?” Lena says tentatively, trying out the chant she’d been hearing around campus for the past two years.

Kara laughs, a happy little sound as she pockets her phone and slings an arm over Lena’s shoulders. “There’s hope for you yet.”

The rest of the conversation gets lost to Lena. Kara keeps their bodies tucked against each other and the heat of her seeps through Lena’s light autumn jacket. That’s all she can really focus on the entire rest of the way to class.

–

Six games into the season and the Fighting Bulldogs have yet to be defeated. Apparently it’s a big deal.

Kara gives her the breakdown over lunch one day after the rest of their small friends group has abandoned them for classes and Lena elects to wait while Kara finishes the rest of her massive tray of food.

“I saw one projection that had us finishing top five for sure if we can close out the season,” Kara says, looking wide eyed and infectiously excited at the prospect.

“That’s great,” Lena says, not entirely knowing what that really means other than something positive by context.

“It means playoffs,” Kara tells her and Lena just nods, laughs at the massive grin on Kara’s face. That thrumming urge to kiss her friend buzzes so acutely over her skin that Lena has to spread out the fingers of her hands to resist the impulse.

–

The excitement over the recent success of the teams seems to be campus wide, not just contained to the bubbly enthusiasm of her best friend. It’s almost something tangible everywhere Lena goes.

The majority of the student body can be seen sporting a football jersey in the middle of the week or breaking out into spontaneous chants as the game creeps closer.

Lena doesn’t attend, despite Kara’s efforts to cajole her into it. Per usual, she spends her Saturday in the basement of the engineering building working out the kinks in a project due the following Wednesday.

But, uncharacteristically, her mind starts to wander to what Kara’s doing, how the game is going. It itches at her enough that she finds a livefeed of the game on her laptop and puts it on mute as she works.

The game still means nothing to her - the scoring conventions seem a bit contrived and inconsistent and though she picks up some of it by context, she really has very little idea of what’s actually going on.

At least she knows enough that when the game clock ticks to zero and the score is 39-37 in favor of the Bulldogs, it’s a good thing. From the looks of it, the stadium goes crazy, the student section rushing onto the field and the players jumping up and down, throwing their helmets in the air.

It makes Lena smile a bit and she watches the revelry for a few minutes before clicking out of the stream. Before turning back to her project she sends Kara a quick text - good win!

The reply comes much later in the form of a phone call and Kara sounds out of breath and overjoyed when she answers. “What are you doing?”

“I’m working on a project,” Lena tells her.

“You saw the game?” Kara asks, the happy sound of her voice stretching a smile across Lena’s.

“I caught the end of it,” Lena admits and Kara lets out a whooping sound that has Lena laughing.

“We’re going to a party at Winn and James’s place,” Kara says. “You wanna come?”

Lena eyes the work in front of her, hesitant for a moment. “I’m not -”

“Come on, Lena,” Kara entreats. “It’ll be fun, I promise. Bully up! Bulldogs are undefeated!”

“Well, can’t argue with that,” Lena replies dryly, but she’s already packing up her stuff and Kara’s laugh in her ear makes her chest feel fluttery.

–

The off campus house that Winn and James share is packed when Lena gets there, people spilling out onto the front porch and the loud booming sound of music emanating a block away as Lena walks there.

Tugging her jacket tighter over her shoulders, Lena sidesteps a couple stumbling down the long walk up to the house and carefully avoids a pile of empty beer cans. She pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket and pulls up her thread with Kara to text a simple I’m here.

Not even a minute later, Kara’s throwing the front door open and scanning the front yard to find Lena, beaming when their eyes connect and all but skipping down the steps to wrap Lena into a tight hug.

Kara’s just a few inches taller than her, but considerably stronger and it does nothing to calm the dance of nerves in her stomach when Kara picks up her up a bit off the ground as she hugs her, her face colliding with Kara’s neck.

“We won, we won, we won, we won, we won,” Kara chants in her ear, bouncing Lena around into the hug until Lena has to hold onto the back of Kara’s jersey and laugh.

“Congratulations,” Lena says as Kara sets her back down.

There’s a soft detachment in Kara’s gaze that fairly easily conveys how behind Lena is in the drinking portion of the evening, but her smile is the kind of genuine that always makes Lena have to take a deep breath of air in reaction.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Kara says, reaching out to tangle her fingers with Lena’s and tug her towards the front door. “Let’s get drinks.”

Lena easily follows the tug, sees the virtue in finding a drink as quickly as possible if only to give her mouth something to do that isn’t kiss the life out of Kara Danvers.

–

The excitement of victory is palpable throughout the party. Nearly all of the party goers look as if they’ve come straight from the game - still wearing jerseys and face paint. Kara pulls them both deep into the house towards the kitchen where a smattering of their friends are congregated around a table there.

They all seem surprised but happy to see her as Kara goes about mixing a drink on the counter with the wide range of alcohol there. She thinks to pay attention to whatever Kara is doing - sometimes letting Kara mix the drinks can be dangerous - but she gets distracted by Winn who offers her an overly exuberant high five upon seeing her as well as a recap of the last few minutes of the game.

“It was unreal,” he’s gushing, face red and hair in a disarray. There’s blue and gold streaks of paint across his cheeks and what looks like glitter poking out of the neck of his blue jersey. “Boomer is the only man in the whole world who matters to me now.”

Kara comes back to her side, hands her a red plastic cup that Lena inspects a second before taking a hesitant sip. It’s as fruity as she expects it to be, but not completely offensive and just on the side of strong that’s tolerable.

“Boomer Suthfield, best kicker in the game,” Kara exclaims as she catches Winn’s conversation. Winn reacts to it with a low exclamation of agreement and the two of them bump fists. “We won on a last second field goal. Amazing.”

“That’s exciting,” Lena comments, unsure what to do with the all the unbridled energy she can feel in the room, but feeling herself get swept up in it nonetheless.

“Bully up! Beat Quakers!” Kara yells, wrapping an arm around Lena’s shoulders like she’s been apt to do these days. The whole room yells in appreciation, starting to chant BULLY UP with the distinctive syncopated clapping pattern. It’s absurd that a bunch of drunk people can do it with perfect rhythm and performance. Nearly cultish.

Lena lets out a careful breath, but doesn’t fight the pull of warmth from Kara’s side pressing against her own. Winn starts to go off on what Lena realizes from context is the Bulldogs’s next opponent, and she drowns the conversation out in place of leaning into Kara’s body and sipping at her drink.

“Lena, you’ve got to get to a game, I can’t believe you don’t go,” Winn says eventually, pulling Lena’s attention back more fully to what’s being said.

She shrugs, takes another pointed sip of her drink and flushes at Kara’s loud laugh next to her. “I’m usually pretty busy on Saturdays,” she answers.

“It’s just wrong,” Winn says, shaking his head at her, eyes solemn, but his lips in a teasing smile.

“I’ve tried,” Kara tells him, tugging Lena tighter into her side companionably. “Trust me.”

“Well if you can’t get her to go, she’s hopeless,” Winn says, putting his hands up in resignation.

Kara laughs again, looks down at Lena with a grin that has Lena clearing her throat out. The hat on her head is turned backwards, her cheeks red from alcohol and the warmth of the room. She looks gorgeous. “We’ll see.”

Though Lena rolls her eyes, her cheeks grow warmer and she has to hide her face in the rim of her cup lest Kara catch on.

–

The party seems to only get bigger after Lena gets there. More and more people arrive - from where Lena’s not sure - but the house stays packed late into the night. Random chants of BULLY UP break out every few minutes. There’s even a reenactment of the last play of the game staged in the front yard to the joy of not only their house but those of the surrounding neighbors.

Lena hovers close to Kara, and Kara stays close to her, but engages with the rest of their friends. She and Winn take on James and Lucy in a spectacular game of beer pong - the games close enough that Lena starts to feel a significant buzz by the time she and Winn come out on top.

After that they play a series of drinking games around the kitchen table. Mike pulls out a deck of cards for a round of Kings Cup and later Kara loses a game of Never Have I Ever in dramatic fashion.

It’s a good party. Energy is high off the earlier victory and Lena starts to feel it creeping into her own system, the infectious way Kara keeps leading their friends into a chorus of the fight song doing its part to make Lena laugh.

Eventually, sometime after James talks Mike into doing a keg stand but before Winn takes his shirt off, Lena finds her way out to the back porch of the house. It’s blissfully devoid of anyone else and a chill contrast to the heat of the kitchen. She presses her hands to the warmth of her cheeks and breathes out into the crisp fall air.

The sound of the door swinging open indicates Kara’s arrival, and her friend paces across the back deck to Lena’s side, sitting next to her on the steps there. “Hey, whatcha doing?”

“Hot in the kitchen,” Lena answers, just drunk enough to lean over against Kara’s shoulder and take a deep inhale of Kara’s presence.

“Mmm,” Kara agrees in a low hum, shifting closer to Lena’s body and looking out across the dark backyard.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lena answers, feeling inexplicably sleepy all of a sudden, but unwilling to let go of this quiet moment with Kara. She sits up to avoid falling asleep and smiles at her friend.

Kara smiles back, her eyes holding Lena’s in a short still moment. “I’m really glad you came out tonight,” Kara says in a quiet tumble of words that pull against Lena’s chest in a way that starts to feel inevitable.

Lena blinks, licks out against dry lips and knows her usual resistance to this all consuming crush she has is vulnerable right now. “Me too,” she replies, her eyes unable to stop from straying to Kara’s mouth.

The moment feels like it stills, the muted sound of the party the only sound around them. Kara takes a deep breath and Lena wishes she had a drink in her hands if only to have something to do with them that wasn’t wrapping into the fabric of Kara’s jersey.

“Can I do something?” Kara asks quietly, her cheeks flushed - whether from alcohol or from the cool night air, Lena’s unsure. “It might be crazy.”

“Crazy?” It’s unclear what Kara’s talking about and Lena thinks that might have a lot to do with how they’ve shifted closer and she can’t stop her brain from spiraling down thoughts of what it might be like if she just gave into temptation and pressed her lips against Kara’s.

“Good crazy,” Kara says quickly and Lena laughs noiselessly.

“Well then by all means,” she says, but she barely gets the last word out before Kara pushes forward, their noses bumping softly on the way until suddenly they’re kissing and Lena feels her breath get sucked out of her chest.

It happens quickly, so fast that Lena’s brain barely registers it even though her lips respond, slant against Kara’s and her fingers come up to play at Kara’s chin, pulling her in closer.

And then it’s over.

The back door to the porch bursts open in a loud thud and Mike is stumbling across the deck in loud drunken footsteps until he’s all but falling into the yard and puking his guts up into the grass.

Winn comes jogging behind him, hunched over and patting his back as Mike continues to hurl.

Lena gags at the sight of it as they both jump up from where they’d been sitting and Kara moves down the steps towards the two boys.

“Go back inside,” Kara tells her over her shoulder, laughing a little at the disgusted face Lena’s making.

Lena doesn’t argue, is already turned that direction anyway. It isn’t until she’s back in the kitchen that she fully realizes what’s just occurred. Her lips feeling tingly and her throat dry and her chest expansive and oh god she should go.

Without so much as a goodbye to anyone, she makes her way through the house and out the front door, past a group of people tossing the Bulldogs’s mascot’s head in the air across the yard and back towards campus.

–

Late Sunday morning, Lena gets a text from Kara. I’m outside your dorm.

And so she is. Standing at the bottom of the front steps in a navy v-neck sweater and light wash jeans, holding two cups of coffee that Lena knows instinctively are pumpkin spice lattes.

“Hi,” Lena greets, feeling shy and uncertain as she takes one of the cups from Kara. She’s dressed in the sweatpants she slept in and a long sweater against the chill morning. Her head feels a bit thick from the drinking the previous night but the look on Kara’s face is wiping her fatigue away.

“Hi,” Kara parrots, pocketing one of her hands and shifting on her feet in an adorably hesitant movement. Her hair is pulled back, but a few wisps have escaped at the sides and Lena wraps her hands around her coffee to avoid reaching out and tucking them back behind her ear.

Everything feels like it’s tilting precariously on the events of the night before, and Lena’s not sure which way they’re going to fall.

That is, until Kara looks away, her lips twisting in what looks like a smile trying to burst across her face. “So, I totally kissed you last night,” she says in a quick sequence of words that makes Lena laugh. “You totally did,” she agrees, the memory of it flushing across her skin.

“And then Mike puked.”

“Yes.

“And then you ran away.”

“It was gross,” Lena says defensively and Kara’s lips thin.

“The kiss?”

Lena steps forward in reaction. “The puking,” she says definitively and Kara’s lips creep into a smug looking smile.

“So the kiss was good?”

“Crazy,” Lena says, echoing Kara’s words from the night before.

“Good crazy though,” Kara says, her smile hiding behind the rim of her white coffee cup.

“Good crazy,” Lena agrees softly, feeling her chest is stretching out and up into her throat. “Why did you do it?”

Kara shrugs, eyes a bright blue against the overcast sky above them. “I’d been wanting to,” she answers quietly. “And I figured if Boomer could make a forty-eight yard field goal against the wind to win the game, I could probably kiss my best friend that I’d been crushing on for months.”

It beats warmly up Lena’s throat as she laughs, her cheeks flushing. “Bully up,” she replies between chuckles and Kara joins her in the sound before stepping forward and cutting it off with a swift kiss.

–

It doesn’t change much other than Kara seems to take their new relationship status as a free pass to talk even more about football. As if now that they’re dating Lena wants to hear about rushing yard averages and ranking systems.

She doesn’t.

But that doesn’t stop Kara who continues to try and get Lena to the games or game watch parties every Saturday and feels it necessarily to fill her in on all football related news over meals or late at night when they’re lazing about Lena’s little dorm room. The only good thing about it is that Kara looks cute when she talks about it all, her hands waving around and her eyes excited.

The Bulldogs go undefeated. Become the undisputed number one team in the nation. A fact that Kara’s been reminding Lena nearly every day since it was announced, as though Lena has no access to the news or doesn’t live on campus with thousands of other people who are also obsessed with the Bulldogs.

They head into a playoff system which puts them in a win-or-go-home game to make it into the National Championship.

“I got press passes to the game,” Kara tells her one night, as they’re sitting on Lena’s couch and Kara’s watching ESPN. “We’d be on the sideline.”

“How did you get press passes?” Lena asks, quirking a brow and pressing her foot into Kara’s thigh to get her to keep massaging it. Kara grabs her foot without looking away from Lena’s face, her eyes intent.

“I write for the school paper,” Kara reminds her and Lena shoots her a pointed look.

“You write an editorial column, not the sports section.”

Kara shrugs, feigns a look of innocence. “So?”

It makes Lena laugh. “I don’t want to know.”

“Just say you’ll come,” Kara entreats. “It’s the playoffs and you’d have one of the best seats in the house. Who knows when you’ll get that kind of opportunity again.”

It’s been months of Kara trying to convince her to come to a game and maybe it’s the way Kara’s lips have that just kissed look about them and her hair is a little tangled from Lena’s fingers, but there’s something about the moment and the way Kara’s thumb is running up the arch of Lena’s foot that makes her finally say, “Okay, fine.”

The way Kara’s eyes light up in excitement makes Lena sink into a feeling of contentment and crawl across the couch until they’re kissing again.

–

The play-in game is on the first Saturday back from winter break.

The atmosphere around game feels combustible.

It’s at a neutral site, but the stadium it’s held at is only a few hours away from their campus, so she and Kara take the drive down way too early under the guise of Kara needing to interview people - when it’s apparent that Kara just wants to soak in as much of the atmosphere as possible.

Kara buys her a blue jersey with the number 10 across the chest in large white letters because she insists Lena can’t show up to the game without proper attire. It’s big enough that it fits over a thick sweater and she steals one of Kara’s many winter hats with the school logo on the front. When Lena comes out of her dorm with it on, Kara gets out of the car to kiss her for five minutes against the car door.

It’s deep enough into fall that it’s practically the beginning of winter and the air is cold by the time the game kicks off, the stadium rocking.

With press badges slung around their neck, they make their way onto the field and take their place among the crowd of people watching the game from the small press area in the corner of the endzone.

The energy in the building is undeniably electric. Loud music is pumping through the speakers and the crowd is engaged in a series of chants between the home and away fans. Lena can see how easy it would be to get swept up into something like this.

It helps that Kara can’t contain her own excitement. She’s practically bouncing in a mix of nerves and enthusiasm. It doesn’t get better as the game goes on. Kara’s body moves with every play the team makes as if her phantom throws and kicks will somehow translate to the game and make the ball or player move the way she wants them to.

Lena stands beside her and takes it all in, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold air. Eventually, Kara seems to notice and wraps Lena up in her arms in an offer of body heat.

Lena’s grateful for the warmth, sinks into Kara’s hold and enjoys the way Kara now whispers her commentary into Lena’s ear. It certainly makes the game far more interesting than before and though Lena’s distracted by the way Kara’s body feels pressed up against her, she actually pays attention enough to feel invested in the result.

When the Bulldogs win with a last minute touchdown right in the endzone they’re standing next to, Lena screams in reaction, a burst of sound she can’t quell the moment she’s realized what’s happened. The crowd goes wild along with her and Kara’s arms tighten abruptly around her waist, lifting her quickly into the air with an exuberant whoop. The player who’s scored jogs right past them, waving up at the fans and doing an absurd dance as his teammates start to swarm him.

Kara does actually end up doing some reporting, taking Lena into the press conference room and scribbling down notes. She holds Lena’s hand the whole way home and only plays the school fight song three times on the drive.

–

Winn and James host the watch party for the National Championship. Apparently Kara couldn’t quite con her editor into getting press passes for a trip to Texas.

She spends the whole week looking squirrely, taking every moment as some sort of omen for the game on Saturday. On Tuesday, Lena has to talk Kara off the ledge after the poor student union worker tells her they’ve run out of Froot Loops. On Friday, Lena comes over to Kara’s dorm and is treated to a full hour detailing her ideal gameplan, complete with plays she’s drawn up on one of her video games. Saturday morning, she’s woken up at six by someone sprinting down the hall of her dorm screaming BULLY UP and hitting every door along the way. Kara is then incapable of falling back asleep, and therefore Lena is awake too.

By the game comes around, Lena’s grateful if only to get Kara’s ridiculous train of superstitions to come to a halt.

The house is crowded with their friends - there’s a very strict invitation policy: Bulldog fans only. How Kara convinced them to allow Lena there, she’s not sure, but she imagines it has something to do with Kara’s continuing insistence that Lena’s good luck for the Bulldogs. We went undefeated after we became friends.

There are jello shots in the school colors, but only Mike and Lucy seem interested in them. Winn sits about two feet in front of the massive television and nurses the same beer for the entirety of the first quarter. James spends most of the game pacing back and forth behind the couch and murmuring commentary. Kara won’t even touch the massive array of food on the table in front of them - a telling thing if anything. Instead she sits on the couch next to Lena and leans forward, hands pressed to her face. Lena spends most of her time running her fingers up and down Kara’s back in what has to be a futile attempt to calm her.

The Bulldogs do okay, but not great for the first three quarters. The game stays close, the other team staying in one score territory. Right before the start of the fourth, the opposing team scores to tie it and Kara looks like she may fall to her knees and start crying. Her hands scrub so forcefully over her face that Lena grabs one of them to get her to stop.

But then Elias Newsome, the starting quarterback who had been chosen in week four (after great campuswide debate that Lena had heard too much about from her girlfriend), takes over. Watching it happen is like a bomb going off, the energy rippling through the whole team. One minute, the Bulldogs are struggling against a tough defense, the next, Kara is standing on the couch and screaming at the top of her lungs as their star running back sprints down the field for a 98 yard touchdown.

They score 21 unanswered points and Kara cries through the whole trophy presentation, her head in her hands.

–

Lena thinks maybe winning a National Championship might temper some of Kara’s fanaticism about football. Why she ever thought this, she’s not entirely sure, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth.

At the start of their senior year, Kara spends the majority of the preseason talking at length about Nate Groblan taking the reins of the team now that Elias has graduated and been drafted. It’s in the middle of such a one-sided conversation when she pauses for a second, her head in Lena’s lap. It’s chilly, the first signs of fall starting to appear around campus. PSLs have arrived even earlier this year and Kara’s happiness is of the sort that bleeds across Lena’s chest.

“I love you,” Kara says. It’s not the first time she’s said it, nor will it be the last. But it still warms Lena up, her fingers tracing through the blonde curls stretched across her legs.

“I love you, too,” Lena says.

“More than I love the Bulldogs,” Kara says, very seriously. It’s concerning to Lena that the statement really means a lot.

“I feel so lucky,” Lena says drily. Kara laughs, reaching up to tug at the sweatshirt Lena had liberated from Kara’s collection last winter. BULLY UP is proudly written across it.

“You’re my lucky charm, that’s for sure,” Kara says. Her face turns serious. “You know that you’re never allowed to miss a Bulldogs game for the rest of our lives, right?”

“For the rest of our lives, huh?” Lena says, poking at Kara’s side. But she doesn’t look embarrassed.

“For the rest of our lives. For the Bulldogs,” Kara says, half-sitting up. Lena meets her halfway, pressing their lips together.

“Well, bully up,” Lena murmurs. She ends up forced into a very loud stadium the next Saturday, her girlfriend urging her though complicated chants and shotgunning beers afterwards, when Nate throws five touchdowns in his debut. Mike throws up, Winn takes his shirt off. Kara holds her hand.

It’s not so bad.

FALL PROMPTS | KO-FI

#fall prompts #prompt fill #writing fall prompts #this tag is for fic #supercorp fic #Anonymous #college au

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izanyas · 7 years

Text

Build Upon The Ruins (2)

Back with more Pacific Rim AU Soukoku!

Rating: M Words: 7,800 No warnings.

[Read from Chapter 1]

Build Upon The Ruins Chapter 2

Moving from base to base was a hassle in itself. Moving all of the world's jaeger resources to one base was about fifteen times worse. Means of travel were scarce in the face of imminent doom; planes, which were already rare to begin with, had to be requisitioned entirely to move personnel and machines around. The jaegers went ahead by boat or train, stripped of their insides to make the weight manageable on water. Individual parts were lifted by helicopters. Everything had to arrive in a timely and orderly fashion.

Chuuya was in charge of overseeing that.

He was also in charge, less officially, of making sure Yosano didn't lose an eye making sure her fragile and pricy equipment didn't collapse and break during the trip. He was in charge of the Tanizaki siblings' chronic inability to function without coffee for more than two hours. He was in charge of reassuring Akutagawa that yes, Rashoumon was safe in the animal compartment of their plane and wouldn't get mistaken for stray luggage—as if the damn cat wasn't loud enough that all who walked past his box thought he was getting viciously murdered in it. He was in charge of texting back and forth with Sakaguchi about the candidates for Double Black's free pilot position, he was in charge of keeping Kouyou informed of every single development, and most of all, he was in charge of fucking Dazai.

"Get the hell out of my face," he growled, slapping his cane across the seat next to him before Dazai could slip into it like he apparently intended to. "This is the angry disabled corner."

"I'm here on a mission," Dazai replied innocently. "It's even Kouyou-approved."

Chuuya's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

He let the cane fall back next to his knee when Dazai nudged it away, groaned when Dazai picked up the papers strewn across the seat to shove them upright between their armrests. Dazai sat down with a sigh once he was done.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked, looking down the path and waving back at Nakajima, who sat at the front of the row. Akutagawa seemed to be in the middle of ripping the fabric off of his seat, he was clawing so hard at it.

"Does it matter?" Chuuya replied.

Dazai thankfully stayed silent.

There were several components to Chuuya's current god-awful mood. First was the stress of the move. Second was the fact that his body was in more pain than usual because of it—his breath kept hitching from phantom breaks in his ribs.

Third was the fearful looks that the flight attendant had given the spread of tell-tale tattoos over his naked arms, as if the flowers were about to jump off his skin to poke her in the eyes. He would've worn longer sleeves if only the Australian summer weren't so hot.

"I hate planes so much," he muttered. "Fucking unreliable flying cans. Never know if you're gonna land at all."

"I can think of a couple things scarier than a plane that you've rode in, Chuuya," Dazai said. Chuuya didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning.

"Yeah, well, it's different when I'm the one piloting the damn thing." Little as he wished to step back inside a jaeger and subject himself to the no doubt excruciating pain of trying to lift a single limb, he'd take it over trusting someone to fly him anywhere. "This just means nine hours of no contact with anyone on ground," he continued. "Like I have time for that."

Dazai elbowed him lightly, but he said nothing as they took off.

At least the ascension went without trouble. Chuuya massaged his thigh absently, recalling a few painful past landings. His leg throbbed, but he couldn't do anything about it for another two hours at least.

"You said you were on a mission," he said a while later. The same scared attendant who kept looking at him like he was about to pull a blade on her had gone by their seats—she offered them a drink, and Dazai smiled lopsidedly at her, making her blush.

At least she looked less like she was about to do something stupid after that. Like try and attack him.

"Indeed," Dazai replied. "Serious business."

"Stop joking around. What is it?"

"I'm here to make sure you sleep."

Chuuya stared at him.

"You're fucking with me," he accused.

"I would never," Dazai lied. "I'm under firm orders to make sure you get at least five hours of it. Yosano-sensei says you've been wearing this shirt for the past forty-eight hours."

Chuuya wanted to knock him across the head, or maybe yell in his face, but instead all he felt was fatigue.

"Fuck," he breathed, letting his head fall against the back of his seat. He stared at the plain grey ceiling of the plane unseeingly. "I don't have time for sleep."

"Sure you do." Dazai hunched over his backpack and took a black strip of cloth out of it. When he handed it over, Chuuya recognized a sleeping mask. "Everything's already settled—you're just being an idiot. And you're fortunately cut off from all communication except the physical." He smirked. "I think you're a little overworked, Chuuya."

"I'm not," Chuuya mumbled, but he took the mask. It was better to put it on than to have to watch the exhaustion on Dazai's face anyway.

He had an idea of the reason why Dazai looked like he hadn't slept either.

The pressure of the mask felt good against his eyelids. His headache lessened, and with it the sharp pains in his chest. He shoved a hand against his side to press lightly on his ribs.

It's in my head, he told himself.

It never helped, but it was what he knew he should do.

"You better wake me up in exactly five hours," he muttered. "I need to brief you on the candidates before we land."

"I can look by myself," Dazai replied lightly. Chuuya heard a shuffling of paper by his elbow. "Top of the pile, right?"

It made the corner of Chuuya's mouth shiver. "I know you're lying, but in the miracle case you're actually willing to work… look at the guy named Kunikida."

"Sure."

Dazai's voice was even. As if he were discussing the weather. Chuuya turned his head toward the window, though he could see nothing anyway.

It took a while for him to fall asleep, despite the exhaustion. Chuuya tried to keep his mind busy with thoughts of the day to come: assembling back the last jaeger, forming the new comm team, finalizing the attack plan… meeting with the twelve-odd people Dazai would judge one after the other—meeting the person he would allow alongside him in the body of the beast. The one he would allow in his head.

He hadn't let himself think about it too much when he discussed it with Kouyou. She had looked at him with affection and regret, had asked, Are you sure? and Chuuya had nodded, pushed forward, not let himself envy. Not let himself sink.

He already knew he would never drift with Dazai again. The frightening emptiness he felt at the thought was less because he wanted to be back in Dazai's head than because he didn't know how to soothe the wounds he knew he would find there. This shortcut was closed to him forever.

When this is over, he thought, as he often did. Then we'll talk.

He didn't know what they would talk about, or how. He just knew he could deal with the rest on his own until then.

"Sleep, Chuuya," Dazai said softly.

It was its own kind of ache, one unrelated to trauma or injury. Dazai was sitting next to him and breathing next to him, and there was no danger around them, no burning terror through the tendrils of the drift—no sudden and excruciating silence, no amputated psyche—but he felt very far away indeed.

Chuuya slept.

Kunikida stood out like a sore thumb among the group that hopped out of the helicopter.

There were thirteen of them, men and women alike—boys and girls, really, because Kunikida didn't think any of them was older than twenty except for himself and a gloomy-looking white man with black hair. He had introduced himself as Fyodor and nothing else as they went through the selection process.

The girl next to him, Izumi, was only eighteen. She had greeted Kunikida with a few clipped words but no animosity, and he had given her the same respect in turn. At least she had been quiet on the way to Yokohama's jaeger dock.

"Follow me," their instructor, Sakaguchi, intoned.

They had to hurry along the length of the heliport. Rain was pouring down onto the sea, and this high up the air was biting cold. The chill spread through Kunikida's bones before they even reached the door. Inside was only warmer from human warmth and proximity. The large elevator shook under their combined weight, making a few of them look down warily. Kunikida watched Sakaguchi's face for any sign of worry and, upon finding none, decided not to care.

"Where are we going?" one boy asked.

Sakaguchi took the time to push his wet hair out of his face before answering. "Meeting, then training hall," he replied.

"Aren't we going to look around first?"

"No time."

The boy looked like he was about to protest, but the elevator stopped abruptly, and he had to lean on the shoulder of the woman beside him in order not to stumble.

Everyone stopped wanting to ask questions once the doors opened.

Kunikida had seen a jaeger in the past. In fact he had seen Scarlet Wind, specifically; he had watched with blurry eyes as it tore through the giant body of a kaiju not a kilometer away from the ruins of his school. And the memory was well-lived, as fresh in his mind as it had been six months ago, but even he couldn't help his intake of breath once the wide hangar he had known was hidden behind the dock's massive black walls appeared to his eyes.

None of the heads in the group were turned toward the ground as they walked across the length of the hall. They all watched the feet and legs of the machines, all lingered with bated breaths upon the silhouettes of ant-sized people working high on their bodies. One especially was unmistakable, even half-assembled as it was—Double Black stood at the very end of the hall like a great and silent statue. Fourteen gleaming medals adorned its wide chest. None of the other jaegers had any.

This was the one that two among them would pilot. Kunikida tried for a second to imagine himself moving it with his own limbs and mind, and though it was what he wanted, the perspective was humbling.

"Hurry up," Sakaguchi called ahead of them. He sounded faintly amused.

They scrambled behind him.

Kunikida didn't try and join the excited murmurs that sprouted around him as they walked through thinner corridors. Sakaguchi led them to a wide meeting room and instructed them to stand at the back in silence. The silence part was more or less respected, but Kunikida simply watched him join another man at the head of the room.

He was a short man, with long red hair tied into a high ponytail. One of his feet was perched atop a low stool, and with his free hand, he toyed absently with the silver pommel of a wooden cane.

The man raised his head once Sakaguchi was done murmuring to him. He watched over their group for a second, face unreadable. When his eyes met Kunikida's, the corners of his lips lifted, so quickly that Kunikida thought he must have imagined it.

"Thank you," the man said loudly. Sakaguchi nodded; he put a friendly hand over the man's shoulder after a second of hesitation, and then he left.

The stranger took his foot off of the stool. His cane's contact with the floor was loud into the thick silence as he made his way toward them. All the chairs and tables of the room had been pushed against the walls, so nothing stopped him until he was standing only a few feet away.

"Now," he said. "I'd trust Sakaguchi with my life, and I'm sure he worked all of you into the ground just to my liking—but there's been a change of plans."

He threw the files he was holding across the nearest table. Izumi jumped a little, shoulder hitting Kunikida's elbow. She was so small.

"We only have one job opening," the man declared. "So I'm expecting this selection mess to be finished within a couple days, instead of weeks. Maybe even today if we're all lucky."

For a second there was silence; then protests emerged, especially from the corner of the group where the youngest candidates had gathered together.

"What the hell?"

"I thought you needed two people to pilot a jaeger—"

"I'm not interested in what you thought," the man cut in, though his mouth was twitching again in amusement. "I want twelve of you to be gone by the end of the day. You should be relieved—I know I am. This has been a pain in my ass for months now."

"Who are you?" the one named Fyodor asked calmly. "And why change now? Two people are needed to drift."

"Glad you asked," the man replied. He rested his weight on his left leg and spun the cane against his palm, like an afterthought. "My name's Nakahara Chuuya. I'm the second in command here, after Boss Ozaki. And the reason we only need one of you is because you were never being trained to work together—we selected you based on how likely you were to be drift compatible with one of Double Black's original pilots."

Quiet reigned once he finished speaking.

"I thought the original pilots were dead," Izumi said lowly.

Nakahara huffed. "No. They're both alive. One of them's coming back into the field, and one of you," he gestured toward them with a gloved hand, "is going to be his copilot. Sorry we tricked you. We only got confirmation yesterday."

"Why can't they just pilot themselves, then?" That was Tachihara, Kunikida thought faintly, though he couldn't see the kid through the tight row of people between them. "If they're both alive then why bother finding a new pilot at all—"

"Because Nakahara Chuuya is one of the former pilots," Fyodor cut in. His words were flat, but his eyes were alight with interest. "And he obviously can't."

All heads turned to look at Nakahara again.

Nakahara himself only seemed mildly annoyed. "That's classified information," he said.

"I have my sources."

"I see." Nakahara spared another second to look in Fyodor's direction, not exactly frowning but not far from it, before apparently deciding that he didn't care. "Anyway. Now that you're all informed, let's get this show on the road, shall we? Unless you have further questions."

His eyes met Kunikida's with something akin to curiosity.

With the way he acted and talked, it looked like a challenge.

Kunikida opened his mouth and asked, "How are we going to know who's right, outside of testing directly with the drift?"

Nakahara smiled at him, every handsome line of his face sharp with satisfaction. "Test-drifting in pairs blindly would be useless," he answered. "Not to mention dangerous. I know you've all tested solo, but a true neural handshake is not to be taken lightly."

He blinked, and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

"There are ways to figure out if you're compatible with him," he continued a second later. "And most of you probably are, though not enough to make a jaeger move." He turned the cane in his grip before looking at Kunikida again. "All of this is vastly experimental—we've never had to find a new copilot for anyone before, after all. But when you've drifted with someone before, you can tell if someone else would be able to drift with you."

The air felt chilled. Kunikida heard Izumi creep closer to his side, saw the way that Tachihara's group tightened as if to keep warm. Maybe it was another proof of how weird it was that he had been selected at all among them—they were all young, as fit as he was physically and no doubt quicker-minded. And they looked scared.

He wanted to be here. He had carried that resolve with him for two years now. But he didn't know why he was.

"I don't know how Dazai intends to test you, exactly," Nakahara Chuuya said softly. "But you should know something before I let him loose on you."

There was a pink scar at his temple, splayed in the shape of a star, half-hidden under his hair. Like something had struck him there and broken glass-like over his skin. He leaned heavily on his cane as he walked, and his right hand shook when it picked up the papers he had left as if he were trying to carry a much greater weight.

Still, there was not a hint of shame or weakness on him. The room's attention stuck to him with grace, and he handled it like someone who knew exactly who he was and where he stood.

Kunikida found that he had no problem imagining a man like that moving Double Black's imposing body. Killing fifteen kaiju in fifteen fights. A record no one since him had approached, let alone broken.

"You can't expect to drift with someone and leave any part of you a secret," Nakahara said. "And Dazai will not wait for the drift. He'll go after your secrets long before you can think of glimpsing his."

Dazai sat deep in the shadows of the ninth floor balcony. This aisle of Yokohama's base had once been used to stock jaeger parts until the rooms were full to bursting. Now the rooms were mostly empty, mostly unused; he had found a broken coffee machine in one and a working sink in another, and after that he had sat crossed legged against the wall and not moved.

He was almost level with Double Black's cockpit from this height.

He let his eyes linger on the grey eyes of the machine and then down toward its chest. It hadn't aged, not a bit. He hadn't expected it to, but it was one thing to remember Double Black as it was the last time he had seen it—skull knocked open and breastplates caved in from the monster's blows, the floor of the cockpit awash with seawater and blood—and to see it now, as good as new. It made his eyesight hazy. It made faint wishes materialize in his head as they hadn't done in years; he almost thought he would turn his head aside and find Chuuya sitting by him, mind still encroached to the last dregs of the drift.

"You just planning on hiding here all day?" a voice said behind him, and though Dazai's breath hitched for less than a second, it took no more than that for a grin to split his face in two.

"Just taking in the sight," he replied. His shoulders eased out of the tense line he had kept them in since landing. He shifted on his backside until the ground felt more forgiving. "I haven't seen my old friend here in a while."

"Mmh." The footsteps grew closer. A shoe nudged Dazai's hip gently. "What about your actual, flesh-and-blood friends?"

He laughed before he could help it. Oda's grip on his wrist was firm as he pulled Dazai to his feet and then further in, chests knocking together, arms squeezing around him tightly.

"Welcome home," Oda said against his temple.

Dazai's fingers fisted into the back of his shirt in answer.

They released each other eventually. Oda gave him a quick once-over and then looked away, unbothered by the way Dazai stared at him, committing change to memory.

There were new lines around Oda's eyes. He was clean-shaven, his suit rumpled but spotless. He looked even more at peace than the last time they had been in each other's presence, if possible.

"Four years," Dazai mused out loud. "Ango's been whipping you into shape."

He got a rough hand rubbing against his scalp for his trouble. "Shut it," Oda replied, once Dazai shook him off. "If you wanted to keep me lazy you should've stayed."

"I wanted to keep you fun. You're no fun when you work, Odasaku."

The other smiled fleetingly. "It's been a while since anyone called me that," he said.

When Dazai turned to look at Double Black again, the smile on his lips was genuine.

They observed it for a moment, standing side by side. Oda leaned over the bannister to peer down at the machine's chest. "They never did give you your last medal," he observed. "Not that there's any room left with all the others."

"It's fine," Dazai replied, glancing down at the rows of shining plaques, each bearing the name of a fallen monster. "I'm not sure why they stopped doing it to the others, though."

"Ozaki had a fit when they tried."

Dazai made a face.

"Well," he said slowly, "it's not like it matters. The kaiju punch just as hard regardless of the medals."

Oda nodded. He dragged a box of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one nonchalantly, exhaling the smoke toward the jaeger's neck.

"I can't believe you still have cigarettes."

"I keep them for special occasions." Oda's mouth twitched when he looked at him over his shoulder. "Like when my best friend, who never calls, decides to visit."

Dazai shrugged guiltily, crossing the space between them to stand by the bannister too.

The distance to the groundfloor of the hangar was immense. It was something he always forgot when he was in the pilot's suit—how high he was, how small and breakable people looked from this high up. How one step in the wrong direction could make the difference between life and death when you stood in a jaeger.

One wrong decision almost had.

His lips thinned. "How are the kids?" he asked, as much to distract himself as because he genuinely wanted to know.

"Good," Oda replied evenly. "Yu has a girlfriend. Sakura just started college."

"College," Dazai scoffed.

It got him the hint of a mocking smile. "Just because you dropped out the minute you turned sixteen doesn't mean you get to make fun of my kids for pushing forward."

"There were bigger things to think about than a higher education."

Oda flicked his ashes off into the high fall of the hangar. "Yeah," he said. "And it feels even more hopeless now. But I can't blame them."

Silence stretched between them. Easy and thoughtful. Dazai had long forgotten to care about the fact that he was, technically, an outlaw—had been since he was a teenager and running scam after scam in the streets of Yokohama alongside the man standing next to him.

He couldn't imagine being a teenager now, with only five jaegers left to defend the world. He couldn't fathom caring about college while knowing that only a thin wall stood between humanity and the breach.

"I heard you're going to be riding again," Oda said in the quiet.

He wasn't looking at Dazai when Dazai glanced in his direction. Just staring at Double Black again. "News travel fast," he replied, grasping the bannister.

It was ice-cold under his fingers.

"I saw Chuuya."

"I figured." Dazai's smile was shallow, directed at no one. "Sent you to fetch me, didn't he."

"Yeah. He gave me a list of your old hideouts."

It made him chuckle, made him taste bitter at the back of his tongue.

"I'm not going to ask about you two," Oda continued in the same tone—with the same understanding. "He looks like he knows what he's doing. I'm not sure you do, though."

"Have I ever been sure of anything?" Dazai asked lightly.

Oda only looked at him, fond and sad, and it felt more piercing than anything Kouyou could hope to manage. "You have," he replied simply.

He straightened his back, then, and rolled his neck around until the sound of his vertebrae cracking could be heard through the silence. He sighed some of the tension out after that and turned to face Dazai again.

"C'mon," he said, "we've been delaying long enough. I'm sure you partner's done putting the fear of God into your prospective copilots by now."

"He is rather terrifying," Dazai agreed, falling into step with him. He breathed in the deserted silence of the floor for a second, readying himself for the bustle of noise and activity of the lower levels.

"He's not that scary." Oda opened the door to the stairs. His voice was loaded with sympathy. "Not when you talk to him."

Dazai didn't grace that with an answer.

The training hall was one of the widest rooms in the dock. When Dazai had last been here, almost every corner of it was full of trainees and otherwise work-out inclined personnel, all equipment occupied in the down hours of the day. Now the matted floors were mostly bare, some of the running mills and weight benches rusting a little. The familiar smell of sweat and detergent still hovered.

Chuuya stood a few feet away from the door. He and the group of misfits he intended to make Dazai interact with had all left their shoes in the hallway, and it was a little funny, seeing him so seriously dressed in a suit, coat hanging over his shoulders and hair tied up business-like—standing in his socks. Almost none of the others wore environment-appropriate clothes either.

That was okay. Dazai didn't expect any of them to satisfy him enough to necessitate a hands-on approach anyway.

Dazai slithered out of his boots at the door, divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat, loosened his belt by an inch. All eyes turned to him once he set foot onto the mats.

"You took your sweet time," Chuuya said to him, before glancing back ahead.

"You should've sent Ango if you wanted me to be serious about this," Dazai replied evenly.

"I do want you to be serious about this. Sakaguchi was busy."

"Of course."

Chuuya looked better than he had when they stepped onto the plane, at least. Dazai was glad to have let him sleep seven hours instead of five, though the scolding that followed his waking up had been harsh. The bruise-like bags under his eyes were less pronounced.

Dazai tore his eyes away from him to finally glance at the thirteen people gathered a few meters away. They stood close together, quiet now but no doubt about to become louder with the words he could feel forming in his head.

He dismissed seven of them at first glance.

"Welcome to Yokohama's jaeger dock," he said in his friendliest voice, smiling widely. "I'm sure you're all as anxious to get this over with as I am, so let's not take more than an hour or so, all right? Then you can all go home."

He felt Chuuya's glare burn at his nape from the assumption that he would send all of them away, but he didn't turn back. If he couldn't find anyone satisfying enough to step into the head of the machine by his side the way Chuuya had once, then he didn't want anyone. It wasn't worth the risk.

They both knew it.

"My name is Dazai Osamu," he continued, standing still, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "You may call me Dazai. Though I'm not sure most of you will be here long enough to do that anyway."

Most of them bristled with indignation—but no one said a word.

Dazai's smile turned fleeting. Less kind. "If I'm unlucky," he went on, "one of you will have what it takes to pilot with me. As you can guess, I'm not ecstatic about the prospect."

"Why?" a woman asked. She was one of the few who had slouched in disappointment and distrust the moment he had opened his mouth.

"That's a good question," Dazai nodded. "Short answer: I don't want to pilot again."

"What's the long answer?" another questioned immediately.

"What's your name?"

"Fyodor." He didn't volunteer a last name. Under the yellow lights for the room, his eyes glowed almost purple.

"Well, Fyodor," Dazai drawled, "the long answer is none of your business."

The tallest of them all was a man with blond hair standing at the very back. Dazai was looking in his direction as he finished speaking, and though he didn't move, his face clenched in anger, too stark to be smoothed over in time.

"Have any of you drifted with someone before?" Dazai asked.

He wasn't surprised when no one came forward saying yes.

He let out a hum. "It's a singular thing, the drift. I haven't kept up to date with everything the media used to say about it when the technology was finalized—back when they still made jaeger and kaiju toys and stuff." That had stopped shortly after Double Black went inactive, he recalled. "There's a few things you should know before stepping foot into a jaeger."

Fyodor observed him with cold curiosity. The man with yellow hair with hot fury. Between them stood a girl, short and quiet, and she looked like she was drinking every single one of his words in and carving them to memory. There was no blank admiration on her face. No fear either.

Dazai knew, in that moment, that if he had to pick someone it would be one of these three.

"The first," he started, "is that kaiju are exactly as big and terrifying in a jaeger as they look from the ground. If you think for a second that you'll be safe inside the cockpit, then it will be your doom."

"Fawk," the girl said. Her voice was soft.

Dazai could almost fool himself into thinking he felt the way Chuuya tensed behind him.

"Exactly," he replied evenly. "A kaiju can and will rip apart the strongest armors created by man with its bare hands. Codename Fawk had very sharp claws. It only took it one blow to rip apart Double Black's head."

Fawk's claws had sunk into it like it was just butter. Sunk into the head and sunk into the drift and crushed Chuuya's body under alien flesh and metal. He didn't share those details with the group because he wouldn't know how to try, and because they weren't necessary.

"But they've got stronger jaegers now, right?" a man with red-dyed hair asked, switching to Japanese, maybe in the hope of gaining Dazai's approval. "Stronger alloys. Diamond reinforcement. They replaced sixty percent of Double Black's body with those last year."

"I have no idea about that," Dazai lied, feeling some satisfaction at the incredulous way the man stared at him. "I just know that the kaiju keep coming out bigger and stronger, and making yourself big enough to fight back doesn't mean you'll win.

"The second thing you should know," he said before anyone else could speak up, "is that whatever you've been taught about drifting will be completely useless once you actually do it."

"This is stupid," the redhead said. "What's the fucking point of teaching us anything, then?"

"They do try so hard to teach that. But it's not something you can learn. I'm sure you gathered that on your own," Dazai added.

Redhead glared at him.

Dazai turned sideways, looking at the pile of rotting training equipment to his left, letting Chuuya's silhouette emerged in his line of sight.

"A neural handshake is uncontrollable," he said. "It doesn't matter how stable it is. It doesn't matter that you're focusing on making thousands of tons of metal move. You've never known what it's like not to be able to stop your thoughts until you're aware that someone else can think every one of them with you."

He almost wanted to go on—it's the worst feeling in the world. It's the easiest thing in the world.

"We all get intrusive thoughts, sometimes. Shameful thoughts. Thoughts we're infinitely glad no one but us can see. If you ever drift with me, or anyone else, you can say goodbye to that. The more you try to hide something, the easier it is for the other to see. It's essentially letting go of any privacy you ever thought you had.

"I'll know if you kicked a puppy when you were five. I'll know if you murdered someone." It made him smile briefly, before he continued, "I'll know if you've ever jerked off to something you shouldn't have."

He couldn't resist looking at Chuuya then—and Chuuya was looking back, unsurprised, the threat of a smile fluttering around his lips.

Dazai looked away with longing burning in his throat. The panic pooling around his heart was stronger, though.

"Speaking of which," he said, distraction and need alike, "how many of you are under twenty years old?"

It took a moment for them to realize he expected them to answer. Eight of them raised hesitant hands up.

"Really," he muttered.

"Needs must," Chuuya replied darkly. "It's not like we get many volunteers."

The young were always more prone to making brash decisions.

It didn't matter. Dazai didn't think Chuuya meant for him to pick a teenager anyway, no matter how their simulation results looked. "You can go home," he declared. "Thank you for participating."

He stood bored and silent through the rise of protests, through the indignant voices barking about months of training and dedication and effort—until at last they seemed to realize that he really, actually didn't care.

"Fucking prick," the girl from earlier muttered, walking past him and toward the exit.

He was left with five people standing in front of him, two of which he already knew wouldn't do. "You," he said, gesturing to them, "can go as well."

They did so looking potently offended.

Dazai took his hands out of the pockets of his slacks and walked closer to the remaining three. His eyes were fixed onto the girl. She withstood his stare easily in spite of how much taller than her he was.

It felt familiar. In a good way. However—

"You're not twenty," he said.

"I'm of age for the selection," she replied.

He gave her a more genuine smile than he had allowed out of himself since leaving Oda's side. "What's your name?"

"Izumi Kyouka."

"Izumi Kyouka," he repeated. "You have a good reason to be here, I suppose."

She nodded. "The kaiju called Hammerhead killed my family," she explained, as if she expected and was absolutely prepared for the possibility that he might discover it on his own, and didn't care. Dazai couldn't help the approval he felt at that. "I want to be a pilot so I can take revenge."

"Revenge isn't a good enough reason to pilot."

"Saving people isn't the reason you pilot either," she accused. "You don't care about that."

He chuckled. "Indeed. You caught me. But revenge is a bad reason to pilot."

He saw her jaw clench, her hand spasm at her side as if she wanted to curl it into a fist. Dazai had no doubt that she was compatible with him, perhaps even more naturally so than the two men standing behind her. He knew he would be able to make Double Black move with Izumi Kyouka in his head.

But she was just a kid. The same age as Oda Sakura, who was starting college.

"Kyouka-chan." Her face flushed a little at the familiarity, which made something fond spread warmly through his chest. "I'm not going to pilot with you, but you're not going home. I want you to wait for me outside—there's a room with couches and a TV two doors down, maybe even coffee and food, if you're lucky. Help yourself to anything you want. I'll talk to you shortly."

She stared at him with an edge of despair for a second longer before relenting. Dazai watched her walk away; he caught the look that Chuuya gave her as she went past him wordlessly.

Chuuya never looked better than when he approved of something. The still-tired lines of his face eased into softness for the barest second, and Dazai felt warm in the neck, giddy even with the knowledge that nothing would come out of it.

"Okay," he said, turning back toward the two men left. Fyodor, and the man with yellow hair. "If I'm correct, I'm not going to like one of you, and the other isn't going to like me."

Fyodor gave a thin smile. The other man scowled.

"It seems we're in an impasse," Fyodor said tranquilly.

"Not at all," Dazai replied in kind. "Liking someone isn't required to pilot with them. It might even make it easier. Nothing to be ashamed of when the other side hates you anyway, don't you think?"

The man with yellow hair spoke, at last. "You said you would be unlucky to find a new copilot."

His voice was deeper than Dazai expected, but no less accusatory.

"I did," he agreed. "I don't want to pilot again."

"Why?"

"None of your business."

The man seethed, teeth bare, chin high. "I understand that Nakahara can't pilot due to past injuries," he said. "I can respect that. But you're not injured."

"That's true," Dazai replied, frowning.

He was pretty sure his and Chuuya's names and statuses were classified information. The way Fyodor looked at him, boastful, told him more than he liked to know about that. Chuuya's lack of a reaction even more so.

"Then why?" The man stepped forward, leaving Fyodor behind to crowd into Dazai's space. He was taller than him by a couple inches, and broader too, shoulders wide, arms thick under the deceptive softness of his shirtsleeves. "Why wait four years to pilot again?"

His anger felt personal and not at once. Righteous in a way Dazai had seldom encountered.

Dazai looked up at the man under the longer strands of his hair that always swept over his forehead. "None of your business," he repeated.

The look he was given was one of honest disgust.

"You've been standing here doing absolutely nothing to test us, nothing to let us prove ourselves," the man went on roughly. "You're acting like this is a game. I'm having some trouble believing you're one of the guys who once killed fifteen kaiju in fifteen deployments."

"He has been testing us," Fyodor interjected softly. Dazai and the man glanced at him in tandem. "This was never about training results or abilities. He's trying to figure out how compatible we are."

"Well I don't like it," the man replied hotly. He shoved an accusatory finger into Dazai's chest as he turned back, eyes dark, voice low. "You were right. I don't like you. What are you trying to achieve?"

Keeping his lips still instead of smiling was a struggle, but Dazai managed. "Why don't you take a guess?" he asked. Mockingly so.

He barely avoided the first blow.

It was testament to Fyodor's understanding of the situation that he didn't cry in outrage or try to stop his fellow candidate from hurting what was, in all due forms, a superior officer. Or maybe to Chuuya's understanding of Dazai that he never said a word either. Dazai sidestepped the man's first punch, feet catching gently on the ratty mats of the hall, and had to crouch and roll away to avoid the second.

The other's fist few so close to his cheek that it stung anyway, hot and dry.

"You could've been piloting all these years," he was saying, breaths deep and even in spite of his irritation. "We all thought the reason Double Black wasn't being used was because its pilots were dead—but you're here, and you're fine, and you're—"

This time, the blow landed, harsh, into the arm Dazai used to block it.

"I'm what?" he prompted.

The man's face whitened with rage.

His leg thrust out too fast for Dazai to do more than jump over it. The man followed up with a punch that turned out not to be a punch at all—Dazai raised his bruised arm to block again, and instead found his wrist caught in a grip too strong to dislodge in time to avoid being pulled forward and slammed belly-first onto the mats.

The impact knocked the breath out of him. The man twisted his arm behind him until it hurt sharply with the threat of a snapped bone, digging one knee into the small of his back.

"You could've been piloting all this time," he told Dazai, his victory not enough to erase how completely he despised him. He didn't sound satisfied at all. "You could've been saving lives. Give me one reason I should allow you into my head, you selfish bastard."

Dazai arched his neck until he could look toward the door. Chuuya met his eyes, silent.

"So that's your reason for being here," he said breezily. It was hard to breathe with his chest crushed under the other's weight—even harder with the way Chuuya looked at him. "You tried to save someone and failed."

The knee dug further into his back.

Anyone else looking at Chuuya now would've thought him indifferent, perhaps; but his grip was tight on the cane even if the gloves masked the yellow-white tint of bloodless skin under it. He looked ready to bolt into a run. It was that thought, ultimately, that caused Dazai to bow his head again.

He let his cheek drag painfully against the mat so he could look above his shoulder and at the man holding him down. "What's your name?" he asked.

The face above his was livid with fury. "Kunikida Doppo," he spat out. "Write that down into your little papers when you throw me out too and go back to letting the world die, Dazai."

Perfect simulation results, excellent martial artist. Stubborn as a mule.

Disappointment gripped Dazai by the neck. He felt breathless in so many ways. Nauseous with it.

"I'm not throwing you out," he said. "You're my new copilot."

Kunikida's eyes widened; his grip slackened only just enough for Dazai to twist out of it quickly and push Kunikida down in his stead. Kunikida yelped at the shock, then fell silent when Dazai's hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed warningly.

He never stopped glaring, though. Never stopped meeting Dazai's eyes with that same holy anger.

Dazai released his grip with a sigh. He stepped off of Kunikida's body and said, "I need a nap."

"Then go take one," Chuuya answered. His tone was almost convincingly disinterested. "We won't be ready to test until tomorrow anyway, no one needs you."

"Harsh."

"That's it?" Kunikida called, bewildered.

Dazai glanced back at him. He was still sitting on the floor, looking shell-shocked. "That's it," he replied. "Congratulations, Kunikida-kun. I'm looking forward to working with you."

He scoffed dismissively—it almost made Dazai smile despite the ache in his heart.

Kunikida would understand more about Dazai than he ever wished to very soon. And Dazai would have no choice but to know him right back.

"Go wait where I sent Kyouka-chan," he said. "Ango or someone else will come by to give you the grand tour and show you to your rooms. You," he told Fyodor, who was watching everything unfold with utter boredom on his sickly pale face, "are free to go."

"Thank you for considering me," Fyodor replied. His odd-colored eyes met Dazai's cooly.

Dazai's back ran with shivers.

The door closed behind them with little noise. The padding on the floor had always muffled its sounds for as long as he could remember. Dazai stared at it thoughtlessly for a while. He didn't know if the ache blooming over his forehead came from the lack of sleep, the trip from Sydney, or from Kunikida's rough handling.

"I'm glad it wasn't that other guy," he said lightly, turning face Chuuya. "Gave me the creeps."

"I didn't think he'd be strong enough anyway," Chuuya replied. He was looking down at Kunikida's file in his hand, but his eyes weren't moving. "Genius IQ, mediocre physical. I'm pretty sure he's been hiding some sort of health condition too."

"How the hell did Ango miss that?"

"Shut up." Chuuya rolled his eyes but still didn't look at him. "Sakaguchi works almost as much as ane-san does, he's allowed to make mistakes."

"Mad, the lot of you."

The joke flew over Chuuya's head entirely. Dazai felt very little like laughing too.

"Well," Dazai murmured, "you were right. Kunikida is very compatible with me."

"I told you he would be."

"Drifting with him might even be as easy for me as it was with you."

Chuuya didn't flinch. He didn't shudder or let his breathing stutter. His head turned sideways, eyes meeting Dazai's, showing absolutely nothing, and Dazai felt misery coil tight in his belly. He felt it run up and settle like pressure behind his ribs. His mind slid helplessly toward thoughts of reaching out with his hand to brush the faint star-shaped scar sitting at Chuuya's temple.

Maybe he would know what Chuuya thought if he did. Feel it at the tip of his fingers.

"How did you know?" he asked instead.

Chuuya breathed carefully before answering. "His psych eval."

"Are you even allowed to look at that?"

"Who's going to stop me?" Chuuya said wryly. "You'll know him better than any therapist soon enough anyway." He looked away. Stepped away. Then he added, "Kunikida almost didn't make it into the training program."

That was surprising.

"It's not for lack of effort or dedication. His physical scores are the best, he's dreadfully accurate in simulations, he's more than smart enough. But he has some issues."

"What issues?"

Chuuya gave him a joyless smile. "You'll just have to find out the hard way," he replied.

He started walking toward the exit, a little gauchely, because soft mats were more difficult to navigate with a cane than hard floor. Probably also because he hadn't sat down to rest his leg since the moment he stepped out of the chopper and into the dock.

I don't want to find out, Dazai thought, following in his steps. I never want to know.

There had only ever been one person he wanted to know that way. Only one person he had wanted to know him that way.

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#bungou stray dogs #bsd #soukoku #dazai osamu #nakahara chuuya #fic: build upon the ruins

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pollaidh · 7 years

Text

In-line meta 221B just before the hug

221B Scene. Discussion between John and Sherlock. End of TLD.

SHERLOCK: “Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind.” (Like closet doors, last time he took drugs, in TAB.) … “Intrigued.”

JOHN: Makes dismissive/semi-humorous comment showing Sherlock John’s care for him is merely duty, a duty he is sharing with others.

SHERLOCK: “I thought we were just hanging out.” The softening of Sherlock’s gaze at the end shows this is the truth. He wishes they were just hanging out, but he thinks John’s there out of duty, not because he wants to be. Reinforces this with: “I do think I can last 20 minutes without supervision.” (Duty again. The tiny self-deprecating smile at the end. He’s hoping John will joke back as usual, continue their old camaraderie. He’s setting up for a private joke, but John doesn’t respond.) Just says -

JOHN: “If you’re sure.” Doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eye, his gaze is straight ahead until the last second.

JOHN: Makes comment about going to Rosie.

SHERLOCK: (Voice soft). “I should come and see her.” (Beseeching look.) Unusually subdued. Ah yes, Rosie is the most important to him now. And instead of throwing out some joking, petulant statement, he calmly accepts he no longer can come first to John. The subtext: Do you still want me to be part of your life? Sherlock looks at John as John talks with head-Mary. John unsure how to take this - does Sherlock seriously want to spend time with Rosie?

JOHN: Gives an unwelcoming yes. He’s not engaging.

SHERLOCK: Looks away. How to make him stay, how to get this back on the old footing? He taps his hand on side of mug - frustration, indecision. Pleased he has found something to say, he looks up. The case. Yes. John’s always interested in the case. That’s why he’s interested in Sherlock, for the excitement, the two of them fighting crime together.

SHERLOCK: Starts in his light professional voice to discuss case. John isn’t thawing. Sherlock trails off with a little laugh. He’s nervous.

JOHN: “That’s good.” (Low intonation at end, shutting down this conversation. Might as well have said ‘that’s nice.’)

(This part of the scene, the stops and starts, and averted looks, talking about anything but the real story, reminds me of the Mr Darcy meets Lizzie Bennet scene in the Colin Firth version: A couple who are in love but don’t know they are in love, have argued, and see each other again in difficult circumstances, don’t know what to say to each other, or how the other feels.)

JOHN: Clenches hand (sign of John’s stress that Sherlock must have picked up on over the years).

SHERLOCK: Looks to his tea. This isn’t going well. John is upset. John is leaving. He’s going to have to go deep.

SHERLOCK: “Are you okay?”

(Such a loaded question. This isn’t ‘how are you?’ as a greeting or a post-bomb check. His voice is raw, all pretence gone. He cares. It’s hard for men to get onto this plane of conversation. He REALLY cares.)

JOHN: Laughs, but returns.

SHERLOCK: Watches John’s reaction, accepts the anger he feels is his due. He knows he’s broken them so no smart arse comments, he doesn’t argue, he just accepts….

SHERLOCK: “In saving my life she conferred a value on it, a currency I do not know how to spend.” (Without you I don’t know why my life is. He earlier said he couldn’t commit suicide because of the value of his life to John, but he doesn’t know how to live if John doesn’t even want to be friends. He can’t live or die without John.)

JOHN: Still not forthcoming, but his choice of words “It is what it is” have deeper meaning for the audience. Could be interpreted by Sherlock as ‘tough, this is what we’ve got’.

SHERLOCK: Swallows. That’s all he’s getting. He’s glad to get that forgiveness (he thought he’d broken any feelings romantic/platonic John had for him. He can’t say anything here because John’s talking about Mary (on the surface), he’s still in love with her. Sherlock’s culpability (which he feels even if forgiven) means he can’t talk about her. He has no right.

JOHN: Back to his duty - he’s on the 6-10 watch. The meaningful moment is over.

SHERLOCK: Tears in his eyes. Bravado: “Looking forward to it.” It’s all he’s got left.

JOHN: “Yeah.” A blank little ‘yeah’ and an eye-roll. He’s not.

IRENE?: Text alert!!!

JOHN: Jealous.

SHERLOCK: Plays innocent. (Could he have set that up?) Starts analysing whilst John stalks back over. Why does Irene’s ringtone make him come back. John was always jealous of Irene. …

SHERLOCK: “Oh. Okay. That’s good.” (For John’s deduction. He has no idea what this will be, He’s wrapping a protective coat around himself. Complete change of tone - a subdued version of his own mocking tone. This tone last used when John asks him to be best man, and he really doesn’t understand what’s being asked. Eyes flicker, he’s analysing, possibly responding mentally. Sips tea at the end there too. (And why does he keep his birthday secret?) All very polite and formal between them.

JOHN: “Seriously, are we not going to talk about this?”

SHERLOCK: (This being him and John, or something else?) “What? (Doesn’t dare say anything leading.)

Clarify 2 X more. Normally Sherlock predicts what John will say but here he really doesn’t know.

JOHN: “Woman..”

SHERLOCK: Screws eyes shut. Seriously? FFS John, how dense can you be?

JOHN: Lots of subtext about losing chances, with a very hetero “mate” as last seen in TSoT.

SHERLOCK: WTF? How can John still think he’s in love with Irene Adler? He made this clear. He’s confused. Something he’s missing. Right. Revert to standard line. “Romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for other people…” (Is this because he thinks if John really thinks Sherlock’s in love with Irene, than all his assumptions about what is between them must be flawed.)

JOHN: Talks about chance. “Chances don’t last forever… gone before you know it.”

(Surface - about Mary, which means Sherlock can’t really respond. Also foreshadowing Last Problem. Subtext - he’s talking about chances between him and Sherlock, and telling unwittingly telling Sherlock to go for it.)

SHERLOCK: Eyes fall. This hits hard, He knows he’s lost his chance with John, back before he realised he loved him. This is an incredibly raw moment. Sherlock has a raw, earnest expression.

JOHN: Talks about needing someone who completes you and makes you a better person.

SHERLOCK: “Forgive me…... I can safely say..” You complete me, you taught me to be a better man. That’s what love is. You are the better man, and you taught me. Except he doesn’t get to finish what is basically a confession of love, unlike Culverton Smith, whose confession couldn’t be stopped.

JOHN: “I cheated.”

SHERLOCK: Utter shock. Did he really not know? Then he realises Mary’s in the room, in John’s head. How can he replace a dead person. It’s heart breaking watching John talk to his dead wife. Sherlock analysing - so he still sees her and talks to her, but he cheated. Sherlock calculating WTF is going on here?

JOHN: Confesses all to Mary, himself, and Sherlock. Subtext, despite Mary being the mother of his child, he still cheated. He was only with her for the baby, but even that couldn’t stop him wanting more.

JOHN: “But I wanted more.”

SHERLOCK: Analysing. More with Faith? Or more than he got from his relationship with Mary. More with Sherlock? This is the moment Sherlock starts to wonder if there’s still a chance. He raises a wondering gaze, dawning hope in his eyes. John wasn’t committed to Mary like he’d assumed. What does that mean? (Sherlock is probably never going to be great at understanding emotions, though he’s improving.

JOHN: “I still do.”

SHERLOCK: (With who?)

JOHN: “Not the guy you thought…”

(Surface level to Mary and Sherlock - I’m not a good guy. Subtext - I’m not the (straight) guy you thought I was. John’s equating good and straight because of internalised homophobia.) “I never could be.” (He’s always been this way - hmm that sounds familiar.)

JOHN: “But that’s the point…” You love warts and all.

SHERLOCK: Subtext: Sherlock can be loveable even though he’s not perfect. John could love Sherlock.

JOHN: “Who you thought I was is the man I want to be.” (2 levels - good man/straight man. Equating these is a sign of his internalised homophobia. And he’s telling the audience and Sherlock, that they have made false assumptions (that’s he’s straight).

MARY-in-John’s-head: “Well, John Watson, get the hell with it.”

(Emphasis on hell. John has seen Mary tell Sherlock to go to hell, so links hell with Sherlock. He’s telling himself to get the hell on and tell Sherlock before it’s too late.” What else could this refer to - the recovery at surface level (John, get the baby, come back to life), but it’s much much deeper. As John stares, Mary smiles and disappears. John’s two sides (the conflict between Mary/John in his head, AND his good and bad side, and his side where he loves women and side where he loves men). John is integrated again. He accepts himself, warts and all, good man and bad, and all parts of his sexuality.

JOHN: Sobs, overwhelmed. He has given himself permission to be the man he was always supposed to be, to love himself entirely.

SHERLOCK: Absolutely serious, raw, none of the usual jokes and mania or glee, just entirely genuine and natural, puts down his tea and slowly, quietly, goes to John to comfort him. (He presumably hasn’t heard Mary’s contribution in John’s head, only John’s side. So he only sees John admit to Mary that he cheated, that he’s not the guy they thought. He doesn’t know John has just told himself to go for it. He seems John overwhelmed with guilt, as he sees it, not relief.) THEY HUG.

Compared to the wedding hug, which was so awkward, like John teaching Sherlock to hug, this is so natural. Mr Homes knows exactly what to do. Sherlock still cautious. Not sure how he’ll be received, this is not the moment for any declarations. But the hand on John’s neck is possessive and intimate, and John lays his head against Sherlock’s chest.

SHERLOCK: Glances up at the sky (thank god? Is this right? Am I doing it right?) All he cares about is that John is hurting.

Like the scene at the end of TSoT when Sherlock deduces the pregnancy, leaving him to realise there’s no chance with John now, this is such a raw, open, tender scene. They are being honest with each other and within themselves. There are still some miscommunications to clear up, but they are born of love and waiting for the right moment.

#tjlc #sherlock #johnlock #john watson #tld #the lying detective #meta #tld hug

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