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shadowwolflady · 2 months

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Shadow Intern Part 1

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Hawks originally denied having Tokoyami as an intern. But the kid's quirk was familiar. He knows of another shadow weaver that may have some insight.

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Hawks needed some fresh air; leaping out of the agency building, he took a flight to where he could think clearly. The sky always helped to clear his head. He wasn’t tethered down and could float freely among the clouds, without a care. This wasn’t the case for this flight. His blood pumped through his body faster, providing fresh oxygen to his brain to help him think. Now that his brain was cleared, he could focus on the problem posed before him. A file he had read on his computer about a possible intern from U.A. named Tokoyami Fumikage.

Hawks had the teen tag along for a weekend, which wasn’t too bad. But for an entire internship?

Originally, when approached about the offer, Hawks turned it away when handed the paperwork and file. He hated paperwork, always more paperwork. It was mainly the paperwork that told him ‘No’, on top of him not wanting to drag around an extra body, asking questions, not keeping up, and getting in the way. This had been going on for several days this week, with phone calls and more files being delivered to his agency. Another notification pinged in his inbox, he read at the heading ‘Intern’ and the sender, Nezu from UA.

“What does that damn rat want now?” He muttered as he opened the email. Several attachments automatically opened in separate windows on the monitor, one pulling up information on the potential intern and the other the form to fill out for the intern’s shadow days. “Shadow quirk, huh?” He muttered as he leaned his elbow onto the desk and placed his head into his hand. Shadow. A chuckle escaped his throat as he leaned back in his chair before standing up and closing the laptop in front of him. “Looks like I’m going to need some fresh air.” He muttered, adjusting his headphones back onto his ears and pulling down his glasses over his eyes.

Now, he was flying high above Kyushu, heading northeast towards Kyoto. A gloved hand went into a pocket on his jacket, finding the familiar form of his cellphone, he carefully grasped it and pulled it out. Not even bothering to look at the screen, his thumb put in the security code and went into his contacts once the phone opened up. Bringing the device up to eye level, his amber gaze filtered through the names and emojis on the screen as he scrolled through it, until it came upon a black dot along with the word “Shadow” in the name. Amber eyes narrowed at the name for two seconds before his thumb tapped the screen and name, selecting it and making a call. Once the screen switched to the outgoing call, he brought the cellular device up to his right ear, pushing the one earpiece of his headset back.

And it rang.

And another.

And…

Someone picked up, there was no noise on the other side, just silence. He flapped his wings and slowed his trajectory; this was so he could hear the recipient better over the wind rushing past him. One corner of his mouth lifted up in a lopsided smile, “Hey, little lady. How’s it hangin’? Haven’t heard from you in some time. Just figured I’d give you a heads up before I popped by.”

A scuff came across the earpiece, “Hawks, to what do I owe the pleasure?” A female voice came across the line. She didn’t sound at all impressed to be talking to the man.

“Awe, can’t I give my Commission’s buddy a call?” He asked in a teasing tone. Closing his eyes, a small sweat drop formed on his temple. “You know we haven’t seen each other since I moved out to Kyushu.” Though this was true, he wanted to sugar coat it a little to not make it sound like he was going to just ask for a favor.

“Not without wanting something, usually.” Her voice was monotone, almost as if she had stated from experience. She had figured him out that quickly. There was several seconds of silence. “What is it?” Her tone dropped and held an edge that told him she may have been slightly annoyed.

Hawks’ face turned serious as he scanned the city below him. “I have something to ask of you. I have an intern-“

“No.” A firm decline came across the line crystal clear, cutting him off.

“Now, now. Hear me out.” He sighed.

“I don’t work with kids.” The tone her voice held, made it clear that was the end of their conversation.

He sighed again. “Look, I wouldn’t be calling you if-“

“No.”

Another wing flap as silence engulfed their conversation. About 15 seconds went by before he spoke quietly into the receiver. “He has a shadow quirk.” There was no response on the other end for several seconds. The brief thought that she hung up on him graced his mind. A sigh was heard, disproving his theory. “Just think about it for a bit. I’ll be over Kyoto after sunset.”

“I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?” She sounded a little irritated.

A triumphant grin spread across his features. “I knew you’d see it my way. See ya.” Pulling the phone from his ear, he hung up on her. Fidgeting more with his phone, he went into his email and responded back to Nezu, ‘Intern. Accepting, on one condition…’ His thumb paused as he thought of how to word the email. Once he formulated a nicely worded email, he hit the send button before placing the phone back into his pocket.

Adjusting his headphones to the correct position, he propelled himself forward. The wind whipped through his messy blonde hair as he raced time.

A buzz and vibration came from his coat pocket. A hand fished his phone out again, eyes glanced at the screen. “That was fast.” He muttered as he opened his phone again. Nezu had responded to his email almost instantly.

ACCEPTED! Was in the header of the response. The corner of his mouth lifted up into a smirk as he read the contents of the message.

Just as he said, he crested the skyline of Kyoto just after the sun sank below the western horizon. He descended into Kyoto city. Flying low along the suburban outskirts of the city, his sharp eyes scanned the shadows for a figure. The dwindling light played tricks on his eyes as he scanned the shadows. He circled back, another sweep of the lower rooftops. Amber glinted as he spied a figure on a dark roof of a 3-story building.

“Found you,” Hawks chuckled to himself as he descended swiftly and quietly. He barely made any sound as he landed, his scarlet wings folding elegantly behind him. Stretching his arms over his head, “Hey there, sorry to keep you waiting.” The yellow-tinted glasses were pulled up to rest on top of his head before his hands were shoved back into his pockets.

“You? Keep me waiting? Never.” The female voice came from a black-cloaked figure standing a meter away from the corner of the building. Her voice held a sarcastic tone. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, her forearms were covered in black leather arm guards with straps. The front of her hooded cloak split open to reveal her whole attire was black; black leather boots with straps, black leggings, black shirt, black gloves, and black belt. The hood cast a shadow over her face, however, the bottom half of her face was covered with a black mask. The only skin showing was on her face, above the mask that covered her mouth and nose. Pale flesh contrasted against the black fabric, brown eyes, and brown bangs were the only other colors that seemed different among her features. The fringe framed above her eyes and around the side of her face, barely brushing the mask by her cheeks.

Amber took in her dark figure before locking with her brown, “Good to see you, Rogue.”

“Likewise,” She said as Hawks gave her a little bow, bringing his arm across his torso in a flamboyant gesture. “Quit being a show-off.” Rogue’s tone was sharp. Hawks stood up straight and assessed her demeanor. “My answer is still ‘No’.”

Hawks let out a sigh, “Still as cold as ever.” ‘Still an Ice Queen,’ crossed his mind. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and bypassed the security screen. Opening the email app, he went to the attachments on the email Nezu sent to him, describing Tokoyami. “He has a shadow quirk.”

“I don’t work with kids.” She reiterated as he moved closer to her and held out his phone for her to take. She glanced at his phone. “No.” Was her answer when she looked back up at him. She wasn’t dumb, she knew what the internship was entitled to. She was not allowed to go on any record. She was supposed to be nonexistent. HPSC was going to reem her when they found out.

Looking off to the side, he lowered his voice a little. “Nezu will keep him under my name. You won’t even be mentioned in the reports.” After several seconds, he looked back to his commission senpai. “Did you think I forgot?” His black-gloved hand moved a little, gesturing for her to take the phone. “Don’t worry, you’ll stay in the shadows just as the HPSC wanted.”

Brown eyes analyzed him, flicking down to the device, her arms uncrossed as she reached one hand out to take the phone. A black leather-gloved hand grasped the phone, the leather missing off the fingertips. The calloused skin on her fingertips shifted the images and documents around on the screen as she read over them. Rogue didn’t go into details; she just took in a brief summary of the kid. “I don’t know if I can help him.”

“Oh come on, Shadow Queen, you have to have something up your sleeve.” Hawks gave his best charming grin. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Rogue shook her head, “I’m afraid you are overestimating me.” That grin doesn’t work on her, and he knows it.

“His weakness is the dark.” Hawks’ voice lowered several notes and the smile left his face. He thought carefully about how to say this, to try to not trigger both of their past horrors from being trained by the Commission. “I’m sure, with your training, you should be able to have some ideas.”

Brown eyes darkened at the mention of her training. Ah, yes. The Commission. Complete and utter hell for them. Her mind’s eye playing a nasty trick and rerunning scenes like a slideshow through her consciousness. She blinked hard, bringing herself back from the dark corners of her mind. “You’re going to try and pawn him off on me, aren’t you?” Rogue’s voice was cold and sharp.

“Now, I didn’t say that.” Hawks looked off to the right as he scratched the back of his neck.

Rogue let out a frustrated sigh. She knew him too well. “You’d rather lay about than inconvenience yourself with an intern.” She scrolled through the document one last time. Once she reached the end, she held the phone out at arm’s length for him to take.

Looking down at his phone, he extended his hand out and retrieved it. Making sure the phone was in sleep mode, he placed it back into his pocket.

She let out another sigh, “I won’t train him, but I can offer some advice.”

A huge grin spread across Hawks’ face, “I’ll take that as a ‘Yes’.”

Rogue quickly pointed her index finger at him, just to get her point across. “I am NOT training him. I am just giving advice. AND you’re paying for my ticket. Got it?”

Hawks adjusted his glasses back over his eyes as his wings started to unfurl. “Gotcha, little lady.” His wings extended fully and gave one strong down stroke to get him hovering off the ground. He gave her a two-fingered salute, “See ya in two weeks, Shadow.” And with that, he turned and took off.

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2 Weeks Later

Rogue and Hawks stayed in touch through texts mostly.

Feathers- Purchased your tickets! Sent them to your email. (Smiling chibi Hawks and star emojis.)

Shadow- I will check when I get home.

Got it.

Feathers- Let me know when you get on the train and get here. (Followed by a heart emoji.)

Shadow- Boarding now.

Here.

Feathers- Glad to see you made it, little lady! (Followed by a heart emoji.)

Sorry I couldn’t meet ya, but duty calls! (Peace sign chibi Hawks emoji.)

Shadow- Where are you?

Feathers- My agency.

Shadow- I will be around.

Feathers- K! (Peace sign chibi Hawks emoji.)

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Rogue, in civilian clothes, scuffed as she reread the messages on her phone. She had left the Shinkansen platform and made her way out of the station, dragging a small suitcase behind her. Following the flow of traffic, she made her way to a small Tokyo Inn not even a 5-minute walk from the station.

Once she settled in, she made her way out of the room by her patio, melting into the shadows clothed in her hero outfit. Now, she stayed in a dark alleyway, avoiding the lights as they began to turn on for the night.

It took a while for her to find them, but the unmistakable red and yellow blur in the sky led her straight to them. Using her quirk, she hid among the shadows, teleporting among the alleys and buildings as she kept up with the duo.

In typical Hawks fashion, he sped away from his intern, leaving him way behind.

3 hours went by, Rogue didn’t need to be there, but within the first couple of minutes, she was able to pick out the main problem.

Rogue stood near the corner of another 3-story building as a red and yellow blur shot past her before arching back and landing on the ledge of the building next to her. It was Hawks.

“So, what do you think?” Hawks said.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or else I wouldn’t have agreed to this. It’s not going to be easy to make him realize that he is the one keeping himself back.” Rogue had a finger curled around her chin as she put the pieces together.

Hawks put on his charm, acting bashful as he folded his arms behind his head and smiled at her, “Awe, thanks! I love you, too!”

Brown eyes darted to her right and glared at him as she scuffed in disgust. Rogue turned her attention back to the black-clad teen running towards them on the street below. Tokoyami stopped below them and looked up and down the street, panting heavily while Dark Shadow swiveled around trying to find Hawks as well.

“Well, what do you think?” Hawks looked down to the lamp-lit street.

“I think,” Rogue turned to look at Hawks, crossing her arms over her chest, “you’re right. He’s similar to you. However, he needs to have those training wheels ripped off.”

With her comment, Hawks leaped off the ledge and dove down to the street below, picking the kid up and flying off to one of the tallest towers with a radio antenna on top of it.

Rogue couldn’t help but watch with her mouth slack as they took off. Once she noticed where they were going, she broke line of sight. “Nope, nope. Not me. I’m not going up there. Nope.” She turned and stepped into a dark black fire that engulfed her, teleporting her to the street below.

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Please note. Rogue has Hawks' contact under Feathers in her phone. While Hawks has her under Shadow.

Part 2

#mha oc #bnha hawks #hawks #mha hawks #keigo takami #keigo tamaki #bnha keigo #takami keigo #mha takami keigo #bnha #bnha oc #mha #mha fanfiction #original character #oc #fumikage tokoyami #commission #commission friends #hpsc

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this-acuteneurosis · 3 years

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I’m in AGONY over the Leia v Bail v Tarkin v Palpatine v Darsana hurricane of misfortune. So much panic! So much shielding! So much intense scrutiny!! I would die for some outsider POV of how successful (or not…) Leia is at hiding her origin and training from these keen observers. What for Bail’s aids think? The clones? Darsana??!

(<_<)

(>_>)

*drops words*

*flees*

~...~

Rampant speculation on one Leia Skywalker’s inexplicable discomfort around the Prince Consort abounds.

Everyone dismisses Keely’s juvenile, tasteless assertion that Skywalker is in love with the Prince and trying to seduce him. For one, anyone with eyes can see that is not true. For another, if Leia Skywalker ever got it into her head to seduce anyone, she would succeed. She knows how to plan and how to execute and how to work with minimal resources.

She is a nightmare, and Sheltay wishes she could kill Amidala so they would be able to hire Skywalker.

She doesn’t say this to the Prince, of course.

Instead, she answers his orders of, “Keep an eye on her. To learn about her, yes, but also as if she’s one of ours. Padmé said…well, I think her exact words were, “she’s fine until she isn’t,” and I’d rather not get to that point on this trip,” with a placid, “Of course,” and a firm determination to identify all of Skywalker’s tells for “fine” and “not fine.”

The frightening thing is, if Skywalker has tells, Sheltay can’t find them.

Skywalker has different masks. Ones for friends and allies, ones for…less certain persons. Like the Chancellor.

But they already know that. It’s all on file.

Leia Skywalker, resident of Naboo by their refugee laws, has alternately demonstrated skills and training in espionage and infiltration, diplomacy, combat and field command, basic to mid level mechanics, piloting, broad language fluency, and writing legislation. Her education is lightyears above the standards set by her official Naboo training and certification, her clothing is as carefully selected and styled as any of Padmé’s inner circle, and she’s made personal friends with multiple senators. Her untrained skills include Force sensitivity.

She is twenty five years old.

According to her Naboo records. That she had filled out. No other records exist.

They’d looked.

So here they are, with a trained…spy? Soldier? Diplomat? Trying to make the best of this frankly stupid, high handed, clumsy power play by the Chancellor, and Sheltay is supposed to be babysitting.

Only, she isn’t sure what exactly she was supposed to do.

If it were Binks, it would have been managing his slipping words and tripping feet. With Padmé it would have been keeping an eye out for her temper.

Leia is like quicksilver. Or air. Trying to hold her, to understand her, is a struggle moment to moment. Her eyes can be pinched with humor one second, and wide and inscrutable the next, with no apparent context for the shift.

Never mind the insanity of what she can do.

She never takes notes. It’s not a casual or clumsy decision either. She remembers everything that is said at every meeting without ever taking down a word. Even in shorthand. Her comments are insightful, to the point, and—on rare occasion—hilarious.

She says she cobbled her wardrobe together by borrowing Padmé’s things, but it takes skill to dress Naboo opulence so that it slips in seamlessly with Alderaanian fine austerity, and she does it. With the entire collection and without a dresser.

She’s never lost. Even when the Prince mistakenly slips into casual code phrases that the team is familiar with to capture multiple ideas or things that cannot be said, Skywalker is with them, not even a half step behind. Like she can read their minds.

Or speak their language.

She can switch postures between the efficient threat of a solider to the polished grace of a trained courtesan in seconds, and looks equally comfortable in both.

When she does slip, only once that Sheltay has seen, Skywalker is picture perfect high court etiquette but also so sweetly unguarded with the Prince that she makes him laugh. Without even trying.

And she’s proud of it. Not as a technical accomplishment, but with a simpler, purer joy that Sheltay almost—almost—can’t believe what she’s seeing.

It doesn’t change her opinion on Keely’s theory. It’s still stupid.

But Leia isn’t. She’s composed and careful and thorough when she helps them clear the room, not even hesitating to help. Not skimping on the job, acting with a meticulous efficiency that Sheltay had fought for during her own training, loading hours of extra practice in to make sure she didn’t slip.

She’d wanted to be at the royals’ right hands. Now she is, and it’s taking every fiber of her being to not kidnap this child and drag her back into the Queen’s service.

Which makes it all the more baffling and terrible when Leia finally breaks.

#Duty Bound #Bail Organa #Leia Skywalker #outsider POV #Don't Look Back #playing fast and loose with canon #sorry not sorry #turns out they're related #but really Leia why must you be so suspicious

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dindjarins04 · 2 years

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CHAPTER SEVEN

I AM NO JEDI MASTERLIST

You ran towards the medbay, Anakin close behind, telling you the directions considering you've never been to this exact medical room. Once you got there, you straightened your robes before gently opening the doors. Only Captain Tyhoo was in the room so as soon as the doors opened, Padme looked over and a smile broke across her face."(Y/N)...Annie," She greeted as you went to her side, kneeling to be level with her.

"How are you feeling?" You asked, delicately taking her hand in yours.

"Oh...still weak but I'll survive," She says, yawning. Her face was still pale and her hand's...cold. You smiled warmly, rubbing the back of her hand with your thumb.

"I knew you would pull through," You said softly, but you can sense Anakin scoffing through the Force.

"I knew you would believe in me,"

"I'm so sorry for not protecting you the first time...If I just-"

"(Y/N)...I'm still alive because of you. Captain Tyhoo told me because of you Master Jedi Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon Jinn are finding my killer right this second," You fake a smile and nod.

"Sorry, but Lady Amidalla needs rest. She should not be this active so early on in her recovery," A white medical droid said.

"Apologises," You say, standing up and dropping her hand. "Rest to see another day, Amidalla," She scoffs in your direction.

"Call me Padme otherwise I'll call you (Y/N/N)," You roll your eyes before leaving.

‡★•~~~•★‡

You relax on a chair in front of a blazing fire, hair wet from your shower, your only clothing a silky white robe. You finally received a message from Qui-Gon.

"Obi-Wan and I have discovered the mystery planet; Kamino. We have arrived, I'll report back when we have more information to disclose,"

You smile, happy he is still alive and well. You place down your holopad and let out a sigh.

"Princess," Your peaceful environment is disturbed by Anakin as he comes strolling into your room.

"There has to be a spare room,"

"There probably is...but I got here first and insisted we shared a room," You raise a brow and quickly turn your head to face him.

"And they did not question it?"

"I said it's better for us to be closer to each other so we can be more connected to the Force...which is a bunch of crap but they didn't question the Jedi way," You nod and turn back around, your hand reaching for the necklace, thinking back to Lumarina's letter:If anything, love makes us stronger and more connected to the Force.

"Yeah...what a bunch of crap,"

"May I tell you something?" You quirk a brow and watch as he sits to a chair in front of you, beside the blazing fire.

"What is it?"

"I can only think of you," He begins and you sigh sadly.

"Anakin, don't..."

"From the moment I met you, all those years ago, a day hasn't gone by when I haven't thought of you. And now that I'm close to you again, I'm in agony. The closer I get to you, the worse it gets. The thought of not being with you makes my stomach turn over - my mouth goes dry. I feel dizzy. I can't breathe. I'm haunted by the kiss you should never have given me. My heart is beating, hoping that kiss will not become a scar. You are in my very soul, tormenting me. What can I do? I will do anything you ask..." You feel butterflies in your stomach as he confesses his feelings towards you. How can he be this open? Does the Jedi Council not affect him? You look up at him only to see him kneeling before you. How did he move so quickly without you noticing? And...he remembered. The kiss. You thought that meant nothing to him. He gently holds your hand between his two, your silence causing him to continue. "If you are suffering as much as I am, tell me," You're so close to telling him you too have feelings for him. But you remember. The Order. The code. The Oath. The Council.

"...I can't. We can't. It's just not possible," You say though it pains you so much. You build up those walls Anakin's words manage to knock down, refusing to look into his heartbroken eyes.

"Anything's possible. (Y/N), please listen..." You shake your head, trying to find the confidence to speak lies.

"No, you listen. We live in a real world. Come back to it. We're both studying to become Jedi Knights. If you follow your thoughts through to conclusion, they will take us to a place we cannot go..." You breathe to put your weakness under control. "Regardless of the way we feel about each other," You say barely above a whisper, still not looking at Anakin but finding comfort behind your eyelids, the darkness better than looking into his eyes where you know you would break.

"Then you do feel something! There's an extraordinary connection between us. You can't deny that!" He pleads and your eyes start to strain as you try and hold back the tears.

"Anakin, it doesn't make any difference. Jedi aren't allowed to marry. We swore an oath, remember? We'd be expelled from the Order. I will not let...I will not let you...destroy my future because of your teenage feelings," You say, but you don't understand why it's so hard for you to say those words.

"You are asking me to be rational. That is something I know I cannot do. I wish I could wish my feelings away..." He squeezes your hand. "But I can't,"

"I am not going to give in to this! I'm not going to throw my life away! I have more important things to do than fall in love!" You stand up, pulling yourself away from Anakin, letting your anger cover your sadness. There is silence before Anakin speaks from behind you.

"It wouldn't have to be that way...we could keep it a secret," He says, his voice trembling.

"Then we'd be living a lie - one we couldn't keep even if we wanted to. I'd be betraying Lumarina...be betraying Qui-Gon Jinn. Could you easily betray Obi-Wan? Lie to him? Lie to yourself?!" You turn to face him, eyes glassy and you notice the heartbreak in his eyes. "Could you, Anakin? Could you live like that?!" You say, voice louder. There is silence for a moment.

"...No, you're right. It would destroy us," You watch as he picks up his suitcase and walks to the door, his hand hovering over the button, almost as if he's waiting for you to say something; ask him to stay. You turn away, allowing tears to fall freely. You hear a shaky sigh come from him followed by the whoosh of a door opening and then sharply closing. A choked sob leaves you as you rub your arms, falling to the ground in hope of finding comfort. How could you deny all those feelings?! You were so tempted to run back to him, tell him the truth but the Council was holding you back. You were already on thin ice. You couldn't. It wouldn't have lasted long. He would've moved on from me. Stupid hormones. You think bitterly before crawling into your bed and trying to fall asleep.

‡★•~~~•★‡

It was a few hours and sleep was not being your best friend. If anything, it was far away from you. You decided to meditate on the balcony. You sit, legs crossed, hands resting on your knees as you reach through the Force. Rocks and sand around you begin to rise as you meditate.

Thoughts of the old times, with your old master, come back. Moments when you two joked and played around.

Qui-Gon also came to your mind. You remember the times you would break down in tears after the Council degraded you and he would hug you tightly, reassuring you he didn't believe the Council.

When he helped you through your studies, how he would stay up late with you in the library.

But suddenly, the good memories were plagued by darkness. You furrowed your brows at the sudden change in your meditation but continued. You heard lightsabers igniting but saw nothing.

You hear screams, lightsaber upon lightsaber, deep, modulated breathing, metal feet approaching you. Then the voices. First, it was Lumarina's.

"Trust in the Force," Then...Obi-Wan.

"I loved you!" Then...Qui-Gon Jinn.

"You...will bring balance to the Force..." Followed by more screams.

"No..." You mutter and you turn to see a double-bladed red lightsaber behind you. You stare in horror, metal feet coming to view. you quickly stand up. You're no longer on the balcony but in a black abyss.

"I'm sorry Master, but I'm not coming back,"

"I love you, more than anything," You hear Anakin's voice, but it sounds more mature.

"Anakin Skywalker was weak...I destroyed him,"

"No...No," You grab your head as you watch the feet come closer. The red saber then lights up his face. It's him.

"The apprentice lives," It's Darth Maul. "I will always return,"

"NO!" You scream before falling backwards. You groan and you open your eyes to see you back on your balcony. However, you're not laying on a cold hard floor, but in someone's arms. You turn to see Anakin holding you. "Anakin~," You say breathlessly before falling faint again.

‡★•~~~•★‡

You awoke to the sound of birds whistling. You rub your eyes and sit up. You see Anakin on the balcony, hands folded behind his back.

"Anakin?" He turns at the sound of your voice as you get out of the bed.

"You're awake," He says but doesn't walk towards you.

"Um...you came back," You said, keeping your distance. He nods and leans against the railing.

"I...I heard you shouting...crying...I thought you were in pain so I came to see...and you were on the balcony...there was this dark mist surrounding your Force signature. And then rocks and sand were floating by you. I managed to catch you before you hit the floor," You nod and lower your gaze to the ground. "What happened?"

"I was meditating...there were the happy times when all of the sudden it changed...I heard voices from the past and the future...a possible future. And...somewhere...he's alive...Maul is alive,"

"The one who killed your master? Impossible...Obi-Wan killed him," You nod again. But the image was so clear. His face, his lightsaber, his feet...his eyes. You suddenly feel arms wrap around you. "It's okay, (Y/N)...I'm right here, I'll never leave your side...no matter what...I'll be here forever," You hug him back, finding comfort within his hold.

But forever always ends. That's what you've always known.

#anakin x reader #anakin x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars x reader #star wars x you #I AM NO JEDI SERIES #I AM NO JEDI BOOK ONE #I AM NO JEDI

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titan-fodder · 3 years

Text

Prima Vista Part VIII

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~13.2k

Warnings: this one fucking hurts, pining, stupid decisions, miscommunications, explicit sexual content (it’s time for something we’ve been waiting for), yet another party, angst A/N: Read this, but before you murder me remember there’s one more after this. Also, this isn’t the big thing you’ve been waiting for, but I know it’s something a lot of people have wanted to see. Enjoy this ouchie.

Mike doesn’t feel human when he wakes up. He’s nearly positive he no longer is—body taken over by some creature of the bog with toxic breath. Jesus, what the fuck happened last night?

Blinking hurts. Shifting his leg hurts. His chest is fucking killing him, feels like he bruised his god damn sternum, and when he moves to sit up in a bed that is not his, overwhelming nausea has Mike groaning and covering his mouth with one hand.

“He has risen,” a vaguely familiar baritone voice rings through the air, loud enough to make Mike wave his other hand in an attempt to mute it. Erwin chuckles, paying him no attention apparently as he speaks again, “Good timing, too. I just came to drop this off.”

Mike tries to focus his bleary eyes on the nightstand where his friend sets down a bottle of water, a bigger bottle of Gatorade, and several liquid gel pills.

“Chill here for as long as you need. I’m just watching the pledges clean downstairs. Want me to bring the trash can over?” Erwin’s concern can’t entirely hide the amusement in his voice. It’s irritating, but also… Mike needs that trash can.

“Yeah,” he croaks through his palm. “Thanks.”

Erwin nods and grabs the little plastic bin, setting it down next to the bed. Mike considers just picking it up and sitting with it in his lap, but he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stay upright for long enough.

“I’ll be downstairs. If you need anything, you’ll just have to yell because your phone is definitely sitting in a bag of rice in the kitchen right now.”

“What?” Mike frowns. How even…

“It got wet,” Erwin states, like that clarifies anything. “Probably in the shower.”

“Why was I—”

“We can talk about it when you’re less…” Erwin gestures to Mike’s face with one finger and grimaces as he finishes, “Green. You didn’t do anything too terrible, though, so you can rest easy.”

He leaves, and Mike chokes down the pills and a few gulps of water before gently laying back down. He has to retrace metaphorical footsteps to get to the last thing he remembers from the night before, and it’s body shots off some blonde clone. His order of events goes: hanging out with Rhi, talking with you and Erwin, Zeke showing up, catching Eren mid-roofie attempt and throwing him out, getting mad at Nile, and then just a lot of drinking. Too much. Of different kinds. That had been dumb.

He thinks he spent a little while in the bathroom. Erwin was there. And, Nile came and went. He thinks he may have heard your voice a few times but can’t be sure, and honestly, trying to recall anything from the period of time his brain was literally incapable of processing new memories is a pretty big waste of time.

Mike spends most of the day in Erwin’s room. He drifts in and out of restless sleep, waking up to drink his water and Gatorade. At some point, one of the kids, Jean, knocks on the door and drops a bowl of soup off, mumbles, “Erwin told me to bring this up here.” Mike hasn’t spent a ton of time around the current pledge class, but Erwin must like Jean if he trusted the kid enough to give him his room code.

The soup settles his stomach enough to move around a little more. His headache ebbs into a dull throb, and the sharp ache in his chest fades into that of a bruise. By around five o'clock, Mike is finally able to amble downstairs, give everyone a tired wave, mumble his thanks to Erwin, then drive himself to his apartment.

He's still trying to piece together what happened the night before, but he just ends up more confused than before, so he decides to put it behind him and move on. Everyone deserves a wild night every once in a while.

Thanksgiving nears. Mike has already made plans to go home to his parents which means he has to turn down the Pike house Friendsgiving offer that Erwin extends to him.

He tells Mike that Nile and Hitch will be there, but Marie might show her face, "So, that will be interesting."

Some of the brothers who can't make it home will attend. Erwin is bringing Maddie who Mike hasn't heard about in several months, but he's pretty sure that's just to throw him off the scent of whatever Erwin has going on with you. You, who will also be in attendance because apparently your mom opted to go on a girls trip instead of face the family. Mike can't blame her.

He thinks maybe he should reach out to you, to ask about the night he blacked out because he has a feeling you can give him some details that others can't, but Erwin assures Mike that you were only in the bathroom with him for a short time. "Just long enough to see you rip your shirt which she seemed a little too happy about."

Mike doesn't know what he'd say to you anyway. Even after learning that Zeke had blocked his number in your phone. He's still mad that you let the fucker get close enough to do that in the first place, that you had chosen him. It's a wound that just won't heal. Any time he sees you or hears your name, all Mike can think about is why he wasn't good enough.

So, he keeps distancing himself. It seems like the most appropriate thing he can do until he decides he'll be able to have a conversation with you without blowing up.

Mike's parents are happy to see him when he walks in the door. Scout jumps on him until he picks her up and holds her like the puppy she is not. He isn't surprised when his mom asks about you, if you and Mike sorted things out. The question hurts even if he was expecting it, seems like yesterday you were walking around the house like you'd always been a part of it.

Lying is the easiest path to take. He tells his parents that you had to go home for the break, that you couldn't split up your time between two families in just four days, and, of course, they buy it.

Thanksgiving day is nice enough. The family travels a couple cities over to Mike's aunt and uncle's house. It's much bigger, has room for the relatives that are able to make it. There are traditional Greek dishes as well as the usual turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, etc. A few pictures here and there, entertaining his younger cousins—it's a good time.

Until Mike checks his various social media apps and sees the pictures from Friendsgiving.

They're tame, nothing wildly inappropriate, but they still make Mike scowl as he thumbs through them.

One of Nile cutting into the turkey, of Reiner ripping into a drumstick, Connie hoarding all of the cranberry sauce while his best friend, a girl named Sasha, does the same with the deviled eggs. Gelgar looks to be crying with a dot of potato salad in his hair. Marie is indeed there, glaring in the background of a photo where Nile and Hitch are tapping beer bottles together with silly smiles. She looks much happier in the shot of her and Maddie sitting together, laughing over glasses of wine.

Mike's heart stutters when he gets to a photo of you aiming to toss food into Reiner's mouth, then of you and Erwin both holding beers in one hand and pointing matching finger guns with the other.

Thick as fucking thieves. Two peas in a god damn pod. Mike wants to throw his phone out the window of his dad's suburban.

There are several more pictures that Mike doesn't bother to look at. He'd like to have a good time with his parents for the remainder of his break, and there's no way he'll be able to do that if he's pissed off.

So, he distracts himself. He goes on walks with Scout and plays with her for hours, watches old movies with his mom and dad, calls a couple relatives from overseas to catch up. But, those pictures are seared into the back of his mind, surfacing whenever he has down time.

He doesn't have any desire to go back to campus, not if he's gonna see you and Erwin together. His friend can deny it all he wants, but Mike knows something is going on between the two of you, and as he drives back to the college, he finally has the realization that… you might just be a shitty person.

Yeah, you have issues, but so does everyone. It doesn't excuse you from—from fucking toying with people, from using them as puppets whenever you need to. Mike wishes he'd never even tempted you to sleep with him that last time. It had felt too good and too right, but apparently you don't feel the same way. You went right back to Zeke once you'd gotten what you wanted, and Mike should have seen that coming. He should have been prepared for it. On some level he knew that's what you'd do, but that never stopped him from hoping that maybe… maybe it would have opened your eyes.

Plus, it ruined the entire Jurassic Park franchise for him, so that sucks.

He picks up where he left off both in his classes and in his social life. He stays away from PKA as much as he can but still attends meetings when necessary. The lacrosse season is coming to an end, so he tries to make the most of it. Rhi ends up in his bed again, both of them taking what they can from each other. Erwin jokes that he's gonna fall in love with her— "You know what happened the last time you tried to keep it casual," —and Mike nearly decks him in the face.

You don't try to talk to him, no texts or calls. When you see each other on campus, you don't spare him more than a sad glance as you pass him.

Mike is fine with it. He isn't about to be the one to make the move to talk things out. Honestly, he doesn't know if there's anything to talk out. You dated Zeke, and now you're dating Mike's best friend and trying to hide it.

He's mad at both of you, but it's easier to channel that blistering anger toward you rather than Erwin who he has to see on a regular basis. Besides, Erwin has always gotten around. Mike isn't especially surprised that he'd try his hand with you especially after what happened at the ranch house, but fuck, couldn't he have waited until after he and Mike graduated or something? Just disrespectful. That's what it is.

"Bro, I do not wanna go to another party," Mike's voice rises in frustration. "Consider me partied the fuck out, okay? I'm tired of 'em."

"It's not even a party," Erwin tells him. "It's more like a gathering of… like-minded individuals."

Mike snorts. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm not kidding! Like, twelve people at the most. All we're doing is hanging out at the ranch house."

"Will there be drinking?" Mike questions, moving his head back and forth in a mocking way.

Erwin shrugs his shoulders where he sits. "Of course there'll be drinking, but you don't have to partake. I just want you there to chill. Come on, man."

"Who's going?"

The blond lists off some of the Friendsgiving group, but he doesn't get to finish because once Erwin utters your name, Mike cuts him off with a loud, "Nope!"

"Duuuude," Erwin sounds like the frustrated one now, not that he has any right to be.

"Don't dude me! Why the fuck would you think I'd have any interest in watching you two giggle and cuddle n' shit."

"Mike," Erwin groans, rubbing his forehead. "How many times do I have to tell you…"

"You don't have to tell me anything. I already know what I need to know."

Standing up, Erwin seems like he's at his wit's end when he barks, "You don't know shit! You're seeing what you want to see without asking either of us! She misses you, dude. I'm just the next best thing."

"Nice to know your dick game isn't better than mine at least," Mike grumbles.

"Jesus Christ, you know what? I don't care. Come to the house, or don't come. Whatever."

Erwin takes long strides to get to Mike's front door, obviously ready to get away from him. He slams it hard enough to make Mike flinch.

He doesn't care how annoyed Erwin is with him. It's partially his fault that Mike doesn't want to go to the gathering, and he should know that. He'll come to understand eventually, and that thought makes it easier for Mike to make his decision. He's not gonna go. He refuses. There's no way. He won't—

Mike ends up going.

After powering through finals and visiting his parents for another few days. He has a mental debate the entire way to the ranch house, swearing to himself, going over the pros and cons. He comes close to turning around more than a few times, but after a couple hours, Mike finally pulls into the large circle drive right behind Levi's black Prius.

Erwin is extremely surprised to see him but keeps his mouth closed about it, just tells him, "Room upstairs on the far right is still open."

Mike drops his stuff off then greets the others—Nile, Gelgar, Reiner, Jean, Marco, and Levi.

"Wasn't expecting to see you here," the last states, focused on burning the loose string of his hoodie with a lighter. "Erwin told me you guys had some bullshit argument."

"Happens sometimes," Mike dismisses as he takes a place on the couch.

"I guess. This is why I don't have a lot of friends. Can't put up with stupid shit like that."

"Oh, is that why?" Mike rolls his eyes.

Levi snickers, shaking his head. "Aw man, he was right. You are in a bad mood, aren't ya'?

"Man, fuck off."

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Mike is bouncing his foot where it's thrown over his opposite leg—anxious or angry or some other negative emotion he needs to get rid of.

"Party's gonna be a fucking sausage fest," Levi mumbles.

Nile passes behind the couch just in time to hear and informs the smaller man, "Not entirely. Maddie, Marie, Hitch, and Mike's little heartbreaker should be getting here soon."

Mike groans internally but speaks out loud, "This was a mistake. I can't fucking be here if you guys keep talking about her."

"If you can't handle us talking about her, how're you gonna handle seeing her?" Levi scoffs.

Erwin has stocked the bar with craft beer and various wines. Mike considers going ahead and breaking a few bottles open, but he resists—doesn't want a repeat of the forgotten party.

They set up a horror video game upstairs and an animated adult series downstairs. Erwin wasn't lying about it being a more relaxed environment than usual, but that doesn't stop Mike's neck from prickling when you arrive with Hitch at around five. Maddie and Marie show up a couple hours later, and Mike can feel the tension that surrounds all four of you. Amusing as it can be, he really doesn't have the patience for cattiness tonight.

High quality Chinese food is provided courtesy of Erwin's father's credit card as well as dipped strawberries that Nile keeps feeding Hitch. It gets Marie very heated very quickly, and Maddie has to talk her down in another room.

It makes Mike wonder if you would ever let him feed you like that or if you would snort and bat his hand away. What the fuck do you think you're doing, Zacharias? That's couples shit.

It makes him sigh and slouch on the couch, thankful you're upstairs watching Connie play the most recent Resident Evil.

He knows you're not a fan of horror, so the only reason you'd be up there is to avoid Mike.

Good.

Erwin is the first to open the wine. Maddie won't leave his side, stuck to him like a magnet. The fact that he has to get a drink only furthers Mike's theory that Erwin didn't invite her as a real date.

He spends a fair amount of time shooting the shit with Levi. It isn't necessarily the most enjoyable conversation considering Levi's constant smartass comments, but it's better than trudging up to the second floor.

Nile fucks Hitch in the bathroom for everyone to hear. Marie starts crying and runs to the porch. This gathering is about as insufferable as Mike assumed it would be.

Eventually, you journey downstairs. It was inevitable. You spare Mike a glance and sigh as you make your way to the kitchen to grab a beer—you don't even like beer, so why—

"Hey, can you grab me one too?" Erwin calls out, and when you hand it to him, he gives you that hundred watt grin Mike knows brings girls to their knees, but while Maddie stares at him with that dreamy look in her eyes, you just snort and gently shove him.

"Don't fuckin' look at me like that, Smith."

Ah, the last name card, the one that you pull to act like you're all aloof when really you're just reeling them in.

"Like what?" Erwin asks before taking a sip, still smiling around the rim of the bottle.

"You know what."

Mike chooses then to go upstairs, knowing he steals your attention as he stomps like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Why did he even come here? Was it just to give himself more reason to brood? Solidify that he's valid in being angry?

Connie is trembling as his character makes his way through a decrepit house. Jean laughs every few minutes, but he also startles at every jump scare, leaving Reiner to call both of them pussies as he bites into strawberry after strawberry, throwing the stems into a little bowl in his lap. Mike supposes the first years are entertaining enough. He can see why Erwin invited them here.

It's close to nine o'clock. Mike is bored out of his mind, can't help venturing back downstairs mostly because he's tired of watching the pledges swear and shout at the video game (including Reiner now) but also out of morbid curiosity.

Marie has returned and is sitting in the kitchen with Maddie, both of whom are glaring into the den where you, Erwin, Nile, and Hitch share the couch. Hitch may as well be in Nile's lap, but you're sitting on the back ridge, feet planted on the cushions as you hunch forward and nurse a beer. Your knee is against Erwin's arm, but that's the only point of contact. Still, whenever something funny is said on the TV show, he looks up at you, as if to check that you're laughing, taking it in. Mike can't blame him. You have one of the cutest laughs he's ever heard.

Levi and Gelgar are both on plush loveseats on opposite sides of the room, either scrolling or typing on their phones.

Again, Mike has to think about how laid back the party is—even if he's a mess. It's so different from the raucous scenes he's used to—blasting music and keg stands and dancing on tables. This would be infinitely preferable if it weren't for the open pit in Mike's stomach.

If he could just chill the fuck out, pay absolutely no attention to you and Erwin and the way his fingers slowly wrap around your ankle when you won't stop bouncing your leg.

Not together his ass.

When Mike gets a text from Rhi, he basically sighs in relief—the perfect opportunity to forget about you for a while.

He doesn't bother asking to make sure it's okay with the host, just messages back, what are you doing rn? and immediately asks her to come over, knowing she only lives about an hour away.

Naturally, she agrees. One of the only great things about Rhi is that she’s always, always down to fuck. Mike doesn’t know if it has something to do with his size or if she just has a high sex drive. Either way, he’s glad for it..

He meets her on the porch after waiting for what feels like an eternity, just having to sit and watch you kick Erwin’s thigh whenever he says something dumb. He always retaliates by pulling on your little toes which makes you squeak and almost fall off the couch. It’s fucking maddening, makes Mike want to pull his hair out or throw something, just trash the fucking house because Erwin deserves it.

But, then Rhi arrives in all her Ugg boot glory, wearing the old, green hoodie that you had given back to Mike a few months ago.

They walk in, Mike’s hands on her shoulders like he’s pushing her over the threshold. You look up, take the other girl in, then very quickly step off the couch and prance into the kitchen without saying a word.

Erwin, however, makes up for your silence, wide eyed as he stares at Rhi and utters, “Fuck.”

* You didn’t want to be like Maddie and Marie, jogging to a private place to cry over a fucking boy, but god, you are definitely locked in the bathroom, hunched over the sink sobbing as quietly as you can. Your nose is running, and your eyes are burning, leaking god damn rivers

It wouldn’t have been so bad if she was just in her normal winter sorority get-up. But the hoodie? The one you wore for months on end, the one Mike would sniff whenever he would lay his head on your stomach, mumbling something about, “Smells good. Might have to take it back.” He didn’t have to say it out loud, but you knew he always felt a little jolt of pride when you’d wear it, like you were advertising how close you were to him.

So, to see another girl wearing it—to see Rhi wearing it—it fucking hurts. Your throat is sore from holding back those loud, pained cries. Your stomach is rolling like you ate something spoiled. Your fingers ache from digging into the fancy, granite sink. Everything hurts.

It makes you wonder if Mike felt like this when you first told him about Zeke, if he feels like this now that he thinks you’re with Erwin—stupid, stupid, stupid. You shouldn’t have waited so long to talk to him. You should have cleared things up right after the party. Now, it’s too late.

There’s a knock on the door that makes you sniff and wipe your nose, but you still tell whoever is on the other side (most likely Hitch or Erwin), “Go away.”

“It’s me.” Erwin. "Let me in."

"Literally what did I just say?"

"If you don't unlock the door, I'll kick it in. It's my house, so I won't get in trouble for it."

"Oh my god," you grumble before turning the lock on the knob. "Spoiled fucking brat."

Erwin steps in and closes the door then takes a good look at your puffy face and red eyes. Sighing, he leans against the wall. "For the record, I didn't invite her. Mike must have—"

"That doesn't make me feel any better," you say, grabbing some toilet paper to blow your nose. "Actually, it makes me feel even worse."

"I just wanted to make sure you knew."

"What, d'you want brownie points or something?" You ask sarcastically, making sure the toilet lid is down before sitting on it, bracing your arms on your knees and looking up at Erwin to find him frowning. "Sorry. I'm being a bitch, I know."

He waves it off. "It's understandable. I'm not very happy with him either. The perpetual shitty mood is driving me crazy."

You don't know much about that other than it being entirely your fault, so you apologize, "Yeah, sorry about that."

"If you guys would have just talked it out like adults—"

"Well, we didn't, Erwin. And, it seems like it's not even an option any more, so…" you hold your hands out in a clueless fashion, like you're at a loss. "I don't know what you want me to do."

Your voice is thick, straining against the lump in your throat. Vision going blurry again, you shove your palms against your eyes, repeating, no more crying, no more crying, no more crying.

"I'm sorry he's doing this to you," Erwin says quietly.

You sniffle, almost laugh when you reply, "Not really different from what I did to him. Like," you have to blow your nose again so it doesn't start running, toss the toilet paper into the waste basket next to you. "I don't know if he's trying to get back at me or legitimately moving on, but I can't exactly hold it against him."

"Still," Erwin takes a couple steps toward you. "Pulling this kind of shit is fucked up. He had to have known it would hurt you on some level."

"You don't have to, like, take my side or whatever," you state. "I know we're friends and all, but you don't have to coddle me like this."

"I'm not trying to coddle you. I'm sympathizing. There's a difference."

"Whatever it is, it's unnecessary," you mumble.

"Yeah?" Another step closer so that he's right in front of you. "So, you weren't planning on crying in here for the rest of the night?"

"No," you're quick to deny, but your lips quirk upward when you correct, "I was gonna go up to my room and cry in there for the rest of the night."

Erwin shakes his head then pulls you into a strange embrace, pressing your face to his stomach with one hand while the other settles between your shoulder blades.

Your first instinct is to shove him away, but his shirt is soft and smells like detergent, and his stomach is firm and grounding against your cheek, and the knuckles rubbing up and down the top of your spine are warm and soothing.

So, you stay in the slightly awkward position, shutting your eyes and trying to relax, but all you can think about is Mike walking in with his hands on Rhi and the way she looked in his hoodie. Is she cuter than you? Does she smell better than you? Does she treat him better than you did?

Tears well up in your eyes once again, dampening Erwin's shirt as they slip over your waterline, and before you know it, you're clutching the material covering the small of his back and crying against him.

And, he lets you—just keeps stroking between your shoulders and shushing you with a quiet, "I know, I know. It'll be okay."

Erwin is cocky and bold, takes things a little too far sometimes, but, just as you thought last year after he stole that kiss, he is good. Even if he's broken too many hearts to count and completely disregarded people's feelings, he's a good guy. At the very least, he's good to you, and that's what you need at the moment.

"What time is it?" You speak into his shirt.

"About eleven thirty."

You hum and turn so that your forehead is resting just above his hips. It could be a suggestive position, but—

But nothing.

You blink a few times, weighing the situation, everything that unfolded tonight—everything that's unfolded over the past semester and… it would make sense. It's not like you've never thought about it before. You're worked up and need to unwind, need to clear your head, and besides, Mike already believes there's something between you and Erwin, so why not take advantage of that?

Sucking on your bottom lip, you go through a list of pros and cons. The biggest downside is that Mike will be upset with you. He already is, though, so there’s isn’t much to lose on that front. The upside is that you'll be able to forget about him for a while and possibly get an orgasm out of it.

"Hey, Erwin…" You're not entirely sure how to bring it up, but it turns out you don't have to.

"Don't fucking ask," he huffs. Perceptive bastard.

You push away from his stomach and look up at him. "Okay, why, though?"

His head is hanging back, gaze trained on the ceiling as he admits, "Because if you ask, I won't say no, and it'll only make things worse."

Something about that gives you butterflies. That's a good sign, means you might be invested enough to finally let your mind wander from Mike.

"Mike already thinks we're fucking, though, so unless you don't actually want to fuck me, I don't see why we shouldn't."

Erwin walks backward until he hits the cabinets. His full lips are pressed into a tight line, and his blue eyes look like a warning. Don't push me.

"Do you honestly think you won't walk away from that feeling guilty?" He questions. "We know we aren't sleeping together, that we aren't actually doing anything wrong even if Mike doesn't believe it. But, to actually go through with it?" Erwin lets out a little chuckle and crosses his arms over his chest. "I probably won't feel bad 'cause I'm kind of an asshole, but you? You will feel awful."

"I already feel awful," you remind him as you stand. "I already feel guilty. If you think I could feel any fucking worse than I already do, you might be overestimating my—my—I don't know—emotional capacity?"

Moving forward, you nudge Erwin out of the way to get to the sink, splashing cold water on your face to clean it of dried tears. You cup a hand under the faucet, then toss some water into your mouth, swishing, and spitting, and turning back around.

Erwin's gaze is dark and not at all subtle when he eyes you up and down.

"I might hurt you, you know," he states in a voice that's considerably deeper than before.

You raise your eyebrows, unconvinced. "You don't have to worry about me catching feelings, Smith. Relax."

Mouth tugging up on one side, Erwin smirks in a way that makes you squirm where you stand.

"That's not what I meant."

It takes you a moment to decipher what he's trying to say, but you breathe an, "Oh," when you realize, then another as it truly sinks in. "Oh."

That's okay, you want to tell him. I want to be hurt tonight. You only want it if it will hurt. If you confess to that desire, though, Erwin might back out—a disappointment considering the way you're starting to get a little excited.

"If I can handle Mike, I can handle you," you say, fully aware that he'll take it as a challenge. If there's one thing you know about men, it's that they thrive off competition.

Erwin is no different as he slides in front of you, hands finding your hips and pulling them to his. He's already half hard in his khakis, and you stand on your tip-toes, brushing against him as you do, to tilt your head back and hover just under his mouth as you tease, "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it before."

"You have no idea how often I've thought about it—how often I think about it."

You nip at his bottom lip, enjoying the way he licks it afterward. "Have you been holding back since we started hanging out—just the two of us?"

His fingers dig into your back, just above the curve of your ass, and you already know there will be small bruises left behind.

"Do you want me to paint a picture?" He rumbles, and you nod, pressing a kiss to his throat. "Any time I have you in my room I think about fucking you. On the bed. Over my desk. Up against a wall…" A little gasp makes its way out of him as you bite down on the skin you've been sucking on, and Erwin ruts against you a couple times before continuing, voice a little more strangled than before.

"Thought about fucking you downstairs on the couch for the whole frat to see, all spread out, moaning like a porn star. I know what you sound like," he whispers, catching you off guard when he suddenly lifts you to set you on the counter. "I've heard the way you scream for Mike."

There's a pang in your chest at the mention of him, but it's gone just as quickly.

"And, you'd like it, wouldn't you? Being watched." Erwin trails his lips from your temple to your ear, making you shiver when he speaks into it, "You can pretend all you want, but I know you liked it when I walked in on you and him. You liked being on display."

He isn't wrong. You replay that instance in your head a little more than you probably should.

Hearing the fact stated now, though, right to your face has your body heating, arousal flooding you and making warmth pool between your legs.

"You can admit it, it's okay. I've known for a while now."

One of his hands moves to the inside of your thigh then further up, fingers dancing over your covered pussy. It's your turn to gasp. You clutch his shoulders and spread your legs despite knowing there's no way you'll be satisfied with this, not when thick denim is separating you from his touch.

"Don't get too cocky, Smith." You try to sound confident, but it's hard to when your breath keeps hitching.

"Why?" He grazes his teeth over the sensitive space below your ear, and it makes you twitch in his grasp. "I have every reason to be."

He goes on to list every other place he's thought about fucking you—apparently just about every setting you've ever been in with him. Each and every Pike party, the locker room before or after a lacrosse game, his Mustang, Mike's Wrangler.

"That's fucked up," you somehow manage.

Erwin shrugs his shoulders, mumbles, "Can't help it," then slots his lips against yours for the first time (or, the first consensual time).

You're reminded of Zeke, the way all you did was compare him, only now with Erwin, you have two men who flash through your mind. He's softer than Zeke but just as bold as he cradles your head and slips his tongue into your mouth—tastes sweeter than Mike (probably from the strawberries), but it's not necessarily a good thing. It isn't bad either. It's just Erwin… Different.

His hair doesn't brush your cheeks like Mike's does. He doesn't have glasses to dig into your skin. Clean shaven, no coarse hairs to tickle against you, and he's smack in the middle in terms of height. You have to crane your neck more than you did with Zeke but less than you had to with Mike.

It's all a little jarring, but you feel this was always sort of an inevitability, at least once you started spending time with Erwin one on one. You never would have let this happen if you had stayed with Mike—if you had actually taken the next step with him—but that's why you started hanging out with Erwin in the first place.

You never noticed the way your back and forth was flirty, mostly just you giving him shit about one thing or another, but apparently others read further into it. And, you've had as good a time as you can. The heartache has put a damper on things, kept Erwin mostly off your radar save for the days you woke up frustrated and desperate, but that's what your vibrator is for.

Apparently, while you were busy making sure things stayed friendly between the two of you, Erwin's mind was getting away from him. Every god damn time you hung out, he told you, whether it was at the house or out to lunch, walking with you to classes or out to your car.

He did make it a habit of touching you, you can admit, but none of it was inappropriate—a nudge to knock you off balance that would result in you hitting him, a prod in the ribs that would result in you squeaking and hitting him. Sticking a foot out to trip you that would result in you…

Dude obviously likes to be slapped around.

There's also the hugs. Up in his room when you feel extra gloomy, he'd wrap his arms around you and sway back and forth. Sometimes he'd sit and pull you with him, turn on a movie and keep a tight hold around your shoulders. There were afternoons you'd walk into his room while he was studying and just pass out in his bed, up too late the night before from worrying and obsessing, in need of a nap before your evening lecture. He'd set an alarm for you, stay up for a while longer before allowing himself to take a break and crawl under the blankets beside to—

Oh, god, you've been dating Erwin Smith.

You have to break away from him to laugh, lightly hitting your head against his chest so that he chuckles and asks, "What?"

"I—" You look back up at him, shaking your head to yourself. "I can't believe I didn't fucking see it."

"See what?"

"You and me—"

"You and I," he corrects, and you shove him.

"You and I have just been doing what Mike and I were doing."

"Uh, excuse me," he holds a finger up. "We have not been having endless sex, thank you."

"That's not—" You roll your eyes. "I'm saying we've been dating without actually dating. Like, I get why everyone thinks we're a thing."

"Oh," Erwin nods, sucking his teeth for a second then adding, "Yeah, I was wondering when you would figure that out."

"Fucker. Did you do it on purpose? Like, just to prove you could?"

He frowns, looking genuinely offended. "Christ, what kind of person do you think I am?"

"Not twenty minutes ago you confessed to being an asshole."

His face softens when he snickers. "Okay, true. But, no. I'm not trying to manipulate Mike or you for that matter. You've been upset, and you've put up with a lot of shit over the last few months, and I just figured you could use a friend."

Staring up at him, you notice the way his face is turning a little red, and you hold your tongue between your teeth as you smile knowingly.

"You caaare about meee."

He scoffs and looks away

"Heartbreaker Smith cares about a girl," you tease. "How embarrassing."

"Laugh it up. You would've been miserable without me."

"I mean, yeah, but still. What's it like having a platonic girlfriend?"

He tilts his head to the side then reaches forward to squeeze your thighs. "Is it really platonic if we're about to have sex?"

"Absolutely. Hundred percent."

"You're not even a little worried that it'll become a regular thing and you'll fall in love?" The arrogance is both astounding and amusing.

Cocking your head, you take a deep breath, expression one of false sympathy as you pat his stomach. "I'm positive. Unfortunately, my heart belongs to another."

Erwin clicks his tongue before moving forward and sliding his hands between the counter and your ass. "I'm a little hurt, honestly. I'm used to fucking a girl and having to hide out for a while afterward—always so clingy."

You squint, can't tell if he's being serious or overdramatizing to annoy you.

"You know what? Nevermind. I don't even want your little playboy ass anymore—"

Naturally, he turns the charm back on right then, getting too close to your face, blue eyes flicking to your lips before he breathes, "Don't lie," and presses a tiny peck to them. "The tough girl act is only believable for so long."

"Wow, fuck you."

"That's the idea," he smirks.

"Har fucking har. You're so funny."

Erwin pulls you closer to the edge of the counter and grinds his hips against yours then prompts, "Your room or mine?"

"Mine," you reply. "I'd rather you have to do the walk of shame later."

"Probably a good idea since you won't be able to once I'm finished with you."

You actually laugh out loud. It would have worked on you a few minutes ago, but all the joking has you a little giggly at this point.

Fuck, he is going to make a great distraction.

"Okay, calm down. Don't make promises you can't keep."

"Sounds like a challenge to me."

"Men," you sigh. "So predictable."

After minutes more of unnecessary banter, Erwin finally coaxes you out of the bathroom you've both spent far too much time in. Your face has cleared up, the urge to cry subsiding, though your heart still drops in your chest when you pass behind Mike and Rhi on the couch, green eyes tracking you as you walk up the stairs in front of Erwin.

This is not the right way to solve a problem, but it'll probably be fun for a while. It's already fun as Erwin kicks the door closed and walks you back to the bed. He isn't even touching you, just watching you with a hazy blue gaze. He isn't smiling, looks like a predator, and honestly, it's ridiculously attractive.

"Stop making that face."

"What face?"

"That—that—"

You run into the bed, wave your arms to keep your balance, but Erwin presses his fingertips to your chest and just barely pushes to knock you back.

"What face, hm?"

The hair on your arms and neck is standing on end, anticipation bubbling in your gut as you try to crawl higher on the mattress only for Erwin to grab you by the ankle and tug you back down.

Damn. He's good at this.

"Stay," he commands, straightening up to take his shirt off.

He's tan and toned, light blonde hair sprinkled over his chest and above the waistband of his pants.

You're reminded of the very first Pike party you went to, the first time you slept with Mike (and can't remember), walking downstairs the following morning to find Erwin in the kitchen wearing sweats and drinking his coffee and smirking at you like he could tell the future.

Maddening. He's maddening.

You rid yourself of your own top then shimmy out of your jeans. Erwin eyes you hungrily, causing your whole body to tingle. It simultaneously makes you want to cover yourself and spread yourself open for him.

"I have been waiting way too fucking long for this," Erwin mumbles, raking fingernails down your torso so that you take in a shuddering breath.

"It's been, like, a y-year and a half." Your back arches on its own volition, hips bucking as Erwin scratches over the bones before catching your thong and pulling it down. He kneels at the end of the bed, a familiar scene save for the head of shiny, golden hair.

"A year and a half of having to look but not touch."

"Poor little—" you gasp when he parts your folds with his thumbs, staring at your pussy then blowing a stream of air over it.

"Do you know how many times I've jacked off to the thought of you? How many times I've slept with other girls while imagining it was you?"

You want to make another smartass comment, tease him about being a pervert or in his feelings or something, but you can't find your voice as he licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. You stare at the ceiling, not even blinking as too many signals fire in your brain all at once.

Erwin is good with his mouth. Like, stupid good. He has a teasing rhythm, flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue until your muscles are coiled then moves to trace the ring of your entrance, taking his time as you turn from human to puddle.

He’s better at this than Zeke who would purposely graze his teeth over your sensitive little bud a little too hard on purpose, would suck on it until it hurt. He liked when you whimpered for him, liked leaving raised welts on your ribs and back from where he’d scratched. The intermixed pain and pleasure never failed to make you come, but the climb up to that precipice was usually precarious for lack of a better term.

Then, there’s Mike (because of course there is). His mood usually determined how he would take you, hard and fast before a game or slow and lazy as you both relaxed in his room. One thing always stayed the same no matter his disposition, and it’s that he fucking worshiped your pussy—even said it on multiple occasions. He would eat you out like a starving man, lapping at your juices like it would quench his thirst. Some days he would overstimulate you to the point of tears, neverending licks lavished over your clit as he pumped thick fingers in and out of your cunt. Other days he would go down on you like it was a fucking hobby—turn on a movie, spread you out on the foot of his bed, and eat you out while only halfway paying attention to the TV. He could pull multiple orgasms from you that way, letting you come around a finger or two before returning to your pulsing clit. Fuck, you used to make such a mess. He’d spend minutes trying to lick you clean, but you always ended up in the shower afterward.

You shouldn’t be thinking of that right now, though. You should be thinking about Erwin’s clever tongue and the fingertips just barely brushing over sensitive skin. You want them inside of you, want something to clamp down on, but no matter how much you pull his hair or utter a breathy, “Please,” he keeps the same pace, only moving on when he feels like it.

He’s doing it on purpose, trying to break you before even getting to the point of fucking you, and if you’re being honest, it just might work. He’s gonna make you lose your god damn mind tonight. Exactly like you want to.

“Fuck, how much p-practice have you had with th-this?”

Erwin laughs, stilling your wriggling by curling his arms around your thighs. “Too much, probably.”

You whine when he continues, but when he starts softly sucking on your clit, you’re surprised at how close you suddenly feel, your legs naturally trying to spread further but remaining immobilized in Erwin’s grip. The threat of not being able to move only intensifies the building sensation in your gut, and soon you’re gasping his name, eyes rolling as you try in vain to buck further into his face.

You feel more than hear Erwin groan, a deep vibration that pours over your clit and makes you twitch. He gives you a few more long licks, then pulls back and stands, exposing the way his mouth and chin are covered in a glossy sheen.

“Feel better yet?” He smirks.

You wave a lazy hand, don’t want to fluff his ego too much, so you allow him to witness your borderline stoned state while still jeering, “I’ll feel better when I have your cock inside me.”

Erwin laughs to himself, mutters, “Eager,” then takes his pants off.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you give his cock a cursory glance and stop. “Hold on,” then slide off the bed and to your knees.

If you’re gonna fuck Erwin Smith, you’re at least gonna appreciate it.

He inhales sharply as you place your hands on his thighs, eyes traveling over his length. It’s pretty, above average in size, smooth, with a flared tip that’s currently flushing a dark pink.

“I really hate to admit this, but you could be, like, a dick model.”

He chokes on some kind of snort, and you swear his entire chest turns red. “I—thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” you tell him, promptly taking hold of his cock and guiding it into your mouth.

“Oh, fuck, fuck—”

His skin is soft against your tongue, warm as you take him deeper. His girth stretches your jaw, but you’re still pretty used to the feeling, had to get used to it with Mike because he’s a little bigger than—

That’s not important.

Erwin breathes through his teeth as he places a hand on the top of your head, and when you look up at him through your eyelashes, he lets out a disbelieving little laugh. That confident fucking tease is nowhere to be found as you swipe your tongue over the tiny hole leaking pre then surge forward, almost pressing your nose to his pelvis as you run the muscle back and forth under the base of his cock.

“Shit, let me—let me lean against the bed,” he says, pulling you off him and chuckling, “Gonna make my fucking knees buckle.”

You turn where you’re kneeling, waiting for him to get better stabilized before resuming your efforts to ruin this annoying, charming frat boy who is always put together. You suck and slurp and trigger your gag reflex a couple times. Erwin’s fingers scratch against your scalp like he’s looking for purchase. He’s careful not to be too brutal as he pushes you down on his cock, raising his hips to meet your rhythm. His head is thrown back, thighs tensing under your hands as his chest rises and falls with short breaths.

You have to work up to it, but once you feel loose enough, you press forward and let Erwin slip further into your throat. His voice sounds like honey when he groans a low, “Hoooly fuck,” letting his head hang down as he attempts to stare at you with unfocused eyes.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he huffs. “Keep going and we won’t get to the main event.”

You pull off of him with a lewd pop then raise to your feet. Your knees are a little sore, but it’s nothing some exercise won’t work out.

“Want me to wear a condom?”

“I don’t care. I’m clean and on birth control,” you tell him. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m clean, but I haven’t gotten my birth control prescription refilled in a wh—”

You flick his chest, and Erwin laughs as he bats you away.

“Alright. Up on the bed with you then,” he motions to the mattress. “Lay on the edge.”

You do as you're told, spreading your legs for Erwin to stand between, and you bite your lip when you feel him rub the head of his cock between your folds. You’re still wet with slick—probably dripped onto the carpet when you were giving him head—which makes the glide easier as he teases you.

“Ready?” He asks, wriggling thick eyebrows until you smile. He doesn’t wait for an actual answer before he starts pushing in, pressing your legs to your chest as he slowly seats himself in your cunt.

You’re making that face—eyebrows moving toward your hairline as if you’re worried, jaw dropping open as air is pushed from your lungs. Erwin looks focused, licking his lips as he gazes down at the way your pussy stretches around him.

He thrusts in and out at a tortuous pace, apparently waiting for you to start trembling around him before he deems you ready to take more. Every one of his movements is measured, slowly pulling out only to push in all at once. The ridge of his cock drags over your g-spot, pressing firmly against it and making you claw at his shoulders.

He feels good, satisfying, but he’s not quite as good as Mike who used to hit all your spots without even thinking about it—somehow making you beg like a whore and sing like a little girl in Sunday school all at the same time.

Still, you don’t have to lie when Erwin quickens his pace and pants, “Feel good?”

“Fuck—yes, yes, Jesus Christ—”

He’s pulling all manner of crude sounds from your pussy, wet and greedy as it sucks him back in with every rut of his hips. The angle is perfect—his height paired with the bed on stilts has him hitting your spot every time, and you feel the need to warn him, “If you keep—keep fucking me like this—god—m’gonna squirt.”

“Fuck yes,” he praises, wetting a thumb in his mouth before bringing it down to massage your clit. He only speeds up as your voice rises, body confused like your muscles don’t know if they should be flexed or relaxed.

You feel that tell-tale burning, that urge that only gets stronger the more Erwin abuses your g-spot and presses against your clit.

“Shit, shit, shit—”

Erwin groans when fluid starts to trickle from you, pushes more and more out of you while quickly swiping two fingers over your clit. The sense of relief is mind-numbing. You can’t even be upset that your sheets are gonna be damp whenever you decide to sleep.

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t lose his rhythm, just sticks his two wet fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

You see it now—the skill, the appeal, why the girls always come back to him. It makes sense. He’s devastatingly handsome, especially like this, all fucked out and flushed, hair out of place, lips red and swollen from biting them.

Yeah, Erwin is fucking hot.

But, that doesn’t mean he’s your type.

Pulling out, he flips you onto your stomach, and you have to stand on your tip-toes as you lean over the bed. The burn in your calves disappears almost entirely when he slides into you from behind, pelvis pressing against your ass as he curls over you, cupping your tits and tweaking your hardened nipples as he gifts you with a series of shallow thrusts. It makes you whimper and teeter forward, unable to balance and squirm at the same time. Face suddenly buried in the mattress, your cries are muffled by the blankets. Erwin’s hands travel back to your hips, rocking you back and forth on his slick cock. He’s getting a little rougher, pressing into you as deeply as he can, and the fact that you’ll be sore from this tomorrow gives you a strange sense of satisfaction.

Only way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else, right? Or, underneath in your case. Being a little more in control wouldn’t be the worst thing, though, so…

“Erwin, Erwin, fuck—Lemme ride you.”

There is no hesitation. Erwin slips out of you and throws himself onto the bed, grinning crookedly as he watches you climb over him on unsteady limbs. His patience must have worn out some time ago, because he holds his cock with one hand, using the other to line you up with it, then guides you down his length.

You have to sit still for a second, or you would like to, but Erwin is still holding your hips, and he rocks you back and forth in his lap like he knows. He probably does. He’s probably fucked enough girls to notice exactly when their eyes pop open, when they shudder and break out in goosebumps because that pressure is hitting exactly where it needs to, and yeah, he knows.

Finding it in yourself to move again, you lean over Erwin, planting your hands on the pillows by his head, then start bouncing on his cock. He hisses in a dark, appreciative way, eyes and hands immediately drawn to your chest. He sits up enough to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, licking and pinching then doing the same to the other.

He’s so good—feels so good, knows just where to touch, the exact place to bite on your neck that makes you melt, but how—how does he know that? It’s like he has a sixth sense or—

Or, he just paid attention to the bruises that Mike used to leave on the sides of your throat. That checks out.

Fuck, he used to mark you like he wanted everyone to see, especially that last night. It was almost animalistic, like he had been—marking his territory, Zeke’s voice plays in your head. It makes you frown, and you rid yourself of the thought only to replace it with the memory of Mike’s mouth on your skin, his calloused fingertips trailing down your torso, huge hands wrapping around your legs to pull you against him—

You whine, glad it sounds like a sound of desperation rather than frustration. You just want to stop thinking about him. Just an hour—if you could go a single fucking hour—

“Hey, look at me,” Erwin commands in a soft voice.

You open your eyes, still hovering over him, and expect him to say something, but instead he just reaches up to the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss.

He’s helping move you on top of him, forcing you to take his cock over and over, and like this, so close and breathing him in, you don’t even have the room to think about Mike.

Both of your bodies are damp with sweat, and Erwin’s hair is a mess, pushed from his flushed face. He bites down on your bottom lip and tugs, only letting go to ask, “Where do you want me?”

“I don’t care,” you groan, legs and arms and pussy growing sore. You’re not surprised; you’ve been going at it for a while now.

Erwin licks your lower lip as if to soothe it after biting it, tells you, “Oh, don’t give me that option. You know where I’ll pick.”

Smiling, you straighten up then move to fit your feet underneath you so you can bounce more freely. “You can come inside, dude. It feels good to me, too.”

“I really don’t know how to respond to being called ‘dude’ when I’m balls deep in a girl.”

You shrug, “Sorry not sorry,” then raise and drop yourself, feeling in charge for the first time tonight.

“Fuck—shit—”

That feeling is short lived as Erwin goes right back to using you the way he wants. You think for about half a second that he’s finally, really losing himself, but the accuracy of his finger on your clit proves that is not the case. He’s clearly having a good time, but he isn’t at that feral stage that Mike falls into sometimes.

Before you can dwell on it for too long, you hit your peak, moaning Erwin’s name, hips moving uncontrollably as you ride out your orgasm.

He’s speaking, mumbling praise or pleas or curses, you aren’t so sure, but after about another minute of fucking into you relentlessly, Erwin comes, shooting line after line inside of you until he’s spent and twitching.

With your two previous partners, this is usually when you’d fall forward and cuddle, catch your breath and enjoy the feeling of being all plugged up.

But, it’s Erwin, huffing and blinking up at the ceiling then finally stating, “That was a dumb idea.”

It makes you laugh for some reason, probably because you agree.

The sex was great. There is a reason girls talk about him on campus, about his sexual prowess or whatever, and if you weren’t too busy suffocating in your little pit of heartbreak, thinking about your best friend nonstop, you wouldn’t mind fucking Erwin again. And, again and again.

That’s not gonna happen, though. The heat of the moment is fading, every mental faculty returning to you, and despite the fact that you’re still seated on his cock, as you look down at him, you feel absolutely no spark.

He’s ridiculously attractive, pretty fucking brilliant but with a dumb sense of humor, and you love him. You really do. He’s done a lot for you over the last semester, made it at least somewhat bearable, but… This shouldn’t have happened.

Hopefully, it quelled his curiosity, though.

“I told you it would just make you feel shitty,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t look sad. Sympathetic more than anything, resigned that he’s probably going to have to pick up the pieces of another mess.

“Yeah,” you drawl. “You were right.” Your joints pop as you stand, towering over Erwin for once and leaking his fucking cum as you hop off the bed.

“It’s been known to happen from time to time,” he jokes absentmindedly, wiping a few drops of white off his stomach then reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.

You don’t feel awkward or out of place, but you have no idea what else to say. The only thing that comes to mind is, “I’m gonna take a shower,” as you walk toward the bathroom.

Erwin moves on the bed, stretching a little before grabbing his pants and leaving you to your devices, but you pause before stepping onto the tile, turn back and pace over to him.

“Hey,” you start, and Erwin glances up from the button of his khakis. “Thanks.”

He rolls his eyes, a small smile playing at his lips, and once he’s all zipped and buttoned up, he pulls you into a hug.

“I would say any time, but we probably shouldn’t do this again.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

You breathe into the space under his collarbone, humming as he gently scratches you back, then break away. “Alright, actually gonna shower now.”

Erwin nods, “You do that,” then slaps your ass as soon as you turn around.

You look at him over your shoulder with raised eyebrows, but he just winks and tells you, “I had to. Just once,” which is fair.

You run a hot shower, scrub the shit out of your skin, lather your hair with some fancy shampoo then rinse it off. Once you go through your full routine, you’re happy to change into pajamas and slip into the comfortable bed. You don’t even mind that the comforter is a little damp in various places.

* You don’t stir when the door opens and closes, but you do when the mattress dips. Shifting slightly, you assume it’s just Erwin, falling back into your usual routine by slipping under the covers with you.

As soon as he lays behind you, though, you know it isn’t Erwin. You recognize that weight, that warmth, that smell, and you are very awake very quickly.

“M-Mike?”

All he offers is a little, “Mm,” to confirm.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, confused and clueless as to what you’re supposed to do.

“Are you drunk again?”

“No. Little buzzed.”

Why is he here, then? You want to ask—What is he doing? Why isn’t he with Rhi?

You start to turn to face him but you're stopped when Mike sets a hand on your back. It's oddly firm, keeping you in place as he grunts, "No, don't."

"What?"

"Don't turn around." His voice is hushed and choppy, like he's gritting out every syllable.

"Mike?"

"I have shit I wanna say to you, and I won't be able to if you're lookin' at me."

You have no idea how to respond to that, don't know if this is going to be a positive one-sided conversation where Mike confesses deep feelings while actually sober, or if he'll just unload all the baggage you've given him. Either way, you wish you could see his face. Something about having him laying behind you, close enough to feel his body heat, has you feeling very uneasy.

But, you nod, "Okay," trying to put on a brave face that he refuses to look at.

For a while, he just breathes. You assume it’s because he’s gathering his thoughts or maybe working up the courage to say something, but the suspense is making you shiver under your blankets. You have that terrible feeling in the pit of your stomach, the mix of anticipation and regret you get on the way up to the first drop of a rollercoaster.

“Why have you been lying to me?”

And, there’s that drop.

You swallow. “I haven’t been.”

“Bullshit.”

“Mike, I haven’t been!” You try to turn again, but his large hand is still right in the middle of your back.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” His fingers close around the material of your shirt. You feel it tighten at your chest, making it hard to breathe—harder to breathe. “How are you gonna tell me that right after sleeping with him?”

You open your mouth to argue, realize you can’t make a case for yourself, and when you snap your jaw shut again, the sound of your teeth clacking seems to echo in your head.

Yesterday, you would have been able to talk to him about this and be honest when telling him you weren’t fucking his best friend. Now, though…

God, that had been such a bad decision. Why hadn’t you just listened to Erwin? Why can’t you fucking listen to anyone?

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Mike mutters. His grip loosens, but you can still feel a light tug at your shirt, the movement of fingers, and you think he might be rubbing over the material he’s still holding. “Pretty sure all of us could hear you guys goin’ at it, so… Thanks for that.”

You take a deep breath in, squeezing your eyes shut because it sinks in that this is not going to be nice conversation. This isn’t going to result in the two of you apologizing and making love confessions to each other.

“I… I’m sorry.”

Now, you’re grateful for not being able to see his face. You wouldn’t be able to stand looking at him right now, not when you know his expression will be grim—probably angry.

“I can’t really do anything with sorry,” Mike sighs. His hand drops from your back, but you make no move to turn over.

Your heart is like a hummingbird’s, beating frantically in your chest as that ache rises inside of you again, making your throat constrict and your eyes burn.

“Why’d you invite Rhi tonight?” You ask, hoping your sniffle isn’t too noticeable.

“Why does it matter?”

You suppose it doesn’t, but you still want to know, “Is it to get back at me, or is it because you’re actually into her?”

Mike scoffs. “Not that it’s any of your business, but do you think I’d be in your room at three in the fucking morning if I was into her?”

It’s probably the closest he’ll get to admitting it, but it’s all you need to hear. He’s been going out of his way to hurt you. At least any pain you’ve caused him wasn’t intentional. Until tonight, that is, and even then, you didn’t fuck Erwin to hurt him; you did it to help yourself.

Pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, you hold back tears and mumble a thick, “Just wanted to know.”

“Want to make sure I’m still interested? That I’ll keep waiting for you to fucking realize—”

“I have—” You turn over roughly, pinning Mike’s hand under your ribs as you glare at him, but he manages to put more distance between the two of you when he yanks his arm back and sits up.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he tells you, and you think you hear his voice waver for a second.

The orange light pouring in from the bathroom is the only way you can tell his eyes are wide—worried—and it chills all the blood in your body.

“Wh-what d’you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t fucking do this anymore,” he repeats a little louder, drawing it out like it’ll help you understand. “I cannot deal with you anymore. I can’t keep feeling this way, okay?”

“Mike…”

“No,” he stops you, acts like he has something else lined up but bites his tongue and sighs. He sits cross-legged on the bed now, hangs his head as he speaks calmly, “This semester has fucking sucked. I am angry all the time. I can’t focus in class, and I can’t play lacrosse without getting in trouble, and I can’t fuck anyone else without feeling bad—I can’t fucking do anything without thinking of you, and I’m—” he looks at the wall and shakes his head. “I’m exhausted.”

“I am too,” you tell him, voice cracking as that lump in your throat grows and bubbles, pushing hot tears from your eyes that you quickly wipe away. “Mike, I am too, so can we just—”

“No,” he cuts you off again. “Whatever it is you’re about to say—move on, pretend it didn’t happen, pick up where we left off, whatever… the answer is no.”

He seems like he already has his mind made up, came into the room with a plan, and he isn’t gonna let you talk him out of it.

So, you stay as silent as you can, sniffing and swallowing and letting the comforter catch every teardrop.

“I have been… Right in front of you this whole time. I made myself completely available for a year—was at your beck and fucking call. I was—I mean—I was good to you, right?” He sounds incredulous, like he can barely believe he’s asking.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah, you were.”

“Then, why…? Zeke? And, now Erwin?”

“Do you want me to try to explain, or do you just wanna rant for a while?”

Mike glances at you, looks surprised that you’d give him the option.

“Honestly, I don’t really wanna hear it. You’ve more than proved your point.”

Indignation swirls in your stomach alongside your nausea, and you press, “My point being?”

“That I’m not good enough.”

Oh, god. No, no, no. You could understand him being angry. You’re okay with him being angry, it’s fine. But, this—this feeling of inferiority? That is so much worse. It makes you sick. This is the last thing you’d ever want Mike to feel. It’s the last thing he should feel because it’s false. He has no reason—he’s too good and too kind and too warm. He’s like… He’s fucking sunshine. He can light up a room, and he doesn’t even know it.

“Mike, n-no,” your voice breaks, making you sound like a wounded animal. “You are so, so good. You are more than enough, I promise.”

He snorts in a self-deprecating manner. “Then, why—”

“Because I’m not good enough. I fucked this up. This is my fault, and I can own that as long as you know that there is absolutely no—nothing wrong with you,” the last part comes out as a squeak as you try not to hyperventilate and cry the way your body is urging you to. Not yet.

Mike nods a few times. You can see his mouth moving from the side like he’s biting his lip or sucking his teeth until he agrees, “Yeah,” then adds a quiet, “Whatever you say, babe,” that makes you want to throw up.

Mike scoots to the edge of the bed and stands. You assume he’s about to leave, let you be alone with your thoughts, so when he rounds the corner to get to your side, you sit up a little straighter.

Half of his face is illuminated, casting shadows under his eyes, highlighting the bruise on his neck that Rhi probably left, but your gaze is trained on his as he leans down to you. A finger hooks under your chin, and Mike tilts your face at an angle, kissing you so softly that it’s painful.

His lips are warm and familiar, everything you’ve been craving as they cover yours. There’s no tongue, no force, just light pressure as he inhales through his nose.

You know what this is, what he’s doing, but you can’t prepare yourself because there’s still that tiny string of hope you’re grappling for. He just needs a break. You just need to give him space. That’s all—

“I love you,” Mike murmurs. His voice is low and honest and slices you open. “I love you so fucking much it hurts, and I just—” He brushes a thumb over your lower lip as he pulls away, and it takes everything in you not to grab his hand and beg him to stay. “It’s like I hate you too.”

You pull away to wipe your face with the blanket. There’s so much you want to say but have no idea how to articulate it, so all you can do is stare at Mike with wide, watery eyes. He… hates you. He hates you.

Straightening, Mike’s expression is suddenly nonchalant, like he just flipped a switch in his brain. “I’m not exactly the social butterfly I used to be, but I wanna have fun my last semester of undergrad—make up for the time I lost fucking brooding over you, so—”

“I’ll stop going to the Pike house,” you tell him quietly. It’s easier to make the decision yourself rather than have to hear it from his mouth: Don’t come around anymore. I don’t want to see you.

“Cool. And, if you, like, see me on campus or anything—”

You cough, maybe gag, you can’t really tell at this point because wow, this just keeps getting worse.

“I won’t bother you.”

“Cool.” He bends to press another much more patronizing kiss to the crown of your head, then starts walking toward the door. “I’m just gonna try to move on, you know? Start fresh. And, you should do the same. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

You don’t watch him leave, just listen for the door to click shut behind him before you crawl out of bed, turn the lights on, and start packing your things.

You and Hitch drove together, but you have no doubt that she'll be able to get a ride with Nile, and with that thought, you’re out of the ranch house and on the road just as the first rays of the morning sun start shining over the horizon.

It’s surprisingly easy for Mike to slip back into his old, obnoxious persona, and the remainder of the school year is spent partying, fucking, and cramming for tests he should have studied for weeks in advance.

But, life is short, and he’s done beating himself up over stupid shit.

Most of his PKA brothers are happy to have him “back”, and the pledges get the chance to see this of him, but there are times when Mike catches Erwin or Nile shaking their heads at him. He doesn’t mind much. They can both go fuck themselves for all he cares.

True to your word, you don’t show your face around the house. There were a few weeks after the holiday get-together where Erwin would disappear for a few hours at a time and come back either tired or angry, sometimes a combination of the two.

He attempted to bring you up in a conversation a total of one time, right in the middle of a party where Mike had been eyeing up a sorority girl. He brushed his friend off, easily telling Erwin, “Don’t fuckin’ talk to me about her,” through the crooked grin he was flashing at the little blond across the room.

Erwin didn’t bother after that, obviously deeming Mike a lost cause.

Mike knows better, though. He isn’t lost anymore. In fact, he’s found himself all over again.

Every once in a while, he’ll catch a glimpse of you on campus, but whenever that happens, he just turns around and takes a different route to wherever he’s going. He doesn’t want to give you any reason to think you can talk to him—doesn’t want to give you the chance.

He’s spent too much of his time hung up on you, too much time pining and hurting, and that hasn’t disappeared entirely. Mike can still clearly remember the way you looked at him the last night the two of you spoke, the way your tears twinkled in the dim light. He remembers how strangled you sounded while speaking, remembers the way your shoulders shook as you fought your emotions, remembers the way your lips trembled against his.

It wasn’t very satisfying. Mike left the ranch house the following morning sporting a few bruises on the outside thanks to Rhi as well as a few bruises on the inside thanks to you.

That entire night had been a clusterfuck—between Maddie and Marie storming off to cry then the little stunt he pulled by inviting Rhi, it had been much too dramatic for a gathering of that size. Mike experienced a wide variety of emotions that night, but the one that stands out the most is the searing rage that threatened to burn him from the inside, the red the clouded his vision as soon as he heard you moan Erwin’s name through the wall.

Mike had already been toying with the idea of severing all ties with you, but that’s what pushed him over the edge, watching you put on your little show when Rhi walked in only to turn around and have a grand fucking time with his best friend.

It needed to happen. Mike needed to free himself of you. It feels good. Mostly. There are still some days he comes close to giving in, just picking up his phone and calling you, but he resists, and he’s better for it.

He gets through his classes, does well on his finals after actually putting in the time to prepare for them, and by the time Mike graduates, he’s already been accepted to the graduate program of his choice and has an internship lined up. The tension between him and Erwin has faded for the most part, which is great since he’s going to grad school in the same area up north. Things look… promising—something he didn’t think possible without you by his side, something he didn’t want to be possible without you by his side.

But, now, here he is, unpacking his new apartment with the help of Scout who insists on sniffing absolutely everything. He’s halfway across the country from his parents, away from all he’s ever known, and Mike couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

He can go full days without sparing you a thought now, and he hopes—he prays—that one day he’ll think of you for the last time in his life.

[ next ]

#mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #aot fanfic

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cryinginthebackseat · 3 years

Text

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part iii

part i part ii AO3

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 6.572

Warnings: here’s where the smut tag comes into play, boy with a copious amount of power play and yeah, it’s messy af

Author’s note: after three months, a couple of brainstorming in the bathtub, delays, revisions and self-doubt, chapter 3 is finally done. i hope you'll enjoy it. also, i don't think i have to warn you what will go down in this chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Fast forward to twenty-four hours since he discovers that Bell is fucking someone, Lazar drops about half a dozen of dusty manilas on his desk. Adler’s eyes sweep over them. He recognizes Bell’s handwriting etched across the memo attached to one of the folders right away.

He picks it up. It’s becoming second nature to him lately; drawing himself to her, an ineradicable magnetic force pulling his end of the pole.

A muscle on his jaw twitches.

For a moment, Adler despises her. He allows himself to really despise her. She’s started something in his head- a war; an intangible, unmanageable riot and if he lets her, she’ll rearrange him until he’s insane.

And he can’t let that happen. He’s the one holding the leash here, not vice versa.

“This is what we have on Dragovich’s activities in Yamantau,” Lazar informs him, pulling him back down to earth.

Adler stands, keeping his face easy, neutral. “Is this everything?”

“So far, yeah. Bell says she’ll let us know if she digs up something more from the archives though.”

Bell- the Bell in question- can be heard sighing, like she turns the corner and finds herself at a cul-de-sac; hunching over her desk, reading, her fingers keep buttoning and unbuttoning the top of her shirt, madly distracting (him).

She remains in her seat, for pretty much the remainder of the day. Eyes glued to the pages before her, factory-like dedication. She hardly looks up when Sims borrows her pen or when Park stands over her, sipping her coffee, inquiring about her progress behind a plume of smoke.

The only- truly time Bell ever lifts her head from her work is when Mason approaches her desk. She gazes up at him, notes forgotten, a kittenish smile etched across her face, come-hither eyes that could have time hung in motion, or held at ransom, perhaps. Mason’s own smile is full-blown, too wide, too genial, as he stalks closer and closer to her table, her whirlpool.

Adler does a double-take, like his eyeballs only functioning for the first time. He might as well be hallucinating it because no... this can’t be right, can it?

But then Mason is touching her hand, a blink-and-you-miss-it movement that was not lost on Adler and oh, she’s looking at him hopefully now.

The knots in Adler's stomach are vertiginous. Realization rings in his head like a gunshot, nearly leaving him in a daze. There’s no denying it. Not when the exchange unfurls before his eyes like a broken, warped film reel and there’s nothing to stop him from seeing it.

The thought of her and him haunts the rest of his waking hours, until there’s absolutely no telling how far he’s fallen into his own pit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ( Alex Mason fucked her that night.

Mason was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as Mason rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room.

Alex Mason fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She haphazardly reaches for the mug and takes a hearty gulp of its content. It’s not hers.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bell says, mortified and places the mug down noisily on the desk. “I’m sorry, I thought it was mine.”

The rim of his mug is now stained with her lipstick. Adler bites down on a careful retort.

He thinks he knows now. Why he lets it happen, why he thinks of her in metaphors, why she gives him that vertigo. The answer is at the tip of his tongue- he can almost taste it, like spoiled milk or rancid gardenia. But it’s much easier to ignore it until the words grow diminuendo and disappear, that he thinks he imagined it all along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You can’t obsess without turning around and getting lost in the middle.

Or losing a part of yourself in the process.

The idea of obsession, to obsess, perhaps is a far riskier thing for a person to have than playing the knife game, blindfolded with absolutely no telling where to start.

Yet we all do it, despite knowing the very dark flipside it possesses.

Perhaps it’s the very nature of humans, tucked deep within the pigeonhole of our minds, suffused by the very promise of bogus achievements that usually leads most of us insane, thinking that obsession is essential to living. But without it, artists are corporate slaves, slack-jawed know-it-alls moving stiffly in the middle of the hullabaloo that is our world; Paris would be just as unrecognizable today without Napoleon’s artistic legacy.

Obsession is good.

Obsession is dangerous.

The very dichotomy should have us all warded off of it.

Yet, again, we all do it. Again, and again, and again until it taints our veins. And it’s always far too late until you realize, that yes, now all you see is her, the air has been poisoned by her perfume, that her name is now forevermore engraved in your skin, like an overgild tattoo.

That you end up in downtown Berlin, out of sight, out of mind.

He finds them there, in a shoebox-sized cafe. Ill-lit, low-ceiling, coffee-stained floor that shows the wear of three decades worth of boots, pantoffels and high heels and Adler is sitting in his car, nursing a beer with but one all-consuming, perplexing thought:

Bell and Mason.

Someone told him they arrived together, about an hour ago. The cafe has become their usual haunts, his source said, ever since they’ve returned from Ukraine and Adler just can’t wrap his head around this- them. In his head, they’re wholly different entities. Two proper nouns separated by a conjunction, or a comma if mentioned in a list.

They’re the kind of opposites that he thought don’t attract, yet here they are.

Perhaps it's inevitable, both are products of brainwashing. Maybe they sensed one another, speaking in code, like detecting an RF signal from a nuclear bunker.

Then the doors to the cafe swing open. They step outside, cheeks flushed, his arm wrapped around her waist, her lips glueing on the slope of his neck. Shaded eyes watch them from the opposite street, his disgust obvious.

Now, Adler wonders how this all began. Someone must have made the first move.

He wonders if it was her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You wanted to see me?"

Adler looks up from his desk and nods. "Lock the door behind you."

And Alex Mason, the root of all this trouble, obeys. Looking somewhat uncertain under the scrutiny of the harsh lights, and shuts the blinds. Unlike Woods, he takes a seat at the chair Adler sets up before the desk.

"What is it?" Mason asks, after a long, almost unending silence. His curiosity seeps through the room.

There is very little control when the first domino falls. Oftentimes, once it starts, it’s like crossing the Rubico n and the next thing you know, you are lying flat on the ground in some theater, 23 fresh stab wounds decorating your body and the beat of your pulse seems dim and distant, everything feels cold except your blood; warm, bright and thick like gasoline, crawling into every space until it goes into your throat and strangles you, kills you. Fini, kaput.

But then again, he's not Caesar and this isn't Rome.

Adler pushes the first tile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks without fanfare, tight and composed as ever. Never mind the way his eyes ignite like cold blue fire behind his glasses.

"How long has what been going on?"

“You and Bell." And Mason blinks at him in surprise. Bingo. "I saw the two of you leaving for her hotel from a cafe in Downtown Berlin last night. So don't bother skirting your way around this.” Adler leans forward across his desk. He’s a man on a mission- there’s no stopping him now.

“Now, let me rephrase the question, how long have you been fucking her?"

"Hold on, hold on, you were stalking us?" Mason asks, waspish.

Adler winces inwardly. "I was keeping an eye out for my asset.”

“Asset?” Mason hisses, like Adler just blasphemed. “Jesus Christ, Russ, is that all she ever is to you? An asset? She’s your protégé, for god’s sake- a person! What is wrong with you?"

"Plenty. Or apparently, so I've been told.”

"I don't find you amusing.”

“I'm hardly ever,” Adler parries. Mason remains silent, yet the tilt of his lips translate exactly what words can't. "And you haven't answered my question."

“Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything."

"Listen, Al-"

"No, you listen to me. You may be calling the shots around here, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Whatever- or whoever - we're doing in our spare time is none of your business, do you understand? So you can just drop it," Mason seethes, bitter, and, much to Adler’s surprise, rises to leave. “We’re done here.”

"That's where you're wrong."

Mason has only managed to put a few paces between them before he turns around, once again stepping inside this metaphorical boxing ring.

"What?"

"This has everything to do with me," Adler says coolly. "You said it yourself, I'm the one who calls the shots here. Meaning, anything that could potentially fuck up my operation is my concern and I have the right to intervene should it needed. This, being a case in point."

Mason looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell does fucking her have to do with this whole operation?”

“Everything.” He says it like quiet resignation. It’s time to acknowledge the truth, he thinks, to that unusual idea that has been swirling in the deep recesses of his mind, that everyone’s weakness is varied.

Achilles had his heel, and Adler has her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Al. You don't even know her."

Mason gives him a level stare. "And you do?"

Adler is so hard-pressed to say 'I made her' but even he wouldn't stoop that low.

"That is beside the point,” Adler tells him instead as he turns to his vice- one of them, at least- and lights it.

“There is literally no point to this conversation.”

“The point is, stay the hell away from Bell. I'm saying this for your own good."

"My own good or yours?"

Adler does not flinch, but his hand does ball into a fist under the table, how the fingers curl and then flex.

"Don't be ridiculous. I gain nothing from this except assurance." It's a lie, it's the truth. There's no in between. He doesn’t know which is which anymore. "You, on the other hand, I'm sure the old ball and chain wouldn't be near as thrilled about hearing this if word ever gets out."

Mason is quiet for a beat.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only once I pulled the pin," Adler replies, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

But the thing with Mason, he'll come to realize later, is how much, like with Bell, weaving through his mind is like trying to grasp for purchase in the dark as he, once again, does the unpredicted and smile- a venomous grin warps his face, like he’s mocking him, challenging him to move his piece on the board and make this mistake.

Adler stares back, surprised despite himself.

He shocks him further by saying, "Go ahead, then. Pull the pin, throw the grenade, tell her. See if she cares."

Adler’s eyes narrow at his askance. He then drags his attention to Mason’s left hand, and something grave and familiar rises in his chest.

The absence of the metal band around his ring finger tells him why.

“You know where to reach her. If anything, I’m sure she’d trust your words better than anyone else’s. So please, do it.” And Mason’s so goddamn sanctimonious about it. He’s clearly expecting this particular reaction out of Adler. It only leaves Adler angrier.

Another long pause stretches, heavy and unkind.

"Fine. Maybe she won't mind, but I'm sure the Agency wouldn’t be as tolerant.” Adler takes one last drag of his cigarette. He has that ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose’ look on his face that makes Mason frowns. “Not when you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.”

"What?”

"Bell. She’s not who you think she is, Al. Tell me, who do you think is the sorry bastard we saved in Trabzon?”

Mason blinks. His face is blank with shock, then he shakes his head. And he keeps shaking it, almost manic. If he laughs, which one would come first, he wonders, the gun or his fist pummeling the side of his face?

“You’re lying.”

“And why would I lie to you about this?”

"No, no, no, Woods- he told me the guy’s dead,” Mason says, his words are shaky.

“He’s not. And he wasn’t a he."

A crease forms between Mason's eyebrows, the starting of another frown.

“Hold on, if she’s helping us get Perseus then why is she the enemy?”

"Because she doesn't know that."

"Doesn't know what?"

"That she's the enemy."

Mason holds his gaze for a moment, his expression tense, like a slingshot.

And that cold elastic band finally snaps.

“What did you do to her?” He’s openly glaring at him now, mouth tight, an icy fury that is no longer dormant and for the first time since Adler has known him, he finds the man dangerous.

Adler takes a steadying breath. “We did what had to be done.”

"You sick son of a bitch. You brainwa- You-” Mason clamps his mouth shut, trembling hands finding his head. “Shit. How could you?"

Adler ignores his colorful outburst.

“She resisted every form of interrogations we threw at her, Al. We had no choice but to implement MK-Ultra as a last resort. We needed what’s in her head.” Mason is silent in reply. Adler continues, “Look, it’s nasty business, I know, but some of us have to cross a line just to make sure that line's still there in the morning. And as much as I hate agreeing with Hudson, he’s right. We need to preserve our way of life.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to play God,” his voice is resentful and crisp. “Do you have any idea what you are doing? You could jeopardize everything, and for what? You’ve seen what this- this experiment did to me, this won’t end the way you think!”

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

"You’re really willing to gamble on that?”

Adler scowls. “I don’t gamble, Mason. I calculate. And if by some chance I was given a second chance, I’d do it all over again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mason doesn’t say anything at first, his loaded gun stare never falters. Then, “The flag may be different, but the methods are the same.”

"What was that?”

“Someone warned me, a long time ago, about how people like you will use people like me or Bell as pawns in your own game. You’d do whatever it takes to get what you want- and my, how you get results, don’t you? But you’re actually no different than the rest of the assholes you're fighting against,” Mason tells him, like he’s spitting out acid in Adler’s face.

“Bell may be the enemy- heck, she could be the architect behind all the chaos Perseus has done, but what you’re doing to her is vile and unethical. There are many ways to make her spill the beans, yet you chose the most immoral method there is out there. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for this."

Before Adler could formulate a response to his tirade, Mason stands to his feet.

“You want me to stay away from her? Fine. Consider this as my formal resignation. After Yamatau, I’m done. I’m out of the team. And if you know what’s good for you, you stay the fuck away from me because I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?” he snarls. “If you think Woods is dangerous, Adler, just remember I nearly could have killed my own president."

Then Mason turns on his heel and walks out of the room, once and for all. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fist is very much expected, and so does the pain that follows.

"You're out of your fucking depth, shithead," Woods spits, venom lacing his words.

Adler doesn't even bother to retaliate.

He doesn’t see the point. He didn’t think it would get this far. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage grows quiet and stodgy with now Mason and Woods are out of the picture. Everyone settles back into their own normal rhythm, the same routine before both men set their feet here almost a week ago.

Hudson doesn’t take the news of their departure kindly, naturally. He stands in Adler’s office, pacing, fuming. Adler ignores him, trying to nurse the skull-splitting migraine he's having at his desk instead. The nasty black eye hidden underneath his glasses. A secret locked, the key thrown away.

His headache, thankfully, has subsided when Sims takes a seat on the other side of the desk, hours later after Hudson left.

"I'm not trying to cause an alarm here, but you'd better watch your back."

Adler's brows furrow but doesn’t look up from the papers before him. "And why's that?"

"'Cause I think you just pissed off the wrong beast," Sims tells him. Adler pauses, then lifts his head to look at his cohort. There's genuine worry flashing over his face.

“Are you talking about Bell?”

“Who else?”

If she's a beast, then what am I? What he wants to ask, but there's a knock at the door and he swallows the words down his throat.

"Come in," Adler says, pretending to be reading again.

The door opens and Bell, fucking Bell, enters his office. It's like watching a tiger pass by your hiding spot in near dark. Neither he nor Sims breathes a word.

Bell's gaze immediately swings to him, like a cosmic pull. She's watching him as she wanders over to the desk and the weight of her stare burns him like Greek fire.

He pushes the documents close, all the while returning her stare. He is never the one who backs out of a challenge, and at this point, he knows that she probably knows that. Maybe that’s why she initiated it in the first place.

"Bell, what is it?" Adler asks firmly, in possession of his full power in this place.

Bell produces three diskettes from her pocket. Something odd definitely shining in her eyes.

"These have been lying on Lazar's desk for hours, but he's busy, so I thought I'd deliver them to you myself," Bell says. And he's trying to work out on her angle but she is unreadable. As always.

Adler nods, frustrated and indignant. "You can leave them here. Thank you."

It is only once the woman leaves that the two agents share a dark, significant look. That was too close.

And it goes without saying, something needs to be done about this. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

March 7th. A's insistence on raising the dosage is illogical. Recent behavioural analysis indicates depression. Will monitor for the next few days. Considering lowering the dosage instead. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator reeks of smoke, cheap Soviet air freshener and something far more poisonous than the devil’s spider, silky hands.

It embodies the woman standing next to him right now- this special animal, emotionless, a constant mystery wrapped with a warning sign.

Adler is tempted to shut his eyes.

Or get out of here. He doesn’t dwell well in this atmosphere, this limited space shared with her alone. He probably should have listened to Hudson about taking Bell for this mission, but she’s the only one he trusts who won’t fuck this up. Not to mention her spotless Russian has proven to help them blend in with the crowd seamlessly.

He needs her, whether he would admit it aloud or not.

But she puts his head in such a spin.

She’s been near-mute since they departed from Germany. She barely acknowledges his questions and orders, barely looks at him. She’s been treating him as if he’s another shadow on the wall.

He rubs the side of his jaw. Something does need to be done about this.

“Are you going to stay quiet forever?” Adler asks. He’s bad at this, but he can’t stand her silence for much longer. Not to mention, they’re at the Lubysnka- the fucking lion's den. If she wants to wallow over Mason’s absence or sinks into whatever melancholic feeling she’s in, she can do it later.

Bell hums, her mouth curls up like serpentine. Adler sketches a confused frown. And she says, “I don’t know. Should I?”

And then, sudden and swift, Bell undoes the cuffs of her uniform. Beady eyes never leave his.

The sight catches him off guard. Somewhere in his mind, he curses something like ‘you’re a beast’ and ‘what the hell are you?’ at her, all in negative connotations. The effects she inflicts on him is maddening.

“What are you doing?” Adler doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

Bell shrugs and gestures to the duffle bag at their feet. “Gearing up.”

Oh. Embarrassment wells up in him. Fucking hell, this woman will be the death of him.

Her fingers quickly move on to the buttons, still indifferent, nearly tearing them from the seams. The first glimpse of her skin and Adler can’t help but give in, openly stares at her in a way he has never imagined before. Her clavicles like daggers glinting in the lamplight.

Curiosity is a dangerous and heavy load.

He should have closed his eyes.

“Enjoying the show?” Her voice pulls him back from his musings. Her eyes still zero in on him, cutting him to pieces.

Her cleavage comes into view.

The lines on Adler’s face grow taut.

“What do you want, Bell?” He asks, intending for a bark but it ends somewhere like a plea.

“I want many things. As of right now, I want Alex’s cock inside me.” And Adler nearly chokes on his own breath. Bell, eagle-eyed as ever, caught the movement. “But it seems someone insists on being in control of everything, isn’t he?” she snaps.

Adler’s back goes rigid. Trepidation bubbles up in his chest.

Of course, she knows.

“It's not about control.” Adler turns around. He doesn’t quite know what he’s avoiding at this point, her flesh or the truth. “It’s about what’s right.”

He hears her uniform touches her floor as she laughs, mirthless, like broken chandeliers. “I didn’t know whose cock I’m riding is any concern of yours.”

“It is when he’s a member of the team,” he seethes. “What you’re doing with Alex will only lead to complications. And I can’t have tha-”

“Because this is all about you, isn’t it? It’s about upholding your precious reputation in the Agency, controlling the narrative the way you want it no matter how many characters you kill off in the process. It’s always about what you want.” Bell interrupts, not missing a beat. “You selfish motherfucker.”

"This has nothing to do with my reputation in the CIA."

She scoffs. "Spare me the crap, Adler."

Adler turns to fully face her again and holds his arms open, the way someone is facing the firing squad. “Fine. Fine, yes, I’m a selfish motherfucker. I did it because I thought it could ruin the operation. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, what are you going to do about it?”

She says nothing at first. He silently catalogues her movements as she steps towards him now, half-naked and furious. He feels pinned.

Then, “What do you want me to do about it?”

His mouth dries at the implication. She is temptation, benediction, the coarse ice block before the carver.

How terrible it is to lose control, even just once.

A knowing, vicious smirk flashes over her face. Adler feels like he’s just shown his hand.

“You are one selfish bastard and a coward to boot, aren’t you?” Bell sneers before he has a chance to respond. “At least, Alex was brave enough to make the first move, but you…” her gaze raking up and down his figure coldly, a jeweller presented with second-grade imitations. Wind her up and this honey bee stings.

“You’ll always be the man who hides behind his shades,” she says, dry as dust, and steps back and snatches her clothes from the bag.

This is, without a single doubt, the longest elevator ride he’s ever experienced in his life. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler arrived back in Berlin breathing a little harder. Worry wrapped around his neck like a noose, placed by Bell herself; the judge, jury and executioner.

The knot tightens every time his mind refers to her.

The agency trained him, specifically, to keep calm under pressure. He didn’t coin the title “America’s Monster” from his colleagues for nothing. They don’t fear him because he’s hot-headed or thinks in large-scale violence— guns blazing, napalm-induced flames over the hill in the morning, bloodied knuckles and fractured jaw, blood-soaked soles tarnishing the white marble floor. Someone can point a fucking shotgun to his face and he’ll barely flinch. Only monsters remain impassive to direct threats of violence.

But there’s something about Bell that elicits this visceral, primal reaction out of him. Something strange and new; lightning about to be uncapped from its chains.

It chokes him, frightens him to the core.

How gauche is it, don’t you think, that his own mind is conspiring against him?

Now, in the garage, where it dawns on Adler that she’s probably the only person who can make him walk around the city, feeling like a fool, he decides he’s had enough. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’ll drive you back.”

Adler apprehends Bell outside the garage. He kind of assumed she’d have a pistol aimed at his head right now, but she spins around, hands shoved deep inside her pockets and clayey mouth curls in distaste.

“Get in the car, Bell,” Adler says tightly, almost adding please.

But he would not beg.

The brunette remains rooted in her place. For a moment, a calculating look crossed her face. Always, always that sharp mind of hers turning and he wonders where it would take her this time.

“Try asking nicely,” she demands.

Adler’s eyes flash. She really is testing him. But fine, he'll play her game.

“Bell, would you kindly get in the car?” He is all but snarls, teeth gritting. Bell hardly wavers- he wishes she would waver for a change.

She does what he asked of her, finally, the shadow of a smirk on her face mocking him. Adler follows suit, teeth still clenched together, and starts the car and drives away.

It's sort of like a deja-vu, he supposes; him and her in this very same car, except that stupid krautrock music is absent this time. Neither says anything for the first twenty minutes. Everything feels heavily still.

Until he realizes she’s probably waiting for his move.

This might gloriously blow up in his face, yes, he knows this. Especially remembering the last time he was alone in a tight space with her, it had cost him his pride.

And his mind.

But he’s been here before, in the eye of the storm. He was at his calmest here. He has his cards prepared now.

Adler inhales deeply.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he utters resolutely. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to. “I was out of line, I admit it. Your affair with Mason should be no concern of mine but I really am just trying to look out for you.”

It’s weak, he knows. The words feel more like an anchor than an actual apology in his tongue anyway, but Adler didn’t expect that Bell would give him nothing. Not even an acknowledging hum, a scathing retort, a scoff. Nothing.

A twinge of irritation brews in his stomach. Why does she insist on playing games?

The car comes to a stop. They’ve arrived. Adler wrests his hands from the steering wheel to say something harsh to her, but Bell is already stepping out of the car.

She stands on the sidewalk; an enigma in royal red, and her lethal, all-seeing eyes gravitate to him in the night.

There is a long paralyzing beat where they just stare at each other- which seems to be a running theme between them lately. Adler is fuming, as he is confused.

It feels like hours, centuries, eons, but, like all magic, the spell is broken. Courtesy of a stranger hailing a cab behind his car.

Bell turns and walks inside the building. She doesn’t bother sparing him the final glance or extend her appreciation for the ride back and Adler thinks to himself, this universe, god fucking damnit, nothing makes sense here.

But it is also in moments like this that the world spins, when he notices a singular, significant detail that makes his stomach roll, nearly throwing him off balance:

Bell left the passenger door open.

And he’s insane- he has to be, right? He’s looking too much into this. It doesn’t mean anything. His mind conjures an image, like a graphic guideline or something, step one: get out of the car, two: make your way around and close the passenger door, and third: zoom out of the neighborhood while your sanity is still intact, all in that order. Easy to comprehend, to follow.

Adler only does the first two steps. He’s ass-backwards doesn’t even bother to digest the third step.

He enters the hotel instead and takes in the surroundings. The lobby is pointedly bare, but warm and smoky. The concierge is reading behind the counter- a young, wiry boy with shocking bleached hair- with headphones on. It’s late, he probably doesn’t expect anyone to check in at this hour.

A movement by the staircase catches his interest. He sees Bell climbing up the steps slowly, leisurely. Adler makes his way there.

Halfway reaching her floor, Adler has the inkling that she knows that he’s following her. Also, because the next she does is glancing back at him over her shoulder. He waits for her to push him down the stairs or wrap those delicate hands around his neck. She does neither. She doesn’t want him gone.

Yet, his mind betrays him. Only because she doesn’t know what other atrocities he’s committed to her.

She stops by her door, opens it and goes in first. Adler, without waiting for a formal fucking invitation, slips in behind her.

Her room is much smaller than his. The TV is still on- a German dubbed of All the President’s Men is playing- a stack of books and meds lying haphazardly on the desk table.

The door clicks shut behind him. Bell wanders over to the table and turns off the TV. Her back to him.

She doesn’t bother turning the light switch on. The green neon of the hotel sign outside illuminates the room, bathes her in it, making her look even stranger and faraway.

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses.

“What do you want, Bell?” Adler is all but snarling. His anger comes in a bottle with a twist-off cap. “I’m fucking sick of playing your games. I apologized, I admitted I was wrong- I fucked up, but what more could you want?”

Jesus, and now he’s losing his temper over a brainwashed Russian who rarely talks. How did it come to this?

She tugs off her gloves. Once again, barely acknowledging him. Apparently, if ignoring him is an art form, she is the fucking Monet.

Until:

“Take them off.”

Adler blinks hard behind his glasses. Like he’s just stepped into a whole different earth.

His mouth moves.

“What?”

“Your sunglasses. Take them off.”

He stares at her back. Trying really, really hard to make sure he’s not hallucinating this, but then Bell turns around, a finger tapping against her arm, waiting.

Realization hits him like an uppercut in the face and nearly leaves him in a daze. He’s walked into a trap. That much is clear as day. She wants him to suffer as she does. An eye for an eye.

Adler holds no modicum of control in her domain, not unless she gives the reins. Once again, she plays the judge, jury and executioner at her own court.

But, like before, he’ll play her game.

There, the glasses are off. His eyes, bare, blue like fractured ice, meeting hers. In the dark, he feels her eyes shift to assess his bruise.

His heart booms against his ribs.

"Kneel,” she says glibly.

He obeys, again. His legs and hands don’t shake, but his mind is much less governable than his limbs. No, the CIA didn’t prepare a manual for situations like this and he doesn’t trust his instincts to help him dance his way around this.

Nor does he want to.

The thought fucks him up to a degree.

Adler should have known that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees, no, no. That would have been too easy, anyway. Although history has dictated and taught him that women are never to be underestimated, Adler hasn’t expected that one woman would be able to do the deed and succeed.

But then again, when that woman is Bell, he supposes anything is possible.

When Bell approaches him, he’s unable to take his gaze from her. Her eyes spangle with determination, an avenging soul in the neon lights. Her fingers work on the sash of her coat. The line of her mouth is flat and inscrutable. The air crackles with electricity and a promise of the unsayable, the unattainable.

She stands over him now, gloveless and coatless. She’s powerful like this and he can only crane his head up at her, ceding his fate in her hands, against his better judgement. She catches that.

Suddenly, something unpleasant breaks on her face, like when one’s smelling something foul or pungent.

Bell reaches down and grips his jaw painfully in one hand, her nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head sideways. Strange that his stomach leaps at that.

“Say you’re sorry,” she spits furiously. “And say it like you fucking mean it.”

He feels, suddenly, triumphant and chuckles darkly. Eight fucking long weeks and the beast finally shows her claws.

“Try asking nicely,” Adler parrots her words from before, not a beat missed. Two can play that game, he thinks. "Or are you above niceness, Bell?”

Her grip tightens.

"You’re one to talk,” Bell says. Then, rubs the pad of her thumb over his scarred cheek and it feels like forgiveness, or the beginning of it, at least.

His confusion spikes.

Her nose skims down his jawline.

A better, sensible man would apologize. He'd squander it until his tongue burns acid, he'd beg for her forgiveness like a man asking for repentance before his god.

“Why did you do it, Russell?” Bell whispers against his skin now, baleful and raspy. Her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

But he’s a sick bastard, a selfish motherfucker, a heartless monster. All he does is hurt the people around him. He doesn’t get to take from her, not after what he's done.

Still, Adler catches her wrist. Relishing the way her wrist bone grinds under his hold. He pulls his face back to look at her.

“You know why.”

Her eyes flick dangerously to his lips.

Desperation really can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

“Then prove it.”

So he does. As his hand reaches up to her neck, past the delicious column of her throat and with a precise swift, Adler grabs a fistful of her hair, the feminine gasp escaping her mouth is like a jolt to his groin, and kisses her.

Bell responds in kind. That little beast. She grasps his collar and drags him up to his feet, impatient with want. She laps at him, bites and sucks. His free hand snakes around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

She pulls away, catching her breath, and his teeth skim down her jaw, her neck. He bites her there in retaliation, on the delicious junction of her neck and shoulder, into the fabric of her shirt, making his intentions clear. Bell chokes in surprise and scrapes her nails over his scalp.

It hurts. But with pain, along comes pleasure and it’s good. It’s so good, Adler melts with a shaky breath.

His gloves come off first. Next, she pulls him free off his jacket, his sweater and snakes a hand between his legs, stroking him. He bites off a strangled ‘fuck’ into her throat. He’s worked up real fast already. Adler manages to make a short work of her shirt, unclasping her bra before he’s all but pushes her onto the bed.

Adler settles above her, capturing her lips in another feverish, hot-blooded kiss. He tugs her zipper down and slips his hand inside her pants. Her cunt’s everything he’s come to expect: wet, warm and oh-so wrong. She sucks in a breath. Her hips move against his hand. His blood sings. She throws her head back against the pillow, while his finds her earlobe.

“Has this proven my point, Bell?” he asks. His answer starts on a moan and ends with a breathless ‘yes’.

He doesn’t let her come that easily. No, he wants to drag this out for as long as he can until it drives her mad. So, Adler peels the rest of her clothes away, pulls her shoulder and turns her onto her stomach. He pins her down, hard. She gasps loudly against the white pillowcase, her hand fists into the sheets.

Adler slots himself behind her. His hand tracing along her spine, followed by his mouth, just how he fantasized once upon a time. His other hand quickly undoes the snap of his pants. Everything has been poisoned by her and her only; she is in his tongue, his veins, his mind, his lungs. She takes the centrefold of his mind and it's ridiculous.

He presses himself against her ass. His mouth falls open. Her body trembles. She’s all sin and racing hearts and sweaty flesh. She’s perfect. His now free hand slides up to the nape of Bell’s neck, reaching her throat, pressing down. She makes this high-pitched, demanding noise as she moves her hips back against him, leaving him wanting, helpless at the thought of having her right here, right now, in the warm neon glow of her hotel room.

“Please,” Bell begs. He groans in response and he gives it to her. Fuck, he’d give her anything if she begs just exactly like that.

When Adler is finally inside her, he thinks his world drops dead. He sets a merciless pace. He is not a gentle man and there is nothing gentle in the supple arch of her back, a rose bent backwards in the wind, as he pants along her neck before he pulls out, twists her onto her back again and pushes deeper into her until she comes apart underneath him (he’s made sure she begs for it- please, Russell. Oh god, Russell)

(He didn’t have to. Russell Adler is never the kind of man to fall for his dark side, but Christ knows he is only one man)

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #adler x bell #cod cold war #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

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readinginthereadyroom · 3 years

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it’s the queen’s gambit job (lev 4x10) and they are sitting around a table in mcrory’s eating takeout. running down the con.

and nate’s last minute addition of salt to parker’s equipment wasn’t plan b. no, it was plan m.

which is the plan hardison usually dies in. that is if he hasn’t already died in plans c, f, or m thru q. which hardison is VERY concerned about. after all that’s like 27% of the time. it’s a little too close to home.

eliot and parker don’t die in any plans, tho eliot could be permanently disfigured and blinded in one.

nate DOES NOT ANSWER for sophie.

so they are bickering and being found family (and seriously hoping this is just nate messing with them) and parker proposes a toast. to a glass eye.

and I am gonna headcanon that this becomes a kinda inside code. maybe not plan m, but bad. tho the level of bad is never discussed. after all it’s just a joke. right?

so it’s years later and parker’s the mastermind. she regularly assures hardison that there is no plan m. it’s not even in her alphabet. eliot teases her that her plans span different languages. hardison mutters about binary code and quadratic equations. there’s no m in cuniform, right?

and most the time their cons go off without a hitch. parker’s good like that. the best. her plans are like ballets spun between rotating laser beams. both planned to the smallest movement and completely on the fly. set to violin symphanies, country ballads, and christmas carols.

but sometimes the cons go wrong. eliot gets injured. hardison can’t hack the code. she gets trapped inside a building. and sometimes the cons go wrong bad. sometimes it gets bloody.

that’s when they say it. the first time was eliot. he’d been fighting with the mark’s security goons when the gunshot had rung out over the comms. followed by a grunt of pain and the sound of a body hitting the floor. then a terrible silence. parker hates that she knows what it means.

she flips around in the air duct. barely manages to keep her voice low. the cons over. I’m coming to you eliot. the only sound on the comms is the clack of hardison’s lightspeed typing. a buzzing static. do you hear me eliot? I’m coming to get you.

eliot? hardison’s voice sounds so small. that’s when parker remembers that they’d hacked the cctv footage. hardison had seen the whole thing. I-- he-- hardison stutters before rushing out he’s been shot. it’s bad. you got to get to him parker and you got to get to him. now.

eliot’s gruff drawl interrupts them. I think this might be a glass eye scenario, sweethearts.

hardison’s typing never falters, but his breath hitches over the comms and his voice is strangled—like he swallowed his soda wrong—when he tells eliot to shut up, I am trying to save your ass. you already look mean enough without any damn glass eye.

it’s classic hardison. talking right over all his internal fears. trying to manifest his words into being. eliot’s huff of laughter tho. it’s strained but it’s also the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard.

parker’s still in the air vent. she’s moving as fast as she can without rattling the ducts. she whispers into her comms. you should have hardison make it bionic. put a laser in it. and after dealing with a tricky corner dip, also it should be green.

more pained laughter, followed by a groan. my eyes are blue, parker. then hardison’s, guess we’ll just have to save you then. keep you from going all 6 million dollar-terminator-borg on us. keep your baby blues blue. parker smiles. she knows her boys. knew they always focus better when they are bickering.

and in the end it’s okay. parker gets to eliot with the first aid kit and patches him up. hardison hijacks them an elevator and they get out safely. eliot’s glass eye is evaded.

the next time it’s hardison. he’s snatched from lucille 5—right out from under their noses. they can hear his squawk of surprise over the comms. the shuffle of bodies and the distinct sounds of fists hitting flesh.

eliot growls deep and menacingly. parker can hear him instantly switch gears—from grifting the mark to protecting the team. his heavy footfalls are followed by offended protestations as he knocks people out of his way. the con is blown but parker doesn’t care.

because there’s snow fizzing in one ear and a polite automated error message in the other telling her all she needs to know. hardison’s gone. taken.

it’s an excruciating 28 hrs later when a text message from an unknown number chimes thru on parker’s backup burner phone. it’s only two words: glass eye.

parker sidles right up to eliot. bumps their shoulders together and shows him the message. it’s hardison. we can track his location if we move quick.

good. eliot’s voice drops from it’s usual honeyed whiskey to bloody gravel. it always does when he’s in hitter mode. tell me where he is. I swear if they’ve hurt him I’ll rip their lungs out. parker nods, hardison’s spare laptop already open on her lap. I’ll help.

hardison’s in bad shape when they find him. but not as bad as his captors once eliot’s thru with them. they’re on the highway speeding toward a hospital when hardison finally opens his eyes. parker can see him smile up at eliot in the rearview mirror before he glances up at her.

it’s my peoples. knew you’d come get me. eliot uses a corner of his bandana to wipe the blood away from hardison’s face. course we did, alec. can’t have you getting any glass eyes. wouldn’t suit you. eliot leans down and stage whispers in his ear, his voice warm and smooth again, you’re not nearly badass enough.

hardison sputters in outrage and parker lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. drops the hard line of her shoulders. lets up on the gas. if her boys are bickering then she knows everything is going to be okay.

hardison will be okay. they will be okay. no glass eyes today.

and eventually it’s parker’s turn. it’s not even a proper job—she’s scaling an elevator shaft for recon when a support gives way. and it’s silly. she’s fallen 3 floors and her leg is definitely broken. and she can hear eliot’s voice in her ear saying it was a very distinctive crunch but all she can think is that this is her glass eye.

she must’ve said that out loud because hardison is babbling on about scars and lasers and talking about numbers. seven and nine what? she vaguely thinks it might be some sort of new concussion protocol tho she can’t quite focus enough to make it make sense.

something warm and wet is pooling under her cheek, blocking her vision. oh and that’s it, isn’t it? hardison’s still muttering under his breath and eliot is grunting her name over the comms. c’mon parker you gotta talk to me! I’m coming to get you dammit but you gotta talk. to. me.

can I have a snowglobe in my glass eye? hardison sputters before stuttering—woman I swear you will be the death of me. and she thinks he sounds a little bit relieved. but it doesn’t stop his voice from warbling when he asks, you okay mama?

parker lifts her face out of the tacky puddle it’s in, starts to nod and then immediately throws up. she can’t focus. eliot’s don’t move parker, you have a concussion is followed by a sympathy gag from hardison.

her head is throbbing and her leg feels like it’s on fire. but she can hear her boys breathing over the comms. can hear them cajole her to talk more. they’re coming to get her.

but they’re not bickering. and that feels wrong. that feels wrong bad.

and then there’s a metal scraping sound as the elevator doors above her are pried open. light floods the shaft and parker blinks into it. I can see you she whispers. and she can. they are silhouetted in a rectangle of light above her.

and then they are setting up ropes and climbing down toward her. just like she taught them. and it’s kinda beautiful. even if it’s plan m and a glass eye. I think I broke the pretzels.

when she wakes up it’s two weeks later and she’s hooked up to a hospital bed. her left leg is in a cast and her arms are covered in bruises and rope burn. there’s a bandage blocking half her vision.

but then she sees eliot. he’s asleep in a chair next to the bed, his hand wrapped gently around hers and his head resting on hardison’s shoulder. he looks exhausted. his hair is frizzy and he hasn’t shaved. hardison doesn’t look much better. his mouth is open and he’s half snoring. his clothes are dark and rumpled.

she smiles. she’s always enjoyed catching her boys like this—soft and quiet and together. it’s the next best thing to hearing them bicker.

that’s when she sees it. a sparkle of light, almost like a diamond, on the medical cart between them. nestled in a padded velvet box is a glass eye.

#okay so I unintentionally ended up writing some ot3 whump #please please do not come at me #yes I wrote in tiny details that make it seem like parker will actually need a glass eye #but they are also red herrings #because it is very much in grim humor character for hardison and eliot #to get parker a get well soon glass eye #so read it how you will #eliot spencer #alec hardison #parker leverage #leverage meta fic #leverage #leverage ot3 #cw injury #also just fyi I updated the eliot part of this metafic #it needed more

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ghostietea · 3 years

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Furuba autistic headcanons

With it being April, or autism acceptance month, I wanted to finally drop my list of characters from Fruits Basket that I read as autistic! This is based a lot on my own experience, as well as that of other autistics I know or have seen talk online. I hope some people can get something out of it, feel free to tell me what you think 😊, though please refrain from getting upset that I would dare suggest your fave is autistic.

Hanajima

Before becoming able to better control her powers, she would be constantly overwhelmed by the things she heard to the point that she couldn't even really go out in public. This reads a lot like sensory overload.

Constantly picked on in school because other kids thought she was weird. Eventually reclaimed this weirdness and turned it into a whole persona.

Seems to talk usually in a relatively flat tone.

Had trouble socializing with no friends outside her family until middleschool.

Has a very funny, dry sense of humor that I find very similar to a bunch of autistics I know, including myself.

Hatsuharu

Listen. You have seen the funky little man, you have seen the way he talks, the way he acts around others. He is, and I mean this in the best way, a weirdo. I do not know how you could look at him and see a neurotypical.

Once again, like Hana, Haru is funny in a way that feels very autistic.

Very flat, dry, tone delivery. Sometimes just Says Things that make everyone else go huh??? Suuuuper blunt. Doesn't emote facially a lot of the time.

When this man sees a social norm he doesn't get he WILL NOT follow it. Pierces his ears just because his hair got flak, defends Momiji wearing whatever he wants because sometimes y'know the social rules are just dumb and don't make sense. Especially dress codes.

Sometimes says things not befitting the current tone of the situation.

Represses (masks) a lot of his emotions, leading to outbursts that seem uncharacteristic.

His main childhood trauma revolves around adults branding him as "dumb" and ridiculing him. Haru, however, is super smart and wise!! Just in an offbeat way that not everyone may get.

Machi

Reads as very "flat" emotionally to the point that others would call her boring. Also has a flat vocal delivery.

Relies on specific habits or ways of doing things or else she gets super upset (her hatred of imperfection.

Has trauma surrounding adults completely misconstruing her intentions and thinking she's doing something malicious when she's not.

Generally behaves in a way that's hard for others to understand, one of her formative moments with Yuki was him saying he wanted to "see how the world looks" through her eyes.

Once again, trouble socializing.

Tries super hard to please her parents but in the end they still see her as somehow inherently "defective."

Listen. A lot of this one and the last two are mostly vibes, hard to verbally define. You just have to look at them and trust me.

Tohru

Displays behavior very reminiscent of masking throughout the story, a huge part of her arc is about how she hides a lot of herself and has a very controlled persona. I think it would fit very well if she had other autistic behaviors that she suppresed also it helps explain why she is relatively socially adept, it's learned behavior to make people like her more.

Yes she is very good at saying what others need to hear, but especially early on she is pretty blatantly imitating her mother's words. She only gets better at getting through on a more personal level later on (see her with Rin and Akito v. early series Tohru). She does this by relating her own experiences, a very autistic way of showing empathy that often gets us written off as self centered. The way she relays things her mom said could also be seen as this, and she even worries at a few points that she's being insensitive for going on about things like that.

While emotionally repressed she is hyper empathetic and feels other's emotions so strongly she cries.

Her speech patterns are all imitated from her father and she often copies verbal things from others (see Ritchan-san). Noted in canon that people think her way of speaking is slightly off/not befitting of someone her age. Additionally, her father was polite more sarcastically, while she plays it straight and sometimes takes things very literally or fails to get the message, indicating trouble with reading tone. Has numerous strange verbal tics, including saying parts of her internal monologue out loud without context.

Very expressive with her hands including waving them around and flapping them up and down.

Does have a bit of trouble with accidental insensitivity in social interactions, like how she constantly fixates on her mom and realizes that might bug the Sohma.

Has trouble paying attention in school since it doesn't have much to do with her interests

Her only friend until she was a middle schooler was her mom

Has a pretty unique outlook on things compared to others, people seem to think she's pretty eccentric. There's always a "this girl is nice but in an odd way, she's our weirdo and we love her" vibe.

Sometimes has an "inappropriate" emotional response to situations

Has a lot of trouble with change, similar to Akito. Which oh, look at the time, next hc coming up.

But first, a disclaimer. It is cathartic for me to read Akito this way, but with that reading comes the baggage that she would, mayhaps, be showing a more negative side of things... It doesn't bother me since it's a joint hc with other characters and she does develop at the end but yeah, general villain hc baggage. This is in no way me trying to excuse her being The Worst being autistic doesn't absolve you of being able to do wrong . Also, a lot of these points can and do have other explanations related to her upbringing, but things can be for more than 1 reason. With that said, she really strongly comes off as autistic to me, in a way that's sorta hard to explain. I wrote a lot more for her than the other, both because I felt I needed more to convince people and that this headcanon was more sensitive and I needed to be careful in my explanation. Also hey! She's my special interest within a special interest.

Akito

Shown to have a dislike of summer weather due to heat and brightness, could be due to sensory issues in tandem with sickness things. Also covers her ears when people raise their voice sometimes which is partially her trying to shut down opposition but also 🤔 can read a different way. She'd also avoids louder Juuni like Ritsu and Ayame because she can't handle them.

Wears pretty much the same outfit every single day. Said outfit is also pretty loose fitting.

Always seen sitting in a pretty unconventional way. Evidence:

Of course this is also the isolated in a cult thing and there is a level of her purposefully doing things to intimidate but: doesn't follow a lot of social rules (overly touchy with strangers, legit doesn't get that what she's doing is wrong, ect.). Repeatedly confused when people indicate she should act otherwise without explanation. Has a breakdown when this comes to a head and approximately says that "they" shouldn't expect her to know "common sense" if "they" never explained it to her, that the way that she was was her "common sense."

Often talks in a way uncharacteristic of her age when shown as a child in a more faux mature/pretentious way. Might just be the translation and idk how to explain it but her speech as an adult also seems off from what one would normally use in conversation. Additionally, when she tries to fake being friendly in her intro chapter, it comes of as extremely stiff and unconvincing.

Generally displays behavior that could be thought of as childish as an adult, but a lot of this behavior could also read as autistic (covering ears, emotional deregulation and meltdowns, ignorance of basic social norms, ect.). It's also important to note that she knows that this behavior makes her seem younger and more helpless to the older zodiac and uses it as a manipulation tactic. Has issues regarding people treating her like a child or only hanging out with her because of pity. While she does weaponize it, we can tell that this grates on her, as seen with her finally blowing up on Kureno, which is partially triggered by the maids saying some sorta infantalizing stuff about her. Irl, a lot of autistic adults and teens struggle with being infantalized for our behavior generally or treated as little babies that can do no wrong. Even in fandom, you see people doing stuff like jumping to call autistic adult characters, such as Entrapta from Shera, "minor coded." It is also common for us to have at least one bad experience with someone hanging around us out of pity. This is something that really gave me a similar feeling in Akito's arc. She's not a baby and she can understand and do better if she is given the chance to learn and break from all the freaky cult indoctrination she's been subjected to instead of just being constantly enabled. In the end, a lot of her growth is represented by her showing that she is capable of changing and being independent.

Shows particular difficulty with socialization, often sits by herself spacing out at social events. A lot of her fear is rooted in the fact that she doesn't know how normal relationships work, becoming overly reliant on the curse because she doesn't know how to make friends.

Clings desperately onto the notion of being "special" and in some way superior to others to be worthy and to make up for perceived inherent "flaws." It's the nd gifted kid burnout vibes for me.

Easily bothered by things that don't bother others. Feels emotions very strongly to the point of getting physically ill and has bad emotional regulation.

Relatively good at reading others in an analytical sense (though has more trouble when it comes to seeing how they feel about her since she's wildly delusional) but brings up her observations in a very cold, detached way and hurts people even on the rare occasion she didn't mean to. Has extreme trouble connecting to others and understanding their point of view. This makes her come off as pretty unempathetic even though that might not fully be the case. Also thinks that people like Momiji are trying to look down on her when they try to empathize with her. A lot of why Tohru can get through to her is that she manages to convince Akito that she's not condescending by relating shared traits and experiences. As I said earlier, autistics often empathize by sharing their own experiences with someone, and I know I often have an easier time confiding in other autistics because of a fear of being seen as lesser by those that don't understand me. I think the connection between these charachters and the way that Tohru manages to reach Akito like that while others couldn't makes a lot of sense through an autistic lense!

Additionally, when Akito herself gets around to trying to help others instead of just projecting trauma, she tries to reach out to the old maid by relating back to her own experiences. This however, doesn't work.

Has "cold" emotional reactions sometimes even to things that do make her upset. For example, how sort of calm and detached she acted after her father's death can make her seem uncaring. However, we know that this event did mess her up a lot and she is still (poorly) dealing with a lot of grief from the death of her father years later.

Copies mannerisms from others, the most blatant example is with Ren, who she directly parrots lines from as a child to Yuki.

Partly just her posturing, but gestures a lot with her hands when she talks. Also seen several times clutching her hands in her hair.

Deals extremely poorly with the idea of things changing to the point that it is a driving force of the story.

Does not understand when people tease her.

Ect. Ect. Ect. Listen, I could go on for ages but just trust me, the mean gremlin lady is autistic.

#fruits basket #akito sohma #tohru honda #saki hanajima #machi kuragi #hatsuharu sohma #actually autistic #meta

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toomanyf4ndoms7 · 2 years

Text

Overheard at Blackfield.

Consider this an incorrect quote collection because... why not?

A few of these quotes are from here.

Anyway, on with the show?

———————————————————————

No Face: *tapping on the table*

Billy: *tapping back*

John: What are they doing?

Raven: Morse code.

No Face: *Aggressively taps*

Billy: YOU TAKE THAT BACK!

———————————————————————

John: Hey.

Grimm: *grunts*

John: How’s it going?

Grimm: Leave.

John: Alright, damn.

*with the others*

Stone: I think that was the longest conversation I’ve seen Grimm have.

———————————————————————

Bloody Mary: I wouldn’t expect you to understand love. You’re just a teenager.

Raven: You killed your best friend because she threw you the bouquet. But, yeah, sure, I’m the one who doesn’t know love.

Therapist: Perhaps we should end this double session.

———————————————————————

Preacher: The gates of hell will be waiting for all of you.

Needles: Don’t threaten me with a good time.

———————————————————————

Needles: Ight, imma head out.

*Causes a prison riot*

———————————————————————

Raven in private: There are so many things I want to tell you. But I know you’ll never hear. I should have told you before, but all I have is my memories. I only hope I don’t forget you.

Raven in public: Do not involve me at all, I’m reading.

———————————————————————

Needles to Dollface: Aren’t you tired of being nice? Don’t you just wanna go apeshit?!

———————————————————————

Mr Grimm: Think you can answer some questions without the usual level of sarcasm?

Raven: If you can ask the questions without the usual level of stupid.

———————————————————————

John Doe: Dumbest scar stories, go!

Billy: I burned my tongue once drinking tea.

Mary: I dropped a hair dryer on my leg once and it burned.

Raven: I have a piece of graphite in my leg for accidentally stabbing myself with a pencil in the first grade.

Dollface: I was taking a cup of noodles out of the microwave and spilled it in my hand and I got a really bad burn.

Mr Grimm: I have emotional scars.

———————————————————————

#twisted metal #twisted metal black #a moment in...#mr grimm #raven twisted metal #dollface #john doe twisted metal #frank mccutcheon #bloody mary twisted metal #needles kane #preacher tm #Agent Stone #billy ray stillwell

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caratmagic · 3 years

Text

—jung wooyoung—

contains: arguing, pretty offensive words, explicit content

word count: 2.3k

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Enemy Territory 🌻chapter 4🌻

You hate that you find yourself dragging your feet slowly—yet quietly— to Wooyoung’s door. Hoping that the noises you hear from behind it aren’t those of pleasure.

There’s an exchange of them chatting, audible enough to hear but not enough to make out the words. As if snooping like this wasn’t enough, you press the shell of your ear against the door. Using the frame of it to steady your body from making any unnecessary movements or noise.

A rustle. Then several more. You think you hear the sheets move.

They’ve stopped talking.

More silence, then a loud thump onto the floor.

Your heart races out of your chest and you have a hard time picturing what could possibly be going on inside Wooyoung’s room.

Footsteps hurry to the door and before you could get more than halfway down the hall, Wooyoung’s body peeks out from behind his door.

“Snooping on me now?” He scoffs with that annoyingly charming sneer. “I thought we were supposed to stay out of each other’s business? Now look who’s breaking their own rules.”

You shut your eyes tightly while your back faces your ex.

Fuck.

A breath quickly fills your lungs as you turn around in efforts to compose your expressions. You’re somehow confused as to why he was suddenly wearing a shirt.

“I— I was just about to knock and ask you what type of meat you wanted to grill, you idiot.” Your mouth moves faster than your thoughts and you’re so glad that your brain was quick enough to pull something straight out of your ass. “I didn’t want to… interrupt.”

Wooyoung holds the door open slightly for you to catch a small glimpse of the girl politely seated at the edge of his bed. Blinking curiously at you with a content smile on her face, although her tears still stain her cheeks. “It’s not even noon yet y/n, I’m smarter than that to start having rough sex knowing that you’re in the apartment.”

This thought somehow makes your stomach turn and not in a pleasant way. You didn't want to imagine Wooyoung like this with someone else. Yet, an image of him bare and in his sexual glory flashes across your mind and for a second you forget that you aren’t single. You forget that you have a neglectful boyfriend who likes to have sex with you once a week then proceeds to avoid you until the next weekend arrives.

Does Wooyoung have sex often when I’m not around? Did he have to use the word ‘rough’? Do they have rough sex together?—

Why was the thought of Wooyoung having sex with someone else more distressing to you than the entire problem of your boyfriend literally using you as a weekend booty call?

Not a single soul should know why, because the reality of it all is that: One, Wooyoung is single. And two, you are not.

So you had no right to be bothered about it.

Right?

“Uh. Right,” You subconsciously mess with the tips of your fingers to think of what to say next since you didn’t expect that his comment would throw your mind into a loop. “Just text me when you’ve, um, decided what you want. I’ll head to the store now since you’re busy… so you’ve got 20 minutes to make a choice.”

“No need to wait 20 minutes for me to text you, y/n,” Wooyoung slowly pulls his lips into a gentle smile. A smile that sets off a million bursts of fireworks through your chest. “You already know what kind of meat I like to grill.”

Instantly you blink away the feeling—or at least try to ignore it. “People change. Just wanted to ask in case you had a change in taste.”

Wooyoung presses his lips together before nodding his head slowly. Clearly catching your composure and deciding not to point it out due to the guest on his bed. “Uh, nope. My tastes are constant, y/n.”

The worst part of it all is, your conversation was being monitored by a ditsy flower, just waiting for Wooyoung to come back and take care of her… You hated it. Everything about this set up.

Now, heading out of the apartment to get groceries seemed like a much better idea to you than twiddling your thumbs to wait for Wooyoung’s pretty guest to leave.

“I’ll head out then.”

Upon grabbing your purse and your keys, you curse at yourself mentally for getting caught snooping. Even scolding your heart for causing your mind to lose control of your emotions.

************

It had only been half an hour since you left to get ingredients for the meal with Wooyoung, yet a familiar vehicle pulls into the apartment complex parking lot.

A few flights up and your boyfriend is back at the front of your door. Sure to himself that your car has left and that you’d be gone for a while.

San punches in the code of your apartment door. When it opens, a girl stands on the other side peering up at San with a shocked expression.

“Oh hey, It’s y/n boyfriend.” She smiles before turning to Wooyoung who, at the moment, keeps a straight face.

They had finally completed their 30 minute rant session, where she comes to him for help with her loneliness. Which was a topic to talk about for another time since Wooyoung felt like it wasn’t even his place to do it for her— also, considering he’s rejected her multiple times to be something more than her emotional support friend.

He never felt like a new relationship was something he needed.

As far as relationships are concerned, Wooyoung has enough on his plate to deal with considering the ugly truth he’s recently discovered. And of course, his unsettled feelings for his gorgeous ex.

“What are you doing back?” Wooyoung asks San, holding the door open for his emotionally unstable friend.

“Uh, coming to see my girlfriend??” San exchanges an offended glare at Wooyoung.

“Oh, I thought you already had your fill for her last night… What happened? Fell asleep before you could finish the job?” Wooyoung’s words are calm yet sharp like knives. Attacking San with precision as he tilts his head in accusation. “She’s out getting groceries.” He adds.

“You know,” San narrows his eyes, striding to level his face right in front of Wooyoung’s. “You have a lot of nerve thinking you can have any say in our relationship considering you’re her fucking ex.”

“We only broke up because I decided to switch colleges last minute without telling her.” Wooyoung doesn’t back down. He’s aware that his choice was the reason why the two of you broke up and that he should’ve told you sooner he wasn’t going to go to the same college as you guys had planned. “At least I never snuck out of bed after having sex with her.”

San scoffs at the gall. “Don’t act like you fucking know me.”

“I don’t.” Wooyoung shifts his weight and sticks his hands into his jean pockets. “But I know every part of y/n way better than you do. Every. Single. Part.”

San’s hand clenches into a fist and right before he draws it back to swing at Wooyoung. The girl awkwardly standing beside them in the threshold of the door raises her voice. “Hey, as much as I like the drama, I kind of have work so if I can just pass through…”

San doesn’t steer his eyes away from Wooyoung as he takes a step to the side for the girl to get around his body. Too peeved to realize that he was blocking the door.

“…I’ll see you later, Wooyoung. Thanks for helping me out again.” She waves before disappearing into the hall.

San huffs through his nose. It’s upsetting to him that Wooyoung doesn’t even seem the least bit affected by the situation. “Why aren’t you packing your shit? Isn’t this your last week?”

As if his train of thought derails, without even waiting for an answer to his own questions, San pushes past your ex and heads straight into your room.

Looking for what he left so recklessly before sneaking away that morning.

Wooyoung, with his hands still in his pockets, calmly follows San. Watching your boyfriend’s frantic search for whatever he’s misplaced.

Since Wooyoung respects your privacy, he stops right at the entrance of your room. “Did you wait for y/n to leave the apartment?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” San tosses a pillow off your bed. Not sparing a single glance at your ex.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung leans against the door. “I mean, if I had something to hide, I guess I’d want to wait until she was gone too.”

San stops completely. His heart drops to his stomach when he turns to your ex standing in front of your room. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Wooyoung shrugs with a playful smirk etching onto his face as one of his hands pulls something out of his right pocket. “You tell me.”

There. What San was looking for.

His phone.

“Where did you find that!?” San yells as he practically dives for it.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Wooyoung shoves it back into his pocket. Placing his hand in front of himself defensively. “Question is, why are you so upset?”

San swallows and processes quickly before clearing his throat. He couldn’t understand why his palms were so sweaty. “It’s—Because it’s fucking mine! Hand it over!”

Wooyoung shakes his head, angling his body away from your boyfriend. “It can’t be yours.”

“Are you fucking mad?” San yells again. Smacking Wooyoung’s arm away from the position he’s guarding his pocket. “Of course, it is. It’s my phone!”

“No, no, no.” Wooyoung’s stupid, playful smile begins to boil hate into San’s veins. “This can’t be your phone.”

“I’ll drop kick that fucking smile off your face, you son of a bitch, give me back my phone!”

“Dude,” Wooyoung chuckles, loving how riled up your shitty boyfriend is getting. “I swear this phone has got to be someone else’s… because when I saw it on the couch, ringing at 4 am, someone named Eunji was calling to ask if her ‘daddy’ was still going to—and I’ll quote her on this, “Rearrange my guts like you always do on Saturday nights.” And you're telling me you’re certain that this is your phone?”

The reality settles into the air and San realizes that he’s been caught cheating on you… by your ex.

This is when Wooyoung’s twisted smirk turns into an angry scowl. He’s disgusted that you found a man so indisputably vile and unloyal.

“You really think you’ll get away with this? Lying to y/n like this and fucking her once every week just to make up for how shitty a person you are?”

San’s gaze falters to the floor and he snatches his phone from the unguarded pocket of Wooyoung’s jeans. “What are you gonna do, huh? Tattle-tail on me?” He shoves it into his back pocket, scoffing. “She’ll never believe you. She hates you.”

“Even if she does,” Wooyoung turns on his heels and enters into his room across the hall. “She’ll wish you were dead after figuring out that you leave her in the mornings just to be in some other woman’s bed the very same night.”

San follows Wooyoung a few steps into the hall. “You wouldn’t dare tell her.” He spits.

An exasperated sigh paired with the front door swinging open, startles the two men away from glaring at one another.

*********

After 30 minutes of shopping, you head home.

The entire time in the parking lot, you were gathering the courage to talk yourself into confidently walking back into your house.

So what if he was having sex? You have sex all the time with San while Wooyoung stays in the room across the hall from yours.

How is coming back home knowing that he’s having fun with a woman be any different?

Equality at its best example for it. You remind yourself as you exit the elevator.

To your dismay, You were unpleasantly greeted by a very voluptuous woman with intruding questions as to why you were going to enter into her boyfriend’s home.

You push past the nuisance at your front door. Sighing as you lazily drop the groceries onto the floor.

You can only assume that this other girl— an entirely different girl compared to the one from this morning—is Wooyoung's little problem.

This boy must be cheating… What a waste. “Taste’s are constant” my ass.

You pray that Wooyoung’s ditsy girl toy from earlier this morning has left. Though you liked witnessing drama, you didn’t want to see two girls fight over your ex. “Wooyoung? I think you have a guest.” You call out as you take off your shoes.

To your surprise, Your boyfriend is staring at you from the hallway— eyes wide and stunned.

Wooyoung steps out of his room to stand in the hall next to San. A flat smile sets on his features as he stares at you and eunji. “I won’t need to…” He seems to be talking to San when he speaks. “Next time, set a better password on your phone. You never know who’ll scroll through your messages and send people your girlfriend’s address.”

This confuses you. Immensely. More so, when San’s face drains of all color.

“Baby! Who the hell is this girl?” Miss voluptuous checks your shoulder as she rushes past you. Headed towards Wooyoung with her arms stretched out.

What rattles your world from it’s axis isn’t that Wooyoung doesn’t hold her, it’s that the girl doesn’t even look at him. She doesn’t even acknowledge that Wooyoung’s standing there.

Instead,

She’s all over your boyfriend. Calling him “baby’ and glaring at you as if you were nothing more than a disgusting insect.

No, no… I must be dreaming.

“Sannie, who the hell is this girl and why is she coming into your apartment?”

[ chapter 5 >> ]

#wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #ateez #ateez imagines #san imagines #ateez x reader #ateez smut

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codenamed-queenie · 4 years

Text

#BatsInQuarantine

I am going insane. So I poured my restlessness into one long and very detailed post and got super into it. Please enjoy this hot mess.

The Justice League, being the well-meaning virus-proof Super Friends that they are, took one good look at the news, one good look at their non-powered friends Ollie, Bruce, and their families, and collectively decided that these normal humans must be Protected At All Costs.

Now, keep in mind, Bruce is never one to roll over when it comes to being benched.

However, he understands the importance of social distancing. He knows he needs to set a good example for his kids, and keep up appearances as Gotham’s Most Responsible Multi-Billionaire.

So. Quarantine it is.

But how are his kids handling it?

Dick -

100% on board in the beginning. Gotta do the Responsible Thing. Gotta set a Good Example. Besides, guys, this is gonna be Fun. Quality Family Time is always a Must.

He lasted 2 days.

Then he started to get twitchy.

And as everyone knows? A Trapped Dick Grayson is a Feral Dick Grayson.

He bounces off the walls.

Literally.

“I have to climb.”

“Dick, no.”

“I have to climb everything.”

Has scaled the manor 16 times already. Has climbed the chandelier. The banister. Bruce. The roof. The Cave. Anything in the house that’s been bolted down and especially anything that hasn’t.

Duke found him clinging to the wall 10 ft off the ground like Spiderman and screamed so loud it shattered glass.

Desperate for news of the outside.

He thrives off of it like a starving man.

Was the one to suggest he and Barbara take a break to Social Distance from each other (”Sorry, babe, kissing spreads germs”) and experienced Instant Regret(TM) approximately 5 minutes after.

The Family has labelled him a Flight Risk Level 1 (Most likely to say f**k it and make a break for the outside world)

Jason -

Accidentally got trapped inside the manor with the others when Bruce called Shutdown. If he had his way, he’d be chilling in his favorite safe-house right now, binging The Witcher with Roy and Artemis, and not worrying about finding a stray brother in his sock drawer.

But he’s nothing if not an opportunist.

The way he sees it, Jason has 3 options:

Self Improvement

Self Isolation (See Duke, Cass, and Damian)

Descension Into Madness (See Dick and Steph)

And, well, he always wanted to try a few things. Now he’s got the free time to do it.

So he settles on baking.

Alfred’s got enough food and raw ingredients stored up to feed an army. (Not because he’s a Panic-Buying-Hoarder in times like these. But because he’s a Panic-Buying-Hoarder all the time. Just try feeding 11+ teenagers sometime.)

Uses recipes he finds off Google.

His first few attempts are, in a word, ‘tragic’.

Alfred slips him a few of his recipe cards, and Jason suddenly starts seeing Results.

Turns out he’s pretty good at this baking thing once he gets the hang of it.

Hope everyone’s okay eating nothing but pie, macaroons, biscuits, and whatever else Jason whips up.

Cause that’s gonna be the only food left by the time he’s done.

Barbara -

Self-quarantined with her dad.

They’ve been binge-watching classic black and white movies together.

It’s a fun time, but she’s started to get a little antsy. Loving her dad and wanting to be around him 24/7 are, understandably, mutually exclusive.

Calls the manor to video-chat every day.

For her sanity just as much as theirs.

Gives everyone little challenges to film on their phones and send in. She makes compilations of everyone’s submissions so they can all watch and laugh together.

Bonus points for Creativity

One comp shows the family trying to drop Mentos into coke bottles.

Dick did a handstand, and dropped his Mento from the second story balcony.

Tim did it wearing the Batman cowl. The soda exploded into his face, and the rest of the video is just Bruce’s Shrieking.

Stephanie tried it, but the bottle tipped. Everyone on camera screamed as the bottle rocketed through the front window.

She spends most of her calls having one-on-one convos with Dick.

They’ve come up with little code phrases so they can be Cheesy even with family members lurking in the background.

She thinks the way he clings to the monitor is cute.

Almost like he’s giving her a hug through the screen.

(It’s easier than letting herself worry about his mental state, at least)

Tim -

Oh this boy.

Freaked out for the first five minutes before he decided ‘hey wait, Bruce is letting me stay in my pajamas all day? Noice.’

Now he’s just vibing.

The rest of his family is Low-Key shielding him.

He Has No Spleen, you see.

Steph: “Someone could cough on him and he could die!”

He just goes about his day, playing Animal Crossing like there’s no tomorrow, tinkering on projects, taking naps, etc. Living his best life.

Meanwhile there’s always someone lurking behind him, keeping watch, keeping him safe.

Dick sneezed within 5 feet of Tim once (the fact that he was on top of the dusty bookshelf Tim was perusing is irrelevant)

Jason still full-body tackled him the second Tim’s back was turned.

No one with any symptoms--

Like, any symptoms. They don’t even have to be Corona-related.

--is allowed within 10 feet of Tim.

Tim has been wandering the manor for weeks, now, without seeing another human being.

(He sees Dick on the ceiling sometimes, but that doesn’t really count)

He’s been trying increasingly drastic pranks and shenanigans to draw someone, anyone, out.

But it doesn’t matter how many times he steals Damian’s sword, or sets fire to Jason’s brownie bites.

Nobody wants to risk it.

Cass -

No one has seen her since quarantine started.

Everyone is approximately 87% sure she’s somewhere in the manor though

Because she does eat the meals Alfred leaves out for her.

Or at least someone does, at any rate.

(Jason and Santa top the running suspects list)

Santa was Steph’s suggestion. For some reason it snowballed.

It’s assumed that Cass misunderstood the meaning of ‘social distancing’ and took it too far.

But no one knows for sure.

She is Tim’s Guardian Angel.

People who so much as clear their throats a little too loudly anywhere near him suddenly wake up on a different floor of the house four hours later.

Duke came closest to spotting her while he was up in the attic.

Either that, or there’s another Creepy Sister everyone forgot to tell him about living up there.

She is silent, and watchful, sticking to the shadows, but she does leave the occasional note out to brighten her siblings’ day.

Things like ‘helo i love u’ and ‘hop u ar ok’ mostly.

She is bound and determined to protect her family from this invisible threat, no matter the cost.

Steph -

Like Dick, she was Super Pumped at first.

(Just kind of showed up at Wayne Manor before quarantine was enacted. The original purpose of her visit is unclear, but regardless, she’s Trapped.)

Also Like Dick, her descent into madness was swift.

She is impossible to pin down.

Not like Cass or Damian, who’ve stayed off the grid, and are therefore Untraceable.

No. She’s impossible to pin down, because she never stops moving.

Switches seamlessly between Zumba on top of the Giant Dinosaur in the Batcave, and furiously knitting Alfred (the Cat) a sweater with a pair of Tim’s used chopsticks.

Braided everyone’s hair while they were asleep.

Even Bruce’s.

She tried to do Tim’s, but somehow blacked out and regained consciousness in the attic.

When she woke up with a scream and a furiously twitching eye, she startled Duke out of his Makeshift Fort he built out of old cardboard boxes and antique furniture. He’s had to resort to finding a new hiding place.

Sometimes, on the rare occasions she does sit still, staring off into the distance, she’ll suddenly start laughing hysterically. This may last between thirty seconds and thirty minutes, depending entirely on how long it’s been since she’s knitted a cat sweater or done cartwheels through every room in the house.

Blew up the greenhouse out back, somehow.

Everyone has agreed not to talk about it.

Some people were built to handle prolonged time inside their homes.

Stephanie Brown is not that way.

Damian -

Damian Wayne Cannot Be Contained.

At least not inside the house.

He took off thirty-six hours into quarantine.

Thanks to the security equipment around the borders of the Wayne Estate, he can’t escape the grounds.

(He’s tried and failed multiple times. Jason and Bruce have a running bet on how many times the perimeter alarms will go off per day.)

(Jason is winning.)

He wanders the grounds with Titus as his only companion.

The two of them run laps, practice drills, and find ways to occupy their time.

No one’s entirely sure what those ways are.

In fact, nobody knows exactly where Damian is at any given time.

Only that he is Out There.

And he’s the best security system Wayne Manor’s ever had.

So far, he’s stopped five groups of civilians scaling the perimeter walls before the lasers and electric nets even have a chance to deploy.

They were trying to break in and steal supplies.

(Even ones they already had in surplus. Like Toilet Paper.)

He’s also stopped Dick from escaping twelve (12) times.

Drags him back by his shirt collar and deposits him on the welcome mat.

Usually with a note for Alfred/Jason, requesting more fruit tarts.

Duke -

Did not leave the attic for two weeks.

Then Steph discovered his hiding spot (read: was dumped there by Cassandra) which forced him to relocate to the basement.

Yes, it turns out Wayne Manor does have a basement.

This was a surprise to Duke, who always thought that the Batcave was Bruce Wayne’s basement.

Alfred keeps him supplied with all the necessities:

i.e. food, magazines, assorted pastries from Jason’s latest batch, usually straight out of the oven.

Duke also snagged the Manor’s Alexa.

She has become a sort of ‘Wilson’ to Duke’s ‘Chuck Noland’.

She is his only comfort. His only ally.

He’s determined to wait out this quarantine, doing his best to avoid the others.

Duke has seen these people under pressure.

He knows exactly what he’s dealing with.

Duke: “Alexa is the only motherf****r in this madhouse I ever respected.”

*offended butler noises from the other room*

Duke: “And also Alfred.”

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heliads · 3 years

Text

Firestarter

Y/N L/N is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the ability to control fire. She keeps her powers hidden to protect herself, although she doesn’t count on accidentally revealing them to Steve Rogers when she saves his life.

masterlist

You open your hand. Slowly, carefully. The flames spring up almost involuntarily, a gut instinct that you can’t seem to turn off. You stare for a while, and when you look away you can still see the inverses dancing across the walls. Hot tongues of fire that lick across your palm, soaring higher and higher with the slightest impulse.

You suppose you would appreciate your powers if it weren’t for your line of work. You became a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent before you realized their true attitudes towards people with abilities, and you’d discovered soon after that if you wanted to survive and stay out of the labs, you would need to keep your little fire habit a secret. No matter what all-inclusive, power-friendly aura S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to give off, they would always distrust and disregard people with abilities.

Even the best of you, the Maximoff twins, were greeted with raised eyebrows and knives up sleeves instead of open arms. Maybe that was because they were given their powers by HYDRA, but you knew better. It wasn’t the specific organization that bothered S.H.I.E.L.D., it was the fact that they had no way of controlling that much power. The only way S.H.I.E.L.D. dealt with superhuman abilities was by either taking them in or taking them out. If they were to find out that you, a high ranking agent with plenty of clearance codes, had powers, they’d kill you. They can’t take risks like that, not with someone like you.

That’s why you never let anyone see the flames darting from your hands and lighting up your eyes. That’s why you wait until you’re alone, in a room with no security cameras, to call up the first few sparks. It hurts to go without using your powers for that long, but the alternative is so much worse. As a senior S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, you’ve had the gruesome pleasure of seeing the labs firsthand. S.H.I.E.L.D. claims that the labs are harmless, only taking in willing participants so that their scientists can learn more about the complex world of those with power and those without. You’ve heard the screams to know that all of this is a lie, that nobody goes to those labs willingly. So, you play the part of the powerless, pretending that you’re a perfectly ordinary person, even if nothing could be further from the truth.

There’s a knock at your door and you snap your hand shut like a compact. When you slowly open your fingers once more, the tendrils of flame are gone. You wave your hand to disperse the last few curling fingers of smoke from the room, then call out to your visitor. “Come in.” A few moments later, a tall, familiarly strapping man enters the room. You smile at him. “Steve Rogers, what a surprise. To what do I owe this visit?”

Steve holds out a hand to you and you take it, standing up from your chair. “Have you forgotten already? We’ve got that debriefing from Cox in a couple of minutes.” You groan. “That’s why you came over? I thought it was something good.” Steve chuckles. “No. I refuse to go alone.” He’s already opening the door, tugging you out into the hallway despite your protests. “I was going anyway, there’s no need to drag me over.” The two of you walk side by side down the corridor, slowly making your way towards the debriefing room. Steve glances over at you, a joking smile on his face. “I know you were, I was just checking in to make sure you weren’t ditching me.”

You pull a face. “You’re a terrible friend.” Steve says nothing, just holds open the door to the debriefing room with a grin. He follows you inside, although the two of you walk to different sides of the room once the door closes behind you. Steve is an Avenger, he’ll sit with Sam, Natasha, and the rest. Despite your years of experience fighting alongside the Avengers, you’re still a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and so you slide into a chair next to your coworkers.

A couple of minutes later, a man walks into the room and takes a stance at the front of the room. His hair is slightly too greasy, eyes slightly too cold. You and Steve share a mutual hatred of this man, Edward Cox, and you’re not looking forward to hearing him boss you around for the next hour or so. You suppose that he is technically a good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and it’s impossible to rise to his level without shedding all of your morals, but that doesn’t make listening to him speak any easier.

This is especially true today. The mission itself should be fascinating- some twisted soul named Isaiah Crane has taken control of some massive warehouse complex, and he’s filling it with an army of soldiers and weapons. It’s your typical Avengers threat, made more interesting by the fact that Crane is an utter madman. His every move is calculated yet wild, and it’s practically impossible to guess what he’ll do next. His forces have already begun expanding out, displacing and injuring hundreds of civilians, and so the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. have been called in.

Cox, however, makes it sound like the dullest training excursion on the planet. “Remember, you’ll get in and get out. Try not to fight amongst yourselves, we’ll have to order you out. We don’t want another Sokovia Accords, do we, folks? Anyways, just take out Crane and his men. Don’t bother with the civilians, they’ll only get in the way.” Across the room, you see Steve straighten up. “What do you mean, don’t bother with the civilians? According to these reports, they’re being rounded up and killed or forced out of their homes. We should be helping them, it’s our job.”

Cox frowns over at Steve, evidently displeased over the interruption. “No, Rogers, you’re here to take down Crane. There’s a difference. Save the petty rescues for the fire department.” You wince slightly at that. It’s like Cox is actively trying to set Steve off. “You’re talking about hundreds of people who are in danger, who we could save in a fraction of the time it would take the local reinforcements. Why shouldn’t we be helping them?” Cox fiddles with the papers in front of him. “Because those are your orders, Rogers. You don’t need the people, just the man. Crane.”

You can see that Steve is seconds away from exploding on the guy, so you raise a hand. Cox turns to you, evidently assuming that you’ll be defending him. You’ve seen how Cox works, he tends to appreciate some sticking to the rules. You can use this against him; if you don’t, he’ll never let you speak in the first place. “Actually, I think Steve is right. I wouldn’t be surprised if Crane tries to use the chaos of the fleeing civilians to protect himself. By getting all of them out of harm’s way, we clear the path to him.”

Cox’s smile fades. “I would have expected a senior officer to understand the basic truths. We can’t save everybody, that’s a dream for the children.” You ignore the jibe. “You cited the Sokovia Accords as an example of things we should be avoiding. The only reason we were able to survive to make those accords in the first place was because of the success of Sokovia itself. The Sokovia incident would have been considered a disaster were it not for the fact that the Avengers were able to save all of the civilians. Yes, they had to battle Ultron, but their main victory was the countless lives saved.”

Cox opens his mouth as if to contradict you, but now Steve sees what you’re saying. “Exactly. Crane is our Ultron right now, but we have to save the people. End of story.” Cox glares at you both, but the rest of the room is nodding in agreement, so he’s forced to drop the matter. For the rest of the debriefing, though, his words come out as spiked weapons that he shoots at you and Steve, vindictive in his rage at being publicly humiliated.

Steve, on the other hand, does not consider this a victory. You can tell that he’s still furious at Cox for so casually throwing away the lives of the civilians, and he strides briskly away from the room the second the debriefing is over. You collect your things and follow him into an empty room. Steve looks up when you close the door behind him, evidently unsurprised to see you. Anger seems to course from his every vein. You forget how he gets sometimes, when he’s let down time and time again by the fools of S.H.I.E.L.D. who think they can toss aside hundreds of lives for a cleaner mission.

Steve’s voice is laced with vitriol. “I can’t believe him. I honestly can’t believe him. How could he go up there and tell us all to let those innocents die? I don’t think he even saw a problem with it.” He begins to pace back and forth, energy seemingly bounding from his every motion. “This entire organization is paved with blood, and they’re the ones holding all the strings. How do you live with yourself, knowing this is happening every day?” The second the words leave his mouth, Steve looks up, regret already beginning to color his eyes. “I didn’t mean that.”

You hold up a hand to stem his apologies. “Yes, you did, and it’s fine. S.H.I.E.L.D. has never had time for the lives it plays with, and you’re right to say it. To be honest, I’m not sure that there is a way to live with the knowledge. You just have to push it aside, because there’s no better way to do what has to be done.” You glance over at him, smiling slightly. “The problem is that you’re Captain America, and everyone expects you to always make the perfect choice no matter what. Perfect choices where everyone ends up alive and well don’t exist, yet if you don’t make that decision, you’re hunted for it. We don’t get happy endings in this line of work, we just have to make do with what we have. Maybe we have to accept the worse choices right now, but we can take steps to make them better.”

Steve nods, and you can tell that he’s beginning to calm down. “That’s the worst part of it. There are so many expectations, and it’s impossible to live up to all of them.” You incline your head in acknowledgement. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a pretty good job of it.” You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek before slipping from the room. Even as you walk away, you can still feel your lips burning. For a spy who’s not supposed to get hung up over her emotions, you’re doing a pretty bad job of it.

It’s difficult to describe the relationship you have with Steve Rogers. You’ve been enemies, you’ve been friends. You’ve had each other’s backs. There have been nights when alcohol burns like kerosene down your throat, when you spend the night between his sheets and wake up again the next morning to steal away before he wakes. The best way to describe what you have with Steve is that it’s whatever the two of you need at the moment. Maybe it’s a friend, maybe it’s more. By uttering a word about it, you’re afraid you’ll shatter those quiet moments and cut the fragile string tying you to him for good.

By the next morning, you’ve forced thoughts of him from your head once more. You’re heading down the landing of the quinjet, gun held at the ready. The steady rattle of gunfire echoes around you, and just like that, the fight to reach Isaiah Crane has begun. You and the rest of the Avengers rush to the civilians, getting them to safety before the inevitable call crackles through your earpiece, announcing that Crane is in the building. This is your one shot at him, you have to make it count.

The group of fighters enters the building, one person for each entrance. You make your way through the twisting halls of the complex, but you never catch sight of him. You come out of a narrow passageway to find yourself suddenly swallowed up by a main room. Across the space, you can see the rest of the Avengers emerging from doors. It looks like you’ve all been led here, trapped in this one space by the elusive Crane. Just as you realize this, the bombs go off and you’re thrown to the ground.

There must have been explosives lining the floor. Dust hangs thick and heavy in the air, and the bombs keep on going off, one after another. A chain reaction, which ends with the ceiling beginning to shake and tumble down. Your eyes are drawn to the thick concrete of the building’s structure, which is just now falling down on top of you. Your legs itch to run, to do something, but there’s nowhere to go. The only thing you can do is hope for the best, which is that this column falling on you won’t entirely shatter you.

Just as you’re preparing yourself for the impact, a figure darts over to you, pulling you to them protectively. You realize it’s Steve, and he flings his shield over your huddled bodies just before the roof caves in. There’s an overwhelming blow, but after a few tense minutes, you realize you’re still alive and relatively unharmed. Slowly, carefully, Steve stands up, and you do too. You stare in shock at the room around you. Columns of concrete have come tumbling down, and the room is in shambles. Rubble and large chunks of the roof have caved in around you, and it’s impossible to see anything farther than a few feet ahead of you.

You reach to your earpiece, turning it on. “This is Agent L/N. Can anyone read me? Over.” You wait a couple of seconds, then repeat your message. There is no response, just the crackling of static. Steve shakes his head. “I’m not getting anything either. I think we’re on our own.” You bite your cheek, thinking. “This was Crane’s plan. He wanted to get us alone.” Steve nods. “I don’t think we have much of a choice about it, though. There’s a way out under the rubble, and I think it goes deeper into the complex. It looks like it’s our only option.”

The two of you duck underneath the piles of debris, skirting around the edges of the room to find the chink in the armor that Steve was talking about. It seems to lead to a broader expanse of hallway, one that wasn’t connected to any doors leading outside. You look down the dimly lit hall, uneasy. “I have a bad feeling about this. This has got to be a trap.” Steve sighs. “I don’t think there’s any way it isn’t a trap. Crane must have set it up- whoever survives the explosives makes it over to him. I hate to say it, but it’s the only thing we can do. At least we can finish this.”

You nod, and the two of you begin walking down the hallway. You keep your eyes open and alert for any threats, any new explosives or ambushes, but there’s nothing there. At last, the hallway opens up into a seemingly empty room. You and Steve look at each other, and you see your same apprehension reflected on his face. Steve holds out an arm to stop you from walking any further. He speaks quietly, mouth an inch or two away from your ear. “Stay back here. I’ll go in alone, you’ll watch my back. If Crane thinks he’s going to be holding all the cards, I want at least one ace up my sleeve.”

You nod slowly. “Be careful.” Steve smirks. “Always am.” With that, he slings his shield off of his shoulder, holding it out in front of him like the knights of old. You watch as he disappears around the corner, footsteps echoing off of the high ceiling. There’s a noise from across the room, barely noticeable. Steve, of course, is used to doing the impossible and his head turns towards the sound. He strides further into the room, investigating the sudden sound. He is slowly swallowed up by the shadows of the room, and you squint as your eyes adjust to the darkness.

At first, you think you’re just making things up. Then, the slight movement comes again, strengthening as it passes close by the lights of the hall. You take a slow, silent step forward and your eyes widen as you see the figure drawing close to Steve. The silhouette has its back to you, and you creep out of the hall and into the room, curious. With a chill, you realize that this is Crane, and he’s about to attack Steve, who has no idea that the enemy he’s been tracking is right behind him. Steve is still walking through the room, completely unaware of the man about to kill him. Crane raises his arm, a gun in his hand. You can see a demented grin on Crane’s face as he aims at Steve’s skull. His finger pauses on the trigger.

You don’t think, not at all. Before you know it, your arm is raised, a swarm of fire billowing out of your hand and engulfing Crane whole. It knocks him over, a shriek of pain issuing from his mouth as the gun misfires. Steve whirls around and sees Crane at last, but it doesn’t matter. The man is out cold, burns blossoming in a sickening shine all over his body. He won’t wake up for a while, and when he does, he’ll be in so much pain that he’ll barely be able to stand, let alone try to kill Steve once more.

This means that Steve’s eyes are moving up, from Crane to you. You watch as the understanding dawns in his eyes, as he looks between the flames still dying out on the ground around Crane to your outstretched hand. Once again, your mind goes silent and you don’t think, just act. You’ve felt fear before, the terrifying, bone-chilling fear that you are about to die. You’ve known the terror of facing down impossible odds in a mission that was doomed from the start. All of those are manageable, but this right here? This suffocating knowledge that you’re about to experience the worst agony of your life, that Steve is going to tell S.H.I.E.L.D. about your powers and you’re going to be sent to those accursed labs, this is the most petrifying fear you have ever known.

You turn and run, heels flashing down the hall. You don’t know why you’re sprinting down the corridor, why this will make a difference. All you know is that you have to get away, you have to leave before the truth comes to light. Yet you forget that Steve is a super soldier, someone who can outpace anyone in a heartbeat. Within seconds, he’s catching up to you, and then his arm is reaching out and grabbing yours, stopping you in your tracks. He pulls you over to the side of the hall, your back up against the wall. He stares at you, and you stare at him.

Steve is the first to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me you had powers? Why did you run?” The words bubble out of you, a torrent of terror. “They’re going to kill me. S.H.I.E.L.D. They’re going to bring me to those labs and take me apart over and over again. Just kill me now, it’ll be faster.” Steve shakes his head. “I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to let them do that.” A laugh, bitter and jaded and cold, flies from your throat. “You don’t have a choice. None of us do.”

Steve’s face is set, eyes determined. “There are no functioning security cameras in this building, not after that explosion. We’re going to say that Crane got caught by his own bombs, and that’s why he was burned. We’re not going to say anything about you, because you were with me and no one else knows.” You stare at Steve mutely as he continues speaking. “There’s no way S.H.I.E.L.D. could know unless we tell them, and we’re not. You’ll be safe, and no one is going to hurt you.” You feel like the ground has been ripped away from underneath you. “Why would you do that? If they find out, they could take everything away from you. There’s no good reason to risk your job, your life, for what, someone you kiss a couple times a month? They’ll come after you.”

Steve’s arms are still wrapped around your waist, and you’re finding it difficult to think straight. “I left the Avengers and broke them apart because I wanted to protect my best friend. If S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to hurt you, someone I care about more than anyone? I would burn them all to the ground.” He flashes a sudden smile. “Although I’d appreciate it if you were there with me. You make a pretty good firestarter.” You laugh quietly in spite of yourself. “I’ll be there. Even without this whole mess. I don’t think I could leave you if I tried.”

Steve nods, his eyes filling with a sudden warmth. “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that for a long time.” He leans forward and kisses you. It’s strange- you’ve kissed Steve many times, and probably a few other than those that you’ve forgotten. Yet you don’t think he’s ever kissed you like this, with the smile and the trust that you two will stay together, no matter what. He is kissing you like he loves you, and you feel the exact same way.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers oneshot #captain america #captain america imagines #captain america x reader #captain america oneshot #avengers #avengers imagines #avengers x reader #avengers oneshot

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hivequest · 3 years

Text

Taking a Risk » Mallek Adalov/Reader

Wordcount: 2.3k words

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, stressed out reader, chillboy Mallek. TYping quirk only used when texting cause I could not be bothered lmao Originally posted on AO3

A/N: One of my favorite things that I’ve written, ever. I love Mallek and he’s for sure one of my favorite Friendsim characters. When I wrote this I was really feeling those Quarantine Woes

You didn't know what you were doing here. You felt out of place in the worst possible ways. It was a weird, squidgy feeling like stepping on wet grass. But not like the fun kind where you were running around in a sprinkler on a hot-as-balls summer day. No, this was the bad kind of wet grass that you stepped on without knowing it was wet. Why weren't you wearing shoes?

This analogy is stupid. The point is, you're feeling bummed out.

And what better way to not have to deal with that than hang out with someone you knew wouldn't push you into talking about all the ways crashing on this planet sucked! The point is, you're on your way to see Mallek. Mallek is absolutely the kind of friend who can tell when you just need to sit down and veg out. You had been so caught up in everyone else's bullshit that you weren't looking after your own damn self. So now you were doing that.

All it took was a quick text, asking Mallek if he had any company. He texted back only a moment later with a no, obviously not. You asked him if he wanted any. Not really. You ask him if you can come over anyway. Obviously.

You smiled at the palmhusk in your, well, palm. You could already feel the chill vibes of your hacker friend. Friend? Was that the right word for it? You didn't know anymore. When you first met there were definitely some sparks there. You could still feel them now and it made weird butterflies flutter around in your stomach. When you slapped his phone out of his hand and he sent you ass over applecart into the slimy depths of sewer water and he saved you, tits out and all.

You shook off the weird wistful feeling of maybe possibly crossing the friendship barrier and told him you'd walk to his hive. You'd been moping in some bookhive, not your usual hang-out spot with Tagora or Tyzias. This was some upper caste bookhive with purple bloods and some indigos and definitely not where you were welcome if the looks you were getting were any indication. They ranged from snooty to downright murderous. Yeesh.

Your phone -palmhusk, stupid troll names- beeped again. You got another text from him and those cheery fucking butterflies were back. God, you had it bad.

yeah were not doing that lmao;

im not going to let my robobuddy walk out in the sun

do you even know what time of day it =

just stay put ive already got your location ill pick you up;

And like a good little friendsimp. You park your ass on a chair and wait. You hadn't released your moping had taken up most of the night. But with the quick look around, yeah, no, this place was nearly empty by now. Just some older bluebloods trying to cram before their Ordeals and get shipped off-planet. Again: Yeesh.

You kept your ears open for the telltale sound of Mallek's limo. It was a sound you were getting used to these days. He always seemed ready to drop whatever coding shit he was working on to come to see you. You tried not to think too hard on what that might mean. No need to get your hopes up now. It's probably just your bad mood making you imagine some context where there's nothing. Yeah.

Damn, that shit hurted.

Just as you were about to add that to the reasons you were considering just screaming your lungs out who cares whose listening? you heard the wonderfully familiar sound of an approaching elongated scuttlebuggy. If that wasn't enough of a clue as to who the ride was for the quiet of the bookhive was very abruptly disturbed by a series of rhythmic beeps.

Holy shit was that the Tetris theme?

You shoved your palmhusk into your hoodie pocket and yanked the hood over your head. Even if the sun was only out a little bit you didn't want it anywhere near your freshly healed skin. You had no kind cowgirl to nurse you back to health right now if you got your asscheeks baked by the flaming death orb. You peeked your head out and even with the blinding light of Alternia's suns you could Mallek had opened the door and was waiting for you.

Aw. No, shit. You're in a bad mood don't get all heart eyes at him. Don't make it weird.

You took a few steps back into the bookhive, ready to make a run for it. You turn to a sitting indigoblood, who is just staring at you disdainfully for keeping the door open. You give her a two-fingered salute. Godspeed young cosmonaut. She gives you a one-fingered salute. Close the door you insufferable bulgebiter. Fair.

Taking a running start, you book it out into the heat of the Alternian sun and dive for the open car door. It's then that you realize he's halfway parked on the sidewalk to lessen the amount of time you'd have to spend in the sun. Aw. That also means that you came barreling like a cannonball at something that was like two feet out of the door. FUck.

Your face meets carpet and you can already feel the rugburn starting to set in. You hear a startled wheezy laugh from above you, a sound you know better than anyone else on this planet. You smile. It's not like you had any dignity to begin with.

You say hello to him as you peel yourself off of the floor of his car.

"Hey, there robobuddy. You stuck the landing this time," He smiles down at you as he reaches over you to shut the door, closing the space out from natural light and leaving you both lit by his colorful LEDs. You shrug and tell him you've been getting a lot of practice landing on your face these days. The look he gives you is still smiling but there's some level of disbelief at the dumbassery that is your whole existence.

"I know you can get yourself into it. Nothing too bad this time, though, right? No drones or broken bones?" He sounds concerned which is nice but he doesn't drown you with his concern. He leans back on the bench of his limo, keeping an eye on you as the vehicle begins to move on its own. You've been staying out of big messes but the little messes are starting to mess with you. He makes a sound of understanding the sounds as it comes from deep in his chest. Whoa. "Believe me, I've been there. Glad you're not cracking under it though."

He smiles and you can see his little fang and you can feel your heart melt a little. And also you're getting a bit teary-eyed and now Mallek looks alarmed. Shit. You try to quickly explain that you're fine, just, alien allergies am I right? He must be using some new air freshener to mask the musty smell of his limo. Since doesn't use it enough. Ha ha?

He isn't buying it.

With a rare show of cerulean prowess, he lifts you up off of the shitty car rug and sets you on the seat beside him. He feels uncomfortable and you can tell. Ah, goddammit you made it weird. You didn't mean to. Fuck. Fuck now you're feeling even worse. You thought you were starting to balance out. You're with Mallek now, shouldn't everything start to quiet down like it always does? Fuck. He doesn't say anything at first, just leans back against the seat and stretches his arms across it, letting you lean on him if you choose to.

...You choose to.

Your head finds itself somewhere between his shoulder and his collarbone, and you just. Shove your face there. Then scream.

To his credit, Mallek doesn't even flinch. He doesn't wince or shy away from you as you let out every bit of anger, sadness, and frustration out against his sweater. He just sits quietly, staring straight at the blacked-out windshield. You get the feeling he's needed to do this more than once.

Screw this planet. Screw everything about it that makes all of your friends suffer. Why can't you just get them away from all this bullshit?! Why do you have to deal with everyone's bullshit! You love them, you do but holy fuck they're looking to you like you can undo all the damage this place has done to them when you've got literally no god damn idea what's happening at any point ever!

And then, just like that, it fades into the background. Your throat hurts. Your head hurts and you think you might be crying. But it feels lighter. Better now that you've gotten some of that aggression out. You aren't like the trolls on Alternia. You can't kill people when you experience an Emotion™. But that doesn't mean you don't get pent up with rage.

Mallek realizes that now. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and his left hand slowly moves down from the back of the seat the rest against your back. His thumb brushes against your back, the claw drawing little patterns against the fabric of your sweater. His sweater. He tries not to think his sign your chest. This isn't the time.

"Feeling any better?" He asks and you don't know how to answer. You kinda don't want to. But you nod anyways, and you feel some tension leave his body. You knew he was worried about you. You apologize for making him witness your meltdown but he just makes another deep-chested hum. "Nothing to apologize for. I got the feeling you weren't feeling great. I could tell from the texts, you didn't use nearly enough ugly emojis."

You scoff and smack a hand against his chest and once again you hear that wonderful laugh from him. Hey! Your purrbeast emojis are adorable, thank you very much! And you'll not hear another word of it or else you'll send him pictures of rocks and rocks exclusively. No more memes.

"Jokes on you I'm into that shit." You laugh and thump your head against his collarbone. You thank him for being with you when were needed it. And picking you up to make sure you didn't deal with it alone. You don't want to make it weird but...yeah.

He doesn't respond this time, just letting you both enjoy the silence and the comforting sound of the engine. You should almost be at Mallek's apartment by now. It's as you're settling in for the last bit of the drive that you notice that the limo isn't moving. And hasn't been for a while. Your head pops up in confusion and the little GPS display on the back of one of the seats says... yep.

You're already at Mallek's.

But then why is the engine still on? That can't be good for the environment. Do these things even run on gas or is it bugs? Bug gas? Gross.

You notice then that the rumbling is coming from behind you. Like. From where Mallek is sitting. He doesn't look away when you turn to him, just kind of tilting his head to the side with a little bit of a cerulean hue to his cheeks. Oh. Oh, the sound is coming from him. He's purring. That's.

That's adorable.

You feel yourself soften even more when he lifts his arms, silently offering a hug if you want it. Is this platonic? Is this more? You've never had too much trouble identifying what people wanted from you. (Debatable.) If was overtly flushed you could shut it down or divert it to something very much friends only. (Like your every exchange with Zebruh.) But did you even want to do that to your hackerman? You could feel yourself screaming, no, absolutely not. But at the same time, you didn't want things to change. You didn't want to make his issues any worse than they already were. He didn't have too much longer on the planet and you knew it would tear him apart.

But then he turned those blue eyes to you. He looked just as unsure as you were but he was willing to take the risk. He shoved himself so far out of his comfort zone for you and was asking you to be selfish. To want something for yourself and do something for yourself. Not put him or anyone else's wants first. Just your own. And so you did.

You crawled up into his lap, pressed yourself as close to him as you could and clung to him. His arms didn't hesitate to wrap around you and you could feel a shuddering breath from above you.

"We don't have to put a label on this... not yet. Or ever. Either way is chill with me. I just... yeah." He gave up with a little shrug of his shoulders but you knew what he meant. Unless you could find a way to fight fate he was going to go off-world. He was going to leave you and you doubted you'd be able to go with him. You'd probably get gored by a drone for even trying.

But even if it was just for now, just for a moment, you were going to take it. You were going to let yourself have something, have someone who would care for you no matter how long or short your time was. You'd take it. You had stomached some of the most horrible things on this planet but Mallek had always been a constant. And you got the feeling he thought the same way about you.

So, you'd take it. Whatever comes next, you'd take it. You listened to the sound of his purring, in no hurry to move to get inside the apartment. Mallek felt the same.

You exhaled.

You would be okay.

#homestuck #hiveswap #hiveswap friendsim #mallek adalov #friendsim #homestuck imagines #hiveswap imagines #reader insert

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divine-mistake · 3 years

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The Cracks in Our Reality (3)

Summary: Loki hates the Executive Manager of the Avengers Tower because she’s too loud and too sarcastic and too kind and too soft, especially to him, who really doesn’t deserve it.

Characters: Loki/Plus-sized (f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), language, mentions of violence

A/N: Thanks for reading! And BIG THANK YOU for 100 followers already! I’m still taking requests at this moment 🥰

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He makes it almost a week before Thor drags him from his room and forces him to eat a decent dinner. By decent dinner, his brother means a dinner surrounded by the very people he’s threatened to kill, who have threatened to kill him, who hates his presence almost as much as he hates being on Midgard.

Loki isn’t impressed.

But Thor swears he’ll stop being a bother until the press conference coming up next week, something that Loki desperately needs. No matter that the conference is scheduled because of him, Loki would rather stab himself about a thousand times than attend, for a number of reasons.

Number One: He doesn’t want to be an Avenger, especially as part of his imprisonment on Midgard.

Number Two: He doesn’t want to go and stand in front of a crowd of mortals who wish to speak about his invasion of New York, and that is all they are going to talk about.

Why he shouldn’t be on Midgard—he knows this and wholeheartedly agrees. Why he shouldn’t be an Avenger—he never asked to be one. Why he should stand trial and face the death penalty—

Yes. That’s an interesting thought, is it not?

Number Three: He doesn’t want to see her, that Midgardian woman, the insufferable creature that makes his skin feel alive, trying to detach from his body like the molted carcass of a snake.

And he knows she’s in charge of the press conference.

Loki isn’t sure if attending might be akin to owing her a favor, and if there is one thing he wants to avoid while being chained to this damned Tower, it’s avoiding owing her anything. If he could avoid her completely, he would.

He hates her with a viciousness that makes his hands shake.

So if joining his brother for one godforsaken dinner in the common room will allow him a few extra days of silence, a short peace of mind, then by the Norns, Loki will dress in his robes and follow Thor downstairs to have the quickest meal he’s ever had.

It’s not too bad in the beginning. Thor, dressed in a simple long-sleeved shirt and a pair of denim trousers, Midgardian drab, ribs Loki for still wearing his Asgardian clothes and promises to take him shopping sometime soon. Loki shudders at the thought and resolves to dress in the horrid Midgardian things next time. Thor doesn’t press him about his public appearance next week, doesn’t even make a one-off joke about Loki hiding away in his room, alone. By the time they reach the common space, where the sounds of dishware clinking and a screech of an oven timer fills the floor, Loki is almost sure he’s worried for naught.

And then he sees her, sitting at the breakfast bar on a stool she twists around in, laughing at something.

His brain completely shuts off for a fraction of a second. Perhaps more than that. By the time he blinks back into existence, his lips twist into a frown, countenance cold and stoic. He vaguely feels Thor’s hand clap him on his back, forcing Loki to avert his eyes and focus on surveying the room instead of trying to figure out what bothers him so much about her laughing.

Now, he realizes she’s not the only one in the kitchen. There are a few others sitting in the dining room: Rogers and Stark at arguing about something while Banner is pouring over some documents between bites of the pasta dish everyone seems to be sharing. Romanoff is sitting closest to the bar where the Midgardian woman is, and Loki makes a point not to look at her again.

“My friends!” Thor greets in his usual fashion. He pushes Loki forward and bounds toward the woman, surrounding her with his arms and dropping a kiss to the crown of her hair. He whispers something in her ear that Loki tries very hard not to comprehend. Instead, he passes by the bar to head toward the refrigerator. He needs a glass of water—now.

He feels them staring at his back, the very people he’s threatened to kill, who have threatened to kill him, who hates his presence almost as much as he hates being on Midgard, the reason why he never wanted to come down for a decent dinner in the first place.

“So you finally brought Reindeer Games down to socialize with us?” Stark questions his brother, but it makes Loki twitch. He pours himself a glass and leans against the counter, sipping from it, eyeing the menagerie of Avengers at the dining room table. He doesn’t look at the Midgardian woman.

“Steve made pasta,” Romanoff says, ignoring the last comment.

“I thought Loki needed to get out of his room for once!” Thor says, a wide smile on his face. He pats the Midgardian woman on her back and then heads into the kitchen, toward the steaming hot dish that presumably holds the pasta. “Captain Rogers! This smells incredible! But it does not look correct.”

“It’s not spaghetti, Thor,” the Midgardian woman says with a laugh. “It’s bolognese. It’s really good though, you’ll like it.”

For a brief moment, her eyes meet his, and Loki’s brain freezes again.

“Not sure how your brother will feel about it,” she says, but then as quick as she looked at him she looks away, smiling up at Thor again.

Loki clenches his hand into a fist.

“He’ll like it or he can eat something else,” he vaguely hears Rogers mutter under his breath. Loki sneers.

“It’s not as if Midgardian food will compare to anything from Asgard,” he says to no one in particular. It causes Thor to frown, makes Rogers give Stark a piercing look. Loki revels in how easy it is to rile people up in this Tower.

But then the woman shrugs, taking a sip of her drink, not looking at him. “I’m sure it won’t—nothing compares to food from your home. But it’s better than starving, isn’t it, your Highness?”

She looks at him with a smile painted across her lips, but her eyes are icy, stone, stricken. Loki has been alive for centuries and yet he cannot name the feeling that grows in the pit of his stomach.

“Come, brother,” Thor says, breaking the tension. “Let us eat some of Captain Rogers’ Bowl of Nays!”

“Bolognese,” she enunciates for him again, so gentle in comparison to the way she speaks to Loki.

“Bolognese,” Thor tries again, grinning from ear to ear as he pronounces it correctly. The Midgardian woman nods, giving him a thumbs up.

By the time Thor steers Loki toward the dining room table—Banner has already left—the conversation has moved on and no one is paying attention to the Gods anymore. Romanoff has joined in the argument with Rogers and Stark, leaving the Midgardian woman to scribble in a thick binder as she eats sitting away from the rest of them.

The bolognese isn’t that bad, but he’d never admit it out loud.

He’s perhaps halfway through his dinner when the sound of a phone ringing stops the conversation he hasn’t been participating in. Everyone turns to look at the Midgardian woman, who drops her fork and answers her cellular device.

She barely gets a word out before a woman’s voice crackles from the other side of the connection, so loud that Loki could have heard it even without his superior hearing. Which means, of course, that everyone at the table can hear it, too.

“I’ve never once been told that my cameraman isn’t allowed to take flash photography! Unbelievable. This is so unprofessional of you. I want to speak to your higher ups—whoever put you in charge!”

He sees the flash of embarrassment cross the woman’s face as she holds the phone away from her ear. Then, her visage shifts to something of frustration, something Loki has seen her wear in regards to his person.

“Excuse me,” she says, interrupting whoever is yelling over the phone. “You’re speaking to the Executive Manager of the Avengers Tower. I’m the one who set up this press conference and I’m the one who instituted the policy of no flash photography at this particular conference.”

The conversation drops to a level that Loki is unable to hear, the static of the cellular connection covering the sound of the woman on the other end. He watches, as the others do, how the Midgardian woman’s nose scrunches, her brow furrows, her knee begins to shake, her free hand plays with her pen.

All signs of hidden anxiety.

Then, the woman flips through the binder she was previously writing in, landing on a different page and letting her finger drag over what Loki can see is a list of words. Her lips purse and she turns the page again, searching for something.

“Ma’am, if you continue to disrespect me this way, I will have no issue hanging up on you.” Her words come out strong—much stronger, much more forced than when she’s spoken in anger to Loki. “Now, you’re with Morse Code Media, is that correct?”

Nodding her head as if the caller can see her, the Midgardian woman writes something in the binder.

“Right, well, I have a proposition for you, Mrs. Harper.” She scribbles something else. “If you have a problem with my no-flash-photography rule, then you and your company will be taken off the list. Does that work for you?”

The voice explodes from the phone’s speaker, angry and shrill, but the Midgardian woman doesn’t flinch this time.

“And while we’re at it,” she says, writing again, “I’ll go ahead and take Morse Code Media off every list for any future press events. In fact, I’ll even blacklist your company for you. And I’m sure that when another representative from your company calls to ask why they’ve been blacklisted from every single Avengers event for the next ten years, you’ll be alright with me giving them your name. Is that right, Mrs. Harper?”

It is precisely now that Loki realizes the Midgardian woman isn’t just sharp with him—she is sharp with everyone.

He rather likes that idea.

“That’s my girl,” Stark mutters. He reaches over Rogers to raise a hand to Romanoff, who high-fives him.

After a moment of silence in the common room, with only the low static of a voice over the phone splitting the quiet, the woman stops writing in her binder. Loki watches as her face melts into something else entirely, a hardened look that threatens to reveal something softer underneath.

It was the face she first wore when she looked at him, addressing him, asking him if he wanted to be here. He would recognize that look anywhere.

“Let me explain something to you, Mrs. Harper,” she says, firm and unyielding, but not as loud. “Do you know why, in recent years, we have switched to a no-flash-photography policy for our press conferences?”

She twirls her pen and bounces her knee again.

“Because the Avengers are heroes, but they’re people, too.” Her voice is so soft now. “They may be heroes to the public but at home, they are people who have seen too much. The Avengers are the ones who keep us all safe, and in order to do that, do you know the horror they’ve seen? Much more than you or I will ever see in our normal, ordinary lives, Mrs. Harper.

“Flash photography can trigger unpleasant images, memories, or other reactions from these people who are already on stage in front of a crowd of fifty reporters who are all waiting to capture their heroes in a permanent medium. If you have flash photography going off, and one of the Avengers has a reaction, you’re going to catch that reaction in something that lasts forever. And media studios don’t throw things like that away—they keep them and make a profit off of it.

“We don’t allow flash photography at these events anymore because these heroes are people and they deserve to be comfortable, even at press conferences. They are saving our lives. It’s the least we can do to take care of them. To thank them.”

Loki swallows hard. His fingers tighten around his fork. The bolognese on his plate has gone ice cold.

The Midgardian scratches something out then writes something down. “I’m glad you and I have come to an understanding, Mrs. Harper. I don’t want to blacklist your company at all. As long as we have an agreement that your photographer will not be using flash equipment, I think we can make this work. Is that alright with you?”

The Midgardian woman smiles, and though it’s small and soft and she’s looking down at her binder, Loki thinks, for the first time, that she is more pretty than he might’ve thought before.

“Great. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Harper. I’ll be there to greet you at the press conference personally. Have a nice night.”

Then she hangs up, releases a breath, and closes her binder. When she looks over, she startles instantly, most likely at the realization that everyone has been watching her in silence for the past few minutes. Loki wonders how her face changes so easily—from content, to laughing, to anxious, to angry. Now, to shocked.

It’s Rogers, ultimately, who speaks first. “How do you do it, Rabbit?” He shakes his head.

The Midgardian woman lets her head fall to the side, confused. “Do what? Deal with people?” She laughs but it’s short, not drawn out like before. “I get paid to do that.”

“No,” Rogers says. “I mean, how are you still so nice to people after they treat you like that?”

“You heard that?” She frowns.

“We all did, angel,” Stark chimes in. “You handled yourself well. Loved the attitude.”

She rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal. She just didn’t understand why I take the no-flash policy so seriously.”

“She disrespected you,” Rogers stresses.

“Yeah,” Romanoff says. “And then she guilted you and you took the bait.”

The Midgardian woman shakes her head, then opens her binder again to look through the pages.

“It’s not that simple,” she says. “People get mad when they don’t like things because they’re worried about something. She was mad because I changed the rules, so her idea of normal suddenly became wrong, and that scared her. And I’m sure she was being pressured by her boss, too.”

“But she took it out on you. You didn’t have to be nice to her,” Romanoff says.

“I didn’t,” she agrees. “But sometimes, it’s worth it to reach out and help people instead. She didn’t know why the policy exists, and now she does. Maybe she’ll tell other people, and then more people will understand that you guys are people first, heroes second. You deserve kindness.”

Romanoff stares at her until the woman is forced to look back.

“You deserve kindness too, Zaika.”

She tucks her chin close to her chest, her smile morphing into something small and perhaps a little sad.

“I do,” she says, “but sometimes you only get kindness if you extend it first. It’s like letting a biting dog sniff your hand. If you show people that you’re safe, that you aren’t going to hurt them, sometimes they’ll realize that they only bit you out of fear.”

The Midgardian woman tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and looks up, her eyes meeting Loki’s from across the room. He sucks in a breath.

“And all anger stems from fear,” she says quietly.

Suddenly, something visceral is rising up within him, something hot blooming in his chest at her look. She’s looking at him with such sadness, such pity. Loki wants to grab her by the hair and force her to her knees, force her to submit, force her to look at him with anything other than the damned pity that is swimming in her eyes under the dim lights of the kitchen.

He hates her. He hates how her face changes so easily, how her eyes are so expressive, how she talks as though she is the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the one true god of Midgard. Like she is better than him.

The fork snaps in his grasp, metal clattering against the ceramic dishware. He’s aware of people looking at him now, but he’s locked in a stare with this insufferable mortal woman that ignites the blaze searing through his limbs.

“You Midgardians—” he spits like fire and brimstone “—are weaker than I thought previously if you so inanely believe that kindness begets kindness.” His vision now has gone black, the wheels of his mind turning uselessly. He doesn’t understand this loss of control. “Your gross display of submission only proves how worthless you truly are, little girl.”

You’re angry, something in the back of his head tells him.

It’s fear, something else says.

She is right, he thinks, but by now the damage is done and her face has gone completely blank—he’s never seen her look so empty.

Suddenly, Romanoff stands from the table so quickly her chair screeches across the tiles. Out of the corner of his eye, Thor looks horrified.

“Listen here, you little—” Romanoff starts, but she’s cut off instantly.

“Nat,” the Midgardian calls, slipping down from her perch at the breakfast bar. Her feet are bare again, he notices, toes still polished pink. “Just leave it.”

Romanoff turns to stare at her, incredulous. “Zaika,” she says, but the woman shakes her head.

“It’s fine, Nat, really.” The woman places her empty dish in the sink, her face still devoid of emotion.

Loki hates that. Why is her countenance so blank when she is usually so emotive? Why doesn’t she look at him with anger, with hate, with anything?

She turns, waving a hand at the table. “I’m going to bed, got a long day tomorrow. Night, guys.” Then, she gives him one last glance. “Good night, your Highness.”

Loki watches her go, her binder pressed close to her chest, the room in complete silence, and all he can think about is how much he regrets his own words. All he can think about is how much he’s always regretting his words now, when he’s around her, and how much he fails at apologizing to people.

He hates that he came to dinner. He hates that she was there. He hates that he watched how her face metamorphosed so easily, like the gentle flutterings of a new butterfly, wings still damp, and he hates how his inability to curb his tongue resulted in erasing that completely.

But most of all, Loki hates her.

And he hates himself, too.

The leather of his armor, shades of black and green, is heavy on his body where once it felt like a part of him. Under the changing sunlight flooding through the tinted glass windows of the car, the gold he wears flashes brilliantly. He blinks, staring down at plates of metal covering his body. It’s different than his old set—the armor he wore when he stormed New York. He decided not to wear his helmet, either, taking a page from Thor’s book and keeping the look casual.

The mortals think he’s dangerous enough, even when he stands next to his warmongering brother.

Thor, who leans against the car door on the other side of the leather seat, looks over at him. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before turning away once again.

“Feels like the olden days,” Thor says cryptically, but Loki knows what he means.

“Indeed, it does,” he replies, breathing deeply.

The heavy beating of his heart, the excitement and tension coiling like a viper in his stomach, the armor warm against his skin. His stiff hand flexes as if it's forgotten the weight of his daggers and yearns to be reminded.

It’s the calm before battle—the anxiety before the storm.

Loki is nervous. He hopes it isn’t apparent, but he strains to keep his body under his control. It would be an embarrassment worthy of death if he showed his fear, flinching, yielding, shaking, twitching, trembling.

But underneath it all, there is something else.

It’ll be the first day that he sees her, the Midgardian woman, since the day he left the wreckage of an apocalypse in his wake as he yelled and belittled her, right after she was belittled by someone else about her talents in her work. He never apologized. He wasn’t given the chance, and even if he had been, Loki somehow guesses he wouldn’t have apologized anyway.

If there is anything Loki Odinson, God of Mischief, is poor at, it’s sincere apologies.

His hand, where it lay upon his knee, legs spread wide in the backseat of the chauffeured car, itch to dance. The nervousness he feels—both from the press conference they are driving toward and the threat of seeing her again—races through his veins. He obeys it and smooths his fingers through his hair, which falls in gentle, soft, shiny curls against his shoulders.

“We’re almost there,” Thor says, interrupting his descent into anxiety briefly before sending him spiraling down again.

“Oh good,” he says instinctively. “I cannot wait to bare myself in front of these witless mortals while they prosecute me on live television.”

“Loki.” Thor’s voice is a warning. “Rabbit will not allow that to happen.”

He scoffs at this. “Right.”

Beside him, his brother raises a brow. “Do you doubt my friend?”

“She’s like the rest of those imbeciles.” Loki brushes his brother off with a flick of a hand. “She hates me, and that is perfectly fine with me. She is insufferable to be around.”

And her hating him means she won’t care when they inevitably use him as a scapegoat for all the trouble the Avengers have had in recent. She’ll let Stark jeer at him, let the reporters ask about New York, let the crowd swallow him up in reminders of all the mistakes he has made and once he’s drowning, they’ll say it's proof he’s evil.

Loki makes an effort not to look at his brother’s deepening frown but he catches it from the edge of his vision.

“Lady Rabbit is one of my greatest friends on Midgard,” Thor tells him and Loki pretends to ignore him. “I truly believe the two of you would get along if you would not be so difficult.”

“Difficult?” Loki snaps, head turning to meet Thor’s eyes.

“I just mean that you are hardened,” Thor quickly amends. “You are distrustful of people.”

“I wonder why,” he snarls in reply, shifting in his seat to face toward the window completely. “Perhaps it’s that my life has been built on a lie.”

Thor doesn’t say anything to that, and for this brief reprieve, Loki is grateful. It’s not as if his brother could understand. Loki doesn’t know why he has to constantly remind himself of this, as if he’s making excuses for Thor over and over. But Thor will never understand, and Loki doesn’t think it’s his job to explain it to him. Thor is a God, he’s a king, he’s in all these positions of power and status—he’s smart enough to figure out why Loki has a chip on his shoulder.

“Rabbit will not let them vilify you, brother,” Thor says with finality in his tone.

Loki thinks the silence is better than anything else.

“You’ll be standing next to Thor, so walk in with him, and you two will be upstage on Tony’s left. You won’t have to say anything at all, just stand up straight and look pretty.”

She’s not even looking at him as she speaks, but her hand is gesturing wildly at him as her eyes are focused on a clipboard she has propped up against her ribcage.

“Is that a compliment, little girl?” he goads, a charmed smile curling on his lips before he can stop it.

But the Midgardian woman ignores him completely, moving toward Stark and writing on her clipboard.

He deserved that.

Somehow, today she looks different. More professional, perhaps, for the press conference. Unlike the normally bright, colorful, patterned clothes she wears on a daily basis, today she is dressed in a demure gray gown that outlines her curves. A thin black belt with a gold-plated buckle cinches the small of her waist and his eye cannot help but fall on the way it accentuates her body.

And she is wearing heels again, black little pumps that bring her up to his chin, whereas normally she is much smaller in stature. He wonders if it makes her feel more powerful to level the playing field—though Loki would argue she doesn’t need much to make her any more fierce.

He hates that about her.

But he doesn’t have much more time to think about it, or to think about why he’s stared at her for so long, because she begins to wave them forward and her small hand falls upon his shoulder blade and guides him forward to follow Thor and he doesn’t have time to snap at her for touching him.

Her hand is warm, he can feel, even through the leather of his armor.

Then, it begins. As they enter the conference room, Loki holds his head high and rolls his shoulders back, nearly matching Thor’s height as they march up the stage and position themselves where the Midgardian woman said they would be. He hears the snap of cameras, but just as she promised, there are no flashes of light following them.

His face neutral, Loki regards the crowd of mortals before him as Stark takes his place behind the podium. Off to the side, not on stage, stands the Midgardian whose eyes roam over the throng of press. Her clipboard has disappeared and she clasps her hands in front of her body instead.

Stark begins talking, but Loki doesn’t care to listen. He knows what Stark is saying—the script had been left outside his door the previous night from whom he guesses to be the Midgardian. It’s the questions he’s truly worried about, the ones he’s not allowed to answer for himself. Thor told him that the press would ask questions about Loki’s invasion and his probationary period. They would ask about his imprisonment. They would ask about Asgard.

He could handle most things. He knew he could handle this, too. The minuscule quake of his hands would go unnoticed.

But the guilt would return in the night, just as it had all nights previously, and Loki would stare at the ceiling, awake and ashamed, and then he would take it out on everyone around him. Loki would take it out on her again because she pitied him, and he hated that.

He hated her.

Locked in this specific thought, that is when it happens. Suddenly, a flash of light whitens his vision and Loki blinks in surprise and he is no longer in the room, surrounded by his brother and the Avengers, and he’s instead surrounded by darkness and an incandescent heat that has no beginning and no ending.

It’s so hot here. It’s so hot there is no sweat that pours from his body. His body has become liquid. He has melted. He is melting. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. It’s just white-hot, searing, everything is fire, everything is pain. Loki wants to open his mouth until his jaw rips apart and scream, but his bones are soldered together and he’s too weak to break them.

His vision is black and they are not melting him. They are evaporating him, his native glacier skin, his entire being.

And when he blinks again, the first thing he sees is Rabbit, who's stumbling back from the crowd and being caught by Rogers.

Next Chapter

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